#but still fuck depicted howl

[urlovebot]

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ Too close

closeted bada, bf-to-ex howl, secret gf y/n.

c/w: angst. angry howl, homophobia, minor and very, very minor physical harm done to bada. closeted bada, out and proud reader. its alooooot of angst. some comfort at the end though so don't worry!

a/n: the characters depicted are not related nor based off of their personalities in real life. this is purely fiction. also shout out to @wrosie-writes. they wanted to see anti howl fic. they ask, they shall receive. enjoy!

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

"are you okay?"

bada hears howl, but she's more concerned with the contents on her phone than she is with him.

"i'm fine." bada tries to make it sound as believable as possible.

“i don’t get you.” howl glares at her, eyes boring into the back of her head.

“...what are you talking about?”

“you and y/n. you’re just really close with her. you confide in her, you trust her. it kind of pisses me off if i’m being honest.”

bada moves her focus from the tv to howl who stands behind the couch she sits on. she looks at him incredulously. why is he bringing this up now?

“what prompted this?”

“you. i know you’re texting her right now.”

bada challenges him, “and if i am?”

howl rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. he was so fucking fed up with you. every chance you got, you were with howl and bada. howl felt like you were intruding all the time, meanwhile, bada told you to not be a stranger. he was angry.

“i want you to stop talking to her.”

bada fully turns around and blinks up at him, “what?”

howl’s eyes narrow, “you heard me. stop talking to her.”

bada shakes her head, “i shouldn’t have to choose. don’t make me choose.”

howl stands firm and bada almost caves. a part of her loves howl. another part of her loves you, deeply.

bada stands up and tries to walk around him. what the fuck was she supposed to do? why was he putting her in this impossible position?

“lets go to bed and talk about this in the morning. please.”

bada continues walking towards their shared bedroom but howl stops her. he grabs hold of her wrist and pulls, “don’t walk away from me. you’re avoiding this.”

she wrenches her hand out of his grip and rubs at her wrist. he’d never done that before and it hurt. it hurt.

“i just don’t want to talk about it right now.”

howl frowns and tries to grab at her again but bada dodges his advancement toward her. she shifts to the other side of the island in their kitchen.

“i dont like this.”

she felt scared. small.

howl raises his voice, “you know what i don’t like? watching my girlfriend be mentally intimate with another person. you’re not even fucking her, you just care too much about her. you pour yourself into her instead of me. god, bada, we havent had sex in weeks! you barely let me hold your hand. Is it y/n? is she forcing you to do something you don’t want to do?”

bada’s jaw drops momentarily. but her shock is replaced with anger and frustration. distress and confusion. “what did you mean by that last part?” she leans forward and places her hands on the surface in front of her.

“you heard me. i know y/n likes women. is she coming on to you? you know i don’t like that and i can make her stop if you want me to. just say the words.”

bada shakes her head, confusion still drawn on her face, “you can make her stop? how? and what do you think it is that she could possibly be doing? what’s so wrong with her liking women?”

howl puts his head in his hands. he couldn’t believe how dense bada was acting. it’s like she didnt understand that-

“i don’t like that about her. you know that doesn’t sit right with me. i can take care of it. of her.”

fear pools in the bottom of bada’s stomach. she gets nauseous and thinks carefully about her next words as they mean alot for your own personal safety. she did not want to compromise that. she… she did not want to compromise herself either. she tries to act passive and pulls out her phone. she sends you a quick “sos” and sets her phone on the counter.

“you don’t need to take care of anything. stop worrying about it. about me. about her. everything is fine. i’m tired baby, can we please just let this go for the night?”

she glances down as she sees the texts coming in from you.

are you okay?

please answer me.

are you at howls?

its late, i need to know if you’re safe

i see your location, i’m on the way

*y/n has shared their location with you*

i’ll be there in 10 minutes. if it’s howl messing with you again, i swear to god i’ll take that fucker out tonight.

howl rounds the corner of the island and takes steady strides to bada and she stumbles back, praying that you show up sooner rather than later.

“you don’t see how she’s fucking with your head? she doesn’t love you like i do, bada.” howl reaches a hand up to bada’s face.

bada shakes in fear, its creeping up her spine and she can feel his breath on her face. he’s too close.

he’s too brave.

bada takes his hand in hers and places it back down by his side,

“you don’t love me howl. I’m something for you to show off like a trophy to your friends. I have no real meaning to you. you dress me up and make me out to be whoever you want me to be, but i’m not her. I’m not the girl you want me to be so desperately.”

bada straightens up for the first time in a couple months and she laughs as she realizes - her and howl stand at the same height. it makes her chuckle in his face. she advances towards him instead and now, the tables turn. howl looks almost… disturbed? shocked? he’d never seen bada be so… firm. so confident.

“y/n lets me be myself. fully. she accepts every part of me without question. her love is unconditional with no limit. no ceiling. there are no dealbreakers- she just loves me. howl i cant even wear sweatshirts around you without you saying i’m not being feminine enough. i’m not pretty enough. but y/n? it doesn’t matter what the fuck i have on because its me. and she loves me regardless.”

bada’s phone dings again and as she looks down at it, its you.

i’m parked, i’m in the elevator going to your floor now

bada walks around howl to their bedroom, he follows.

“where do you think you’re going?” howl crosses his arms.

bada grabs her emergency bag, only needing a couple items since you already had half of her wardrobe at your apartment. “i’m going out. i’m not sure when i’ll be back.”

she exits the bedroom and makes her way to the door,

“and let me just tell you this, howl. If it came between you and y/n, i will always choose y/n. without question.”

and as if on cue, the doorbell rings. bada swings the door open to reveal you in a pair of sweatpants and one of her sweatshirts draped on your body. bada tries her best to shield howl from your sight and exit as swiftly as she possibly can given the situation, but howl grabs her arm and yanks. you hear bada hiss, and as soon as you lay eyes on howl, you feel rage encompass your entire being. you step into the door and remove his hand from her arm, pulling bada from out of the door frame and behind you.

“how dare you lay your fucking hands on her? are you kidding me?” you take a step forward but bada pulls you back and intertwines her hand with your own, “let’s go y/n. please”

howl’s body is slumped, insecurity swallowing him whole. you can't help but laugh at him. he was such a fucking idiot. you turn around and scan bada for any harm, luckily, she seems fine other than being a little shaken up. you lean up to give her a kiss on her cheek and take one last look at howl. pathetic. you both turn to walk away and howl hopes bada turns around to look at him, show any waver of uncertainty. but she never looks back, she just moves forward. with you.

──⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

your fingers twirl through bada’s hair. she’d changed into comfy clothes once you guys got home and now she’s sprawled out on top of you, head laying on your chest.

“you okay?” your hand pushes the hair out of her face. you feel her nod. she shifts so that her head is resting upright.

“i am now.” she grins up to you, pressing her lips against your own. she really meant it this time.

[tiktaaliker]

getting very close to the point I stopped back when I first saw the show (pretty sure I stopped around the end of season 2 because I got so pissed with how it was going I never bothered with season 3) so here's a non comprehensive list of things I completely forgot about that happens in the magicians

eliot's clay-golem and subsequent coma after the golem dies while he's possessing it

the whole cacodemon thing

Quentin gets possessed and almost killed by niffin-Alice

mayakovsky shows up again in season 2 and is like. Penny's mentor for a little bit

magic gets fucked up for everybody because ember took a shit in the wellspring

Raynard the fox's demigod son is a highly favored and successful us senator who has accidentally and unknowingly been using his extremely powerful innate magic abilities to win at politics

the temporary alliance between Julia and the Beast

ok circling back to the Alice possessing Quentin thing most of the time when they're depicting the possession it's with Olivia Taylor Dudley as just Alice with the understanding that everyone else sees Quentin but there's like a 10 second scene with like 1 line where it's just Jason Ralph and holy SHIT it's really good they should've done that more I love it when someone is acting as a different character pretending to be their usual character and it was pulled off soooo well for just those few seconds that I wanted to see more of it so bad it's not even funny. anyways

julia does war crimes against sentient trees

THE BANK HEIST EPISODE!!!!

I was going to end the list here but it won't let me delete this bullet point so I'll take the opportunity to say that I like Fen way more than I did back when I first watched the show. she's cool.

[inkskinned]

no, actually, where is the whimsy?

my ex had a best friend named larry who asked me once: what do you think comes after irony?

we were at the bar where larry worked. it was a quiet night, and he'd hopped over to sit with us on the patron side. i swirled the lemon around my limoncello martini.

earnest positivity, i said, while my ex said, art self-destructs.

i stared at my ex. he stared at me.

his argument was the cinemasins argument: look how bad media is becoming! look at the loopholes and the dumb shit!

it was roughly 2011. galaxy print was still in. at the time, i had a favorite shirt that was a wolf howling at the moon. it got ripped in half in the wash and i honestly still mourn it. i dressed like effie stonem, because everyone did. and irony was the name of the thing. men liked MLP "ironically." the internet liked the kind of crass, "anti-mainstream" vibes of things like fuck romance, touch my butt and buy me pizza. we put cats in sunglasses everywhere, which was because we only liked things in irony.

and media had the same vibe in it: anti-hero white men would be "hard to love" and then storm off the scene. nobody was just earnestly trying to save the world: they were jaded, angry, unoriginal. mad you even asked them to try to help.

my ex ends up not being wrong. cinemasins becomes super popular. a lot of people start viewing media with this lens that is the cruelest, most jaded depiction. it's wrong for your character to have unexplained powers, even if the entire movie is about how strange it is she has unexplained powers - that is still considered a "loophole." characters make thoughtless, panicked choices? loophole. characters are actually kind people, despite hardship? loophole. features a woman doing literally anything without assistance? loophole. movies become hyper-aware of scrutiny, and now irony rules the media.

which means you go to a movie, and the character has to turn to the screen and say "beats me!!" or one of the side characters has to have some kind of quip like "are you seriously telling me that you think this is normal?" because nothing can happen in earnest. like a sitcom laugh track, we now anticipate the fourth-wall break: the moment that the media acknowledges it is telling a story. the media has to apologize for itself, or else someone like my ex rolls their eyes.

but here's the thing: i wasn't wrong either.

the difference might be that i am (and always have been) so soft-hearted that any crack in the light of this world will spear me into the ground. and i was the poet in the relationship. (he thought that was the same thing as being naïve and stupid). i was making things daily. i knew how all of us artists are driven by some strange desire to evolve. he notably liked to critique art, not to create it.

so yes, i've made things that are bitter and angry and even ironic. i've made long, sharp poems with all capital letters, and i've made poems about how the silence stretches out like a song. someone wrote once that we will spend our whole lives just circling the place we grew up. i think it's more that we spend our whole lives trying to remake a home. i think it's that as we age, it becomes less exciting to build the castle on the beach - we become aware of erosion, of windforce. we realize what we really want is to come home to our dog, castle or not.

and while art in the foreground is mired in white male violence and irony, and aggression, and not taking anything seriously - i don't think that's true of all art. i think more and more artists are leaning in to the things we love. the world has changed so much. they have taken so many things from us. the only thing we have left is love. at the bottom of the moving box - all we get is the faint sense that we have to appreciate what little we've got. i can't enjoy this stuff ironically anymore: what room do i have for irony? if it makes me happy, that is an amazing thing. there are so few happy places left for me. i want to be happy because of how leaves shiver beside each other like nestling birds. i want to be happy because of the color pink, and how magenta doesn't exist. i have spent so much of this life suffering, i have earned my right to a gentle ending. if nothing matters, i get to assign meaning to the nothing. i get to create meaning. i am an artist first and foremost, which means creation is my thing.

where is the whimsy? wherever i fucking put it. because if this is my last fucking chance to do any good in this world - i want to do it earnestly. i want to write things that make you happy. that make people feel heard and seen. what comes after irony has to be positivity.

it was close to my 21st birthday. in 7 years, i would end up writing a book about this relationship, which is hopefully coming out somewhere around May 2024. i come back to this bar scene in my memories a lot. i keep thinking of how pale my ex was. the look that crossed his face. how i looked back at him. how for a moment, both of us couldn't recognize the other person. like the gulf between us was a suddenly wide and cavernous thing. like we were alien to each other. he never took my opinion seriously, and he always seemed surprised whenever his manic-pixie-dream-girl ever broke free of the plot. like in the whole time we were together, i wasn't human enough.

this knowledge: where he said nothing comes after, my only instinct was what comes after is love.

[youryanderedaddy]

Tw: captivity, obsessive behavior, made up fantasy lore, mind fuck (?)

He never calls for you - he only ever sends his servants, poor, confused little creatures of the night once lost just like you. They gather at your door like an army of darkness, scratching and biting at the delicate wooden frame, howling piteously with full chest until you're faced with the choice of either opening the door, or suffocating yourself with the fluffy white pillow. You give in after what feels like an appropriate time - not too soon as to feed his ever - growing ego, yet not so late that the creatures' heads start to roll under your nose.

You slowly walk down the endless corridor, refusing to look at anything for longer than a second - even as it calls to you with the sweetest voice of desire. Everything is enchanted to the very last candle on the wall. The countless paintings depict wealth and opulence beyond your wildest dreams, an adundance of riches upon riches, of honeycomb amber and pure green emeralds. The silk carpet is as soft as a dandelion just before it bursts open, and the crystal chandelier embarks such a soft light the human eye can never properly adjust to the tender shades of yellow and blue. The castle is tempting you with every passing breath - begging you to stay here forever. Begging you to love it, and everyone inside - especially His Majesty, the Lord.

You try to calm your disheveled thoughts as you carefully open the heavy gates to the throne room. Your breath hitches deep into your throat as your eyes gaze upon the feast spread out before you, and suddenly you're starving like a wolf. By now you should know better than to let yourself be lured in by magic - but the pull is too magnetic and you quickly find yourself stepping closer to the piled up table. You take in the smell with unsatiated hunger - golden apples baked inside fine sugar crystals, tender deer fillet dripping with berry sauce and smokey mushrooms, the sort you can only find inside an enchanted forrest. Cream puffs and mountains of stripped ice soaked in jam and vanilla essence upon stacks of fruit and more goblets of red wine than you can count. And yet he remains ever the centerpiece of the vision.

"You're late, mona grece tide*." His voice slowly fills the room with its overbearing softness, always on the verge of dropping into silence. It's painful to look at him - as if everything about the mythical man was created a touch too symmetrical, to the point where the sharp features all blend together. His lips are too full, his eyes - if the golden slits beneath his brows may be called that, are way too bright under the sun, and they reflect a time you don't wish to remember. And his hair is so long and pale, so very white and smooth, you have to stop your hands from reaching into the wounded transparency of his wild locks, less you want to lose a finger or two.

"Tidea." Khaal snaps his finger more aggressively when you don't respond to his call the first time. You squint in an attempt to block the light coming from the tiny cracks in his face - the birth lines of his dragon. "Sit down. Don't make me come to you."

Tide. Tidea. Love, as you eventually learnt the meaning of the word in Lohemian. My little love, the words still rest on his tongue, because what are you if not a small, fragile human?

"I'd hate to inconvenience you so, my Lord." You eventually bite back, breaking out of the trance. Slipping in and out of consciousness and constantly guessing your surroundings is taking a toll on you, but you'll lose your sanity before you give into his madness. "Touching a filthy human like myself will surely sully your pretty golden flakes." You smile with venom, tearing into the nearest sun-pear. He watches the juice drip down your chin with angry narrowed eyes, and with another swift snap of his fingers he's standing before you, towering above.

"Insolent child, you are." He grips your face carelessly, inspecting it from all sides before finally materializing a clean cloth and wiping you clean. "You're foolish just like any other human." His brows twist together with anger, but his expression remains angelic to the untrained eye. "I can give you everything you've ever wanted. The sun at your feet, the moon on your shoulders. All the knowledge of the world." His fingers suddenly stop rubbing along your jawline and his gaze falls upon your cold, quivering lips. "All I ask in return is your loyalty." His sharp nail begins stroking your lower lip. It doesn't draw blood, but you wish it would. You can't stand the anticipation - the moment before the violence entails.

"Don't let your eyes wander. Gift me your warmth." The dragon king pulls you closer to his chest, and all fight leaves you. His form is perfectly defined with thousand metal - like flakes, one on top of the other like a flawless shield. It's probably a great weapon on the battlefield - but it lacks the naked vulnerability of human skin, and it's so cold it hurts to stand close, much less touch it directly. "Look at me!" He suddenly roars, and you fall back from the sheer power of his voice.

Everything hurts - as if the floor is suddenly melting, you feel like you will never stop falling down.

"I can't. It's too painful." You whisper weakly between hoarse broken sobs threatening to tear off your heart in two. "I wasn't made for this world, f-for your... world." You bite your lips, averting eyes to the ground. "Everything in you wants me dead. Your love will kill me." You whimper, squeezing your left hand to your chest. The dead weight of the broken bone is pulling you down, luring you deeper into sleep.

"I'd like to see you try, mon'tidea." He sinks down to your level, quick as a shadow. Stealing a kiss as light as a sparrow, he pushes you down. "Die as many times as you want. You'll always end up here in my arms." His lips are grazing your ear, warm breath hitting your neck. Another illusion, you realize - his body can't create warmth. It's simply reflecting your warmth back to you. "Because once you enter my realm, there's no coming back."

[moondirti]

𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐈𝐈 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( 2 of 3 /PREV )

DEAD DOVE. RATED E. HORROR EROTICA. 9K. – AO3 heed the warnings below and proceed at your own discretion.

warnings: NONCON. graphic depictions of gore. injury. cannibalism. blood licking. slaughtering + ingesting animals. violence. degradation. body horror. hypothermia. isolation. manipulation. corruption kink. religious imagery. dark!ghost. female reader. i know i said 2 parts total but now it's a 3er.

additional tags: groping. tit fondling. rough oral (male receiving). face-fucking. cum guzzling + eating. it’s all a little disgusting and not in the good way i fear.

𝐈𝐈.𝐈

The cottage is halfway buried under snow when you run out of firewood. 

It should come as no surprise, though you stare down your emptied closet like the ground opened up and swallowed your remaining reserve. Out of body, you fail to confront the cold reality that has already seeped into your walls, freezing the splintered wood of your floors, instead standing stock-still as your mind sharpens its critical edge. 

Only there is no one to direct your reproach to but yourself. Weeks ago, your rune casts had predicted a crippling whiteout, thus you set out to collect enough fuel to last you the season. Yet as night waxed on the third day of your efforts, and your hands started tearing bloody from splitting hardwood all on your own, that resolve debilitated rather quickly. Like sugar steeped in tea; your will to live was already in a decrepit state, and indeed, eagerly unravelled at the first sign of adversity. Suicidal, with hindsight. A passive play at death of which you were too fearful to try and seek for yourself. 

It did not seem like that at the time, of course. Rather, you justified the fatuous decision to stop (after cutting down a mere three trees) by concocting an estimate of how long it would be before you could venture out for more. Based on absolutely nothing but a desperation to curl back on your couch, sore but sheltered, you gave it one month. One month until the storm would abate. Of restlessness, fermenting in a prison you call home. To your distorted sense, four-hundred pieces of firewood seemed plenty enough to get you through it, despite admittedly lacking even a basic working knowledge of wood arithmetic.

Counting the days now, you’re almost tempted to laugh. Almost. The shroud of horror that newly accompanies death since Ghost’s lesson triumphs, after all. You are more terrified than you would have been a week ago. Still, you were not wrong – the firewood had lasted a month – only the weather does not seem to be looking up, and you’re trapped inside a quickly cooling cottage with no source of heat to get you to the thaw. The possibility of fatal hypothermia looms closer, more dangerous. Eerily relevant–

(Just a year ago, you watched a man die from the warmth of your ancestral home, face down in fresh snow outside the parlour room window. Your ageing mother had invited the pastor’s son over to help repair the stairs left unattended since your father’s death, and the man had called your fascination with the corpse morbid, nail between two teeth as he hammered down a wooden plank. 

No use starin’ at a dead man, lass. Not for a bonnie thin’ like you.

But you could not tear your eyes away from his mottled skin, the blue-black ends of his fingers. Even at his burial several days later, his face displayed the same, blank expression, perpetually cast by that winter’s frigid storm.) 

You imagine yourself passing in a similar vein. It will take longer, you think. You’ll be dying for weeks as your blood courses slower through you, iced by the winds that howl down your chimney. Protected, but not enough, by these walls you have been banished to live within. Unable to get even a glimpse of sunlight before shutting your eyes for the last time, the snow packed up to your windows effectively burying you without ceremony. A forgotten tomb. 

You wonder if Ghost would intervene, yet your speculation is brief. His words echo like he uttered them only moments ago. Fight or die. He has long established the volitional aspects of your relationship – he owes you nothing unless you ask, and if you do, then you would rather wish you were dead in lieu of what he asks for in return. No. He will merely watch as you take your last breath, satisfied that he was right, then scavenge your carcass for his next meal. Fated to wet his mouth like the picked off crow. A long-awaited feast.

Curling in on yourself, it is all you can do to bury yourself in clothes. Your vulnerability is often a fickle thing, you find, ebbing and flowing like seawater tides gradually gorging on their shore. There are periods you feel invincible; a being made of eternal magic, unmoved by the shifts in nature bid by time. Some sequoia, whose roots pierce deep into the earth and drink from freshwater wells unacquainted with human touch. A thing truly deserving of the title witch. 

Other times – these times being of increasing occurrence since the arrival of your familiar – you cannot help but to shrink back into a girl again. Raw and tender and emotionally volatile. Naked, sore lungs, as you’re pulled from your mother’s womb and forced to embrace the harsh cut of air. Ghost watches from his usual corner, a spectre practically pulsing with this voyeuristic game he likes to play. You know he’s figured out the predicament you’ve put yourself in, can feel yourself quailing at the discredit his judgement affords. The layers serve a dual purpose, then – for warmth, and to grant brief reprieve from his gaze on your shivering form. 

Three pairs of socks. A tunic, a fleece, a cardigan, and a coat. Skirts over your trousers. Gloves and a woollen hat. 

By the end, you have a hard time moving at all. Certainly not enough to cook, or to try tunnelling a way out of the window. No point in reading if you can’t practise your magic, either; so you mutter a quiet ignition spell over the charred firewood from last night, hoping it lasts even half as long, before collapsing on the couch and willing yourself to sleep. 

Only sleep does not come. 

Or, it might. Yet your mind is so occupied with your condition that it does not allow you to fully lose consciousness. You’re attuned to every particle around you, overstimulated in the worst sense, still subjected to an unsettling sequence of half-dreams. Brain flickering through pale mirages of dead crows, ice floes, of capsized rafts in arctic waters, their hulls resembling slabs of marbled meat. As you drown, you shout for help and pique at the sound of it echoing in real life, tangible enough that it shakes you awake. You nearly strangle yourself trying to wind your quilt tighter around your shoulders afterward, burying your nose in a pillow and cupping your cheeks with frigid hands. 

Eventually, time joins the distortion, and you have a hard time discerning whether it’s been hours or meagre minutes. The only indication is the way in which your body starts to ache with a pain so profound, it is as though you’ve been beaten. If you weren’t frustratingly cognizant of your surroundings the whole night, your first bet would have been to blame Ghost, or at least the threadbare couch you’ve been using as a bed erring too long now. Unfortunately, the true cause of your affliction is hard to misdiagnose; a violent, merciless shivering, your muscles made to tremble as if compelled to by electric shock. The teeth chattering kind – and it is exactly the rattle of ivory against ivory that serves as a makeshift timekeeper. 

Click. Click. Clickclick. Click. 

It must be two hours later when you bite your tongue and jolt completely awake from the pain, swathed in your quilt like the nesting doll that sat on your windowsill back home. Though the appendage bleeds, spreading metallic bitterness onto your teeth, you wonder for a brief moment whether you are alive at all. Foggy vision. Taut skin drawing lines down your cheeks from either corner of your eyes. When you squint, it tugs tighter, and you realise at one point you had started crying. It’s hard to tell without your nose hot and runny, or your lips swollen like overripe berries. Instead, you’re rendered to a shrivelled reflection of yourself, dried tear tracks setting the image in stone. The shadow looming above you seems to agree. 

“Not dead yet. But only just.”

You wish you could say his voice is any softer than standard. That the stars aligned, or that this is an ideal world where the antediluvian creature occupying your home has tapped into his small pool of pity. But he nudges your knee with all the detached amusement he prescribes to most things, like he can’t understand why you’re so easily affected by the cold. 

“Ghost?” 

“Almost exclusively.” He mocks.

The couch dips near your feet. You do not register why until he scoops an arm into your quilt, pulling you from warm refuge and onto his lap instead. It isn’t in you to fight, merely mewling like a feverish cat as you reach a hand out to the cushion where you once lay. Wiggling your fingers, kicking your heels. 

He swats your arm until it flops back to your side. 

“If only y’could see yourself like this. Bloody pathetic, pet.” 

“I’m c-cold.” 

“Not doin’ yourself any favours, then. This,” He tugs at the coat barely hugging your shoulders, stretched taut over your bulky layers. “off.” 

When you fail to listen, he takes the initiative for you, pulling it down your arms and towards some distant corner. You don’t miss it, necessarily – it hardly did anything to keep you warm – but you protest the loss as you would have done anything else; noisily, sniffing to suppress the fresh bout of tears spooling over your vision. 

“Think you exhausted every option, hm? All you can do is curl over and cry?” With his hands now at your cardigan, thumbs hooked under the lapel, you search his eyes for indication of what he intends to do. Ghost is difficult to appreciate even on the best of days, but now, without the handy glow of fire or direct stream of sunlight, he’s practically impossible. Like two mountains stood tall with no valley in between them, no line of logic exists that can explain his actuality. 

(And you’ve never been the logical type – there is no precise science to why goat fat and cumin work together to lure someone into love, or why you knew to stay away from the pastor who kept your mother company. Some things exist solely in magical proportions; limiting yourself to rational thought would be doing a great disservice to what they have to offer.

But confronting Ghost on a plane where he has the upper hand is a daunting task, so you stick to what rationale can place.) 

“What are you–you doing?” 

“Shut it.” He folds the cardigan around your hips, clasping a colossal palm onto the back of your neck. Though you’re used to being scruffed when he’s less than pleased with you, the purpose of this is far from dissatisfaction. You know it immediately. His skin, flesh, is warmer than anything you’ve felt in a long time. A quality of comfortable, penetrating heat that sinks into your nape and slowly works to defrost your marrow, your limbs, the icy film clinging to your brain. Your eyes roll shut almost instantaneously, body slumping forward to sink into his chest. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, where the relief of warmth has not yet reached, you worry that he’ll push you off. 

He does not. 

Instead, his other hand slips under your fleece and tunic, smoothing over the knots of your spine to reach between your shoulder blades. There, his heat sinks to swathe your chest, and the weakly heart somehow managing to do its job, pumping blood that tickles your toes and fingertips. It drips down to your tummy too, where it weighs heavy like a tangible mass, and brings your pulse to the bud between your legs.

His touch there doesn’t last long; he pulls away only moments later, a tightness newly lifted off your sternum. One hand still kneads your nape, effectively keeping your face against his broad shoulder, but the other moves to collect your slack wrists together. It strikes you as unusual, sure, yet you’ve since surrendered your inhibitions for sake of survival. A cavewoman tradeoff. Your body purrs at the satisfaction of your baser instincts, happy to resort to this primitive state of impartiality, if only it means you’ll stay snug throughout the winter. 

Yes. If anyone were to ask you right then, you would have seen it as not only plausible but entirely necessary to stay like this for the months to come. Sated and secure and just a hint impassioned, content to doze off on the lap of your tormentor. Already halfway there, lashes fluttering as you battle complete oblivion. 

Only that isn’t what Ghost has in store, and he seems eager to break the illusion you hold in such high regard. 

He releases your neck, guiding you to sit upright upon his tree-trunk thighs. When you object by reaching for his hands again, you find that your own are securely fixed behind your back. Completely immobilised. 

Sensation slowly trickles back to you. Once numb, your skin now comes alive with frayed nerve endings, crackling, hair standing on its ends. What you find, alarmingly, is your place within a twisted example of the lesson Ghost has been attempting to teach. The lightness on your sternum not as metaphorical as you had assumed – rather, the bandages binding your breasts have been unwrapped to treacherously hitch your wrists together. The rough fabric excoriates the surface of your forearms. 

Your breathing accelerates. If you’d been freezing before, you’re thoroughly iced now. Shock races through your system and persecutes everything that lulled you into this position. Stupid, stupid, stu–

“Ghost.” You hiss. “Ghost. This is-isn’t funny.”

He doesn’t respond, rolling your top to reveal the soft stretch of your navel. It involuntarily retracts when he flits over your belly button, dodging the unwelcome spread of his fingers. Your body's way of protesting, for all you lean into his touch. Too tempting not to, really. Something in him burns; perhaps a furnace in place of his heart, or a piece of hell he takes with him wherever he goes. 

That primitive voice grows louder, whispering deceptively in your ear that it’s fine, let him touch you. So long as you stay warm. 

You shake your head as if to jerk the instinct off your crown. Lips pursed tight now, the hand on your belly slowly climbing up. Up. 

“Stop it. Stop this, I d-don’t want it.” 

“I know.” He says, pressing his thumb into your waist. It digs until it hits a rib, tenderising muscle. You’re a lamb on a spit, spun slowly, roasted over an open flame. How silly of you to lean into the burn. Short-sighted to decide that it’s better than the cruel press of winter. You’ll be eaten like this. 

“Then g-get the fuck off me!” You yelp, swaying on your haunches in a bid to knock yourself off his lap. Your arms are useless, but that does not mean you cannot fight. “I order you!”

That pulls a laugh from him. Or, what sounds like a laugh. As with everything, it’s his estimate of a human one, like the cicada mimics the bird; not as melodic, rather striking you with disgust so potent you feel your nausea reawakening. You might just hurl.

“And wha’ will I be granted in return? Nothin’ you have that’ll convince me to unhand you, pet.” Ghost rucks your tunic to your shoulders at last, exposing your bare breasts to bitter air. Though he gives them no time to pebble up, large paws enveloping both mounds and squeezing until your breath syphons from your lungs. “Haven’ seen a pair of tits in decades. Suppose you humans do have somethin’ going for you.” 

Your words startle in your throat. Nothing about it is pleasurable, nor does he intend for it to be. His fingers take your nipples; rolling, tugging, pinching. Nails dig crescent cuts into the darkened skin there, perhaps searching for blood. He certainly treats it as though blood is the aim, and you wonder whether you’re to be hung from your bust to drain onto his waiting tongue. Just as one might press olives, no care for their pulpy bodies but only the rich oil they produce. Grease to slick their pans, to moisten their mouths. 

You’ll be eaten like this.

“Stop, please.” 

“Wonder what y’would look like plump with milk. Nursing my litter, rounded out with another dozen.” He sucks his teeth, contemplative. “Body wouldn’t handle it, f’you ask me. Stronger women than you ‘ave tried.”

Have. It hurts to think about. Hurts more when the insult of his words truly resonates. Stronger women. That is to say you have been exiled for nothing. That with a year of solitude and occult practice, you are just as feeble as before. Is this why he ate your crow? To prove to you that he could? 

The tide pushes back out. In a great swell of loam and brine, your hatred crashes vengefully onshore. You muster all of it, dipping pails into the water and letting it weigh heavy on your shoulders. It is almost negligible, you find. You scarcely feel its burden when fuelled by a focused point to your antipathy. Your teeth stop chattering. You glare daggers. 

“Let me go.” 

Your final plea rolls over him like all the ones before it. “But you’re a witch, aren’t ya? Brew up a little elixir to pull yourself through the whelping. Maybe then you’ll realise how much you long to stay alive.” 

Your neck snaps back. Before you can think it through, you thrust your head towards his face. There’s a crunch, a dizzying moment of choked silence, then a hot burst of moisture down your face. For a naive moment, you think you must have struck gold. You imagine drawing back to find his mask sticky with blood, or tar, or whatever demons have thrumming through their veins. A raw testament to your resolve, if he should ever underestimate it again. 

But the mirage is as naive as your mother. Eventually the pain catches up to you. You realise the iron-tang at the back of your throat is not the dreg of satisfaction. The tears slipping past your lashes no longer wrought from misery. Everything, rather, an immediate response to the sore condition of your nose. Misshapen and swelling already.

Ghost hums. You hoped to see him grovelling in pain by now. The battered expectation somehow makes his condescension worse. 

“Good to see y’find your spirit,” His head tilts, bullying yours into remaining still, fingers knitted firmly in your hair. “but it’s misplaced.” 

Given his derision, you know not to rejoice when his other hand leaves your chest. Your shirt slumps lamely back over your figure as he lifts the edges of his mask, folding it over his mouth. In the dark, it’s difficult to map the nuances of his exposed jowls. There’s a pale curve there, a disfigured line here. Your sinuses twinge when your stare narrows, cutting through murk to place the shape of his lips. 

It’s futile. You have no way to jam the gaps; no way of knowing whether he’s all man, all demon, or a foul mix of the two. 

The one thing that glimmers with definition is the string of spit when he unlatches his jaw, long tongue striking like a wound-tight cobra. You would flinch if you could, eyes pruning shut, but his grip keeps you steady in place as he laves a forceful path up your chin. Tasting the metallic leak of blood, all the way up to its source. 

You see it coming. Still, you can’t help but scream when he works his tongue around your nose. Loosed bones shift under your skin, steadiness fractured, cartilage support dipping inwards against the assault. He groans, and in spite of your impaired sense of smell, you get a whiff of rot-hot breath. It must all be a terrible dream, you think. The hardened muscle pressing against your inner thighs, the viscous web of saliva stretched across your face. It’s cold and you’re sweaty, and everything about the past month – the past year – seems like it has been especially curated to torment you. You would wake from this any second.

He gathers the salty drips off your eyes, the blood, every grief coating your skin. Agony blinds you – so profound it takes shape, colour. You squirm in your binds, ragged shrieks ripping from your throat. 

It echoes even after he breaks away. If it weren’t for the sudden coolness of spit drying within your cupid’s bow, you would think he was still making a feast of you. 

“Tha’ got you to settle, hm?” 

You shake your head, exhausted. “You said–” 

“I said fight, or die.” He huffs. You let silence swathe your lips, pursing them as thin as you can manage without exacerbating your injury. “Yer fighting to die, pet.”

“I just want to be left alone.” 

“‘N’ what d’you think will come of that?” 

“It shouldn’t m-matter.” Your conviction sound hollow when spoken aloud. If he hears it, he uses it as an incentive to strip your top back over your chest. Like a hot wire pushed through your ribcage, his warm hands toast you from the outside in. It is in your best interest not to shiver in delight; though you are still dreadfully cold, and your injury makes it difficult to pigeonhole any alleviation to your pain. “You can’t-t-t defile me on the grounds of greater good.” 

Ghost laughs again. “Ain’ pretending this is for the greater good, pet. The world will thank me if one more witch freezes to ‘er death.” You’re yanked further up his lap. “I let you go, you’ve got four, five hours tops ‘till your heart fails. You wan’ to live?”

You shake your head, fervent tremors batting your pout. A nonanswer seems the only manner of resistance, now. “Not like this.” 

“Clever. Tha’ still tells me you do.” He pinches the knotted peaks of your breasts, twisting until you buck wretchedly onto his pelvis. “And I wan’ to spend my evenin’ playing with your tits. A fair compromise, then.” 

What sort of familiar makes the demands? You contemplate berating him out loud, lunging for the dirty insult to beat at his status like he did yours. With no room for taking the high ground, you will do anything so long as you can later say you bared your claws. So you do not wonder, for countless sleepless nights, if there was something more you should have done. You will be mean. You will go low. You will condemn him to a fate of eternal dissatisfaction, so that no matter how much he eats or kills or takes, he will always feel his stomach a gnawing pit. 

Though something tells you he will not succumb to scrutiny against his honour. There is no code for creatures like him, who floss their teeth with crow meat and pluck the nipples of girls who grant them shelter. Nothing to hold them to expect the conditions of their summons.

Perhaps that’s just it.

You stir. It feels much like magic, when an incantation rolls off the tongue just right and the air shifts to accommodate it. Your heart vibrates behind your sternum, power bloating your veins, ricocheting within your skin. If Ghost feels it, he doesn’t falter.

“Be sure, demon.” You rasp, drawing your intent taut in your chest like a bowstring. He hums but does not stop, kneading your flesh to conform to the creases and calluses of his hands. “Be sure that’s what you want. I could give in without further fuss and be like a docile rabbit on your lap. That way, you will have taken two things from me tonight.” 

The liquid of his eyes shifts quick. You catch its gleam in the little light, and it pleases you enough to deliver the rest of your covenant.  

“By the spell that brought you here, you are bound to do what I sacrifice for.” You pause a moment. “In exchange for the blood you have ingested off my face, you will dig this house out of the snow. And for my virtue, this one evening allowance of which you have already taken upon yourself, you will collect my firewood until the season clears.” 

Ghost makes an indiscernible noise from underneath. You can not tell if he is peeved or pleased, and the ambiguity shakes you. You expected some sort of acknowledgment or counter to your trick. Instead, he does not speak on it. No pitch or complaint, protest or taunt. 

He just sits there, pawing at your chest like a satiated dog. 

(And come morning, when your breasts are raw and tender to the touch, he tunnels the snow around your cottage and returns hours later with a hundred cedar logs for the kindling.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈

She prefers him in the daylight

Sun floods her little home when it rises and keeps it bright until it sets. Whereas the dark plays tricks on mortal eyes, oil lamps flickering, casting shadows that always resemble something else. She likes training an eye on what he does in his usual corner; but come night, she can’t trust what she sees. Thus, her confidence strains. She flinches at every sound. Any movement will have her tucking deeper under her quilt. His empty-eyed stare glows more sinister, if anything is to be assumed by the way she will crack her grimoire open and mouth protective spells like prayers.

Perhaps she’s afraid she caused offence, that he mulls over a punishment to teach her not to make a fool of him again. Perhaps it plagues her that she cannot stop him if that is the case. He does not tell her that, already, the worst possible thing that can confront her has. Though of course she isn’t privy to it, it’s been a month since he decided against making a meal of her. Everything he does now is moderate in comparison. He’s being good. 

Good, yes. In the evenings, he will venture out to do her bidding. The timing grants her a few hours rest, then, and him an opportunity to hunt for his dinner. 

Good, because he waits until he’s a mile out to transform to his truer self. It is easier to strip trees of their branches and snap their spines when he stands over two metres tall. Not so easy to mend the fragile tolerance she’s gained for him, which is sure to shatter if she catches sight of his monstrosity. He eludes the possibility entirely, then. 

Good, because Ghost refrains from agitating her more than he already has. And his intention in doing so does not change that decency. 

That is to say, he hasn’t grown a heart. He does not care for the girl. But the passivity that necessitated his savagery has since come to pass. She’s grown claws. She fights for her say and punches through life with guile. Any more and he would be faulting her for it, like burning the meat he tumbled through mud to slaughter. It is down to him to take it off the roast, now, to revel in the succulent bite. He’s got her right where he wants her.  

With some brief tampering on his part – laying out the temptation like a breadcrumb trail into the woods – she broke her invisible vow not to ask him for anything. Has it not made her life that much simpler? Her hearth burns bright and warm everyday; she does not have to worry about keeping it lit for the remnants of winter. He picks cedar for its aroma, it's even char, and she would not have access to that if it weren’t for his ability to tackle the sturdy tree. All it took was her debauchment, the vitiating of character to match his. 

(And really, how debauched was it if she only endured his groping for one night?)

It isn’t too much to want, he thinks. 

She thinks so too. Or otherwise decides it's worth the risk. 

It is late into the evening and his dinner sits fresh in his belly, fire chewing away at the split logs he emptied into the pit earlier. The air is thick with cloying cedar and the mephitic scent of potion-brewing, his pet crouched over a bubbling pot. She has been at it for hours, the same nightly routine since she broke her nose. Tadpoles and feverfew and sage, chanterelle and wishbone and sand. Stirred, brought to a boil, thickened with spit. Then scooped out and smothered over her sore face. A modest poultice, turned cast, to help her mend correctly over weeks.

He wonders if she considered bothering him to heal her. He certainly can. But it appears as though she enjoys keeping her hands busy. Toiling through time, grinding away like water does the earth. In the aeons he’s been around, he’s seen mountains chipped away, rocks change shape, rivers bend over time – and it is always the same eternal petulance. Stubborn mediocrity built into something larger. Endurance over brute force. He doesn’t pretend to understand it, but he can recognise a reflection of it in her craft. 

But she is not eternal. Every mortal has their limits. 

Ghost sees the iron grow filigree in her eyes, calculations imprinting onto her resolve. When she stands and turns to him, he almost expects it. The past quarter hour has built up to this ambitious ask, whatever it may be, and he’s mapped every battle she’s held within herself over the course of it. She does not want like he does. It is only extraneous circumstance that would lead her to his service. 

“I started it later than I usually do.” She mumbles, lips twisting like maggots. The hollows under her eyes are prominent, both exhaustion and hunger trimming her down to a sorry state. “I need sleep, but this can’t be heated beyond a boil.”

His cock chubs up in his trousers, aching as an array of possibilities occur to him in that second. Would he split her cunt on his fingers? Would he make her set it down atop his tongue? Her skirt leaves much to the imagination, but he imagines it bright and faithful in his head. Darker on the outside than in, glazed with pellucid slick, and shrouded in a matting of hair. The thought alone funnels salivate to the underside of his tongue. 

He meets her eye, shoulders curving inward, poised to pounce. 

Then, her brow spasms, and the wolfish instinct unravels as fast as it materialises. 

No. He cannot push it too far, not when she asks for something so little. It took all her energy to come to him now. She will never consider it again if he exploits that beyond equal measure. 

So, Ghost stands, stalking over to the cauldron and his pet. He often forgets how small she is until she cranes her neck to look up at him, all owlish blinks and delicate fingers latticed together, anxious for his response. 

“I’ll wake you.” He says. The tension in her forehead ebbs immediately, eyelids sagging now that he confirmed her ingredients will not waste. Though she doesn’t move, and he makes her stand there until he determines on an appropriate return. 

Moments later, he wraps an arm around her. His hand finds the jut in her skirt, where it protrudes to lap over her arse, and squeezes around the fat of one cheek. Even with the layers separating them, she is supple like softened butter. She makes a sound like a trapped mouse, jumping to the balls of her feet. The noise doesn’t deter him; he holds it there until he’s satisfied his grip will bruise. 

“There we are.” When he releases her, she stumbles backwards to find her bearings against the cool press of the wall. Puts a safe distance between them. Yet her stunned silence is intoxicating, and he has to actively suppress the gluttonous urge for more. Nothing is sacred when he gets like this. “That’s us even, then.” 

She nods. It is a wonder she manages to sleep at all.

(Unfortunate that the potion to heal her broken nose steals stock from her kitchen shelves. Day by day, he’s watched her sacrifice her fungi and herbs to the cauldron, prioritising recovery over sustenance. Unfortunate that she is still unable to go out for more. The winter whips cruel and merciless winds for anyone who dares step out into its storm.

Unfortunate. But not moving enough. 

It is intentional silence on his part, then. For the day will come where she opens her cupboards to eat and finds them lined with dust.

And on that day, he will be there.) 

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈𝐈

Ghost takes his meals outside. 

That is, when he comes back lugging a dead beast and a tree behind him. You’ll watch from the window as he places the latter to the side, sinking to his knees to feast on whatever he caught that day. It always varies: hares, owls, rodents. An elk if he’s lucky. Today, it is a fox. 

Your heart knots with pity, mourning for the mammal who cannot grieve itself. Eyes blank and jaw swung open. Its fur, which typically strikes as a vivid red, can only look dull when set by the blood it leaves in its trail, tangled in the entrails bursting from its belly. The demon never minds the hair, nor the carnage. He balances on his haunches and pulls his mask up, sinking his teeth into the softest parts of his spoils. 

Though no one holds you to the frosted glass – chanting look, you have to look – you insist on bearing witness. The gore never grows easier to behold; everytime, it is the same revulsion that stews nausea at the sight. But you sit and suffer it anyway. If anyone were to ask you why, you would be hard-pressed to find an answer. 

Perhaps it is to build a tolerance for nature’s brutality. Ghost’s lesson with your crow has carved an irreplicable torment within you, revealing the jeopardy you face should you continue down your meek path. Exposure therapy is good justification, then, when your personal improvement thus far has only wrought merit. Your magic begets greater effect. You feel your self-possession flourish your spirit. Even your familiar has staved off the trouble, and you can not ask for a greater success.  

But that does not capture the core of the matter. Perhaps that is to be found in him, instead.

Because when Ghost eats, his visage will fluctuate. You do not think it is something he’s mindful of. None of it looks intentional – he does not bid whetted talons or teeth, features that would aid him in gutting the fox. Rather, they appear like fish beneath a rippling brook. Swift, transient flashes of another form. 

He sucks down an intestine, and his burly legs stretch so the joints are equidistant. They snap backwards, digitigrade heels extending, before you blink and they’re human once more.

He laps at a puddle of blood, and his mask parts to reveal two ivory prongs that steadily grow from his head. They curl, winding around his temples as ram horns do, only to disappear as your arid eyes burn. 

He tears into cartilage, and his exposed skin flakes like charred wood. The liver; his torso extends and thins. The brain; his breath condenses to black ash, as yours would ghostly vapour in cold air. None of it permanent. All of it haunting. 

The first time you saw it, you chalked it up to phantasm. Lack of sleep, insufficient nutrition. Searching for monstrosity that would better connect to the horror unfurling before you. So you set out to observe. Incessantly. Again and again and again – validating what you saw, though you received confirmation upon the second instance long ago. Sure enough, each day he reveals different parts to a whole. Excrescent spines and lofty feet. Things that have been urging for a spot in the sun, pressing under his skin. 

It’s the nesting doll all over again. Little matryoshka faces, each opening to reveal a smaller version of itself within. If you are the innermost one, then Ghost is the sisyphean effort to close them over each other in descending order. Unfeasible. Too large to comfortably remain within his confines. The wood will eventually snap in your struggle, and all the painted pieces will scatter across the floor. 

(You remember him just then. Craggy charm and blue eyes. Crafty hand – the same to restore your mother’s staircase – whittling the doll when you suggested he couldn’t. He wore a cross no matter the day, a habit of his father’s doing, and the silver pendant would sway with the paring motion of his hands. Lustrous against tanned skin. No doubt forged by him, too.

He used to call you macabre. Though it was footling fun at the time, you can’t help but grasp at what he meant as you track the steaming slaughter outside.)

“Do you like it?”

Water rushes into a tin basin, its metallic clang a forceful, echoing percussion. The noise is insufferable, grating on your ears, but you would rather it than have Ghost tow the pungent smell of death into your home. With his back turned to you, he washes his hands and mouth of dinner’s remnants, faucet spitting frigid reserves into the kitchen sink. 

His head twists a fraction, pupils coasting to assess you in his peripheral. Small talk is not commonplace. In the weeks you have coexisted, you can count your conversations on both hands. They always seem to prefer the path of internal dissection instead, judgments flung at one another through glares and body language and not much else. 

“Be more specific.” He grunts, facing his task again. From your place on the couch, you can see the way he picks his nails for stubborn shreds of fat. 

“Fox.”

A sliver of pale skin, bared where his mask ends at his nape, twitches. “No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Ammonic. Greasy. Tough all ‘round. Slippery little fucks, too.” His voice is softer when he isn’t being caustic. Skipping over enunciations, the typical rumble in his chest quieted to a hum. “There are easier, more rewardin’ meals.” 

You imagine what he may be referring to. Of every creature on this earth, only one does not have the benefit of evasion. Predators are sheltered by hierarchical canopies, demons like Ghost so powerful that they do not have to watch their backs. Birds of prey have their wings, fish their slippery scales. Even deer – slender and pregnable – are granted fleet-footed instincts rivalled only by the Pantheon’s messenger himself. It is only you, human, that is condemned to spindling, slow inelegance. Perhaps it is why so many are intellectuals, worshipers, terrors – why you yourself are a witch, sapping nature for her wares of which you do not come by naturally. That is the way things turn. Assuming the offensive to offset one’s shortcomings.

And turn back again; your effort has only imperilled you further. There is a cannibal, a monster, a man inside of your home. And you beckoned him here. 

Even as the revelation occurs to you, you can’t stave your ambition. Of course you do not parley with Ghost for the sake of it. There is nothing this new knowledge grants. But since he left to do his day’s errands, your stomach has made its presence known. Opening up like an early grave, emptiness gnarled beneath a soil bed as with roots of a tombstone tree. Every moment, every word, you are reminded of its cavity. Too long, it says, you’ve ignored the pangs of hunger that seized this trench in an iron fist. Priorities, you would reply, as you surrendered food to brew your poultice. And so your nose is healed, great, but your shelves are empty and your head is faint. Hunger surplants the cold as your imminent killer.

“My mum taught me how to fix a good stew.” You begin, rolling your sticky tongue and tucking both hands beneath your bottom, cautious not to set this mousetrap off yourself. The pressure is grounding, at least; you match your breathing to the pulse you feel in your fingertips. “I trust it would be better than raw meat.”

A pause. Ghost’s spine straightens. Then, a panic. You’re thrown off your conviction when your chest flutters and you feel it in your brain. Where is that wily being? The woman who cheated her familiar into a season’s worth of labour? You feel as though you have regressed; screeching infant, lungs flaring with a rush of new air. You cannot face this, you think, but you’re already halfway out into the world. The sink squeaks off. 

You just pray your stomach doesn’t make noise in the new silence. 

“Is tha’ so?” He says, though does not turn to look at you just yet. 

“I could try.” The words bubble like bile in your throat. It is in your best interest to stay quiet. Say no more. He’s being ambiguous so you will reveal too much in turn. The game is transparent. You can see the water-worn rocks on the river bed, so clear it’s like they’re clasped between your hands instead. Yet– “If I had the ingredients for it, ‘course.” 

There. The lip of the cliff. How odd of you to see it only as you plummet towards a frothy scree. Ghost snaps, live lightning in heated air, or otherwise like the rocks that impale you on landing. In two strides, you’re cornered by a creature with scorn harrowing the space between its brows. You were stupid not to plan an escape route, stupid to arm yourself with nothing but flimsy subtlety. There was always the risk of it coming to this, you knew that. 

“You think y’can rummage for loopholes, hm?” He leers, eyes searing holes into yours. “A trick is only charmin’ on the first go, pet. More than once and y’start to stink of stale piss.” 

“I don’t–” 

He snatches your jaw, thumb and ring fingers digging an aching grip onto either side. Your protest warbles pathetically, dies, chokes you with its rot. It’s difficult, no– impossible to decipher what he's mad at. A small, fresh part of you actually hoped he’d see your cunning as artful. But it seems your station has come back to haunt you; another mortal whose brain cannot keep up with her heart. Even if one is in the right place, you will go about chasing it in the wrong direction. Artful is too shiny of a laurel, then. Trick, too, is being charitable 

“Do not play coy with me, girl. I do not take kindly to underhand deals.” Snarled right above you, spit spattering across your face. Your mandible squeaks, bone-deep pain flaring where he tightens the pressure around your face. Fox blood flavours his breath. There is a ringing in your head – shrill, like water in the tin sink. “If you need something from me, you will admit it and cope with the terms I have in turn.”

“I-I’m sorr-eeeee.” Your apology wheezes thin when he thrashes your head in place. It is either that or the relentless force on your jaw that tears a new world of pain down your neck. The tears are reactionary, then. Hot and foggy and not at all a sign of fear. “Ah- I’m sorry! I won’t– I didn’t mean to offend y-you.” 

“S’too fuckin’ late for that. You’ll follow through, before I take wha’ I want anyway.” He shakes his head. “Ask nicely for what y’need then, pet. Go on.” 

“Nothing! Nothing anymore, please. Jus’ let me go, Ghost.” Perhaps the universe disdains your insincerity, because in a hand dealt by its inexorable irony, your stomach buckles and purls a foul sound. Like it heard your words and protests the withdrawal, gurgling out loud to whoever will address it instead. 

And he does. He does. 

“You’re hungry, hm? That it?” He shoves your limp body onto the floor, dismissive of the pleas you now regulate to your feet, thrashed wildly to strike at his shin. Everything he does is callous, mean, agitated like the sulphur and magma that run thick beneath the earth’s crust. And though it is not your first encounter with a creature of that ilk – you have had your run-ins with over-excited men – the intentionality behind it has never been more flagrant. Ghost does it to hurt you. “Yeah, been neglecting you, haven’ I? Forgot pets couldn’ feed themselves.”  

“I’w scrounge somefing up mysef.” You struggle, speech impeded as he crushes your cheeks inwards. Pearl dust flakes your gums. 

“Should ‘ave thought of tha’ before. Even if I end up breakin’ every bone in that fine skull of yours, I won’t let up. Say it, then, you daft thing.” 

The scaling of your options is instantaneous. Even as your immediate conscious lags behind, activity lights the back of your head and cracks its way out of your mouth before you can catch it. It took weeks for your nose to heal, much less your skull. You’re consuming fuel quicker than you can replenish, running on a backlog of quick-burning fat. And all of it can be taken care of if you just give in, to what will likely only be a few hours of degradation. 

(Cavewoman. Primordial. Primitive impartiality, or survival of the fittest. The world has only come so far since then, and even within its concentrated civilizations, there is no aegis but for those who come up on top. You cannot expect your liberties to be met anywhere. That, you know too well.

But here, in this feral forest, at least you can use the violation to your benefit. At the very least, you will not be exiled, cast as witch for taboo of saying the greater word. 

You are already macerated on rock bottom. And at the barren abyss of all leasts, Ghost will not hang a cross pendant above you as he stomps it in.)

He must see the surrender wet your eyes, for the grip on your jaw lessens. 

“I am hungry.” You cry, finally, lashes fluttering shut so as to guard your tears. “I am hungry. This winter has dashed my garden and I do not know how to hunt. The cushions jab into my ribs when I sleep. I feel as though my stomach will consume me from the inside out, and I’m desperate. I am desperate, and I am so, so hungry. And I am asking for your help. Please.” 

If there was any part of you that still believed he would choose pity, it is muffled and killed. You hear the scratch of fabric as he undoes his pants. Final, failing. Rustled hand behind confines, stench of musk stiffening the air. For a few seconds, you opt to remain blissfully ignorant – keep your eyes closed and imagine that the presence before your face is something different. A purifying flame, tender cut of meat, a smiling face before things fell downhill. It all sounds too good to be true, and they are. Sooner or later, you tell yourself, you have to face the misery. 

So, you force yourself to behold it before he takes that upon himself. 

His cock is heavy. Fat and oversized, length not having suffered for its breadth. Ruddy where the head peaks from an uncut tip, hard already, but bowed under the weight of itself. If you had anything to expel, you would’ve done so by now. A thicket of hair fledges his groyne – a shade of dark that pales his scarred skin in comparison – and it reeks of sweat and miasma. 

He taps it on your cheek, prespend sticky and warm. You flinch as though you have been beaten. 

“Just one thing af’er the other with you, pet. Think this’ll give y’something to fix yourself on.” 

“I don’t– I’ve never–” His thumb hooks over your bottom teeth, prying your trap as wide as it can go. Drool slicks the cracked hinges of your lips. “Don’ know how.”

“Not what I’m lookin’ for.” He purrs, cruel humour gracing his tone. Somehow, it is not a reassurance as much as it is a snub. “Jus’ keep your teeth out of the way.” Humiliation washes your neck and ears, rush of blood like white river rapids behind your ears. It is the final swatch, trumpet to armageddon, before your ruin. You suck in a breath and bring your mouth to him.

Ghost meets you halfway, treating the crown of your head as an anchor to thrust forward. Immediately, you let slip his only rule, teeth snapping reflexively at the intrusion. You expect to be backhanded, have your hair ripped from your scalp in relation, or worse. It is a relief, then, when the only force you receive is a knock against your jaw. The rapping shakes your cotton-lined skull, snaps you out of your stupefaction, and you slack all muscles to accommodate his demand.

The mass feeding down your throat vibrates, an appreciative hum coursing through his body. “There you are, little jezebel. Look a’ you takin’ my cock so well.” 

You make no effort to glide your tongue along his veins. To make this pleasurable for him beyond what he takes for himself. True to his word, your familiar does not punish you for it. He knots his hands around your head and fucks your face, careless, cock rearranging the anatomy of your neck as it bludgeons a straight path down. You sway, ragdoll with the motions, knees rubbing abrasively across the floor as he slides you back and forth over it. 

Hypoxia spots your vision, lungs clenching furiously at the obstructed flow of oxygen. You would fasten it all shut, close yourself off from the world, but your eyes bulge a little at the edges, stagnant blood keeping them arid and open. It’s hard to dissociate. Hard to pretend that the steel-wool friction at the tip of your nose, the pendulum-consistent slaps on your chin, are not his pubic hair and balls searing unmistakable marks on your skin. And your series of gags are sloppy, lewd out in the confined air of your home. How could they be anything but damnation? There is no deluding the Maker. 

(No matter how fervently he tried. Marry me, proposed down on both knees. It’ll set this whole fankle right. We’ll hold hands an’ seek penance at the kirk before th’ceremony. My pa will officiate. Yer ma will be thrilled.)

Snot bubbles from your nose, cheeks slick with tears and wayward spit. When he batters forward, it amalgamates in the soft palate beneath your spasming tongue. When he draws out, he takes it with him, viscous strings of saliva bridging the gap. It streams down to your neck, glosses your lips, webs your lashes together. You feel buried beneath its stifling coat, set down into your grave at last. Maggots worm their way into the soft matter of your brain, eat away at the tissue until there’s nothing left but suffocation. Death. Throttling void. 

Your hands flail out, seeking an end to it, but all you find is Ghost.

He slows down once he nears his end. 

The bruising pace he set stutters, balls tightening against your submental. It catches you off guard because, for the past ten minutes, you accustomed yourself to the patterns of his push and pull. For every plunge, there is a retreat, where you will greedily feast on fresh air before being choked back down on his cock. It is a break of tide, an opportunity to paddle your way above water to clear sea-salt from your hollows. A bay to hold onto so you do not drown.

Until now; his forearms twitch and you’re kept in place, forehead squashed onto his mons. You panic, hold on your breath breaking. The heady scent of sweat sweeps over you, laced with the tart products of your mouth – saliva and blood from where your canine pierced your cheek. Prespend, too. The undiluted stink of him. Hair tickles your lips. Your cunt flares, sudden, slickening the chafe of your thighs, but the unwelcome arousal does nothing for you. 

He holds your head down and spurts his load into your gullet. 

There is no room to swallow. It goes in the wrong direction, then – upward – and out your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut, disgusted scream gargling around his throbbing appendage. Distress bloats your head, temples feverish and sweating, nails digging deep impressions into your palms. It’s futile. Useless. Nothing thwarts him but the last dregs of semen spitting out onto your tonsils, pumping himself dry until finally, finally–

Ghost pulls out. You collapse onto the carpet and hack up cum until your throat bleeds. 

The silence afterwards is mortifying, tension palpable enough to writhe up against. Drained, you’ve since pressed your cheek into the puddle of filth, urging pearlescent spend to seep into the fibres below. It'll be a nightmare to clean later, you process slowly. Perhaps you’ll use the bleach, and take the same sponge to your lips.

The monster above you tuts at the display, crouching to your level when you exhibit no interest in rising to his.  

“C’mon, sweet. Wouldn’t want to waste your dinner now.” 

But you’re too weak to lift your head. So Ghost gathers your hair, puppeteering – in a manner rather gentle for your assailant – until you can lap his essence off the floor. 

It tastes like raw venison. You snivel your thanks, and imagine it is exactly that.

i do not have a taglist. to be alerted when i update, please follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs.

[sasheneskywalker]

sladick explicit fic recs

To Conciliate a Tiger by Rubynye

Dick makes a deal. Slade gets a bargain.

E | Graphic Depictions Of Violence | Deathstroke/Nightwing, Slade Wilson/Dick Grayson

A Darker Stripe by Rubynye

It's been a long day, and it won't be over anytime soon.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Deathstroke/Nightwing, Slade Wilson/Dick Grayson

Twist in the Tail by Rubynye

Hell hath no fury like a supervillain scorned.

E | Graphic Depictions Of Violence | Deathstroke/Nightwing, Slade Wilson/Dick Grayson

In Flagrante Delicto by Petra Lemaitre (Petra), Rubynye

And if Slade had been quiet, Dick wouldn't be playing chess in the nude now.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Deathstroke/Robin I, Slade Wilson/Dick Grayson

Big, Bad by MissNaya

In order to keep Deathstroke from killing his current target, Dick has to agree to do something a little unorthodox.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Caught in Between by MissNaya

Dick, Jason, and Slade go cross-country in pursuit of a criminal they all have their sights set on. When Slade and Jason start to spend too much time together, Dick gets... frustrated.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd/Slade Wilson

Moonbound by MissNaya

Not only is Jason a werewolf, but Slade is, too. Dick wants answers, but in order to get them, he needs to stay the night with the pack. It doesn't take long for him to find out that there's more to being a werewolf than hunting and howling.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd/Slade Wilson

Merrier the More by MissNaya

Jason and Dick have a problem: Jason wants to teach Dick to come through prostate stimulation alone, but nothing they try seems to work.

Seems like it's time to bring in a third party.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd

bad desire by cheju

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Slade murmurs back absentmindedly, still focused on the knots at Grayson’s wrist.

Grayson makes another one of those sounds, somewhere between a gasp and a cough, like he’s trying to simultaneously swallow and eject something stuck in the back of his throat. “Jesus, kid, what the fuck is it this time?” Slade says.

“Yes,” Grayson chokes out. “What the fuck it is is yes, I’d like that, and stop asking me questions.”

-

Dick gets truth serum’d. Slade does not, in fact, stop asking him questions.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

a knife, baby, edgy and dull by cheju

Slade’s presence should be unsettling, and it is – don’t get him wrong. But it’s also finally something happening, a chance for Dick to work off some of this tension. He’d be lying if he said a part of him wasn’t itching for the fight he knows is coming.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

down together by cheju

I can help you, says Dick. I won’t let you, says Slade. Then they fuck nasty about it.

An alternate ending to Slade's attack on Titans Tower in Dark Crisis #2.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

listen to teeth by cheju

It usually goes like this: Slade teasing him, Dick responding in kind, until one of them backs down from the ledge they always seem to be teetering on. But today Dick is so not in the mood to be teased, still a bit prickly from his mission’s failure. Still trying not to think about how many bodies must be outside this room.

Dick's failing his mission, can't get out of his handcuffs, and guess who walks in the door. Just fucking guess.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

diesis by cheju

Dosed with Poison Ivy's pollen, Jason is losing control fast. Dick takes him to the closest safehouse he knows of and prays its owner won't show up. (His prayers go unanswered.)

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

dark corner by cheju

“I don’t think it’s a failure of imagination,” Slade says. “No, I’d say it’s a failure of desire. Why imagine what you would do to me when you’d much rather imagine what I would do to you?”

-

Robin visits Slade in jail. It doesn’t go as planned.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

fly on the wall by cheju

It’s just Cal’s luck that he’s on guard duty when Deathstroke the freakin’ Terminator comes to rescue their prime hostage. But Richard Grayson doesn’t exactly seem happy to be rescued. In fact, he’s being... snippy? And Deathstroke... isn’t shooting his brains out for it?

Who the hell are these people?

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Rescued Slut Thanks His Studly Savior by cheju

Kidnapped heartthrob Dick Grayson is in a lot of trouble—until bad boy beefcake Deathstroke the Terminator comes to the rescue. But his help doesn’t come free! Luckily, our grateful hunk is eager to reward his well-endowed savior…

Watch More Free XXX Videos On BatTube! The web’s hottest destination for things that go hump in the night.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

daredevil cartwheel by cheju

“You wouldn’t,” Dick says. Slade is bluffing, but it’s a damn good bluff, because Dick’s body still hasn’t got the memo—heart racing, breath coming quick, goosebumps dancing down his arms.

Slade leans his solid weight over Dick’s back, breath hot and promising against his ear. “But it would be so easy.”

-

Slade teaches Dick a lesson in self-defense.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

the paper-thin line by wingdingery

After Dick interferes with Slade’s job in Gotham (which, to be fair, he’d only done because Slade interfered with his first), he decides the best way to prevent future retaliation is to strike a deal: if Slade agrees to leave Gotham alone, then Dick will stay with him alone for one night, and no matter what Slade does, he won’t run.

Though that doesn’t mean Dick is going to go down without a fight.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

in the night we burn by wingdingery

Slade knows there’s no way in hell that someone like him should ever even dream about touching someone like Richard Grayson, and running into an alternate dimension version of them that’s for some godforsaken reason a couple isn’t going to change his mind.

Unfortunately, it seems like it might be changing Grayson’s.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson/Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson/Slade Wilson

no stopping ('til I break every rule) by wednesday

Dick can hear Deathstroke lazily walking down the line of handcuffed, terrified hostages trying to shuffle back even closer to the wall. He already knows where this is going.

There’s not enough time to decide which would look less suspicious—looking up or not. Slade grabs Dick’s hair and pulls him up, leaving him no choice but to move forward until he’s kneeling at Slade’s feet. He can hear shuddery sighs of relief from the other hostages and can’t blame them.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

reset the count by wednesday

Being kidnapped as Richard Grayson is mostly mind-numbingly boring, right up until Deathstroke shows up.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

that line of rage and romance by wednesday

It’s not that Dick has come here lightly—he considered and discarded a lot of options before he got to ‘release dangerous superpowered villain that almost destroyed the whole universe back into the world’ in his list.

But there’s something that feels almost inevitable about this. Like he was going to end up here, making this mistake from the moment Slade flashed through his thoughts as a possible ally.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

take the offer that wasn't made by wednesday

“That’s not what my contract is about.” Slade sounds out of breath, but not angry; if anything, he sounds smug. Dick’s thoughts screech to an unexpected halt. The arm around his neck tightens, making him lightheaded.

And for the first time since Dick found out Deathstroke had taken a contract in his city, Dick feels real panic, like white noise spreading through his veins. There’s a sting right above the collar of his costume, and Dick spends the last ten seconds before the tranquilizer knocks him out drowning in waves of fresh fear.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

put a gun in my hand by wednesday

“Uh oh,” Nightwing says when he looks up and sees Slade. He freezes, halfway to pushing himself up off the now unconscious guard. “Oops?”

Slade growls at him and wishes he didn’t have his mask on so Grayson could see exactly how close to murdering him Slade feels. Except not, because his mask is covered in splashes of the drugs that were supposed to be his paycheck and are now a collection of broken glass and violently luminescent slush.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

in every end (we start) by wednesday

At first, when he gets dragged downstairs and towards a metal door that screams cell, he’s relieved. They’ll leave him alone and he’ll be out in no time. Easy.

Then the badly suppressed fear and nervousness of the alpha guard a few feet away from the door registers. Followed by the impressive blood splatters on the floor and walls.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

this vice, this temptation by wednesday

Dick gets drugged during a party and finds a solution that might be his worst idea yet. But really, staying in the company of Deathstroke should work wonders at keeping everyone else away.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

counting all the lines (all your sweet lies) by wednesday

“Slade!” Dick exclaims cheerfully, and feels his own grin widen at the choking noise behind him. He sashays right to Slade’s table. “Fancy meeting you here!”

“You do not want to do that,” Slade says quietly enough that only Dick can hear him. He looks amused, though, and a quick look at the table makes it clear he’s eating alone. Perfect.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

can't help but be wrong in the night by wednesday

“Richard,” says a familiar voice to the accompanying tune of irregular gunshots. The shock of hearing this particular unexpected voice makes Dick overbalance and roll off the cushions and right onto the floor.

A burst of what sounds like machine gun fire brings him back to the real issue.

“Slade?” he asks, feeling a completely reasonable amount of apprehension settle in his gut. It can’t be anyone else, but Slade Wilson calling him doesn’t seem very plausible. The background noise is a cause for concern as well, but not more than the call itself.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Interlude by wednesday

On one hand, Slade has done his part as agreed, and owes Grayson nothing. On the other hand, Nightwing’s been less annoying than usual, and gracefully agreed to not involve the Bat, who would have snarled and bitched about Slade anywhere near his territory and fucked with his contract on principle, so Slade is feeling charitable.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Play-acting by wednesday

Dick being undercover as omega goes a lot further than planned.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

placed a gamble by wednesday

It’s clear the kid realizes he’s made a mistake the moment the cuff clicks closed on Slade’s wrist. Cuffing them together is inventive, Slade will give him that, but there’s a reason no one else has tried restraining him in this particular way.

---

Deathstroke and Nightwing, handcuffed together in a snow storm.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Break the Fall by wednesday

Getting rescued does not make Dick's situation better, not at first.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

for every mistake by wednesday

His first mistake, and Dick should absolutely have known it would end up being a mistake the moment he thought of doing it, is inviting himself back to Slade’s safehouse.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

shimmer silent by wednesday

Slade doesn’t stop at just crowding. He invades Dick’s space until there’s no air left between them. Until he’s pressed against Dick, tightly, shoulder to thigh. And kisses Dick.

Well, kiss isn’t an adequate description of the mess of violence, lust and tongue that happens. And biting. There’s biting going on, and that’s what kind of shocks Dick back into action. He bites back and pushes Slade away. What the hell?

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

still counting on my worst behavior by wednesday

Two steps from the door he freezes. There’s a feeling of being watched that he’s too well trained to miss. He puts on his friendliest smile and turns around.

“Looking for something, kid?”

Deathstroke in full armor, just the mask missing, is standing across the room, hands crossed and looking at Dick.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

ain't lived if you've got no regrets by wednesday

Around the time he’s trying to decide if some friendly chatting would make his chances of escape better or much worse, something smashes through the roof of the warehouse.

Someone, he realizes just a moment later. Before that someone even hits the ground, Dick recognizes him and regrets the lack of a panic button an order of magnitude harder. Because he can definitely feel some panic right about when Deathstroke starts shooting while still airborne.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Sabotage by wednesday

Too exhausted to fight, Dick discovers there is another way to distract Deathstroke from his contract. He really should have stopped after the first time.

***

Five times Dick uses unconventional sabotage methods and one time he doesn't.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

turn up the cards by wednesday

Dick smiles at the frazzled-looking girl by the register, most likely unused to the influx of customers that keep coming in and not leaving. He’s about to order, when he notices the one table that only has a single customer sitting at it. There’s a buffer of space around him, like everyone can feel some kind of aura of danger surrounding him and are choosing to keep their distance from him, from—a man with white hair.

Goddamn.

The warm cozy holiday-like feeling Dick was getting into evaporates.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

only on my knees by wednesday “He’s given me too much trouble to risk keeping him around. It’s not like he’s going to talk.”

Maybe Dick could pretend to spill some information, pretend he’s finally scared. He’s not sure he can make it convincing even now when he actually is concerned about getting killed here.

“That seems like a waste,” Slade drawls and—is suddenly too close, his armored body pressing up against Dick’s back. Dick loses his balance, but Slade keeps him right where he is with a hand on his throat. “Look at him, I bet he’d love some entertainment after spending so much time all alone down here.”

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-con | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

long way up by wednesday Slade is furious. But he's already let his emotions get the better of him, and not even a hundred thousand corpses helped him win that battle of wills against Grayson. Slade doesn't make the same mistake twice.

He might end up making new ones, though.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

descent/ascent by wednesday Slade ends up in Gotham far more often than is good for his sanity. Gotham must hate him at least as much as he hates Gotham. But he can't not investigate when he hears Nightwing is dead.

E | Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Smokescreen by wednesday He’d never in a million years do this with Deathstroke, except it’s exactly what Dick is doing now. Couldn’t stop now even if he wanted to. The skin to kin contact feels like a leash, a whirlpool dragging Dick in and drowning him in the sharpness of every exaggerated sensation.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

my lucky stars by withthekeyisking

Dick ruins one of Deathstroke's contracts, costing the mercenary half a million dollars. And Slade is damn sick and tired of Nightwing always getting in his way. Seems it's time to teach the little bird a lesson that might actually stick.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

The Irony of Life by withthekeyisking

Dick starts working at the strip club because of a case; he doesn't expect to run into Deathstroke the Terminator of all people while working.

Slade just wants to do his damn job; he's not expecting the perk that comes with it.

E | Underage | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

More Than What You Paid For by withthekeyisking

Slade only wanted to scratch an itch after a very long and grueling job. He didn't expect to have to face an assassination attempt from a prostitute.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Easily Worth by withthekeyisking

Dick is desperate to rescue his brother.

Slade is...an option.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Close Encounters by withthekeyisking

Running into Deathstroke at a BDSM was not the plan, but it seems to have an upside.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Guys My Age by withthekeyisking

Dick enjoys his frenemies with benefits arrangement with Midnighter. He enjoys the same such arrangement with Slade. He never thought it would be possible to mix the two, but it seems they're full of surprises.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Midnighter/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Midnighter

A Little Touch of Skill by withthekeyisking

When Dick and Slade run into Rick Flag while working on a joint mission, Dick sees no problem with teaming up with the man, considering they're all going after the same target. He should've accounted for Slade's possessiveness, though.

Or maybe he should've just relied on Slade's competency kink smoothing everything over.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Rick Flag/Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Rick Flag/Dick Grayson, Rick Flag/Slade Wilson

Eyes on You by withthekeyisking

Dick is counting the seconds until this mission is over and he can get the hell away from Deathstroke and Talia al Ghul, and all the danger and weird flirting therein.

The hotel they stay in the last night of their mission only has one bed, but that won't have any impact on the situation, right?

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Talia al Ghul/Slade Wilson, Talia al Ghul/Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Stopped Using My Head by withthekeyisking

Slade returns to Jump City after an extended period away, and his first stop is to check in on his favorite bird—not that said bird is doing too well at the moment.

Or, Slade's a smug bastard and Robin is getting the full force of that.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

A Memorable Send-Off by Skalidra

The first that Dick hears of the contract out on Nightwing's head, it's at the end of a long night, and with Slade's gun in his face. Slade doesn't have any intention of letting someone else claim the reward, but there's still a chance for Dick to make it out of the whole situation. If he can be... distracting enough.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Scripted Negotiations by Skalidra

The film was only ever supposed to be a one time thing, for Dick. An exorcism of one of his darkest teenage fantasies, played out in a relatively risk-free setting to get it out of his system, so he can put it behind him. Nothing was ever actually going to happen with the real Deathstroke, and no one else would ever find out about it. Problem solved.

Until he gets an offer to film a sequel.

(Slade's not expecting to find the real Nightwing starring in some C-grade porn flick, but when an opportunity drops itself in his lap like that, well... How can he not take advantage?)

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Taking Charge by firefright, Skalidra

Jason has a strict policy when it comes to his clients: no surprises. But there's one, Slade Wilson, who always seems to delight in pushing his boundaries. Never more so than when, on what should be an ordinary appointment, he brings along his partner, Dick Grayson, without calling ahead. One alpha at a time Jason can handle, but two? That might take a little more work.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd/Slade Wilson

Accidental Discovery by firefright, Skalidra

“Jason,” Dick says slowly, a little dazed as he straightens back up from retrieving Jason’s phone after accidentally knocking it down onto the carpeted floor of his safehouse, “Why do you have Slade Wilson’s number saved on your phone under the name ‘Daddy’?”

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Jason Todd/Slade Wilson

Lax by meaninglessblah

"You could fit anything inside me right now," Dick says, giggling around another drag on the blunt between his lips, "I'm so relaxed." "Bet," Slade answers.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

I'm Afraid Of All I Am (My Mind Feels Like A Foreign Land) by meaninglessblah

Dick, at his emotional low point, seeks out Slade for a scene.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Target Practice by meaninglessblah

Slade goes to buy a new gun, and Dick helps him test the merchandise.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Extraction by meaninglessblah

"You're familiar with the lay of the land. You've got experience with Mister Minos." Dick gets the impression he's missing the inside joke when she adds, "And you know the mark."

Dick frowns, thinking back to his time with Spyral and its many faceless agents. "Professionally?"

"Intimately," Adeline corrects.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Adeline Kane Wilson/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Adeline Kane Wilson

Takedown by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)

Deathstroke's heavy armor digs painfully into the sore muscles of Dick's back, flattening him against the bricks. Caught, literally, between rocks and a hard place.

Under Dick's ribs, his heart beats a frantic song of fear and exertion.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

he who thinks he knows no fear by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)

That dizzying sensation that feels a little like stepping up onto a platform to take a leap without a net underneath isn't quite fear, and Dick likes the thrill too much not to chase it.

Four times when Dick isn't afraid - even though he should be - and one time he is.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Mutually Beneficial by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)

"Slade? What the—"

"Quiet," he orders, not bothering with an explanation.

He clamps his hand around the back of Grayson's neck and gives it a rough squeeze in warning. Under his thumb, he can feel the kid's pulse jump, fast and erratic like a bird.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

A Very Good Bad Thing by Disniq

"Dick should… He should go. He should—

But… that’s Slade. Wilson. And Dick… Dick can’t leave Jason alone with Deathstroke the fucking Terminator.

Pressing back into the shadows, Dick reassures himself that he’s just making sure his brother is safe.

That’s all."

For YOTP2023 - December prompts: holidays together | crack treated seriously | moving in together | "That's my favourite thing about you" | forgiveness | tattoo/flower shop au

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd/Slade Wilson

Warm Me Up In A Nova's Glow by Disniq

Initially, Jason had thought having Nightwing tag along with Red Hood and Deathstroke would put a damper on what is usually an unrestrained riot of a time, but it turned out he was worrying over nothing.

And Jason has never been happier to be wrong.

For DickJay Week 2023 - Day 1 prompt: Praise Kink

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Jason Todd/Slade Wilson

a matter of perspective by nightcycles

Dick has a problem. Slade decides to provide a solution. It’s not a solution that Dick wants—but, apparently, the fact that he doesn’t want it is the point.

E | Rape/Non-Con | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, minor Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne

verisimilitude by nightcycles

Once it’s clear Lex’s Secret Society of Supervillains is poised to take over the world, Bruce decides to infiltrate them by faking his death and taking on the identity of Owlman, his supposed killer. Dick refuses to let him do it alone—even if it means taking on a role neither of them would have ever wanted for him.

E | Rape/Non-Con | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne

Open up and swallow on your knees by Naphorism

“It’s just business, kid.” Slade shrugs, brushing his fingers through Dick’s hair with surprising gentleness. “A deal’s a deal. You give me something, I give you something.”

“What more do you want?” Dick croaks. His eyes look even shinier than they were just a moment ago as he gazes up at Slade, but it could be a trick of the light.

“What are you willing to give?” Slade counters with a smirk, the camera behind Dick catching the mean glint in his eye in perfect resolution.

“Anything.”

E | Rape/Non-Con | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

The thing that keeps you up at night by Naphorism

When Dick falls asleep, Robin dreams.

E | Rape/Non-Con, Underage | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Slip ‘n’ Slide by Nightwang

“The first thing Slade noticed was that his safehouse had been broken into. The second was the smell - rich caramel and underneath something a little spicier that he couldn’t quite identify. Omega. An in heat omega.”

For the SladeRobin Week prompt Same Dynamic Omegaverse.

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Ready or Knot by Nightwang

"Dick wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up here, in a safe house on the edge of Bludhaven with Slade Wilson pressing him up against the wall, but he wasn’t complaining."

For the SladeRobin Weekend prompt Omegaverse

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

A Little Fun And Violence by Nightwang ‘“I need -“ another thick swallow “- I need to ask you a favour.”

Slade quirks a brow. He has some idea of where this is going. There’s not many reasons for Grayson to have sought him out so deep into rut.’

For the Slade/Robin Day 1 prompt: “You’re the only person I could ask for this.”

E | Graphic Depictions Of Violence | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

New tricks by chinuplargepup (chinuplilpup) Dick has never had an alpha in his heat. Or, an alpha has never had him.

Slade changes lanes on the freeway aggressively and Dick slides around in the back of the van, unable to brace himself with his bound hands.

He is so fucked.

E | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

i'm at your service // curing my stage fright (killing me slowly) by Anonymous When Dick comes to Slade, asking Slade to bitch him into an omega, Dick refuses to give his reason why. If it means fucking Dick Grayson until he breaks though, Slade's pretty sure he doesn't need a reason.

-

Omega Dick Week 2024 - Day 6: Bitching

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

you stole me from myself and i can’t breathe (you are the shiver in my blood and my bones) by Anonymous Slade needs something from Dick. And he'll take it one way or another. If Dick won't let Slade use his hole, then Slade can just make another.

-

SladeRobin Week 2024 - Day 1: “You’re the only person I could ask for this."

E | Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Irresistible by Anonymous

A hit is put out for Detective Dick Grayson to be raped in his own home. Nightwing sees the contract and decides to leave it up when he sees Deathstroke is the one that took it. Based on a prompt from the DC kinkmeme!

E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

[fraugwinska]

Part 2 of the Alchemist series - No smut today,but I had this idea in my head and couldn't continue NOT writing it. And don't worry - those two will have time enough in Part 3 for some biological studies! :> TW: Emotional turmoils, Graphic depictions of torture and violence Read at your own discretion. As always minors - please exit to the right, DNI, this is an 18+ space

Your assistant flinched when you threw another rack of test tubes against the walls, the black, polished tiles to your feet covered in shards of glass and bubbling, oil-like liquids.

"M-Ma'am, please, ", she pleaded, kneading the pink, naked tail that peeked out of her lab coat nervously in her hands while she backed away as your grabbed the big Erlenmeyer flask still sitting over the bunsen burner, fizzing as if in mockery. "i-it's better than number 52. Isn't that progress...?"

Failed. Again, you had failed.

"Idiots call it progress...", You held the flask up, cold flames of renewed anger licking down your spine. "I call it A FUCKING DISGRACE!"

The rat demon squeaked when the glass crashed on the floor as you howled in frustration, the black gas that evaporated with a hiss and the dark purple flames the substance evoked enough to make her run out the door and out of the laboratory with a sob, the sound of her heels clicking in the hallway a grim farewell and final goodbye to a fairly good assistant.

You slumped back against a work bench and put your hands in the pockets of your coat, struggling with your breathing to calm down. The painful hunger in you scratched at your insides, this insatiable need that appeared ever since...

Ever since you returned to your laboratory that day, ever since your last encounter with the Radio Demon. The image of Alastor and his shadow flashing up in front of you. How you were deceived and subdued by him, outsmarted by him and most humiliating, how you had liked it. It should've left nothing but disdain and anger inside you, instead it left an aching want, a restless desire for filling the gaping hole of knowledge you had been faced with as well as your paradox craving for another fight ending inevitably into your submission. Defiant to do something about the latter, you had begun to at least try to satisfy the first.

You were usually okay with failure as part of the scientific progress. A failed experiment only meant an additional tool in your hand on your surefire way to success. But never did success seem so impossible to you. Every new try of recreating the shadows that had so efficiently overpowered you felt like a rerun of your previous one. You had exhausted your knowledge, rewritten the same hypotheses over and over and burned through five assistants since. These angry outbursts were so unlike you - but as the number of failed experiments rose so did your temper, and the higher your anger, the harder it became to concentrate.

Alastor haunted your mind, infiltrated your rationale with images of a teasing smile, flesh threatening to burst beneath black and sharp claws, burning red eyes staring at you from the wet heat of your core. You hadn't eaten in two weeks, hadn't slept in nearly as long, had spent all your waking hours locked away in here in a futile attempt of fleeing these emotions that were so obstructive to your work. You were obsessively reading your books, furiously rereading your notes, desperately starting test after test, trial after trial to try and satiate this thirst only to be left even more parched. You knew it wouldn't be long before you inevitably would have to drink, even if you knew it waould be poison.

"I can't go on like this..." you sighed into the deafening silence of your laboratory.

There was a certain pep in the Radio Demon's step as he walked through the streets of the Pentagram, humming to himself as sinners parted and hid away wherever he went. Alastor reached into the inside breast pocket of his overcoat, unfolding the little note that had sent him in high spirits and rereading it with impish glee.

'To: The Radio DemonRegarding: Our most recent encounter

Alastor, I hope this note will find you well. I'd like to discuss the possibility of a mutually beneficial arrangement regarding our personal and professional feud. If you agree to a meeting, a table at RAUM in the Entertainment District will be reserved tomorrow at 9 p.m. PST (Pride Standard Time)

Best Regards,The Alchemist'

He laughed to himself at the forced choice of words, the tenseness evident in every neatly drawn letter and the obvious refusal of showing even one hint of familiarity. He had known he'd just have to give the proverbial ball a little nudge - his little note so easily snuck into her lab coat by his shadow companion - and let it roll, patiently waiting long enough to see it finally crush the prideful, stubborn resistance of the little sinner known as The Alchemist in the end. Although, he had to admit it took longer than he had expected.

His spies had been useful in keeping track of her ego crumbling - the chimp, roach and gerbil sinners that she hired as assistants all painted him the same picture - that the poor woman descended more and more into restless obsession by trying day and night to solve the mystery of his shadowy companion. The last one of her henchmen, a meek little rat girl, added a curious detail to the usual report that had Alastor's self-confidence booming: That, on the rare occasion that she fell asleep on her workbench, the Alchemist seemed to writhe and whimper - calling out a name.

His name.

He could hear it, her voice, the usual dismissive contempt replaced with poorly repressed desire and urgency, breathing his name while rendered helpless and at the mercy of his hands and tongue. What a rush it had been, to see his rival and latest person of interest fall apart under his doing, breaking her stoic and methodical facade to reveal the raw and weak creature she was deep down. What a divine image, seeing the haughty, refractory Alchemist beneath him, squirming and gasping and panting beneath his touch that she begged for, seeing and feeling her whole body turn against her, reduced to a groaning heap. How delicious it had tasted, not just her, but the satisfaction in knowing he'd forever carry the taste of her and his victory.

But when the moment approached to end her, to finally wipe her off the face of hell, it spoiled in his mouth, turning from sweet into bitter. He had planned it to be his grand finale: To kill her after showing her blatant inadequacy compared to him, bound by his shadow and thoroughly humiliated - But he found himself unable to.

Rosie was the only one he told about that day, and her reply to his retelling had him brooding ever since.

"You know, Alastor - The only difference between hate and love is that hatred doesn't fear the death of the one at our mercy."

He had almost cursed at his oldest friend. The ridiculous idea alone was unsettling. Alastor never had interest in the concept of loving something or someone - he had felt no need to either. The methods he used were chosen due to this wretched urge he felt every time she had crossed his path. He hadn't been unfamiliar with these emotions stirring in him - but the intensity of them had him struggle, had him furious at the effect she had on everything that made him the powerful, ruthless overlord that he had become. To think this unhealthy fascination with her powers, how riled up and agitated he got just seeing her in her resulote disinterest in power or status, the joy he felt sparring with her as she held her fort against him had been anything other than feelings of rivalry. But hell had a habit of twists like this - that what he thought was hatred turned out just the opposite. He still wasn't certain how he'd handle this predicament, but her note had been the perfect catalyst to explore the potential this little change held for him.

Just as the clock tower of Pride's main city began to strike nine, his destination so close - Something wrapped around his ankles and wrists, and hadn't Alastor been so lost in his thoughts he would've had enough time and mind to dodge the cables that had slithered towards him. A second too late he realized just what building he was in front of, before he was violently dragged by the electrified strings, out of the street and into the darkness behind the blue sliding doors of 'VoxTech Enterprises'.

"I thought" he heard a familiar, suave voice resounding in the pitch black darkness around him as the doors slid close, dripping of malicious glee that had Alastor furious behind his smiling mask "that with old age comes wisdom, Al. Seems you've skipped that phase and went straight to senile."

Alastor heard Vox's laugh, amplified from every direction. His hands and feet were spread apart, leaving him hanging with no sense of direction or solid ground beneath him. Without light, summoning his shadow was a useless endeavor - one of the only things Alastor regrettably shared with what was once a trusted partner not too long ago. And the only light was the laughably negligible red glow of his eyes, losing the battle against the black void around him. His best bet was to be buying time, so he decided to humor the fool until chance would show itself.

"Ah, no, I do quite remember your lack of imagination when it comes to these sorts of affairs." Alastor chuckled, a slight static distortion lacing his voice as the anger within him grew. "Glad to see that's at least one thing that hasn't changed."

Electricity burst from the wires that pulled him even further apart, sending shockwaves through him as Alastor's smile widened at Vox's inability to hide his rage.

"Mighty cocky for someone who's got his ass on the line, eh, old pal?" in the distance, a screen turned on, dim and flickering, showing the face of the smirking tv demon. "Tell me, Al, was it just stupidity that brought you right to my doorstep? Or did you already miss me that much?"

Alastor laughed mockingly, concentrating enough to at least create a shadow in the weak light around Vox's screen to smash it in before it dsappeared. "If I recall correctly, you were the one begging me not to leave, Voxxy. How is your face these days, by the way?"

The screen flickered as Vox's eyes went wild. "You motherf-"

"As to what brought me to these parts of our illustrious city," Alastor continued, gritting his teeth as another surge of electricity shot down his spine, making his shoulders jerk painfully in the tight cable's grip. "I was on my way to meet someone who is actually worth my while."

"Oh yeah? Well, they can send me a Thank-You-Note for saving them the disappointment your 'while' would've brought them." Vox sneered, a mocking smile appearing on the broken screen as he bared his teeth in a snarl. "Face it - You're done, Al. Finished. You can't do shit in here. I created this room specifically for you to die in - thanks for the intel, by the way. And believe me - I could kill you here and now, get rid of a fucking nuisance for everybody, and be called a hero for it. But for old time's sake, I'll offer you my deal once more." His joints cracked under the pressure of the pulling cables, and Alastor yanked in cold fury at them. Vox's voice was saturated with sadistic glee. "Join my team, be my second in command, my real partner this time and not a fucking uptight coward, and I'll spare you the humiliation of a slow, torturous and publicly viewed dea..."

A sudden boom had the cables and the screen shake and flicker, the image of Vox's face breaking up in pixels. Alastor felt his chest filling with a sudden eager anticipation of what - or who - the source of that explosion might've been. With a hiss, Vox's screen was restored to full resolution again, but his eyes were wide in confusion. "What the fuck was that?"

Alastor's laughter echoed across the room as another, louder explosion followed, along with panicked screams of pain and horror and he smiled over to the shocked overlord, heart beating with feverish euphoria. If the intensity of the detonations were any indicator, he was about to see a marvelous show of what true power looked like.

"It seems, old pal, that my date has arrived."

Vox didn't get to say anything else before one of the walls burst into its components and the room filled with the bright light of the neon signs illuminating the district, and amidst the clouds of dust settling, stood his darling alchemist. Her lab coat was stained in every beautiful shade of red, face and skin smeared with soot and the remnants of blood that wasn't hers, a look in her eyes that was so unhinged it made him shudder with all kinds of arousal, the aura around her glowing in a dangerous toxic green. Although her chest was heaving, there was no trace of exhaustion to her, only pure, cold rage.

"What the hell is going on? And who the fuck are you?!"

She didn't pay Vox any attention, walking up to Alastor as he ripped the remaining bits and pieces of cords and cables from his arms, her heels clacking loudly on the polished concrete floor.

"You are right on time, darling."

"And you were not - our table was canceled." Alastor had to refrain himself from giggling in feverish excitement as she walked past him, towards the stunned television demon that had been thrown into the back of the room by the force of the explosion and now leaned with his back against the wall, his expression mortified behind the cracked, flickering screen.

“Polyethylene, glass, sauter, copper, lead, platinum, silicone." Her voice was cold and calculating, each word a step closer and Vox shrunk away further into the wall behind him. Her face was neutral, a mask devoid of emotion and any trace of empathy or emotion, but her eyes sparkled full of life and fire. "But even though there are so many valuable building blocks in your electronic equipment - I can't say I appreciate the use."

She put her palm over Vox's monitor in an almost comforting gesture, her lips curling into a cruel smile as his casing started to melt and Vox screamed.

"Especially when it leaves me hungry and waiting for my dinner partner."

Alastor marveled at the beauty and precision of her strength and the effortless way she wielded it, her mind calculating every atom of Vox's technology, rendering the presumptous perfection of hell's television and phone industry to a wailing mess, his limbs and body twitching helplessly at the mercy of her touch, screen flickering with increasing speed the more damage she did. His pulse quickened, blood rushed deafeningly loud through his ears - She was dangerous and cruel and she was perfect, she was everything and so, so much more of anything he imagined and hoped her to be.

She let off Vox, his face half gone, his remaining speakers whimpering in agony and body trembling as she stood upright, looking down at the demon in disgust.

"Repeat this mistake and I will make sure I'll be there to slowly and painfully disintegrate you every time you start to respawn anew, Television Demon."

Alastor appeared beside her, making use of his shadows now that the requirement of light was covered, looking at the beaten form of his unfortunate rival with an amused laugh before taking his little alchemist's hand, breathing a kiss onto it with a smile.

"I apologize for the missed reservation, darling, but we can't have you left starving, can we? How about we relocate to my townhouse - I'll whip up a nice Pain Perdu while we discuss your... proposal, yes?"

When her face turned to him, her features slightly softened around the edges - barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but all too obvious to him, who had thought, dreamt and obsessed over her likeness enough times to see every tiny shift in her expression, even those one could interpret as her rare, discreet show of joy.

"I suppose that's an acceptable compromise."

It made the gnawing hunger inside him become all the more insatiable when she let him pull her closer, her hand still in his - warm and stained with remnants of Vox's fluids. He gave her the brightest of smiles as the destroyed room filled with radio static and his shadows swirled and wrapped themselves around them, shooting his wounded, rancorous ex-companion a sneering smile.

"I, again, have to disrespectfully decline your offer, my dear Vox. I'd rather invest my time into more..." He looked back at her, giving her an intense, heated gaze he refused to hide anymore, and the smile lingering on her lips growing into one that was just as sharp as his, and yet so much more endearing given its rarity. "...innovative propositions, I think is the right word."

Within a moment, the black swirls faded into the night, leaving nothing but the echo of his laughter and the shuddering, crying mess of the tv overlord behind.

Tagging for scientific purposes (based on comments/reblogs): @minkdelovely @macabr3-barbi3 @depressinglyobsessed @tywrites @mydickisjuicy

@littlebluefishtail @catticora @cosmiccandydreamer @anngray1369 @angeldustharmony

@jurijyuu @liz776 @selenezq

[dootznbootz]

I don't think Greek Mythology retellings/adaptions/inspired/etc. are necessarily "evil"...but I DO think people REALLY need to understand that there's a huge difference between the actual mythology and certain media.

I feel like people have to basically do a "Fandom ___" to say the different versions. Like "PJO ___", "Hades game ___", "TSOA ___". For it to be understood that these depictions are DIFFERENT. I'm saying this as someone who grew up reading PJO and still has a soft spot for it. But as someone who really loves Greek Mythology as well, I sometimes get really SAD.

I'm going to use the comparison of Howl's Moving Castle with it's Book Vs. Movie. I enjoy both!!! But they are honestly very different. In the movie there is no "sister swap", Markle isn't a young teenager, Sophie doesn't throw weed killer at Howl, and many more moments. But I enjoy both because even though there are changes they still keep components that are ingrained into the characters!

In some Greek Myth retellings/adaptations/stories/etc., characters are...SO different from the source material. That's fine...Choose what you want with your story... But folks should know that the modern adaptations are NOT the source material!!!

It bothers me that a lot of these wonderful myths and stories are twisted up and seen so differently because of a modern version of them. You can have that character be "awful" or a certain way in your story. But I almost feel that as fans, it's not good to generalize them or see it as "This is the truth". People are hating the mythological figure when it's only in that interpretation they are like that.

In PJO, Ares is "Zeus' favorite", isn't a good dad, a misogynist, etc. The actual myths? One of his Epithets is LITERALLY "Feasted by Women", in the Iliad everybody basically bullies him with Zeus literally saying he hates him. He cries when he learns one of his sons is killed in the war. He literally kills someone about to rape his daughter. Ares isn't perfect but it makes me sad with how he's viewed and talked about when it's only in PJO he's like that. Same with Dionysus. Read the Bacchae, you'll love it.

In Lore Olympus, Apollo rapes Persephone (noticing the fact that modern takes on the myths add rapes where there never were hmmmmm) when he never did in any of the myths.

In TSOA, Thetis is cruel when in the Iliad, she is such a loving mother to Achilles. She grieved alongside her son over Patroclus. Also with Agamemnon. In Ipheginia at Aulis, Agamemnon is a MESS. He adored his children.

In Circe, Odysseus is viewed as a selfish man who ONLY hurts others and doesn't care about his family when that is LITERALLY his one consistent character trait. HE is actually the one who is the victim of rape. Circe was never raped.

Medusa is only a victim in Ovid's, a Roman man, works. Not in GREEK mythology. She was just a cool monster. Leave Perseus alone. Poseidon and Medusa actually had a consensual relationship in Greek Mythology!

These adaptations/retellings/inspired by/etc. whatever anybody wants to call them, are not the real myths! They may be similar in some ways but to just generalize them or hate the deity/mythological figure because of something they did in the new media feels fucked up!

You can enjoy these new stories. There's nothing wrong with that!!! But know they're not the real myths. Maybe even label it as "I hate ____'s version of ____". As that makes it clear what version you're talking about.

[red-riding-wood]

Yellow Light

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x F!Reader

Summary: Jonathan is your guide as you escape Arkham Asylum.

Based off the song "Yellow Light" by Of Monsters and Men (original version here and acoustic version here). This song is really special to me and helped me brave my heart surgery in August. A lot of this fic is a projection of my own experiences, trauma, and health issues over the past several years -- but Arkham can represent absolutely anything you want it to that you or the character is trying to escape.

Song lyrics are in bold.

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, depictions of PTSD (hospital trauma specifically), drug addiction/use, psychosis, hallucinations, fear of death, blood.

Will also use similar themes to my upcoming series "Darkness Until Dawn" and OC Cassie Hart but this is a standalone x reader fic.

I also feel like Crane might come across a bit OOC in this fic because he's in an established relationship with the reader and he's in a comforting role, but I promise I have some very fucked-up stuff for him coming up where he's an absolute menace.

WC: 3309

Sounds of Hell threaded themselves into the night air. Howling, bleating, baying down the streets. Whispering thoughts of death into your ears. Thoughts that formed into icy talons that raked down your spine, that stirred goosebumps along the bare flesh of your arms. That froze you in place, your heart slamming against your ribs as they tethered you to the cold concrete like vines.

Frantic looks cast to your left, to your right, you turned, stumbling over your own feet as you whirled, the darkness of each alleyway sinking into your soul. Staring back at you as if to say, you cannot escape me.

I’m looking for a place to start. Everything feels so different now.

Which way was out? Which way was back there? Back to the dingy halls of Arkham, the acrid stench of spoiled cafeteria food, the howling of patients that still seemed to echo back to you from the alleys.

The maw of a great beast parted, razors of teeth glinting silver in the dark, stretching from one brick wall to another. Hurtling towards you, wisps of black smoke emerging from the darkness and curling round you like hissing tongues. The roar started as a peal of thunder, and ended as a shockwave, razor teeth shattering into glass as the beast collided against your skull. Dizzying waves sent the world spinning, brought you to your knees before the Devil himself.

She’s good as dead.

The beast’s maw burned hot as hellfire, breathing smoke into your aching lungs, ripples of molten lava racing beneath your skin. Teeth tore into your shoulder as your hand met the ground, shaking fingers settling into the grooves of the concrete like cold tiles. Death’s talons wrapped around your throat as a cry twisted from your larynx, pointed nails morphing to scalpels and tearing down your sternum, splitting open your ribs and baring your bleeding heart.

Crimson freckled the concrete, splatters of your blood landing hot and thick against the back of your hand as cold washed over each limb, the darkness creeping in from the corners of the alleys. You reached your free hand to your forehead, and nearly cried out again in pain, but you couldn’t speak; something sharp wedged itself between your fingers, something sticky attaching webs of hair against your clammy palm.

Your hand came away with a shard of glass protruding from the stretch of skin between your fingers, red dribbling down flesh too pale to be living.

Your stomach buckled, and you curled in on yourself, eyes rolling to the back of your throbbing skull and voices pouring in like a tide.

Get back here! She’s running. Running away. Where does she think she’s going? She’s not going anywhere. She can’t escape us. You can’t escape us.

Patients rattled the bars of their cages, threw themselves against their padded walls. Screeched warnings and mournful wails and haunted cries into the stale air of the hospital, into the icy chill of night.

Fingers seized into talons as they closed around your ears, attempting to block out the noise as it built into a terrifying crescendo, wails and whispers melding together as if the darkness were mocking you but the chill that swathed your impotent form reminded you of your isolation.

GET OUT! your lips parted to say but fell silent upon the words of the damned. Let me go. Let me go, let me go.

Warmth brushed your shoulder, and you blinked saline from your eyes, streaking salt down your lip, dampened hair falling over blurry vision as you looked up to the hand held to you in the darkness. The white cuff of a shirt disappearing beneath a black suit.

Just grab hold of my hand. I will lead you through this wonderland.

And his voice, soft and warm and human, cut through the noise. Hollowed a path through the tunnel of voices and breathed life into lungs that gasped for air. Sent a tremble of fear through death’s icy talons and made the demons crawl back into the earth.

I’m here, he said.

You couldn’t straighten your claw-like grip as it brushed the warmth of his hand, but his fingers entwined in yours and the glass split his palm and bled over your knuckles and he pulled, your shoulder screaming in pain and your legs wobbly beneath you, but you stood.

Your fingers balled into a fist, the touch of his hand dissolving like a pill in water, like sutures that held you to together for one moment only to leave you in pieces, scarred and bruised and broken. For a moment, you thought you’d fall again.

Faintly, a glow emerged from the blackness, silhouetting the lazy fall of a feather, so tranquil in contrast to the tendrils of ink black that writhed in your peripheral. You swiped a hand out to the feather, its softness akin to his hand, but the voices hissed at you to look up.

The jagged peaks of the skyscrapers groaned above, folding in across the dim sky and curling into black tides that came crashing around you as pressure mounted in your skull.

The darkness devoured you. 

Water up to my knees. But sharks are swimming in the sea.

The ocean came flooding in around you, dampness seeping into the cuffs of your trousers, rising as the blackness pressed in around you. Ahead, the light glinted yellow, casting a thin line of white against the waves. The feather bobbed along the surface, chased by current that now buffeted the backs of your knees.

One foot placed before the other, you waded through the water, each step weighing heavier than the last. Each time, the light ahead grew just a little brighter, though the sides of your vision darker.

Wretched creatures began to emerge from the darkness, hissing and snarling and reaching for you in tendrils of smoke and ink. Gravity began to pull you downward, the current guiding you forwards as the alleyway morphed into a tunnel, and the voices of the underworld rang louder in your skull as you descended into the bowels of the city.

She’s heading into the darkness. The rot.

A giggle, echoing against the walls of the chamber that reeked of all things barren and desolate. Her mind’s a disease.

The reach of death grew thick here, in twisted ropes and vines that swallowed the arched ceiling, that bore down on you like snakes and streaked through the sea like eels of tar, the water itself no longer seeming so heavy in comparison as they engulfed each limb. Tightening. Shuddering.

She can’t get very far. She’s killing herself.

She has to. She has to live.

The voices were starting to argue.

Some were even voices you knew; they came to you past the iron bars nestled into pockets of your memories, depressions in the walls – people you’d known in that awful place cried out to you, cursed you, their faces fuzzy but still recognisable even in the darkness. Fellow souls trapped in the place that knew not of the sun’s warmth against your skin or the whistle of freedom through the wind.

Look. Look, girl.

Your brow furrowed, and your eyes scanned the darkness. With each face they landed on, the symphony of wails seemed to spike in volume along to the frantic thud of your heart, the little weaving line of a monitor etching itself across your mind’s eye.

Not there. No, not there.

Can’t she feel it?

It’s too late. The rot has her.

Soon it will reach her soul.

Your heart came lurching to a burning throat as the waters stirred and a creature emerged from their murky depths, slivers of metal protruding from its back before it disappeared, for half a moment resembling the wicked tips of syringes that still pricked your swiftly numbing skin.

Tearing your hands from the water, you froze, paralysis seeping in to every pore.

Ink tendrils snaked across the pallor of your flesh. From your fingertips to your elbows, the rot had taken you. It tightened round your forearm, your fingers turning completely numb.

You screamed.

Shhhhh, he soothed. Just come to me, darling. I’ll make it all better.

“JONATHAN!” Your mangled cry turned into something intelligible, the name sweet like honey on your tongue despite the bitterness of bile at the back of your throat.

Just follow my yellow light. And ignore all those big warning signs.

You began to slosh through the water, seeking him out in a frenzy, your teeth gritting as the walls of your skull began to cave in, as the rot spread to your shoulders and turned the water to pitch.

And at last, you saw him. Like the feather, silhouetted by the light, but unmistakably him. He paused, looking over his shoulder, strands of his black hair wisping this way and that. His face was shadowed, the sockets of his eyes black. The frames of his glasses glinted silver in the dark, like the teeth, the scalpels.

And he disappeared round the corner that twisted, walls shifting and shuddering as if forming a maze for a path.

Death’s icy fingers pried their way beneath your skin as the cold seeped past your blood and bones and settled somewhere deep inside the dwindling warmth of your soul. Freed from the water at last, you turned the corner and raised a rot-wreathed hand to the light fractured by a criss-cross pattern that reminded you of the bars of the asylum’s gate.

And the damp air became dry and musty, and the sewers morphed into dingy halls, alabaster wallpaper peeling back to reveal the black rot. Your pace quickened as these walls closed in, groaning with curses of the damned.

Just a little farther, the soothing, slightly-lilted baritones of his voice encouraged you on, but every turn you made down the narrowing halls, he managed to evade you, disappearing just out of reach. At the end of each hallway, what must’ve been a sewer drain and not a gate yawned from the blackness, little pockets of light stretching wider with each turn.

The feather crunched beneath your toes.

Fingers wrapped around the bars of the gate, and the hinges squealed as it swung open, your feet slotting into indentations along the walls as you desperately attempted to pull yourself up.

Warmth made you shiver in your cold sweat, and whispers funnelled into thin threads and lay buried beneath the ground as his hand met yours. In the faint glimmer of the light, you witnessed the rot dissipate, chased away by his touch. Purified.

“Jonathan,” you breathed, pulled flush to his chest, the mint of his breath raking across your lashes and the familiarity of his musk inhaled deeply through flared nostrils. You buried your face in his wrinkled tie and dress shirt and sobbed, your tears still tasting like saline. You savoured this moment, trembling beneath his touch, his hand petting the back of your dampened hair. You pulled away only as he hissed in pain.

“Jonathan, I’m scared,” you whimpered, guilty that you had seemed to wound him but caring only for sanctuary in this moment in which you knew nothing but fear. “Please don’t leave me. I’m so, so scared.”

“I know you are,” he said, squeezing your shoulder. “But you have to keep going.”

“Where? Where are you taking me?” You stared into the hollows of his eyes, still pitch black past the glint of those silver frames. Why couldn’t you properly see him? Could he see you? Was he just another shadow, a trick of light on the wall?   

Somewhere deep in the dark, a howling beast hears us talk.

Sirens wailed from the alley behind, and your blood ran cold. Jonathan stepped away, his touch tearing from yours almost painfully. Like he’d left the shards of glass in your palms.

“Don’t let them take me!” You pleaded, stumbling forward through the darkness. “I can’t go back! I can’t! COME BACK!”

She’s so afraid. So pathetic. She can’t do this without him.

The light grew in intensity, tinted more gold now than yellow, bathing the walls in a soft glow as they drew impossibly close, tapering the air in your lungs, building the pressure against your temples until your shoulders sagged under the weight of fatigue and white-hot fire cleaved your skull in two.

Jonathan paused, and turned. “Close your eyes,” he told you. “It’s not so dark here when you embrace it.”

I dare you to close your eyes. And see all the colours in disguise.

“NO!” You screeched, afraid that if you so much as blinked, he’d disappear, and you’d be lost to the darkness forever. You lurched forward on your heel, wedging yourself between the shuddering walls that closed in around you, following the same – and only path – he had taken. Turning sideways, you gulped in a breath of air, fingers scraping madly against the brick walls as the tide beginning to pool again round your ankles. The sky collapsed, pinning you, forcing your only breath from your lungs and snapping your ribs around your stuttering heart.

She’s gone. She won’t make it. She can’t reach him.

The air grew stuffy, stale. Your own breath bounced off the walls and flushed your cold, tear-streaked cheeks.

“Just trust me,” Jonathan said. “Just let go.”

Running into the night. The earth is shaking and I see a light.

With the darkness claiming you and the ground beneath you quaking with wrath, the howls of the damned echoing through a familiar hall, the world swaying on its axis, you had no choice but to suffocate your fear, to shutter your eyes closed on the light that seeped through the crack in the walls, warm against your skin in the cold dread of night.

She’s giving up.

She’s fighting.

She wants to die.

She wants to live.

The yellow-gold exploded across the backs of your eyelids, streaking like fireworks along the pitch black. Your skull still throbbed in pain, and your lips parted, the sound of a window banging against old hinges as death whispered to you through the alleys, the sewers, the hallways.

Next time.

Jonathan’s touch met your clammy palm, and the world fell silent, the walls disappearing around you and the emptiness of air spilling around your limbs.

I’m here, he reminded you.

The light is blinding my eyes, as the soft walls eat us alive.

Your eyelids peeled back to reveal the checkered, rose pattern of your wallpaper, the bright fluorescents of the bathroom, the blue eyes that bore into your own past silver frames. Slivers of ice encroaching on ink black pupils, cold and calculating yet echoing a familiar warmth.

He loosened the makeshift tourniquet from your arm, pins and needles racing from your fingertips to your elbow. A syringe of your favourite poison lay on the bathroom tile, beige powder swirling in a sea of saline.

“Come back to me. Come back to me, please,” he begged, as if for this moment alone, he allowed himself to believe in the higher power you knew he cursed.

Water seeped into your clothing like the sea of pitch, spilling from the bathtub that you had left on. It carried little rivulets of crimson around a minefield of glass. He didn’t seem very concerned with turning it off right now, despite always bitching at you about saving electricity or water. His eyes were on you, and only you.

“Jonathan,” you mumbled weakly, though you thought you screamed; your eyelids fluttered and your heart pounded faster in your chest as the darkness threatened to spill across your vision again. Your nails dug past the fabric of his suit, gripping his arm tight so that he could never let you go.

“I’m here,” he breathed, and reached his other hand around your neck to cup your head, to bring you forward. You glimpsed the white ceramic of the bathroom sink, bloodied where you’d tried to steady yourself with your hand after you’d bashed your skull against the mirror – your ineffectual attempt to cast the demons out. Glass shards lay scattered against the tile. Fragments of your broken reflection.

You still remembered the haunted look you’d hoped to banish from your eyes.

“You have to get your head out of that place,” he murmured against your scalp, his fingers bloody and sticky as he brushed shards of glass from your hair, seemingly immune to the pain. “You’re not in hospital anymore. You’re here. With me. You have to come back to me.”

Your lower lip trembled. “I can’t escape them,” you admitted, voice a mere whimper. “I can’t escape it. You’re here to take me back, aren’t you? You’re gonna lock me up.”

For a moment, you really thought that he might; his palm still rested, warm and bleeding, against your cheek, but his cold blue eyes studied you not as his lover but as his patient, assessing your condition. He sighed, as if disappointed. Shame crawled its way beneath your skin like the cockroaches that had infested the asylum’s lower wards. You had always been so desperate for his approval, he rarely saw this side of you since your rehabilitation. It wasn’t until slivers of ice shattered into twin pools of blue fire that relief began to seep into you, slow and warm but whelming.

“No. No, I’m not,” he said, voice gentle, soothing. Blue eyes glanced to your head again. “Though, you are showing symptoms of a concussion…”

Your heart sped in your chest, and the icy talons of death speared your soul, the darkness hedging the borders of your vision. Innerved by your fear, you reached for the bottle of tiny white pills that lay open, haphazard next to you. But the warmth of his hand left your face, and your fingers clenched around nothing. In a blur of movement, Jonathan threw the bottle at the toilet and it clattered against the back of the seat. You jolted, gasping, wincing as the jagged teeth of the beast sliced through your clothing.

“You prescribed me those,” you told him. “They’re supposed to make me better. You said so yourself.”

“I’ll fill you a new prescription tomorrow. Taper you off. They were no good for you,” he said, and laced his fingers through the bloodied locks of your hair. Pulled your forehead to his so that your breaths became one, and the demons in your skull grew muffled, and his warmth chased away the icy touch of death.

“What am I gonna do?” you whimpered, sobbing, hands grasping feebly at whatever you could grab hold of – his sleeve, his tie, his collar. You felt as if your soul, your mind, were laying in fragments around you like the glass, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t piece them back together. “I just want to be free. I just want to be okay.”

“I know.” He inhaled, closing his eyes, and his grip tightened on your hair, scalp stinging slightly at the almost needy action. Like in this moment he was more afraid of losing you than you were him.

Even he thinks she’s a lost cause.

And Jonathan was never one to utter false truths; because you knew this about him, his silence unnerved you. But finally, after what could’ve been hours or minutes of your pitiful sobbing and the endless drone of the tub, the trickling of water against the tile, he said,

“I’ll be right here, darling. All you need to do is take my hand.” The warmth of his palm slotted into your own, and you wove your fingers so tight that your knuckles turned white around the blood that trickled down both your wrists from the jagged glass that barbed your flesh. A seal. A pact.

“I will see you through this,” he said. “All of it. I promise.”

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[noemitenshi]

What should've been - Troy's revenge

OK so, this here

is absolute bullshit. No way in hell would the person who stabbed his injured hand on enemy’s knife

(gif for your convenience)

be as easily deterred from extracting his revenge as depicted in the first gif (especially since he's so fucking close to finally getting it). So what actually should've happened in this scene* is some iteration of the following.

Troy's revenge

God he was so close, so fucking close to finally avenging his Serena, finally getting his due. Finally… it was all he could think as he dragged Madison towards Serena’s spoiled form. Finally, finally, finally.

God, he felt like he was going crazy with the anticipation of it, so so close now, he could hardly believe it. But it was happening. He was making it happen. Finally, finally. Seconds, really, until Madison would get what was coming to her, until he could watch her being torn apart by his wife that wasn’t his wife anymore.

Even if that turned out to be the last thing he’d ever do – that’s what it felt like with the pain burning white hot in his chest, a beacon of agony, tearing through the entirety of his body, reverberating in his bones, his teeth, his very soul. He paid no mind to it. Couldn’t. It wasn’t important now. The only thing important now was right in front of him, Serena, Serena. His eyes were glued to the shell of her, this distorted, wild thing. No matter how much effort he put into taking care of her, she never again looked right. Not since he watched the life drain from her eyes. And no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t not see his wife in her—

Suddenly the pain became unbearable, driving everything else from him – nothing else existed in him than this pain. No thoughts, no feelings, no goals and wants. For an eyeblink he didn’t even see her anymore, even though his eyes were staring right at her snarling face. Just an eyeblink and he’d almost given in – anything to make this pain stop – but then he could see her again, hazily, chopped, in a way, as if his mind wasn’t working right, but he could see her again and he gritted his teeth, and with a choked shout he stayed right where he was, his hands still on her, dragging her forward, even as she was still twisting the branch in his chest, pulling and tugging, trying to make him stop. He wouldn’t.

He didn’t surrender. Not ever. Not even when the sheer agony caused tears to spill, when every part of him, every fiber of him wanted nothing more than to let go of her, hide and cower until the pain passed. She was shouting now too, with the effort it took her, both of them not able to talk anymore, not in control of their voice anymore, and finally, a howling scream rang out – and at first he wasn’t even sure if it was her or him it was torn from, but his sight didn’t betray him this time, and when he saw flesh being torn from Madison’s neck, then did he finally realize that the pain wasn’t as pronounced anymore, not as all-encompassing – Madison had finally let go of the branch.

He was still holding on to her jacket though, was still holding her close to Serena, while she was thrashing now, limbs flying uncoordinated. It was her in agony now. He stayed right there and watched how she was being devoured, bit for bit, watched as her screams died, turned to gurgling, sobbing, sounds, turned to nothing. Watched as her limbs trembled and twitched until they didn’t. Watched as her face turned unrecognizable, muscle and bone showing. Watched as Serena’s mouth, her face turned a bloodied mess and still bite and chew and tear. Still not satisfied. Never satisfied.

Troy let go. And the pain, the pain he’d ignored by sheer power of will returned and he gasped, sank down, whimpered. Sobbed. Cowered and hid his face and was hurting.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like this, how long he’d let his pain overwhelm him but when he could finally feel, think something else besides it, he heard chewing noises. His gaze sought their origins and he saw that Serena’s form was still straining towards Madison, still tearing flesh where she could reach, though there wasn’t much left, still this groaning, gurgling sounds out of her throat, filling the air.

Suddenly he moved, swift, a reflex maybe, and buried a knife in what had been his wife’s head once. All movement stopped and her corpse sank down.

He cradled her head in his lap, hugging her helplessly, stroking her hair – that wasn’t as silky as he remembered it being – because it wasn’t her, even if it was.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

His hands moved through her hair that wasn’t hers desperately, as if trying to find remnants of her, patting her head sweetly, stroking her cheek, all empty gestures now.

“I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for – not having been there to protect her, not insisting she stay home, not having buried her when she died, letting her turn, using her body as means for revenge…

“God, I’m sorry.”

He was sobbing again – still, his vision blurred by hot tears, dripping down his cheeks. He leaned closer over her, as if wanting to be even nearer to her, or as if to shield her, the sharp pain intensifying, though by now he’d almost grown accustomed to this tortured feeling, his body screaming at him, frantic and terrified.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He couldn’t stop saying it. Sobbing, blubbering, whimpering and short, panicked breaths interrupting his words until he was hiccuping, wailing. Mourning her.

And now, once he’d started, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to stop. Didn’t think he’d ever feel alright again. How could he when his wife lay dead in his arms – while he was alive. There was no denying that, the pain tearing at him unmistakable proof of it.

He was alive while she was dead, what a travesty! It should’ve been him, it should’ve been him.

Why wasn’t it ever him?

Why did he keep surviving the people he wanted to protect?

Why couldn’t it be him?!

He didn’t know how long he stayed like this, uselessly caressing his dead wife, his hands not able to stop – they remembered, too – while his body was wracked by grief, unable to speak anymore.

And though he thought he wanted nothing more to join his Serena, the second Madison stirred, letting inhuman sounds escape, he was startled into motion, eyes landing on her hammer while he scrambled to his feet and he didn’t hesitate to smash her legs – he wouldn’t be fast enough to escape like he was – and he’d be damned if he let her rest in peace. She didn’t deserve that. Crawling on the ground in perpetual hunger sounded just about right for her.

Then he took Serena in his arms, gently, gently, finding her a last resting place, every step poor agony, every scoop with the shovel dousing him in flames, ruthless and cruel.

But he persevered. He always did. He always would.

When he finally lowered her down his hands tightened around her and almost didn’t let go—

But he did. He let her sink into the earth, started covering her with it, shovelful by shovelful.

Soon he couldn’t see her anymore but he continued, dutifully making sure she wouldn’t be disturbed. He let her go because he had to. He wasn’t done yet. He was still needed. Tracy still needed him.

And with one last look at his wife’s grave stone

he turned to go get his daughter back.

-The end-

*that the scene shouldn’t exist *at all* because Tracy begging like this

should’ve been enough motivation for Troy to free himself earlier is another thing entirely...

[amywritesthings]

silver underground. / chapter five.

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x F!Reader (Attack on Titan / Shingeki no Kyojin)

Word Count: 5K

Summary: Day 120 - Also known as the day you finally confront Captain Levi after your dreams begin to connect some dots.

Warnings: Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Eventual Romance, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Flashbacks, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Nonbinary Hange Zoe

( Read on AO3 )

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER FIVE.

“Thanks.”

The boy with raven hair speaks the syllable like his voice forgets its function, hoarse and small. In his hands is a small, precious piece of bread. His chin lowers to take a bird-sized bite, chewing slowly to savor the taste.

Looking down, you find that your hands are occupied by a half of a loaf, too — perhaps even the other half of the one the boy has.

You bring the food to your mouth, careful not to bite down too hard.

“Can I… sit?” you ask the boy as he continues to feed.

He nods once, so you nestle into the empty spot beside him.

Rather than floating in the dream's usual nothingness, the bench sits hidden in a closed-off dark room, lit only by lanterns and torches lining its walls. Shouts sound in the distance, but the noises are not scared. They’re… laughing. Howling, even, at jokes and drinking songs.

You can't hear the lyrics no matter how hard you listen.

For what feels like hours you sit beside this strange, quiet boy, happy not to be alone.

However a man shouts louder than the rest, belligerent and shitfaced, catching your attention. The boy never once looks up. You see a hat adorned on his head where long, unkempt hair flies out from the bottom of the hat like wires.

“Is… that your dad?”

You don’t know why you ask.

The boy ignores you for a length of time, picking apart what little is left of the roll.

“Is that your mom?” he croaks in return.

You’re scared to look at him, but you do anyway. Instead of a gnarled face of a woman like before, it’s finally his face: you're met with silver gray eyes, sunken to their sockets and tired, as he stares curiously at you. His right eye is blackened, cheek subsequently swollen, but he doesn’t seem to be in any immediate pain.

“No,” you answer, the syllable shaken. “I call her Mother, but… she found me.”

He doesn’t react — only chews, like every bite may be his last, and swallows. His tongue darts out to lick the crumbs from his busted lip.

You want to ask.

It’s been so many times, you’ve never gotten this far, and you want to finally ask.

“Do you have a na—”

“Levi!”

Bolting right out of bed with a choked gasp, your hand instinctively reaches for your throat. 

Did you just say Levi’s name out loud, or was that in your dream?

It sure feels like it came from your mouth. Pressing a timid hand to your sweat-slicked face, you find your breath and attempt to quell your gasps in the pale light of the moon. You look to your left to see the curtain billowing in the midnight wind.

A dream.

The same fucking dream, over and over.

“What the hell was that?” you ask the air, and no reply comes beyond someone grumbling for you to shut the hell up.

The barracks — you’re still sleeping in the cadet barracks.

Training with the hopefuls ought to be tougher than it is, but you imagine it’s easy because you lived the war they strive to experience: ODM gear training is a breeze. Strategy classes bring a certain feel of home. You’re able to debate military advancements with the book-drawn knowledge to back it up. Running — so much goddamn running — but your training in Trost paid off.

Commander Erwin’s theory — your theory — is proving right.

The cadet training is helpful, because you now see a puzzle piece perfectly clear in your mind’s eye: that sad child’s face, the one you’ve been chasing for the last four months. If given a pen and paper, then you could draw the damn look of it on command.

Slipping out of bed to relax in the night air, you pull your tan cadet jacket over your shoulders, settle into your knee-high boots, and leave your exhausted bunkmates to dream.

(Yeah — that’s one thing you didn’t anticipate: wearing the swords like you didn’t already earn your Wings of Freedom stripes.)

You could seek out the Scouts. If the rumors are true, then Hange should be arriving today or tomorrow with the rest of them to see how you’re doing.

According to Commandant Shadis, there’s no real need to waste anymore time. You’re battle ready, even if your brain isn’t following up with the finite details. Those, he argues, could come later or not at all. At the end of the day, skill is what matters.

Whether they accept you back to the Scouts is another story entirely, yet having Commander Erwin on your side with the help of Section Commander Hange increases your chances exponentially.

Despite the nerves in your belly, you are excited to go beyond the Walls. To see what you must’ve witnessed time and time again in your military career.

Maybe, in a belatedly morbid fashion, you always wished you could one day relive what it would be like to see it for the first time all over again.

The wind at midnight is freezing in comparison to the blazing morning sun. You hug your arms closer to your sides, reliant on body warmth to push you forward in the stroll to clear your head.

Then two Military police officers enter your peripheral.

Realizing you have no jurisdiction after curfew, you search your surroundings for cover. Abruptly you spot a ration barrel and drop to a crouch, hoping they didn’t see you aimlessly walking around.

You stay low, fingertips pressed to the oak barrel, and wait.

Their mumbles turn into coherent sentences with each nearing step. You don't mean to overhear, but their conversation freezes you in your tracks.

“Did you hear about the extra addition to the cadets?” the one with red hair grunts.

The blonde shakes his head. “What about an extra what now?”

“The cadet that’s not really a cadet.”

Oh? Your hands press further into the barrel.

“Not ringin’ any bells.”

“Remember the chick they called Lieutenant? Served under Erwin.”

“Oh… yeah, now that you say Lieutenant, I kinda do,” the blonde answers, slow to start.

“Well, they’ve managed to wake up that dead sewer rat and thought it would be beneficial to send her to train with the cadets. Word is they’re trying to prep her back to the Scouts.”

The blonde huffs. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Nope.” The ‘p’ is popped. “Heard the news from Raoul.”

“Wasn’t she in really bad shape? Like… memory screw-y type of bad?”

“Yeah. A coma,” the redhead confirms. “They won’t tell anyone anything beyond hitting her head, but I saw they’re training her here for a few weeks to see what she remembers.”

“Damn, talk about wasting resources.” Your blood runs cold. “That’s about how rodents work, though. That bastard Captain Levi opened up the cellar for the nasty Underground folk.”

Wait.

Captain Levi?

“Can’t believe that shit ever flew with the Scouts in the first place. I don’t know what Erwin was thinking, bringing an Underground brat in.”

Captain Levi was from the Underground, too?

“I thought we got rid of the start of the infestation when they said she died. But you can’t kill that Captain kid. He’s got more lives than a street cat.”

Raven hair.

“Nope — and she’s just as bad,” the blonde laments. “Pretty sure they worked together way before the Scouts, too, if you believe the rumors.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah. Rats stick together. Erwin has a fetish for waywards he can kill under his thumb.”

Sunken gray eyes.

“So we got thugs on the frontlines. Wonderful,” the redhead grunts. “Guess that’s better than the people behind the Walls. Get rid of them first.”

You feel like you’re going to be sick.

Bracing the barrel as they begin to move their post to another section of the training camp, you place your right hand over your mouth.

There’s no way.

Trembling in your crouched space, you replay the conversation over and over in your head like it’ll piece together and make sense. You study the patch of grass under your brown boot, waiting for a rogue tendril to crawl from the earth and drag you back underground.

(Where you belong, according to them.)

Yet you raise your chin to find you’re not alone behind the food barrels:

The little boy in the dream, his messy mop of black hair, stares back at you with a confused expression etched across his malnourished features. His lips part, mouthing an answer to a question you’ve asked him night after night after night.

Do you have a name?

Then he lifts his hand, offering his half of the bread loaf.

When you blink, he vanishes into thin air, leaving you sweating with the very real gravity of the situation sitting heavy at the back of your tongue.

You have to find him.

Tomorrow, you have to find Captain Levi.

.

.

.

.

“They said she’s doing well.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because if I speak any louder, I might scream,” Hange confesses in a rushed hiss, fidgeting with their fingers at the mess hall table. “And if I scream, then I’ll be alerting every cadet within a five-meter radius that we’re here.”

“Pretty sure most of the cadets are already aware, Hange.”

“Do you think she’s remembering more conversations?” they ask, flipping the subject he can’t escape from. “Or maybe a past mission?”

Levi couldn’t roll his eyes any harder.

The second the report came back from your temporary superiors is the second this Special Operations squad lost their fucking minds.

Petra hasn’t stopped babbling about how much she missed having you around after dropping you off to the training camp three weeks ago. Hange isn’t much better, but he can tune out their incessant babbling easier than most. Gunther, Oluo, Eld — they all want to know if they’re bringing you home.

Home — like what’s out here beyond the Wall Rose is any home at all.

By sticking you in the pool of cadet shit-stains looking to claw their way into the interior, Erwin inadvertently slashed the hopes and dreams of the 104th. Adding you to their mix only puts them at a grave disadvantage: if they make you stay the entire time, then you’d walk away with top marks from experience alone.

In a way, putting a memory-riddled veteran in disguise as a cadet is fucking hilarious.

“She isn’t a dog ready for tricks, Hange.” Levi brings the lip of his tea cup to his lips. “And her mind’s the only thing fucked, not her muscle memory.”

“Yeah, but she didn’t even go through cadet training when she first came to us. How much muscle memory could there be?”

“Environmental experiences trump cadet bullshit.”

“I suppose so.” Pursing their lips, Hange waves their spoon around aimlessly. “Acing her ODM gear aptitude test makes the most sense. Hand-to-hand combat, another surefire win. Still…”

Levi narrows his eyes. “Still?”

“I wonder how long it should take for her memory to return. Fully, I mean.”

Confliction makes his mouth itch.

On one hand, he’s hopeful that you never do. An honorable discharge from the Scout Regiment may not hold the same weight as a retired MP, but it’s a safer life behind the walls than whatever the fuck they lead as a unit now.

On the other hand, he can’t forget that this is your choice. 

Even in the aftermath of a horrific accident where you’ve lost everything, you’re still choosing to see if you can one day serve and re-join the Scouts.

Clearly Erwin would allow it. Resources wouldn’t be wasted on a half-assed effort.

But can he afford seeing that blank expression pointed in his direction for the rest of his goddamn living days?

It was hard enough to have a basic conversation with you. Factor in the idea that, somewhere in the not-so-distant future, he may work alongside you outside of these Walls again?

He ought to sabotage your training.

He ought to go back to his old ways and lie, cheat, steal, to ensure your failure.

He ought to do something — anything but the one thing everyone expects him to do.

Erwin Smith is playing a game of 4-D chess and Levi cannot see the board or where his next piece may be headed.

It’s infuriating.

“Is he still going to reinstate her even if she’s still fucked in the head?” Levi asks, maintaining a monotone distance from the subject.

Hange pushes some food around with their spoon. “Hard to tell. I don’t think they would waste the resources if they thought it wasn’t a potential win for us.”

Of course Hange iterates exactly what he’s thinking — they’re opposites on humanity’s spectrum yet somehow always on the same wavelength.

“What about you?”

That question, however, is one he doesn’t expect. Levi uncrosses his legs. 

“What about me?”

“Are you okay with her getting added back to Levi Squad if she passes?”

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

(But would he want you reassigned where he can’t follow? Also absolutely fucking not.)

“Let’s see how she’s faring first,” he decides, eyes trailing the entrance of a taller person as Hange stands from the table. He’s about to ask, but then he sees it: Moblit rushes in from the left with several papers rolled into his hands, looking positively frantic and exhausted.

Never a dull moment in Hange Zoe’s life.

“Quitting on me?” Levi teases against the flat of his voice, and Hange’s lips purse.

“Oh, stop it. Like you weren’t about to shut my twenty questions down.” They stick out their tongue as they dismount the bench. “Party pooper.”

“That’s the closest to a shit joke as I’m ever going to get from you.”

A loud ha! escapes their lips while they walk to the door, hounded by Moblit’s anxious babbling until — nothing.

Silence.

The disappearance of Hange, the lack of Erwin, just leaves Levi to sit menacingly in the corner on his own. At other occupied tables, the overspill of injured and traumatized cadets eat their portioned meal for the morning. 

A quiet place away from the noise of the other recruits thriving at the idea of war.

If he squints hard enough, a woman hunched over the table could be you — bruised to oblivion from the collarbone-up, with shaken hands rattling the ceramic plate below.

It causes his own fist resting on the table’s surface to tighten.

Maybe he should — talk to you, tell you, about everything.

Maybe if you learned just how bad it gets out there, then you’ll change your mind.

(There’s still time.)

.

.

.

.

You take off the minute you’re excused from the morning duties to investigate the grounds.

They have to be here somewhere.

Granted, you’re not sure if your current cadet status will get you anywhere in this camp. Revoked and stripped of the Scout title may bring setbacks when it comes to this — remembering, seeking answers — but you’re hopeful there’s a loophole nestled between your alleged seniority and talent.

When you turn a right corner, you see it: The glasses. The messy ponytail. The green cloak.

You yelp the name when excitement takes hold of your throat:

“Hange!"

Because you’re happy to see them walking by the barracks with Moblit in tow. Anxiety buzzes under your skin as they stop in their tracks and turn on their heel.

Instantly beaming at the sight of you, Hange yells into the crisp morning air and waves their hands wildly above their head. 

You take off on a jog to meet them faster.

“James! Look at you! All dressed up— Huh.” Their excitement washes away at the sight of the double-sword badges on your jacket. “Funny, that’s the wrong emblem.”

You drop your chin as they poke an unimpressed finger to the side of your arm, as if a sticker will peel off and reveal the Wings of Freedom instead. The badge stays put.

“They thought it would be too much of a distraction to give me my Scout jacket,” you explain, hurried, before waving to the man behind her. “Hey, Moblit.”

He blanches to a translucent pale, jaw slacked.

Hange squeals in their throat.

It takes a second to realize what you’ve said.

Up until today, you had never met Moblit.

“Oh. My. God!” Hange says from a whisper to a shriek. “Did you hear that? Moblit, you’re the first person she’s greeted by name!”

“Whoa,” he murmurs under his breath, still flushed from shock. “I, uh… Hey, James.”

“This is amazing!” Hange growls, sucking in a sharp breath as both of their hands clamp down on your sore arms. “Of course, when Erwin suggested the hypothesis that maybe training would kickstart things, I didn’t think it would work that well! What else are you remembering? Tellmetellmetellme.”

As much as you would like to fill them in, you know there’s someone else you need to see first.

“Levi.”

You exhale his name like a prayer, and Hange’s expression shifts to one of awe. 

“Oh?”

“No, not like that. I’m— Have you seen the Captain? I need to speak with him. It’s urgent.”

“I—” The syllable gets trapped in Hange’s throat before a finger raises, pointing to the east. “...he was just at the mess hall. He was supposed to visit the stables after breakfast.”

“Thank you,” you deflate, shrugging out of their grasp. “We’ll catch up later, right? I’ll see you in a bit.”

They don’t try to stop you when you disengage.

I have to talk to the Captain.

Because if he continues to avoid you, then there is a chance the outline of this puzzle will never be completed.

.

.

.

.

Just as Hange suggested, you see it: the smaller framed man in the middle of the horse stables just east of the training camp.

Captain Levi wears the emerald cloak over his shoulders, arm raised to give attention to a horse as dark as midnight. It licks at the palm of his hand generously, and the captain doesn’t pull away until its tongue pokes out a third time.

You stand still at the mouth of the empty stables, watching.

Observing.

Because if you’re going to implode the only chance you might have to get this right, then it has to be done with the utmost certainty that what you’re about to say is true.

And despite how your certainty has yet to reach beyond ninety percent, the clues are littered all over him:

The jet-black hair curved in a fresh, precise undercut. The way his eyes always look like he’s tired even after a long night’s rest. The skinniness to his frame that harnesses such ungodly strength. The curve of his nose at his profile.

His image morphs, changes, from glorious emerald to tattered tan shirts hanging off of his torso. Wild and unkempt hair. Same nose, but smaller. Shorter.

Your brain short-circuits at the images colliding.

“It was you.”

The whispered words tumble faster than you can stop them. 

They curl and float through the air until they reach the shorter man in the middle of the stables in an unfortunate echo, and the world seems so much smaller than it was a moment ago.

He turns.

His stare is bone chilling.

At the sight of you Levi stops brushing the mane of his horse, arm still raised in the air. Carefully he lowers his hand to set the wooden brush on a stool, eyes narrowed to slits.

“Hello to you, too.”

“Captain.” You take a step towards him. “Sir, I have something urgent to ask you.”

He looks like he considers for a moment before his attention lulls back to the horse he had been originally tending to. “Aren't you supposed to be busy running drills?”

“I should be. I am.” You take another step. “But—”

“So then why are you—”

“I saw you!” you blurt, loud and certain.

You realize you may sound a breath short of delusional by the way he rips his attention from the horse to stare at you like you’ve lost your mind. Where he usually appears rigid, expressionless, his eyes gleam with palpable confusion.

Levi snorts. “That was a weirdly-worded question.”

“It was you,” you press on, losing your breath, “before all of this.”

Your stare is hopeful. He is devoid of such.

You dare another step forward, hands out to your sides.

“I’ve been seeing things,” you say.

“Sounds like a condition for a doctor, not me,” he flatly replies.

“Memories,” you clarify, fidgeting with your fingers in a failed attempt to soothe your own nerves. “Of this specific place and the people in it. They’re from the Underground City. I must have been… I don’t know, young? Maybe really young, which would make sense since — but…”

The whites of his eyes grow, if only a fraction.

You try to explain faster.

“Everything is in pieces, right? I told you that last time we spoke. Nothing’s really fit together, not really, but whenever I dream about where I came from, I’m always seeing this young boy. He’s got this black messy hair. His clothes hang right off of him — he’s so small, and he sits with me on this bench eating food I offer him.”

Fuck, is he really going to make you spell it out? 

“And I think it might be—”

Wide-eyed confusion twists to an apprehensive sneer. 

“How could you be so sure it was me?”

Your shoulders slump.

“Because he looks exactly like you. Maybe with a skinnier body and a smaller face, but I’m seeing it now. The hair, the— the gray eyes—”

Finally he bites, voice low. “Because small kids with gray eyes are so fucking rare.”

“Don’t act like it doesn’t make sense!” you bark. “Everyone says I should remember you — because you know me better than anyone in the Scouts. And I’m not insane, because the person I keep dreaming about isn’t just a kid, it isn’t just some subconscious shit—”

His teeth clench together. “Careful.”

“And I heard it,” you continue, ignoring his warning. “Last night, I overheard two Military Policemen talking about how Erwin Smith allowed two rats from the sewers to join the Scout Regiment. Captain Levi, who came from the Underground, and a Lieutenant, who lost her memory.” Your eyes narrow. “I may not have my shit screwed on right, Captain, but it doesn’t take many brain cells to put two and two together.”

At the evidence, Levi says nothing. 

All that keeps the silence away in the barn are the rustling legs and raspberry breaths of horses. 

Your shoulders deflate at his unwavering, piercing gaze.

“You know me,” you finish, voice catching on emotion, “but you won’t help me. Why?”

Levi falters for a second, and you recognize the emotion that flickers over his face this time:

Doubt.

He doesn’t mouth off, which is one good thing about this uncomfortable encounter.

In your gut you can feel that this isn’t an unfounded discovery, but Levi isn’t willing to—

“Because you finally have an out.”

It’s the first real thing Levi Ackerman has said to you in four months.

Defeat settles into your tired bones when he disengages and turns his chin back to his horse. In the glow of the morning light from the open windows, he looks hunched — and, if you didn’t know any better, just as defeated as you — like so little was too much to divulge.

“Did we join the Scouts together?” you murmur, softening with hope.

Levi sets his jaw, and when you think the attempt has failed, he speaks:

“No. I joined without you.”

There.

Your eyesight becomes glossy with overwhelming emotion.

You’re not crazy.

(You were always right.)

“When?” you urge under your breath, nearing without realizing. 

He stays put. “Years ago.”

“And when did—”

“Two months after.”

Where you can’t stop watching him, Levi refuses to look anywhere but ahead.

“So I knew you?”

“Yes.”

“Since we joined the Scouts?”

“Yes.”

“And before that?”

In your mind’s eye is a sullen face, exhausted from an eternal night.

He sighs through his nose. “You’re not listening to what I’m saying, James.”

By the time he turns his head, you’re only three steps away.

Hearing the sound of your name on his lips — not icy, not angry, not anything beyond what it is — takes you off guard. 

“Do yourself a favor — continue training with the cadets. Chances are you’ll get Top 10, easy. Top 10 means you can choose where you serve. Most of the brats pick the Interior.”

Your brows fly high. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Interior is a cushy gig. They’re offered real bedrooms, routine meals—”

“Captain—”

“—and the most danger they get into is wiping the King’s ass,” Levi continues, shifting his left boot closer to you. “I heard he’s got one hell of a shit schedule.”

You both stare, eye to eye, as his words of advice settle into the dirt between you. 

“...so you want me to cheat my way into the interior,” you eventually recap, quiet and disgusted, “and forget the Scouts?”

“Forget all of it,” Levi confirms, dead serious.

This isn’t what you were expecting if – and when – you finally spoke to the captain. For someone who is allegedly important to you, Levi sure has a funny way of showing it. Pawning you off to whatever gets you furthest from whatever lies beyond the Walls is a swift punch to the gut. Maybe you barely know you, but you do know one thing: hiding away in the Interior was never an option.

Forget all of it.

“I’m not doing that.” A humorless laugh exits your mouth. “You know I’m not going to do that.”

“I know,” he resigns, monotone. “Worth a try, though, to get through your thick head.”

“You’re an asshole.”

You’re not sure what compels you to snap, but it’s biting. Venomous.

You near him like a predator challenging another in its rank, chin ducked. Levi steps in a half-circle in a subconscious dance.

“You are. I have been asking you, begging you, going so far as to corner you so you can maybe help me out, and all you’re willing to do is run. Every damn time you see me, you turn like a coward and go the opposite direction. I can even see it right now: you’re hoping Hange or Moblit walk in so you have an excuse to defer me to them.”

You sneer, teeth grit.

“Humanity’s Strongest, my ass.”

It’s about the worst ramble you could’ve offered him. With each passing accusation, Levi’s expression grows darker until it’s unreadable. Yet you keep going, choosing violent words over soft pleads.

The latter never worked, so the former just might.

Then something peculiar happens:

Levi’s voice upticks, melodic in what you can only describe as quiet awe.

“You finally sound a little more like you.”

You watch with lips parted. Levi nods to himself, as if certain his assessment is right, before his arms cross under the emerald cloak decorating his shoulders.

“You’re right: I have been avoiding you,” he finally admits steadily. “I couldn’t stand the wide-eyed and bushy-tailed act. It doesn’t wear well on you.”

All the blood drains from your body.

“Commander Erwin’s set on making you a Scout again. Only a moron would think he hasn’t thought this through, which leads me to a shitty predicament.” He pauses. “Lieutenant or not, you were a part of my squad. Am I so much of an asshole that you no longer want to be a part of it?”

You open your mouth, but no words exit.

He stares directly at you, this time with meaning.

“I won’t feed you our memories. I won’t let you speculate where I fit with the hope that I put the pieces together for you. If you want my help, then we start with a blank slate.”

“A blank slate?” you numbly respond.

“A blank slate,” he repeats.

“As if we don’t know each other at all?”

“Besides knowing what I looked like as a kid, do you?” Levi asks then clarifies. “Know me.”

Looking over his face, you want to say yes. You want to say the truth — that you might have known him your whole life — but you can’t.

Might have isn’t as strong as do.

“And if I eventually remember, even if it’s not every little detail, then will you keep shutting me out?” you question, softening your face when an emotion flickers over his. “Don’t shut me out.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it—”

“I swear it.”

He interrupts before you can finish.

As much as you're afraid to believe it, his statement of conviction is sincere — three words rushed, hissed, with a weight pressing against your wildly-beating heart.

“Okay,” you murmur back. “I trust you.”

Just like that; no more fighting, no more lying, no more doubt. 

His hair flops with the tilt of his chin as he's caught between calling a bluff that isn’t there and the undying truth — three words solemn, slow, with a weight pressing against his heavy-burdened shoulders.

He disputes nothing.

In an attempt to start on the right foot, you hold your hand out timidly between you. Your fingers flex.

Levi’s eyes take a beat to leave yours and look down.

“I’m James,” you introduce softly. “Member of Levi Squad, Lieutenant of the Scout Regiment. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Levi swallows, thick with a hesitance. You’re almost certain he’ll step right past your humble effort to start over — just like he asked.

Then he removes a slender hand from its tucked space at his side and holds it out, hovering fingertip to fingertip.

A beat passes. His hand reaches forward, gliding along your palm to hold your hand.

He squeezes.

You feel it hit, zapping every nerve like a short-distanced lightning strike — warmth floods and envelopes your body with an image you don’t quite have the word for in the moment, but you see it when he opens his mouth.

“Levi Ackerman,” he roughly replies. “Leader of Levi Squad, Captain of the Scout Regiment. Glad to have you on my team.”

(Home.)

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has liked, reblogged, and sent lovely anons about this story before. You're alll such wonderful people. xo

[scarlet97531]

⭕️❗️CAN WE PLEASE TALK ABOUT HOW A BOOK SERIES FOR NINE YEAR OLDS LITERALLY STARTS WITH GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE AND DOES NOT GET BETTER??????

((General warning for graphic depictions of violence, lots of caps lock, and some swearing sprinkled in for fun for the rest of this post, also I don’t hate WoF, I love WoF, but I also think it’s batshit insane and needs to be addressed (in a pretty unserious way)))

The fucking prologue.

HELLO??? AM I CRAZY FOR THINKING THIS IS A BIT MUCH FOR THE PROLOGUE OF A CHILDREN’S BOOK???

This shot was the gateway drug for us istg. This fucking book series got is so hooked on fictional violence man 😭

We were drawing detailed dragon gore as fanart, looking at detailed gore that other people had drawn as fanart?

Seriously am I crazy????? This is the second main character killing her father to prove a point?????????

This is what we get for an explanation for where the first main character came from? His backstory is literally that his mom sold him for some cows??????????????????? WTF

Also just mudwing society in general is. It seems. Pretty weird. Like really weird.

“As the [human] shrieked again, she bent down and bit off its head.

“Blech,” she said, spitting it out again immediately. The head bounced across the grass as the body slowly toppled over, blood pouring out of it’s neck.”

UM?? OKAY!!

“She scored her talons along his wing, ripping open the scars”

“She shook Dune lightly, as if she were shaking the fluff off a dead pigeon. He clawed at her talons, his eyes bulging. “I mean, what use is a crippled dragon who cannot fly? I’m surprised you haven’t killed yourself already, SandWing. But I can take care of that for you.”

DAMN????

“No!” Sunny screamed, leaping at them.

But it was too late. With a chilling crack, Queen Scarlet snapped Dune’s neck and dropped his body on the stone floor.

“Dune!” Sunny howled. She squirmed past Scarlet and crouched beside him, shaking him with her front talons. His mangled wing flopped, his scales scraped against the rocks. His black eyes were empty. “Dune, wake up!””

HOLY SHIT???? WHY WAS THIS NECESSARY FOR A CHILDRENS BOOK

WHAT THE FUCK

AND THIS IS JUST SOME OF THE FIRST BOOK, DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED ON LEGENDS OF DARKSTALKER MAN THAT SHIT WAS CRAZY

THIS IS BEING SOLD FOR NINE YEAR OLDS

THIS COULD VERY WELL BE A CHILD’S FIRST INTRODUCTION TO DEATH

WHAT WAS TUI THINKING???????????

LIKE ACTUALLY WHAT????

Honestly it is so unsurprising we turned out the way we did when this is what we were reading as a kid 😭

Literally our primary caretaker is named after Scarlet. The same scarlet in those quotes earlier. Like this shit is so in our brain and has been since we were twelve.

This shit. Is. Crazy.

And then every time I try to point out flaws In the writing or the plot ppl tell me “oh it’s not that deep it’s just a children’s book it’s not a big deal” LIKE. FUCKING. HELL IT IS.

ABSOLUTELY NOT. NO FUCKING WAY.

I am completely convinced that if we had never read these books our gorey pseudo memories would not be HALF as detailed and disturbingly accurate as they are now. Like seriously we did so well in anatomy classes because of this. Maybe that’s mostly the autism but i we never would have been so interested in anatomy if we weren’t trying to figure out how to draw anatomically accurate dragon disembowelment because of these damn books 😭

Anyways all this said I still fucking love wings of fire and I’m thinking of bringing back that thing where I draw cute cartoony dragons dying horribly :3

If anyone has horror stories about growing up reading wings of fire I want to hear them

WAIT ONE LAST THING- I forgot to mention the icewing massacre, attempted genocide, and general dragon racism….. hmmmm a topic for another time perhaps

[sincerelykarai]

Wake up!

Authors Note: This is another Oneshot of Rocket ^^ btw this was inspired by that one scene in helluva boss Ghostf*ckers so kinda spoilers for that? Just read at your own risk ig 🤷‍♀️ Also its angst with a side of hurt/comfort!

Trigger warnings: Gore, Violent depictions,swearing and other stuff like that

He doesn't even remember how this happened. One minute he was in the Milano safe and sound in his quarters, the next he was small and fragile, running around the lab. It seemed like eerie, endless hallways with dim, flickering lights and rusted cages. He could hear other animals whining, howling, but it was all muffled compared to his paws hitting the metal ground beneath him and the sound of his heart pumping blood which was rushing through his ears.

"You can't outrun me, 89P13!" Rocket heard the High Evolutionary shout, and he felt his heart as if it was in his throat, choking out any air. He continued running, hallway after hallway without stopping. He stopped once his legs gave out with a tremble, panting as he caught his breath even if he heard the scientists coming after him. It wasn't long before he started running again, turning through hallway after hallway before he felt something shove him, and he tumbled into the ground.

"What the..?-" He mumbled, before noticing the similar white rabbit above him, with the multiple thin metal legs. "Floor? What are you-"

"HOW COULD YOU?!" Floor screeched, her voice sounding more metallic and her body coated in warm, red blood. "Rocket got floor killed! Rocket got floor killed!" She repeated over and over again in the high pitched, screeching voice.

"What?! No, it was an accident I swear!-" Rocket exclaimed but Floor tried to swipe him, digging one of her sharp legs into his arm, hot, stinging blood dripping down his arm. Rocket took off running again, this time limping slightly and leaving a trail of blood behind him.

"No, no no no no-" He chanted in his head. "Just a dream just a dream just a stupid fucking dream-" He continued running, hallway after hallway, he felt like a rat stuck in a maze.

"Rocket?" Lylla called out, and he froze in place.

"Lylla!" Rocket almost broke into a sob, running into her arms, even if they were cold and made of metal, he could still feel the love and warmth in them.

"Lylla, I- I was having the worst dream-" He practically cried, as Lylla quietly shushed him, running a metal paw through his fur.cHe finally felt safe....

Until he felt something dripping down his fur.

He glanced up, only to see Lylla's face mauled, covered in blood and flesh and bone. "Why'd you do it?" Is all the face said, but the odd sweetness in her tone sent chills down his spine. Soon her whole body was falling apart, blood coating his paws.

"Wait wait wait- Lylla please! I'm sorry please don't go!" Rocket sobbed, trying to grab onto her but there was nothing to grab apart from the raw feeling of bone. "LYLLA DON'T GO!-" He screamed, before everything faded to black.

"Rocket, wake up!" Quill shouted, shaking Rocket awake.

Rocket woke up with a gasp, his chest heaving and his fur damp with cold sweat. "I- where-"

"Dude, you're fine. It's me, Quill." *He reassured him, holding his shoulders.

"But.. Who's Lylla?"

[velidewrites]

No one remembers her name. But I do.

— Chapter 23, A Court of Wings and Ruin (Sarah J Maas)

Pairing: The Bone Carver x 👀

Word Count: 18.2k

Warnings (please read before proceeding): Graphic depictions of violence, injury, blood, gore, and death; loss of a loved one; implied/referenced miscarriage; implied/referenced domestic abuse; poverty; mild(ish?) sexual content

Read on AO3

The cold seemed to seep into his very bones.

It began deep beneath the cobblestones of the street—as if the winter itself had planted it in the earth, content to watch it grow as the year neared its end. The sun hadn’t yet set over the horizon, thank the Gods. The seeds of the frigid season bloomed most eagerly in the dark.

Another hour, and he would leave. He reckoned he could survive another sixty minutes out on the street—though he hoped he wouldn’t need to stay that long. Gods willing, someone would take notice of the boy curled up in the pile of hay sooner than later. Even through the long, thin straws, he could feel the cold clawing at his lower back, sending his entire body into shivers.

Oh, how he hated this.

If only he could have it his way. He’d be back by midday, early afternoon, perhaps, if the merchants have proven especially difficult. During the winter, he found, they would all become more…possessive.

But—he promised. Had given his word, even, though he supposed it hadn’t meant much coming from the likes of him. Not to her, though—he couldn’t break her heart like that again. He feared she wouldn’t survive it. And given her current condition…

His mother was the only thing he had left in the world. And so, he would behave—for her.

For her, he would sit his ass on the side of the alley and wait—wait until someone took mercy upon a nineteen-year old boy, begging in the streets. Unlikely.

They found him laughable—had even said so to his face. Nineteen. Not a boy—a man. You could’ve found work had you only tried, they laughed as their shadows hovered over his wimpy form. Had you had any honour, any pride. Instead, you’ve chosen to remain in the filthy streets like the trash that you are.

If only things had been that simple.

The village folk must’ve known that he had tried—so many of them had turned him down, after all. Before he even came of age, he’d wandered the main square, looking for work, any work—to no effect. He supposed he couldn’t blame them. He’d brought this upon himself, after all.

Thief, they called him. A dangerous, deranged thief.

He quite liked the sound of that, even if his mother was inclined to disagree. As far as he was concerned, any nickname was better than trash, and unfortunately, the latter was becoming more and more common these days. For that reason alone, today would’ve been a perfect opportunity—an opportunity to remind them what he truly was.

His long-suffering sigh turned into a wheezing fit as the icy air scratched at his lungs.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, his pale hand closing on his chest, fingers digging into the scraps of fabric draped over his body. He needed to be more careful. In a weather like this, even something as mundane as breathing could very well lead to his untimely death.

Untimely, because…it wasn’t his time yet. It was the last scrap of hope he held onto these days. That there was something—anything—out there. Waiting, for his mother—for him.

The wind howled again, the biting breeze from the North like needles prickling at his skin. Perhaps the Gods had heard his dreams, somehow, and decided to laugh in his face.

He almost rolled his eyes at the thought. When had he become so bitter?

It was unlikely that the Gods were watching over him, anyway. A traitorous thought—but a true one. Undying and all-powerful, he doubted that such beings cared for a single soul like him—if, of course, he still had one after everything he’d done. All the pain he’d caused…if he was a God, he wouldn’t have bothered with someone like him. He’d be doing greater things. Important things.

Like never inflicting winter upon his lands again, for example.

Did the Gods even have such power? He’d only heard myths, stories—as a child, from none other than the village Elder, huddled with the other younglings around the crackling fire. Wide-eyed and still curious enough to listen to the tales of the world around them.

The Elder had told them stories of divine creatures, ones of unlimited power and unimaginable beauty, who’d fallen from a rip in the skies above to bless the lands beneath. Who’d taken one look at the misery of their empty world and decided to grace it with their gifts—fertile soil, and humans to harvest its bearings. The Elder said the Gods created them—all of them—that they were their children, blessed to have the Gods as their protectors for all eternity.

Fine, then. He was a child of the Gods—a child whose name they’d never bothered to learn. He never learned their names, either. Had never even asked. What good would that have done? He might’ve had someone to be disappointed in—someone other than himself.

His head fell back to the wooden wall of the hut. Its owner, no doubt, would be returning soon—and curse him out for ever daring to lean against his property. A sudden wave of tiredness washed over him, his limbs heavier somehow, as if the cold had finally managed to freeze them in place.

Maybe, if he closed his eyes for a moment…it would go away. Just for a few seconds—so that he could rest before returning home empty-handed. Again. It had been…almost three days since he had eaten. Two, since his mother had.

Tomorrow, he would steal, promises be damned. If he survived.

A veil of darkness began to wrap itself around his sight as he blinked again. The next time he closed his eyes, he would not open them again.

Something landed in the small pile of hay warming his feet. Something heavy.

He forced his body off the wall as he looked down. And then, his heart stopped.

A bone.

A raw bone, yes—but large, and with scraps of meat, still hanging over the glistening, white centre that had unmistakably once been some animal’s thigh.

His hands shook as he reached for it—his salvation. Only when it was safe and locked tightly in his grasp did he look up.

On the other end of the narrow street stood a girl, peering from the doorway of the shop that always reeked of blood and decay. The butcher’s girl, he realised, the same one the folk said was taken by illness so grave it confined her to the small room above her father’s shop. He’d never seen her before—he doubted anyone ever had. And yet…and yet, there she was, her face twisted in an emotion he’d only ever seen on his mother’s face before.

Worry.

His breathing fell flat as she stepped out—a half-step, really, in his direction, into the dimming sunlight as it made way for the chill darkness of the night. And he stopped breathing entirely as her gaze locked on his.

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

He could make out the exact shade of her eyes despite the street separating them—despite the curtain of greyish light draped over it. They gleamed with a light of their own—a blue so deep they seemed almost violet, like the sky being lulled to sleep by the waning hours of dusk. Dark, silken hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, just barely brushing her waist, small—and thin. Too thin.

He opened his mouth when a tall, broad figure appeared in the doorway behind her.

“Inside,” the butcher barked, but she didn’t move. She only stood there—looking at him, that beautiful face still contorted in what seemed to be—pain.

For…him?

“Astra,” her father barked, and the girl flinched.

She disappeared into the house before he even managed to thank her, the door slamming shut behind her.

***

The night had fallen entirely as he made his way back home, the bone still gripped tight in his hand. Silence enveloped the streets, his steps quieter now as the cobblestone road narrowed into a dirty path. The snow melted into mud here, thick and grey and stained with yellow, its stench filling the air and stirring the guts of those misfortunate enough to reside in the area. Thankfully, though, no red tainted the filthy road tonight—no blood had been spilled over scraps of food or water. It was cold enough, it seemed, to keep his neighbours inside.

His own house—it felt ridiculous to call it that even as it stood a few feet before him—was a pathetic imitation of the sturdy, wooden structures over at the village square. It must’ve been on the verge of collapse, ready to fall apart at any stronger blow of wind, the wood here splintered, wet.

Still, it was a roof over his head. And he wasn’t exactly in a position to complain.

He’d been certain he’d never see it again. And yet…

The girl—Astra—had saved his life today. His mother’s life, too.

He was forever in her debt.

Tomorrow, he would go back—he would knock on the butcher’s door the moment his shop closed and hope for the best. Hope that she would answer.

A fly flitted past him as he approached the door, the light buzz unpleasant against his ear. And then, another.

Something heavy fell down to the pit of his stomach as he realised where they came from.

There was no latrine in their home—it was only big enough for the two of them to lay on the cots inside. If they opened their arms as they laid beside each other, they could touch the opposite sides of the room, feel the splintered wood dig into the skin of their fingers. There wasn’t enough space for anything else—so any needs other than sleep must’ve been fulfilled outside.

It was no surprise that she fell ill in a weather like this. He’d kept her wrapped up in blankets—had given her all of his own as she slept, unable to stop him—but the warmth wasn’t enough. For the past two weeks, she could do nothing but writhe in pain. Every hour of every day.

Perhaps if he’d paid more attention—if he stopped caring about a Gods-damned promise—he could’ve saved her. He could’ve stolen enough blankets to keep her warm, or enough food to strengthen her body. He could’ve stolen money, enough gold marks to pay for a healer, and one willing to venture this far out of the village.

But he’d done none of that. And now, it was too late.

The fire, the bone—they could wait. An hour, maybe two, before his stomach demanded to be filled in a final cry for help. But before then…

He entered the hut silently and laid down on the unoccupied cot, letting his body, his mind, fade into nothingness.

***

When the moon rose over the village the next day, he knocked on the butcher’s door.

No one answered. Not even a sound reached him—not even as he pressed his ear to the hard wood. He knocked again—nothing.

And when it seemed like the house was too lost in sleep to hear his plea, he heard it.

A thud—muffled by the walls, the roof above. And then—another, heavy, like something that’d lost its balance before dropping to the floor.

Silence fell again, so empty he almost thought he’d imagined ever hearing anything at all.

He was going to step back—to turn around and try again the next day—when he heard it.

A scream.

A suppressed one, and brief—as if cut short abruptly before making way for that hollow silence again. But it did happen—rip itself free, even for only a heartbeat.

He scowled at it, the wheels of his mind turning and turning—

Another scream.

Something clicked in his head.

And he barged in.

“How dare you.” A voice, one he’d heard before, seething from upstairs. “How dare you disobey me. Again.”

How dare you take what’s mine, a memory, old yet painful all the same, scratched at the wall of his mind. Street filth.

The butcher.

“I didn’t mean to—” another voice sounded, small and quiet, as if trying to shrink further into itself. He stepped forward—towards the stairs in the back.

“Silence,” the butcher snapped.“You will take your punishment.” He moved closer, the first step groaning under his weight. “You will learn to listen. Or I shall have those filthy ears cut off.”

The man came into his sight at last, his back turned to him as hovered over someone’s form.

He felt his fists close at his sides. “Stop.”

The butcher whirled to him, his roughened face a picture of shock. Of recognition.

“You.”

“Step away from her,” he spat, but the butcher made no move. “I said step away.”

“You dare show your face here again, street trash?” he challenged, baring his teeth, yellow even in the dimming light. “You dare give me orders?” He barked a laugh. “Get out of my establishment.”

“No.”

Another, hideous laugh. “I see you haven’t learned your lesson,” he mused, and pain splintered through his back—old scars waking to the sound of the butcher’s familiar voice. “I will have your head for this, you rat.”

He gritted his teeth. “Step away from her.”

The man’s eyes flashed. And then, strong and heavy, he lunged for him.

Too bad. He was a lot faster.

An elbow in his gut, a foot to the back of his knee. The butcher fell to the floor in time for his punch to land on his head.

When it hit the wooden plank of the floor, unconscious, he smiled.

A stifled gasp escaped someone’s lips.

He whipped toward the sound.

A sea of dark hair shielded her face from view, but even now, he could make out the silver lining her eyes, wide and gleaming.

“Are you alright?” he asked carefully.

“I…” the butcher’s daughter looked to the body, still as it laid beside him. “You…killed him?”

“No.” He angled his head. “Would you like me to?” He would.

“No!” She shot to her feet. “Please, don’t.”

“Alright,” he nodded. “Are you okay, though?”

Her gaze dipped. “I’ll be alright. Thank you.”

He frowned. There was nothing to thank him for—he got there too late, when her tears were no longer fresh, and yet…yes, that was gratitude in her eyes.

“I was looking for you, you know,” he found himself saying. “I’m the one who should be thankful, you—you saved me. The other day. You probably don’t remember,” he added quickly, and his cheeks flushed as he cursed himself for his rambling. 

She seemed to take no notice, though. “The bone.” She swallowed hard. “I remember.”

“I owe you a debt.”

Her eyes widened again, and she shook her head hastily. “There is no debt.”

If only. “I’d be dead if it weren’t for you,” he pointed out. When she seemed to have no answer, he jerked his chin to the man on the floor. “Does he do this often?” he asked.

Her jaw tightened. “Sometimes.”

He knew what sometimes meant. Too well.

“If he ever tries again—” he started, “—scream. I’ll be there—to stop him again.”

“You…” An incredulous look. “I don’t understand.”

Go—just go. She’s fine.

“Let me do this for you,” he blurted. “To clear my debt. Let me keep you safe.”

She seemed to go still at the words. “Safe?”

“If you’d like me to,” he only said, a familiar rush of exhaustion threatening to crash into him again. The old pain in his back still thrummed there quietly, and his fists bled quietly from where the skin had burst open against the butcher’s head. He’d come here to erase his debts—and he found himself in the middle of something that never should have taken place at all—something that stirred a deep, angry place within his soul.

“Do you ever sleep?”

He blinked.

The daughter’s eyes surveyed him watchfully, scanning over his face, his hands—as though somehow, she had heard the words swirling through his thoughts.

“Not anymore,” he admitted. There was no point in lying, not when he’d probably looked halfway through death’s threshold anyway. He had not slept since he found his mother in the hut—and though it had only been a little over a day, he doubted he’d ever be able to sleep again. “So you’d be giving me something to do, really.” If she accepted his offer.

But then she asked, “What’s your name?”

He almost stumbled back a step.

“I…what?”

“Your name,” her brows knotted. “What is it?”

No one had ever asked him that before—not a single person in his long, miserable life.

“Osten,” he choked out.

“Osten,” she repeated, as if weighing the sound on her tongue. He suddenly became very aware of his hands, hanging pathetically at his sides. “My name is Astra.”

Astra.

“I know.” He swallowed hard. “I heard him call for you yesterday.”

A shy smile. “I’ll make you a bargain, Osten,” she offered. “Your…debt will be clear if you promise that after watching me every night—as soon as dawn breaks—you’ll go home and get some sleep yourself.”

Her eyes shone as she waited for his answer. And, before he could even think about it, Osten said, “Deal.”

Something tingled in his chest in response—something he couldn’t quite discern, but there was no time, not as Astra smiled again and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Behind her long, arched ear.

Not sick, then. It was not an illness that made the butcher confine her to the small room above his shop.

Who are you?

But Astra only nodded. “It’s a bargain.”

The words echoed through his step until he reached the dirty, familiar path home. Until, so consumed by the image of the strangest woman he’d ever seen, he tripped over a rogue root of a tree, peering above ground, and his knees landed in a melting puddle of snow.

His reflection fluttered through the surface, the image of his face scattered—though he could still make out the brown, messy hair, the hollow cheeks, the dark eyes. The worn-out blouse, too loose on his shoulders. The…black lines underneath?

He blinked, leaning in closer. There was a marking on his chest—one that had definitely not been there before, and…tingling. 

The dark shape seemed to form a mountain—tall and proud, with three speckles hanging above it—stars.

He rubbed the marking with his hand. Nothing.

Then, he dipped his fingers into the water, this time to rub it with more fervour. The marking did not budge—had only continued to tingle, like a gentle, warm light caressing cold, roughened skin.

Osten did not try to remove it the third time. For some reason…he found that it didn’t bother him.

***

The first beams of dawn peered over the horizon, and he nearly sagged with relief. His worries faded away with the night, which, mercifully, had passed by quietly. Undisturbed.

Astra’s father, the bastard, would come down to set up shop soon—and remain occupied for the rest of the day. Osten had hours to spend before it was time for him to stand watch again.

The time had come for him to fulfil his end of the bargain, it seemed.

Their bargain was ridiculous, really, he thought as he rose to stretch his back, sore from an entire night of leaning against the hardened wood. Astra would let him watch over her, would let him pay off his debt to her, in exchange for…sleep. She’d probably requested it as a courtesy—what else did he have to offer her? He must’ve looked like a half-corpse the night they met—if he slept, he’d at least be a lot nicer to look at.

He almost rolled his eyes at the thought. Why did he insist on staying when, in her eyes, there was no debt to begin with? He could’ve nodded his thanks and call it a day. Could have left and never think about her again.

Instead, he devoted his nights to her, pledging to keep her safe.

Perhaps there was a shred of humanity left in him, instilled somewhere deep in his soul by his mother, propelling him to carry out his final promise to her even after her death. Perhaps he thought that, by doing something good, he would balance out the transgressions he’d committed—and was sure to commit again.

After all, he still had to eat.

Osten sighed as his eyelids drooped, heavy after days of restlessness. He doubted she remembered, but…he would keep his word and sleep—if only to stop the stinging in his eyes, begging them to shut and not open for at least a few hours.

And so, he moved to make his way home.

“Wait!” a voice, small and quiet in the paling night, called after him. “Thank you.”

At that, he turned. Slowly.

Her left cheek was still flushed, blood racing under the aching skin. The rage he felt two nights ago—frozen and rippling like a cracking sheet of ice over a lake—stirred in him at the sight, begging to be let out again. He fought the urge to press his palm to her face, knowing the touch—cold, the way it always had been—was able to provide her relief, even if just for a breath.

He shoved his hands into his pockets instead. “It’s nothing.”

Dark brows furrowed over those eyes, their blue so deep they nearly mirrored the sky above them. “It’s not nothing. I…” she hesitated, and met his gaze—held it until she found whatever she was searching for, whatever allowed her to continue, “I slept better knowing you were out there.”

Everything inside him went quiet at that. “Yeah?”

Her answer was merely a whisper. “Yes.”

He’d never experienced silence like this before—it was nothing like the frigid, hollow kind that rang in his ears the night he’d found his mother. No, this was different. Peaceful. Warm. 

And it all radiated from her.

“My father left,” she told him, her gentle voice filling the air between them. “You no longer have to stand watch.”

He said nothing.

“Will you get some sleep now?” Astra asked.

Osten stilled.

So she did remember.

“That is our bargain,” he agreed, unsure why his throat felt tight.

She nodded, her eyes gleaming at the answer—as if she actually, truly cared—and he could have sworn stars flecked in them brightly as she said, “Yes. It is.”

***

The snow had begun to melt off the streets at last—though the chill of the final weeks of winter remained. He felt it now more than ever as he sat in the shadows, resting against the back wall of Astra’s house. Listening.

Every night of the past week had mercifully been hollow with silence, filled only by his shallow breathing in the cold, and sometimes, the faint chittering of whatever lurked in the forest ahead. He’d spent them in the company of his thoughts—thoughts that drifted to the woman sleeping above far more often than he cared to admit. Was she safe? Did she eat enough today?

He would stay until dawn broke across the sky, until it lit up with a gentle light that sent her father out for his freshly slain delivery. Day after day, the butcher would leave the house and return after an hour or so, covered in blood—and not his own, unfortunately.

Astra hadn’t dared to come out once in her father’s absence. Not that he’d expected her to, of course—after all, he was nothing but her guard. They were bound by a debt and a bargain—nothing more.

“Are you cold?”

Osten jerked off the wall. “Shit!”

She’d appeared out of nowhere—as if stepping out from the shadows themselves. He should’ve heard her in this silence—but Astra hadn’t even made a breath of a sound as she emerged. He tried not to shudder at the thought.

“Forgive me,” she said, the apology genuine in her tone. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

He rose to his feet. “You didn’t frighten me, I just…” he sighed. “I thought you were asleep.” Why wasn’t she?

She shook her head, that raven hair gleaming under the pale moonlight. “I couldn’t.”

He frowned. “Why?” Had the butcher said something to her? Had he harmed her in any way?

But Astra said nothing, her violet eyes surveying him instead. Then, she asked, “Are you, then? Cold?”

“It’s nothing new to me. I’ll survive.”

She was having none of that. “I brought you blankets,” she said, moving to hand him the small pile she’d been holding.

He almost stumbled back a step. “You…what?”

She angled her head, her nose scrunching a little—as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. “Blankets,” Astra repeated. “To keep warm in the night.”

He knew what blankets were for, obviously, but…

“Why?”

Her lips thinned. “I can’t sleep knowing you’re freezing out here.”

He sighed again. “I told you, it’s nothing serious.”

“Well, it is to me,” Astra said, pressing the blankets into his hands. “Keep them. Please.”

Soft—they were so soft. He wasn’t sure he’d ever touched anything like that before. Fighting the urge to bury his face in the material, he shook his head slowly. “You need them more than I do,” he told her.

Her dark brows knitted. “What makes you think that?”

Alright, then. “You’re ill, aren’t you?”

Astra blew out a breath, and he braced himself for the answer—for the lie he’d already heard on the streets of the village. “I am ill,” she started, “but not in the way the folk claims.”

His mouth opened—then closed. No more lies, then—only the truth. “I thought as much.” That, apart from her thin features, there were no signs of illness about Astra—only an air of something…foreign. Something different.

Something he wasn’t sure was entirely human.

Astra asked, “Why offer me the blankets, then?”

Osten shrugged. “I wanted to see if you’d confirm it.”

Her head cocked to the side again. “I have no reason to lie to you.”

“No?”

“No,” she agreed quietly. “You are my only friend.”

Silence fell again, and Astra went still—an unnatural kind of stillness, an almost unsettling one. Like her body could not physically move until he said something—anything. But he couldn’t even pay attention as he mulled over her words.

A friend.

He’d…never had one before.

Something tightened in his throat, blocking the cool air from flowing into his lungs. He could not utter a single word as he beheld her. Astra. His friend.

And then, her gaze fell, and she moved again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she admitted, as if she couldn’t see, couldn’t feel the wave of emotion that had crashed into the man before her. “I don’t know why I look like…this. When I was born, I—my mother, she left. My father…he says she was like me—a monster. A creature forsaken by the gods, he called her.” She huffed a bitter laugh. “He says she tricked him—seduced him, and when she got what she wanted, she left him with a babe and not a word of goodbye.”

Osten swallowed hard. “And you believe him?” The question came out hoarse.

“I don’t want to,” Astra said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind that arched ear. He tried not to gape at it as she added, “I don’t want to believe my mother was what he makes her out to be. But…there are days…”

She shook her head, a shadow passing over her beautiful features.

So Osten said quietly, “You can tell me.”

There was nothing but pain in her eyes as she met his gaze. “There are days that I think only a monster could’ve left me with a man like him.”

And then, she looked to the ground again. As if she couldn’t bear to face him.

He’d be damned—damned—to let her think he could ever shy away from her.

“There is nothing wrong with you, you know,” he began, and her face whipped to his again. “You are good—kind.” He smiled tentatively. “You helped a stranger dying on the streets when he had nothing to offer you in return. You made sure he survived—and you gave him a purpose.” Daring a step toward her, he took one of the blankets and, slowly, draped it over her shoulders, their gazes not breaking for a moment as he added, “You may not look like me, like everyone else here, but—I want you to know that I’m honoured, Astra. I’m honoured to be your friend.”

Light—pure, unrestrained light, brighter than the stars above them, shone in her face as she smiled at his words.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Osten.”

***

Osten was in agony.

The slashes in his back ran deep, fresh blood coating old scars and tingling the netted skin that had never had the chance to heal. The open cuts felt as though they’d been set on fire, white-hot and throbbing with his every step. He’d been whipped six times, as if they wanted to relish in his screams, his suffering. As if they thought one would not have been enough for him to learn his lesson.

Obviously, they were right.

He was planning to steal again, as soon as he could walk without crying out in pain. Such noise was unwelcome if he wanted to be successful this time.

Winter had fallen again, colder and angrier than the year before—and even more relentless. These days, Osten missed the summertime more than ever—how quiet and peaceful his life had been then. He’d taken to hunting in the warm weather, encouraged more by his desire to outdo the butcher’s distributors than his own need to eat. How delightful it had been to watch their faces in the forest—the perfect mixture of shame and disbelief as they realised they’d been bested by a common street thief. He could only imagine the butcher’s face whenever his hunters delivered him the news.

His bow, of course, had been stolen, too. He’d found it resting against an oak tree, probably waiting as its owner ventured deeper into the bushes, urged by the pressing call of his bladder. Too bad. It might’ve been flimsy and splintered, but the bow belonged to Osten now. Though, unfortunately, he made little use of it now that the forest had become a sea of snow and ice, even the most hardened of animals hiding in its wake.

And so, Osten returned to stealing. Astra didn’t know—and if she did, she had not once said a word about it.

For a while, it was enough for him to get by. Steal in the chaos of day, watch over Astra in the dead of the night. Over the months, she seemed to sleep less and less—choosing to sneak out the moment her father drifted into unconsciousness, and to keep Osten company instead.

He…wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Still, Osten was hardly one to give her orders—he was merely a warden, a friend. And, if he had to admit, he enjoyed her quiet presence. He found it soothing of sorts—her eyes, wide and shining and seemingly drinking every word that fell from his lips. Her mouth, parted in a small, curious smile as she listened to his adventures from the hunt. Her voice, calm and yet so full of joy as they talked about the future ahead.

He’d once asked her if she ever thought of leaving—of running away from her father’s cruel grasp and into the night, never to look back again.

And where would I go? she had asked him.

Somewhere safe, he’d told her. And, if he hadn’t been such a fucking coward, panicking at the sight of her eyes gleaming with hope so beautifully, he would’ve added: With me.

That was the first time she’d ever left his side before daybreak. The next day, she’d acted as though their conversation had never even taken place.

He hadn’t stopped dreaming since then—dreaming of the life the two of them could lead if he only dared. Traitorous, traitorous dreams—ones that were sure never to become reality. Yes, they could escape somewhere, far away from the cold, grey village the Gods had thrust them into—but then, what? Where would they go? Where could he ever take her, with nothing no his name but the scars on his back?

The reality, the truth, was simple. Astra deserved a good life—a better life. Without him.

It was with that thought that he made way to her house, wrapped in the blankets she’d given him all those months ago. He’d tried to return them time and time again—to no effect. So he’d kept them, his mind arguing that, at the very least, the blankets would keep him safe enough from frostbite to continue watching her for as long as she needed him.

Their weight on his shoulders was especially painful tonight, though. He wondered how long it would take for his blood to soak into their softness, to turn the murky brown fabric red.

When he turned the corner to the back of the house—right beneath Astra’s small window—he found the space already occupied.

Osten stumbled back in surprise, a small hiss escaping him as the blankets brushed against a particularly nasty cut running along his spine. Astra’s brows furrowed.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he muttered, his gaze falling to the small plate in her hands. “What is this?”

Her lips were a thin line. “I heard what happened.”

Ah.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said anyway.

“Osten,” she pressed, taking another step forward. “Let me help you.”

The muscle in his jaw shifted. “How did you find out?”

Astra sighed, the sound slightly shaky on her breath. “I…hear things. I hear them well.” Her gaze dropped to the plate—as if she couldn’t dare to meet his eyes as she added, “Even when they are happening far outside, I can hear them. My father’s knife, cutting through the flesh downstairs. People talking in the streets. Horses neighing in the stables out back. Your heart,” she said, something strained in her voice now, “I hear it, too. How loudly it beats whenever we speak.”

There was such silence in his head.

Astra shook the dark hair from her face. “Take it,” she said, handing him the plate. The meat, freshly cooked by the potatoes, still hot and steaming and smelling so painfully good that his stomach churned at the barest glance. “Please.” 

His eyes widened. “I…” he stepped back. “I can’t accept this.”

I’m supposed to keep you safe.

“Why not?” she pushed. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

Please, don’t make me say it.

“I don’t want it,” he said, another desperate step back.

“Lies,” she hissed. “Tell me.”

Such fierce, unflinching determination in her face. She knew what he’d done—knew exactly what kind of person he was—and still, she’d cooked this meal for him. Refused to yield until he took the hand she’d reached out to him.

Osten swallowed hard, something wet burning his eyes restlessly.

“I don’t deserve it,” he finally whispered.

Astra went still.

“I promised her, you know—my mother,” he continued, unable to look into her eyes, to see the disappointment no doubt twisting her face, “I promised her I would never steal again. She hated it.”  He huffed a bitter laugh, one that scratched at his throat like fingernails. “She hated that I wasn’t trying to live an honest life. So, for a while, I did. I tried.” He choked out, “And it wasn’t enough to keep her from dying.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look up as he finished, “I shouldn’t have eaten that bone you gave me a year ago. I should’ve left it in the snow. I should’ve gone home, and I should’ve died with her.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence, thrumming in his head, his heart.

And then—

“Osten.”

He shook his head.

“Look at me.”

Her hand cupped his face, so gentle and soft that he shivered beneath the touch. His own hands were coarse, dirty—so different from hers that he almost recoiled from the touch, like a shadow burned by the first beams of the morning sunlight.

Step away, everything screamed inside of him as his gaze lifted to those immaculate hands. Step away before you stain them with your filth.

Her hold on him grew solid, harder than any steel. As if in answer.

As if somehow, she’d heard the words his mind spat at him.

He swallowed them down, forced them to the darkest pits of his soul, and looked up.

“Beautiful,” she breathed as he met her gaze.

His chest tightened. “They’re just black,” he said a shade pathetically, but she shook her head, her own eyes gleaming.

“I feel like I can see the whole world in them.”

He could’ve died in that moment—and he would’ve died a happy man.

“Astra,” he whispered.

But Astra said, “What happened to your mother was not your fault. You did everything you could—you protected her despite everything the world has thrown at you.” Her thumb brushed the hollow of his cheek. “And now, you protect me. You keep me safe.” She smiled, so beautiful his heart braced to leap out of his chest. “You matter, Osten. You matter to me.”

You are my friend.

Let me help you.

You matter to me.

“Eat with me.”

So Osten said, “Okay.”

***

The butcher was out tonight.

Osten had trailed him to the brothel on the far outskirts of the village—a place cursed by the Elder, hidden far from his watchful eye. Osten had never dared to venture in himself—had never had the money for it, anyway—but hearing the sounds from within left little to the imagination, anyway.

He figured Astra’s father was unlikely to return before dawn.

Still, he found himself on the familiar path to her house anyway.

She wasn’t there when he’d arrived—she must’ve been well asleep despite the night only having just begun. Something like disappointment sank in his chest—he’d grown used to seeing her greet him as he approached, those violet eyes bright. Happy. Even his wounds had seemed to heal faster over the past week, stinging less and less with each smile she’d offered him.

Tonight, he was only greeted by the darkness.

And then, a scream.

Astra’s scream—a desperate, bloodcurdling plea for help.

Osten didn’t think twice.

His heart pounded, faster and faster as he rushed into the shop and up the stairs out back—some of the steps stained by old, rusty blood. He swallowed, silently praying it had come from some turkey, some pig, anything but—

Astra screamed again.

He yanked the door open.

Darkness swirled in the room, thick and heavy and wrapped around her—around Astra’s sleeping form, the shadows tighter and tighter—

No, Osten realised as he stepped in closer. The darkness was not trying to kill her.

It…came from her.

The shadows caressed her skin, their curled ends brushing her arms, her cheeks, her arched ears—as if… nursing her back into peace.

“Astra?” Osten whispered.

Astra shot upright with another scream.

Her chest heaved with rough, uneven breaths, and she looked around—to the bed she was lying in, to the shadows hugging her body, to Osten, standing above her, pale as death.

And then, she broke into tears.

He was at her side in an instant, and the shadows vanished out of sight, as though content to let him take over. Silver lined her face as she wept—still tormented by the nightmare despite being freed from its grasp.

“It’s okay,” he said thickly, wrapping the blankets tighter around her. Her shoulders wobbled beneath them as she wept. “You’re okay.”

But she shook her head, silent tears dripping onto the mattress. He’d never seen anyone cry so quietly—as if her pain was a secret she needed to keep from the rest of the world.

Through a crack in the window, the chill wind whistled into the room, and it took everything in him not to leave her side and close it. Whatever happened—whatever horrors ripped her from her sleep…he would not let her endure them alone.

He could no longer tell if it was the cold that made his jaw tremble, or the sight of her, utterly broken in a pile of patched-up blankets she’d probably sewn up herself. Even the Gods themselves knew her father cared too little to have done it for her.

He gently draped another layer over her form. She’d shrunk so deep into herself that it made his heart ache.

“Tell me what happened.”

She didn’t look to meet his pleading gaze. “It was just a nightmare,” she said, and damn him, even her voice sounded small. As if the scream she’d let out had cost her all her strength.

“Tell me anyway.”

A shaky breath. “You don’t want to know," she said, and he could've sworn shadows gathered around her again at the words—a confirmation of the darkness her dreams beheld.

But Osten only said, “You’re my friend.”

A single tear slid down her cheek. “I saw fire. Fire and blood—so much blood, Osten. I…I couldn’t stop it.” Her voice trembled again. “And then, there was nothing. Nothing. It was cold, and it was dark, and—”

“It was a dream,” he insisted, his hand still resting atop her shoulder. He dared to brush his thumb over it as he added, “It’s not going to happen.”

Astra met his gaze, her own eyes beseeching. “Someone talks to me in my sleep,” she whispered.

“Who?”

“A woman.” She shook her head again. “I don’t know. I don’t…know what to do.”

Osten had never felt more powerless in his life.

But then, Astra covered his hand with hers, guiding him from her shoulder to lace her fingers with his. “Thank you for coming here,” she said quietly.

He wasn’t sure he was breathing as he asked, “Would you like me to stay?”

A heartbeat of silence.

“Yes.”

***

“Osten.”

Shit. Had he fallen asleep again?

“You’re awake.” He rose to his feet, facing the woman watching him from the shadows. “Did you have another nightmare?” It had almost been a week since the last time she’d woken up screaming.

Since she’d fallen asleep inches beside him.

“No,” Astra said, then hesitated. “Well, yes. A dream. I think.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Is…everything okay?”

“I’m…not sure. I…” She loosed a slow breath. “Osten, I think I know. I know what I am—what these dreams have been trying to show me all this time.”

She’d tied her hair up tonight, for the very first time since they’d met, perhaps—those dark curls swept back, a few silken strands framing her face. Her long, arched ears.

She was so beautiful he struggled to level a breath.

“And…” he gulped. “What have you learned?”

Astra surveyed him. Then, she said, “She tells me there are others.”

“Who?”

“My Mother.”

His eyes widened. “You found her?” The mother who’d abandoned her the moment she was born, the one she’d refused to speak about when he’d asked her months ago. She’d been…searching for her?

But Astra shook her head, her lips parting in a gentle smile. “She found me.”

Osten lifted his brows. But Astra continued, “She sings of others of my kind, creatures of all shapes and sizes, but with the same, ancient magic, thrumming through their veins.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind that arched ear. “They live far away from here—on a land far larger than ours, across the Great Sea. Fae, she calls them. That’s what I am.” She smiled, a peaceful smile—as though finally, everything in the world had fallen into place.

Osten could all but stare.

Astra’s smile faltered. “You’re frightened.”

“No, I…” His throat felt dry. “Magic?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“What of the Gods, then? Are they…” he swallowed hard. “Are they Fae as well?”

“No. I—I don’t know. The Mother, she…” Astra chewed on her bottom lip. “She calls them beings of death. Unmatched in their raw power, and…undying.” She shivered. “I…no. They aren’t like me.”

Osten released a long, long breath.

“There’s more,” she added carefully, as if she could fell the weight of her news on him. “My Mother—she has gifted me with a mission. A power different from the others. Osten, I…I can do things.”

“What kind of things?”

She hesitated.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her, even as his head started spinning.

Astra stepped in closer and opened her palm.

Light, a warm silver that seemed to glitter much like the stars above them, beamed from her skin, illuminating the alley. Soft, gentle—just like her, and bright as it warmed his face. He could’ve sworn he heard it calling out to his very soul.

“Incredible,” he breathed. “It’s like starlight.”

A small smile. “It is.”

“How do you do it?” he asked, his voice clear with awe.

“I look deep into my soul,” she said quietly, looking from beneath dark lashes to meet his gaze. “And I think of you.”

Osten, a gentle voice—her voice—sounded in his mind, and he staggered back a step. Don’t be afraid.

“Was that you?” he managed to say. She nodded. “It felt…warm.” Like a breeze on a summer night.

Astra breathed out, her shoulders nearly sagging with relief. Had she worried she’d scared him away? She was magnificent—beautiful inside and out, the only light he’d ever come close to in his entire life.

He was never going to let her go.

“I wish I could do that, too,” he admitted. “So that I could talk to you when everyone else is watching.”

Sadness twisted her face, and guilt washed over him like a crashing wave. “I’m sorry,” he amended quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m fine the way things are.”

“I’m not,” she whispered. “Osten.” Gods, the way she spoke his name. Like it was the only thing that mattered. “I want to be able to see you, talk to you. Touch you.” He shivered, and she took his hand. “I want to be able to do all those things—somewhere safe, where people will watch and not care one bit.” Her eyes glowed brightly as she added, “And one day, I will.”

His fingers curled tighter around her own.

“I promise,” she said.

***

Even in the darkness, he could make out the shadows on Astra’s face as he approached her home. She watched him, absently fiddling with her fingers, those violet eyes glazed and somewhere far away—lost in thought. 

His steps picked up. He could practically taste her worry on her shaky breath, on the small clouds of  frost that formed on the cold, midnight air. Had he touched her again? Was she in pain?

He would kill him. He would stride into the house, just like he had all those months ago, and beat him until his eyes swelled enough for him to never lay them on his daughter again. Until his jaw shattered to the point of no repair, so he could never spew his filthy insults to her face again. He would fucking relish in his pain, he would—

“Osten?”

He blinked.

Astra’s thin hand gripped his with surprising strength. “You seemed to daze off a little.”

He forced a swallow down his throat and smiled weakly. “Yeah.”

Her brows knitted, her worry creased even deeper into her beautiful features. She shouldn’t have worried for him—never for him. Not when the world had thrown so much at her already.

So Osten cleared his throat, unusual lightness in his tone as he amended, “Forgive me. I got distracted.” He reached out a hand, daring to brush his knuckles against her cheek. The faintest of touches, but she flushed nonetheless. “What bothers you?” Osten asked quietly.

“I…” her voice trembled again, and his heart strained in his chest. His fingers brushed her cheek once more, encouraging, and he must’ve stopped breathing entirely as her hand wrapped around them—brought his own, rough hand to cup her face gently. As if it steadied her. “Father is ill,” she finally told him. 

Perhaps the Gods had decided to do the job for him, then.

“The medics said it’s a matter of days,” she added, the words barely above a whisper.

Good fucking riddance. The bastard deserved it—the world would be a better place without him.

Still, Astra seemed rattled, her grip on his hand tighter. “When he’s gone…” she started, clearly aware of his indifference to her father’s fate, “they will come for me. He was the only protection I’ve ever had from them.”

He pretended the words hadn’t stung some place deep in his soul, the same one that bellowed to defend her, to shield her body with his own, to lay down his life for hers if necessary. But—she had to know. So he said, “You have me.”

Her eyes softened. “I know—I know. But my father was—is—very well known in this village, and for the folk, no matter how curious about me, it’s always been enough to keep away.”

No matter how big of a bastard he was, her father was respected. Unlike him—unlike the street trash whose hand she now held to her face.

She stepped forward, her body so close to his now that he couldn’t help but meet her gaze. It would be so easy, so painfully easy to take her into his arms when her warmth practically sang for him to do it. The kind of warmth that should’ve been at odds with the cold heart of his—and yet they danced together in harmony, like shadows between the stars.

“You’re strong,” she said, placing that slender hand atop his chest. Right above his heart, pounding under the intensity of her stare. “The strongest person I know, Osten. I wouldn’t be standing here today if it wasn’t for you. But, these people…” she shook her head, her dark hair shimmering under the moonlight. “These people—they won’t see me as you do. Once they see me for what I truly am, they will stop at nothing to be rid of me—even if it means killing you,” she finished, and something silver sparkled in those eyes. 

The Gods would damn him for this—for thinking he was worthy of it—but he wrapped his arms around her, unable to keep away at the sight of her tears. “I won’t let that happen,” he insisted, his voice cracking slightly as she pressed her body into his. “As long as I live, I will keep you safe.” His lips brushed over her temple, over the silken hair above in a whisper of a kiss. “Perhaps even after that.”

Astra shuddered against him, but she nodded. “I’ll keep you safe, too. No matter what it takes.”

***

The evening had slowly began to dim into the night. It was still too early for him to begin his watch—the butcher’s shop would’ve been running for another hour or so had Astra’s father not been confined to his bed for the past week. Even so, Osten found himself on his usual route to her house, something thrumming quietly in his chest with each step, urging him forward. He couldn’t tell why, but…he listened.

He’d been restless all day, wandering around the village without aim. It took everything in his power to keep himself from running to the main square and simply knocking on the butcher’s door. Only Astra’s stories of his deteriorating health kept him somewhat at ease—her father could not possibly harm her in his current state, not when a mere lift of a finger would cause him immense pain.

Osten tried not to delight in that. He wondered what happened to the man—if, perhaps, the Gods had learned of his cruelty and chosen the illness as punishment.

After all, they could not allow a common human to be more heartless than them.

Still, even with Astra’s reassurance that she was safe, he could not stop himself from coming over every night. She hadn’t come out as often as she used to—not with her father constantly demanding her attention. He could not understand why she did it—but he kept quiet. Waited.

A matter of days, he’d been told.

Hurry up, his mind urged.

Perhaps tonight would bring more optimistic news. He simply couldn’t wait any longer.

He…missed her. Missed the sound of her voice, the sparkle in her eyes, the feel of her skin on his. Maybe that was what his quickening heartbeat had been trying to tell him all day—to touch her, smell her. Taste her.

He was in such deep shit.

Careful not to be spotted by anyone who’d have recognised him as the village thief, he continued on his way forward—but, strangely enough, the village seemed…deserted. Empty. As if all of its residents have decided to go to sleep earlier tonight. Some, Osten even noticed, have barricaded themselves in.

Something was wrong.

His steps picked up, that thrumming in his chest louder and louder, echoing through the tightening space. What was going on? Why wasn’t anyone there?

He turned the corner and froze into place.

The butcher’s shop was engulfed in flames.

No.

No, no, no.

These people, Astra’s voice whispered into his mind, they won’t see me as you do. Once they see me for what I truly am, they will stop at nothing to be rid of me.

His blood stilled in his veins.

The butcher was dead.

I won’t let that happen, his own answer came. As long as I live, I will keep you safe.

His legs started moving again.

“Astra?” Osten called. “Astra!”

She was in the house, struggling to breathe through the smoke—

Oh, Gods, what if she was—

And then, he heard it.

Chanting.

He whipped to his right, to where, at the far end of the street, a dark mass of people gathered, torches in hand.

And in the middle of it all…

“ASTRA!”

His roar echoed through the stone.

He lunged forward, running faster than he’d ever had, because these people, these monsters, they took her, they took her from him—

“Osten!” her voice reached him through the crowd, trembling.

“Move!” he yelled, elbowing someone deep in the gut, pushing through the sea of bodies, “Fucking move right now!”

All the air was suddenly sucked from his lungs, and Osten fell to his knees.

Someone kicked him in the back—in the scars, still half-open and healing.

A loud gasp—Astra’s.

“No one wants you here, trash,” some old man spat at him.

Another kick, pinning his body to the ground.

“Leave her alone,” he managed breathlessly.

The crowd laughed, an ugly, biting sound.

“She is a witch, boy. Too dangerous to be kept alive,” a woman beside him said, torch in hand.

“Do you not see her?” the other man questioned, a smirk on his face. “Filthy—just like you.” He motioned somewhere behind him—somewhere where Astra was kneeling on the stones, held down by the shoulders by two men.

And beside her…

A tall, wooden stake.

A white-hot flash of pain shot up Osten’s spine as he thrashed under his boot. “She is nothing like me.” She was good, and kind, and—

“Perhaps we have you both burned.” He jerked his chin to one of the large men. “Take him.”

“NO!” Astra screamed, desperately trying to yank her body from the men’s grip. “KEEP AWAY FROM HIM!”

He failed. He failed her, and now they were both going to die. “Astra!” he bellowed, still moving, still trying to reach her through the agony, when—

Another boot on his back—and a scream, ripped free from his throat.

Pain, pain and absolute, unrestrained terror filled Astra’s face—as if somehow, she, too, could feel his pain.

And then she began to scream.

The ground shook beneath his body, beneath all of them, people hauling each other away as Astra roared, roared and sobbed, shredding the world to pieces with her pure, unfiltered fury.

And when her voice was nothing but a high pitch on the cold, evening air, it started to rain.

No—not rain.

Blood.

It was everywhere—on him, under him, everywhere in between. The weight on his back vanished, something seeping into the torn fabric of his clothes, thick and hot and wet.

Osten rose to his knees, the world suddenly silent.

He looked around him—to the torches, scattered all over the ground, blood dripping onto their heads to slowly put out the fire. To the woman kneeling in the middle of it all, soaked in red.

“What have you done?” he asked, shock lacing every word.

Pale as death, her entire body shook. “I don’t know,” she said, the words no more than a choked sob. “I…” her gaze fell to her hands. To the blood splattered all over them. “I killed them,” she whispered, the sound no more than a rasp.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t so much as turn to look at the massacre around them—to the dozens of bodies that, under a mere lift of her finger, had become a red, wet mist. He only stared at her—at the woman before him, still trembling under the weight of what she’d done.

What she’d done to protect them. Protect him.

“I…” Osten began, but didn’t manage to say anything else. Words failed him.

Her violet eyes were lined with silver as she looked at him once more—then closed them. Squeezed them shut as she kept trembling. A shaky breath loosed from her chest—as if she braced herself for whatever he was going to say next. As if she expected him to cringe away. 

As if she thought he was going to leave her.

As if she thought he could ever live without her.

He took her bloodied hands in his, his thumb smearing red as he brushed her skin gently. “We need to go.” Those eyes shot open in surprise. “Now.”

***

Hand in hand, they ran—ran until the village long left their sight, until the smoke no longer swirled around them. The only thing that remained was blood—a reminder never to return again.

Hours must’ve passed since the massacre, but they did not stop until a light came into view. Then, a house—no, an inn.

Thank the Gods.

A few loose gold marks, pulled deep from within Astra’s skirts, paid for a night in one of the rooms. The innkeeper averted her eyes as she handed them the key—no doubt eyeing the red staining their clothes, stumbling back at their tangy smell.

It did not matter. They were safe.

Astra disappeared in the small space behind one of the walls the moment they stepped into the room. She only mumbled something about “a bath,” her hands still trembling slightly under the coat of blood.

He wondered if she’d noticed the lone bed in the middle, if she, too, heard the countless pillows and blankets call out her name.

No matter how loudly they called, he was planning to take the floor. She needed the bed more than he did—especially after everything that had gone on tonight. He was used to the questionable comfort of the ground, anyway.

And so, when he’d emerged from the bathroom minutes after it had been freed by Astra, his hair still dripping warm water, he marched straight for the space at the foot of the bed.

“What…are you doing?” Astra’s voice reached him, confused.

He turned to her, frowning. “I…do you need me?” Did she need help? He couldn’t imagine with what, but—

“What? No,” Astra chuckled lightly. “Were really planning to sleep on the floor?”

“I…” Osten look to the ground again, to where he’d already laid a single blanket. “Yes?”

She chuckled again, as if she couldn’t help herself, the sound like a birdsong carried by the summer wind. “Just…come here, Osten.”

Words fell dry in his throat as he approached the bed. As, slowly, he slid under the duvet, inches from her side.

Astra sighed deeply. “It’s warm.”

Osten swallowed hard. “Astra.” Her eyes shot open. “Are you…alright?”

Her teeth dug into her bottom lip. “I…don’t know.” Her face was grave again, and for a moment, he wish he could hear that soft laugh from her again. “There is so much to do, Osten,” she said quietly.

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” he told her, his voice tight.

Her eyes glittered in the darkness. “You don’t have to. The task I was given—the one I’d told you about—it’s dangerous. I—I don’t know how, but…” she shook her head, the drying strands of hair shifting with the movement. “You don’t have to,” she repeated.

“I want to,” Osten whispered.

At that, Astra said nothing. She only stared—her eyes burning, glowing as bright as his soul as he swore to remain by her side.

“What is the task?” he asked her, breaking the silence.

“Do you remember when I told you of the others?” Osten nodded, but she said anyway, “The Fae across the Great Sea. They were banished—banished by the Death Gods who wished to roam these lands themselves. This place…” she sighed, as if she shared the weight of those Fae’s pain, “It used to be their home.”

Osten blinked. “You wish to bring them back—bring them home.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll—” his head spun. “You’ll challenge the Gods for this?”

Astra’s eyes fluttered shut. “I’d rather not think about that right now. But…” Another sigh. “I was given this power for a reason, Osten. I can’t simply let it go to waste.”

He wasn’t sure what to say—what was there to be said? Astra was powerful, powerful enough to face the same Gods humans like him had been praying to since the beginning of time, and Osten…

Osten was unable to stop her. Could only follow her and keep on praying. To whom, he was no longer sure.

Perhaps he’d pray to her, he thought as he looked upon her face again. He’d never believed in anything more.

And so, underneath the heavy duvet, Osten reached for her hand.

He felt it, then—the warmth of her skin as his fingers brushed it. Astra shifted—shifted closer, encouraging, and he realised—realised it wasn’t her hand that he found, but her thigh, bare under the nightgown they’d found in the ancient wardrobe of the room.

Fuck, she was so beautiful.

If it wasn’t the Gods that held her in their graces, she had to have been blessed by stars themselves. The silky veil of her hair spilled onto her pillow, shielding her face from view, but he knew—knew just how devastating she was. Knew the way her eyes twinkled from beneath long, dark lashes as she looked at him; the way they saw him, saw all of him, and lit up at the sight. That’s what she was—light, as if every inch of her had been crafted from the stars themselves.

He tucked the thought deep into his soul, let it shine there quietly as his knuckles continued to trace the golden-brown skin of her thigh. Slowly, he savoured the feel of her softness, her quickening breaths like a melody calling out to him, urging him to move, move, move.

She wanted this—wanted him, even when he had nothing, was nothing. She could’ve told him to spend the night on the floor at her feet, and he would’ve obliged her happily. She could’ve chosen the comfort of the blankets on her side of the bed, and yet it was his body she’d turned to for warmth. His heart nearly stumbled in answer.

His name was a strain on her lips as his fingers reached the apex of her thighs, and everything inside of him tightened. His own aching body pressed in closer, and he let his lips fall to her neck—to nuzzle it gently, to worship the heartbeat thumping underneath. The pulse that assured him this was real, that they’d made it out alive.

Her body shivered against him, as if her thoughts mirrored his own.

“Osten,” she whispered his name again as his thumb circled that spot that made her breath falter. The same spot that now coated his fingers with a slick warmth, guiding him lower, deeper—

His lips closed on her neck again, right beneath her ear, and Astra shuddered.

“Osten,” she said again. “I need you.”

He hummed against her, relishing in the scent of her, like jasmine and a summer breeze, his thumb circling that spot closer, brushing up against it—

Two of his fingers slid into that wetness the moment he asked, “And how do you need me, Astra?”

Her low moan reverberated through his chest as she buried her face in him. “All of you,” she begged. “Give me all of you.”

“I’m yours,” Osten promised. “Every last shred of what I am belongs to you.”

Astra loosed a shuddering breath and wrapped her arms around him. “You’re mine.”

And with that, she pulled his body on top of her own.

Osten swore at the sudden movement, at the strength behind it, but then Astra reached for the lace of his trousers, slender fingers tangling into the thread—and all thoughts vanished from his head.

And when he finally sprang free, when all of him was laid bare to her, when she wrapped her hand around the velvety base—

“You’re mine,” Astra repeated, voice straining, guiding him closer.

Osten could not breathe as he felt it—felt her very core, felt its heat welcome him in.

“You’re mine.”

His groan was a swallowed sound as he crashed his lips into hers.

He rocked into her slowly at first, a gentle, teasing pace that let her adjust to his fullness as he kissed her—kissed her the same way he’d dreamt of all this time, savouring every inch, every bit of warmth she offered.

Astra panted, breaking away only for a moment as she held him tightly, urging him closer, deeper before her mouth found his again in an endless need to taste, taste, taste.

He understood that need all too well.

Her nails dug into his shoulders as he sunk his length into her, brushing against a spot that made her tighten so deliciously around him that he couldn’t help but groan her name again.

“Astra.” His hand tightened on her hip as he pulled out, then thrust back in, completely and utterly breathless. “My beautiful Astra.”

She moved her hips, her hands on his neck now, pulling his face to hers again—as if she wanted to share her every breath with his.

“Yours,” her promise echoed his own. “I’m yours.”

Starlight erupted around them as he drove home for the final time. Bright, iridescent—glowing, from her, from him, from the joining of their souls as they found their pleasure together. This—she was everything he’d ever wanted, the warmth he’d been holding out for in a raging cold, the hope he’d been searching for in a life that seemed forever lost to it.

Astra.

They rested like this, tangled together, her body wrapped up in his arms, his face held in her loving hands.

When he pulled away to admire her kiss-bitten lips, Astra said,  “I wish we could stay like this. Forever.”

He placed a kiss to her brow. “One day, we will.”

“There are dangerous days ahead of us.”

“I will keep you safe.” Another kiss. “I’ll fight death itself to keep it away from you.”

“From both of us,” Astra amended.

“From both of us,” he agreed.

***

Osten.

Osten, the voice urged again. Wake up.

His body shifted to the side.

Osten!

He jolted awake, blinded by the sudden light.

Astra’s face stared back at him, her eyes wide as she pressed a finger to his lips. Do not make a sound, she warned, something trembling in that silent voice. They’re here.

Who? he whispered into nothingness, hoping that somehow, she could hear him.

Something glimmered in that darkness—deep within his mind. A light—soft yet bright, shining a silver so warm it was almost gold. It reminded him of the starlight Astra had once shown him.

When Astra spoke again, it was through that light, her voice steady, grounding him in the chaos of this world. The village hunters. They’re here—and they came for us.

So quickly—they’d found them so quickly—

His stomach turned.

We need to go, Astra urged.

Okay, Osten blinked, forcing the remnants of his sleep away. Okay.

There’s a window in the bathroom facing out back, she told him hurriedly, We jump, and we run for the forest ahead.

Osten nodded.

Let’s go.

He was on his feet in an instant, running for the room hidden behind their bed—Gods, their bed.

What they did last night…

Focus, Astra’s stern tone crept into his mind again—but there was a softness to it, a flush—one that made his own face burn.

Not now.

Astra jumped first, the ground beneath low enough to steady her fall. Osten followed quickly, knees buckling as he landed, and his cheeks heated again—somehow, Astra had managed to do this with a lot more grace.

He heard their bedroom door burst open the second they lunged for the forest.

“Quickly," Astra panted, “Don’t stop.”

Don’t stop, he heard her again, her voice huskier this time—a memory simmering to life again. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop—

He shook his head and kept on running.

They didn’t stop until the woods deepened—until there was nothing but the barren trees ahead, lone bushes standing their ground here and there amidst the cold weather. Until a wooden hut came into sight—hidden atop a small clearing.

“It’s not safe—” he started, but Astra had already made her way towards the door.

It was hopeless—in his experience, people had rarely been inclined to reach out a hand, no matter how desperate he’d been. But Astra…the hope never died with her.

Her knock was soft on the door.

A moment later, it opened with a soft creak, and a wrinkled face emerged. “Yes?”

“I…” Astra swallowed hard. “I…”

It hit him, then. How isolated she had been. Her entire life—sheltered from everyone but the man who Osten was willing to bet had hardly spoken to her at all—and, when he did, he had little kindness to offer.

He was by her side in a heartbeat, his hand steady on her shoulder.

Osten smiled to the lady. “My wife and I are simple travellers. We beg for your sanctuary in this difficult conditions.”

The woman was old, possibly older than the Elder himself, but her eyes were still sharp as ever as she took them in. “Travellers?” she questioned. “Or outlaws?”

His kind expression did not waver for so much as a breath. “We come from the West in search of a better life.” Everyone knew the lands bordering the Great Sea were less than hospitable. So many deaths there, disappearances—cursed by the Gods, the village folk had always used to say. “Please,” Osten said again. “My wife is pregnant.”

Beside him, Astra stilled.

He could only pray her face betrayed nothing as the woman assessed her—dropped down to her belly, narrowing slightly.

Finally, she looked to him again, and Osten did not realise he’d been holding his breath. “Come in,” she told them.

“Thank you,” Astra breathed. “Thank you.”

The woman nodded.

Only when they laid beside each other a few hours later, huddled on a small bed in the darkness of the night, did Astra dare to whisper, “I felt bad lying to her.”

Underneath the thin covers, Osten brushed his fingers over her waist. “I’d lie to the Gods themselves to keep you safe,” he said. “Besides, it…it doesn’t have to be a lie.”

Astra fell silent.

He opened his mouth, ready to take it back, to apologise—

But then, Astra asked, “It doesn’t?”

He swallowed. “If you don’t want it to be.”

“What about you, Osten?” she pressed. “What do you want?”

She could’ve asked him if the sun was hot, or the grass green, or the night sky the same shade as her eyes. The answer was that simple.

“You,” he rasped. “I want you.”

Astra shifted closer, the heat of their bodies united once more.

“Then take me,” she told him. “Take all of me.”

***

When he woke up, Astra was gone.

His breath came hard and fast, dread curling in his stomach as all his fears crashed into him one by one.

They found us.

They took her.

They’d burn her.

And you could not protect her.

He shot to his feet and lunged out of the room, everything inside him bellowing to find her, find her, find her—

A clank of metal somewhere to his right. The kitchen.

He was there in an instant, gripping the wooden beam rising from the low ceiling, his hand white as death.

“My wife,” he panted. “Where is she?”

The old lady whipped back, a wrinkled palm to her chest. “Gods!”

“Where is she?” he repeated. If she’d let them take her—

“Take a deep breath, boy. She’s in the forest—picking up berries for breakfast.” A scolding glare of those ancient eyes. “I was planning to go myself, but she insisted on helping.”

Of course she had.

He’d merely grunted a response before running out.

What was she thinking? Even now, in broad daylight, there wasn’t a single place in the world where they could be safe, not with all the Gods against them, not with the village men on the hunt and—and the Fae she had to unite—

His head hurt. But he kept on running.

What if they’d already gotten to her? What if, by some miserable chance, a lone hunter stumbled upon her wandering the woods—saw her arched ears and assumed what everyone else had? A monster, a witch. A prey to hunt, to rid the world of.

He was going to kill every last one of them.

“Osten?”

He turned to the sound—

There she was. Safe.

He took her in his arms before she managed to say another word. “You’re okay,” he breathed. “You’re okay.”

Her hands slid around his neck carefully. “Of course I am.” There was a hint of question to her voice—as if she couldn’t understand the frantic look in his eyes, the panic in his face.

“I was so worried,” he told her, then leaned back an inch to meet her gaze. “What were you thinking?”

“I didn’t go that far,” she protested. “The cottage is only a few minutes away—”

“There are people hunting us, Astra.” He loosed a breath. “We need to be more careful,” he added, his eyes searching. A shadow passed through her face—there and gone, but enough for his heart to ache. “I’m sorry,” Osten said, his voice more gentle now as he reached for her palm. “I wish things were easier.”

Astra sighed. “Me, too.” She squeezed his hand. “Let’s go.”

“When we reach the North,” he began as they made their way back through the woods, “What will you do?”

She chewed on her lip. “The Mother guides me. She’ll reveal the face of my enemy once I’m there.”

“How can it be your enemy?” He couldn’t understand. “You don’t even know them”

“The Mother says they are the reason my kind is not welcome in these lands,” she explained. “If I use my powers to banish them, they’ll be able to come back.”

“If she’s so powerful, why can’t she do it herself?” he snapped, then bit his tongue. He didn’t mean for his words to come out so harsh.

But Astra only smiled as she lifted her gaze to his. “Perhaps she knows life is a lot easier when you have someone by your side.”

And Osten found himself smiling back.

“I’ll do what I can, you know,” he told her. “To help.”

Astra only shook her head. “You left your home for me, Osten. You have no idea what it means to me.”

He stopped in his tracks, and she turned back, confusion written on her features. So he took her hand in his and said, “I’d leave that place a thousand times over. You are my true home, Astra.”

Her eyes gleamed, and she opened her mouth—

But then, her smile faltered.

He’d seen that look before—yesterday morning, at the inn.

“What?” he asked, panic building in his chest all over again. “What is it?”

Astra swallowed hard. “Death.”

They both did not stop running until the cottage came into sight, so awfully quiet that even the wind had ceased to sing.

“Stay behind me,” he instructed as they walked in.

The kitchen was painted in blood. And their host, the old, innocent woman…

Her body draped over the floor.

Astra vomited.

They would never be safe.

***

Right now, Osten knew two things.

One, by some miracle, the hunters set after them had not been smart enough to return to the bloodied cottage again. Not yet, anyway.

Two, Astra was very, very sick.

He watched her from the corner of the kitchen—somewhat clean now, after two weeks of endless scrubbing—watched as her shoulders ceased to heave, as she eased from the hollow in the wooden seat of the latrine. At first, he’d thought it was the sight of the kind, elderly woman, lifeless and bloodied in her own home, that rattled Astra to the point of cold sweat coating her face as she emptied her stomach, over and over again.

After a week, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

And now that another week had passed…

Osten was getting worried. Scared.

It was by pure luck that no one had lurked into the cottage over the time they stayed there— it seemed that there had been no one in the old lady’s life that cared enough to stop by and check in on her. Even in life, she was simply…forgotten.

Just as he would’ve been if it weren’t for Astra.

She blew out a breath, slowly rising to her feet.

“Let me bring you some water,” he offered softly, even as his chest clenched at the sight of her, pale and weak and so…resigned. She, too, could not understand what was happening to her.

Astra waved a hand, waddling to the kitchen, any air of strength, of light, gone from her face. “It’s alright. I can…”

“Astra,” he pleaded. “Please, just sit.” He motioned to the wobbly chair beside the counter.

She did—grimaced as her body adjusted to the new position.

Osten handed her the cup. “Do you think you can try to eat something?” She had not eaten in two days. “I made breakfast.”

She pressed her lips together, dry and flaky, their usual rosy glow nowhere to be seen. “No,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I feel like breakfast would only make things worse.”

Something lit up in his head.

“What is it?” Astra asked, noting his stillness.

Osten angled his head. “What if it was the berries?”

Astra scrunched her nose. “You ate them, too,” she pointed out. “And you’re perfectly healthy.”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, considering. “Maybe…maybe they have a different effect on the Fae?”

She shook her head. “No, I—it wouldn’t make sense. I recognised them, and I’m almost certain I’ve had them before—years ago, back home.” She sighed. “I don’t ever recall feeling like this after eating anything. And besides, the last time I had those berries was two weeks ago, the day after we—”

She paused.

Osten’s brows rose. “What?”

Astra’s nostrils flared. Then again—as if she couldn’t believe what she’d scented. “Impossible,” she breathed.

“What?” Osten repeated. “What is?”

Shakily, she rose from her seat, a slender palm cradling her stomach.

“Astra.”

Her throat bobbed. “I think…” she looked to meet his gaze. “Osten, I think I am with child.”

There was only silence in his head.

“Osten.”

Could it be?

A child.

A family.

“What are we going to do?” Astra whispered, her eyes still searching his.

For the first time in a raging winter, Osten felt warm.

He took her hand and smiled through his tears. “Live.”

***

Astra’s rhythmic breathing filled the silence as she slept.

Pregnant.

There was a child—his child—growing in her belly, inches away from him. He could only stare in disbelief—disbelief that, despite everything he was, everything he’d done…someone deemed him worthy of this. Of happiness.

He would hold onto it for as long as he lived. Would not let anyone stand in his way.

But even now, his unborn child was in danger. Had not yet even entered this world, and there were already people threatening it.

Osten gritted his teeth, the sound sharp in the darkness.

His family would not live the way he had his entire life. Would not be tossed aside, belittled, despised. Hunted.

Never again.

Osten made the decision then.

Gently, he laid a hand on Astra’s belly. Pressed his lips to her temple.

And then, he went out into the night.

***

The moon still hung over the sky when he approached the forest’s edge. Its pale light had guided him smoothly through the trees, through the melting snow—the first sign of winter handing their lands over to spring at last. Soon, the cold would subside, and with it, the uncertainty that accompanied him every frigid night. He didn’t dare tell Astra—especially not now, with the babe on its way into the world—that there had been times he feared his arms would not be enough to keep her warm.

They’d decided to begin their journey up north soon—to begin whatever Astra’s Mother had instructed her to do. He worried about that, too, and more than he dared to admit out loud. Worried about how easily his beloved had taken to trust the same woman who’d abandoned her the moment she was born. Astra had accepted her destiny without so much as questioning it, and it…irked him that he had no say in the matter. He wasn’t like Astra, or her mysterious Mother. He was only…human.

How could he ever protect her from the rough, dangerous north? How could he protect their child? Osten had no power.

The only thing he did have was the frozen rage in his chest, begging to be unleashed upon the world. And the knife, gripped firmly in his hand.

This was the only way.

He’d attack them from the shadows—take them by surprise, the same way Astra had done so many times as she waited for him to arrive at her house. Some of them were strong men, but inexperienced—their sheer weight and size half no advantage over his stealth, acquired after all those months in the forest. He could take them. He could kill them.

And finally, his family would be safe.

He could see them gathering at the main square, torches in hand—no doubt readying for another hunt. A hunt for their witch.

He would die before he let them get to her.

***

The boot on his neck was heavy, its rough heel digging into the hollow of his throat.

An ambush, an ambush, an ambush. The thought thrummed in his head along with his blood. They’d known he would come back, had remembered his stubbornness from the forest, and they’d prepared accordingly.

Osten never stood a chance.

Blood gushed in his mouth, though he could hardly feel it anymore—his jaw had been shattered in so many places he wasn’t entirely sure how it still clung to the rest of his face. Another kick to his scarred back—someone cried out in agony. Perhaps it was him.

“Where’s your whore, thief,” someone seethed.

A twisted bone—his leg?

He thought he screamed again.

“Filth,” another spat.

Something hot and wet spilled down his face. Blood, tears, both. He wasn’t sure anymore.

Please, his mind cried out to nothingness. Please, help me save her.

The boot forced his face deeper into the cobblestone, and a loud crack snapped in his ears. Then, more blood—this time, flooding his lips, into his mouth. His nose had given in at last.

Please, he begged again. Give me power. Give me strength.

A flash of fire in his face. Torches lowered down to his ragged clothes.

Let me kill them. One last desperate plea. I’ll do anything.

And then, everything went dark.

“Anything?”

A voice, as ancient as it was young, as smooth as it was hoarse. Powerful, thrumming with something he’d only ever felt from one being before.

Magic.

“Yes,” he rasped.

It narrowed its eyes at him, assessing.

“Will you sacrifice everything that you are for the power we offer you?”

His heart stopped beating.

“Would that power be able to save her?”

Silence. And then, “It would.”

“Then yes.”

A feline smile in the darkness.

“Let us begin.”

***

When he opened his eyes, he was someone else. He was a breath floating with the wind. He was a shadow fading into darkness. He was the smoke rising from the dying fire, the blood flowing through the cracks in the stone. But, above all, he was the urge to kill.

So kill he did.

Every scream of anguish, every drop of blood spilled by his power crafted him—built him up piece by piece, until he was satiated enough to see, to feel, to speak.

He rose from the pool of bodies, torn apart and scattered like the sky ripped by a raging storm. Only then did he see two figures emerge from the darkness.

“Brother,” the female greeted, her voice low and smooth and the ugliest thing he’d ever heard. “You have done well.”

He blinked. Looked down to his hands—to the blood sure to be staining them—and found nothing.

Nothing.

Not a limb, not a shred of skin, not a gleaming bit of bone. He closed his fist—he could feel it, feel the nails digging into flesh, but—

Who was he?

What was he?

Why…why did he not remember?

“There is nothing to remember,” the male said, his dark eyes flashing. “You live in the present. Nothing else matters.”

He’d…heard him. His thoughts…?

The female nodded. “Nothing else shall ever matter.”

He could feel blood dripping from his mouth as he asked, “What is my name?” His voice wasn’t the same as theirs. There was no depth, no pitch to it, no melody. Only a breath.

The male sighed deeply, and looked to the female, who shook her head.

His…sister?

“You don’t have a name,” she only told him. “Come. There is much to do.”

He couldn’t understand why his chest ached—why it felt deprived of something too important to have forgotten. Something warm, and bright, gleaming a soft, golden light deep where his soul should’ve been. His only memory—or, perhaps, just a dream.

And so, he followed his family into the darkness.

***

ONE HUNDRED YEARS LATER

His siblings were gone, thank the Cauldron. Captured. Trapped, the earth croaked beneath his feet.

Dead? he asked it.

Not dead, it answered. Never really dead. It was wishful thinking, anyway.

Stryga, he heard, had been bound to this island. Somewhere deep in the woods, banished from her fortress forever. Or, at the very least, for as long as the Fae remained in this world, their magic alive and powerful enough to keep his sister from escaping. His brother, another captive. That made him smile a little bit. From the two of his siblings, Koschei had never been his favourite.

A strong, strong magic now held him beneath a lake across the Great Sea. Impressive. Koschei had always been the strongest of them all. Still, there was no doubt left in his mind that his brother’s confinement would only incite his revenge, and he would nurture it under the surface for as long as necessary—and, when the time was right and the Warrior was gone, he would strike.

Even shackled, his siblings were dangerous. More dangerous than when they roamed these lands freely, perhaps. He could feel their magic simmering beneath the earth, hot and angry and threatening to burn the world when it finally spilled.

He would not be there when it finally happened. He needed to be somewhere safe.

Fortunately, salvation was closing in on him, on the cave he’d opted to wait in. For some strange reason, the darkness buried within brought him comfort—settled something restless inside of him. When the Warrior arrived, he’d finally know true peace.

He heard it then—heard the world folding in on itself, like two ends of a sheet of parchment being brought together. Then, it opened again, revealing a cloud of shadows made restless by a dark wind.

It was nothing like the darkness that welcomed him that day, threatening and all-consuming. This darkness flowed, like it belonged anywhere its owner went, a veil of serenity, a shield from the scorching sun.

When she emerged, that darkness trailed behind her. Even the earth, tormented by his siblings’ ire, seemed to sag with relief where the shadows caressed it.

How strange, that magic. How different.

His siblings had warned him—had told him of the power the Warrior’s master held, traitorous and unnerving. He’d have to keep his guard up.

She stopped close enough to the cave’s hollow opening for him to make out the midnight blue of her eyes, so deep that, as the shadows curled over her shoulder, they shone a brilliant violet.

“Are you going to make this difficult?” she asked, her voice quiet yet clear.

He chuckled, the sound echoing off the stone. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare.”

Her hear cocked to the sight, dark hair shifting with the movement. “Are you…afraid?”

“I’d be a fool not to be afraid of you.” He hummed, soaking in the magic that seemed to sing from deep within her soul. “You are her proudest creation, after all.”

That was what Koschei had claimed, at least. And, when it came to the Fae, still so young and learning, he was smart enough to take him for his word.

“You are talking about the Mother,” the Warrior said, something puzzled in her tone.

He hummed again. “That is what she calls herself, yes.” Stryga had always thought it laughable. “A powerful Death God. The most powerful of us all, perhaps.”

She sucked in a breath. He smiled. So Koschei was right—she didn’t know.

“My Mother is not a Death God,” she seethed, those violet eyes flaring bright. 

He sighed theatrically. “Of course she is. Just because she never told you doesn’t make it any less of a truth.” He angled his head. “I have no reason to lie to you.”

The Warrior gritted her teeth. “They warned me about you.”

He stroked the wall of rock beside him, rough against invisible flesh. “I’m glad I lived up to expectations.”

She straightened, as though composing herself—perhaps she’d at last remembered what she’d come for and realised he enjoyed wasting her time far too much. “I thought you weren’t going to make this difficult.”

“And I told you, I have no intention to resist.” A beat of silence. Then, he added, “You have done well, trapping my siblings. Binding their magic.” Perhaps she’d failed to kill them in the end, but…containing beings like Stryga and Koschei was no easy task. Impossible, he’d once thought, though what a delight it had been to be proven wrong. There were no others like her. Other Fae—the ones that came before her, the ones the Mother created after her—were merely a kernel of what this female was. Of the potential she held. “You are quite powerful indeed.”

But his words seemed to flow past her unacknowledged, because her brows furrowed as she asked, “Your siblings?”

He nodded. “Unfortunately.”

“Where…” He waited. Waited as she tried to piece the meaning of his words together. “Where did you all come from?”

Another world, his siblings had told him that day. Now no more than dust drifting across a plain. But, the being that unleashed them all upon it…

His lip curled—and she couldn’t see it, not when he still hid in the depths of the cave, but—

“No,” she whispered.

His smile grew wider. “Oh, yes.”

Still—her body was so still.

“She never told me,” so small, so quiet, the Warrior nowhere in sight.

He shrugged. “What parents like to talk of children they consider a failure? You’ve met my siblings. I’m sure you can understand.” They hated her—the Mother. Despised them with all their might—so he despised her, too. The Mother he could not remember.

“Step outside,” she ordered, the words still trembling on her breath. “I wish to speak with you, face to face.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Believe me, I’m staying hidden for your benefit, warrior-heart.”

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

So he said, “As you wish.”

When he stepped into the sunlight, into her sight, his phantom body tingled—tingled as he became someone else.

His eyes locked on hers.

And the Warrior feared by the Gods staggered back—away from him.

Darkness flickered around her, wrapped itself around her legs, her arms, as if holding her in place. Her entire body trembled—actually trembled as she took him in, her eyes wide with shock—shock and something else.

Grief.

He couldn’t help but ask. “What do you see?”

But she only stared and stared, silver threatening to spill from her gleaming eyes.

“What are you?” she managed to ask, the question weighted with pain.

“A reflection,” he answered. “Your deepest fears, hopes, desires. People see many things when they look at me. But, I must admit, I have never received a reaction as strong as yours.”

And he was curious—curious to learn why.

She shook her head, and he thought she might finish it then—unleash her power and be done with it. With him. But then…

“I was going to have a child,” she said quietly, and he froze. “Once. You…you look like what I imagined he would one day. He…” Her gaze broke from his, fell to the ground along with two, lone tears. “He has his eyes.”

He wasn’t breathing—perhaps he never had at all. “His father?”

She had a family—no one ever told him, no one had ever said that the Goddess’s monster had once been so…human.

“He died.” The world slowed. Even the shadows around her stilled. “Died to protect us both.” Her lip wobbled—she made no attempt to hide it. “I may be powerful,” she said, lifting her eyes back to his, dark lashes heavy and wet. “But I’d give it all away to get them back.” She did not blink the tears away as she told him, “All of it.”

For the first time in his immortal life, he had no idea what to do. Words were foreign—not nearly enough to express the sorrow that crashed into him with her confession. He’d never been immune to feeling—but this…was this one of her abilities? Making him share this pain with her?

No—he caused this. What she saw in him—the life she could’ve had…bearing some of her grief was the least he could do.

“I’m afraid even I don’t hold such power,” he said softly. “Forgive me.”

Her throat bobbed. “You’re…apologising?”

He nodded. “There is great sadness about you. I’m sorry to have caused that.”

She looked—truly looked at him, trying to see past the face, the eyes her soul urged to show her. Searching for his own soul beneath.

He’d never regretted giving it up more.

“Don’t be,” she finally said. “What happened is not your fault.”

He could not explain it. Could not understand why, after learning of all that she had lost, his chest tightened with guilt.

So when she asked, “Will you come with me now?”

He could only answer, “Yes.”

***

The earth whispered of her arrival, but he’d already known—had felt her the moment her choice was made.

Now, he waited, listening to her steps, light over the ancient stone as she entered the Prison. She’d been debating it for a long time—had resisted seeing him again for almost a decade, much longer than he’d expected. The look upon her face when they first met had told him enough.

She was stronger than he thought, it seemed.

Still, even the strongest of the Fae had fallen to curiosity. To questions.

And he was ready to answer them all as the door to his cell swung open.

Veiled in shadows, he offered her a deep bow—even if she couldn’t see it. See him. “My Queen.”

He could see her well, though—well enough to see a glimmer of confusion light up her face. “I am not a Queen yet.” She angled her head. “You’ve been…expecting me?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “It isn’t marriage that decides such things. Your betrothed might be a Prince in title, but he stands to gain a lot more from this union than you do.” He bit out a laugh. “Congratulations, of course.”

“I didn’t come here to ask your advice,” she said. A lie so obvious he couldn’t help but smile in the darkness.

“Forgive me,” he purred. “I so rarely get company these days. Which brings me to my question,” he added. “Why are you here?”

He wanted to hear her say it, for some strange reason. I wanted to see you. Talk to you. Understand you.

“Are you comfortable here?” she asked.

He couldn’t help but laugh. He wondered what his voice sounded like to her. To him, it was all but a whisper carried by the wind. “Such a gracious host, my lady.”

“Only the best for my most obedient prisoners.”

Oh, she was delightful.

“Prisoners,” he mused. “You say that as if my being here was involuntary.”

Those violet eyes simply watched him, two stars pondering over his fate. “Are you hungry?” she finally asked.

That, he did not expect.

“Hungry?”

She nodded. “I… brought you something.”

Something landed at his feet with a quiet thud.

He scrunched his nose. “Bones?”

Her mouth tightened. “They’re from back home. Not the Palace, but—where I came from.” She loosed a breath, heavy on the stench of raw meat that now filled his cell. “Seeing you last time, it…brought back memories I’ve been too afraid to revisit.”

Slowly, he reached to pick up the bone closest to him. “They hold value to you, then.” Not entirely a question.

Another shaky breath. “Yes.”

That mighty, Fae warrior…gone. A shell of a female stood before him now, her gaze pleading. So he told her gently, “You have my thanks.”

Ask me. Ask me what you came here to ask, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.

“Why are you hiding in the shadows?”

She wasn’t ready, then. He forced a smile. “Tell me a secret no one knows, Majesty, and perhaps I’ll tell you mine.”

She blinked. Then blinked again.

He thought she might leave in that moment. Turn around and vanish without a final goodbye.

But then, she said, her voice barely above a whisper,  “I don’t want to marry him. I can’t…” She swallowed hard. “My purpose is complete. I wish for nothing but to fade into the night sky—to be reunited with the ones I lost, the ones waiting for me in the stars.” She looked up—as if she could see their faint glimmer through the miles of stone above. “I know this…marriage…is meant to bring hope to my kind. To give them a world they’ve never had. But I can’t help but feel…” Her lips wobbled, and she pressed them together. “I can’t help but feel that I’m betraying him. That, if I go through with this, it will…It will be as if he was never really there.”

The hollow quiet returned.

“Your heart breaks for the dead, Your Majesty, when it should be healing for the living,” he said softly. “Those who have become stars now shine their light upon you. I…don’t imagine your beloved would want to watch you waste it.”

He found her eyes on him again. Shining.

He said nothing more.

“A secret for a secret,” she told him, breaking the silence again.

So clever, his instincts wanted to purr. But something else—perhaps the heart he used to have—spoke out instead. “I am hiding in the shadows because the sight of me brings you pain. I don’t wish to bring any more of it into your life.”

Her body froze into stillness. She watched him and watched, her pretty face contorted in something he couldn’t understand. And then, she said, “Come into the light.”

So he did.

“The son I see when I look at you,” she finally started, her voice strained. “How do you know what he would have looked like?”

There it was.

“I don’t,” he said quietly, the emptiness in his chest like an echoing cave. “I see nothing. Am nothing.”

Her next breath died on her lips.

“I’m sorry this isn’t the answer you were hoping for,” he apologised.

But her face was softer than he’d ever seen it as she told him, “I’m sorry, too.” She took a half-step towards him. “I…”

She shook her head.

“You can ask me,” he said. “Anything you want. Your Majesty,” he quickly added.

Her throat bobbed slightly. “I won’t see you again, will I?”

He smiled sadly. “I’m afraid you’ll have too much to deal with to think of me again.”

“I won’t ever forget you,” she vowed.

How he wished it was true.

***

“No escort this time?”

Her eyes levelled on him, practically dripping with disdain. He bounced off the wall, moving to return her gaze, the mouth of her firstborn curving into a smirk—

He stilled.

For in those blue-grey eyes, he saw something else. A female who had seen her soul and faced all the darkness buried within. A female changed.

“You retrieved it,” he whispered.

But it was impossible—impossible, and yet…

And yet, the Ouroboros appeared, still encrusted by the frost of Hewn City’s deepest, most wicked labyrinths.

“How.”

She must’ve tricked it. His sister’s mighty, ancient magic—

“I looked.” Words were dry on her tongue, worn out by endless screaming. Endless pain.

She spoke the truth.

He shot to his feet. “What did you see?” he demanded.

A shadow of a smile—as if she could sense the desperation in his tone. He almost hissed in reprimand at his fervour. “That,” she started, “is none of your concern.”

The Bone Carver had no heart, and he’d never been more grateful—if he did, the High Lady of the Night Court would’ve been sure to hear its nervous thrumming, to scent the heat it blasted into his withered veins.

He could all but stare as she pointed to the door of his cell. “You have your mirror. Now uphold your end,” she ordered, then added, voice cold with authority, “Battle awaits.”

Indeed.

And after the battle…salvation.

“It would be my pleasure,” he told her with a smile.

Her brows knitted, confusion creasing her face—had she somehow read the words his mind had whispered? Cursed daemati—

“What do you mean?” she asked.

So he smiled again, another mask to fool the young female. “I have little need for that thing,” he lied, gesturing to the artefact. “But you did.”

She only blinked.

“I wanted to see if you were worth helping,” A half-lie, perhaps. He’d known it without the Ouroboros—the wind had whispered it to him the moment she was reborn, deep under that wretched mountain. “It is rare—to face who you truly are and not run from it, to be broken by it. That’s what the Ouroboros shows all who look into it: who they are, every despicable and unholy inch.” Truth. He’d spent centuries studying the mirror, the curse his twin had placed upon it. Had devoted himself to finding it the second he learned she’d lost it, confined to a strip of land far away from her fortress. And now…

Now it was finally here, in his cell. Waiting.

He continued, “Some gaze upon it and don’t even realise that the horror they’re seeing is them—even as the terror of it drives them mad.” She blinked again. “Some swagger in and are shattered by the small, sorry creature they find instead. But you…” he met her gaze again. “Yes, rare indeed. I could risk leaving here for nothing less.”

It was a delight to see the flash of rage on her freckled face. “You wanted to see if I was worthy?” she seethed.

He nodded. “I did. And you are. And now I shall help you.” She didn’t need to know he would’ve helped her nonetheless.

So Feyre Archeron said, her voice quiet as death, “You will wait for my signal.”

The Bone Carver smiled. “That is our bargain.”

The High Lady did not so much as grace him with a look as she vanished into the shadows, leaving him alone with the Ouroboros.

Leaving him alone with the truth.

Slowly, he turned to the mirror, its awful magic calling out to him like a pet to its master. Like it had been waiting for him.

Good. He’d been waiting for it his entire life.

The Bone Carver. A being of no name, no form, no soul. For as long as he could remember, ever since the day he’d woken up to flames dancing in the darkness, mocking.

No longer.

He knew he was despicable, he knew that deep down, the small, sorry creature he’d told the High Lady about was likely to appear in his own reflection, too. But it would be a reflection of him, not the dreams, fears or desires of those he encountered. Only him.

At last.

The Bone Carver looked into the mirror.

And Osten fell to his knees.

A thin hand—his hand—wrapped around his throat, his knuckles white and bruised. Bruised from the fight—from the jaws of the village men he’d hit as they pushed him to the ground, as they beat him until blood splattered from his ears, his mouth, his nose.

Two tears slid down his cheeks.

I can’t help but feel that I’m betraying him, a voice, soft and gentle and so full of pain, whispered into his mind. A familiar voice—more than, in his immortal life, he ever imagined. That, if I go through with this, it will…it will be as if he was never really there.

The black eyes staring back at him were desolate.

“Astra,” he choked out. “Astra.”

But Astra was gone—had been gone for a very, very long time. Had become one with the night sky, hoping to be greeted by him among the stars, only to be met by endless darkness.

“Astra,” Osten cried. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His body, the same body he died in all those centuries ago, shook with a sob.

I wish we could stay like this. Forever.

One day, we will.

The frost began to melt off the silver frame, cold water dripping on the stones.

He would help them win this war. Pay for what he’d done to this world. And, when it was all over, he would tell her that this whole time, it was her keeping him safe. That he was so scared of losing her that he’d lost himself in the process. And then…and then perhaps she would forgive him. 

Either way, he’d be free.

Taglist: @headcanonheadcase @melting-houses-of-gold @kingofsummer93 @asnowfern @panicatthenightcourt @reverie-tales @s-uppertime @autumndreaming7 @sunshinebingo @starfall-spirit @vulpes-fennec @fieldofdaisiies @isterofimias

Side note: While both the Bone Carver and the Female Warrior are characters from the ACOTAR series, their names, backstory and appearance were created by me. Please do not use them in your own work without my explicit permission, I worked very hard on this :)

[mlmxreader]

My Knight | Kim Horangi Hong-jin x m!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ You're all doomed (damsel in distress!horangi x knight in shining armor!m!reader) - @satan-incarnate-666 ❞

: ̗̀➛ You should really blame Kortac for what happens when you and Horangi end up at a cabin, even though you know you can't.

: ̗̀➛ GORE, torture, graphic depictions of eye horror, graphic depictions of gore, graphic depictions of blood & dead things, fighting, swearing, technically autocannibalism

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

The water of the lake was a dull olive colour, riddled with algae and broken sticks from the trees nearby that stood so tall; their leaves were still green, even with the snow covering the thick branches in a thin white sheet.

You weren’t sure why Kortac gave you and Horangi time off so late in the year, and if you were honest, you kind of resented them for it; the winds were harsh and icy, the ground slick and unstable with mud that suctioned against your shoes, it didn’t help that the heating system within the cabin was absolutely fucked, either.

It was odd, though, as one minute, Horangi was with you, and the next, he was gone. You figured he probably went off to chop firewood, though, and for the first few hours, you didn’t really think much of it. 

But deep within the woods, in a worn down log cabin’s basement, Horangi was screaming your name; tied down to an old and neglected wooden table, he screamed as the splinters slowly pushed up into his back and the woodlice scuttled into his ears.

Yowling your name as he felt the cold blade against his thigh, caressing it as if it were examining a piece of meat; his chest was rising and falling drastically, his breath running out, his voice going hoarse and raw.

Even when the blade clattered to the floor, and a moulded and dirt caked hand pushed thick and long brambles beneath his fingernails, pushing up the nails as they tried to grasp onto his flesh with soft stringy bits of skin, Horangi still desperately tried to call for you; his tears flushed down to the table, creating small pools of salt beside his head.

With his vision blurred, Horangi glared at the masked man above him; towering over him, donned in a ripped and torn set of green - or at least they looked green - overalls, and a beaten and bloody old hockey mask, there was only one word that could leave Horangi’s mouth: “why?”

The masked man didn’t answer, leaving the brambles embedded in Horangi’s nails as he picked up his machete, and pointed over to a rotted skull; it was stained with dirt, turned nearly black with it as maggots and beetles scuttled over it, in through the eye sockets and out between the breaking teeth.

Gently, the skull lulled from side to side as beetles scampered over it and picked off bits of dirt to eat; Horangi felt physically ill, a deafening static ringing in his ears as he shook his head.

But the masked man wasn’t done with him, approaching and standing at his side; Horangi shook his head, soft whimpers of panic leaving him as he choked on his own tears.

“My boyfriend’s gonna be here any minute, and he’s gonna kick your ass!” Horangi howled, although the anxiety and the trepidation was so thick in his voice that it almost made him stutter. 

The masked man didn’t seem phased, still moving slowly, every spasm of every muscle had a purpose as he grabbed a rusty and blunt needle from behind Horangi’s head, turning to the skull for a moment before nodding curtly and turning back to his victim; Horangi’s breath hitched, and he violently shook his head in protest until the masked man was forced to use one dirty and mouldy hand to hold him still.

Slowly, the masked man sunk the needle into Horangi’s eye, waiting for it to pop with a spurt of white fluid before he pushed it in further; it leaked down Horangi’s face, landing on his lip before slipping between them, making him gag.

He could feel it happening, the soft pop followed by the retraction, the blunt force of the needle yanking out his own flesh as he screamed in agony; stunned in horror, Horangi whimpered as the masked man pulled out his eye, letting it sit at the top of the needle before giving it a firm tug so that the thick string of flesh snapped audibly.

The masked man turned back to the skull again, waiting for something, and then nodded slowly once more before forcing Horangi’s mouth open and shoving his eyeball in; gagging, Horangi fought against it, but the masked man made him chew, and eventually, swallow. 

It wasn’t right, Horangi had been gone for hours and he hadn’t answered his phone even when you rang him time and time again; maybe he got lost and dropped his phone, maybe he was attacked by a bear - they were, after all, just and just going into hibernation.

You were riddled with anxiety and panic as you trudged through the snow covered woodland, howling his name at the top of your lungs until your voice cracked and gave way.

Your voice was completely gone by the time you stumbled upon the cabin; it was muffled, but you could hear Horangi’s voice calling, howling, screaming. Instinct settled in, and you crouched down by the basement’s window, looking in.

He was tied down to a table, writhing and sobbing; you clenched your jaw tightly, blood boiling as the heat rose up through your body, breathing getting heavier and your hands starting to shake. You had to put an end to whatever was happening, so you scrambled up to the roof with the aid of the pile of fallen trees nearby, trying not to slip on the ice.

You crouched on the far side, and grabbed some of the broken tiles; with all your strength, you threw them against a bunch of cans that had been laid out on the fence. Hoping, waiting.

When the cunt walked out, completely unarmed, you swallowed thickly, and pulled your kukri from the sheath on your hip; with a deep breath, you waited until the cunt was close enough, and jumped on his back.

You plunged the kukri into his skull, able to feel the flesh quiver and ripple beneath the blade as you tugged it from side to side. He groaned loudly, flailing beneath you as you wrapped your legs around his neck, battering and cutting at his skull desperately.

He smashed himself against a tree, and grabbed you by the leg when your grip slightly faltered; you slashed his arm, watching as he recoiled and moaned.

“You fucking bastard!” You screamed, getting to your feet and brandishing your kukri as if it were a longsword. “You fucking hurt him! You unwashed cretin!”

The masked man grunted, lunging to grab you, but you were quicker, and easily used the handle of your kukri to bend his fingers backwards until they let out a howling snap; a highly trained soldier, the masked man had never encountered something like you before.

Highly trained, highly skilled, and pissed off. He didn’t know what was coming for him. You pushed the blade of your kukri into his eye when he got close enough, sinking the blade so deeply into his skull that it didn’t surprise you when you felt his eye pop, and heard the crushing of his skull beneath the weight of the blade.

He fell to his knees, hate filled and soulless eyes staring up at you. His final words mere noise.

“Ki ki ki, ma ma ma…”

With the disgusting brute slain, you pulled your kukri from his skull, and ran towards the basement, not even caring when you slid down the stairs; quickly, you rushed to Horangi’s side, and undid his bindings before gently helping him to sit up. 

“Merlin?” You asked softly.

Horangi shook his head, coughing and spluttering. “You saved me…”

You smiled as you nodded slowly. “Always.”

“Excalibur,” he joked weakly, pointing to your sheathed kukri.

“C’mon,” you whispered softly, helping him down from the table before ripping your shirt sleeve and tying it around his face. “We’ll get you to the hospital, alright?”

Horangi agreed, holding onto you tightly every step of the way; even when you managed to get him into the car, he never let you go, and when he was taken to surgery for his eye, you could do nothing else but break.

Sitting outside of his room for hours, sobbing and cursing yourself; blaming yourself for what had happened to him. If you had just gone with him, if you had gone looking for him instead of waiting and thinking that nothing was wrong.

It was all your fault - your boyfriend nearly died, and it was all your fault. You had allowed him to get hurt, allowed him to be-

“He’s ready to see you now,” the nurse told you. “What were you doing at Crystal Lake, anyway?”

“We were given time off of work,” you muttered, pushing past them and heading into Horangi’s room. Immediately, you sat at his side, holding his hand tightly. “Hong-jin?”

He mumbled, nodding slowly. “Pendragon?”

“Merlin,” you said with a sigh of relief. “I’m so sorry I let this happen to you…”

“You saved me,” Horangi rasped, shaking his head. “He would’ve killed me, if you didn’t…”

You frowned, licking your lips. “I’m no knight in shining armour, you know that.”

“You are to me,” he chuckled softly. “Makes a change, though.”

You laughed softly, clearing your throat as you sniffled. “Maybe it was time you played the damsel in distress…”

“My love,” he whispered, gripping your hand a little tighter. “I’m gonna be okay - it’s not like the doctors took one look at me and said you’re all doomed. I’ll be let out within a week.”

“I’m taking the time off,” you murmured. “However long you need to heal properly, I’m taking the time off.”

“You don’t-”

“You did it for me,” you pointed out. “When I got fucking torn to shreds by that bayonet - you did it for me.”

“I love you,” Horangi told you quietly, biting back a yawn. “You’re the best knight I could ever ask for... you're my King Arthur."

[bromcommie]

(alt title) bucky: i think im in love dum dum: that whole ass dyke would eat you alive, barnes bucky, dreamily: and i love her for that. solidarity, sister

Rating: T Word count: 2,574 Tags: Captain America: The First Avenger, World War II, Humour (somehow, despite the previous tag), Howling Commandos, A Very Fictional Marlene Dietrich, Historically Questionable Depictions of Military Tents Excerpt:

"I dunno – something a bit boyish about her, Buck," Dugan muses. Bucky gawks, lowering the shaving brush, and he really can’t decide what’s more ridiculous: the disproportionately outraged expression Bucky’s sporting or the lather still covering half of his face, seemingly forgotten and melting down his neck with alarming rapidity. “Boyish? Get outta here.” Oh, Steve thinks with a familiar level of exasperated fondness, here we go.

*leaving this at tumblr's doorstep like it's my beloved first born child I just don't know how to deal with* how the fuck do y'all post these all the time when it's so stressful.

Anyway! First time posting on AO3, so here's a ficlet about the Howlies and Marlene Dietrich because I kept banging my head against a wall trying to figure out the timeline of the much, much larger fic this is supposed to be a part of, lol.