#as it picks up in a nonexistent breeze - it flickers like it's on fire - and the shadows around him deepen just as it seems like he begins | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yostresswritinggirl · 4 years ago

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Readers: We want Red Xiao x Reader x Green Xiao content PLEASE

Exiled: Well yes but actually no

Intermittent

Pairing -> Red/Green Xiao x Reader

Word Count -> 2088

Themes -> Okay, get this: Fluff, Angst, Suggestive scene (but not too bad). It's a trifecta.

Series -> #SojournerSpecials (masterlist)

Credit: @m370N4 for Header

Warnings -> Spoilers, violence, oh gawd there's so many violence

Your lover is going through a phase.

Perhaps you should have expected this much after the things that he's gone through, and the things that he is going through. The Archon War does not pick its victims. Saints and sinners, weak and strong, participants and bystanders; they all have one thing in common, they all can die any day now as the war rages on.

The thought of impending doom puts your heart into great unease as your arms tighten, lips softly pecking the red diamond on the Yaksha's forehead as he sighs in what you hope was relief.

The adepti are strong and aid in this war under the stead of Rex Lapis, but on the forefront of greater danger leads the Yakshas. The fateful battle between Osial and the Geo Archon ended not too long ago to put an end against the Lord's destructive ministrations, but Gods do not die, only slumber; his hatred in great intensities brought forth demonic plague that now haunts the blood bathed lands of Liyue. With his indispensable power and contractual obligation, Xiao became one of the five known Yakshas devoted to conquering those evil.

You were no beast in the battlefield but alongside Cloud Retainer and Ganyu you hold well in ensuring the well-being of mankind, but you only wish there was anything you can do to help the true warriors of the Harbour.

"How are you feeling?" You ran your hands through his chopped hair as his body leans against you, still tense. Xiao produces a strangled groan upon the question, a sound you still have yet to grow accustomed to.

It was a side effect even the glorified Archon did not expect. Yet it was too late to back down from the duties, to turn away from the chaos.

"Still standing, nothing I cannot handle," leaning away from your hold, his honey eyes then sets upon yours in gentle reassurance. Exposed fingers softly brushing against your cheekbone reminiscent of a flutter, so light it sends your heart into a faster pace. "And on your end? I have heard of the mortals establishing a new type of governance, how is it faring?"

Xiao hooks his fingers under your chin in full attention, and the pairing with his tantalizing smile sent your mind melting. "It's going-," your cleared your throat of the strangled pitch you produced and tried again, "Going great! Ganyu made it her duty to oversee it as the secretary."

"That is a fine arrangement." He hums inquisitively but you both know his attention was on somewhere else, what with the way his sharp orbs kept flickering to gaze on your lips. And with how his face was slowly, surely drawing near.

"Indeed, indeed." Breathed you as you closed your eyes, ready to capture his lips for a longing kiss, his other hand rests on your lower back to guide you to his lap—

When the shutter doors slammed open, the interruption causing you to yelp as Xiao embarrassingly hides your head to his exposed chest. That did NOT lessen the warmth of your cheeks.

"Conqueror of Demons! I- I'm sorry to interrupt-"

"Pervases, go on."

"The Yaksha of flames-" A rumbling roar of a scream had all three of you shoot your heads up in alert. And within seconds you had scrambled to your feet, rushing out of the shrine to investigate the commotion. The atmosphere had you choking from the scent of arson, black smoke erupting from the burning grass and natural flora around the area.

But in the middle of the ruins had you almost dispelling the contents of your stomach, your hand shooting up to cover your mouth at the the sight. Besides you Xiao dashes past in a vain attempt to quell the flames— the lick of fire that burned the Pyro Yaksha whole, who screams in both agony and anguish over the deep unknown, skin and clothes turning black and charred.

Xiao's swings barely made a dent to the wall of fire that prevents anyone from coming close to the Yaksha. "Please, leave me alone! Let me go! Stop it!" There was an illusionary sense to her words as she screams at the empty void in front and within her, piercing and aching. You called for her name, shouted, in hopes that she may snap out of it.

Dried up tears came upon her ruby gaze as it flickers over to yours. She heard you. Her lips quivered into those of familiarity and she opens her mouth- only to scream her loudest, one last painful cry, as her body drops as a smoking corpse.

Charred and pure black. Twitching and steaming, but not alive.

You didn't realize you were crying until you felt the comfort of Xiao's hand wiping at your cheek, his red fingerless gloves catching the dampness as you released your sobs.

You didn't notice the gradual decrease of red in his clothing until you looked at him one day without feeling a pang on your chest. When you looked at him with only curiousity upon him calling your name, he offered a smile as he cups your cheek; it didn't feel like the same traumatic time when the Yaksha died, your cheek leaning on his cerulean palm.

It wasn't red. Maybe that's what drove away your thoughts.

"It looks good on you," you mumbled as you watched his now black and green hair sway from the breeze.

"Thank you."

The clouds of Jueyun Karst brings peace to all that gazes on it. That may be the reason why it was Menogias' favorite place to sit by upon finishing her duties for the day, and at times she invites you over when you are done with your own; 'your presence soothes me, it's unfair that Xiao gets to keep you to himself, even if he is your lover!' you giggle at the verbatim the Hydro Yaksha always spouts everytime she drags you away from the other, with a cute yet teasing pout on her pristine face.

Those moments always has you laughing guiltily as you wave to Xiao, who only dons a gentle smile at you two's dynamic.

But she was beautiful and elegant despite her slaughtering hands, with a mind vivid and witty.

And so you find peace next to her, as both of your hands weave cloth into apparels to calm your minds. She had always been an avid fan of stitching and knitting even her own clothes, the only reason you knew how to weave the needle was because of her incessant teachings. Right now she knits a sleeve of beautiful patterns while you took on the duty to make a wooly scarf. Jueyun Karst is cold.

"How are you faring, dear? I have heard you and Xiao-" your hands paused at the implications, "-were witness to the passing of the Yaksha Indarias. Changes are glaring among that of the Conqueror of Demons, but you are a special case who is not under the influence of the karmic binds."

Her cold blue gaze seem to pierce your soul unintentionally and you couldn't bring yourself to look upon them.

You gulped and ceased on finishing the blanket to look at her own work. It was pretty. Tiring and fearful, not just for yourself, but for her too. And especially Xiao.

She holds you close in a soft embrace as you poured your honest confessions; it felt unfair for them to suffer like this, driven to self-destruction or to eternal agony. Menogias strokes your hair affectionately as she reassures your worries.

After all, they knew their oath would come to this.

And they still honored their duties to protect Liyue, for both the mortals and the realm of the Adepti.

"H-How about you?" You sniffled, looking up at her now gentle gaze. "Have you been feeling well? I don't want you to be destroyed by your own mind too."

The Yaksha's gracious smile parts after a pause to finally reply, when a glint from the side suddenly interrupted your peace-

azure pupils dilated upon recognition;

your body flies back upon her powerful push;

blood spurs from her right thigh as a jagged pillar of rock pierces through;

your back and hitting the cliff's compact ground as your vision swims.

No, no, no, no, you recognize that glow even if it was similar to another. Your body whimpers as you struggle to get up, rolling to your side to see the inevitable— the floating silhouette of the Geo Yaksha raises his arm where an orb glows over it, a single eye glows from his shadow...

The last you saw was the flash of neons and black before the world was engulfed by a blinding light.

The next thing you know you were desperately trying not to puke as you cradled the mawled and still bleeding corpse of Menogias, weakly patting her cheeks as your desperate attempts to wake her- to convince yourself that she was still alive. That the spears of stones impaled through numerous part of her body was nonexistent.

Behind you Xiao flicks his head to the side as his mask disperses. His jade spear dripping with blood as her gentle eyes hardened as it squeezes out the tears.

"(Y/N)," your wails turned into whimpers and hiccups, loose arms wrapping around your waist as Xiao pulls you away from the bloody mess. You didn't have the spirit to protest, your eyes still trained on the deceased Yaksha's face as you wept in your lover's arms.

A familiar censer that wasn't there before hangs by his waist.

And when the pain didn't make you weep anymore, a beautifully woven sleeve of blue and clouds adorn his left arm. Those who live after a millenia would not be aware of a reminiscent and deep scar hidden beneath it.

"I was not aware you were out of your domain," the moment he landed, a firm hand grasps your waist to keep you steady on the balcony's railings. Where you're currently perched on, precariously.

You were still unused to the purple cloth that flows behind him. But it matches the wind that comes with him, and the beautiful clashes of colors that makes up who he is now. He was not reminiscent of the red gentleness that he was 2000 years ago, but a teal shadow that lingers at the edges of your vision as a blur.

"I wanted to thank you for purging the malignant monsters that haunted my domain by the cavern," your gaze falls away from the moon as you swing your legs up and over, turning to face the Inn and him yet still remaining seated on the railing.

His eyes were hostile, not at all indicative of the lightness it had long ago. Chest covered in white, and the many memorabilias that dangle with him. Xiao's hands rests on the railing by your side as your fingertip traces the Vajra hanging by his neck, chunky to pointy; Pervases, the name leaves your lips in a whisper.

A guttural growl leaves him in intensity that had you reeling yet still worried for him. Behind his lidded eyes were pure hurt from the fear you conveyed, but he shook his head at all the thoughts that invades. Xiao lets loose a tired yet mocking laugh, "I just remembered something unpleasant."

Before he can turn back to gaze at your ethereal form, you've thrown your arms around his head to pull him against your chest. Your grip and uneven heartbeat alerted him of your will to not cry at his misfortune; such sympathy is wasted on him, yet he wraps his arms around you close in a gentleness that once again reflects his deepest trait.

"...your blessings, not your flaws."

At the sound of your familiar lyrics, as if with a mind of its own, the tension on his shoulders drop immediately into your warmth.

"You've got it all, you lost your mind in the sound;

There's so much more, you can reclaim your crown;

You're in control, rid of the monsters inside your head;

Put all your faults to bed."

Urged the strokes of your hand on his head, the voices quiet into almost nothingness. The Conqueror of Demons smiles again.

"You can be king again."

To the realm of the Adepti and those who knows even the slightest of him, it was nothing to debate about when it is claimed that you were the real reason that the golden-winged king, the Conqueror of Demons— that Xiao still exists today.

If you recognize the song 🤝 big sad

@moaa @dandelion-dreams @witchsungie @lehra @zelos-simp @legionqueensav @snackgod @rxsalinee @cala-ran @wind-wheel @lilydewi22 @yellowflowre @traveler-lumine @nonniechan @creation-magician @hanniejji @gojos-baby @just-some-stars @volleybloop @kookieyachi @xiaophilia @bunniesrorange @anormalguyreader @scarletroseneko

#genshin impact x reader #Xiao x reader #genshin impact Xiao #exile.flower #Angst #Fluff #segcy #Xiao² #I have given in to the temptation #gender neutral #xiao genshin impact #sojourner special

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sunshineandfangs · 5 years ago

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I have promises to keep, And only miles to go before I sleep

Klaroline AU Week - Day One (Mythological Creatures)

Caroline sipped at her Spritz, a sweet burn coating her tongue and throat as she toasted the red-orange glow haloing buildings across the canal. A gorgeous Venetian sunset was certainly one way to usher out the eve of her seventeenth year and herald her eighteenth.

Her peers that still called the tiny Mystic Falls home were likely taking gap years, looking for jobs, or starting college. Not globetrotting. Not being a mere 18 and having set foot on all seven continents. Their tongues couldn’t dance with a sometimes clumsy, sometimes eloquent flow of words in dozens of languages. And they didn’t have memories that burned like star fire in their minds. From the twinkling yellow of the City of Lights to the vivid green of the hills of Kerala.

Of course her peers also lived without knowing their expiration dates. There was that.

She closed her eyes.

Tipping her glass, the last drops of her cocktail slid down her throat. A swipe of her tongue licked the remnants from her lips and she could feel a weak breeze catch one of her curls.

And then her peace shattered, a jolt like a livewire running down her spine. Her glass slipped from nerveless fingers, though it didn’t fall far. A pale arm reached around her and caught it, his presence a static thrum of power at her back.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmured in her ear, “I do so hate to have my possessions damaged.”

Shock rapidly shifted to ire and she whirled around, taking a step back to gain some distance. Her arms crossed as she glowered, eyes taking in a sight she hadn’t seen in years. Short blonde curls and bright blue eyes. Curling raspberry red lips, their smirk deepening the dimbles in their cheeks.

The Devil was an angel once, it’s been said. Rather unfair he kept his stunning appearance when he Fell.

10 Years Ago

Dipping her small hands in the water of a stream, Caroline carefully washed the dirt from them. The cold temperature bit at the flesh of her hand, but she pressed on unflinchingly, meticulously picking out the dirt from under her nails and scrubbing at her skin. When she finished, fingers nearly numb, she pulled her hands from the water, shaking them out and spraying small drops around where she kneeled.

Hands finally dry Caroline continued to kneel at the bank, picking up each of the stems of yarrow she had just picked. With surprising dexterity she slowly braided the stems together, interweaving strands of her hair into the forming wreath. It was a strange, macabre ornament.

Yet she didn’t hesitate to press it to the brand on her side, the cruelly slashed lines still sluggishly bleeding crimson rivulets. A hiss whistled through her clenched teeth, but she only pulled the bundle away after three deep breaths.

Yellow, green, and splattered red was cradled in her hands and she gently, gently lowered it into the rock lined hole she had dug. Set in its tomb of earth, Caroline placed one last, larger river stone over top to complete the ritual.

And then she waited.

Water in the stream trickled and bubbled. Crisp autumn air nipped at her exposed skin. Somewhere in the distance some birds chirped as a squirrel scurried up the bark of an oak. Her side throbbed, blood warm and sticky.

The water froze and the air went still and stagnant, the forest now silent.

Black smoke crept out from below the river stone, foul smelling as the wreath burned.

“Now, is this not a fascinating occurrence.”

Caroline said nothing as the voice rumbled from the earth, the sound seeming to echo all around her. More black tendrils spilled out, twining together in the air, growing darker and thicker until a cloud of smog enveloped her small form.

“Oh?” The voice taunted. “So quiet, little one. Was it bravado and not defiance I tasted?”

Blue eyes, still round in a youthful face, flashed with icy fire as knuckles bleached white in her lap. “I am young, not stupid. I am hardly going to scare you off before you give me what I want.”

There was silence for several rapid patters of her hummingbird heart, long enough that Caroline feared she had miscalculated. And then there was a bark of laughter, nearly human if not for the way it shook the world around her.

“Such fire, little one!” Amusement faded to something more derisive. “And such confidence to think I would make a bargain with the likes of you. I do not make Deals with your kind, girl.”

Had she been less prepared, such words may have shaken her nerve. Instead her lips only twitched as she attempted to smother a growing smirk.

“Oh, I know. A demon with honor? That’s funny!” She grew somber as she continued. “Yeah, I can respect that you don’t go after kids. It’s probably your lone good quality... one that the rest of your kind don’t share.” Subconsciously her hand shifted towards her side, where it hovered over the still throbbing wound. And again she was left waiting, hating that she was at this demon’s mercy. Knowing it had none.

The darkness had grown thick as she spoke, blocking nearly all the midday sun. And she hoped it was a good sign when it suddenly started moving. Shifting and writhing and converging before her.

A man (rather what appeared as a man, she reminded herself) crouched before her. His looks were unfairly pretty, all blonde and blue eyed. So, she was almost thankful when inhuman gold bled into his eyes, his pupil an unnatural black, the lines and edges of his face suddenly looking a bit wrong. Too severe, too predatory.

“Andrealphus,” his voice rumbled and hissed, its power still sending trembles through her. “A pathetic little cretin.”

Caroline couldn’t quite hide her shiver, despite the fact his ire wasn’t directed at her. And he must have sensed the spike in fear, his predatory attention now fully fixated on her. She watched the abyss of his pupil dilate and felt a dry swallow catch in her throat.

“Caroline Forbes,” he intoned slowly, rolling the syllables across his tongue. His pupil was still wide and black and consuming as he stared at her. His power prickled just shy of pain against her skin. “Do you accept the price I will demand? It will be my pleasure to hunt such vermin, but I do not offer my aid for free.”

It was almost easy now to meet the demon’s gaze, his threat not really a threat at all considering. And she said as much. “I could refuse and be forced to flee, already branded like some kind of animal, and wait for nonexistent mercy from the demon that specifically devours children. Or I could accept and deny such a creature the satisfaction. Perhaps, even gain a stay of execution from the only one of its kind to never take a child’s soul.”

She did not waver as she spoke, her voice and eyes steady as she looked at the being across from her. When there was a flicker in his expression, she noticed. Though, its meaning escaped her as it faded too quickly. His face settling into something completely impassive.

“Then, we have a bargain, Caroline Forbes. I shall remove the threats you now face, the demon, Andrealphus, and their Summoner, William Forbes. Then, upon the eve of your eighteenth year, when you are a child no longer, I shall exact my price.”

He extended his hand to her, a completely ordinary looking hand. And after a split second of hesitation, she took it.

Her screams were swallowed by the darkness. Expectation did not dull the agony that shot up her hand and arm from where they touched. Black, inky shadow crawled up her skin, burrowed into her flesh, marked the evidence of their contract.

When it was over the demon and his darkness were gone. The world once more awash with the noise of the stream and animals. Her side no longer ached and when she tugged up the hem of her shirt she found the skin clean and healed. Not even the hint of a scar could be found. But before she could celebrate the lack of a brand, the back of her neck pulsed. She scrambled to tug her hair out of the way, awkwardly craning her head to look at her reflection in the water.

Impossibly black lines traced an intricate sigil on the nape of her neck. It pulsed once under her touch before going dormant. Appearing as nothing more than a strange tattoo, out of place only in that it was on a child. She scowled, letting her hair fall and cover it, but refused to pay it any more attention as she planned her next steps.

The demon would keep their word after all, but Mystic Falls would never be home again.

Present

Crossing her arms was reflexive and she hated the instantly defensive maneuver. So what she said next was admittedly not very smart.

“You’re early,” she spat. And she hated the indulgent amusement on his face even more.

How he was still smirking as he spoke. “Don’t fret, love. You still have the handful of hours before I collect my dues.”

Her fingers twitched. “Then, why are you here?”

If he was honest, which he always was when he wanted to be his most cruel and most tempting, then he would say that he didn’t know. It was a whim to appear early, albeit by a mere 24 hours or so. 43.5 if he was feeling generous, 17.5 if he wasn’t. What a delight time zones were.

But no matter. He came because he was a bit curious what had become of the defiant little girl with her sharp tongue and blazing eyes. He wouldn’t say he was disappointed by what he found either.

A bargain with him should have strained her soul, let alone one made nearly a decade ago. And yet she was still full of light when others would have dimmed. More than her eyes blazed, and he couldn’t resist provoking her, wanting to witness the flare of her soul.

“I told you, sweetheart, I do not care to see what belongs to me damaged.” He smothered a grin as he watched her aura spark and snap like lightning. “And I despise those who try to rob me, especially in the final hour.”

She stilled, but didn’t quail. If anything she drew herself up as she regarded him.

“I certainly didn’t grow less intelligent as I aged. The cost of attempting the impossible would not be worth it.” Her eyes narrowed. “So don’t threaten me. I won’t run.”

He moved before she could process even a blur, his fingers tangled in her hair, his palm hot and solid just above where his mark sat. Foreign sensation set her nerves twitching with pleasure-pain, her brain unable to make sense of what had been dormant for 10 years. His lips were at her ear as he whispered.

“Oh, Caroline. That wasn’t a threat, that was a statement of a fact. You will know if I threaten you.”

His hand loosened from her curls, trailing the faintest of touches across his mark where it still burned, as he released her. An expression of dark satisfaction crossed his face when she couldn’t prevent a reactionary shiver.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, love. Have a good night.”

And then he was gone before she could regain her composure or snap any of the retorts brewing in her mind. There was adrenaline still singing in her veins and a hint of arousal to her ire and dismay. Though she wasn’t going to waste her time feeling ashamed. It wasn’t her fault his form was absurdly and unfairly attractive.

Morning came quicker than Caroline would have liked, her sleep less restful too. So, to say she was irked when a knock sounded on her door at - her eyes squinted at the hotel alarm clock - 8:00 AM, was a bit of an understatement. She grumbled, nestling deeper into her sheets as she tugged a pillow over her head.

A familiar laugh reached her ears. “I know you are awake, Caroline.”

Perhaps she should have thought about her actions rather than just reacting, but she didn’t. She was furious and that energy had her flinging her covers off and storming toward the door.

“Why are you here?” She asked, her anger turned cold and quiet in the moment between gripping the knob and jerking the door open.

He eyed her, a taunting mien fading into something more contemplative.

“To celebrate, Caroline. Happy Birthday.”

She shook her head. “No. No, I refuse. You’ll have my soul tonight. Hell, you can take it right now if you so choose, but you will not make a mockery of my last hours.”

Again his expression shifted, though she still couldn’t read it nor did she try to.

“A mockery?” He echoed. “Do you really think that low of me?”

Her soul was near overwhelmingly bright, and she hissed out a sharp “yes” with no hesitation. And he watched the maelstrom of her being churn around her and wondered at his own reaction.

From anyone else such disrespect would be met with his fury. He would have capitalized on her words and ripped her soul from right where she stood. And yet he had no desire to do so. In fact, he was impressed rather than angered by her continued defiance.

She waited, her fingers tight on the now warm metal of the knob, expecting to feel unfathomable pain as he took her soul. Instead he cocked his head, his tone frighteningly calm and nearly conversational in its levity.

“Supposing I am so inclined, how would you, a mere human, hope to stop me?”

Her smile was equal parts bitter and resolved. “I would leave you no life to mock, only a soul to catch. An ability surely not beyond one such as you.”

It was then he decided he would not harm this brave, foolish human. This young woman who would so recklessly imperil her soul all for a modicum of control. Once he had been the Light-Bringer, and he may no longer call himself such anymore, but it would not be him to snuff out her light.

It seemed idiotic to think, but Caroline thought she saw something in the demon’s face soften. Her mistake. A split second later his hand was on her neck.

She stiffened as she felt his power flex under her skin, bracing for something that never came. It was a warning, she realized, as she stared at the demon regarding her with an odd solemnity.

“I do not allow humans control in my Bargains, Caroline. Nor would any self-respecting demon. And had I accepted what your spite so damningly offered to me, your soul would have been the least of your concerns.” To her surprise, his hand moved away again, and he even took a step back to allow her some breathing room. “You are very fortunate I have no interest in playing such games with you.”

Caroline’s lips pursed. “You’re not going to leave me alone today, are you?” She finally asked.

“In an hour, I will return to escort you to breakfast. Should there come a point today that you honestly feel I am tormenting you or making your day worse I shall leave. And I shall not return for a year to the day. Deal?”

She couldn’t prevent the way her eyes noticeably widened, all but bulging out of their sockets in her shock. Because what? He was going to give her more time on her say-so?! What happened to ‘I do not allow humans control in my Bargains, Caroline’?

His chuckle disrupted her careening thoughts. “Do you accept, Caroline Forbes?” There was his stupid, ordinary looking, utterly damning hand extended before her for the second time in her life.

It troubled her that she couldn’t see a downside to his deal, surely that meant there was a trick. But if he was going to show up anyway, then she wanted the out. Reluctantly, she took his hand, his power thankfully only a warm wave up her arm rather than anything painful.

He smiled, twisted their grasped hands around so he could kiss her knuckles. “I’ll see you in an hour, love.”

Author’s Note: I had intended to write more, but my muse sputtered out. Perhaps, after AU week? Maybe? I do find it hilarious that I wrote this without using Klaus’ name once. It would have come up later...

#Klaroline #KCAUWeek2019 #Klaroline Fanfiction #Klaroline Drabbles #Klaroline Edits #Klaroline Photosets #Klaroline Aesthetics #My Writing #My Edits

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thecleverdame · 6 years ago

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East of Nowhere - Year Four

Sam x Reader

Series Masterlist

Summary: You and Sam are strangers trapped in a desolate mountain town where you live alone, isolated from the outside world, for five years.

Warnings: language, violence, smut, talk of past trauma

Beta: ilikaicalie

This story is complete (44k) and available now on Patreon for a pledge of 2.50. >>CLICK HERE<<

YEAR FOUR

Three Years, Three Weeks

You twist in sweat-soaked sheets, your body writhing next to Sam as a dream flickers to life behind your closed eyes.

The bunsen burner is a polished silver and far larger than any you’ve ever seen before, the flames a brilliant blue and strong as they lick upward. You reach over to turn the base, to feed it with oxygen. At once, the fire becomes golden and takes the shape of a flower head. You watch the many petals became more distinct, folding outward, radiating light and warmth. It’s the most beautiful flower you’ve ever seen, more fleeting than any other, yet seemingly eternal.

This looks exactly like your college biology lab, right down to the lopsided stool that rocked when you sat on it. Despite the similarities, you know this is a different place, the anxiety rising as the edges of your vision ebb and flow.

Then you’re outside, standing in the street in front of the house that you and Sam share. It’s as if God has adjusted the colors of the world in the night, like it’s as easy as twisting one of those old plastic dials on a television set. Everything is brighter than it should be; the trees aren’t just green but radiant virescent hues that burn themselves into your sleepy retinas. The houses are as vibrant as if they've been repainted by moonlight and now stand vivid in the golden rays that fall unfettered through the clear sky. The road that should be black asphalt is a sleek river of gray with perfect paint lines and the street-lamps are blue. But, they’ve never been blue, not ever. Everything is so right it’s wrong - really wrong. The front yards that had been disheveled with the decay of late winter just yesterday were a riot of colorful blooms. You turn back to look at the house, the curtain twitches. Someone’s inside and you inherently know it’s not Sam. You hurry to the front door only to find that it is locked. You beat on the hardwood of the door, calling for Sam as a face appears at the window...your face...but with darker eyes and a smile that makes you want to cry.

“Go away,” dark you hiss through the glass, “we don’t need you anymore.”

“He’ll know,” you yell back, “Sam will know that you’re not the real me.”

“What makes you so sure?” dark you smirks, “he hasn’t been able to tell so far.”

Three Years, Four Months

“I’ll go first,” you smile and inch closer until your knees are touching his. You’re both cross-legged on a tattered flannel blanket in the middle of a sun-soaked clearing, surrounded by an ocean of white dandelions. It’s past mid-day, but it’s still warm enough to put a flush in Sam’s cheeks. He smiles bashfully, his teeth catching his bottom lip. Leaning toward him you whisper, “Are you nervous?”

“Yes,” he admits rubbing a hand at the nape of his neck, “but the good kind.”

“Me too.” You grab his hand with two of yours and pull it toward your chest, speaking as you trace the veins of his palm with your thumb. “You probably don’t even remember…”

“Try me,” he urges, reaching out to grab a lock of your hair. He twists it around his finger, his eyes never leaving yours.

“We’d been here a year maybe and we were running out on Miller’s trail. You veered off at full speed, on that skinny dirt footpath, the one right past that huge downed pine and all the roots?” Sam nods affirmatively. “I could barely keep up with you and you just kept looking back at me with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen and yelling at me: ‘Come on Y/N, I know you’ve got it in you.’”

“I’ve never seen you run that fast,” Sam chuckles, watching as you trace your index finger up his wrist.

“Shhh, it’s my turn to talk,” Sam mouths a quick ‘sorry’ and you continue.

“I chased you all the way to that pond at the north end of the woods and I lost you toward the end. When I rounded that last corner, you were just standing there waiting for me by the water’s edge. I ran up to you, I was going to push you in but instead, you picked me up and hugged me like it was the most natural thing in the world. At that moment, I knew how I felt about you. I don’t know if it was the feeling of you holding me or how happy you seemed to be, but it was the trigger. I wanted a thousand more of those moments. Nothing was the same after that.”

“I remember that day,” Sam expounds, “I even remember what I said to you.”

“No way,” you scoff.

“I told you that no one ever made me want to push that hard, that I move faster when you’re chasing me.”

“I’m still not sure how I feel about that,” chuckling you drop your gaze, but only for a moment because Sam isn’t done.

“That’s not the only thing I remember. Your hair smelled like that eucalyptus shampoo you used to use and the hair tie you were using broke half-way through the run, so it was down and wild from the wind on the trail.” Sam breathes looking at you as if he’s still in that moment.

“Well,” you blush, constantly amazed by the details he’s able to recall. Reaching to the blanket you pick up a thin, silver ring and slip it onto his finger. “That was the moment I knew I loved you.”

He holds his hand up to the light, thumbing at the ring at the base of his finger. Then closes his eyes momentarily, breathing once, in and out, before looking back at you. He takes both your hands in his, turning them palm up just as you did with him. His line of sight shifts away from yours to where his thumbs are pressing into your wrists. “It’s not just one moment for me...and there are some things I haven’t said, things that I need to tell you.”

“Okay,” you’re not sure where this is headed.

“I dreamt about you, a long time before I met you. I used to have this recurring dream when I was in college. It was before I met Jess. I used to dream about a woman, I could never remember the details, just feelings. She made me feel like this; safe and happy. She helped me understand that life could be more than blood and sacrifice. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen...she was you. When I first saw you I tried to convince myself that it was just a coincidence, that you were just similar. But I don’t think that’s it, I think I saw my future and it was you.”

Sam’s told you about premonitions and latent powers, so this doesn’t come as a complete surprise. You want to speak, due to the whole series of alternating questions and comments racing through your brain, but you remain silent. This is his turn.

“Am I making you reconsider?” Sam’s only half joking, you both know it. You shake your head no and he squeezes your forearms in response. “Do you remember when we were still living at the motel, that night when we drank half the lobby bar? You were mixing Mojitos, which for the record were awful, and I can’t even remember exactly what we were talking about but it was something about Dean and family. You didn’t even look up from what you were doing and you said: ‘Well you’re my family now and you will be, even when we get out of here, so you’re going to have to explain that to Dean because I’m not giving you back.’”

You remember that moment well, you’d been a little drunk and had spoken without thinking. Sure, you meant the words, but at the time, it felt like too vulnerable of a confession.

“I’d told you things about my life that must have sounded crazy and terrifying, but none of it phased you. You saw through all of it and somehow found me. Not Sam the hunter, or the son of John Winchester or the guy who almost ended the world. Under all of that, you found me. I don’t think anyone’s ever known the truth and managed not to let it change how they see me. Not until you. That’s when I knew.” He looks up to you, just to make sure that this is real and you’re not backing out. You lean forward, pressing a fleeting kiss to his lips in confirmation. He clears his throat, picking up your ring and slips it delicately onto your finger.

When he’s finished, you interlace your hands, the rings on each of your respective hands rubbing together. There’s a soft breeze that’s blowing in from the east, swirling rogue hair around your face as the sparse clouds above you part. A tingle, hardly noticeable, begins to climb up your spine. The wind is electric as if it’s carrying with it a thousand different emotions: love, sorrow, joy.

“Something’s happening,” your voice is almost nonexistent, only a fragile whisper. Tears fall from your eyes as feelings bubble up from your gut and spill out in fat tears down your cheek.

“I feel it, too,” Sam’s crying with you as he stands and reaches for your hand. You rise to your feet and, for a split second, time seems to stop. Then, in tandem, every white pom-pom of every dandelion in the field bursts into a million small, white explosions around you. The wind picks up and carries the spinning seedlings into the air.

“What is this?” you mutter in awe.

“I think it’s confirmation,” Sam laughs, pulling you into this arms, “I think this moment, finding each other, it’s why we’re here.”

Three Years, Six Months

Considering the general lack of purpose and abundance of free time, it’s surprising that there are still places in Shadow Hill where neither you nor Sam has ventured. However, The Tattoomb is an aptly named tattoo shop that you honestly can’t remember setting foot in before today. It’s nestled between The Sweet Shop and Cool’s Pharmacy near the end of main street.

The name proves accurate, for as the door shuts, you have a vivid flash of being sealed in a sarcophagus. The tall windows facing the street have been painted over black and you blink as the overhead fluorescent lights flicker to life. A thick layer of dust seems suspended in the air, as the light bulbs hum electric in the background.

“Tell me, just one more time,” Sam urges. He’s squatting, sorting through supplies in one of the lower cupboards.

“Not again,” you whine, dropping onto of the reclining chairs. “I know it like the back of my hand, I swear.”

“Humor me, once more and I’ll stop.” He looks up, hitting you with a full-on serious stare until you concede with a roll of your eyes.

“Fine. If I wake up back in the real world, the first thing I do is call Dean.”

“What’s the number?”

You rattle off the phone number without hesitation. “If I can’t reach him I try the other two numbers, for the angel and the sheriff. If I still can’t reach anyone and I have a way to get there, I go to Kansas where I find the Lebanon Community Library and I wait for you.”

“That’s right. If for some reason none of that works, just wait, I’ll find you.” Sam looks at you thoughtfully. He raises a tattoo gun and gestures for your to take off your shoe.

“And these in case we forget each other,” you squirm, visibly displeased with what is about to transpire.

“We don’t have to do this Y/N,” Sam offers, but neither of you are backing out.

You shake your head, “Let’s say we, one day wake up and have no memory of each other. There’d be nothing tying me to you...and...I can’t stand the thought of that.”

“I know, me neither.” He sighs clutching your thigh, “You ready for this?” He’s used the temporary tattoo stencil to create the outline of your new permanent tattoo. He presses it onto the inside of your foot, near the heel. Wetting it just enough to soak through the thin paper, you both wait.

“No, but when have I ever let that stop me. You do know what you’re doing, right?” You trust Sam, but this is a whole new level of commitment.

“I read the instruction manual, twice. With the outline, it’s like paint by numbers.” He winks at you, flipping his hair back.

“You’re instilling so much confidence in me right now.”

You sit through the process with surprising restraint. The topical anesthetic he applied prior helps, but it still doesn’t completely numb the pain. Thankfully, it doesn’t take him long; twenty minutes later, you’re looking down at small black letters reading:

Find Sam Winchester

39.809734, -98.55562

It’s simple and to the point. It took the better part of two days to find the perfect words, just enough information to make sense without turning into Memento. The two of you quibbled over several variations until agreeing on the simple turn of phrase. You’re not entirely thrilled with having the coordinates to an underground bunker permanently inked into your skin, but it’s better than the alternative.

Sam covers your heel with a bandage, “I think this is my cue.”

“Please tell me I don’t have to do it,” you squirm.

“I’ll manage,” he assures you, slipping off his shoe and sock before crossing his left calf over his right knee. From what you can tell, he doesn’t even seem to feel it, unflinching as he etches your first and last name into his skin, followed by the coordinates of your hometown.

“You think that’ll be enough?” you ask, handing him the container of Tattoo Goo.

“I know myself well enough to know that I if I wake up with a girl’s name on my body, I’m gonna want to know why. That’s all I’d need. I’ll find a way to remember and I’ll have help.”

Three Years, Eight Months

It’s a frigid morning, icy wind is whipping at breakneck speeds, howling past the windows. The snow stays late this year, starting as gently falling flakes from above and morphing into a snowstorm that hasn't seemed to stop. But, the blustery outdoors is no concern to you or Sam as he turns the knob and the shower sprays down warm water over both of you. Dipping under the stream, you wet your hair and then give him a turn. There’s a series of slow kisses, just the lazy touch of lips while his nose rubs into yours, his tongue slipping easily into your mouth.

You had a fight the night before, a knockdown, drag out, go-to-bed-angry-fight about a grilled cheese sandwich, of all things. Sam was pushing your buttons, insisting that the burner wasn’t high enough, the bread had too much butter, the cheese was cut too thick. You wanted to slap him.

But, last night seems like a distant memory as he climbs into the shower and slides the door shut.

When he finally pulls away from your mouth, he moves to slip behind you. He washes your hair, massaging as you close your eyes, enjoying the sensation of his strong fingers rubbing your scalp, slow deep circles that send a tingle down your spine. Once he’s done with your hair, he moves on to the rest. He rolls soap between his hands until it lathers, then rubs his sudsy hands over your rib cage and up under each breast. He teases for a moment before giving in and cupping each one, kneading and clutching as you squirm back into his chest.

The water washes the soap away, but his hands don’t leave. Instead, fingers tug at your nipples as he lowers his mouth to the back of your neck, kissing and sucking as he pulls harder at your tits. You whine as he twists your nipples, applying just the right amount of pressure to awaken other parts of your body. Sam’s become an expert at all the places that get you going; he’s spent countless hours experimenting with touches- gentle here, harder there.

One hand stays on your breast while the other trails down your stomach. His hand spreads wide as it sweeps over your belly and then further. Large fingers sweep over your mound as the pad of his index finger finds your clit, and with expert precision, begins slow measured circles as you whimper.

“You like that?” Sam grins at the sound you make, nipping under your ear.

“Yessss..” you hiss, letting your head fall back onto his chest. As his mouth latches onto the skin of your neck, his hands don’t stop the well-rehearsed movements. His finger moving firm and steady over the little bundle of nerves at the apex of your legs controls your whole body. The insistent rhythm of his hand between your legs and tugging on your nipples work in conjunction as your pussy begins to betray you, slick sliding down your thighs where the water washes it away.

You grind back into his embrace, his cock firmly pressing against your butt cheek. He ruts forward as you push back, relieving pressure, but not enough.

“I’m gonna come, baby,” you moan as your legs start to grow weak. Sam wraps his arm around your torso, holding you up. The hand between your legs hooks under as two of his long fingers push inside your cunt, his thumb goes right back to your clit. He knows you don’t like to come without something inside you. He knows you hate that feeling of your pussy clutching at nothing. You reach back and above you, running your hand up his neck and knotting a fist of his hair.

“God, you’re wet this morning, this all for me?” he sucks your earlobe into his mouth as his thumb grazes your sweet spot and your orgasm rips through your body.

“Sam!” you call his name when you come, twitching in his grasp as your eyes roll back into your head. His thumb stills, but his fingers don’t budge, still shoved knuckle deep inside where you’re tight, clenching in frantic, repeating pulses.

When he does pull his fingers from you, it’s only to turn you toward the shower door. Still behind you, he takes each of your hands, one at a time, placing them on the glass of the door. You bow forward, breasts pressing into the cold glass. Back arched, ass out, Sam saddles up to your backside, one hand on your waist, the other guiding the head of his cock between your legs. You feel him, sliding over your slit and then pushing inside, one smooth push until his balls smash against your sex, leaving you unbelievably full. From this angle, he can push deeper than normal, reaching a place inside that makes your entire body quiver, shaking like jello from a mold.

“Sam, I can’t,” in lieu of finishing your sentence you make a desperate sound, one hand fisting as it pounds the door as he pulls out and shoves back in fast, begins a steady rhythm.

“I’ve got you,” he grunts, both hands on your hips, supporting your weight. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m not gonna last long like this.”

One of his hands snakes around your hips, pressing your stomach where there’s a faint swell in your belly with each thrust, his cock making your stomach bulge as he fucks you from behind.

“So deep,” you pant, pressing the side of your face into the glass, searching for some kind of stability. Sam moves his finger down, searching for your clit, but instead, you bat his hand away, the angle is just right, making you see stars with every stroke of his manhood, “I can come just like this.”

“Shit,” Sam grits as he almost shoots his load right then. The idea of you coming from just his cock makes his balls tight. You raise up a little, mustering every last ounce of energy you have standing on your tiptoes and suddenly the angle goes from just right to sweet-mother-fuck. He slides home once, twice, and that’s all she wrote.

If it weren’t for Sam’s support, you’d be on the ground, instead of suspended mid-air as he pushes inside again and again. It doesn’t take long before he’s coming, too, with a grunt and a stutter of his hips, spilling inside you.

Afterwards he holds you, wraps his arms tighter until you feel his thumping heart pressed into your shoulder blade. There are more of those lazy kisses accompanied by gentle touches as he washes your skin for a second time.

Three Years, Eleven Months, One Week

You stand next to Sam at your dining room table, the surface littered with dry herbs, open books, and at the center, a brass bowl. He’s grinding lavender while you read over the list of ingredients. This spell has been a long time coming, Sam stored it away on a whim when he first came across it four years ago, and he assumed you’d never be able to collect everything needed to make it work, but things are different now.

You’ve grown most of the herbs, collecting others from the forest, which is how you found the missing piece of the puzzle, the Olivine gemstone. The smokey green rock was nestled among the larger chunks of stone and granite near the north end of the town. He could hardly believe it when you pulled it from your pocket three days ago.

He sets down the mortar and pestle, spilling the mix of pummeled herbs into the center of the bowl, where it joins a complicated mix of gems and crystals. You check off the list as he adds each one.

“So, we still need the beak of a raven,” you curl a lip in disdain.

“Got it.” Sam’s holding the tiny piece of bone between his fingers, “he died for a good cause.”

You nod, grateful Sam’s willing to do all the dirty work. “That’s it, I mean except for the next part.”

The blood of true love. Apparently old world magic doesn’t work without hemoglobin. He takes your hand in his, “Sorry,” he winces, using the tip of his blade to cut the flesh of your palm. Wet and warm, the blood pours from the wound and Sam moves it over the bowl, squeezing until he’s satisfied it’s enough. He picks up a cloth from the table, wrapping it several times around your palm, the dark stain seeping through. “My turn.”

Now, it’s time for you to get your hands dirty. The spell was explicit in its instruction; the blood has to be drawn by the lover. Taking the knife from him, you draw in a sharp breath, it’s now or never. Pressing down, you drag the blade, the feeling of his skin splitting makes your stomach turn. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, but he remains stoic for your benefit.

“That’s good, you did it,” he praises, taking the knife from you and holds his hand over the bowl, offering his half of the sacrifice. Wiping his hand on his jeans, he looks down at the leather-bound book. Next, he pulls out his wallet, removes a photo of him and Dean when they were kids. It’s as old as it looks, tattered around the edges. He’s about to burn the last thing in his possession tying him to the outside world. He scribbles a message on the back:

Dean,

Shadow Hill. Trapped. Two of us. I’m alive.

Sam

“I think that’s it.” He’s trying something new with this spell. No summoning or teleportation, he’s simply going to communicate, attempting to open a window through the fabric of space and time to push a message through.

Picking up the box of matches, he strikes one on the side of the box. His eyes dance from the flame to you as he drops it into the bowl. There’s a spark, a flash of light, then multicolored smoke twisting upward. There’s deafening silence, a stillness as you both stare at the dissipating smoke.

Then, chaos.

The walls of the house violently shake, as if the earth below is moving the very foundation. There’s a horrifying sound reverberating all around you, painfully loud like the scream of a thousand trumpets.

“Sam,” you reach for him but he’s already moving. Both hands on your arms, pushing you in front of him.

“We gotta get out of the house.” The sliding door that leads to the back deck shatters like it’s been hit with a missile, glass, and wood exploding in all directions. You feel it hit your face, but continue moving as Sam tries to cover your body with his. He guides you through the now empty doorway and down the trembling stairs of the deck.

Your feet hit the grass and you fall to your knees, the very earth undulating in savage tremors. Sam scoops his hands under your armpits and lifts you back up, dragging you away from the house and into the middle of the backyard where you both collapse. You watch in terror as the entire neighborhood shakes and rattles, akin to the feeling of teeth clanking together in your mouth.

There’s a sound like the tearing of fabric, only at a brutal volume that makes you both cover your ears. Above the house, a hundred feet in the air, a sliver of white light begins to appear. It begins to expand, the chorus of sounds reaching a potent crescendo as shiny beams stream out in all directions like a star exploding in the daytime sky.

Just when you think your eardrums will pop, the shimmering tear begins to collapse in on itself, sucking in sound and life like the cousin of a black hole folding inwards until there’s nothing left.

With a bright flash, it’s gone just as quick as it came.

The two of you sit side by side, stunned as the world returns to normal.

“I think it worked,” Sam whispers looking to you. His optimism is tempered as he gets a view of your face, “Jesus, baby, you’re bleeding.”

“What? Where?” you don’t feel pain with the adrenaline still pumping, your heart still thumping wildly in your chest.

“Your head,” he reaches up and wipes his finger across your hairline. Tiny shards of glass still lodged in your skin catch under the pads of his fingers.

“Oh,” bewildered you bring a hand to your face to check, but it’s the wide splotch of blood on your palm that steals the attention. You turn your hand over, staring, but unable to make sense of it.

“Where is that from?” There’s a catch in his voice, an octave higher than normal as he grabs your wrist for inspection.

“I don’t know,” simultaneously you both took down, Sam gasping in horror at the jagged piece of wood protruding from the right side of your stomach. You wrap a hand around it, moving in slow motion because there’s a buzzing in your brain that’s muting everything else. You look up to him, offering casually, “I think I got hurt.”

“Fuck,” he bats your hand away, “don’t pull on it okay? It could make it worse.” You’re conflicted as to what is more troubling, the sight of your impaled stomach or the expression of sheer terror on his face.

Nodding agreeably you lay back. He lifts your shirt up, exposing the wound, and hisses when he gets the first look. The Sam that remains calm, cool and collected is not the man hovering over you. Instead, he’s panicking. “It doesn’t hurt, it just feels warm….although, I do feel kinda funny.”

The edges of your vision blur as a tingling sensation spreads outward from the gash, snaking through extremities until it reaches your fingertips. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, much like your foot falling asleep, except this is everywhere.

What you can’t see, is the amount blood that’s pouring from your belly, staining the green grass, and soaking through the denim of Sam’s jeans where he’s kneeling beside you. One moment you’re looking at him and the next, your eyes are rolling back into your head, lids fluttering shut.

“Nononono,” he shakes your shoulders but you remain limp. “Come on, please don’t let this be happening. I don’t know what to do, baby.” He cries, blinking back tears.

Sitting back on his haunches, he takes a deep breath, separating action from emotion. He does know what to do, he’s been through his before, countless times with Dean and others. He makes a decision, taking you into his arms and jogging around the house and through the side door leading to the garage. Inside, there’s an old Toyota 4Runner he fixed up last year. He places you in the passenger seat, but the maneuver twists the wood stuck in your gut, pain jolting you awake with a scream.

“It’s okay, you’re gonna be alright,” Sam places a shaky hand momentarily at the side of your face before closing your door and running to the driver’s side. Laid over the seat, you lean against his shoulder as he pulls out of the driveway and onto the road.

“I don’t have what I need here,” Sam assures you.

“Where are we….” you choke out, clutching the open wound as you slip back into the dark.

“The hospital,” Sam mutters.

He pulls the car up to the emergency entrance, throwing the car into park with a jerk. He plucks you from the vehicle and scurries through the wide, automatic sliding doors then down the hallway of the abandoned Shadow Hill Community Hospital.

He knows the layout because when you first arrived, you searched this hospital from top to bottom. It’s just like everything else here, it resets every night, which means there are fresh medications and sterile instruments every morning.

Backing through the swinging doors of operating room one, Sam places you carefully on the gurney, then he goes to work. Flipping every switch on the wall, the fluorescent lights flicker to life while he pulls open drawers, collecting everything he can: forceps, clamps, needles, adhesive tape.

Next, he moves to the small locked cabinet, breaking the glass to get inside. He reads each vial until he finds the lidocaine. Moving back to the table, he presses two fingers to the pulse point at your neck where he can feel a faint pulse. He fills a syringe and tries to numb the area around the wound as best he can.

And then, he does the most difficult thing he’s ever done in his entire life. He tries to save yours.

You hear the gentle blip of a heart monitor before anything else. It takes every ounce of strength you can muster up just to blink and once you do, you wish you hadn’t. Your eyeballs feel like sandpaper, as does your mouth.

Turning your head, you’re greeted with the sight of Sam. He’s asleep on the adjacent hospital bed, mouth hanging open and belly down. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and blue scrubs, instead of jeans. His normal five o’clock shadow is thicker than normal making you wonder exactly how long you’ve been asleep.

“Sam,” you call, your voice little more than a scratchy whisper. He doesn’t budge.

Like an ancient computer coming online, sections of your body are waking up, one after the other. You wiggle toes, then fingers, just testing the basics. It’s when you try to sit up that every nerve lights up, pain so great that it’s hard to get a handle on. Your breathing is labored and placing a hand on your chest, you wince, pulling down the neckline to reveal twin burn marks above each breast.

“What the hell,” you murmur, touching one of the blisters carefully. The realization dawns on you, these are the residual imprints from a defibrillator; your heart must have stopped.

“Sorry about those, I had the voltage up too high. In my defense, the lower settings weren’t getting the job done,” Sam’s voice is thick from sleep as he sits up, sliding from the bed and into the chair next you. He looks somewhere between relief and exhaustion. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“It’s good to be here,” you counter, then cough. The pain in your stomach surges as the muscles contract and you howl.

His brow furrows in concern as he takes a cup from the bedside table and holds it up to your lips. “Drink something.”

You swallow, then sputter, before shooing him away. Even swallowing hurts. “It was bad?”

“It still is bad,” Sam’s mouth twists, his eyes flicking down the floor and back up to you. He reaches out, taking your hand and squeezing. “For a while, I didn’t know if you were gonna survive, then I didn’t know if you’d wake up. I stitched you up as best as I could, but you’re gonna have one hell of a scar, it’s not pretty.”

“You have more than your fair share, so, now we match.” Offering a weak smile you watch him watch you. “How long was I out?”

“Four days.” He’s trying to stay positive, but the look in his eyes is telling a different story.

“What’s wrong?”

He releases your hand, rubbing his palms on his knees, “It’s infected. You were running a fever until this morning.”

“That’s good, right? That the fever’s gone?”

“Yeah, I just...I didn’t know what I was doing Y/N. I was just trying to stop the bleeding…” he stops himself from telling you what he’s really thinking: that you could have internal damage, slowly killing you from the inside and there’s no way to know.

He doesn’t tell you that when your heart stopped and the screech of the flat line filled the room, he screamed along with it. He came this close to losing you. He doesn’t tell you that he stayed awake for two days, crying next to your bed and begging that someone would hear him. He tried bargaining with whatever silent force was watching over this place, pleading for the God he knows exists to intervene and save you.

But, there was no relief. Nothing. The two of you are nothing more than a forgotten experiment left to self destruct.

It was all on him.

Recovery is slow. You wonder if you’ll ever fully heal because the pain is an ever-present companion, haunting every move from morning until night. You struggle to sit up, then stand, then walk. It’s three weeks before Sam allows you to go home, still protesting as he drives you the four minutes from the hospital to your house. After that, it’s long days in bed, reading and eating meals brought to you on a tray until you think you’re going burst from the boredom of it all. But, you don’t complain, you just grin and bear it.

Yes, healing is a long and involved process for you both. For Sam, it’s the brutal realization that there is no safety net. It’s a simple fact he knew before but now he feels it, the desperation sinks in, right down to his bones. This place might repair itself every night, but that same magic doesn't work on flesh and bone. There’s no one to fall back on, no one to reach out to. The love he feels for you should make him happy, but it’s tempered with a sense of dread because eventually there will come a situation he can’t fix.

It’s only a matter of time.

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#East of nowhere #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fanfic #series

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queenpersephonesgarden · 6 years ago

Text

little devil darling

Fandom: Bendy and the Ink Machine Characters: Thomas Connor, Joey Drew, Allison Connor, Bendy Word Count: 2408 Inspired by: @squigglydigg‘s rather wonderful theory about the end of Chapter 5, and the Halloween spirit!

Can also be read on FFN and AO3

Mr. Drew doesn’t invite Thomas along for the grand ceremony to herald the Ink Machine’s first awakening on Wednesday night, which suits Thomas just fine; even if he’d been ordered to attend, he wouldn’t have gone back to that studio at night for all the extra pay in the world.

He’s spent more than his fair share of sleepless nights holed up in the dim, flickering lights, all alone, tweaking and readjusting the damned thing over and over. Trying to bring this ‘great technical marvel’ Mr. Drew had clumsily designed to life in a way that actually worked less on belief and prayers and more on engineering and logic. He’s not exactly eager to return unless the sun is up and there are at least a handful of other employees already there, thank you very much.

So, Thomas isn’t there the night the machine finally works, but he arrives the Thursday morning afterwards to see the results after a lengthy, half-coherent phone call with Mr. Drew, who’d been too excited to get half his words out.

He comes in a couple hours early because at least Mr. Drew promised a bit of overtime, and he is a bit curious to see what exactly resulted from the boss man’s special experiment. But when he enters the chamber where the infamous Machine is glugging away gallons of the studio’s precious ink, Thomas is suddenly really wishing he’d taken that vacation Allison had suggested.

“What in the hell?”

The question kind of slips out without Thomas really meaning it to, because Christ Almighty, there is a hulking, dripping thing lurking just in Mr. Drew’s shadow, and for a moment Thomas is afraid to make any sudden moves, attract its attention, but his voice seems to have already done that, if the eerie way it turns its malformed head towards him is any indication.

Thomas can’t help but swallow hard as a goopy, unsettling grin slowly tilts curiously to the side, like it’s watching him, but before he can start retreating out the door the way he came Mr. Drew finally spins away from the Machine.

“Isn’t he wonderful?!” Thomas has never seen Mr. Drew so ecstatic before, face alight with a joy that had all but faded in the last few years of the studio’s decline into bankruptcy. He’s standing up tall and straight as he can without leaning on his cane, like he’s trying to appear as large as the thing standing behind him. “I knew you had it in you, Mr. Connor! Your redesigns really did the trick, my boy! It stopped clogging and accepted the model just like you said it would!”

The compliments practically fly over Thomas’ head, as most of his attention is fastened to the monstrosity Mr. Drew seems to be ignoring rather masterfully.

“Sir,” Thomas coughs, because God, what the hell- “What- uh, what did you-?”

“Oh, he’s just marvelous, isn’t he?!” Mr. Drew turns right around and beams up at the oozing monster like it’s the best Christmas present he’s ever seen, and Thomas feels a chill go down his spine when the thing just angles its head down and continues grinning back even though from here it doesn’t look like it can properly see, what with its eyes being nonexistent. “He’s just a prototype, but he came right out on the first try! I didn’t even have to reset the levers or anything; he crawled right out after the sketch was put in!”

“‘He?’” Thomas asks weakly. There’s a lot more he should be saying – hell, there’s plenty he should be screaming at this point – but his brain is refusing to cooperate. Words are completely failing him, because his eyes can barely comprehend what they’re seeing.

Mr. Drew cheers a bit, shaking his cane around in excitement, and if he were a younger man he might have broken into a happy jig.

“Yes! Bendy, of course!” he says, and.

What?

Is that what this is supposed to be?

Looming just behind Mr. Drew’s shoulder, the thing sways a little bit, like a sudden breeze might make it topple over and crush him.

Thomas musters something that might resemble an understanding smile, and backs out of the room as slowly as he can, trying not to look like he’s running away.

Mr. Drew hardly seems to notice his departure, ecstatically circling back around the Machine, chanting words that aren’t even English and waving his arms around like a loon.

Back where it had been left, the thing that might be Bendy the Dancing Demon hadn’t taken its attention off of Thomas, head still tilted to watch his exit, still smiling smiling smiling.

Once he reaches the corner, Thomas gives up on any pretenses and books it out of there like a bat out of hell.

He can still feel the thing’s invisible eyes on him all the way out of the studio.

While the experiment might seem like a success in some ways, in many ways it most definitely is not.

The strange, towering husk is almost nothing like the little devil darling it’s supposed to be.

Sure, it’s got the iconic horns and the unnaturally wide grin of its cartoon counterpart, but that’s about where the similarities end.

This thing is tall, unnaturally so, like its body is made out of taffy that’s been stretched out too long. It’s horns nearly brush the ceiling and its arms are nearly as long as it’s body. One hand has the glove reminiscent of the real Bendy, while the other is just an ugly, black paw, fingers jagged and curled slightly like claws.

And it drips everywhere, continuously oozing puddles and streaks of dark ink all across the ground wherever it goes, staining the floor just as much as all the damned burst pipes always do.

“It’s a damn menace!” Sammy Lawrence snarls at lunch time, voice booming through the breakroom like it usually does when he’s in a terrible mood and he needs everyone else to know. “Fuckin’ freak thinks it can wander into my studio and-! There’s ink all over the damned walls! How the hell am I supposed to write a damned thing when half my papers are soaked darker than Satan’s soul?!”

Thomas, picking wordlessly at his lukewarm tuna sandwich, watches Eddie and Marge and Frankie all nod seriously in agreement, and can’t help pursing his lips.

The animators and half the rest of the staff are practically in an uproar about the thing, which has meandered its way all across the studio and back in the day and a half since it was brought into existence. At first, they were too creeped out by its’ appearance to say much against Mr. Drew, but ever since it started seriously disrupting people’s work with its random disappearing-reappearing through walls act, they’d been getting a little more vocal about their displeasure in private, where neither the boss man or the thing in question could hear them.

Sammy looks about five seconds away from storming out of the room and demanding a word with Joey, and honestly Thomas is almost tempted to let him; if there’s anyone in this place that can kick up enough of a storm to actually get Mr. Drew’s attention, it’s Sammy Lawrence and his sharp tongue and even sharper temper.

But the same, creeping feeling of being watched is still on him, even now, hours later and with the thing not even in the room, and Thomas isn’t feeling up to pressing his luck right now.

“You managed just fine when the pipes burst, yeah?” he dares to ask, raising an eyebrow at Sammy’s outraged sputtering.

This could become a nice, distracting argument, but even thinking about defending the monster is killing Thomas’s appetite, and he shoves back from the table with a scowl.

“Up yours, Connor!” Sammy hollers after him as he heads out into the hallway.

Thomas waves over his shoulder and skirts around a fresh ink puddle without looking.

Thomas gets called in to deal with another burst pipe in the animator’s department, and ain’t it just his great luck that he finds the thing standing right in the middle of the room, hunched over a bit to accommodate for its massive height and the low ceiling, smiling smiling smiling in that creepy way it does as it seemingly watches Mr. Drew with poor Frankie at the man’s desk.

“It needs to be completely on model this time, Mr. Chambers,” Mr. Drew’s voice is poisonously sweet as he loomed ominously over the animator, expression calm but the look in his eyes bordering on murderous as he stared Frankie down.

Thomas winces in sympathy as Frankie gestures uselessly at whatever is on his desk, face set in a stubborn scowl that’ll probably get him fired.

“Sir, ya said so yourself; the sketches I gave you yesterday were on model! Those Bendy’s looked like every other cartoon we’ve ever released, they were perfect, so I don’t see how it’s my fault the-” he coughed a bit, glanced at the shadow standing right in the middle of the room, and grimaced. “-the model your Machine spat out is as deformed as it is! Maybe you should be taking a look at-!”

“The Machine worked exactly as it was supposed to!” Mr. Drew snapped, and Thomas pretends very hard like he’s studying the leaking pipe he’s over here to fix, because the Machine was working just fine when he’d been working on it, but that was back before all the weird voodoo shit was thrown in, and he’s not sure he wants to see what would happen if he decided to mention that.

Another chill goes shooting up his spine, and Thomas glances over his shoulder to find the thing slowly drifting closer to the wall he’s working next to as both Frankie and the boss man continue their little discussion.

His entire body stiffens at the thing’s approach, and Thomas is just contemplating how much trouble he’s likely to get in if he reaches for his wrench and takes a swing at it, but he doesn’t need to worry; the thing drifts farther and farther to the right until it reaches the corner opposite Thomas. It hits the wall, and Thomas half expects it to phase through the wood like it’s been doing all damn day, but instead it just sort of leans listlessly against it, unmoving for a long minute, until its form slowly crumples up into an awkward, misshapen ball, like a pouting child in timeout.

The comparison does nothing for Thomas’s nerves, and neither does the sudden thud and the sound of paper ripping coming from Frankie’s desk.

“Just do better this time, Mr. Chambers!” Mr. Drew is still smiling that unhappy smile as he walks away, limping heavily even with his cane, not even looking back when Frankie throws up his hands in frustration and proceeds to rip up even more papers from his desk.

“Whatever you say, sir,” Frankie mutters sourly, gathering up his ink pot and a few folders before stalking out after the boss, expression thunderous.

The door slams closed after the duo’s dramatic exit, and Thomas is left with the horrifying realization that he is alone in here, and that thing is also very much still here.

Ruined scraps of paper float gently off Frankie’s desk after it’s owner’s hasty departure, and they scatter a bit across the floor.

In the corner of the room, the thing has started to rock back and forth. A disturbing choking sound is emanating from the back of its throat, and Thomas can feel gooseflesh rising up all along his arms as it thumps it’s head gently against the wall with a gentle splat-splat, staining the wall with ink.

If Thomas didn’t know any better, he’d say it was crying, curled up like a frightened kid and making itself as small as possible.

“Would you stop that?”

He doesn’t mean to talk to it. He doesn’t want to talk to it, because it’s not a fucking person, but it’s crying and he doesn’t know why.

Thomas’s throat rasped, voice curiously strained for some reason. His tone was a lot quieter than he’d meant it to be, but if he tried to go any louder he might really start screaming. “You’re Drew’s special little project, ya hear? You ain’t got nothin’ to cry about. Stop that.”

A half-finished sketch of what looks like Boris the Wolf lands on Thomas’s shoe, and he shakes it off with a scowl.

The thing chokes a little louder, and Thomas gets up and grabs his toolbox and walks back out of the room. Someone else can deal with the leak for now. He’s really not in the mood.

Allison finds him, after work is over for the day and he’s still packing up his things. She bursts into the room like she’d run all the way here from the recording studio, entire body trembling like a leaf in a storm and eyes haunted.

He doesn’t ask, just opens his arms and holds onto her when she falls into him with a gasp.

“I said ‘hi’ to it,” she whispers, voice so hoarse he can barely hear it even when her chin is pressed into his shoulder. “It came up behind me, and I wasn’t thinking, and I said ‘hi’ because I thought it was Sammy and it- I thought-”

She sobs hard, can’t speak for a moment, and Thomas can’t do anything but tighten his arms around her, ignore the angry fire banking in his gut as she shakes apart.

“It said- I thought it said ‘Hi Alice’, and the voice-! The sounds it made- oh, god, Tom, that’s not human, whatever it is, and it’s- it’s so sad-!”

Words fail her, and Allison buries her face into his neck and cries her heart out.

Above them, Thomas listens to ink flow sluggishly through the pipes. It never sounded so much like a moaning voice, before.

Thomas hands in his resignation letter the Monday after a long weekend of thinking.

Marching back out of the studio with his head held high, he ignores the stares of his former colleagues and keeps his shaking hands balled into fists at his sides.

The ink thing that might be Bendy wanders past him on the way out, face still dripping inky tears and smiling smiling smiling all the while.

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #fanfiction #squigglydigg #my writing #Bendy the Dancing Demon #Thomas Connor #Joey Drew #Allison Connor #Allison Pendle #Halloween

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katzuyas · 6 years ago

Text

Towards Fiddler’s Green [17/?]

Victor sits in the sand until the warm breeze dries his skin and hair with its soft hands. The waters of the ocean are as clear as they have been when he saw Yuuri disappear into them. Nothing has changed, and not even that long has passed, yet Victor feels as if he's been sitting there forever.

Finally, he heaves a heavy, resigned sigh and gathers himself together. He stands up, brushing his hands over himself. Like a memory of Yuuri's touch, sand falls off his naked body. He takes his clothing out of the bag and, even though they are still wet, he pulls on his breeches and shirt. The rich robe he spreads out on the sand to dry in the midday sun.

And then he leaves.

His first priority is finding a stream, a river, any body of sweet water, for without water a human will not be able to last more than a couple of days. The greenery here is abound with life, which leads him to believe there must be some deeper inland. Birds screech above the trees Victor passes, bugs buzz about his ears, and vines catch on his feet, but he cannot say that the island isn't welcoming. He spots trees bearing fruit, animals scurrying about, and he knows that it's possible to live here.

Yuuri has chosen a good spot to settle down.

Victor walks around the island seemingly with no hurry. He's aim is to find a source of fresh water, yes, but he is in no rush for it just yet. He picks a ripe oval fruit from one of the low-hanging branches and bites into it. The skin is tart on his tongue, chewy and hard under his teeth, but the middle is soft and sweet, so he spits it all out, cuts the fruit open with his knife and eats the delicious inside. The sticky juice runs down his fingers and he licks them clean, for a second forgetting about Yuuri.

He takes a few more fruits into his bag, and eats another while walking. The sweet juice soothes his throat, easing the dryness that hours of walking in the harsh sun have caused.

It's something, Victor thinks, but water would be better.

He finds a stream not long after. From within the trees he hears a hum of it, the insistent sound of running water. He allows his feet to take him towards where it's coming from, and true enough: the water rushes over the rocks like a goddess of life, clear, merciful, joyous. It runs deeper into the island, where a spring of some sort must be. It will be a good place to settle down when Yuuri returns to him, but for now Victor chooses to stay on the beach and wait for his wayward husband.

Victor kneels to take some into his hands and drinks with greedy gratitude. Once he's had his fill, he splashes some on his face, runs wet hands through his hair.

This is it, he thinks, this will be his days until a week passes. Loneliness, solitude, water and food, and eyes trained on the unmoving surface of the ocean.

He heaves a sigh and presses his wet hands to his face.

***

A week is far too little time while going about life like normal, but far more than one imagines when waiting for something to happen. Minutes, hours, days, they move as slowly as the clouds across the sky. Simply watching them, and their sisters – stars and the moon – at night, could bring any man to the ends of his wit, so instead of giving into madness, Victor cuts a few gnarly branches of a tree near the beach and practices his nonexistent till now whittling skills.

He gets fairly good at it. At the end of the fifth day after Yuuri has left, he can make bears with claws, rabbits with ears, and even his cats have tails. Victor is hoping he can whittle a squid next, a gift for his husband once he returns. Or, well, an additional gift, because Victor is sure that when he sees Yuuri next, he will not allow him to leave his arms for a long while. He'll gift him his heart and all that is his to give, much like he has that night of their wedding.

He smiles to himself, resting his head against the robe tucked underneath. The beach sand is soft and the light of the fire he's built still hasn't died. The sky is dark now, full of stars, but Victor looks into the ocean as he falls asleep. There, somewhere in the depths, is his beautiful husband... his Yuuri… his...

He awakens suddenly, as if someone shook him into consciousness. He looks about himself, but there is no one on the beach apart from him. The fire continues to flicker and the night is still deep, even when the moon draws long shadows on the sand. The world is calm, but something… something isn't right.

Victor clutches at the knife he's hidden beneath his robe. The heavy feeling of wrong wrong wrong clings to him like the humid summer air clings to his skin even this late at night. The hair on the back of his neck rises and his arms cover in gooseflesh.

Yet, still, nothing around him looks any different.

Until Victor brings the knife out and catches the faint glow of his wrist.

Surprised, he pulls back the billowy sleeve of his shirt and, yes – the bonding cut shines pure gold. It's his only link to Yuuri now that they have been separated, and to have it do this…

A shiver of dread runs down Victor's spine. He doesn't want to think of the worst, but his thoughts run faster than he can stop them. The pictures of Yuuri's bloodied, battered body, cut and ripped and torn, flit about Victor's head. He shakes it violently to rid himself of them, but the fear stays in his heart. It's claws are deep and they sink into him with no mercy.

Victor stands up, unsettled to the core. He looks at the calm, dark waters. Somewhere within, his husband needs him. Of that Victor is sure.

Should he go…?

Victor swallows through the knot in his throat. If he goes to him, he'll be breaking his word. He's given Yuuri his word that he will stay on the dry land, but… shouldn't this be an exception? Shouldn't Yuuri come first, his safety, his life, before any promise they ever make? Wouldn't Yuuri understand his reasoning? Wouldn't he do the same for Victor?

Victor looks down at his wrist again. It keeps glowing, urgent and bright.

And that is enough, Victor makes the decision on a rushed breath.

He walks up to the dark waters and steps into the shallows. The chill of them clutches at his calves, his knees, his thighs, and Victor walks in deeper despite it. He's ready to sink down, but before he can give into the pull and turn of the waves, before he can breathe in the water and change, right in front of him the sea spits out white foam high into the sky, and the monster within alongside it.

if you want to know how the encounter with the monster ends, consider becoming a patron! you can read the next chapter for only $1!

#yuri on ice #victuuri #viktuuri #victor nikiforov #yuuri katsuki #mermay 2019 #my fic #WE'RE GETTING READY FOR THE BIG ANGST TOMORROW YALL #PREPARE TISSUES #WE'RE GONNA GO HARD AT THIS BADBOY

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jflashandclash · 6 years ago

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Traitors of Olympus IV: Fall of the Sun

Warning: Child abuse themes. Graphic depictions of violence.

Thirty-Six: Maari

Things are NOT Fun and Fancy Free

Pain stung her cheek.

Merry found herself staring out the window. The spotted blackness outside wasn’t what she saw.

For a split second, Merry was in her room back in Virginia, nine-years-old, with Fairy Odd Parents and Teen Titans posters on the wall. The weekend had been exciting. Scary, but exciting—Merry and her mother had gone out to purchase her first trainer bra. Without thinking, when Merry went to her father’s house for the week, she’d tossed it into the laundry hamper.

Her father had hit her before, but she had always told herself that she deserved it, because she had acted out.

That was the first time he’d beaten her.

He’d stumbled into her room, drunk, shoving the bra into her face. “What the fuck is this?”

She stepped backwards, already shaking in anticipation of the strike. “A—a—a trainer bra, Appa. I—I’m sorry. I promise I’ll wash it on my own—”

“Lingerie. Already with the lingerie.”

Merry didn’t understand. The bra and underwear set had ducklings on it. She and Am’ma thought it was cute.

He slapped her across the face with a bottle of Kingfisher.

The reek of beer from the bottle and his breath was overwhelming.

When the pain spread across her jaw, she said nothing. She learned that protest could earn a second slap.

But, when she felt her lip bust open under the third strike, she covered her head. The bottle switched to a fist as he screamed, “Whore! Just like your mother! Whore like your mother!”

She cried all she could remember how to say, “Mannikkavum! Baba, Nil! Ennai taniyaka vitu! En?! [1]

But he was too drunk and too far gone to hear Merry or to even think that he was calling his nine-year-old daughter a whore for something she couldn’t control.

That was the first time Merry had identified madness and mania, the first time she’d learned how to lie so cheerfully. That was when she vowed never to do that to another, never to make them feel like that, never to hurt someone physically.

But she was going to do much worse than that to Hiro.

Merry embraced the mania, her panic, her fear, her delirium.

A tugging sensation hit her gut. Before she let it overtake her, Merry focused her thoughts.

Stick to the plan. Remember the steps. Still trying things the easy-peasy way. Keep Hiro calm. One last try.

Merry looked down from the window, away from the smattering of store lights, back to Hiro. He still held the pistol, scowling at her. He looked tense, ready to defend himself if she struck back.

She clucked her tongue, feeling blood dribble from a busted lip. Her voice shook. “That was unnecessary, Hiro. We’re here to talk. Aunti Merry wants to be your friend. I want to help you—“

Hiro cocked his head to one side. A thought struck him, and his eyes widened with glee. Although her lip-reading was definitely on the rusty to nonexistent side of her skill set, she thought he mouthed, “Pacifist,” while spelling something out with his other hand. Then, “won’t fight back.”

With his empty hand, he slapped her, almost experimentally.

The sensation of panic welled in Merry’s stomach, rising to her chest, twisting her gut. She may have been a full foot taller than Hiro, but she suddenly felt very small.

Hiro giggled in curious delight. A toy. A toy that doesn’t hit back.

He slapped her again.

And again.

Her mouth tasted like iron.

Easy-peasy way had failed.

And Merry thought what she’d want to say every time to her father, Enough.

She reached out, gently, and touched Hiro’s temple. She had never done this before, so needed the proximity to assure it would work. As Merry touched him, she exhaled, feeling the horrific tugging sensation in her gut transfer, feeling the years of panic, paranoia, mania, and terror drain out of her fingertips.

For a moment, nothing seemed to change. Hiro took a step backwards from her, swatting her hand away.

She gave him a sad smile, glancing up at the ceiling, then back down to him.

Hiro stumbled another step backwards, almost knocking over his altar. His breathing accelerated. His eyes dilated.

“A group of pirates once rescued Dionysus in disguise from an island and offered to take him home. However, all but one secretly agreed they should sell him as a slave,” Merry said. Her voice had stopped shaking. Instead, her tone felt slow, almost slurred. Her whole body felt warm, despite the cold and her lack of clothing. “Do you know what the oars turned into for those meanie pirates?”

Hiro twitched violently. He swatted himself, like he felt a bug bite. There were no bugs. His eyes wildly searched around the rafters, like he sensed something was up there.

The whirl of cars and noises of the city warped. They raised pitch and seemed to accelerate into a consistent sibilation.

His eyes darted suspiciously to her, but he aimed the gun upward.

From his reactions, Merry could tell he’d completely forgotten about baby Jackson.

“Snakes,” she said. “They turned into snakes. Tufted Ears told me that you don’t like snakes very much.”

The sounds solidified into a chorus of hissing.

Snakes dangled from the rafters like streams for a party. Colorful ones, with red, black, and yellow stripes. Brilliant yellow vipers with prongs jutting out above either eye. Some were brown, with diamond patterns down their backs and a single horn protruding from the ends of their faces. Merry had never seen them before, so didn’t have more to work off of than Axel’s descriptions. But that didn’t matter. Her mind wasn’t doing most of the work to create the madness.

Hiro’s was.

He screamed, his voice coming out hoarse, like a record player forced to play for the first time in years.

The twelve-year-old dropped the gun.

Merry winced, waiting for the revolver to fire. Instead, it clattered onto the floor, harmless other than creating a cacophony with Hiro’s shriek. It was loud enough to make baby Jackson cry.

At least Hiro put the safety lock on before he beat someone with his gun.

He scrambled backwards, smashing into the mirror. The glass shattered, exploding all over his back. As he glanced back at what he hit, the mirror shards morphed to thin-legged black spiders with red blotches, fuzzy, massive, fat ones, furry flies with stingers the size of their bodies, and long, creeping scorpions.

Violently, Hiro swatted at his back, his fingers returning bloody from their “stings.” Really, from the glass.

Merry’s breath was ragged. Step three: corral Hiro to a corner of the room. Use his own fears, paranoia, and terror to make him create one of his fancy talisman bubbles. Trap him with his own mind.

Merry felt the tug in her stomach increase. Her body tingled like it was on fire. The madness was flaring and she struggled to restrain a nauseating sense of euphoria. She understood now—why her real father, her biological father, always laughed when he retold the tales of how he punished people.

Hiro tore off his dart suspenders and shoulder holster, ripping his burgundy shirt away to stomp on it. The spiders and scorpions crunched with the same tune of glass.

By now, baby Jackson was sobbing and squealing too.

“Hiro, little honey cakes, you can be safe if you just go in that corner,” Merry said. She took a careful step towards him, her body feeling light and wobbly. “It’s like that lava game. All you have to do is step in that corner.”

She tried to clear a small segment of his mind, to lull him there, but the hiss of the snakes grew louder. A rattler dropped from the ceiling and fell onto Hiro’s arm.

He sobbed and slapped the viper off, retreating beyond his tumbled altar table, closer to the outer wall.

Merry couldn’t sort through it. She couldn’t understand Hiro’s mind, only see his madness.

Vital addendum to step three: don’t lose control.

Merry was quickly losing control of the situation.

Rapid creation of step four: catch this little, crazy shit and sit on him until the cops—that her most Epic of Bystanders must have called--showed up. Then figure out how to explain how Merry was the victim, when she was mostly undressed, crushing a sobbing, apparently helpless, crazed twelve-year-old.

Merry took another step closer to Hiro, reaching towards him. “Hey, Hiro honey—”

Hiro saw something else above her. His screaming abruptly halted, despite another snake dropping down to rest across his shoulders. His jaw dropped open.

Merry didn’t dare look up at the rafters to see what scared him so much, what horror his mind had manufactured. She needed him to look at her. She needed him to focus. She needed to focus, so she didn’t get lost in his madness, so she didn’t begin to believe these creepy crawlies were real, so she could gain back control or at least give him a bear hug that he couldn’t escape.

But Hiro’s eyes had gone wide and blank. He took two more absent steps backwards, straight towards the drafty breeze from the broken window.

Then it was Merry’s turn to scream.

As Hiro slipped on the shattered, stained glass—

--and she reached to catch him—

And missed.

The hissing disappeared.

Spiders and scorpions flickered back into glass shards.

The blare of a cop siren whirred outside as the city panicked in the sudden blackness. Baby Jackson shrieked and screamed.

Merry’s limbs no longer felt on fire. She felt cold and numb.

Trying to keep her breathing even, Merry glanced around the room. The communication mirror was shattered, so she couldn’t tell Percy his little sister was safe. If she had to guess, the others wouldn’t have time to pick up a phone call from her or check a text, Unit Poseidon, cleared for action.

Weakness and queasiness sapped the hum out of her. With the industrial din of the city, she did the one thing that she felt like she shouldn’t: she stumbled to the window to look down.

In the glow of the headlights and flickered-on street lamps, she could see Hiro’s broken body mangled around one of the pinnacles a dozen feet down.

He made sputtering, horrifying noises.

Merry took a step backwards.

The whole time she robotically dressed, picked up the sobbing Jackson, used a mix of Mist-work, lying, and Dionysus-play to direct the EMTs and cops that Sam Datta called up to save Hiro’s life, she wondered how else that could have ended.

The thought stole the song from her until she was in Sam Datta’s taxi van, and he gently put a hand over hers—still gripping a crying baby Jackson—and said, “Hey. I don’t know what it was, but you did what you had to do to save this baby.” He swallowed and continued, “Let’s get her home safely, and let’s get you back to camp.”

Merry didn’t realize she was crying until she blinked away tears. Her cheek burned and felt four times larger than it should have. She probably looked half-chipmunk. “Yea,” she croaked, clicking the music on her parka on. “We have another party we need to crash.”

Written to/inspired by Arai Tasuku’s Alice (Full EP) with the majority coming from Speak Roughly To your Little Boy and Jackal, Don’t Come Near Me; I am a Monster.

Thank you for reading! Don’t worry. Merry gets a much better resolution in the epilogue. I would not leave out bodacious girl hanging. <3

[1] I’m sorry! Wait—stop! Leave me alone! Why?!

#Heroes of Olympus #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #Traitors of Olympus #TOO #PJO #HOO #fanfiction #looooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnng week and weekend

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