#apologies as I have never tried to render liquid before ever so it looks a little weird

[yeetusthemighty]

Huh I wonder what that blue glow is (spoilers under the cut)

oh.

(Decided to crop this one just in case anyone cared about spoilers)

full art here:

[echo-of-sounds]

i’m not angry. i’m concerned

Small drabbles of Aizawa, Toshi, Hizashi, and Gang Orca taking care of you after you have a relapse of self-harm.

Warnings: self-hate, self-harm, punching a wall, hitting oneself with an object, bad bruising/swelling, (semi-graphic) cutting, blood

Aizawa Shouta

You knew it would only deform your hand more. And you still did it. Now you were left with bruised and swollen knuckles. Damage jarred your bones. Trauma twitched your muscles. And they just kept swelling. They were so big, pulling tendons, stretching skin uncomfortably, distressingly. Cries and hiccups slipped through your stifling.

Footsteps hurried down the hallway. You turned around. Shouta questioned your back, “What was that noise?”

“Drop- Dropped something.”

“It didn’t sound like it. It came from the wall. Did you throw something?”

“I-” Tears and twinges killed your reply. You gripped your wrists, trying to cut off the rocketing pain spasms. He’d criticize, blame you for your stupidity. He wouldn’t even have to speak to let you know the shame he held. One apathetic, antipathic look and his repugnance would be clear, ridiculing your caricature of a hormonal, huffy teenager.

Even your body was revolted by the action. Eight months of self-power- no knifed skin, no disfigurements- was snapped in one vulnerable second- a weak, weeping second that left you pitiful and hopeless and useless and worthless-

Warmth wrapped your back. You jerked from his embrace, crying for him to leave. His voice was as warm as his body, “I’m not going anywhere. You need me right now.” Hands supported your monstrous one while he wordlessly directed you to the living room then the couch.

He briefly left your side before coming back with ice, pills, and a drink. You readily accepted the painkillers. 

While you sipped the water, he closely examined your knuckles. He asked, extending one of his fingers, “Can you push down?” It hurt but you could. “Can you bend them?” It was rigid but you could. “Can you make a fist?” It was tight and inflamed but you could make half a fist. “You have motion, which is always a good sign. If the swelling doesn’t go down by morning, we’re going in for X-rays.”

His words were caring. Yet guilt burst. You sobbed and tried to stand, to get away from his judgment. But he caught your hips, moving them onto his lap, hushing your feeble protests. “It’s alright. Just stay with me.” The cloth-covered ice pack was lightly swathed around your hand.

“Sho, don’t be angry. I didn’t mean to…” you cried through the smothering tears.

“I know, honey. I know.” He kissed your forehead. “I’m never going to be angry with you for something like this. I’ll only ever be concerned. I promise. I love you.” Two more kisses came. You nuzzled into his neck, wanting his warmth to soothe the frayed and confused emotions. “I love you so much.”

Yagi Toshinori

A loud sob broke through your attempts to remain quiet. You smacked your hand over your mouth, hoping he didn’t hear. But your hopes were dashed almost immediately. The door creaked open. You kept your head down, clutching the damp towel to your water-coated skin.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Why are you crying?” His calm voice trailed closer. A faint hum came as he noticed the issue. Delicate, cautious hands settled on either side of your lower thigh, cradling the bruised, swollen skin. He whispered your name, so earnestly, so soberly. It caused another sob to escape. “What did you hit yourself with?”

You shook your head, digging your nails into your hair at your juvenile, near infantile, action. The vague thoughts, the acute, uncontrollable anger, the snapshot self-harm wasn’t understandable no matter what the fucking DBT book said. And now your eight-month progress was rendered pathetically pointless.

One hand found your arm, caressing, seeking any response. He breathed your name. “Did something happen?” At more silence, he dropped to his knees, begging, “Sweetheart, please, talk to me. I’m not angry. I’m concerned about you and your safety. What did you use?”

You weakly pointed to the discarded brush. The handle broke off from the rest at your final, hardest hit.

“Did you do anything else to yourself?”

“No,” you choked.

“Okay, okay…” he muttered. “Can you stand?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on. Let’s try.” Your grip on his outstretched hands was horribly frail, unable to haul your weight. He helped, easily pulling in your absence. The towel fell and left you naked but you couldn’t care.

Your first step ended with you against his chest. The swelling spread to your knee, stiffing, tensing the joint. “I’m sorry,” you wept into his shirt. “I’m so sorry. I don’t- I don’t know why…”

“You don’t need to be sorry.” He kissed your head. Bearing your weight for you, he slowly guided you to the bed. A pair of underwear was guided up your legs then he laid you down comfortably. He kissed your head again, mumbling, “I’ll be right back. Okay?”

You nodded and nearly nodded off when your leg was lifted and a pillow was placed under it. Cold covered your knee next followed by a blanket. You welcomed the water and pain relievers.

After multiple gulps, you tried to explain but your breath caught, “Toshi, I didn’t- I think- I- I-”

“Shhh. It’s alright. It’s alright.” He slid under the blanket, curling up beside you, affectionately rubbing your stomach. His endearing voice softened into your ear, “You don’t need to talk right now. All you need to do is relax. Can you take some deep breaths?” He counted for you. And again for your next one.

“I love you.” Lips brushed the side of your face repeatedly. You leaned into them, letting his arms wrap around you. “I love you so much, sweetheart. You’re going to get through this, I promise.”

Yamada Hizashi

A couple of knocks startled you. Hizashi called your name. “Are you okay? You’ve been in there for a while.”

You didn’t hear his usual rambunctious proclamation of coming home. If you didn’t answer, he would obviously know something was wrong. “I’m fine,” you croaked. Your voice shouted that you weren’t, in fact, fine.

The door opened and you cursed yourself for not locking it. “Oh, baby…”

It was deplorable. You mashed your palms into your eyes, not wanting to face his anger, his horror, his utter disgust. Your defenseless, nude body, blood-soaked paper towels, smeared red thigh and hands, and the razor that did the defiling laid out helplessly, staining the floor.

Eight months went down the drain in just a few minutes. You couldn’t recall why or what you were thinking. It was all moronic, whatever it was. Now you only felt pain. An itching, pulling pain that was accompanied by gruesome liquid and coagulated blood.

He called your name, trying to reach you. But you didn’t want to reach back. He’d reprimand you for dirtying the floor. He’d criticize you for failing. He’d be sickened at your cuts. It was gross. You were-

“Please talk to me.”

The tears you thought you stopped sprung out loud and pathetically. You apologized, again and again, hoping he didn’t hate you and your beastly body.

A hand took your shoulder. You were moved as you continued repeating remorses. A cool cloth tried to gently clean your imbrued leg. Raw skin ignited. Slashes stretched. You gripped his wrist, shaking your head for him to stop. It was all too ugly. And you didn’t want him to see it, touch it.

“I need to clean some of the blood to see the cuts better. I need to see if you need medical attention.”

You collapsed and wailed into his chest, “I’m so sorry. Please, please, don’t be angry. Please. I’m sorry- I didn’t- I’m sorry, Hizashi. Don’t be angry. Please-”

“Shhh, baby girl. I’m not angry. I’m not even close to being angry. I’m just worried about you.” He mourned your name, kissing your temple. “Everything’s gonna be alright. I promise you that.” 

The cloth went on in a light motion. It eventually settled against the wounds, pressing with pressure to stop the rest of the bleeding. 

You continued crying into him. A few of the tears weeping onto your shirt weren’t yours. Lips graze your forehead, whispering, cherishing, “I love you so much.”

Gang Orca

The slits spilled over, painted your palm and wrist red. It happened too fast. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t stop your hand from gripping the blade and opening your skin.

Anger and fear didn’t control your movement. There wasn’t any sadness or anxiety harassing your mind. For so long, everything’s just been insignificant and now that blood slurred your skin, everything was still nothing. Injuries and confusion don’t count. Shame was a given. Pain was another but none of it was whatever you wanted.

There were no paper towels or tissues near. Your legs wouldn’t move. You could only stare at the detached emotions leaking from your hand. But seeing the layers of skin separate more and more grated pain into panic. Your voice broke as you shrieked, “Ku-GO!”

Heavy footsteps rushed into the bedroom. Your name waned softly from his mouth. You couldn’t look at him. You didn’t want his revulsion. Or his annoyance at your inane, weak-minded behavior. You were supposed to be clean of it. Though it always found you, no matter how many months you thought you outran it. 

He whispered, “I’m right here. It’ll be okay.”

“It hurts,” you gasped, tears now blurred everything. His warmth seated beside you. Your hand was carefully lifted and a cloth wrapped tightly around the wounds.

“I know it does. It’s scary, isn’t it?”

You nodded, desperately trying to calm yourself.

“It’s going to be alright. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” he helped compose your breathing. A hand barely stroked your back when you shrunk away from his touch, his irritation, his condemning of your feral actions.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do this. I don’t- I don’t- I don’t know why. I fucked up… I fucked up… I'm sorry…”

“You don’t need to apologize. I’m not angry with you. But I am incredibly concerned and worried. Right now, these need to be cleaned. Will you let me pick you up?”

You nodded again. Kugo easily lifted you, stopping to grab the medical kit before taking you to his comfy armchair. You curled up in his lap and rested against his chest while he thoroughly dressed the injuries. Despite his bulky fingers, he was as gentle and graceful as can be. Quiet praises came in between each bandage.

They brought more tears. Turning into his shirt, you cried out your grief. He hugged you close and caressed your arm. “Everything's okay. You’re okay, my love.” He held your hand to his mouth. “I love you more than anything else. You're going to get through this. And I'm going to be right here the entire time.” 

[igottiny]

Ateez scenario: You waking them up with a blow job.

Seonghwa - You didn’t know rather to be livid or worried. When Seonghwa never arrived to pick you up for your weekend trip away early that morning you started blowing up his phone. If he just forgot you swore you were going to smack him, but if something happened to him; that had you on the verge of panic. Twenty unanswered calls later you were hailing a cab over to the dorms. Another twenty unanswered calls on the thirty minute ride over only had you more worried. You were glad you had your own key as it was only six in the morning and the dorms were still silent.

Opening the door to his room, you noticed Hongjoong must have stayed the night at his studio again as the only occupied bed belonged to that of your boyfriend. His phone was unplugged and upon checking it, you found it dead. That would explain everything. You pulled back the comforter to find him sprawled out like a starfish. You giggled cause it was honestly cute; your normally composed boyfriend looked like such a dork in this moment. Deciding you were going to make it up to him for mentally threatening to smack him earlier, you sat down on the edge of the bed by his legs.

His shorts had ridden low on his hips and you found it wasn’t too difficult to pull them down to his thighs. He was already half hard as you gently grasped him and pumped him to full hardness. He shuffled slightly in his sleep, head turning to the side and his right hand coming to sit on his stomach. Over coming the sudden wave of nerves that filled your stomach you leaned down and lightly licked at the tip. The small gasp that fell from his lips giving you all the encouragement you needed to completely suck on the head of his dick.

You hadn’t even fully established a rhythm with what you could fit in your mouth and your hand before the hand that was on his stomach was tangling in your hair. His hips rose to meet your mouth descending on him, and he was waking with a moan. Glancing up to find his hooded eyes on you, you pulled off him with a smirk. 

“Good morning Hwa. Please remember to charge your phone. I thought something had happened to you,” you state matter of factly before drawing him back into your mouth, tongue dragging along the prominent vein. You didn’t miss the quiet but husky curse that bled into a moan at your action before his hips rose again to match your pace.

Hongjoong - He had fallen asleep in his studio chair, head thrown back over the back of the chair, out like a light. Peaking your head into his studio after he didn’t answer to your knocks and finding him like that, you knew that you had to wake him up. He was going to get a crick in his neck. The soft, rendering smile you had when you first sited him turned into a smirk as an idea entered your head. Slipping into the room you locked his studio door before tip toeing over to where he sat.

Pulling his chair back from the desk you turned him towards you. Settling onto your knees in front of him you ran your hands up his thighs to the drawstrings of his sweatpants. Untying the small bow in the cords you were delighted that today was one of those days where he decided underwear wasn’t necessary. It honestly made your life easier in this moment. Unable to pull down the waist band very far from how he was sitting you just barely manage to fully free his cock from its confines.

It only took a few firm strokes to bring him to hardness in your hands. His breathing was starting to quicken as you scooted closer between his legs. Bringing his length to your mouth, you flatten your tongue along the underside before swirling around the tip and sinking down on him. The groan that reached your ears was like music and the fingers that tangled into your hair and tugged made whine around him. Looking up to meet his dazed expression, you hallowed your cheeks, earning yourself another groan.

“Fuck! Baby,” his deep, raspy morning voice gritted out. His head was still thrown back, lower lip clenched between his teeth as he gently pushed your head down. “Did I die and wake up in heaven?”

You smiled as you pulled off him enough to reply with a smirk, “Love you too Joongie.”

His eyes rolled into the back of his head as you sunk back down on him, breath hitching. This was the best wake up call he had ever received. 

Yunho - He wasn’t usually one for naps so finding him passed out on the end of his bed one afternoon when you had stopped by the dorms was uncharacteristic. Shaking your head at the sight of him laying like that, you locked the door behind you. The last time either of you had tried anything, you had been rudely interrupted and you didn’t want San walking into the shared room on this day. Wanting to surprise him after another work trip had taken you out of the country for a week, you had already planned on seducing your own boyfriend. This actually made it easier.

You quietly stripped down to the new lingerie set you had bought before positioning yourself on the floor between his knees. Running your hands up and down his thighs for a moment to admire everything about him, you happened to catch the twitch of his length through the thin pair of track pants. Grateful that they had an elastic waist band and therefore had minimal issues pulling them and his boxers all the way off. You left a trail of kisses from his inner thigh to his stomach and ran your nails over his V-line for the desired affect. It never took much to fully get him going, even in his sleep, as you had learned in previous situations similar to this.

Stroking him a few times for good measure, enjoying the weight in your hands, before going to work on the reddened tip. You set a steady but shallow pace wanting to use your tongue on all the sensitive places, while your hands worked the rest. A sudden thrust up into your mouth had you nearly choking. Pulling off him to catch your breath you look up Yunho’s body to see his back arched, head thrown back, One hand gripping his own hair and the other gripping at the sheets, with teeth clamped on his lower lip in pure bliss. He whined at the loss of your warmth on him and moved to rest on his elbows.

“Y/N. Oh fuck,” his own thought interrupted at the sight of you barely covered and drawing your tongue along the vein that ran up the underside of his cock. “Please, Y/N. Don’t stop. You’re amazing.”

You smirked as he flopped back onto the bed, his hands reaching for you as you sucked as much of him into your mouth as you could.

Yeosang - For once it was him who had fallen asleep cuddled up with you on the couch during movie night. The other boys had long gone to bed leaving you to admire how cute Yeosang looked as he slept, head resting on your shoulder. You played with his hair for a moment longer before kissing his forehead and trying to wake him. When he wouldn’t budge, too deep in sleep, drastic measures were called for. It came with an element of risk as you were still on the living room couch where anyone who got up for a midnight snack would be able to see you. However,  that made it all the more appealing. Especially since it had been something the two of you had talked about doing some time.

Carefully you lifted his head off your shoulder and guided him until his head was resting on the back of the couch. Removing the blanket that still lay over your laps you placed one last kiss to his cheek before climbing over him to the other side and away from the arm rest of the couch. You were thankful he had slumped down when he first fell asleep as it made the task of undoing his belt along with the button and fly of his jeans that he never changed out of, much easier. Biting your lower lip you reached into his pants, pulling him free. After a kiss to his jaw you nuzzled into him as your hand worked him to full hardness. His breathing became more erratic as you continued to steadily pump him until a bead of pre-cum gathered at the very tip.

Stopping your movements with your hand wrapped around the base of his cock you leaned over to lick away the pearly liquid. Yeosang’s breathing hitched at your action. Emboldened by this you took him into your mouth as far as you could manage in one go before setting a steady pace; your hand still stroking what you couldn’t fit to the same rhythm. You were beyond pleased when one of his hands came to hold the back of your head, gently pushing you down on him further as he rolled his hips up.

“Y/N. Such a naughty girl. Anyone could come back down and see you,” he said, his already deep voice much lower than normal due to his recent sleep and current arousal.

Glancing up, your eyes met his dark gaze as he repeated his previous actions. He let his head fall back for a moment with a pleased sigh. You moaned around him as he thrusted up, hitting the back of your throat. Adrenaline spiking, there was no hesitation as you bobbed your head to meet his quicker pace.

San - Waking up in the same position you fell asleep in —head on his chest, leg thrown over his waist, and his arms holding you— you felt at peace. You always wanted to wake up tangled up with him; you felt at home like this. The peaceful bliss only lasting a moment as you moved to stretch your legs and brushed against his morning wood. At this he squeezed you more tightly in his embrace and turning onto his side to bring you flush against him again. This wasn’t the first time this had happened and you were already mentally apologizing to Yunho who was asleep on the other side of the room for what he was going to wake up to once again. Not that it was ever going to stop either of you.

Pushing him back onto his back you palm him through his boxers as you leave a kiss under his chin. Ducking under his arms to free yourself you grasp him through the thin material more firmly. A gasp escapes him as he begins to squirm, right on the edge of waking up. Scooting down his body under the covers you pull his length from the confines of his underwear and leave a few quick kitten licks to the tip. Taking the head into your mouth with a harsh suck and hollowing of your cheeks is what causes him to fully awaken with a high pitched whine. One of his hands darts down to tangle in your hair as the other lifts up the blanket enough to see you.

“Fucking hell Y/N,” he groaned. Rolling his hips up to drive himself further into your mouth he inhaled with a hiss at the feeling. “Good morning to me.”

You responded by relaxing your throat and humming slightly as you took all of him. San’s guttural growl at your action only fulling the fire that now consumed you.

Mingi - He had, for once, come over to your place after practice only to fall asleep on your bed before you could finish preparing dinner. You knew he hadn’t eaten much that day, the picture he sent you of his lunch being not much more than a basic ham and cheese sandwich and an apple. Attempting to shake him awake was to no avail as a snore escaped him. Yes, it was endearing; the sight your poor tree of baby boy asleep on your bed had you looking at him with the fondest of expressions. However, for that reason you couldn’t let him starve. He was always beyond cranky in the morning if he went to sleep hungry and you were not putting up with that on your day off.

You tried calling out to him, turning on music, and otherwise making noise in an attempt to rouse him. Even trying to kiss him awake didn’t work. When everything failed to bring him back to consciousness, you engaged your last resort. Generally you didn’t like to wake him is such an explicit way since it was like playing with fire. His normally playful personality, even when waking up, gone and replaced with an uncontrollable fire. Not that you actually minded, but you just wished it didn’t mean that dinner would have to be reheated some time later once he had had his fill of you.

The pajama bottoms he had put on after he used your shower were already low on his hips. The undone tie leaving them loose and threatening to shift lower if he moved the wrong way. How convenient. Pulling them down the rest of the way wasn’t as difficult as it should have been as he had rolled away from you onto his side. Pulling him back onto his back you kiss him one last time before gripping him firmly around the base of his already growing length. He was always so responsive to your touch and this evening was no exception.

Once he was completely hard in your hands you readjusted yourself so that you could easily swirl your tongue around the head before sinking down on him. Pulling off you traced the vein that ran along the underside of his length before giving special attention to the head. Setting a steady rhythm as you worked his length you could feel him starting to stir as his breathing quickened. A groan fell from between his lips once you hallowed your cheeks seconds later and his hips bucked up. Pushing down on his hips you with your hand that wasn’t stroking what you couldn’t fit in your mouth you look up the line of his body to see him propped up on his elbows and staring down at you.

“You looked like you were enjoying yourself baby. By all means, continue,” he stated, his deep baritone an additional octave lower than normal. You shivered at the sound and darkness in his eyes and did as you were told.

Wooyoung - Falling asleep in the fort you had made out of couch cushions, pillows, and blankets was never the original intention either of you had for you date night in but here you were. Awoken only by one of the guys turning off the TV and movie you guys left on and heading for bed themselves. Now all alone in the darkness you could barely make out Wooyoung’s features as he lay facing you. After hours of his teasing only to pull away nonchalantly like it was nothing had left a lasting affect on you, plans to get even were forming in your mind. If he could play games, so could you.

Nudging him till he rolled onto his back you seized your opportunity. You had both opted for lounge wear that day and the sweatpants he had on had an elastic waist band that you quickly inched down enough to expose your boyfriend to the cooling air of the room. You left a kiss on his check before bobbing down and enveloping his soft cock into your mouth. If only took a few gentle suckles and light hums for him to become fully erect. He was always surprisingly sensitive.

Working him slowly by swirling your tongue around his tip, he began to stir; his head tossing to the side and his face scrunching up in confused pleasure. Hallowing your checks you sucked harshly on the tip as your hand worked the rest of his length. He woke with a near scream at the sensation, hands grasping at the blankets on the floor around him. You smirked as you pulled off of him with a pop.

“You’re not the only one who can play games Wooyoung,” you said as you got up and moved to leave the fort entirely.

“Y/N! Don’t you dare,” he said between gritted teeth. He whined as you batted his hands away, a whimper soon followed as you climbed out of the fort and casually made your way upstairs to go to sleep in his bed.

Jongho - It always seemed like the others enjoyed interrupting you and your boyfriend whenever the two of you were alone in the dorms for more than five minutes. You could barely kiss him without one of the other seven causing a ruckus. So when you escaped to your apartment you were finally able to just be together. Honestly, you didn’t know why you guys haven’t done this more often. Being able to just take your time and get lost in each other was everything.

After two rounds you both passed out in each others arms. Waking first, you smiled warmly at how peaceful he looked beside you. You couldn’t help yourself and you peppered light kisses all over the side of his face that you could reach. Trailing kisses along every inch of him you could you gradually shifted lower. You were pleased as he rolled onto his back as you reached his abs. Hovering over him, you continued lower and were pleased to find that even in sleep, he was always ready for you.

Deciding you were going to treat him like the king he is, you lavished the sensitive head of his cock with your tongue. Not wanting to waste a second of time with him, you eagerly went down on him; careful of your teeth as you came back up. Swirling your tongue around the head again you moaned at the slightly salty taste, the vibrations enough to begin to rouse him. You could hear a gasp and a whine as you continued your slow pace worshiping him. A couple minutes passed and soon his irregular breathing turned to gasps and one of his hands was pulling you off him.

“Y/N. If you don’t stop now I won’t be able to last,” he said trying to catch his breath, eyes blinking open.

“That’s kind of the idea. Sir,” you say playfully. He hid his face in his hands and groaned at the title. His back arched as you swiftly swallowed him back down.

[firewoodfigs]

and A and B collapsed in it, exhausted

ERI!!! ILY 🥰💕

VADE ILY MORE <3 tysm for the prompt and I'm so sorry it took me so long to get back to it, but I hope you enjoy!! :')

(side note: this kinda spiralled out of control so it might be a better idea to read it on ao3 instead LMAO)

                                        xxxxx

There are a few things that her mind manages to dimly register before it loses focus.

One, the ongoing chaos around her — the yelling and screaming and the achingly familiar smell of smoke. Riza hopes that means the unit is safe, that the mission has succeeded. Adrenaline rushes through her veins as she struggles to remain alert, but her faculties are stubbornly uncooperative, and the only thing it really manages to absorb at the moment is pain.

Pain. Her hand is drenched, sticky. Riza inhales shakily, her breath coming out in short, ragged gasps. She’s bleeding from her side, and she has to bite her lip to keep from crying out as she presses down on her side. Her efforts are in vain; blood continues to drip on broken cobblestone like water from a leaking tap. She’ll probably need a blood transfusion or two. Riza just hopes she hasn’t punctured a lung (though she can certainly feel the makings and telltale signs of a broken rib or two).

The last thing she hears a voice she’d recognise anywhere — Hawkeye, stay with me. Stay awake, you hear me?Instinctively, Riza tries to obey the command, but it’s hard when pain is spreading through her chest like an exploding star; when she can barely catch her breath. She picks up on the desperation in his voice as he lapses into informality — Riza, stay with me, please. You’re going to be okay— and manages to choke out an apology before her consciousness flickers like a spoiled lamp. She wants to tell him to not worry, to tell him how she’s truly felt for the past decade, but the last spots of light in her vision seems to fade away, somewhere far beyond her reach, and —

And then her world turns to black.

—

When she finally wakes, her world is an astonishing shade of white.

Riza blinks groggily. She would have pushed herself into a sitting position, but the dull ache in her side seems to hint that that would be a spectacularly stupid thing to do. So she continues lying down, feeling very much like an invalid. Her nose wrinkles at the nauseating stench. Antiseptics. Disinfectants.

The hospital.

Riza bites back a groan and, this time, fighting any sense of rationality and self-preservation, attempts to seat herself up. She hears a matronly voice fussing over her predicament — something about her being as stubborn as Colonel Mustang had described her to be, and would have snorted aloud at the hypocrisy if the morphine hadn’t done its job so expediently.

Riza falls back asleep, the pain slowly ebbing away as a hand reaches out to gently stroke her hair.

—

The next time Riza wakes, her world is spinning, tilting on its axis to create an indecipherable blur of colour. There are, however, blobs of light swimming in her vision, warm and golden —  daylight? It must be daytime, then.

Riza swallows a pained groan and forces her eyelids open. Her vision is hazy, but she notes, to her dismay, that the ceiling is still conspicuously white. That must mean she’s still in the hospital. She clears her throat and blinks, hard, thinking it might just be a hallucination or a side effect of having too much morphine in her system, but her surroundings remain the same.

The only difference this time is the voice that greets her. It’s deep and decidedly masculine, one that she would recognise anywhere. (One that has been haunting her dreams.)

“Are you awake, Lieutenant?”

“I am,” Riza mumbles. She will never understand how her body can be so tired even after she’s slept so much. She doesn’t even know how long she’s been out for. “How long was I out for?”

“Nearly two days,” Roy whispers, and she immediately detects the worry in his voice. She wonders if he’s gotten much sleep over the past two days; the dark circles lining his concerned eyes tells her that he hasn’t. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright, sir.”

Riza shakes her head lightly in an effort to dispel some of the dizziness. Slowly, she tries to ease herself into a sitting position, wincing as a sudden wave of pain surges through her abdomen.

“Lieutenant!” he half-yells, chidingly. Riza winces again when he circles his arms around her torso without any warning. “You shouldn’t be doing that.”

“Hypocrite,” Riza manages, weakly.

Another burst of pain renders her speechless soon enough, and then she’s gripping onto the bed rail like it’s a lifeline.

Roy ignores her comment well enough. Gently, he adjusts her back into bed, the hem of his black wooden scarf tickling her cheek as he does so. She mutters something about propriety and regulations, but Roy ignores that as well, instead bringing a cup of water to her lips. Riza sips at it slowly. She hadn’t realised how dry her throat was; it makes her feel like she's just swallowed sandpaper. Like she’s back in the desert.

Riza mumbles a thanks when she’s done and leans back against the hard pillow, bringing a hand up to shield her eyes from the sunrays. She is so very tired. She thinks she could use another shot of morphine, possibly another day in bed, but there are bigger, more important things at hand, like —

“How did the rest of the mission go?”

“We’ve managed to sort everything out, Lieutenant,” Roy reassures, frowning at her priorities. “Don’t worry about it. Worry about yourself, first.”

“You’re being hypocritical again, sir.”

“Maybe, but we can save this argument for another time.” His tone brooks no disagreement, and before Riza can so much as protest he’s already taken the liberty of laying her back down. “For now, rest.”

“I’ve been resting for two days, sir.”

“Clearly, you haven’t had enough,” he says, smirking in a way that makes her want to pull the trigger on him. Regrettably, though, the hospital has a no-arms policy, and she finds that even the pistol that she always keeps hidden on her thigh has been removed. Riza huffs. “Since you haven’t shot me yet for putting you in bed.”

“I will soon enough,” Riza mutters, but the words sound tauntingly hollow to her ears. Her eyelids are starting to feel heavy again. She can feel herself slowly ebbing away, drifting back into a void.

“I look forward to that. And Lieutenant?”

“Yes?”

As much as she tries to fight it, being awake for the past ten minutes has taken a toll on her still-battered body, and she’s unbelievably exhausted. Being so drugged up probably doesn’t help, either.

“Do not, under any circumstances, risk your life like that for me. Ever again.”

That’s what a bodyguard is for, is what Riza wants to say, but sleep reclaims her before she can properly protest, and it’s dark again. (She thinks she’d managed to articulate a resolute no, though.)

—

The rest of the unit, along with Rebecca, visits her the next morning.

Riza manages to remain civil and courteous throughout the entirety of their fussing — which is a miracle, she thinks, when Rebecca and Havoc are sobbing like she’s actually dead. (Riza rolls her eyes and pats Rebecca on her hand when nobody’s looking, hoping the contact will provide some confirmation that she is still in fact among the living.)

Falman, Breda and Fuery are, thankfully, a lot more composed than them, although Fuery himself looks like he’s well on the verge of crying too. Riza distracts him expertly with questions about Hayate’s well-being, and he perks up immediately at the mention of her beloved pup (who’s presently under his care, because he’s the only one she can entrust Hayate with).

“Alright, alright, the Lieutenant needs her rest,” Roy announces at last, much to her relief. As much as she appreciates their concern, she does need her rest, and she will probably need an extra dose of morphine, too; Riza can feel the ache in her side starting to flare up again. “It’s time to go.”

Riza hears a chorus of get well soon, Lieutenant, mingled with a couple of tearful goodbyes. (Rebecca mumbles something about Roy being a selfish prick who’s kidnapping Riza for himself and warns Riza against Stockholm syndrome. Riza rolls her eyes and tells Rebecca to stay away from shitty soap operas.)

Riza waves at them as Roy ushers them out. When the room is empty again, he turns his undivided focus back to her, and asks, “Are you feeling alright, Lieutenant?”

“I’m fine,” Riza insists, although her mind is already devising a way to ask for morphine without him noticing. She’s sure that he’ll kick up a fuss if he realises that she’s in pain; the last thing she needs is him moping around day and night like a kicked puppy.

Slowly, like she’s testing the waters, Riza eases herself up - with some uninvited assistance from her commanding officer - and breathes heavily, resting her head on the pillow. She notes the weird contraption around her waist and stifles a childish groan. The fact that it’s still there means that she’ll probably be wheelchair-bound for a while, but she’s already starting to feel restless from being stuck in bed for so long. (Riza wonders if this was how Roy had felt, when he had been hospitalised after his affray with Lust. She thinks she can better empathise with his decision to recklessly discharge himself now.)

“Are you hungry?” Roy asks suddenly. Riza shakes her head, but he continues anyway. “I made chicken soup.”

Riza watches, somewhat nonplussed as he extracts a thermal flask from an insulated bag and sets everything up on the overbed table. The sudden role reversal discomfits her a little. Riza feels strangely out of her element, being cared for like this (when it’s normally the other way round).

“Thank you, sir,” she says, both embarrassed and touched by his concern. “You didn’t have to trouble yourself —”

“It’s no trouble at all, Lieutenant,” he interjects gently, smiling.

Riza shrugs and sips at the homemade soup wordlessly. The warm liquid glides down her throat easily enough, and she lets out a hum of approval, pleasantly surprised by the sudden display of culinary talent from her commanding officer.

“This is really good, by the way. Since when did you learn how to make such good chicken soup?”

“Since ten tries and a burnt kitchen.”

Riza almost sputters. “What?”

“Just kidding. I’m not that bad of a cook,” he says, grinning as he ladles out a bowl for himself.  Riza stares at him disbelievingly. Burning down a kitchen is not something altogether impossible for him, considering his track record of culinary mishaps. “Really, Lieutenant. Give me some credit. I’ve improved quite a fair bit since my days as a teenage boy.”

“Well, this proves it, for sure,” she says, and his grin widens.

“I’m glad you like it.”

Riza offers a small smile of her own in return.

“I do, thank you.”

They eat in companionable silence. Riza is relieved to note that his mood has improved somewhat. since the last time she’d been awake. She might’ve been too drugged up to fully comprehend her surroundings previously, but she had been conscious enough to note the anger and frustration, the worry in his tone when he’d reprimanded her for her recklessness. And it’s easy to understand why was mad; he’s always had a peculiar habit of putting his subordinates above his own well-being.

Still, Riza doesn’t think she’s done anything wrong. She’s simply doing her job, and he’s simply being overprotective. She is his bodyguard, after all, and that itself entails sacrifice where necessary. And she would do it, in the blink of an eye, if it means keeping him out of harm’s way.

But Riza also knows him well enough to know when to back down from a losing argument, and so she simply pretends that conversation never happened. She’s satisfied with the way things are between them — for now, at least.

Above all, she’s just relieved to see that he’s safe.

—

Later in the afternoon, a nurse comes in to check on Riza.

“How are you feeling today?”

“Better,” she says, even as the growing ache in her side threatens to expose her lie. Roy looks at her, unconvinced, and Riza feels a sudden, uncharacteristic impulse to give the nurse a hug when she ushers Roy out for privacy reasons. She’s not really the hugging sort, but this nurse - Jade, Riza notes, from the little white name tag hanging from her breast pocket - definitely deserves one. “When can I be discharged?”

“Not so soon, my dear.” Jade clucks her tongue, as if disappointed that Riza had even asked such a thing. “We’ll have to keep you around for at least a week more, but you should be able to start physiotherapy in a couple of weeks.”

Riza visibly cringes when she hears this. Two weeks is a long time to be hospitalised, and she’ll probably be out of commission for a while at this rate — especially if physiotherapy is involved. (Throw in an overprotective boss in the mix, and she’s basically done for.)

“Is it possible for us to start physio earlier?”

“No such luck, sweetie,” and Riza cringes again, this time at the term of endearment. She’s always been a little uncomfortable around nurses like these, simply because the military doctors are usually the stoic, no-nonsense with no time for coddling.

(Between the two, though, she’s not sure which she prefers, but Riza decides she just hates hospitals in general. The rooms are stifling and smell like a mortician’s lab, even though it’s a place that is technically supposed to keep her alive and nurse her back to health.)

“I’ll be fine. Really, I’m feeling much better already.”

Jade sighs, the disapproval apparent on her pretty face. “Have you even tried walking yet?”

“No, but -”

“Good, you shouldn’t. You’ll have to use a wheelchair for a few days, before switching to a walking frame.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me,” Jade confirms, sounding a little more apologetic this time. “I would strongly advise against trying — unless you want to risk worsening your injury, you’re better off staying in bed.”

Riza frowns, very much displeased with her current predicament. As she’d predicted, she is, in fact, wheelchair-bound, but she hadn’t thought that she would have to rely on a walking frame, too. She’s never had to rely on one before — not since she was first trying to learn how to skate on the rink that one winter as a girl of ten.

“I’m sorry,” Jade says, patting her on the hand sympathetically. “I’m sure you’ll get better soon, with time and rest.”

Riza shrugs, feigning nonchalance. She’s irritated at the situation, but there's really not much she can do right now other than rest. Besides, her commanding officer will find a way to keep her here somehow even if she tries to escape.

“Alright. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, do you need anything else? More painkillers, perhaps?”

Riza nods grimly. She turns away as the nurse administers another dose of morphine, and adjusts herself on the pillows in helpless resignation as she waits for it to take effect.

“Take good care of her. She’s a stubborn one.”

Riza hears these words faintly, through the charged, cottony silence filling her drug-addled mind. She tries to protest, but the words seem to come out like garbled nonsense, and the last thing she hears before falling back into unconsciousness is something that both irks and warms her heart immensely.

“I will.”

—

Riza begins her first physiotherapy session exactly a week later.

By some stroke of luck, she’d managed to bring it forward, after proving to the doctors that she had, in fact, made a rather speedy recovery — even if said recovery meant that she was still mostly stuck to a wheelchair. Her commanding officer hadn’t been too pleased, of course, but it was still worth being able to get out of her room and get up on her own two feet.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy, though. Recovery is an agonisingly slow, painful process. Riza finds herself trembling, just from supporting herself with a walking frame. It feels like someone is repeatedly stabbing her at her side, and she has to pause every now and then just to catch her breath.

Riza grimaces. She hasn’t felt this winded since the last time she’d had an awful case of bronchitis. Her legs are like jelly, and there’s a sheen of sweat that’s starting to stick to her fringe from all the heaving and wincing she’s been doing the past five minutes.

Still, Riza forces herself to keep going. She’s had worse, anyway, and this is nothing compared to the survival camps she’d endured back in the academy.

(It’s also nothing compared to what Havoc is going through.)

“Now try to put your left foot forward, Miss Hawkeye,” the physiotherapist says, and Riza follows suit, thinking of her friend as she takes her first steps. “Very good, now slowly, with the other foot.”

Riza continues as instructed, even as a fresh jolt of pain shoots through her side. Riza grits her teeth and staggers forward. She has to do this. She has to get better soon for the unit, for him. It’s bad enough that he’s already missing one subordinate, and she would rather die trying than be a liability.

(The thought of being an additional burden on his already worn shoulders is simply unbearable.)

—

“How did your first session go?” Roy asks later that evening, when he comes around to visit her. It’s already way past visiting hours, but Riza doesn’t need to ask to know that he’s probably charmed some poor, ingenuous nurse into breaking the rules and letting him in.

“Fine.”

Roy frowns. “I still think you should have waited for a bit longer before —”

“I’m fine,” Riza insists. The exhaustion is beginning to creep up on her, and she doesn’t think she can sustain much of a conversation - much less an argument - today. Riza notes the dark rings under his eyes and immediately softens. Guilt creeps into an overworked system, urging her towards a feeble attempt at reassurance. “I promise, sir. Don’t worry about me.”

Roy stares at her meaningfully, and then sighs as if to say, you know that’s an impossible request. He offers a wry smile.

“Alright,” he says, making himself comfortable on her bedside stool. He folds his arms across his chest and yawns, joking about increased paperwork and reduced efficiency in his absence, but Riza can tell that he’s still in a sombre mood; she doesn’t need to ask to know that he’s been beating himself up over her current situation.

Riza knows, however, that it’s not something that he’s particularly keen on discussing, and so she plays along with a teasing shrug.

“I hope you’re not slacking off, sir.”

“Oh, you know me. I wouldn’t dare.”

“I’ve known you long enough to know about your atrocious work ethic, sir.”

He laughs. “I’ll work on that, Lieutenant.”

“Good.”

—

Roy continues visiting her the following evenings, after her physiotherapy sessions. He’d insisted on tagging along at first, but Riza had convinced him that it was better for her to do them alone. It’s bad enough that the nurses are starting to think that there’s something more than a strictly professional relationship between them.

Besides, he’d made a promise to not skive off at work. That had been enough to get him off her back in the afternoons, but not enough, apparently, to prevent him from breaking in and visiting her at night.

“You don’t have to come every day, sir,” Riza says, because she knows he’s been basically shuttling between her and Havoc. The fatigue is obvious on his face; his complexion is paler than usual, taking on an almost sickly tone, and the rings under his eyes are starting to become almost bruise-like.

“Nonsense,” he scoffs. Riza rolls her eyes, because he’stalking nonsense. “I’m fine.”

“You look tired.”

“Is that meant to be a jibe at my appearance?”

“Yes,” she deadpans, pointing at the stubbles on his chin. “You haven’t even shaved today.”

Roy waves a dismissive hand as he carefully pours out her favourite congee into a bowl. “I still managed to charm my way in, so I’m sure I’m still as good looking as ever.”

“With all due respect, sir, you’re not.”

“Really, now, don’t be insubordinate —”

“I’m serious, sir.”

Roy regards her with abject horror, and heads to the bathroom to fix his stubbles while she slowly savours the steaming bowl of congee that he’s left on the table. Roy leaves an hour later, and at first Riza thinks he’ll take a hint and take the day off tomorrow, but he shows up the following evening, anyway, remarkably clean-shaven this time.

—

As much as Riza knows that her expectations are unrealistic, it’s disheartening to see that she’s still having trouble walking. It’s been nearly two weeks since surgery, and she’s received feedback that she’s making tremendous progress in physiotherapy, but it’s still too slow. She’s still not discharged. She’s still not allowed back at work, she’s still mostly confined to bed, and —

And she’s still useless.

She hates it, of course, but there’s really not much she can do right now. She can’t return to work without her commanding officer filing a restraining order of some sort, and she can’t discharge herself without an entire army of hospital staff hot on her tails.

She can, however, get past the nurses who are a little too preoccupied with the rumour mill. And so she does. Riza wheels herself furtively into a lift without attracting attention, and, having brought along her inconvenience of a walking frame, takes her rehabilitation into her own hands. She ventures out into the hospital garden, clumsily pushing herself towards standing. The floor is cold and the air tastes salty, but it’s the most alive she’s felt in ages. Her first step is shaky, and so is the next, but she is walking without supervision. Taking baby steps.

Riza smiles, even as her arms tremble from having to hold up her entire weight. She soldiers on anyway, persisting in her hobbling. It’s a strangely liberating feeling to walk by herself after weeks of enduring multiple sets of watchful, paranoid eyes.

But maybe she’s overestimated herself. The ache in her side returns with a vengeance, without warning, causing her to pause in her tracks.

Riza leans against the railings, gasping for breath. She presses a hand to her side as another wave of pain strikes. She’s a far cry from her usual athleticism, now. She doubts she’ll be able to ace the annual military fitness test this year like she normally does (she’s never fallen below the gold standard since graduating from the academy).

“Hawkeye!”

Riza stumbles when she hears her name. She only just manages to latch onto a nearby railing, but her limbs seem hellbent on giving way. She braces herself for the impact, expecting to fall flat on her face, but a hand reaches out to steady her from behind just before she crashes to the floor.

A little more than relieved, Riza exhales shakily and clutches onto her walking frame, with both hands this time.

“Hawkeye,” she hears again, and she knows instantly that she’s in for an (unnecessary) lecture.

“Sir,” she heaves. “I’m alright. Sorry for the scare.”

“What are you doing here by yourself?” Roy exclaims, and she shushes him with a displeased glare.

“Keep it down, please. We’re in a hospital.”

“Exactly,” he huffs, his voice taking on a reprimanding tone. “You shouldn’t be out and running about by yourself. Where are those nurses, anyway? Why isn’t anyone keeping you company? What if —”

“Sir,” Riza stresses, her irritation seeping through. The last thing she needs right now is to be treated like a helpless child. What she needs, actually, is some affirmation that she’s still a valuable asset to the team. Still useful. “I’m fine. You worry too much.”

“You’re not helping with that, Lieutenant.”

“The last I recalled, you were running around with a similar injury.”

“Yes, but I was an idiot, and you’re not.”

Riza smiles. “I can’t say you’re wrong there.”

“Anyway,” he continues, clearing his throat as if to regain some of his lost dignity. “You were nearly caught in an explosion, and then shot by a bullet. That’s far worse than getting impaled in the gut.”

“When you put it like that, I’m not too sure which is worse, sir,” Riza says. As much as she appreciates his concern, the double standard is beginning to grate on her nerves; she thinks he should at least be grateful she hasn’t broken out of the hospital by sheer force yet.

Roy huffs. “Stubborn as always, aren’t you?”

To that, Riza simply shrugs. She leans back against a nearby vending machine, enjoying the fresh air and dim lights for a bit before being forced to go back.

Roy regards her with a meaningful look like he’s debating whether to scold her or something else. Something she doesn’t want to expressly acknowledge. Not yet, at least — not during this crucial period of their lives that could very well dictate how the rest of it will go.

(But this is how it’s always been, Riza thinks. They’ve never needed words to convey the unutterable. In many ways, their actions have always spoken louder than its verbal counterparts, and it’s probably best for them to keep it this way, to suppress the felonious sentiments that they’ve already kept so closely guarded for years.)

“Put your feet on top of mine, Hawkeye.”

“Sir?”

“Just do it. You’re not that heavy,” he says, gently pulling her forward so that she no longer has the vending machine for support. Something nudges at her toes, and Riza raises a brow, as if to question whether he’s genuinely serious about this. “Go on.”

“You could end up with two broken feet, sir —”

“In which case I’ll get an extended leave from work, so really, that’s a win-win.”

“Seems like you’ve given this a lot of thought,” Riza says. She laughs quietly at his antics, and she doesn’t need to look at him to know that he’s smirking triumphantly, like he’s just bested her in a game of chess.

“Of course I have. Now get on, it’s better than walking around like you’re fully recovered.”

And because she knows better than to fight a losing argument, Riza just does as she’s told.

Gingerly, she puts her feet on top of his, mindful to not fracture anything. Roy pulls her close to him, wrapping his arms around her torso — whether to prevent falling, or to embrace her, she’s not sure, but she doesn’t mind, not really. Being shackled to a hospital bed for two weeks is enough to make her crave and cave into human contact.

“This feels an awful lot like we’re dancing, sir.”

“Again, a win-win.”

She rolls her eyes. “How very opportunistic of you.”

Laughter rumbles from his chest, genuine and unbridled.

“You know me. I would never pass up on an opportunity to dance with my favourite subordinate.”

“I’ll be sure to relay your message to Havoc, sir.”

“Thank you,” he says, and Riza bites back a laugh at the obvious sarcasm. “Alright, now just follow my lead. Move your left foot back.”

She does as she’s told, again. Roy repeats his instructions for the other foot, and the cycle repeats, until they’re trudging around in small circles. It’s like graceless dancing, Riza thinks, observing him silently as he frowns from concentrating so intensely on their every step. It’s just like when he’d first tried to teach her how to dance. (Dancing around campfires during the pumpkin harvest had never really been her thing - in part because it involved copious amounts of socialising and talking, and in part because she was born with two left feet - but it had been Roy’s, evidently. She hadn’t the heart to rain on his parade, and so had reluctantly obliged when he’d asked her to dance.)

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, sir.”

His frown deepens, and he stops moving for a moment.

“Are you tired?”

“I’m alright, sir.”

“You always say that,” he murmurs. “But I don’t want you to overdo it. Let’s get you back.”

Riza sighs resignedly. She is starting to feel exhausted, but there’s a part of her that doesn’t want this shared, private moment to end, either. She’s been enjoying it more than she should. More than she would ever admit.

“Alright,” she says, but Roy surprises her and pulls her in for a hug.

“I just wanted you to know that you’re not useless, Riza. Not at all.”

Her throat runs dry.

“Sir?”

“I know you’ve probably been feeling that way,” he continues, running a hand through her hair, now limp and sickeningly dry from all the time spent away from sunshine and conditioner. “Which is why you’ve been pushing yourself so hard. But I promise you you’re not. You could never be.”

Riza chews on her bottom lip contemplatively. She wants to ask how he’d read her mind, but there’s no point asking questions that she already knows the answers to. They’ve known each other for a long time, after all (she knows he must’ve been thinking the same thing during his earlier convalescence, too).

“I - thank you, sir.”

Roy nods, his chin tickling the top of her head.

“Besides, that word is meant for me, not for you.”

Riza laughs, but it comes out muffled as he continues stroking the back of her head.

“Your level of self-awareness today is off the charts.”

“I know,” he smirks. “Shall we?”

She nods, and Roy guides her back into her wheelchair. Their extensive experience with covert operations is particularly handy during a time like this; Roy manages to somehow evade all of the staff on duty and successfully wheels her back into her room without arousing suspicion.

Riza is so enervated that she practically sinks into the mattress without protest, even as Roy helps her in. She eyes him as he makes himself comfortable - as comfortable as one can be - in the old, lumpy chair beside her.

“Sir,” she croaks out. Riza clears her throat and tries again. “Sir.”

“Yes?”

Riza shifts a little to make space. She’s thankful that it’s already evening; she’s pretty sure she’s blushing by now, because she’s never been so bold, so forward before. (He’s usually the one taking initiative when it comes to things like this, but the unhealthy pallor in his skin is enough for her to make an exception.)

“You should rest, too.”

“I am, Hawkeye.”

She shifts a little more to the side. He gets the hint.

“Well, since you’re asking so nicely —”

“I'm not asking.”

Roy laughs, but he slides in any way, military regulations and meddlesome nurses be damned. They’ll be fine, Riza thinks; the nurses aren’t known to be particularly alert past midnight. Besides, Roy is probably sensible enough to get out before dawn, and if he’s not, he’ll probably charm or bribe his way out somehow. She’s not normally so cavalier about breaking the rules, but Roy deserves a night of proper rest, at least. It’s the least she can do after all he’s done for her.

“If you say so.”

“I didn’t,” Riza insists, stifling a yawn. She’s so tired that she thinks she might fall asleep while talking. “Get some rest, sir.”

“You too, Hawkeye,” he says, yawning as he pulls the miserable excuse of a blanket over them both. “Sleep well.”

Riza feels the ghost of a kiss on her temple, before her world becomes blissfully dark.

[glassartpeasants]

My Little Pet

 YA’LL THOUGHT YOU WERE GETTING SHIGGY FLUFF?! NOPE!!!!

I just thought of this while i was reading yandere shigaraki things. I’ll get to more requests later but god damn i can’t ignore this insufferable urge.

Yandere Shigaraki x Reader

Warnings: Angst, yandere shiggy, dark themes, violence, abuse, degradation, suicide, implied noncon, like this has absolutely no happiness

A/N: Warning this shit gets hella dark, this is way darker then the ‘Dead to Me’ fic i wrote awhile ago. Please note that this may trigger some people so please read at your own risk.

~~~

You sat in the room that held you captive as you shivered in fear. Your hands were the only thing that consoled you as you wrap your arms around your self as if to feel the warmth of a hug. Tears streaming down your eyes as your body was sore.

The man know as Tomura Shigaraki had kidnapped you, saying how he was so in love with you. How could you have loved someone you never met? His reasoning made absolutely no sense but you guess in the mind of a villain nothing ever made sense. Of course you thought that it couldn’t get any worse when he had kidnapped you but how wrong you were.

He would punish you for the littlest of things. Didn’t say hi to him? That earned you a slap. Didn’t wear the clothes he wanted you to wear even if he didn’t tell you he wanted you to wear them? No food for you for the rest of the day. Fallen asleep when he didn’t say you could? Beaten to a pulp.

His punishments were cruel and harsh, no remorse in his eyes while doing it. You had begged him to stop on multiple occasions but that only got you beaten harder. So you just took it, no tears no noise. Nothing to get him mad at you for. The worse one was not to long ago when you were brought to death’s door step.

~~~

1 months ago

You hadn’t had a glass of water in two days, your voice so hoarse that it hurt to talk. You sat in the corner of your room, looking like a broken doll rather then a person. You sat there looking at the cold wooden floors underneath you, not bothering to lift your head up when you heard the once locked door open.

“My player 2, how are you today finally learn your lesson on not being a brat?” His voice sent shivers down your body as all you could do was stare at the floor, your throat refusing to say words.

“Aw come on, no need to ignore me, i was just doing whats best for you!” The giddiness in his voice sparked a fire in your soul. Your mind racing, forcing you to see red. The words in your throat came up on what you truly felt about your captor, it was too late to take back what you said. But you didn’t care, dying seemed better then living with this monstrosity.

“WHAT”S BEST FOR ME?! YOU KIDNAPPED ME! NOW YOU THINK I LOVE YOU?! YOU A COMPLETE FUCKING IDIOT TO THINK I’D EVER LIKE YOU! BEATING ME? NOT LETTING ME GET FOOD OR WATER! TAKING ADVANTAGE OF ME?! I WILL NEVER LOVE YOU TOMURA SHIGARAKI!” Your words cut like knives slicing into his skin, before he could do any rational thinking his hand reached out for you but you ducked just in time. You try to run only for your hair to get yanked back and fall head first onto the ground, making you vision grow blurry. 

The wind was knocked out of your lungs as a foot collided with your ribs. You hurried and curled up into a fetal position on to have another kick to your spine, you screamed out in pain as more kicks landed on your ribs and stomach.

Tears no falling from your eyes as you felt a sharp pain in your nose, blood rushing down your face as you heard the sickening crack. Your hands rushed to cover up you face as the blows kept landing.

A hand grabs a fistful of hair before another grabs your hand as you let out another scream of agonizing pain, another crack pained your skin but this time it wasn’t a broken bone.

Shigaraki looked at your arm seeing his quirk eat at your skin slowly but surely crawling up your arm. He throws your head down to the ground before rushing over to your decaying arm. Your screaming only caused more pain to your throat. You looked down only to see Shigaraki take out a knife from his pocket.

Your screams no longer heard as you started to gag on the bile and blood arising in your throat. Your hand no longer existed as Shigaraki frantically severed your arm just below the elbow. Enough to stop the decay. But it wasn’t enough to stop the blood loss.

Your eyes soon grew heavy as your skin grew ever so pale. Life slowly fading from your eyes as the whole room grew blurry. You shut your eyes only hearing screaming coming from a frantic voice, four fingers grabbing each of your shoulders as they shook you back in forth screaming at you to ‘stop faking it.’

Your mind went black after that.

~~~

Present

After your voice was permanently damaged from what happened that day, Shigaraki had given you water everyday. No matter how much he deemed ‘you don’t deserve it’.

You had no idea what he was trying to do, did he truly think the water was going to bring back your voice? New flash for him, it wasn’t. Now thanks to him you hand no left arm, no voice and no reason to live. It was hard to think about how you life turned to this.

You, a once lively and bubbly person with a great outlook on life no dreaded each passing day. Your eyes once full of life now rendered lifeless as if someone didn’t see you breathing they probably would have believed you were dead.

“Player 2?” The sound of a cracked voice entered your ears. Bile erupted in your throat at the thought of seeing him again. You were entirely repulsed by him. He was only putting on this sad facade to get your sympathy. That’s what he always did. No matter how many times he said he was sorry you knew better then to believe him. No matter how much he cried and begged for you to talk to him or to just look at him, you still never gave in.

You heard the creaky door open as a pair of red shoes came in your eye sight. Sniffing was the next thing you heard as a thud fell to the floor. you wanted to see what it was but your eyes could only stare at the piece of glass across the room.

“Please my player 2, talk to me, look at me.....please...” His voice rang in your ears, if you were naive you would have thought that he was actually sorry. Your eyes refused to look at him, missing the broken look in his eyes.

Shigaraki sobbed onto the floor his tears making a puddle for him to see he reflection. He hated what he saw, a little boy who’s hurt another person he loved. Images flashed through his head, his father. Oh god his father. What would his mother think if she saw him like this?

He looked at you as his sobbing became uncontrollable. He looked at you no longer seeing the person he fell in love with, only seeing an empty shell of a human. But no matter how much he tried to convey his feelings of guilt for what he’s done to you, it always turns into anger. Which is exactly what happened everytime.

“Stupid bitch just look at me! I give you everything you could ever what and you ignore me?! Your a good for nothing cock slut who’s only purpose is to satisfy me!” Shigaraki turned around and slammed the door behind him. He walked away angrily before realizing his mistake. He clenched his fists together. He turned around quickly the try and apologize but Kurogiri had snagged him away before he could.

~~~

As you heard Shigaraki’s footsteps fade away you quickly crawl over to the broken shard of glass, a tiny shimmer of light hit it making it shine. A smile quickly washed over your face before tears of happiness left your eyes as you slowly brought the sharp glass to your chest.

~~~

After about an hour of being lectured by Kurogiri, Shigaraki was set free and the first thing he did was go to check up on you.

He took a deep breath before opening the door, his head peeking out to find you only to have his heart shatter as he found you in a different corner of the room, blood pooling around your body.

He raced over towards your body laying you gently on the ground as he tried to figure out what was wrong. His eyes trailed to a shinny piece of glass, covered in a deep red. 

His head snapped back to you looking up and down and saw your shirt was covered in the red liquid. His hands grab at your shirt decaying it to try and find where the wound was only to be presented with a heart stopping conclusion.

You had stabbed yourself in the chest.

“No no no, please stop god damnit!” Shigaraki’s hands covered the wound over your chest refusing to believe you had done this. His hands slither up to your neck trying to find a pulse, anything that proved you were alive.

He found nothing.

“No...” His arms slither around your waist bringing your lifeless body closer to him, your face close to his as tears formed in his eyes. His arms were shaking as your blood stained his shirt. His eyes focused on your pale face.

“Please don’t leave me...I promise I’ll be better..” He whispered as he put his forehead on yours, tears falling from his eyes only to land on your cheeks. He prayed for your answer, to hear your angelic voice once more, the silence was suffocating Shigaraki alive as the pressure in his heart felt like he was going to explode.

He looked at your face your eyelashes collecting his tears as he pressed his lips to your cold ones. Your warm lips are all but a fading memory as the image of you now burned into his skull and would for as long as he lived.

His arms pulled you closer as your body was ice cold. He took one good look at you which only caused his heart to break further.

Bruised and broken was the best way he could describe it. Bruises from his tantrums cover your body as he looks at your left arm. 

He let out a scream of undeniable pain as he felt his world stop. You were the only things that kept him sane. His only sort of light in this cold world. 

And now you were gone.

[realtacuardach]

Anger and Release

Here's my entry for Match 2 of Obiyuki Madness 2021 @snowwhite-andtheknight : Roaring Rampage of Rescue. Many thanks to @jhalya for her beta reading. I hope y'all enjoy!

...

Steam curled out from Shirayuki's mouth as she peered through the frigid dimness of the morning towards the fortress. In her current frame of mind, she could almost imagine that the steam was actually smoke pouring from the maw of an enraged dragon who had had treasure stolen from her.

She didn't like being angry. Anger clouded the mind, affected the senses, and she liked to be in control and sensible at all times, especially in times where a cool head was needed.

On the other hand, though, the anger that was not at all going away was fuelling the adrenaline coursing through her blood, and she would need that adrenaline for what she was about to do. 

So, she let herself be angry.

Angry at the renegade soldiers for capturing her and Obi in the middle of the night without provocation. Angry at how they savagely beat Obi after they'd already mobbed him and restrained him when he tried to rescue her. Angry at how they had been thrown into the back of the wagon like sacks of potatoes, the pain of his fresh, brutal wounds showing through his bruised eyes and stabbing her in the heart. Angry at how he managed to undo only his hands before removing her bonds instead of untying himself totally. Angry that, instead of saving himself, he'd given her an apologetic look before pushing her out of the cart and then collapsing himself. 

The apology frustrated her almost more than anything else, because she was certain he was not apologetic for the right reasons. 

"When we get back," she muttered to herself in the lessening gloom, "we're going to have a long talk about not sacrificing yourself for me. Again."

Truthfully, she didn't have much faith that this talk would stick any better than any of their previous similar ones, but that wouldn't prevent her from trying. 

You idiot, she choked back a sob, don't you know how much it hurts when you do this?

She forced the tears away. There would be time for tears later, when he was home and safe and so bound up by her healing that he would have to stop and listen to her.

And he'll smile up at me and shrug and say he couldn't make any promises...

She shook her head. Focus.

Squinting, Shirayuki looked around the fortress and saw only one sentinel standing guard at the entrance. That seemed a little lackluster as far as security went, but she wasn't complaining. 

A murmur like Obi's echoed through her brain. Miss, you can never be too careful. The ground's not the only place the enemy can be.

As though on cue, she heard a slight crackling of tinder above her as though a squirrel was making its way through the limbs. She craned her head upwards to see a man in the tree besides the one where she was hiding, well camouflaged against the gnarled bark.

That wouldn't do.

Looking around surreptitiously, Shirayuki saw a jagged stone on the ground. She reached out and took it, its roughness grounding her and steeling her resolve. After a quick glance towards the sentinel at the door, Shirayuki crept a few trees away from her hiding place and looked up towards her target.

Practice with both Kiki and Obi had served her well; the rock slammed into the back of the tree dwelling soldier's knee as she'd planned, forcing his knee to bend and for him to lose his balance. He fell to the ground with a heavy thud amidst all the dead leaves.

Even in her haze of adrenaline, she could see his chest rise and fall, and felt a traitorous sense of relief.

The sentinel ran over to check his fallen comrade, his face showing first alarm, then irritation. He nudged the fallen man none too gently in the ribs and cursed. Shirayuki reached into her satchel, the glass jar solid in her hand.

"Fool," the guard grumbled, "falling asleep in a -"

The glass jar cracked across the back of his head, the potent herbs smearing across his skin and hair ensuring that the blow would knock him out. There were a few beads of blood where the glass scratched him, but she recognized him as one of Obi's attackers and couldn't bring herself to care much. 

She stalked across the grass quietly and quickly, her ears attuned for any small sound, but heard and saw no one as she made her way to the door. Despite herself, her hand trembled a moment as she grabbed the door handle but she swallowed it down. She couldn't hesitate.

Obi needed her.

…

Years of having to deaden old soldier's wounds and to temporarily incapacitate stubborn, hardy patients who would not listen to her and stay in bed were serving her well. It meant that she knew just the right herbs to use, even if she had to grab them on the fly from the surrounding forest and unattended cupboards. It also meant she knew just where to dig and press her fingers to weaken muscles and render others unconscious. 

She moved through the halls with almost clinical efficiency. Guard in west wing, herbs. Guard in east wing, pinch at the neck. Guard on the staircase, jar of herbs to the back of the head. 

For once, she was grateful for her small size, it allowed her to creep and duck around the shadows. Because she had to take everyone out on the way to Obi, otherwise she knew their chances of escape were slim. 

Especially with Obi as injured as he is. 

Shirayuki gritted her teeth, forcing her feelings to fuel her rage. This was not the time to falter.

It was best to be quiet, the element of surprise was key. But she noted with alarm that her attacks were getting more reckless the deeper she went into the fortress, whether that was due to her desperation and anger, she didn't know.

She didn't care.

As she crept past the guard who had been watching the dungeon door, she heard voices and scowled. 

A dull slap of something against flesh. "Where is the girl?"

A hollow chuckle. "What girl?"

Wind whistled as something was swung through the air, ending with a muffled thud and a deep groan. "You know what girl we're talking about!"

"Can't say I do," Obi groaned in response.

There was a sound that sounded sickeningly like a blade being drawn from a scabbard. "I won't ask again."

"Good, because I won't answer again." Obi clicked his tongue, the sound strangely garbled. "Not good at taking no for an answer, no wonder you can't get a girl-"

Don't provoke them, Obi!

Usually, if Obi was still being snarky and insolent, things were okay; it was only when he reverted to death glares that things were serious. However, that was when others, especially Shirayuku and Ryuu, were at stake. He was annoyingly flippant when it came to his well-being, so Shirayuki had no way of telling how bad it was without seeing him. She pushed up on her toes and stared through the bars.

Her blood ran cold, then hot, then boiling.

Her knight was shackled to the wall, looking even more bruised and battered then she had seen him before. Blood ran in a stream from the corner of his mouth, his limbs were contorted where they were shackled with blood plastering the material to his skin, and his glare was lessening to a slit of golden, blood-shot eyes as his face swelled from all the bruising. 

And there was a blade held to his neck.

Rage filled Shirayuki like a beaker overflowing with viscous, corrosive liquid and she felt herself grabbing a rusty bar that had fallen in days past from the door. There were two people with him, the element of surprise would be almost useless here.

And it was overrated anyway.

She only made one sound before she dropped her cover entirely, just enough to surprise the brute holding the blade to Obi's neck and have him facing her.

With that, she cast aside all secrecy, let out an unholy shriek that she hadn't known herself capable of, and pounced. 

…

"That," Obi huffed besides her as they struggled into the clearing, him leaning heavily on her shoulder, "was something, Miss."

Shirayuki gave something like a nod in response, but kept going. Her adrenaline was just about running out, and she could feel all the aches in her body starting to emerge. Just a little further. 

"Miss?"

Along with the aches, the reality of what she had just done was beginning to sink into her thoughts as well. All those guards slumped unconscious, their wheezing both reassuring and terrifying. The bruises and scabs forming on the backs of heads and necks. The pained groans of Obi's tormentors as they faded into delirium, clutching most likely broken legs or arms. It looked terrible and daunting in her mind. 

And she couldn't really bring herself to regret it. 

"Miss, are you okay?"

It wasn't until she felt his fingers brush the dampness of her cheek that she realized she'd been crying. "I'll be fine."

"Miss."

He had no right to sound admonishing right now. None at all.

"Miss." He sounded gentler, although the admonishing tone still lingered in the back of his voice. "You're bleeding."

"Sure it's mine and not yours?" She shot back, and immediately regretted it at his wince. 

"Miss, we're far enough. You need to rest a minute."

Acquiescing, Shirayuki maneuvered them to a small cave. She lay him down and sat beside him, hugging her knees to her chest, the fear and fatigue and anger and anxiety all curdling at once in her gut. She was doing a poor job of hiding it, given that Obi reached up to brush his fingers against her face again. "Miss, please…"

Something about the touch and tone undid her, and she began weeping. "Don't," she choked, "don't ever do that again."

Obi frowned. "You know I can't promise that."

"Why?" She demanded, "Why can't you? Don't you realize how much you matter? Don't you realize how much it would kill me if something happened to you?"

He swallowed hard. "Not as much as you-"

Shirayuki glared down at him. "Don't. Just, don't."

Obi sighed and forced himself into a seated position. With a slight noise of distaste at his bloodied clothes, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. She hugged him back fiercely and cried into his shoulder. He rubbed her back soothingly. "Thank you, Miss. I'm so sorry."

"Not as half as you'll be if you scare me like that again," she sniffled.

"Yes, Miss," she could feel his smile in the breath against her neck, warm and close and reassuringly alive. 

She would need to talk with him more about this later, they were both well aware. But for now, they were both alive and safe.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

[redqueen-hypothesis]

overdose ➳ lucien (mlqc)

➳ PAIRING: reader x lucien xu (mlqc)

➳ WORD COUNT: 3401

➳ GENRE: angst, questionable good ending

➳ SYNOPSIS: contains spoilers from chapter 25, angst, angst and more angst!

He’s shaking.

Trembling, his fingers reach out for a tiny glass bottle. He misses the first time, grabs it on the second, drawing it towards him and inserting a syringe into it, filling it with clear, crystal liquid.

His hands twitch involuntarily, causing the level of liquid in the syringe to shoot up far past a normal dose, but he doesn’t care about that right now. Releasing the remains of the empty bottle, the glass falls to the ground and shatters - joining the other broken shards on the ground in iridescent smithereens.

He collapses on the bed in a mess of clammy skin and cold sweat, yanking up one sleeve to reveal his forearm. The silence is deafening in his ears, almost unbearably so. He can’t stand another second of it.

This empty world, this aching loneliness.

The needle breaks skin, silver sinking into his arm. The press of the syringe feels almost cathartic, a release from the torturous longing he’s had to suffer since that day.

Tossing the emptied syringe to the side, he allows himself to lie back on the bed, exhausted. His heartbeat slows, monochrome world before his eyes swimming in shades of black and grey. Disembodied echoes of laughter, that of a man and woman, tug at him from the recesses of his mind - an old memory wrapping its claws around his throat.

He closes his eyes, abandoning himself at the edge of insanity, and lets himself fall.

He’ll see you soon enough.

>>>

You’re dressed in white.

A summer dress of lace, hem flirting with your knees, the vision of innocence and purity even in the darkness of his room. Untainted by the ugliness of the world, bold in kindness and enduring in your own right. Lucien’s always admired that about you, perhaps more than he should.

His ruin has been brought about by his own hands. He destroyed himself the very moment he fell for you.

You’re crouched beside him, barefoot on glass shards scattered across his bedroom floor, and yet you do not bleed nor cry out in pain. Instead, your expression is serene, a mere white canvas. His eyes drink in the sight of your face like a man parched from wandering deserts without a drop of water, from the tilt of your mouth to the softness in your eyes.

He’s missed you so much. He misses you so painfully that it’s difficult to breathe. There’s a gaping chasm in his chest that just refuses to be filled no matter what he pours into it, leaving him an empty, hollow shell of a man.

You had once asked him this question, standing on opposite ends of a press room, if the advancement of the world was worth the death of someone precious to him. At that moment, he hadn’t replied your question.

But now, he knows the answer.

He wouldn’t. Not even if it cost him the entire world.

And yet you, nothing but a silly, weak fool who knew almost nothing about EVOLs and the workings of Black Swan, had decided to sacrifice yourself instead. He can’t bear to think about how afraid you must have felt those very seconds before death, and worse, he wasn’t there for you when you’d needed him the most.

“I’m sorry.” The words fall from his mouth before he can stop them, spilling out of his throat and made ugly with grief. Guilt claws at the inside of his chest, an unrestrained, rabid beast, shredding his lungs with white hot knives and rendering him unable to breathe. A single tear streaks down his cheek, a burning trail against his skin. “I’m so sorry.”

The phantom of you only smiles in response, eyes empty and devoid of warmth.

Dead people can’t forgive the living.

“I trusted you.” Your voice comes out soft, barely above a whisper, but he catches every single word. They lodge in his chest, more painful that any physical wound. “I trusted you and you betrayed me.”

I didn’t mean to, he wants to scream, but the words won’t leave his mouth. I didn’t want to, I wanted to save you, no matter the cost. I was ready to throw everything away, if only-

“If you want to see me again, then die.” Your eyes are blank, indifferent. Perhaps that hurts more than the burning anger of your hatred would, because it reminds Lucien that this isn’t really you. “Die and join me in hell. It’s the least you deserve, Ares.”

With every word you say, it gets harder to breathe. Lucien feels like he’s suffocating, gasping for breath. But even worse is when you get to your feet, still with that chillingly emotionless smile on your face, turning around to leave. “Stop calling me back to you when I’m already dead. I don’t want to see your face ever again.”

No. Don’t go.

“Please, don’t leave.” Lucien gasps breathlessly, stumbling out of the bed. He doesn’t feel the pain of the glass shards digging into the soles of his feet, only the hot blood that spills out from punctured skin. His fingers grasp your wrist, trying to stop you from departing.

You can’t go. Not now. Not ever.

You turn around slowly to meet his eyes, and Lucien’s heart plummets into the pit of his stomach.

Blood spills from the side of your mouth, eyes empty and glazed over. Your blood, black in his sight, falls onto above your heart in a chilling visual - the very place where you’d been stabbed. The stain spreads before his very eyes, a black, twisting butterfly undergoing metamorphosis, the colour of your dress turning midnight within seconds until the last hints of white vanishes from his sight.

His heart stops in his chest. It is the Black Queen smiles back at him now, eyes alight with maniacal delight. Her laughter is high and cold.

“This is what you wanted all along, wasn’t it, Ares? The evolution of mankind you wanted so much... isn’t that your greatest desire?”

“No!” Lucien shouts, voice cracking, releasing her hand as if burned. This isn’t what he wants. But it’s too late now, and she smiles back at him with bloodied lips. She wears your face, but the cruelness in her eyes sets the two of you apart - the moon and the sun, night and day. “I never wanted her to die. Never!”

The Black Queen coos, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “I thought you of all people should know this, Ares. I’m disappointed. In your own words, sacrifice a few to save many, isn’t that right?” Her voice is tender, but the hands comes up to touch cup Lucien’s cheek are vicious, sharp nails digging into his skin. “You should be pleased by this.”

Lucien rips her hand from his face in fury, his fingers locking around her throat. Stop talking, stop speaking, just stop- Black blood drips down onto his wrist, leaving inky trails along his forearm. The Black Queen only laughs, tilting her head to the side as if regarding some interesting specimen before her.

“You won’t be able to do it.” Each word is poison sprouting in his chest. “I’m still her.”

Lucien’s breath comes out in a ragged cry, a choked scream ripping itself from his chest. His fingers tighten around her delicate neck, crushing her once and for all. “You can never be her. You will never be her.”

Her smile is triumphant. “And that’s why you will never see her again.”

Before his eyes, the Black Queen shatters into a million pieces, falling to the ground in a shower of black shards. The pieces of her scatter across the wooden floors, joining the rest of the broken glass on the ground, leaving nothing but the echo of her cruel laugh in his ears.

Yet, Lucien feels no joy nor satisfaction at the sight. Chest feeling just as vacant as before, he simply stumbles back to the bed, collapsing onto it and burying his face in his hands.

Raw screams tear from his throat, tears and blood mingling on his face and hands. His throat is raw with agony, and yet he can’t seem to stop - there’s so much pain in his chest that he feels like he’ll shatter if he tries to keep it in.

He doesn’t stop until he’s exhausted himself completely, physically and emotionally. In the end, dreamless sleep finally takes mercy on him and drags him under.

He wonders if he’ll remember any of this when he wakes up.

>>>

The sound of his apartment door unlocking rouses Lucien from his slumber.

An intruder, he thinks dazedly, but can’t really bring himself to care. He lies still, unmoving on the bed, thoughts drifting back to the Black Queen that had appeared in his dreams.

You will never see her again.

A fear, so intense, creeps through him like ice cold water trickling through his veins. What if he won’t even be able to see you, even in his dreams? Frantic, he bolts upright, desperately scrambling for the syringe he’d left on the sweat soaked mattress - and stills.

There’s someone standing in the doorway. His breath catches in the back of his throat when he realises who it is.

It’s you.

The moonlight washes over your form, bathing you in an almost ethereal glow. Lucien doesn’t dare to breathe, or even blink, afraid that your mirage will disappear with even the slightest of disturbance. Your eyes are wide with shock, mouth slightly parted as you look at him - that’s a new expression he’s never seen before in his dreams.

He must not have woken up from the previous hallucination, his internal subconscious reasons. It must have been the increased dosage, his exhaustion, something. His hands tremble, clenching into fists at his sides. Your name leaves his lips in a hushed whisper.

“You’re here. You’re not gone.” His voice is hoarse, throat burning.

At his words, you finally move, taking a tentative step forward. Your usual dress is streaked with dirt, slightly frayed at the edges. “Yes... I used the spare key to get in, I hope you don’t mind. I know we parted on bad terms but... I just thought I should see you.”

You’re a figment of his imagination, and yet you’re apologizing for entering his house without telling him? His mind is really getting better at constructing nightmares in the form of your likeness to torture him with, he laughs deprecatingly. It’s a bittersweet feeling.

Just a few steps, but forever out of reach.

“You look terrible.” You observe aloud, taking a step closer. Your pink lips are pressed together in concern, and he wants to run his finger over them, feel their softness, but he knows he’ll only find emptiness. “Lucien... are you alright?”

At your words, Lucien can’t help the chuckle that starts deep in his chest, before it rising to his throat and spills out of his mouth. His laughter shakes his chest, before it dissolves into painful coughs. “Lucien!”

“I’m not alright.” He answers honestly, when the hacking dies down. His eyes burn with it, and your own widen at the sight of it, as if it’s your first time witnessing him break down in front of you. “I haven’t been since the day you died.”

He hears your breath hitch in your throat, the shiny sheen of your own eyes filling with tears. So much like you, his chest tightens painfully at the thought. “I thought... I thought you only cared about me because of the Queen gene. Because of Black Swan.”

The naked hurt in your eyes seizes him by the throat, and instantly he’s desperate to deny this. He needs to make sure the ghost of you knows what he couldn’t tell you when you were still alive. “Never. I loved you, I still love you. I-” Pain spikes through his throat, still raw from screaming and he gasps a ragged breath, hand instinctively raising to his neck.

“Lucien, please stop talking, I’ll-” Your hurry to him, concern written all over your face before you come to a halt, expression a mixture of horror and shock as you glance down at the myriad of shattered glass at your feet. “What’s all this doing on the floor?”

Now that Lucien looks down, he can see the floor stained with red, the same colour tracked over the mattress. You must see it as well, because your lips part on a gasp, brows furrowing as you make the connection. “You’re hurt!”

A fitting punishment for what I did to you, he thinks. But then, instead of mocking him for his pain or reminding him of how he’d betrayed you, you swipe the tears from your eyes fiercely, a soft sniff escaping you. “Wait here, I’ll get a broom and sweep this up-”

You’re going to leave.

“Don’t go!” The shout escapes him in a desperate cry, and you flinch at the sheer volume of his words. Seeing the hesitation on your face, he makes to rise from the bed, to stand closer to you, but you hold a hand up, looking visibly distressed and worried.

“Don’t move another inch! There’s glass all over the floor and you’re hurt.” Your voice is laced with near tangible pain, as if his afflictions are your own. “What happened? Why are there pill bottles all over the floor?” Bending down, you touch a label on the shattered remains of a glass bottle, little white pills spilled across the wooden floorboards. “Hallu... hallucinogens!?”

He doesn’t flinch at the accusing tone in your voice, leaning back against the wall, limbs suddenly leaden, exhausted. His eyes remain fixed on you, unwilling to tear themselves away even for a second. “Please... stay.” His voice breaks at the end, hoarse with emotion. “I don’t know when it’ll wear off, so please... just stay a little longer.”

The shock on your face melts into realization, before it turns into something resembling fury. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you so angry before, tears glistening at the corners of your eyes. “You mean, you’ve been taking hallucinogens this entire time to see me again? From the time I’ve been dead, all the way until now?”

“I couldn’t bear not seeing you again.” Lucien breathes, a shaky exhale escaping his mouth. The corners of his lips lift in a sad, self deprecating smile. “I’m sorry I’m unable to let you rest in peace because of my own selfish desires.”

If you want to see me again, then die. Join me in hell, Ares.

A long moment of silence stretches between the two of you, filled by nothing but moonlight and shadows. Lucien shivers, cold sweat still beading on the back of his neck and wonders for a second if he’s trembling so feverishly from the increased dosage. Perhaps he really might join you in death soon. The thought doesn’t sound so bad to him.

“Do you really still think I’m a hallucination?”

His head snaps up to stare at you in shock, an emotion that he doesn’t quite dare to name nearly sprouting in his chest. Your eyes are fierce with emotion as you stare back at him, and he almost, almost, lets himself hope that the impossible could have happened somehow, that you’re alive-

And yet he knows, deep in his chest, that you aren’t. The worst nightmares don’t begin by taking you from him, they lull him into a false sense of security and make him hope that it all could have been a bad dream - until the world collapses and burns into nothing but fire and ash. “You’re going to disappear the moment I close my eyes, just like every other time. So please, don’t-”

Your gaze is unwavering, a determined hand extended to him. “Touch me. Touch me and see if I’m real or not.”

Black blood and a cruel laugh flash in the back of his mind. The sight of your face shattering into glass replays over and over, your neck crumbling in his grip, the light dying out in your eyes.

You’ll never see her again.

“Don’t.” His voice is more like a moan of a wounded animal, a pathetic, begging thing. He buries his face in his hands, unable to look you in the eye. “I can’t want to watch you fall apart again.”

“I won’t.” Your promise hangs in the air between the two of you. There’s no lie in your voice. “I promise, Lucien. I’m real, I’m fine, I’m alive. Touch me.”

He doesn’t want to. He’s scared.

“Damn it, Lucien-” There’s the sound of glass crunching under feet, and then his mattress dips under an additional weight. Before he can fully comprehend what this means, a pair of arms suddenly wrap around him, pulling him into the embrace of a small, soft body.

Lucien can’t remember how to breathe. It’s like time has ceased to flow, and nothing is real except for the warmth that emanates from the body pressed to his. A choked sob struggles in his throat, trying to wrench its way free, trapped in place by disbelief.

“I’m real.” You repeat, fingers lacing with his tightly. He grips them hard, recalling the shape and feel of them in his - they fit together perfectly, key in lock, just like he remembers. “You’re real.” He says, in a daze.

“Mmmhmm. Your other hand reaches up to brush his hair out of his eyes, and he finds his eyes tracing your features hungrily, desperate to commit every part of you to memory. “You’re really terrible at taking care of yourself when I’m not there, you silly man.”

That’s when he knows it’s really you.

He opens his mouth to laugh, to speak, to say something - it leaves him in the form of a choked sob. More and more start to spill from his mouth, inconsolable. He’s shaking from the force of them, fingers clinging to the fabric of your dress. There’s so much he wants to tell you, but he can’t find the words.

I’m sorry, he wants to say. Over and over again, until you can forgive him. Nothing is more precious than this tiny body in his arms.

“I wanted you to come back and tell me off.” Lucien finally croaks, voice a broken whisper, still staring. He can’t tear his eyes away, too afraid to even blink. Your smile is sad, hurting for him as you kiss the tears from his eyelashes - so tender that his heart feels like it’s ripping itself in half. “I... I-”

Suddenly, pain spikes through his head and he groans, slumping against your body. His body is breaking out in feverish chills, temperature running dangerously hot. “Lucien! What’s wrong?”

“O-overdose...” He manages, gritting his teeth against the agony - his vision swims before his eyes and it takes all his effort not to pass out on the spot. “It’s just too much in my body, that’s all. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Stupid scientist, what’s the use of that brain if you can’t even take care of yourself-” You mutter under your breath, hushed with anxiety as your hands grip his shoulders to support his weight. “Lie down, get some rest. I’ll go get you some water and a towel.”

“No!” Lucien clutches you to him the second he hears those words - he’s terrified that you’ll vanish like a good dream the second he wakes up. “Don’t go, please-”

It’s pathetic to beg like this, stripped of any sense of pride and self dignity, heart bared in an ugly, gaping hole in his chest - and he doesn’t care.

Your face paints over with pained tenderness before you finally nod, wrapping your arms around him once more and tucking his face into the crook of your neck. There, he can feel the flutter of your pulse against his lips - strong and steady, a sure sign of life.

“You’re alive.” Lucien repeats again, just to make sure. Your fingers tangle in his hair, stroking over his back. He shudders at your touch and buries his face tighter against your neck.

“Alive.” You confirm. Your breath is warm against the shell of his ear. “Go to sleep, now.”

Finally, he allows exhaustion to take him, eyes slipping shut as darkness replaces his vision. The last thing he’s aware of is the warmth that envelopes him, too acute to be false, too good to be real.

Your promise echoes in the last vestiges of his consciousness.

I’ll be here when you wake up.

[suckerforsmylex]

Ripe Peach - Pt. 8

Joker POV

She stood there in my blazer, looking delicious with the makeshift Harley outfit on. An insatiable thirst for her coursed through my veins, making me clench my fists violently. Her body was a beautiful paradox.  There was a profound softness and pureness to it, like the flesh of virgin fruit on my carnivorous mouth. Yet, underneath her sweet candor, I picked up the scent of a more…carnal inclination. The thought of possessing her thrilled me immeasurably and I had to run my fingers through my hair to reclaim my thoughts from the dark place they had settled into.

You’ve been a bad girl, haven’t you sweetheart?

Yes, she was a precarious creation and my favorite kind of challenge. Her voluptuous curves spilled out lustfully and brazenly on display.  The diligence she put into hiding behind fabric was undone by the very quiver of her breasts as she sauntered toward me. There was an alluring plumpness to her lips whenever she looked at me, whether in a moment of poutiness or pleasure. I was addicted to the flush of her face, taking great pleasure in inflicting her with doses of humiliation.  Seeing her cheeks warm and redden whenever my desire simmered over into an intense stare became an addiction that required almost hourly satiation.  My eyes would pierce her, chipping away at her chastity, until she would pinken with a pretty blush.  She unfurled for me at only a glint of my metal grin.  

That’s it.  Melt for Daddy, my little peach. I want to see some cherry in those cheeks.

My old flame had caused a conflict within my battered brain.  My mind had trouble processing Harley’s unannounced, grabby little fingers all over my luscious peach.  Yet, I was captivated by how she flushed at Harley’s desperate advances.  It was uncontrolled and her confusion at her own arousal was scintillating.  I relished the heat of her surprise and shame as it coursed through her, with her wrists restrained by me.  It emanated through her and onto me, from their spontaneous synthesis.  Chemical reactions appeal to the mad chemist in me. The forming and breaking of bonds, the unstable elements, they have a certain undeniable charm.  Still, I always feel the dominating urge to exert my power and neutralize these reactions. I marked her as MY property, biting her ravenously and growling as Harley came forward, but it was to no end. Harley is insatiable. She doesn’t understand what boundaries are. Her ultimate mistake was to grab the delicate treasure that is my Peach’s ankle.  I hadn’t even been able to kiss there yet.  I cocked the gun and aimed at Harley in a manic, angry bloodlust.  She should be dead, but the feeling of holding the gun with Harley at my feet and Peaches against me having her scorching awakening, rendered me so hard that I couldn’t concentrate.  I gave her the option and she chose to spare Harl.  She asked so nicely that I couldn’t kill her.  My bloodlust vanished, replaced by a serious, intense longing to be inside of her.

That’s it, beg Daddy to stop – such a good girl.    

I wanted to rip her panties off with my teeth and destroy her.  Her utter ignorance of my compulsion with The Bat only distracted me for a moment and I reluctantly suppressed the urge to reach out and choke her soft, vulnerable neck.  I let the twitch in my jaw soften and gave her a stern warning.   “Don’t bring up The Bat.  I’m still cooking up some ways to kill him, but right now, I’m more interested in murdering you in bed.” She bit her lip and I could tell without even examining her that she was dripping for me.  I led her, gripping her at the nape of the neck, into my black, 4-door and threw her onto the back seat.  Her eyes called for me to impale her right there but I had better plans.   “Lay down,” I commanded, stifling the urge to release myself.

That’s it. Get on your back.  Daddy’s gonna’ make you squirm first.

She surrendered beautifully to me and I slammed the door shut, jumped into the driver’s seat, locked all the doors and turned on the car.  I hit the gas and accelerated to 90mph and I could hear her moan softly. She likes me crazy and wild and I decided to give her a little test.  “Are you Daddy’s good girl or Daddy’s bad girl?”  She was so thoughtful, always wanting to please me. I felt her struggle with her answer before landing on saying, “I’m whatever you say I should be Daddy.” This is what I mean about her being dangerous.  She’s a literal split between so very good, and so very naughty. I purred uncontrollably and grabbed the clutch, shifting gears abruptly.  “That’s a perfect answer. Daddy wants to you be a bad girl right now.  Take off your clothes, but leave your panties and heels on.”

Put on a show for Daddy.  I can taste you on my tongue already.

She was eager to please me, ripping off the blazer, jacket and shirt with reckless abandon. I closed my eyes for a moment while weaving in and out of the traffic, thinking of how her bare skin felt against the leather of the back seat.  I opened my eyes and had to look up to get a glimpse of her in the rear-view mirror.  

Fuck.  

It took all my strength to avoid slamming into the back of the charter bus in front of us.  I barely missed the collision as I jerked the car to the left, laughing hysterically. “Mmmmm. Now spread your legs and touch yourself until we get home and don’t you dare cum.  Say yes, Daddy J.”  She spread her legs, parting them slowly with her left on the seat and her right onto the car floor and began touching herself aggressively.  

Say it, say it, say it, say it…

“Nggg…Yes Daddy J.” She said my name as I got onto the expressway and I nearly flipped us off the side rail of the onramp.  I gripped my left hand onto the wheel and pinched as much of the side of her ass as I could, hard and fast.  I wanted to hear her squeal, and squeal she did.  The sound made me think of all the times I had ever plunged into her, thrusting hard into her tight center.  I was in pain, constricted and bulging against the fly of my pants.  I quickly unzipped and released myself, sliding my hand down my shaft and rubbing the dribble of liquid from my tip into my palm.  “Look at what you’ve done to me. You’re such a naughty, naughty girl. I am going to have to spank you. Shall we use the cane when we get home?”

Daddy’s cane awaits, my juicy peach.

“Yes Daddy.  You’re the boss Daddy. You should use the cane.” I looked at her again through the rear view and she was breathing heavily, slipping into her folds and rubbing all over.  She was beginning to place a finger underneath her panties and into herself when I decided to stop her.  I braked hard and pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned the engine off. “Did I say…to put your fingers inside of yourself?”  Her eyebrows raised and her eyes widened and she knew she was in trouble.  I began to laugh uncontrollably and then I lunged into the back seat, gripping her with both hands at the throat.  Her eyes were wide and frightened and welling with tears. “Youuuu, are just too naughty for your own good, aren’t you?  You don’t put your fingers inside unless I tell you to.  Take off your panties.”  She removed them and I quickly shoved them into her mouth.  I pat her between her legs, making sure to graze her clit.  She was a sopping, slippery mess.  “Tell Daddy you understand.  Touch it and say ‘Daddy, I don’t put fingers in my pussy unless you tell me to’.”  I still held her in the choke hold and only loosened so that she could speak as much as she could, with the panties still in her mouth.  Her speech was garbled but she repeated the edict.  “Daddy, I don’t put fingers in my pussy unless you tell me to.” She reached down to touch herself as I had instructed and I released the grip, stroking her face with my lips, kissing her and biting her ear. “Spit the panties out baby.”

That’s right, repeat after Daddy, my sweet whore.

I grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out of the car and onto the open highway.  “Okay, Peaches, you want to be Daddy’s bad girl?  Then I’ll fuck you like a bad girl.”  She started to protest but I put my tattooed hand over her mouth and started to cackle.  Her body glistened against the backdrop of the night sky as the cars whizzed by, blinding us with their lights.  I slammed her onto the hood of the car and held her there with my forearm as I bent down to nuzzle into her nakedness.  “I want a taste of you right here and right now.”  She writhed underneath me as I slowly extended my tongue and stabbed into her swollen pussy.  Her dampness bubbled onto my tongue and her cries became louder as I lapped at her relentlessly.  She tasted sweet and was endlessly slick as I darted my tongue in and out. “Always so juicy for me.”  When I could feel her release building, I stopped and jerked her back again by the hair. I took my other hand and grabbed her crotch, dipping a long finger inside. “You come when I tell you to.  Do you understand?”  But it was too late for my little peach to stop herself.  She was already bucking onto my hand and crying out as she orgasmed.  It was an intense orgasm that she couldn’t will herself to stop and I made sure to pour it on thick as I looked at her with strict disapproval.

You’re in trouble now, Peaches.

After the last aftershock of her orgasm subsided, I pulled the long finger out of her slowly, never breaking the intense glare I was giving her.  I looked at my glistening finger and shoved it directly into her mouth, feeling for the back of her throat.  “Taste your failure, you dirty slut.”  She choked on my fingers and tried to utter an apology. “I’m sorry Da…”  

*SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!*

I backhanded her across the face and gripped her chin and to my surprise, she looked up at me smiling and giddy, and panting.  I reached into the back of the car and grabbed my golden cane and then back down to grab myself and stroke my thick length.  The little cock tease was killing me.  I leaned in close, pressed my cheek to hers and spoke directly into her ear.  “What did I just say?” I kissed her earlobe and she breathed into my ear and started to moan.  I gripped her by the throat again, shouting loudly.  “WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST SAY?”  Her doe eyes looked watery again as her apology came tumbling forth from her mouth. “I’m sorry, Daddy! I’m so sorry, I know I wasn’t supposed to come.”  I released her and slammed her back onto the hood of the car.  “That’s right.  You weren’t supposed to.  I guess we’re going to have to continue treating you like the whore that you are.” I grabbed the cane and smacked her across the thighs and watched her body jump.  The sight of it made me throw my head back and laugh.  “Ok Peaches, you ready for Daddy to murder that pussy?” She nodded profusely.  Of course, she was ready.  

They are going to draw chalk lines on the pavement, after I’m done with you peaches.

I held the cane across the base of her neck so that it choked her tightly.  “Spread your legs wide.”  I placed the tip of my cock at the base of her entrance and when I felt she couldn’t take my teasing anymore, I forced myself inside with one thick thrust. “Ahhh!”  She screamed at the feeling of me filling her.  “That’s right doll face, I’m going to destroy you.”  I thrust into her in a frenzy, disregarding her screams and purred into her ear with each thrust. “Fuck Daddy, it hurts!”  I looked down at the tears rolling down her face and it only served to spur me on.  I spoke to her with mock sympathy.  “Oh no, it hurts, sweetheart?  Is Daddy too big for you?  Too fucking bad.  Turn over so I can finish stretching you out from behind.”  She started moving slowly, but I couldn’t wait any longer and I yanked her by the arms and pushed her down onto the hood, kicking her feet apart roughly with my shoe.  

Are you crying baby girl?  I’ll give you something to cry about.

She was spread open in front of me and I couldn’t stop my wicked idea from coming to fruition. “You know, we never christened this cane.” I grabbed ornamental cane by its decorative knob and began to push the straight end of it into her, knowing that any minute she would realize and protest. “No Daddy, please!” She turned back over her shoulder with a desperate look in her eyes.  I gave her a grin, my words coming out of my mouth like silk. “Now Peaches, you know when you’re bad that you deserve to be punished. Isn’t that right?  Now, push back and fuck Daddy’s cane.”  She agreed reluctantly and began to push back with hesitation, her tightness sliding onto the metal of it, drenching it with her juices. “Yes, that’s right.  Let’s see a more spirited performance for.”

Again, she obeyed my command until I could see that she was starting to enjoy it, moving back and forth onto it with more fervor until her voice broke through the nasty, lewd sound of her cunt being impaled.  “Daddy, Daddy, fuck, please, please, please let me come!”  I pulled the cane from her swiftly and stabbed into her again with my cock.  “Come now! Come all over my cock.  Give Daddy all of it!  Give it to me!  Give it to me!  Give it to me! Fuck yes!”  She came all over me, bucking into my crotch and triggering my own release.  I felt it gushing into her, hot and satisfying as she slumped onto the hood unable to move until I carried her into the passenger seat and wrapped my blazer around her and buckled her in, kissing her sweetly. “How can one peach be so deliciously sweet, yet so horribly rotten at the same time?”  She smiled up at me in a daze and I began driving us towards my home base.    

[the-girl-in-the-box]

Can You Imagine? II

A/N: Answers are finally coming, a bit! Freydis has some adjustments to make, but she’s beginning to adjust, and we’ll get to learn more about what exactly is going on here... Let’s find out, yeah? Skål!

Summary: Freydis was dead. At least, when she’d lost consciousness, she’d been sure she was. But now she has woken up in a cold, sterile environment, one she is certain is not Valhalla, and the world as she once knew it has changed. People now have strange abilities, some of them, and people they call ‘scientists’ are trying to give them to her. The bigger issue, though, is the fact they have also woken the very man who killed her. Ivar the Boneless lives again as well, in the same way Freydis does, and if they want to survive... she may have to learn to trust him again.

Warnings: Hospital-like environments, mad science, injections, needles, bloodwork, human experimentation, etc. Old Norse in Italics!

Masterlist

--

The Room Where It Happens

Freydis woke in yet another room, this one almost a mix of the two she’d woken in thus far. The bed she was laid on was made of a strange material, with a papery sort of material separating her from the bed itself. It was dark in the room, but not as dark as the room with the comfortable bed- this was due to the window in this room, from which light came through. However, there were still all sorts of strange things in the room, some of which had strange sounds coming from them, much like the first room.

She noticed after a moment or two that there was a hard thing covering one of her fingers, and a tube ran up to her opposite arm, ending in something sharp- a needle, it looked like- that was inserted in the crook of her arm. Some sort of liquid was being dropped into the tube, and she wanted to jump at the sight, to pull the needle out of her arm. But, however much she wanted to, she felt… too tired to really do anything about it. A small groan left her, and she turned her head to look straight up at the ceiling.

There was a vague awareness in her that she should be panicking, but for some reason she couldn’t bring herself to- just as she couldn’t bring herself to pull out the needle. Everything felt slow, including her movements as simple as blinking her eyes. Instead of the cry for help she wanted to let out, she started to giggle.

This whole thing was absurd actually, wasn’t it? Perhaps she had survived Ivar’s attempt on her life, and was now in a very strange dream, waiting to wake and discover she still lived. Or maybe, maybe Ivar had never tried to kill her. Perhaps everything before the birth of their little Baldur was true, and she hadn’t even had him yet. Perhaps when she woke, her belly would be swollen with child, and she would have that child, and bear a perfect son that Ivar would be proud of.

All of this, it would pass as a very strange nightmare that one day she would tell him of. And the fear at seeing his chest fill once more with breath, it was all a product of this strange dream. When she woke, she would be delighted to see that all was well, and nothing had ever gone wrong.

The thought that she was being silly to be so afraid made her begin to laugh even harder, her eyes slipping shut. “You gods…” she began, grinning. “Loki, is this you behind this dream? It must be, I cannot think of any other tricksters in all Asgard who would do such a thing.”

When the door to the room opened, the woman in the strange coat, along with the man who she understood, stepped inside, Freydis laughed more. “And now you send these beings to… It cannot be to torment me, they say they are my friends,” she mused. “To tease me? I did not know I was of such interest to you.”

The two shared a concerned look as they saw her seemingly talking to herself. “Queen Freydis..?” the man prompted tentatively. “Are you alright? Who are you talking to?”

“Shhh,” she hushed, her eyes going dramatically wide. “I am praying to Loki. He must be the one behind all this, and I would like to wake now. I want to wake and be with my baby and with Ivar.”

The man blinked a few times, before turning to speak to the woman with him. They conversed for a few moments, in a language Freydís did not know, and she frowned deeply. “It is.. it is rude to speak secretly before your Queen,” she chastised. “I demand to know what you are saying. You must be talking about me, or you would let me hear you.”

The man swallowed. “My apologies, Queen Freydis. My colleague, Dr. Schmidt, doesn’t speak Old Norse. You don’t… you don’t remember that from a few hours ago?”

Freydis huffed slightly. “Of course I remember,” she said. “But I have determined this is only a dream, and as such, I think she should be able to speak Norwegian. It is stupid that she cannot.”

“You are the one who doesn’t speak Norwegian, I’m afraid,” he said. “You speak Old Norse. Norwegian is something of an evolved form of that language.”

Freydis made a sound that indicated her attention was lost. “Loki is being very creative in this trick, I see,” she said. “Oh well. It will soon be over.”

The man exchanged a few words with the woman, who Freydis now knew was called Dr. Schmidt, and then nodded. Dr. Schmidt came closer to her and began to mess with the bag fron which the liquid dropped into the tube, which flowed into her arm. More of the liquid began to drop down, becoming a more steady stream.

“You’re right, Your Highness,” the man said. “This will all be over soon.”

Freydis gave a little giggle, and nodded. “And I will tell my husband of the strange thing Loki did to me tonight,” she said, just before drifting back into unconsciousness.

Dr. Schmidt and her professor colleague shared a look. Then, once they were certain Freydis was completely unconscious, she changed out the liquid that she was administering to Freydis. This one was of a rather golden hue, and she only put so much into her. She took the time then to start an IV in Freydis’s hand, one that would stay until they no longer needed it.

Once all the liquid had drained into the Viking, Dr. Schmidt removed the IV in her arm, and called for some of the workers in the facility to return Freydis to her ‘room’. It was truthfully more of a cell, but they wouldn’t be calling it that to her. She didn’t need to realise she was a prisoner.

It was back in that room, with the most comfortable of the beds, that Freydis woke again. Her entire body ached from the inside out, as it she had a fever, the sort that rendered large warriors unable to leave their beds. She curled in on herself, shaking slightly under the blankets that had been laid over her.

Now that she’d recovered her mind, all of her wanted to cry out, to weep for whatever she was going through, for fear of the fact Ivar lived again. If he found out where she was, no doubt he would come and try to finish what he had begun. The very idea terrified her.

But, she could show these people no fear. So she swallowed thickly, and hardened herself to whatever horrors she had yet to face. The burning in her body didn’t ease, but she still tried to make herself become more used to it. She rolled onto her back, groaned a little with the effort under her fatigue. When she laid her hand up by her head, she finally noticed a slight stinging sensation.

Freydis moved her hand to look at it. There was a little tube protruding from it, twisted around and somehow held against her hand- bandaged, from the looks of it. She frowned a little, poking at it, and the door opened. It was the man once more.

“I wouldn’t poke at it,” he told her. “It’ll only make it hurt. Trust me, I’ve made that mistake plenty of times.”

Freydis narrowed her eyes. “Trust you?” she questioned. “You have given me no reason to trust you. Why should I?”

He chuckled a little, and grimaced. “Ah, I don’t suppose I have, have I?” he asked, almost sheepishly. “My name is Professor Andersen. I’ve been studying Old Scandinavian culture for most of my adult life- specialising in the early Middle Ages- so, the 500s through the 900s. This… includes the Golden Age of the Vikings. Your people.”

“You speak as if it is many years since this time,” she said. “Is it?”

“Yes…” he answered, grimacing. “It is currently the year 2021.” Freydis looked at him as if he was insane.

“What is in you that you speak such things?” she questioned him. “This cannot be. That would be over a thousand years after I lived in Kattegat.”

“Well… it has been,” he said. “You were found dead by the Sons of Ragnar after the Siege of Kattegat. No one really… knows how you died, but it’s assumed you must have died trying to defend the Kingdom, since you were entombed as a hero. Is that true?”

Freydis swallowed hard as she recalled her death, at the hands of the husband she had once loved more than anything, the monster she created. Telling this man what really happened could end up resulting in the same fate again. If she did anything to displease them, they could use his presence against her. No, she had to behave as though nothing had happened between them. Nothing like that.

“It is,” she lied. “And I would do it again.”

Professor Andersen nodded. “That’s why we found you entombed with your husband, then. Records put his death in the Battle of Edington, documented by a man called Athelstan.”

Freydis put on a hurt face, as if hearing how Ivar had died made her chest ache. It didn’t. In reality, she didn’t feel as though she cared overly much.

“I am glad to hear he died in battle,” she said. “That is what he had always wanted.”

Professor Andersen smiled. “And now, he lives, just as you. And we’re making you both far better. I think you’ll like what we have in store for you.”

“Do you?” Freydis questioned. She barely kept herself from saying he must not have been paying much attention, if that were true.

He nodded. “You both seem to have been quite amazing warriors, to have been buried how you were. Athelstan noted your sacrifice for Kattegat, and your husband’s leadership of its military, after the death of King Harald Finehair. Apparently, he also saved the people from turning against each other.”

She decided then that this ‘Athelstan’ must have been a fanatic of Ivar’s, to hail him as such a hero.

“It makes me proud to hear his accomplishments,” she lied yet again, and Professor Andersen grinned.

“Good,” he said. “Now tell me, how do you feel, hm? Are you doing alright?”

“I feel feverish,” she confessed. May as well try and get some assistance, if he was going to offer. “My body aches with it.”

He nodded, opening a notebook and writing in it. “That is to be expected,” he told her. “Unfortunately, it will need to run its course, to have the desired effect.”

Desired effect…?

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Oh, I mentioned that we were… making you better, yes? Enhancing you?”

Freydis nodded skeptically.

“We’ve already started this with you,” he answered. “We’re going to be administering a serum once a week to you, and later that week, checking your blood to be sure it’s taking to you as it should. If it has, we’ll continue, if not, we’ll need to analyse your blood, figure out why, and try again. You received your first dose of it today.”

Freydis looked at him as if he were mad. “How can you enhance me beyond how I have been formed by the gods?” she almost demanded.

“They didn’t give you the best way to defend yourself, to help others, did they?” he pointed out. “Otherwise, you’d have survived the Siege of Kattegat. So, we’re giving you that ability. After a few doses, you should have enough that you’ll be able to see the effect of it.”

“And that will be all?” she questioned hesitantly, which made him chuckle.

“Oh, of course not,” he said. “Then we’ll be able to learn from you, so we can improve the serum, and maybe one day use it to create a better military. Don’t worry, though. This isn’t without incentive. If you go along with this willingly, we’ll… have a special surprise for you. A good one, I promise.”

“And if I don’t?” she pressed.

Professor Andersen gave a small shrug. “Then there’ll be a bad surprise. I really do suggest you comply, Freydis. It’ll be better for everyone.”

Somehow, she got the feeling he meant Ivar.

—

Weeks and weeks passed, and Freydis learned quickly indeed not to try and resist anything these people wanted to do to her. She had begun to understand more of the language- especially as many of her hours were spent with Professor Andersen, being taught to speak in Norwegian. It was easy enough for her, since it was so similar to Old Norse. But she missed the way her mother tongue sounded on her lips.

“How are you feeling today, Freydis?”

The consequences of this were that she could now understand Dr. Schmidt, who currently had a needle in her arm, taking the blood from her. She swallowed, and shrugged.

“The same as always,” she answered. “I didn’t burn as much this week.”

Dr. Schmidt smiled at this and nodded, switching out the vial so she could take another sample. “That’s good,” she said. The woman had a strangely maternal way about her, and Freydis found that she didn’t dislike her the way she had when she’d first arrived.

Once she’d taken enough blood, she shook the vials up, and told Freydis she’d return shortly. It was the same every week.

The Viking woman rubbed at the bandage now wrapped around her arm, and sighed. This was the part where Dr. Schmidt always returned, told her they weren’t quite there, and had her returned to her room, where she’d wait on Professor Andersen. Her routine had grown rather boring, if not reliable.

When the doctor returned this time, she seemed far more pleased than she’s ever seemed yet. “I need you to follow me,” she said. “We’ve finally reached the point where there should be some real change.”

She waved for Freydis to follow her, as requested, and started toward a door Freydis had not yet been allowed through. Freydis frowned slightly, but got up and followed her.

Through the door was another one of what Freydis had learned was called an ‘observation room’, and then there was an empty room that it observed.

Well, mostly empty.

There were some blocks, boxes, and various things of the sort, all that looked rather soft. She didn’t know what their purpose was, and tilted her head slightly. “Go on in there please, Freydis,” Dr. Schmidt said. Freydis nodded and again did as told.

She stood silently in the room, waiting until she would be told what to do. After a few moments, she was given directions.

“Okay, can you focus on that pile of foam bricks for me?” Dr. Schmidt requested. Freydis turned to look at them, and focused. “Really focus on them, that’s right. Put as much focus into them as you can. Focus on their size, their build, how they look, how you think they’d feel… until you can actually feel them.”

“I cannot feel them,” Freydis said. “I’m not touching them.”

“I know,” Dr. Schmidt replied. “I want you to feel them without touching them.” Freydis frowned, but did the best she could to fulfill the request made of her. “If you need to, go ahead and put out your hands. See if that helps.”

Freydis nodded and did this. She let her hands flex a bit, trying to feel the bricks as instructed. Whether it was her imagination or not, her brows creased a little. Dr. Schmidt smiled and wrote something down. “Now lift them,” she was instructed. “Feel them, and without moving toward them, lift them.”

This only brought even more confusion to the woman, but she did all she could to do as she was asked. Something began to pour out of her fingers, something that looked much like a red smoke, and her heart jumped. Not letting herself stop, Freydis moved her hands, guided it almost instinctively, until the smoke surrounded the blocks.

She lifted her hands, and one by one, the blocks moved with them. The red smoke surrounded them, bent to do what she wanted, and she finally realised this is what Professor Andersen meant when he said she’d be enhanced. Somehow, they had given her abilities she could only imagine a god having. A god or…

Or a Völva.

These people had made her a Völva, from the looks of it. The bricks were floating in the air still at her command, and she blinked a few times. The blinking broke her concentration, and they fell.

“I- I lost my focus,” she said. “Let me try-”

“Oh, no, that was incredible, Freydis,” Dr. Schmidt interrupted. “I couldn’t be happier with your progress. Go on back to your room and rest, I’ll have something sent over early for you to snack on.”

Freydis nodded a little, still slightly dazed. She didn’t know what had just happened, but she got the feeling these people were messing with things and forces they couldn’t understand.

And giving a prisoner abilities like this… that was only going to backfire.

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius, @katfett, @zuzus-sun, @heavenly1927, @punkrocknpearls

If you want to be added to the taglist, feel free to reach out either by commenting, reblogging, DMing me, or sending an ask, and I’ll be more than happy to add you!

[vvingless-warrior]

The Emissary Refusal

Zack x Aerith; 1117 words

I really hope that is final letter that I am writing gets to you.

Mellow Mako-eyes with dark bags under them read the letter over and over again, that one specific sentence written on a dagger that was stabbing him in the chest, causing the nausea inducing heartache with ever time it was repeated in his head- in her voice. He wasn’t capable of hearing his own voice and drown hers out even when he tried it out loud. It only made it worse, if anything.

Zack finally put a stop to his masochistic loop of driving the paper-knife deeper and deeper as his hand sunk and the letter rested on his chest, limb falling loosely into the patch of grass to his right between himself and Cloud as they lay there, the subtly clouded sky, some of the mist covering the near full moon with the occasional bit passing through far above where his imagination could reach the horizon providing a view created to be enjoyed together. 

But not with a friend, not with family, but your lover.

She’d given up on him, she vagued in her letter. Her last one. But Zack hadn’t. Giving up had never been his thing, and it would never be. He was a man of his word, and he’d return to her. He knew she still prayed for his safety, there was no way she wouldn’t be, even after four years that could provide enough time to get over an adolescent romantic experience. She had to know he was still out there, optimistic and full of energy. Zack, flirtatious and adventurous. Zack, selfless and doing everything to help someone, save someone. Zack, breathing and alive dammit!

Zack, crying with his eyes pinched shut, for he refused to see the starry sky without Aerith.

He didn’t know when they fell shut, or when thin trails of liquidated warmth began to trickle down the sides of his face, but as he realized it, he didn’t even try to hold back. Cloud could see him break, crack open and let it out- with all they’ve been through, he’d understand, right?

Even if he wouldn’t, Zack couldn’t care less. Despite that, his paroxysm of longing and midnight melancholy wasn’t audible. It was silent. No sob, no sniffling to be heard of him, though he wasn’t holding back, either. Letting it out was… surprisingly peaceful. Like he was saying goodbye for good, forever- but not to her. There was no need to. And when the time did come to bid a farewell, when he’d finally get the wings he dreamed of having in short whiled sleep, he wanted to say it to her in person, holding her hand, send her off with a smile on his lips.

One that spoke of happiness, not tragedy. One that spoke of optimism and the ambition he carried throughout his life, not loss and depression, sadness to fill her with grief. It was the last thing he wanted, and it’s why getting back to Midgar, no matter what it would cost, was of utmost importance to him.

Aerith was so, so very important to him.

His tears suddenly felt colder, heavier. They didn’t just run down his face, they didn’t only stem from his eyes anymore, and as the sound of rustling leaves due to the liquid wrath of the upcoming storm hid the flora not too far from and all around them, Zack’s eyes shot open so a hand could grab and protect the already stained letter. “Shit-!” He cursed, sitting up with the need to act, and no time to think. He let go again reflexively to take care of getting Cloud to a dry and safer place, the heroism still burning bright inside him, but the loneliness that coexisted with it took over when the paper hit the ground.

He gritted his teeth and hoisted his blond companion, still rendered immobile from the overdose of Mako coursing through him, over his shoulder. Zack didn’t stand up straight immediately, instead reaching for the letter, the only memoir left of her in his possession. He wasn’t fast enough before it flew off with the relentless wind that mercilessly made his stressful life a little harder.

“Wh- hey!”, Zack yelled after the mail that twisted and turned and dipped in height with every drop of water that hit it and smudged the writing more and more. He jumped to his feet, combat boots squeaking against the damp grass as he navigated through the open field into the nearby woods the paper lured him into.

His lungs burned with every sharp inhale he took chasing down one of the last threads that kept his sanity pieced together to not fall apart just yet. And when he found it, the knife had moved from his mind to exactly that, cutting yet another loose, picking it apart at the seams to come undone. The raven panted when he stood before the sad, soaked piece of paper, writing unintelligible, washed away, diluted in the tears of the steel sky.

Shaky legs collapsed and the warrior dropped to his knees. He reached out a gloved hand to pick it up from the mud and grass that mother nature used to claim what once was a letter meant for him as her own. Zack’s eyes narrowed, eyebrows knitted together as he clutched it tightly in his grip, not damaging it any more than what already had been done, and could not be undone.

He leaned over, slowly, until his forehead touched the ground and his torso shielded that particular spot from any more of the Gods’ tears, an apology mouthed and yet unable to be spoken aloud due to a choked sob occupying his vocal chords when Cloud hit the ground next to him. He surrendered to the forces above. What choice did he have when all they did was take away the only things left in his life?

Zack clenched his fists, banging one on the ground as the tears that streamed down rapidly and off the tip off his nose formed a small puddle underneath his face. He shook with anger and the chill the trees refused to keep from him, weeps and pained sobs extracted from the last bit of energy he had left in him.

“Why…?”, he asked. Quietly, cowardly sounding, in his opinion, before forcing himself up to his knees and face the Gods looking down upon him, “WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME!?”

But no answer. No response, no words to grace him with. Neither from the Gods, nor from Cloud, nor from Aerith.

And never again would it be him who was to hear the angel’s voice.

[the-lightless-star]

Lies in the Darkness

My contribution to the Jaime X Brienne fanfic exchange. I am incredibly thankful to all of the amazing authors for sharing your stories. Thank you to everyone who took the time to read and comment on AO3. (aleighcarlisle)

_________________________________________________________

She was warm.

Pressed against her chest, he could do nothing but lean into her large frame. With each hoofbeat, his severed hand swung between them. The smell of rotting flesh wafted with the movement, mingling with the foul stench of piss and shit that clung to their clothes.

The wench was stiff against him. Her thick legs firm beneath his own as they faced one another. Her bound hands held his wrists firmly, mercifully keeping them still. She kept them tight in her grasp to keep him from crying out as his tender stump brushed against her.

He could hear the Brave Companions laughter.

"The lovers,"  he heard Shagwell tease,  "and what a lovely sight they are. 'Twould be cruel to separate the good knight and his lady."

The wench stiffened further, pulling away from him slightly. Her movements only pushing them closer together, their bodies flush. She was so warm.

His vision began to swim, his head leaning against her shoulder. He could feel his fingers burning, hot flames shooting up from his stump. The pain mocked him, convincing him his hand remained.

He felt himself grow warm, liquid running down his legs. The fever had rendered him weak and unable to stop.

Face growing hot with shame, his breath hitched against her neck. He knew they would drag her off the horse and make her clean him again. Closing his eyes, he focused on the sound of her steady breathing, willing to believe he was anywhere but here.

"Wench," Jaime rasped.

Her head bent down, temple brushing his matted hair. His voice cracked with dryness.

"Lie to me."

"I don't understand," she whispered in return.

His voice shook with pain, "I cannot bear this truth any longer."

Brienne leaned into him, adjusting her legs to lift his higher off the saddle. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as she mumbled an apology.

She thought back to words of Ser Goodwin, who tried to prepare her for inevitable death in battle.

"Men will weep and moan like babes in search of their mother's breast. Comfort, my child, is all we can offer until the Stranger takes his portion."

Her deep voice trembled as she began to speak, "Soon the dawn will appear. The warmth will drive away this chill."

"We will reach King's Landing. The sound of steel against shield will meet you, a tourney hosted in your honor."

She could feel his tears soaking her collar, the weight of his thin frame heavy upon her shoulder.

"Banners of red and gold waving in the wind. Your sword heavy in your grip."

Her long fingers tightened around his wrists, attempting to keep him still as the horse rocked him unsteadily.

Brienne's voice dropped to a whisper, "And then you will see her. Your queen of love and beauty. You will crown her, and she will embrace you, her gallant knight, brave and whole."

Her voice broke as his breathing evened, and his body went slack, whether sleeping or unconscious, she did not know.

Brienne closed her eyes, looking for comfort in lies of her own.

"I will return you to King's Landing," she whispered. "I will find Sansa and Arya. I will fulfill my oath to Catelyn Stark."

Her voice tapered off as she too succumbed to exhaustion, the cruel japes of the Brave Companions blowing away in the warm wind.

____________________________

The dying flames licked at the cold night air, his eyes entranced by their dance. He had long since retired to their bed chambers feigning exhaustion while the rest continued their planning for the fight against King's Landing.

He knew it too good to be true. A moment's respite. The embrace of a gentle lover.

He was undeserving of such indulgence.  

His momentary happiness dashed by the report of Iron Fleet at the direction of his sister. Sansa's words still rang in his ear,"I always wanted to be there when they execute your sister...seems like I won't get the chance."

He had watched as Brienne studied him, worry etched on every line of her face. What did she think of him? Did she know the thoughts that crossed his mind?

So consumed in his thoughts, he did not hear her return. It was the clink of steel as she removed Oathkeeper and placed it at the bedside that startled him from his seat.

Her back turned to him; she shrugged off her heavy cloak. She rubbed the skin of her neck, where the collar chaffed her pale skin. Brienne sighed heavily before speaking.

"Are you just going to stare?" she asked tiredly.

Jaime made his way over, standing just inches from her back. Resting his head against her, he relaxed instantly. His hand reached around her, pressed tightly against her chest, while his stump held to her hip.

There she stood, strong and steady.

His lips pressed gently against her back, breathing in her familiar scent.

"Let me help you," he whispered.

Turning her to face him, he led her to the bed, pushing her until she was sitting on the firm mattress.

Kneeling at her feet, he began to unlace her boots. She was patient as he struggled one-handed with the slick leather. A low moan sounded in her throat as the shoes dropped to the ground. Reaching for the stockings beneath her trousers, he pulled them down her calves, rubbing her soft skin as it prickled in the cold room.

Reaching to untuck the tunic from her waist, he could feel her steady heartbeat as his ear pressed close to her chest. So intent was he in his motions, he didn't hear her speaking to him.

"Jaime?" she questioned, lifting his chin to meet her gaze. Her eyes were full of concern for him.

"You don't have to do this," she whispered.

"Please?" he replied.

She could only nod as he continued. Divesting her of the rest of her clothes, he climbed into bed, straddling her waist as he bent to place soft kisses along her neck.  

The room was growing colder, Jaime not as diligent as Brienne about stoking the fire.  

As Jaime moved to her chest, his pace increased, nipping at her skin and trailing his mouth past her collarbone. His hand pressed against the mattress holding his weight above her body. Brienne watched as his hand trembled, his movements becoming shaky.

She felt liquid drop to her breast, tracking across her body. Tears ran unchecked down Jaime's face. He continued, lost in his pain, unaware that Brienne's body was not responding.  

Grabbing his chin and turning it to face her, Brienne's heart dropped.  

"Oh, Jaime," she whispered.

Brienne pulled him to lay beside her, gathering him in her arms and tucking him against her chest. Jaime's stump reached around her neck and his arm across her back, pressing tight, unable to get close enough. She held him close, fingers tracing his back and neck. Cersei would think him weak for such a display. She would chastise him. Her cold fingers would grab him, crushing herself against him until he stopped.

Brienne's gentle shushing brushed his ear, demanding no answers from him. He did not deserve gentleness, such warmth.

As he closed his eyes and tucked closer into her chest, he listened to her gentle murmurings, whispers of honor, bravery, and strength. But the coldness crept in, and he could hear her in his mind. "They are naught but lies, brother."

______________________________

The crimson tent flaps rustled in the warm air. The flames of the torches mesmerizing Brienne with their dance. The last time she'd stood before them seemed a lifetime ago—the man behind them, healthy and whole. The Lion of Lannister leading his men into Riverrun. He had looked so different from the man she'd left in King's Landing. He had refused to accept Oathkeeper, entrusting it to her for as long as she chose to bear it. Here she stood once more, circumstances changed.

She had arrived in King's Landing three days after Daenerys had leveled it to ash. They had found him a day before her arrival; his condition unknown. Her hand trembled against the fabric, her heart pounding as she lifted it to pass through.

The space was humid, dust still settling from outside. Ragged breathing sounded from the small bed in the corner—a small figure seated in observance. Tyrion, she realized, as he lifted his head at her intrusion.

"Ser Brienne," he breathed. His red-rimmed eyes widened as he stood from his vigilance. She nodded her head in acknowledgment, her eyes never leaving the figure on the bed.

Tyrion's gaze followed her own as he spoke, "It seems my dear brother found time to partake in a sword fight before finding himself crushed beneath the Keep." He chuckled, though there was no humor in his tone.

"The maester has done all he can. I am sure he will be fine."

Realizing he would get no response from Brienne, Tyrion quietly excused himself from the tent, allowing her the privacy she sought.

A sheen of sweat covered Jaime's broken frame. His upper body propped up ever so slightly, taking pressure off of his laboring lungs. Strips of cloth covered his abdomen and lower chest, blood soaking through the bandages along his ribcage. Brienne watched his chest rise and fall with concern, as a wheeze escaped with each exhale. His beautiful face was ashen, his golden skin turning sickly grey. In her nervousness, she reached for a basin of water at his bedside, wanting in earnest to busy her hands. Wringing the water from the cloth, she pressed it to his neck, wiping away the sweat from his fevered skin. A light rasp escaped his lips, but he did not wake. As she cooled his skin, the words came out in earnest.

"It is probably just as well you're not awake; I wouldn't get a word in edgewise."

Her hands brushed against the peppered hair at his chest, remembering how it felt beneath her fingertips. Her eyes shut as she traced the scars on his chest like their last night in Winterfell. Her eyes snapped open as his chest shuttered beneath her touch.

"I have had time to think," she stated soberly.

"I am not angry that you chose to come to King's Landing. You believed you might be able to convince Cersei to surrender, that you might save her and your people. I cannot fault you for that."

Brienne placed the damp cloth back in the basin. She ran her fingers through his greying locks, her fingers becoming tinged with soot and blood. Her voice dropped to a whisper as she leaned in close, "I am angry that you think so little of your own life that you are willing to sacrifice it for her."

Her hands made their way to his bandaged stump, cradling it gently, "I understand honor, Ser Jaime. I understand going to great lengths to protect those we love. But if you meant to leave that you might shield me from your hate, then you have failed Ser, for I have already experienced that hatred long ago. "

Tears dripped down her cheeks as she continued,"The night you left, I did not see hatred in your eyes, Jaime-I saw fear. Fear that someone you loved might die without you being there to protect them. Fear of not knowing how to survive without their presence."

"I know that same fear, Jaime," she confessed.

"I am not angry that you left. I am angry that you did not believe me trustworthy to bear those burdens, that you felt the need to lie when I already knew the truth. I would have ridden with you to the gates of King's Landing, had you only asked."

Brienne stood, wiping her eyes and gripping the hilt of her sword.

"It seems now that I am the craven one, Ser. I must return home. The Golden Company has taken Tarth; the fate of my father and my people is unknown. I speak to you of honor, but I have brought nothing but dishonor to my own house."

Leaning close to him, she pressed her face against his warm cheek, breathing him in and whispering words she knew he'd never hear. Standing straight, she stared at him once more. Unbuckling Oathkeeper from her waist, she placed it at his bedside.

"Goodbye, Ser Jaime," she whispered, turning swiftly from the tent.

________________________________

Jaime stood outside the doors of the Evenstar's solar. When he was well enough to travel, he had convinced Tyrion to let him command the ship bound for Tarth, carrying supplies to aid in the rebuilding process. Most of the homesteads Jaime had passed on his way up the cliff had been destroyed. The great hall had become a shelter for the few who survived the onslaught. A young girl had escorted Jaime through the castle, eyeing him warily as she gripped a wooden training sword at her side. After knocking on the door of the solar, the young girl waited to be acknowledged.

"What is it?" a tired voice sounded from within.

"My lady, a supply ship from King's Landing, has arrived. I made sure to request identification before allowing them to dock."

He heard a heavy sigh as steps grew closer to the door, "Meera, how many times have I told you not to..." the weary voice broke off as the door opened.

"Jaime," she breathed.

How long had it been since he'd seen that face? Standing at the gates of Winterfell, those beautiful eyes weeping in earnest, her warm fingers cradling his face. But this was not the Brienne that he remembered. The lines of her body were sharp; she had lost weight from her already thin frame. Dark circles betrayed her exhaustion. A fitted pair of trousers and a loose white tunic were a change from the blue armor to which he was accustomed. She must have been resting as the laces at her chest were undone. Her hair pulled into a messy knot at the base of her neck.

An excited voice interrupted his study.

"Jaime? You mean Ser Jaime Lannister?" The young girl's eyes brightened as she looked him over, wondering how she missed such a thing. Jaime was surprised to hear the title of honor from one so young.

"I've never met a knight before, Ser," she confessed quietly.

Jaime's eyes shot to Brienne, an unspoken question forming there. She shook her head in response.

"Is it true you killed the mad king and saved all of King's Landing?"

"Meera..." Brienne warned.

"And that you saved Brienne from a bear?!"

"Meera!" Brienne put a hand to the girl's shoulder, urging her to stop.

"I have something pressing I need you to do. Go down to the port, make sure Ser Jaime's men have the help they need. Offer them food and drink, and show them to the family quarters upstairs, please."

"Yes, m'lady," Meera nodded, reluctantly agreeing as she stared at Jaime until she rounded the corner.

"A little young for a Castellan, don't you think?" Jaime chuckled.

Brienne observed him soberly. "I didn't have the heart to send her away. Her home was burned, her parents killed, and she only survived by hiding amongst the cliffs."

"Why are you here, Ser?"

Jaime shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, his hand nervously rubbing the hilt of his sword. "I wanted to...I only wish to...offer my service to you. I know I cannot offer much, but..."

She cut him off, "If you are only offering to assuage your guilt for Cersei's doing with the Golden Company, I'm afraid I cannot help you."

He confessed, "I am not here for Cersei. I am here for you."

Brienne turned from him, color flooding her face.

Jaime shook his head, "If I could just have some time with you, please, I can explain."

"As you can see, I am incredibly busy. There are many responsibilities that require my energy. You may stay as long as you deem necessary. But I ask that you give me time."

"Of course," he replied.

Walking hurriedly to the stairs behind him, she spoke softly before disappearing down the hall, "I am glad you are well, Ser Jaime."

She was avoiding him—three days since he'd arrived and she had run at every turn. The night was cold, and the sky was bright, she knew no one would bother her here. Pulling her sword from its sheathe, she ran her fingers along its length. The cold steel cooled her heating skin. She breathed deeply, drinking in the salty air.

She swung the sword a few times, testing her grip with each pass. Eyes closed, she stood in a defensive pose—both hands at the hilt, sword held before her. The waves crashed against the cliffs below, clawing their way up the rocks. The moon was full, casting a beam of light upon the ground where she stood. Shifting her feet, she started the familiar dance. Blocking, striking, parrying with an invisible enemy. On her second pass, she swung overhanded and was shocked to feel the reverberation of steel on steel.

Eyes flying open, he stood facing her, a great smirk on his face.

"I could have killed you," she scolded.

"It would have been worth it, my lady," he teased.

Sheathing her sword, Brienne breathed out a heavy sigh, "What are you doing out here, Jaime?" she asked.

"Looking to chase away the nightmares. Would you do me the honor?"

Pulling Oathkeeper from his waist, he held it before her. The red glint of ruby's sparkled in the lion's eyes.

Brienne faltered in response, "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Afraid you'll lose to a cripple?" he teased, edging closer to her.

"Jaime, I don't feel like it."

He studied her slumped shoulders, her weakened frame. "Well, I guess you were right," he agreed, lowering Oathkeeper. "Maybe you really are craven."

Brienne's head snapped up as if he'd slapped her, "What did you say?" she whispered.

"I'm not the only one who ran away, Brienne."

Brienne squared her shoulders, holding her sword up in provocation. Jaime smiled as he circled her, watching her footwork as she adapted to his pace.

"You still move well, wench," he goaded, "for a great..."

Brienne cut off his speech with a hard swing to his shoulder. Jaime blocked, pushing her back.

"Still grimacing before you move, such anger from the Evenstar."

Remaining silent, Brienne continued her barrage of swings. Jaime took each hit, blocking but not striking.

"I am not the Evenstar," she growled as his eyes widened in surprise.

Jaime lowered Oathkeeper, watching as she continued to pace around him, stalking him like prey. "Talk to me, wench," he said, striking out at her chest, narrowly missing her collarbone.

"I was gone too long," she confessed, doling out strikes rapidly, causing Jaime to lose his balance, "he gave up on me."

Both circled each other again, catching their breath.

"What happened, Brienne?" he whispered.

As soon as the emotion flickered across her face, he regretted the intrusion. Lowering his sword, he stepped toward her, but she did not back down. Jaime barely had time to get his weapon back up before she crashed her weight upon him. Raining blows upon his weakened arm, he struggled to stay standing. She stepped back long enough for him to recover, moving in again as she spoke.

"Do you know where I found him?" she whispered. Her eyes flashing as she pushed against his chest.

"They tied the banner of Tarth around his neck and threw him from the balcony. I found him hanging outside the solar, birds feasting on his corpse."

Jaime swallowed thickly, watching angry tears drip from her eyes.

"Do you know where I was, Jaime?" she demanded.

He remained silent, waiting for her to continue. "Do you know where I was when my father was murdered and my city burned?"

"In the halls of Winterfell being lauded for my honor."

Jaime kept his sword trained on her, backing her up slowly as she spoke.

"I am hateful," she confessed.

"No, Brienne, you are not..."

"Don't lie to me, Jaime!" she screamed as her steps faltered, finding herself backed up against the rocks.  

Her eyes stared past him, sword shaking unsteadily in her grasp. "There is nothing more hateful than failing to protect the ones you love."

Jaime had her pinned against the rocks, his sword pressed to her side, "Drop the sword," he begged.

Her eyes filled with tears as he stared up at her. "Brienne, please," he begged. She nodded, yielding to him. Her weapon hit the ground as she pitched forward.

Jaime caught her before her legs gave out, lowering them both to the cold ground beneath. She buried her face in his chest, sobs escaping from deep within her chest. Her fingers clawed at his back as she held on. His stump drew nonsensical patterns on her back, his heart breaking as he listened to her grief pour forth. He could feel the sharp planes of her back and shoulders, months of stress and malnutrition taking its toll on her body.

"It's alright," he soothed. His hand moved to her head, fingers threading through her hair, repeating whispers of comfort until her breathing evened, and her body relaxed against his.

When Jaime's ribs began to protest his strained position, he nudged Brienne gently, "Let's get you back," he suggested.

She silently collected her sword and stared out at the sea as she waited for Jaime. A warm hand tugged at her own, pulling her along the rocky path up the hill. Brienne paid no mind to where he was taking her, only following blindly behind. She found herself in the doorway to her childhood bedroom, the room she had offered to Jaime at his arrival. Pulling her gently into the room, he placed her on the edge of the bed. Brienne continued to stare, her eyes unfocused. Jaime was speaking to her, but she could not concentrate on his words.

He leaned in close to her pale face, "Brienne?" he questioned worriedly.

"I'm tired, Jaime," she confessed weakly, a single tear tracking across her cheek.

He held her face in his palm, "I know, sweetling."

Jaime brushed the wayward tear from her face, "Sit tight; I'll be right back."

Closing her eyes, Brienne breathed deeply. Her hands shook in her lap, and her head began to ache.

She was startled by a hand on her shoulder, "Sorry," Jaime whispered. He placed a plate beside her, a few pieces of fruit and fresh bread were the offerings. Her stomach revolted in pain.

"I'm not hungry," she stated.

"You are starving, wench. You need your strength. Just a bite," he encouraged, placing the bread in her hands.

As she chewed the bread, she could feel her stomach cramping. Closing her eyes at the pain, she felt a cup pressed into her palm. The sour smell of wine hit her nose as Jaime tipped it back and helped her sip, "It will help," he promised.

After finishing a meager portion, Jaime took the food away. He returned with a steaming bowl of water he had warmed over the fire. His stump held it precariously against his hip as he set it on the floor in front of her. Jaime met her eyes, a silent question forming there. She was back at Winterfell.

"Brienne?" he questioned.

"You don't have to," she answered.

He began his ministrations, so different than before. He pulled off her shoes, propped her feet up on his lap, and wiped away the dirt and grime from each one. Bruises marred her calves from where her boots rubbed mercilessly against them. Rising on his knees, he took the cloth to her face. Tracing her brows and forehead, he ran his fingers across the uneven bridge of her nose. His hand trembled as it traced her lips, smiling shyly at her as she watched him. Undoing the clasps of her shirt, he pulled the sleeves off each arm, exposing her skin. Running the cloth down both arms, he was shocked at the amount of muscle loss he felt. Her worried gaze met his own as he pressed a kiss to her arm before moving on. Warming the cloth again, he traced the skin around her small clothes, the thin fabric separating her breasts from his touch. Brienne reached behind, unclasping the band. Her gaze dropped to her lap as he continued.

"Brienne?"

She looked up as he held the cloth in front of her chest.

"Look at me," he whispered, "It's alright."

Not once did his gaze leave her own as he ran the cloth gently across her breasts.

"How many times when we road with the Brave Companions did you take care of me?" he questioned, "how many times did you bathe me, bandage me, keep me alive?"

Her lip trembled at his words. He placed a warm palm to her chest, where he could feel her heartbeat beneath.

"There is no hatred here, Brienne," he said, "only love."

He kissed her gently before placing a shirt back around her shoulders, pulling it tight to cover her chest.

"Can you handle the rest?" he asked.

She only nodded as he stepped away to ready for bed.

Brienne finished cleaning up and climbed into the bed, pulling the covers up, and watching Jaime.

He quickly wiped the dirt from his skin before dressing and putting away their things. Jaime turned to see Brienne's eyes were drifting shut. Retrieving Oathkeeper, he quietly placed it beside her armor stand.

"Jaime?" Brienne whispered tiredly, "will you stay?"

His heart broke at the vulnerability of her words. The fact that she even had to ask showed how deeply he'd hurt her.

Lifting the covers, he crawled in beside her. Laying on his back, he propped his head on his stump, listening as her breathing evened out in sleep. The bed shifted as she turned to him. Eyes never opening, she lay her head upon his chest, wrapping her arm around his waist. Her foot hooked around his leg, pulling her body as close to him as she could. Her fingers traced the hair on his chest, breaths coming in soft puffs as her movements slowed.

The soft skin of her chest rose and fell against his side, pulse beating a steady rhythm. Her body wrapped around his own, knee tucked between his legs, soft lips breathing against his neck. He held her tight as the cool breeze blew through the room, following her quickly into sleep.

She was so warm.  

[blahblahwritings]

From Death’s Door.

A/N: Couldn’t really think of a title but this was requested anonymously. I loved writing it.

Request: Hey! I hope this isn’t too much, but do you take prompts for your writing? If so, can I please request a Jaskier x female reader oneshot with the prompts “I just want you to be safe. That’s all i’ve ever wanted for you!” + “Please don’t say that about yourself. Please don’t believe that. You’re so much more than that. You’re so...” + “Can I kiss you?” Angst with a romantic fluffy ending!! 💕💜💕 Thank you so much!!

Words: 1472.

Warnings: Blood. Angst. 

This wasn’t how you thought you would go. You had a plan, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be at an old age, surrounded by loved ones as your lungs finally gave out, or perhaps saving someone else from a terrible fate. At the very least you wanted to die in your own home alongside your belongings that told the stories of your life.

But, the ringing in your ears wouldn’t cease as you stumbled through the forest, clutching your side to desperately stem the bleeding. Gore continued to gush from the claw wound as the world started to blur. Just a little farther. You could make it to the village if you just kept going. The hand that wasn’t pressing into your side found grip on a nearby tree as you staggered, off balance. Pushing off, you made it a few more steps before tripping over a protruding root and plummeting to the soil in a heap.

Agony shot through you in waves earning a groan as you hopelessly tried to crawl back to your feet. To no avail. Slipping back to the ground, your body screamed out in exhaustion, viscera spurting from the tear in your abdomen. Darkness started to cloud the corners of your vision and you panted helplessly in a fruitless attempt to get more oxygen to your brain. A horrifying screech sounded behind you, the thundering of paws and claws soon following. Twigs and branches snapped and the whole world seemed to shake as the beast drew closer. This would be your pitiful end, once strong and proud now struck down in the middle of nowhere, no hope of anyone finding your body. You would be left to rot or be eaten by filthy ghouls and monsters alike.

A huff of breath blew across your face, causing you to grimace at the stench of death and decay. It began to circle you, tormenting its prey before delivering the final blow. Scraping its claws through the dirt, powering up to launch it’s attack, you closed your eyes, images of your friends flashing like projections behind your eyelids. All the times you’d laughed and cried with Jaskier, drunk and clumsy as you walked home. Flickers of the world you’d been introduced to while travelling with Geralt and the bard. Your younger sister screaming in joy as you gifted her the first bow and arrow she’d ever use.

Then you listed the regrets. All the things you would never be able to do. You would never confess your feelings to Jaskier, kiss him or marry. You would never have children or see another birthday. A broken sob made its way from your throat for all the things lost as you opened your eyes again. The beast lurched forwards, its wings carrying its massive body and its beak falling open in a deafening battle cry. You howled right back, every last bit of energy in your body producing an almighty roar at your impending doom.

It didn’t come, however. Instead, a silver sword had plunged through its skull just before it reached you, the sticky dark red liquid coating your chest and legs as you sat against the trunk of the tree watching the life drain from its feline eyes. Your shriek stopped and your breathing faltered. The beast collapsed, the head on your lap crushing your legs. It was thrown aside in a moment, revealing a certain white haired witcher and your pretty boy bard before you sunk into unconsciousness.

--

You awoke in your home, the scent of a burning fire filling your wheezing lungs. Your whole being ached, the gash across your side was throbbing and your skull felt like it was being relentlessly pounded. Rolling your head to the side, you found Jaskier fast asleep facing away from you. His halo of chestnut hair splayed across the mattress he leant on, the bottom half of his body sat in a chair at your bedside. A weak smile twitched at your lips as you stared through half-lidded eyes. Fingers began softly twirling strands of his locks, gently coaxing him from his slumber. Realising that you were awake, he shot up, head swivelling to meet your gaze.

“Thanks the gods, you’re alive.” He whispered, a breath of relief huffing from his chest as his hands covered his face before parting again. His eyes looked red and puffy, he’d been crying. “How are you feeling, love.” He grabbed your hand, holding in tenderly between his two palms, laying a kiss to it. Had you not been in so much pain, the mix of the pet name and his lips touching your skin would’ve made you melt.

“I’m good, you’re here, how could I be any different.” You replied, smile growing. At this, he scoffed, his forehead falling against his grip and a grin of his own made an appearance. Looking back to you, you saw his eyes becoming glassy. “Sh, I’m alright you and Geralt found me. I’m safe.” You cooed, brushing your thumb against his knuckles. “And what if we hadn’t? Hm? What if you had died before we could get to you?” His voice cracked in a harsh whisper, mouth pressing into a tight line, brows furrowing into a pained expression. “You shouldn’t have wandered so far from the camp, y/n, we could’ve lost you, I could’ve lost you.” He trailed off toward the end, tears spilling over.

“I know, I’m sorry, I just wanted to fetch some herbs for my research. I didn’t realise how far I strayed.” The apology tumbled from your cracked lips. The sight of him so upset, so broken at the thought of losing you started a trail of your own tears rolling down your pale cheeks. You hated seeing him like this.

“I just want you to be safe, that's all I’ve ever wanted for you.” He muttered, lips kissing your hand again, wetter this time from the evidence of his sorrow. “Please, never scare me like that again.” A plea that sent your heart stuttering. Why did you have to be such a burden? The source of his grief? “I won’t, I’m sorry for being such a royal fuck up. I never wanted to be such a pathetic mess around you.” A sob racked your body shooting a burning soreness through you. His face fell, not understanding how you could think so little of yourself.

“No. Please don’t say that about yourself. Please don’t believe that. You’re so much more than that. You’re so strong and you’re the most brilliant, intelligent and beautiful woman I’ve ever known inside and out.” He fought against your self-hatred. The words brought a broken grin to your face as you laughed. Beautiful. Strong. Intelligent. Brilliant. “You think I’m all those things? Even beautiful?” You asked.

“Gods, y/n, I worship the very ground you stand on, every word you utter is like poetry to my starved soul. Everyday I see you, my heart leaps in glee. Your smile is incandescent, providing the very light that feeds the flowers in my lungs. I am completely and entirely enamoured by you and everything you do. I adore you. I love you.” He rambled harshly whispering the last part. You gulped, the speech rendering your heart and lungs idle. Eyes searched his for any sign of a lie, but you found none. All the breath in your body left and you beamed at him.

“I love you too, Jask, I’m utterly mad about you.” You admitted, blood returning to your cheeks in a blush. This sent the bard into another fit of tears, this time happy that you returned the feelings he had hidden for so long. It was your turn to bring his hand to your lips in a delicate kiss.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, the question sending sparks to every nerve ending in your body. A nod confirmed your answer and he moved from his seat, leaning over you on the bed. Brushing a stray hair behind your ear, his eyes scanned every inch of your face, a loving smile tugging at his lips. Then he met your mouth with his own. It was slow, tender and heart-filled, he treated you as if you were glass, afraid of hurting you. At this point you didn’t really mind and you pulled him in, letting the repressed feelings take over as you deepened the kiss. Breaking apart and gasping for air, the two of you laughed, the action making you wince as it jerked your body.

“Sh now, we’ll have plenty of time to catch up on what we’ve been missing when you’re healed, darling. Rest.” He chuckled with a wink, laying one final peck to your forehead before lying beside you, resolving to never leave your side until that day.

[meteora-writes]

We Could Be Perfect One Last Night ch.5

Fandom: Hannibal Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Will Graham Warnings: Fluff, Cuddling Chapter: 5. Take My Hand Description: Hannibal sketches Will as he watches the storm and they plan for the future. Authors Notes: This chapter went waaaaaaay fluffier than I originally intended. I regret nothing. Read on AO3

~~~~~~ Read Ch.1 ~ Ch.2 ~ Ch.3 ~ Ch.4~~~~~

Will helps Hannibal lay back down once they’ve eaten lunch. It was clear the moment he sat down at the table that the simple act had taken all of his energy, leaving him pale and a touch dizzy. He admits as much when Will scolds him for pushing himself after warning Will against doing exactly that.

Despite being exhausted and in pain, Will can’t shut off his mind and rest. A part of him would like nothing more than to crawl into bed beside Hannibal and sink into unconsciousness. Another part knows if he tries he will either slip straight into nightmares or be unable to do anything but focus on the pain in his skull and the feeling of stitches in his mouth where they rub against the rolled-up gauze that covers them.

So, instead, he settles sideways on the couch with his back to one armrest. One arm thrown up over the back where his fingers fiddle with a torn bit of leather on the backrest near the top seam as he watches the storm rage outside the window beside him. The sight lets his thoughts drift in no particular direction while his eyes trace the swirling mix of snow and rain that come down to create a heavy blanket of white over the area.

The constant yet everchanging sight does so well distracting him that he doesn’t even realize how late it’s gotten until the wintery mix gets almost too hard to see without moving closer to the window thanks to the lack of light out. He watches shadows made of wind and ice dance in the darkness then.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Hannibal’s voice cutting through the relative silence of the setting startles Will, making him jerk and quickly turn his head towards the man. The action makes his head throb sharply and he has to take a moment to breathe through the pain before he can say anything. “I was thinking that this weather is both a blessing and a curse.”

Hannibal hums in understanding and slowly moves to sit up in the bed. “The arrival of the storm was fortuitous, to say the least. Perhaps with a bit of luck that good fortune will carry on once it has passed.”

“I’m not sure luck has anything to do with it,” Will says as he looks from Hannibal back out the window. “After you’ve paid your final visits to Jack and Bedelia, where will you go?”

“That was one of the things I had wished to discuss with you. I have the means to get us out of the country and start a new life with new identities. We can go anywhere you like, within reason of course.” He had originally intended to stay at his family’s estate in Denmark for a time before arranging things to move elsewhere. Now, though, he really would like to know where Will would be interested in going.

If he truly intends to stay with Hannibal then the least Hannibal can offer is to let him choose where they settle. He knows Will’s preference to live somewhere surrounded by nature to help him deal with the more inconvenient aspects of his empathy disorder and other neurodivergent attributes. Hannibal prefers to live somewhere a bit more urbanized. Someplace with culture and a balance of natural and manmade beauty. But he can find other ways to strike that balance in his life.

“The FBI had your assets liquidated and distributed amongst the families of your known victims,” Will points out with a brief glance in Hannibal’s direction.

“A pittance. The funds they seized were merely what I set aside while working as a surgeon and psychiatrist. I have considerably more tucked away in various locations under a few well-established aliases,” Hannibal explains with ease. “So, tell me, Will. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you choose?”

“You know me, Hannibal. Just give me a stream to fish in and I’ll be content…” Will says almost dismissively, clearly still a bit zoned out. The thought of actually leaving this place and going off together feels like a fantasy. He knows logically that the two of them working together once they’re recovered enough can take care of both Bedelia and Jack without question. But a part of him finds the concept hard to grasp. That they could actually do just that and take off together once the deed is done seems like something he fantasized in a moment of desperate loneliness. A fever dream.

“That may be, but there are many places with quiet streams to lose one’s self in. Finding one to settle upon should not be taken so lightly,” Hannibal reasons. He recognizes the look in Will’s eyes. He’s a bit lost in himself at the moment. Will tends to answer his questions more honestly when he’s like this.

“How do you feel about boats?” Will counters after a moment without looking away from the window. His fingers are messing with the bit of torn leather once again, drawing Hannibal’s gaze to it a moment.

“I have a fondness for them. They can be a pleasant means of transportation when one is in no hurry. Why do you ask?” Hannibal asks despite already knowing what Will is about to suggest. He wants to hear Will’s proposal.

“We could take one and see where we end up.” He glances over at Hannibal as he makes the suggestion, watching him appraisingly through tired blue eyes. “Once we’ve gotten a safe distance away from anywhere that the authorities might think to watch the harbors for us, that is.”

That earns a smile from Hannibal. “When the storm has passed I’ll contact Chiyoh. She can make arrangements for us.” They set up a system years ago. People and places they can call or visit and leave a simple message to let the other know they need to meet if they cannot make direct contact. They may not have seen one another in three years, but she has sent him unaddressed postcards on his and Mischa’s birthday’s each year to let him know she is still out there and still considers him to be family. The FBI never questioned it since he’s received cards and letters from countless others. But only Chiyoh would know to send one with churches that have since collapsed on them.

“You’re still in contact with her?” Will asks, confusion and surprise clear in his voice as well as in the way he furrows his brow and tilts his head just a little. He only looks at him a moment before his gaze drifts back to the window.

“We have our ways of getting in contact when needed. And she is no doubt aware of my escape as well as our disappearance by now. If she wasn’t already in the country she will be arriving soon,” Hannibal explains as he shifts so that he can open the drawer of the small bedside table to his right. He had taken a look earlier and found a notepad and pencil inside that he intends to make use of.

He’s still feeling a bit drained, but he felt the desire to sketch strike him the moment he saw Will upon waking. The image of Will curled up in the glow of the firelight as he looks out the window and into the storm is one Hannibal wants to capture in some way other than simply in memory. “She will be more than capable of discreetly acquire anything we need.”

“Perks of having your own personal ninja in the family,” Will quips with another sidelong glance to Hannibal. “What if she doesn’t answer your call?”

“Then we are on our own. If for some reason she is unable to assist us we will make due. I have faith in our capabilities.” He doesn’t doubt Chiyoh will answer if he reaches out. They’ve always been loyal to one another. He can’t imagine her not coming to his aid, just as he would go to hers should she ever ask. “Which would you prefer, to sail or to command something a bit more modern?”

“Sails can be torn to shreds and rendered useless in a storm. Engines can always be fixed,” Will notes as he shifts a bit and pulls his legs a little closer where he has them bent on the couch before him. He’s curled sideways, knees pointing towards the backrest of the leather couch with the one unoccupied hand in his lap. His other is made the tear in the leather he’s been messing with a bit bigger in the time he’s been messing with it. He tugs at the small strip of torn leather, rubs it between his thumb and fingertips as his gaze stays on the frozen world outside the cabin. “Honestly I’m fine with either, but I prefer to have an engine on a boat. Especially if we’re going to be spending any real length of time on the water.”

Hannibal hums an acknowledgment as he finds a blank page in the notebook and begins to sketch. He briefly finds himself hoping that Will doesn’t feel inclined to move any time soon. Even if he does he can remember the details perfectly and easily recreate them from memory. But there is something to be said about being able to actively sketch your muse as they give you inspiration. For three years all he’s had to work with was the occasional guards and his memories to draw from. Having the opportunity to sketch Will in this moment is a true pleasure. And it is one he intends to savor.

“It’s rude to stare,” Will eventually says, earning a chuckle from Hannibal. It’s a familiar feeling, having Hannibal study and scrutinize him so. But it’s the first time the feeling has been accompanied by the sound of pencil scratching frantically over paper. It’s almost alien compared to the soft sound of pen gliding over page as Hannibal took notes during their conversations years ago.

“My apologies,” Hannibal offers, though he doesn’t really mean it. He can’t be bothered to feel truly sorry when he knows it doesn’t really bother Will to be subject to his scrutiny. It used to, years ago. Back before Will learned the truth of himself and who Hannibal truly was. “Do try to hold still, please. Your profile is quite striking at this angle, and the light of the fire is accentuating your features nicely.”

Will swallows back the urge to move out of spite. He doesn’t really have it in him to antagonize Hannibal at the moment, though that doesn’t change the fact that a part of him wants to. After everything, the urge to push the other man is there. Hannibal brings that out in him. Makes him feel like he’s free to act on his less savory urges rather than repress them like he’s had to for so long.”Whatever you say…”

They sit like that until Will has no choice but to get up and add more wood to the fire so that it doesn’t go out entirely. Hannibal continues to draw well after that. Adding details and shading while Will makes them a late supper using a castiron skillet to toast two of the pre-made deli sandwiches he had purchased and yet another can of soup to split between the two of them.

Hannibal goes back to the sketch once they’ve had their fill and still focuses on it even as Will carefully climbs onto the bed beside him and crawls under the covers to turn in for the night.

Back to, Will lays facing the roughly cut wood of the cabin wall. It’s much the same position he found himself in when he laid down to get some rest that morning, only this time Hannibal doesn’t appear to be joining him in sleep any time soon despite the few yawns that have escaped him in the last half-hour

It makes him feel oddly anxious. Like there is a buzzing under his skin that keeps him hovering at the edge of consciousness for the next few hours. It doesn’t leave him until he hears Hannibal set aside the pencil and paper.

A moment later the bed dips and shifts beneath him as the older man sinks down to settle on his back beside Will once again.

“This isn’t going to be a recurring thing, is it? You staying up all night sketching?” Will mumbles sleepily as he finally starts to settle and drift towards sleep

“I do apologize for that. The hour got away from me,” Hannibal admits as he stifles a yawn. “I promise to be more considerate from now on.”

“Good. Some of us need our beauty sleep...” Will jokes, voice barely above a  whisper as he shifts and rolls onto his own back. The change in position makes their arms press together and legs touch in a few spots where Will doesn’t try to keep his own together. He’s too tired to care if Hannibal and he are in each other's personal space. Not that it bothers him much when he’s fully awake either. A bit awkward feeling, definitely, but being so close to Hannibal doesn’t bother him anymore. It probably should, given the man has literally gutted him in the past.

Hannibal lets out a huff that sounds close to a laugh but says nothing. It’s clear Will is in fairly good spirits despite everything. He is as well. And so, so tired. But he couldn’t stop until the sketch was finished. It would have taunted him from somewhere in the back of his mind. Not let him sleep properly despite the bone-deep exhaustion that clings to him even after resting most of the day. He can mostly ignore the pain of his injuries, but he cannot ignore the side effects of them.

Neither man wakes to tend the fire in the night and when they do finally wake in the early hours of the morning it’s in unison. Both opening their eyes at almost the same time to find the cabin cold and Hannibal laying on his uninjured side with his forehead resting against Will’s temple and an arm slung loosely over the younger man’s waist while his other wraps protectively around his own to subconsciously protect his healing bullet wound.

Hannibal moves to slowly extract himself, expecting Will to be bothered by the intimacy of the position. “I should get another fire going...” he mutters in a much thicker accent than usual thanks to his sleep-addled mind first wanting to speak in Lithuanian and not English. Instead of Will rolling away or acting bothered by the intimate position, he finds his hand being grabbed in a lazy grip before he’s pulled back towards Will.

“Leave it. We’ll be warm enough in bed. Just go back to sleep, Hannibal…” Will protests softly as he stares up at him with bleary blue eyes. The room is just barely lit enough thanks to the uncovered windows for Hannibal to see them clearly. Letting him know Will is indeed awake as he speaks and pulls Hannibal back toward him under the covers.

He briefly considers getting up anyway. If only to try and give Will the space to realize what he’s asking. But Will still holds his hand and is seemingly completely comfortable and accepting of his being so close while in such a vulnerable state. He had expected more hesitance and discomfort on Will’s part. It would be understandable. Will is a guarded man by nature and Hannibal has hurt him greatly in the past.

They hold each other’s gaze a moment before Hannibal gives in to Will’s request and settles back down beside him. Though this time giving a little space between them. Testing what Will does.

Will bridges the small gap Hannibal creates the moment it’s clear Hannibal isn’t coming any closer on his own. Sliding into the negative space so that Hannibal is once again right against his side. His eyes are closed as he turns his face towards Hannibal’s, making their foreheads and noses bump gently.

Once Will is settled Hannibal finds he can’t look away despite the heaviness of his own eyelids.

“I can feel you staring…” Will grumbles as he once again opens his eyes to look at the other man

“You’re comfortable?” Hannibal questions despite the answer being obvious.

“Are you uncomfortable?” Will asks in turn. He still holds onto Hannibal, though now the hand that had pulled him in by his own is up higher on his arm, resting just above Hannibal’s elbow so their forearms are resting together over Will’s waist.

“Quite the contrary,” Hannibal concedes in a whisper.

“Then go back to sleep, Doctor Lecter,” Will’s tone is chastising, but he has the smallest smile that reaches his eyes and gives away his lack of seriousness to his words.

“As you wish,” Hannibal replies softly before finally closing his own eyes once again.

Will moves his head, sleepily nuzzling their noses together without thought before drifting back off. Hannibal drifts with him. Mind committing this feeling of unfathomable warmth and contentment to memory in those last few moments of self-awareness before slipping away.

Read Chapter 6

[dirthavarens]

The Night After (pt 1)

PART ONE IS D O N E. I apologize for the delay, there were some minor setbacks, but we did it. We got here and I can finally stomach it to the point of posting it on AO3. 

Fandom: Dracula (2020) Characters: Count Dracula, Zoe Van Helsing/Agatha Van Helsing Relationship: Dracula/Zoe&Dracula/Agatha Rating: Explicit Warnings: None Word Count: 8227

[READ ON AO3]

or read below

--------------------------------------------

The Kiss of the Vampire. 

It was an opiate of such potency found nowhere on Earth. Not a hallucinogen on the planet came close to what Zoe Van Helsing experienced the first time Count Dracula sank his teeth into her veins. Immediate, possessive, as he drank her. He was the overly proud owner of an air of smug satisfaction with every intention of draining her. Or at least rendering her to the feeble state to which he had Agatha over a century ago. Both Zoe and Dracula knew he would have succeeded had it not been for the corruption flowing through her veins. 

The second time had been unconventional and not her own flesh. She had done what no other had done before as she lifted the vial to her lips. She had thrown her head back and the viscous liquid eased its way into her body. The energy that surged through her veins overloaded her body, catapulted her into another life entirely. In that moment of confusion, her own voice called out into the darkness. A light in the void beckoned her near. Zoe chased it without hesitation and made a grand connection to the impossible. 

The connection came with blinding, ineffable truth. Muddied memories crowded inside of Count Dracula’s blood and overflowed into hers. Clarity came with recognition. The musty smell of ancient texts and drying herbs in the lowest level of the nunnery brought Zoe to her senses. It was there she saw them. Dracula and his ever curious, ever persistent, opposition, Sister Agatha Van Helsing. 

Zoe could feel his interest in Agatha welling within her as if it were her very own. He was drawn to her as a moth to flame, curiosity lit under him like a match. Her eyes flitted to Agatha as Dracula sank his teeth into the faithless nun’s neck. What was it in those familiar eyes?

She knew her ancestor had not been predisposed to fear from the tales she heard. Zoe also knew that there was an unfamiliar stirring in the pit of her stomach when Agatha looked to her. In that moment, Zoe and Agatha became inseparable, though Zoe clung to her self identity as tightly as she could. There was no denying her halved existence melded with another and became one. Dracula was right. 

Zoe was mentally torn to pieces as Agatha’s thoughts crowded her brain and Dracula’s desires clouded her body. He was drinking his fill and Agatha felt curiosity, excitement, and the smallest bit of arousal. 

Dracula, on the other hand, experienced a rush as he drank his fill. He was more than the beast that this Agatha saw him as, or at least he believed as much, and he could prove it. He dug his teeth in deeper, grabbing her by the waist to hold her in place, not that she went anywhere. Zoe felt his excitement, his high, his pleasure in feeding off of her. If her once saved soul had any hidden temptations left, he wanted nothing more than to pull them forth and corrupt her to the bitter end. Their game began.

The third was something else entirely. Winning the game they had played for over a century had freed her of the rules. Breath labored and spirit dim, she shed herself of all tedious humanities; Zoe stripped of all reservations as she closed her eyes.

Through the shadows behind her eyelids, she saw Dracula draw closer to her. She had felt his arms around her, under her, and then sweeping her hair from her neck. Her dark world played out in slow motion, infinite in the few moments that ticked by with no heed for human or vampire. Pillow soft in their pliancy, Dracula’s lips lowered to the exposed skin, shakily placed a tender kiss carrying attentive adoration against her throat, and sank his teeth into her jugular.

She had not known a second of darkness as the Sun burst around them. No longer did she feel his teeth in her flesh. Rather, Zoe felt him atop her, within her, surrounding her, flooding every sense as he consumed every drop of her. Free of consequence, free of pride and of limitation, she surrendered herself to his gentle caresses. She savored every sweet spark as his fingertips brushed down her flank and left raised, excited skin in their wake. 

Dracula coaxed soft sighs from her throat as he pressed his tip against her entrance. Through the garish light surrounding them, Zoe took note of the devotion entrapped in his amber eyes and marveled at how they shone like jewels in the sun’s light. The coals had at last caught fire and he burned with them.

Zoe tested her faculties and reached for his face. He leaned into her touch, closed his eyes, and let her merciful fingertips guide his lips to hers. Never had she thought of him as tender, but as he sank himself into her with a slow roll of his hips, all she could feel was rapture, devotion, reverence. Yet again, Dracula offered Zoe everything.  

Stripped of feeling indestructible and lain bare before her, he gave all to her; all of those tedious, complicated human emotions that festered somewhere trapped within him, finally ruptured to the surface. His own Pandora’s Box betrayed him as his head dropped to the nape of her neck. A groan sounded against her as he slowly drew back his hips and rocked into her. 

In their shared final dream, he removed his lips from her neck and ran his nose along her cheek, stilling himself within her to allow her time to adjust to him. Zoe lifted her hand from his cheek drenched in sunlight and carded her fingers through the thick black mess atop his head. She disheveled its careful placement with a sense of pride because only she could do that. He was at last undone for her, deconstructed to the needs not of a vampire, but of a man. 

A soft breath of laughter crept along her jaw when she tugged the hairs at the back of his neck. He brought his head up to look at her and saw the clear self-congratulatory simper spread all the way to the corners of her eyes.  

“Agatha Van Helsing, whatever shall I do with you?” he entreated just as cheekily as he withdrew from her just enough for his cockhead to teeter within her slick entrance. He moved before Zoe could find an answer through lust-drown thoughts. Dracula rolled his hips against hers and sheathed himself to the hilt in one movement.

Always the persistent opposition, Zoe tried to answer through the gasp escaping her lips. “I have a f-few id..ideas.” 

He drove himself into her again and watched as she lost herself to him. His wicked doubter, his discoverer, his only equal, and now his conqueress. She was just as much his Eureka moment as he was hers, and he showed her with each movement. A few more deep thrusts and she tightened her fingers in his hair, gasping in blended languages as he rocked deeper within her body.

“Something like that?” His breath played along her lips before he captured them and his hand tangled into the thick of her hair. He didn’t want an answer from her and she found no reason to give one. Only when he descended to her neck to gently nip did reality hit her.

“This...isn’t real…” 

She clung to the feeling of him inside of her as he stretched and filled her. She wanted it to be real. The words they exchanged were not what either had anticipated as they caught each other’s lips. Zoe pushed into the kiss and parted his lips, drinking him in as their corporeal forms withered. Dracula pulled away from her mouth to watch their climax in the golden light around them. She tightened around him as though it were a command for him to join her as she dug her nails into his back.

The end was nearing as they laid exhausted in the sun’s light, too tired and too comfortable to move. The limit of his capability, she now knew, was his humanity. With it she brought him to his knees. Dracula, the beast who feared death, wanted nothing more than to spend his final moments as a man. 

The last thing her eyes would ever see was the humanity left in his. 

Darkness followed the sunlight and she found herself drained, gasping for air as she was left alone in the silence. Her voice reverberated through her head as she called to him in the depths. She had felt this once before, the numb hand of death gripping tightly at her throat. 

The confusing hum of silence grew louder in her head, dragging her deeper into its hold. Zoe had transgressed God beyond salvation and knew too well that Hell resided squarely on Earth itself. If she were to die, an empty blackness seemed appropriate, if not a little cruel on the universe’s part.

She was ready to accept her fate. And she would have, had it not been for the sharp pain that shook through her in the darkness. Her body ached and screamed for some sense of relief. She knew pain through the centuries, felt it in her cancer, in her final breaths aboard the Demeter. This, however, was something beyond that; something entirely hellish.

Zoe Van Helsing was still alive. 

All around her was the thick, metallic stench of her own blood. Zoe forced her eyes open and focused on the faculties she could recover. The flat around her was just as silent as her mind had been, the warm light of the afternoon pouring in from the large window. 

“Dr…” she tried her voice as she looked to her side. Her vision was tinged, blurry, fading, but she saw him beside her, unnervingly still. He would always remain so steady, Zoe could not tell if he was dead or still a member of the undead. Her focus failed her then as another surge of pain twisted through her body. Zoe’s vision slipped into blackness once more, but she attempted to utter his name as she reached a finger toward him. “Dracula?” 

Time whirled around her as the abyss seized her once again. Through careful thought and reason, she knew she was not dead, but she was not dreaming. Unconscious and unable to comprehend the world around her, Zoe decided to focus on breathing, regardless of how painful it was. Occasionally, she thought she heard his voice muttering something or the click of his overpriced Italian shoes against the floor. However, the echoing within her head made formal thought impossible.

Breathe.

The only word that kept reverberating through her head with any clarity.

Breathe.

She could not help but wonder when it would be the last time she instructed herself.

Breathe.

The sound of running water and a feeling of warmth rushed over her. No longer did she smell the foul stench of blood as she felt herself lowered. 

An image in her mind, like a photograph taken upon dropping a camera, flashed then. She caught sight of what appeared to be a bath, an open vein on a familiar forearm, and more red than she ever cared to see. The background static within her brain made piecing the puzzle together entirely impossible, but she had an idea. 

It wasn’t long after she saw his arm in her mind that the smell of blood followed. The scent was pungent, as strong as the blood she drank to discover his truths, but she could not shrink away. 

Drink, Zoe. This might be the only thing that saves you.

The tender note in the voice she heard in her mind was a hand in the murky water, reaching for her, fingertips gliding against fingertips, but not enough to grasp onto. She knew then, with great certainty, that Dracula was alive. She also knew that he was attempting to get her to drink blood in an attempt to save her own. With this knowledge came a feeling of helplessness as she could taste the rush of hot liquid sticking to her tongue as her body choked it down. 

Asta e, draga mea. 

The foreign words were the last she heard as she slowly sank into a humming slumber. Her fear was not as prevalent as it had been in the moments before. The dark was inviting now, warm, and as her mind slowly shut down, she pieced together what he had said. 

That’s it, my darling.

--------

Zoe awoke with a start, eyes wide and searching, a gasp tumbling from her parted lips. Her heart thrummed wildly at her breast as she looked around the unfamiliar room. A bedroom, and a lavish one at that. Silk sheets, canvases of original paintings, and such dark drapes it was as though staring into a pit. 

“Easy now, you don’t want to overdo it quite yet.” Dracula’s voice came from somewhere to her right. He stood in the doorway, leaning against it with his arms folded neatly across his chest. Those arms...she knew how they felt around her and nearly found herself aching for them. Luckily, he was crossing over to her. “I always wanted to test the legend but never found anyone worth saving before.”

“What legend is that?” she inquired plainly, as though she wasn’t marveling over her own resurrection. She noticed her voice carried a slight accent in its breadth, but took no further interest in it. “That a vampire’s blood can be used to heal humans?”

“You knew and you weren’t going to tell me?” He feigned offense as he sat on the edge of the bed, that smug grin of his reappearing on his face. “Dr. Helsing, I’m crushed.”

Dracula leaned in, his smile softening marginally as Zoe slowed her breathing and rested her head against the padded headboard. Of course it would be padded. How grotesquely self-indulgent, but it made her inflow of inquiries more comfortable as they entered her mind.

“What happened? How are either of us alive? What time is it?”

“Vampires cannot be responsible for the taking of their own lives. I suppose it extends even to poison. As to why you’re alive... I think we covered that,” he expounded, moderate fascination snaking through his voice. Dracula made a habit of downplaying his true excitement, but with more of his blood inside of her than ever, Zoe knew he was positively ecstatic at the discovery. 

“It’s not much after two o’clock now, you were asleep for hours,” noted the Count idly. “I left you to rest, Zoe. I couldn’t exhaust you as I had in the last dream.”

“But that dream…”

“Ah, yes.” The clarity she found within his eyes as he recalled the moment was startling. “Had you expected anything less of me?”

“You’re usually far too clever for something so human. Not that I’m complaining.” She felt stronger, more confident, and more invigorated than she had in recent months. The thrumming in her breast and humming in her veins was no doubt from his blood. She hadn’t felt so alive in what felt like a lifetime. It was as Jonathan Harker had explained so long ago in his recount of his time at Castle Dracula. Fresh blood.

For once, Count Dracula did not have a smart remark. Instead, he moved closer to her on the mattress, careful not to disturb the sheets. He was close enough for her to feel his breath as he spoke. “If we were finally going to die, I wanted it to be memorable. You had won the game and all I wanted was to remember the sunlight around me, Zoe.”

And what else is sunlight but the face of one’s beloved?

He did not back away when he was done explaining. Not that Zoe wanted him to. On the contrary, it would have seemed. There was something deeper in those dark eyes of his and it set her alight. With her strength returning to her, she lifted her head from the headboard and reached out for Dracula’s face. She could justify it to herself now, for the bridge had already been crossed when they were dying. They gave into carnal desire and every sin committed was lain bare. Two souls twisted by fate, drawn nearer, and melded together. It was a deeper and darker truth than Zoe had been able to admit to herself until she had felt her life ebbing away. 

If she wanted to explore that truth further, she would have to accept her actions entirely as her own. The sacrifice of the moral high ground was not exactly a loss, and had he been able to read her thoughts, he would undoubtedly agree. 

She craved something more with Count Dracula, devourer of lives, and she would carry that sin on her soul for eternity. Her own murderer was mere inches from her face and she felt no fear. The buzz of excitement and uncharted territory, yes. But Zoe had no fear for any possible outcome because she knew herself and she finally knew him.

“That was merely a dream, Count,” came Zoe's thickly accented breath. She bent in nearer to him, as close as the day in the convent, breath just as thready, the energy equal but entirely different. He did not look at her like the frenzied beast, but something more than human.

The prince of shadows, indeed. She marveled as she took in his countenance. Her interest in him was very similar to what it had been all those years ago. She wanted to see the true limit of his capability. 

The rules of the beast no longer applied, however. They were known to both beast and master. Dracula and Zoe knew his fears and his weaknesses. He could wield his fears now, fight them and weaponize them. In his understanding, Dracula was given great power. But in those weaknesses came truths. With that, she had more power than he ever could.

“Agatha…” 

He was but a man possessive of many all too human fears but powerful beyond measure. What could have been greatness was squandered by bloodshed and murder, but he still managed to retain something resembling humanity. It was staring at her now, full of longing and heady desire, and she was not about to lose sight of it yet. Knowing that he was the last thing she was going to feel before she died opened a truth for her she hadn’t wanted to address. He was temptation incarnate; beautiful, dangerous, an adversary and a partner all at once. 

Temptation was nothing more than the body’s natural curiosity. Categorized not as sin, but as personal science. It was something she discovered so long ago, a young nun drawn to everything dark and evil.

A puff of breath through his nostrils pulled her out of her thoughts and focused her on the way his lips were parted just enough to expose his teeth. Completely human, save his canines. She flitted her gaze to his and noticed they were darker now, drenched in something more primal, but not yet animal. 

“You’re far too composed,” she mocked cheekily as she skated her fingers through his thick head of charcoal locks. He looked better that way, in her opinion. Messy, wanton, and all for her eyes alone. With a grin, she settled her hand on the back of his head and gently pulled him closer. “Come, boy.”

He bent to her will without a second of deliberation and Zoe revelled in the way his teeth played at her bottom lip. When he released it from his grip, she took a couple experimental nips of her own, drew his lip away from his mouth, released it, and then kissed him hard. Wasting not a moment, Dracula pulled her closer and let out a small groan in the depths of his throat. Her fingers found purchase wherever they could, his hair, his shirt, his neck. Anywhere she could find more contact with him, she did, eagerly, hungrily. 

Zoe’s mouth chased after his when he moved out of the kiss and rested his forehead against hers. His amused breaths came out in erratic heaves, his mouth wavering between open and closed.

“Dr. Helsing, while you are the one with the degree, I have tasted many doctors, and I know the best thing for you right now is not sexual intercourse,” he orated breathlessly, voice tinged with the subharmonics of his vampiric growl. Despite his tone, he sounded out of time with his terminology. No one had said sexual intercourse to her since her Year 8 teachers. Though, she couldn’t deny it was a slightly endearing note on a rather grim sentence. 

“As I’m sure being eaten was the best thing for them at the time?” Zoe breathed back, voice heavy with her old Dutch accent. “Concern yourself with your own well-being, Count.”

She reclaimed his lips and moved the covers that had been on her lap to move closer to him. He grinned into the kiss as she straddled him, marveling at all the wicked sin resting in her soul. How beautiful her defiance was.

Dracula placed his hands on either side of her hips, gently massaging the bony protrusions with the pads of his thumbs. Perhaps, she should have been self-conscious of her withered form. However, the hypnotic combination of his thumbs’ motion and the intermittent pressure he would apply, kept her mind quite preoccupied. His dark brows knit together as he took in the sight of her and she felt like a piece of art in a museum. So infinitely black were those eyes of his in the dim light of the bedroom, she swore she saw all of time and space in them.

“Perhaps I’ve given you too much of a good thing,” he muttered with undercurrents of smug pleasure lining his voice. Those thumbs of his dug once again into her flesh as he moved his lips to her neck. “...if you’re feeling this well.”

"It is a possibility we can't rule out, but I wouldn’t question it." She felt the cold passage of air as he breathed in her scent, her pulse involuntarily quickening. Then, just where it had been cold a moment prior, he set his lips upon her flesh. She gasped as he explored the expanse, all teeth and tongue as he nipped and sucked his way up and down her jugular. The gasp turned into a moan when Dracula moved a hand up her torso, grasping at her breast as he planted a slow kiss at her jaw.

“You smell like me,” he whispered thickly, voice heady with lust and all the desire to possess her more than flowing through her veins. “Your scent is nearly indistinguishable from mine.”

She had not heard him speak to her like this since the convent, so breathy, so full of need. The only difference was he was driven by passion alone. Hunger and the desire for destruction had nothing to do with it. That tone had driven her mad then, though she would not admit it, and it continued to drive her mad into the twenty-first century. Zoe discovered something interesting when she ground her hips against his in an attempt to thwart his passes. She felt his concealed hardness between her legs as she descended upon his lap. He rubbed squarely against her core and she clutched at him to find her bearings. 

“So, vampires can experience sexual arousal, not just hunger. Very interesting,” she noted as casually as she could. She needed to always be the scholar, always needing more information, always needing more of...whatever it was he was about to do. A gasp escaped her throat as he had balled her hair into his fist and drew her head back, surrendering the skin to him and with it, her self-control. 

“Godverdomme!” Zoe groaned and rocked her hips against him as his mouth traveled from her throat to her collarbone. He paused for a moment, deliberated, and with a hum of decision, he bit her hard with his human teeth. She writhed against the sensation, pushing herself closer to him, to his surprising warmth, and closer to that horrendously glorious mouth of his.  “Meer…” 

“Ah. Acolo ești, mireasa mea finală,” beamed Dracula after placing a gentle kiss at the new mark. He trailed his hand slowly back down her torso, only to snake his hand under her shirt to feel her pulse beneath his fingers.

The comment sent her mind reeling and she pushed him onto the mattress below. How dare he make such a smug, presumptuous remark while she was so undone? God, it drove her mad in every possible way and she didn’t know if she wanted him in her or in the ground.

“I am not your bride,” she voiced hotly and brought her hand to his throat, knowing it was just for show. Zoe could see the mixture of emotions dancing on his face and found the most prominent to be pride. The egoism that made up his person repulsed and drew her in even more had her mind whirling.

She rubbed her pelvis against his restrained cock and watched as the impish light in his eyes once more turned dark. Zoe lowered herself until her hair cascaded around their faces, her lips close enough to brush against his. “Count Dracula, let me make one thing very clear to you. I will never be one of your brides.”

The distance between them, however small, felt too great. She wanted to be closer, she wanted whatever shirt she was wearing--his, she concluded--on the floor and everything he had on torn from him. Whatever disbelief she held in her soul was drowned in desire for the monster of a man beneath her, and she knew her disposition betrayed her. She could not dissuade her hips from rocking slightly above him, just as she could not control the shallow,  hot breaths that splayed across his face.

“A queen is but a bride for a night,” he concluded with a sobering breath as he rolled her nipple between his fingers. Her body buzzed with pleasure as he pressed himself against her, his constrained hardness begging to be freed.

A queen.

If she could describe how she felt using only one word, queen was definitely fitting. She sat atop the prince of vampires and had him harder than stone. He made no move to claim her from below, surrendering his power to her; he only gently reminded her that he wanted her, terribly, as he ground his clothed cock against any part of her he could. Soft growls escaped his lips as she tightened her fingers around his throat and took his mouth with her own.

“Careful, boy. I need to make you last.”

She moved her hand from his throat to his button up as she sat up. Zoe wasted not a second untucking it from his slacks and looked impatiently at the buttons. She knew what awaited her beneath the fabric, the furred chest speckled with scars and the frame of a five hundred year old warlord, immortal, unchanged. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” 

She paid no mind to his inquiry and undid each button with a focus she did not know she could have. One by one, the unfastened buttons revealed her prize to her. He sat up and shrugged out of the shirt the rest of the way, exposing himself to her.

She wanted to stare, wanted to drink him in and know every aspect, but his eyes caught her attention first. They were glazed over with desire, his brows twitching as he restrained himself. Her gaze shifted down to see his jaw working itself just as hard to keep himself from taking control of the situation. He was a man of extreme power and a prince used to getting his way. And Zoe Van Helsing stripped him of that. She made him beg, made him control himself, and she loved watching him underneath her.

“Zoe, let me see you, please,” he entreated quietly and brought his hands to her back. For a great warlord to be brought to his knees in such a state...she adored him for it. 

Never had she heard him speak with such reverence. For over a century, she wanted to destroy him and break the beast within human flesh. Her only goal had been to understand him, to know him, to strip him of all power and personal pride. She never imagined it would come in the form of devotion. Her name sounded like a prayer of sin on his lips and it was all she could do to keep her composure as he marveled at her.

“You bathed me, did you not? Didn’t you have your fill then?” Her accented retort was empty, meant only to tease. Dracula was a murderer, a plague on the earth, and a demon who stalked the shadows, but he was not without some form of honor.

“I could never have my fill of you,” he claimed in a tone that sent electricity down her spine. “But to answer your question, no. I would not take such advantage of you.”

She had not seen his hand move between them, but she felt it as his finger traced the outline of her under garments. They were hers, and as meticulous as the count was, she knew that he would have had them washed. A waste of detergent, if one were to ask her.

A breathy groan sounded in her throat as she shuddered against his finger through the fabric, rubbing herself against him, never once breaking eye contact.

“Especially when you are so willing to have me now.” 

She lifted her shirt over her head and tossed it, not caring where it landed. With her thoughts and body preoccupied, Zoe had not expected to be flipped onto her back so suddenly. In an instant he was above her. He stared down at her with an intense hunger she had not seen in the eyes of a man before, nor in the eyes of a vampire. 

Dracula dipped lower once he was satisfied with the sight of her and pressed a slow kiss to the nape of her neck. Zoe groaned as his finger still idly rubbed against the increasingly wet fabric between her legs.

Slowly, he made his way down her chest, pausing at her left breast to rake his teeth against her nipple. She wanted to look down at him and watch as he teased reaction after reaction from her body. A whine when he suckled at her breast was enough to evoke an equal groan from his throat before he trailed lower. All the while, his hand never left her core. Through every kiss over her ribs, every nip at her abdomen, he never let her forget how the cotton of her underwear was sticking to and sliding against her. 

She heard him swallow as he trailed his nose above the last remaining bit of clothing on her. How his breath was hot, she could not discern, but she was not about to think too heavily on anything other than finding ways to feel more of him.

He pulled away from her then and knelt on the bed before her. Finally, Zoe was able to set her sights on him, and what a sight it was. 

Count Dracula, furred chest heaving, cheeks redder than usual, dark chocolate eyes black as coal, was looking down at her with all the intentions of a man in the glorious throes of passion. She felt like a display, but she did not care. If she was to be a piece of art, then let his eyes be the one to understand it, for he was the painter.

“May I taste you?”

The question caught her off-guard and nearly brought her back to her senses. Only when she noticed the clawed finger hooked in her underwear did she realize what he meant. She had known his kiss on lips and flesh and could only imagine what his mouth would feel like between her legs. 

“Why ask? You already know the answer,” she huffed as she lifted her hips, allowing him to slide the fabric from her legs. The cold air of the bedroom crept between her thighs but she forced herself to keep them spread for him. 

“Consent is the difference between man and beast. Desire is different from hunger in many ways and therefore has different rules,” he explained as he started to lower himself to her. “I need to know how badly you want every part of this.” 

Before he could make it down to her core, Zoe shifted upwards, moving to her knees in front of him. He sank back onto his knees, confusion written on his face.

“Then fair is fair.”  

She captured his lips as reassurance and kissed him with unanticipated fervor. Her fingers, though bony as they had gotten, made quick work of his belt and the button of his pants. The moan that should have escaped into the open air as her hand brushed against him was drowned into the kiss. He grabbed the back of her head, pulled her closer, and devoured her lips with his own, messy, unbridled, unburdened. Only when she was tripping up on stilling her hand at the zipper did she break from the delicious heat of his mouth.

“Allow me,” he whispered with lips hovering just a hair away from her own. She heard the zipper go down and backed up just enough to see the outline of his shaft in his onyx boxer briefs. He stepped off the mattress and pulled the slacks down to pool on the floor around his ankles.

Zoe crawled forward on the bed and sat squarely in front of him; it was her turn now. 

She splayed a hand on his chest, tangling her fingers in the black hair that lined it, and intentionally went as slowly as she could to the fabric. Fingertips dipped below the elastic band and Zoe smirked as she watched his abdomen flex involuntarily. So reactive, so human. 

She pulled him closer by the briefs and planted a kiss next to his hip. There was an energy to him from which the warmth came, she noticed, as she trailed kisses along the band; as though he had been his own conductor instead of attaining the warmth through the blood of his victims. She pushed the dismal thought from her mind and focused on the task at hand. Carefully, she lifted the fabric over his shaft and down his hips, leaving him to do the rest. 

At last, his cock sprung forward and she had to admit that it was entirely human, if not thicker and larger than the ones she had in her earlier life, and not that unattractive. She went to reach for it but found her wrist seized by the Count’s grasp.

“I believe I asked first,” he curtly stated as he bent forward, forcing her to move up the bed once again. He did not stop to kiss her, did not bother with a smart comment, or pause for a moment before he gripped her thighs and sank between them.

She felt his breath first, gasping at the way it tickled against the soft hairs she had long since thought to shave. She had been dying, who cared if she was neatly shaven?

Certainly not the Count.

Without preamble, Dracula swept his tongue between her folds, pressed it hard against her clit, and traced the sensitive spot a few times over. She reached down, breathy and lost in an instant, and twisted her fingers into the inky black hair atop his head, which only encouraged him further. 

She squirmed as his tongue, mouth, and teeth worked her over, probing her, tasting her, and driving her toward that proverbial edge that she could have jumped off of by now. But every time she found herself ready to crash around him, he changed pace and rhythm; and she could feel him smiling against her. 

“You’re getting off on this,” she groaned as he stopped to kiss her thigh and left her aching for release. 

“That is the point of what we’re doing, Zoe, yes. Besides…one...should….”

Before he could say anything more, and she quite well knew what he was going to say, Zoe pushed herself against him, grinding against his mouth. A silent order which he obeyed in a moment. He wrapped his arms around the outside of her legs, smirked at her, and dragged her to him as he once again knelt on the bed. Her legs wrapped around him, finding friction against his back as his lips gently sucked at her nub. All of the blood went rushing to her head and she could hear nothing beyond the slick sounds of his ministrations and her pulse thumping erratically in her ear.  

She writhed beneath him as he found a rhythm that had her shaking and gasping for air. Finally, she burst with a cry in a mixture of English and Dutch. She came hard against his mouth, twitching uncontrollably in the wake of her orgasm.

But he did not stop.

Dracula held to her tighter and rendered her immobile in his grasp. He drank her in as she came and made no attempt to let her recover from her first orgasm. Rather, he pushed her back down to the bed and went faster, curling his tongue against her clit enough to send a second orgasm crashing over her. A rugged groan fell from her lips as she tried to reach for him and pulled on his hair. She needed to kiss him, needed to connect with him, and share with him the explosive release that rocked through her body. 

“Dracu-- ple--...I n-need...” she panted as she reached for his hand and tugged. “Give me your mouth.”

He released his grip of her, both mouth and arms, and obeyed. She caught a glimpse of his mouth glistening with her release and watched as he ran his tongue along his lips and swallowed. Another twitch of pleasure rocked through her and she shivered as he closed the distance between them.

“You truly are exquisite,” he purred before capturing her lips.

She tasted herself on his tongue the moment he swept into her mouth and kissed her hard. Zoe pushed back in response, delving her tongue into his mouth and whisking away traces of her own release as she matched his force and pace. He took her already sore bottom lip and tugged it as he pushed his thigh against her center, causing her to cry out into his mouth. He lost her kiss as his head dropped to the nape of her neck and involuntarily rolled his hips at her plea. She felt his erection grind against her sweat-lined skin and wondered how much longer he could last without release. 

“Lasă-mă să fac dragoste cu tine,” he breathed heavily into her neck and moved himself to align with her entrance. Zoe adjusted herself to allow him more freedom between her legs. She started to notice he spoke in his native tongue when he truly wanted her to understand him.

She realized then that this wasn’t a mere fuck to him. While by definition they were, in fact, fucking, he saw it as more, felt it as more. There was always something more with him, always something deeper, another layer to be peeled away from the ashamed warlord. She would unravel him to the bone before long. 

“You’re not getting soft on me, are you?” The question came as a teasing hum and he brought his head up to examine her face. The playful wickedness returned to his features as he searched her eyes. 

“I don’t think you need to worry about me growing soft any time soon, Zoe,” he noted glibly as he teased her entrance with his cockhead. It had been over a year since she had last lain with anyone and none of her lovers had been as prepossessing as Dracula. He was regal and there wasn’t a soul on the planet, living or dead, that could deny how he looked. 

“We’ll see about that,” she challenged and leaned up to kiss him. He met her lips for but a moment before sinking slowly into her, filling her to the brim and then some. She tried to keep her eyes on him, tried to watch as he finally took her, but could not stop herself from dropping her head into the mess of pillows below her.

Their shared dream could hold nothing to the actual feeling of him between her legs, carefully, but expertly, plunging himself deeper into her with each motion.

“Zoe, Zoe, look at me. I want you to watch as I take you,” instructed Dracula, his words thick amidst his growl so bestial she thought him entering a frenzy. 

When she looked up, she saw nothing of the sort. What she saw was a man succumbing to his own desires, breathing heavily and capturing her lips in hasty, firm kisses when he could. Dracula drove himself into her with abandon and focused entirely on her face as he searched for that one sweet spot that would send her world flying.

And he found it.

She arched into him, a drawn-out groan falling into the pillow beside her. Within a second after, Dracula had thrown the pillow and swept a hand under her back, lifting her into the air as he leaned back on his knees. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deep, biting at his lip and not caring that she was finally able to pierce his skin. The snarl that came in response was reprehensible, but she reveled in the sound.

“That’s better.” His voice carried the same subharmonics as they had earlier, that same vampiric underscore that should have been frightening. “Incredible.”

He drove himself into her time and again, hitting that same spot over and over until her legs shook around him. She did not look away from him as her walls tightened around the impossible fullness inside of her. Had it not been for his hands at her back, she would have fallen to the mattress below in an instant. 

He pulled her closer, until her breasts were flush against the down of his chest, and rolled them onto bed. She thought he was going to release his hold of her, let her take charge, but his grip did not loosen. Instead, he thrust up into her, haphazard and chasing. His hand balled into her hair, giving her some room to adjust herself more comfortably atop him with his grip loosened, as he seized her lips. His kiss was hungry, demanding, forceful, and alone was enough to send Zoe over the edge once again.

And he went with her, hips bucking up as he came inside of her, groaning into her mouth. Wave after wave of pleasure seized them both as he slowed his movements inside of her, riding through their climax, before he released his hands from holding her in place.

Zoe let him go soft inside of her before she fell to the bed beside him. She was sore, dehydrated, but above all, satisfied, and a hum of approval sounded in her throat as she kissed his shoulder. 

“Zoe Van Helsing,” he sighed after a few moments of silence, drawing her closer to him. “What mortal man could have such a seductress in his bed and not do everything in his power to keep her there?”

“Men who don’t understand the importance or dangers of vampires, one can assume,” she returned dryly, tracing patterns amidst the thick hairs of his chest. “A person’s life work can interfere greatly with relationships, Count.”

“Greatness is often squandered by lesser minds. You held yourself apart even before your cancer, Zoe. I tasted it on you. It had a very…” he ran his tongue between his lips thoughtfully, “...robust flavor. Herculean, almost. You are a wealth of knowledge and power and you wield it as both shield and weapon. It’s a quality that is intimidating to the unimportant. A scholar and a warrior.” 

How fortunate for Dracula that her aforementioned life’s work consisted entirely of him. She would never be rid of him, just as he would never be rid of him. Had anyone asked her three months ago if she was going to bed a vampire, her answer would have been a resounding no. Zoe had known only the horrors of him, the clever predator that stalked and toyed with his prey. She knew the monster. 

That was until Agatha seeped into her consciousness. The nun had completed her as their thoughts and memories synthesized into a singular existence. Possession was the wrong term entirely. Agatha had granted her wholeness in a way her work never could. She was Agatha just as much as Agatha was her. They were the same woman sharing the same soul. And together, they found the man within the beast.

“It sounds as though you want to make me a captain rather than a bed-partner,” she hummed as she shuffled closer to him and placed her head on his shoulder. A contented hum sounded in his throat as he wrapped his arm around her to hold her naked form to his.

“Captain is beneath you. No, you would be my most successful general. I would trust you to move armies and then the world.” With his free hand, he swept her bedraggled hair behind her ear with a smirk. She shivered involuntarily when his claw gently grazed her scalp, her nerves still ringing with pleasure. “As for being my bed-partner, there aren’t many beds on battlefields. But I’m sure we’d make do.”  

The chill made her legs twitch and she could feel his seed sliding out of her. While it was not altogether unpleasant, she knew that she could not do much else in her current state.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to a shower,” she declared softly and placed a slow kiss on his peck. “And while it appears you haven’t broken a sweat, I wouldn’t be opposed if you were to join me.” 

He shifted and let out a breath of laughter, a smile stretching so far on his face she could feel it against her forehead. She moved from his hold and laid her chest atop his and looked down at him to confirm her suspicions. 

“You are wicked,” came his playful tone as he lifted her atop him, her hands splaying on his chest to hold herself up. She knew the moment he searched her eyes he understood why she wanted to shower. That and the feeling of his cum sliding onto his own leg. “And I did make quite the mess of you.”

“You did and now I have every intention of undoing your hard work,” she chimed jokingly as she idly scratched at the hair upon his chest. She ignored the underscore of guilt she felt for indulging herself. Not twenty-four hours prior, her protege had lost the woman he loved twice to the man she now so intimately smiled upon. 

“I would expect nothing less from a Van Helsing. Luckily, I still have a few tricks up my sleeves,” came his hum of a reply as he shifted upwards on the bed, his soft cock twitching against her thigh. “Come with me.”

She moved off of him in time enough for Dracula to stand and watched how his muscles flexed underneath his skin as he stretched. He put on a purely self-indulgent display that was extended by his outstretched hand for her to take. Every part of her told her not to take it, not to humor him or feed into his ego, but she ignored her better judgment.

“If I recall correctly,” he started as he pulled her from the bed and onto her feet. Calloused hands came to rest at her hips, his fingers idly rubbing the skin under them. “You haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours, Zoe.” 

She hadn’t thought about food. The idea had not even crossed her mind and she looked up at him, confused. He only smiled and started out of the bedroom. 

“Have you?” came her almost befuddled inquiry. Eating was not a conversation that ever had an outcome favorable to either of them. He stopped down the hallway and flicked a light on, smiling to himself at the sound the switch made.

“Yes, but from the reserves I have on hand. I didn’t want to leave you longer than I had to,” he explained without a hint of emotion one way or the other. His poor attempt at covering his emotions was seen through as she stepped closer to him and put a hand on his chest. He grabbed it, brought her folded fingers to his lips, and placed a whisper of a kiss to her knuckles. “You let me know when you’re ready for that shower, Zoe Van Helsing, and I’ll make sure you work up an appetite.”

[thewritingamateur]

Playing the Game

Just an introduction to a story I have planned out. Hopefully this would suffice as a prologue to what I have in store! 

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It was at this time she realized her naivety of the situation.

All her life, she sought to tear the blank smile off his red lips. She sought for his beautiful eyes to show terror than delight. All that was taken from her was from the soft command of his voice. Nothing would please her more than seeing his perfect white teeth smashed into his throat.

But alas, she was the one tied up to the wooden chair in the dark, damp room. The only noise heard was the wall clock ticking above her head, a quarter to noon. In roughly fifteen minutes, the assembly would begin. All her hopes flushed down the drain.

The rope tied to her legs began to cut her skin, the numbness moved up into her nerves. Despite her knowledge in knots, her abilities were rendered useless with her hands tied close to the heater, radiating mere inches from her fingertips.

Eyes became blurry, but nothing fell. Determination was still set squarely in her heart. There will be a way out of this. She will stop him at any cost.

Sorely, she turned her head to look at the small window a couple of feet to her right. It was snowing, with the howling winds intensifying the pressure of the fall onto the glass. Sweat fell from her brow as she looked at the clock once more. Only ten minutes left before it all begins.

The creaking of wood interrupted her mindless wondering. The pounding of her heart became loud in her ears as anticipation grew for a fond face to reveal itself and set her free.

Rather, it was the heinous sight of a familiar henchman with his receding hairline and gold front tooth shining from his sneer. In his hands were a newspaper and a wooden chair. His heaving body plopped onto the wobbling chair directly across from her. Cold eyes looked straight at her dark ones as his hand pushed the newspaper in her direction.

"Read it and weep."

Not wanting to heed to his command, she held onto his gaze a few moments longer. As her eyes moved down, the hardness in them soon melted into anxiousness seeing the front news headline:

Italian Prime Minister Arturo Gasparini Acquitted From ALL Charges With the Head of Prosecution and Ex-Co-Star Nisha Enys Missing

Tremors spread throughout her body as the tension released. Despite the heat being so close to her body, she felt cold as ice. The hairs of her skin stood straight.

Ho-How could this be? All the time and effort she put into the trial. The evidence she built up from the last decade. Even the sacrifices for her family. Her long waited revenge against him, it was all gone with the snap of his fingers.

The creaking of wood pricked her ears, looking up once more to see the brass doorknob turning slowly.

Her body felt chills as the door opened wide, the frame filled with shoulders hitting from side to side.

"Ahh, ciccino! I hope your stay has not been too terrible. I would hate for anything bad to happen to you both." Her eyes fled away from his, looking down at her forming bump. The leather loafers came to view as she felt the presence of his warmth covering her.

"Fredrico, leave us." A grunt was heard as the chair squeaked in relief.

Alone together, the fear from before came back. Here she was with her mortal enemy, the man who was the root to all her demise, at his mercy in the attic of his lavish Florence mansion. Here he was, pulling the silk scarf away from her dry lips. As she saw his fingers reaching to her face it was out of instinct that she pulled back. Memories from years before came to the surface to remind her of past interactions with his soft gaze.

"I see you still have some spark left in you. Not to worry, though, as with everything else, your energy will be wasted."

Her throat was dry from the lack of liquid to soothe her, the pitch of her voice was lower and guttural. "You got what you wanted, Gasparini. Now let me go. People are looking for me."

A hearty laugh escaped his million-dollar smile as it was his turn to take a seat in the weak chair.

"Call me Arturo, please. We've known one another for years, Nisha. Let's not pretend otherwise." Even with his perfect English, his accent was still thick, huskiness emitting from his soft voice.

Her left temple began to tick, ignoring his friendly words. "I'm serious. You're free from all the charges. I won't be a problem for you anymore."

"That's not how this works. You wasted a lot of my time and effort with this farce you had going for yourself these past couple of years. Not only my time but the taxpayers' money. Imagine how they must feel that you've disappeared a mere two days before the end of the trial."

The mirth in his eyes brought bile up her throat.

"Just let me go."She tried to twist her body, but it brought more discomfort feeling the ropes tighten around her goose-bumped skin.

"No."

The simple word brought her over the edge. It was his finality in knowing he was getting his way that irked her. With what little strength she had, her chair tipped forward, and she shoved herself forward.

It was a short-lived attack. He quickly got up and allowed her to be pulled back by the rope connected to the heater, tightening its hold onto her wrist with a burning sensation.

"Gahh!" Her parched voice cried out at her inevitable defeat.

Her body was on the floor in an uncomfortable position with the weight of the chair now on top of her.

Heaving in exhaustion, she knew he was standing above her. She could see it now, his hands limply in his pockets, a snide smirk at her loss.

After a few moments of silence, the chair's weight lifted a bit as Gasparini pulled her back up.

"You're lucky I'm enough of a gentleman to not want to see a lady on the floor." He pulled her chair back, a bit too close to the furnace for her liking.

"While I can't see a lady on the floor, it doesn't mean I could stand for any deed against me to go unpunished. You compromised my position and many of my men. You compromised the people of my land with this game you decided to play. For that, you'll have to pay the price."

Her cognac eyes widened by the various possibilities he could mean.

"Please, not my family! It wasn't their fault. It's all mine."

He paced in the small room, slowly padding heel to toe on the creaking wood. She knew he was only doing this to irritate her, going around the bush until he would feel the joy of revealing the truth.

"Although it would be great to retaliate against that paraplegic husband of yours, I think he'll be spared for now. He only helped you out because he's scared you'll leave him...I wouldn't blame him."

She knew he wanted her to fight, but her mouth clamped tight. Nisha refused to give him the power of irritating her more than he already had.

"I see I hit a nerve." Her arched eyebrow rose as the sweat on her face rolled down her neck, plunging into the neckline of her blouse to hide. She watched his gaze following the path, no doubt undressing her with the momentary stillness of his form. Seeming to remember the situation, he cleared his throat, turning to the window with a satisfied look.

"It's alright. I think, for now, I'll take my fun and see how long this newfound silence will last. Oh, but I will miss the sound of your voice."

His loafers threaded back to her minuscule figure. Her neck craned up to see his Adam's apple move ever so slightly. He stood there for what seemed to be a long time but could've been mere minutes. His eyes stared directly into her's. All her walls were firmly in place, knowing his plan. Gasparini always thought he could get to her with his soft words and expressive eyes. For some time, he was capable of having that effect on her. Now she was older, and circumstances changed with intent.

Those eyes she used to admire, the ones that brought cornflowers to her mind and days of happier times, now they looked towards her in cruel amusement.

"We could've had something, you and me. I meant my words to you, even now. All you have to do is say the magic word, and all this will vanish. Your troubles and pain will be put behind us."

A blank blink came from her as a response. Nothing that he could do to her would make her mind change. Her dark eyes watched the scoff form on his full lips, eyes quickly averting, knowing her silent response to his request.

"So you want it the hard way then. You never were one to take the easy route, Nisha. I must admit I admire that about you the most."

Her guards were down. She had to admit it. In mere moments of her just staring at his eyes, lost in a time before for just a moment. It didn't register how fast he was moving until she felt the pull of her wrist. The movement was too fast for her to react.

The sizzling of skin was heard in the darkroom. Lips were bitten until blood seeped out. Another tug and her hands were molded right around the heater, pushed into grasping it as the heat burnt her skin.

It didn't take long before a wail escaped her lips.

She knew he wanted her to grovel and apologize for what she did, but Nisha couldn't. If anything, she would bawl in pain, but he could drag her through a bed of nails, and she still wouldn't apologize for doing what was right.

Her fingers were taken off the heater for a few moments. She could feel the pulsing of her fingers and smell the skin that was once hers.

"It's sad, after all the time we spent together, one would think you would heed and admit your wrong to me. It's alright. I have the rest of the night to take it out of you."

Her hand was forced on the heater once more, and the scream could be heard beyond the small room. Instead of focusing on the immediate pain, her mind wandered off to her husband and child back home, their safety, and worrying about her. She thought about her loss that started the chain reaction of her bring in this position.

Gasparini's eyes were almost dead as he watched her pain erupt on her face. She knew he was capable of worse. She saw it first hand as a young girl. Despite his warped display of mercy, Nisha's fury was still at bay. He was able to get away this time, but he has yet to face the real damage she had in store for him.

He may have won this battle, but she still had the war.

Sounds of screaming echoed beyond the small room and throughout the Romanesque mansion.

By the end of round one of torture, her hands were swollen behind the chair, the burning sensation emitting as tears rolled down her tired face. He untied her hands for the time being. They were rendered useless, so she couldn't attack him even if she tried.

A cigar was lit before puffs were taken. "Would you like to have one?" Unable to speak, she simply shook her head. Hair was sticking to her face, oily and flat against her scalp.

"I think you want a puff." Without warning, he lifted her head and shoved the fat cigar into her mouth. Surprised, she coughed and sputtered out smoke. "I can't do d-do that. I am pregnant."

Gasparini gave a thoughtful look to the empty ceiling while taking another puff from the same cigar. "Ahh yes, I seem to have forgotten. Don't worry though. A few puffs wouldn't harm the child." He then repeated the process of forcing her to take a puff and then one himself. A sick form of intimacy to satisfy his cravings.

For hours this continued until the snow stopped and the wind ceased. For some time, Gasparini just sat across from Nisha and watched her haggard body trembling in shock as her hands doubled in size from the burn. He was on his fourth cigar now but wanted to have this one to himself.

"Don't worry. It isn't over yet. I have so much in store for our reunion, Nisha darling." His large hand went to touch her face. In weakness, she couldn't stop him from pulling her face mere inches from his.

His placid face became a sneer, his face turning monstrous. "By the end of this, I'll burn the heart out of you." The butt of his cigar was still hot, very hot by the scream given as it made contact with her collarbone.

It was going to be a long night.

[octorockff]

Nightmare

The short drabble somehow turn into sorta a fic along the way *sweating*. The ending was kinda rushed and not to my liking that much, but I want to crank it out before I lose interest.Grammar mistakes might showed up a lot as well so I apologized before handed.

Warning: mild mention of gore and blood. Please proceed at your pace.

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White. That was the only color he saw even when he stranded his eyes to find any others. White wall, white ceiling, white furniture,...every goddamn things in this space reminded him about the hellhole he was forced to stay in, being a fucking lab rats to those cold, calculated eyes monitoring above.

The longer he stared at the fucking color, the madder and more broken his conscience seemed to be as it conjured up all sort of gruelsome decorations he could have made out of those scientists with his power. And boy, did he get his wish granted.

But instead of those motherfuckers, the body parts that scattered around the room were of of that familiar chestnut hair tomboy. Not the real one though. Clones. Thousands of them laying in their pool of blood, lifeless eyes pierced into his black soul.

He could see his reflection staring back at him in that crimson liquid, all twisted and grinning maniacally, which was definitely unsuited for the face of a 15 years old boy.

And suddenly he was pushed and fell into the puddle, panic overshadowed his senses as he tried to activate his power and flail his limbs as not to get drowned. But all his attempts were rendered useless as he couldn’t feel his ability come forth and his body felt like it was chained, so he gave up and succumbed to the darkness.

Once again, he found himself standing in an another space, this time a void that stretched for miles with nothing presented. The silence hung in the air, pressurized against his skull and threatened to pop his eardrums off if not for a source of light which suddenly flooded his sight.

Blinded for a temporary moment, he tried to blink his eyes to adjust to the brightness while his feet automatically carried him to the source. The light then dimmed enough for him to make out a human outline having their back faced against him.

Everything became clearer and he instantly recognized the familiar features: short and unkempt chestnut hair with a weirdly sticking out strand on top, long sleeved button up which hung down her small frame. And as she turned around, wide brown orbs gazing straight as him.

The very being that stood in front of him clearly resembled the little girl he had saved from all those time ago, always pestering for his attention and followed him around like a duckling to its mom. But at the same time, she was not.

He instantly knew why.

Instead of the usual liveliness and twinkling light which was usually presented in those soulful eyes, only emptiness remained in those vacant gaze that was directed at him. Just like a doll. Just like every other clones that died under his very hands.

Never in his life had he felt so nervous as Last Order open her mouth and muttered the one word he dreaded: “ Murderer”. Just like that then she started to melt and fall apart like a decaying corpse and it was downright horrified to see.

He tried to move forward, reaching out his hand to somehow change her fate but never quiet touch a lock of hair cause his feet were glued to the ground. Scream bubbling at the base of his throat, desperately clawed it way out through the molasses filled in his mouth as he helplessly watched her disappeared.

He cried.

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Accelerator woke up to the sound of his own cry echoing through the wall of his bedroom. Sweat dripped down his forehead, drenching the collar of his shirt as he tried to calm his erractic heartbeat. He must have look like shit as he saw the familiar figure, which plagued his nightmare, standing at the bedroom doorway with the utmost worried expression on her face.

The older version of that little girl calmly walked to his figure and upon reaching him, gently enclosed her arms over his shoulder as she sat down with him. The esper hitched a breath, half expected her to fall apart just like the dream and forever haunted him with her spiteful gaze. But it didn’t happen. She was still here, gently stroking his matted hair and filled his ears with soothing words. So he allowed himself to relax a little and wrapped his arms around her for the much needed closure.

Last Order pulled him down the mattress so they could lay comfortably as she waited for him to divulge his discomfort. Time spent together had taught her to be patient towards his inability to share his thoughts and worries, in fear of them being exploited as his weaknesses. But he came around, though not very often he did it, but the act of him trying was already a reward itself.

Her scent wafted his nose and he greedily inhaled for each sniff he took calmed his jumble nerves.Closing his eyes, Accelertor weighed the facts of either telling the girl or just keep the nightmare all to himself. But just the thought of Last Order, in her younger version, calling him a murderer despite it being the truth felt like a stab to his heart. He needed confirmation again. So he relented.

“ I remembered standing in that experiment room again, slaughtered every Sisters clones without feeling remorse. I’m a fucking monster, even then and now.” His voice scraped though the air like nail on chalkboard, hoarse from the shouting.

He could feel the girl above him shifted her position, probably to disconfirm his statement, but he cut in again before she could even attempt: “ Then I saw your younger self standing in a void, staring at me like I was the most disgusting creature to have ever appeared in front of you.” He didn’t realize how loud his voice had gotten and how tightly his fists had woven in the material of her shirt, he didn’t even glance upon to see her reaction.

“...And a murderer was what you called me before falling apart like a goddamn broken statue, while I couldn’t do shit to prevent it.” The esper quietly breathed out, hating how vulnerable he was at the moment.

The silence descended thickly upon the atmosphere and each second ticked by only heightened his anxious about her judgement. Ever since Last Order came to the age, not only had her body undergone some physical alterations, but her mind had as well as it started to mature with deeper and sharper thoughts. No longer could she accepted him to a fault with that unconditional love of a child, some of that admiration might have faded away for she was capable to distinguish between what was right and wrong now. So he could say his fear wasn’t baseless at all.

Something warm suddenly crashed on his lips and caught him so off guard that he forgot how to comprehend for a moment. Realization then dawned upon him that he was being kissed, so he hesitantly reciprocated her gesture while confusion and doubt still plagueing his mind.

They broke off a moment after, him still confused and her with a radiant smile and twinkling eyes. Last Order slid down a bit until they were forehead to forehead as she proceeded to stare deep into his sanguine eyes, only sastisfied till his full attention was on her, then she spoke:

“Misaka wouldn’t still be here if she had thought Accelerator was a murderer on his will. Yes, he did commit the killing of the Sisters, the action was indeed wrong regardless of his intention. Misaka said as Misaka could feel Accelerator flinched against her words” She soothingly rubbed small circles against his back as she continued:

“ But Accelerator hadn’t hesitant for a moment when it came to saving Misaka despite nearly losing his life along the way, and for that, she knew he was more humane than what he gave himself credited for. Also, every acts of him helping others could be seen as a way for him to redeem his mistake. So please, don’t call yourself a monster. Misaka said as Misaka begged you to not be so hard on yourself.” Last Order closed her eyes, pulling the esper closer until their body was flushed against each other to convey her message.

He couldn’t believe how much love and acceptance he was being given from this human being in front of him. The whole ordeal would look utterly ridiculous and would take shit for him to believe if this was to come out of someone else. But this was Last Order he was talking about, the girl who could see hope and positivity in every goddamn situations to the point of nativity, while he took the world in for all the cynical things it could be.

While still finding it hard to forgive himself, Accelerator could already feel some weight being lifted from his chest, reassurance filled his mind from knowing she didn’t think any less of him even in her older state. He slightly nodded his head to signal his silent assurance and the act brought another sunshine smile to the girl’s face.

Quickly pecking his lips, Last Order let out a yawn as she snuggled up closely to him, and promptly fell asleep. Finally feeling the weariness catching up to his body, the esper let himself relax, contented in the arm of his lover as sleep gently encased them both in the dark cloak of night.