#could be blood. could be bile. could be paint. (its not paint)

[slashthrashandcrash]

Same anon that voted for 2 here and hell yeah venesian mask goes hard

maybe also like the overalls have like ‘paint’ splatters on them (its blood.) but mans also a massive clean guy and would prolly have access to peroxide

Yeah yeah okay that's mb since I responded to another comment too but since these are his murder clothes they're absolutely covered in old blood and grime and bodily fluids, I probably should have included some stains on clothes in the sketches lmao

[beloveds-embrace]

Until the Last Loop: the Execution

(How many times must you repeat the same song and dance before the curtain falls?

poly mercenaries 141 x princess reader, time loop

The crowd screamed for your blood.

Their voices rolled over the courtyard like thunder- sharp, frenzied, and hungry, sharks smelling blood in the waters. You didn’t flinch. You had stopped flinching a long time ago. Instead, you stood on the scaffold with your wrists bound in rusted iron and your knees aching from where you’d been forced to kneel, a once-proud back bent into prostration.

The cold bites through the thin silk of your dress. You feel the rough wood splintering beneath your knees, the way the wind stings your skin, the weight of the executioner’s shadow looming above you.

You were not allowed the dignity of a white dress, or a veil or a blindfold. You never were.

The wood creaked beneath you as the executioner shifted, sharpening his blade against a whetstone. Sparks flew, bright and vengeful. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t look at the crowd either, for they were all familiar scenes- so much so you were sure that if you were to be given a canvas and paint, you would be able to redraw it all simply from memory.

Instead, your gaze wandered.

You let your eyes drift across the sea of faces twisted in hatred, searching for the one thing that hadn’t changed in all these lifetimes-

And there he was.

You spotted him near the back, the man in the crowd. As always, standing just close enough to see the platform clearly but far enough to remain unnoticed by the mob. Hooded, broad-shouldered, and still. He didn’t yell. He didn’t jeer.

He just watched. He always did. The same stance, the same gaze.

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to look away. He had been there in every loop, always standing in that exact spot, and you had stopped trying to understand why. Whatever answer you might have once craved had been buried under exhaustion and bitter acceptance, and the defeating knowledge of not knowing where to even start searching for him.

The executioner finished sharpening his blade and stepped closer, his boots heavy against the wood. The crowd’s roar swelled as the official stepped forward and began to read the charges- words you had heard so many times they no longer felt real. Were they here, you wondered, listening to your crimes?

“Treason against the Crown.”

Your nails dug into your palms.

“Conspiracy to overthrow His Majesty.”

You exhaled slowly.

“Attempted regicide.”

The crowd erupted at that, like oil meeting water, and you wondered- not for the first time- if they even cared whether the charges were true. It didn’t matter. They just wanted someone to blame.

And you had always been an easy target.

The executioner raised the blade. The sun caught its edge, and for a brief moment, you saw your reflection- tired eyes, hollow cheeks, and lips pressed into something that could no longer be called a smile.

The crowd roared louder. The executioner took his stance.

You closed your eyes.

And the blade fell.

You wake with a gasp.

The silk sheets cling to your skin, damp with sweat. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a wild animal escaping the clutches of its predator, and for one wild moment, you’re sure you can still feel the blade at your neck, the bite of steel against soft, tender flesh-

But there’s no blood. No pain.

Just sunlight streaming through the tall windows, warm and golden, painting the room in the soft golds and reds of the afternoon.

You stare at the ceiling, swallowing against the bile rising in your throat. The air smells like jasmine and lavender. It always does.

You force yourself to sit up even when your muscles ache, and your wrists burn with phantom pain from where the shackles had been. There are no marks, but the memory lingers, haunting every little move you make.

How many times now?

You stopped counting after twenty. It didn’t matter. It never changed.

The knock at the door comes exactly when you expect it, after you had forced yourself to clean away the sweat rolling down your skin and sat at your settee, begging your heart to calm down.

“Your Highness?”

Your maid’s voice.

You already know what she’ll say, what expression she’ll wear when she steps inside. But you don’t move.

The door opens, and she enters with a bow, her hands folded neatly in front of her, expression detached and polite. And behind her, four men follow.

You don’t need to look to know who they are. They’ve been with you every life, always the same tune and dance.

He stands at the front, broad-shouldered and commanding, streaks of gray in his beard and sharp eyes that feel like knives. You meet his gaze, by now fully used to him and his presence. Price- John, he’d said you can call him either in your last few lives, when your spoilt attitude had been stripped off you with each death.

“You ain’t so bad, princess. Not a hoity-toity piece of work.”

Slowly, the others trickle in after him.

The mask hides most of his face, but you don’t need to see it to know what’s underneath is Ghost. He watches you the way a predator watches its prey- calm, patient, and ready to strike, but you know that later, he will ever so slightly warm up to you.

“I don’t know what to do… I haven’t done anything! You have to believe me!”

“I know. But you’ll catch a cold if you stay out any longer, princess.”

Soap smiles when he steps inside, easy and disarming, but you see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand rests near the dagger at his hip. That same dagger has saved you before, but not always. In some lives, he is not there with you when you get ambushed- you were such a hard thing to get along with before- and yet in other lives…

“Wee lass, tell me where ye’re goin’, and I’ll protect ye always, aye?”

Quiet, steady, and sharp, like a hawk out for hunting. Gaz’s eyes sweep the room, cataloging every detail before they land on you and he nods towards you. Polite, always polite, even when you’d been like a hissy, feral cat towards him in times. Gentle when you’d been a quiet, reserved version of yourself.

“…will you stay with me? Just tonight? Please, Gaz… I feel lonely.”

“Course, princess. You don’t have to ask.”

You exhale slowly.

They’re different from the crowd, from the nobles and commoners of the kingdom. Always have been, always will be. They don’t look at you with hatred, even if they have their own misconceptions of you. But they’re still here, still close, in this life and before and next and that makes them special to you.

And this time, you… don’t have the energy to keep yourself away from them.

Price steps forward first, always the leader.

“Princess,” he says, and there’s something heavy in the way he says it. Like it means more than just a title. Or maybe less; mercenaries care little for royalty beyond what they can offer them. “We’re here to protect you.”

You almost laugh. Hired by king for no knight wanted to work for you, the shameful stain no one wanted to acknowledge or favor too much.

Instead, you turn your head and stare out the window, heart still pounding against your ribs.

“You’re wasting your time.”

You expect them to leave, even if you shouldn’t. Most people do when you push them away. Though you told yourself you won’t keep yourself away from them, you also truly want to just exist quietly, unperceived, until the inevitable hour arrives and you return back to this point.

But Price doesn’t listen to you, unsurprisingly. You can see your maid scoff about his nonchalant manner out of the corner of your eye.

“We’ll see about that, Your Highness.” He says, unbothered by your attitude.

And when you finally look at him again, his eyes are lingering on you- steady and sharp.

And thus, the loop starts anew.

Part Two

Masterlist

[trulyumai]

Be My Distraction

pairing: emperor geta / wife! reader

Synopsis: Bloodshed wasn't in your interest. good thing you had your emperor there to comfort ill feelings.

Warnings: blood, violence, fighting.

Enjoy!

You’ve been married for eight months and twenty three days. It was rough in the beginning— to be belittled so easily and forgotten within every moment the two of you spent together. 

But over time, the jokes, the pradling eased. He didn't grab you as much, or as roughly as he once did. The scratches, the bruises faded with time, no more did they grace your cheeks, your arms. 

You learned early on that the man craved violence— sought it out in the coliseums every so often. Blood didn't seem to bother the emperor, in fact, the more that the maroon color graced his presence, the better. 

You, however, could do without. 

It was so hot- so stuffy that day. Humidity clung to your skin like an unwanted sickness. Sweat dabbed at your brow as you tirelessly fanned at your face, sitting just beside Geta himself. The crowd was ever so loud, jovially crying out, impatient for the show to begin. 

The emperor sat, knees spread with an arm bent on the rest attached to the chair. 

“This will be a good one,” Beside him, his brother; Caracalla hummed in agreement, giggling at the aggressive pushes and shoves the citizens gave to one another. 

You couldn't imagine how hot it must be down there, so close to the pit. 

Even up in the stands, you thought you might melt. 

“Wife, did you hear me?” 

Flinching you looked back at Geta, meeting his intense gaze upon your form. 

“W-What?” 

“I said, are you ready to be entertained?” 

The movement in your hand stopped, it was useless trying to fight such a heat. Not wasting a breath you answered. 

“Of course, husband.” 

Smiling, the man stood and raised his arms to the citizens. Screams erupted, they cried out in response to the man of such power, of such terror. 

With his arms back at his sides; the signal was given. 

The fight could commence. 

Roughly turning back to the box, Geta sat upon the edge of the throne, waiting to see the first death of the match. 

Not wanting to disappoint him, you stood straight, facing the clashing of swords, the crying of men. A particular soldier had ill timing with his slash, missing his foe entirely. It left him open for a second, but that was all the time that was needed. With a quick slash, the man's entrails dangled from his stomach, painting the ground a bright red. 

It was unbearable to see such a display of violence, to see these men's lives end right before your eyes. 

Your palm met with the skin of your lips, afraid of the rising bile you covered your mouth tightly, eyes gazing over with wet desperation. 

A distraction— you needed one and quick. How embarrassing would it be for the wife of the emperor to throw up her morning meal? 

In front of her own citizens? 

Nothing was working, the sounds, the clashing was too loud. The blood littered the field, running freely over the crevices with its own dirtied purpose. 

Your breathing was beginning to be too fast, too quick to catch up with. 

Think, think, think- 

“Wife?” 

Oh gods. Not now. You couldn't take the poking, the showing of bodies that lay limp and torn. 

Geta noticed the desperation in your eyes, the way you squeezed your mouth shut like a tragedy just struck before the coliseum.

“Wife. Look.” 

“Geta please-” 

A hand reached out, a mirage of colors graced your vision. 

His hand? 

His.. rings? 

“Oh…” you sighed, reaching out with both hands to grip onto the bigger one in front of you. 

“New rings?” you smiled. The bile no longer burned the back of your throat, with ease it bubbled down and the taste of your previous meal left instantly. 

“Indeed. See this one?” His pinky moved lightly, it moved up and down meticulously.

You nodded and the jewelry around your neck sounded out. The man couldn’t help but look upon it, with a smile of his own. 

The golden chain you wore, decorated in the finest stones lay about your image, resting just above your collarbones. He remembered gifting it to you not long ago, just upon the third full moon of this month's harvest. 

Your touch brought him back to the present. To your sweating form.

“This one brings good fortune.”

“Good fortune?” 

“Mmh,” he agreed, once more setting his eyes on the show in front of him. 

Couldn’t show everyone how soft he could be with his betrothed. His reign would lose its footing; a weakness she brought, they would say to him.

“What would you need that for, dear husband, when you have so much already?”

He could see you from the corner of his eye. Saw the way you stroked at his fingers with a light- loving touch. 

Your hands were much softer than his, he had to resist letting out a pleased sigh at such a discovery. 

“There can always be more.” He spoke low, distracted by the onslaught of men that paraded around the ground floor. 

“...I suppose.” The nausea was replaced with a wave of comfort. His heavy hand sat atop your lap, with your smaller fingers dancing across the new set of rings upon the man's digits. 

“Husband?”

Geta hummed. With no response, it meant he was starting to get impatient, itchy with anger. 

“Can I hold your hand here, for a while?” 

The emperor didn't say anything for a concerning amount of time. The comfortability was wearing off with every scream and groan that left the pit. Swords clashed on and on. 

Not wanting to upset your husband further, you tried to back up, to take the words out of the air. 

“Im sorry, forgive me-” 

“I suppose.”

Geta’s eyes never strained from the fighting and yours never left his image. But even from the side, you could see a softness that wasn't there before. The way his hand relaxed against yours. Ever so rough upon your oiled and cared for palms. 

That was all that needed to be said. 

You watched on, caressing Geta’s hands every so often in unspoken affection. 

A/N: we love a man that can calm down his wife with barely any effort. something about big scary men being soft with their wife has me in a chokehold and im sorry

[yandere-wishes]

Okay I have another idea for the Batwoman!fam au

Imagine if Damian’s darling wasn’t good at training at the League of Assassins, sure she is the child of two assassins who were hand picked to make her, but she is also being trained to me a wife and mother, and those two roles don’t always line up. She just can’t make herself kill, no matter how hard she tries. She is a perfect fit for being a vigilante because she can fight and extremely well at that, she just can’t kill.

Or another idea, because Cass was made to be the perfect weapon and, there is the idea of her parents being skilled assassins, so like what if Cass and Damian’s darling were sisters, half sisters maybe or full blooded, but just they never knew it because they were raised away from each other and they had no idea because there was no reason to know because they were born for very different purposes.

-lots of love❤️🪽

‧₊˚ ⏾. ⋅ Darling, I love how your brain works. It's true Damian's darling would be a perfect vigilante. Strong but kind. I think maybe that's what draws her to Kate in the first place seeing someone so strong, so skilled yet still riddled with compassion. For the first time in forever she doesn't feel weak or misplaced, she's finally found another like her…

‧₊˚ ⏾. ⋅ As for her and Cass being sisters, that would be a cool dynamic!! Lord knows I have the BIGGEST crush on David Cain (I want to be sandwiched between him and Deathstroke so BADLY) so having him be the reader's bio dad would certainly be interesting. I mean reader wouldn't know it, she never needed to know it. Her whole world was supposed to be Damian, he was the only relevant thing in her life Talia made sure of that. I guess that could add to the reasons Kate was so eager to take her away. She wanted the poor girl to at least experience having a semi-normal family. I seriously wish there was more media for David Cane, it would make it easier to incorporate him into the story lol.

‧₊˚ ⏾. ⋅ Anyway have my rambles on "No Killing" (Corvid) reader and the tortures she gets put through thanks to Damian~❤️❤️

‧₊˚ ⏾. ⋅ Song: Crimson and Cloverby Joan Jett

There's a contradiction festering within you. You try to gulp it down, to drown its bitter taste with rich irons and salts. But the dreaded thing won't die, it screams and wails into the night. The iron rots between your teeth, pricking needles into your tongue.

Satisfy or defy. You don't know which is which any longer.

Damian holds your hand as you lurk through the foreign palace, his fingers are curled tightly against yours squeezing at random intervals as he twirls his sword. "I've beheaded their king, rotten old man didn't even put up a fight." you offer him a sweet smile, as silent congratulation. Not that he needs it, no, Damian Al'Ghul doesn't need to be reminded of his worth, his merit. Instead, you do, you need to follow the rules laid out, down to the miserable T. If you don't, well, you wouldn't know what else to do.

There's a soldier writhing on the cobblestone floor, he spits when he sees the two of you when the emerald green of the uniform registers for an omen of death. Damian scowls "You dare disrespect the demon's heir?" he's about to slice the man's neck when he stops. The sunrise reflects terribly off the silver of his sword.

"I apologize," he says turning stiffly towards you, there's specks of pink blooming across his cheeks. As he shifts from one foot to the other. "You may have this kill, my lady."

The way he calls you his, makes your blood run cold. It's like being reminded to breathe, being reminded of rigid realities.

"I-I don't really feel-" he cuts you off by dragging you closer. Pushing you down until you're kneeling above the man. Damian slips his hunting knife into your palm and laces his fingers with yours once more. The oriented blade comes down bursting the jugular vein wide open. The soldier's blood spills onto your face painting you in that unholy crimson shade.

You feel the bile rising, the acid burning as you try to hold it in. Damian gingerly laps at the blood on your cheek. His warm tongue feels like the embers of hell melting through your flesh. He pulls you onto his lap, giggling sardonically as he kisses the gore clean, teeth pecking at your neck and collarbones. Wringing the skin in definite signs of himself. You stay frozen, suffocating, you don't bother guiding his hands or whispering love stories into his ears. You don't do as you were taught. Instead, you stand still. Waiting for the world to pass.

The sun oozes from the horizon. It looks like a blood fountain. You feel sick again.

That night you claw at your throat until the blood sweeps out. The tears don't stop, they flow down your pretty face until your eyes are as red as the soldier's crimson blood across the blade. Your nails pick at the lovebites, at Damian's essence across your skin. You wish you could peel them off like stickers. You wish you could be clean again.

You pray Damian dosen't notice your eyes when he sneaks into your room. But he never does, instead he nuzzles into your neck lulled off to peaceful sleep. Never once haunted by the lives he's taken.

You try to close your eyes. To sleep away the dread. But his body reeks of the insufferable substance, crismon and iron. Your most hated endeavor. You push your face into the pillows, trying to ward off the scent.

By morning the smell will cover you too. That perfect murderous perfume. Shouldn't you love it though? Shouldn't it remind you of your husband-to-be?

Master Talia says your father was one of the greatest assassins the league has ever fostered. His skills rival Batman and Deathstroke. You don't like how the information coils across your brain, slithering into the neurons filling you with anguish. How your veins pulse with the blood of a killer.

'You did this to me' you want to scream when your master's back is turned. 'You broke me!' Your master may be the only parent you've ever known, but you still can't stifle the blame. She had you birthed to be a contradiction. A mother and a killer. She had her finest birth an anomaly just so she could ensure her son a lover. You hate her for it…

And yet whenever she hugs Damian you are reminded that she loves you too. That she raised you to be her place holder once her time has come. She is in everyway your mother and in every way your tormentor.

You can never be her. You can never stomach the blood.

The problem with Gotham, your master says, is that it always finds a way to send its filth to the league.

You watch tentatively as she lands a kick across the intruder's back. Watch as she stabs her blade between the woman's ribs and claws at her eyes with her nails.

Damian stands beside you blade drawn. He's ready to engage upon command. Ready to protect. But Talia never calls her son, there is a personal vendentate in the way she mauls the woman.

The woman never once draws her blade. The batwoman with the blood-red hair doesn't kill. Her stance, her punches, her kicks. They hold no mortality. They are used in defense, offense, to hurt and protect…

But they are not made to kill. She is not made to kill.

She is just like you.

There is a bat who flies into your window on nights when the Demon's hire is not lurking inside your chambers. She tells you tales of a land shrouded in darkness, where a single king quarrels vigorously against the evil permeating his kingdom. She speaks of him with such respect, with a stiff adoration like resisting patronymic psalms. She tells you how brave you are for sparing blood. She says you are like her, like him, in every way. Singing lullabies of a world where blood isn't shed. Where justice reigns supreme.

She makes your chest swell with hope.

"I had a nightmare" you confess. The lady in red…and black -Kate as she insists you call her- only kneels down, her bloody smile pleasant, calming.

"What kind of nightmare?" she asks with a tone you can't quite place. "I was drowning" There was a pause, four heartbeats, yours and hers before you continued. "The water was red, I could feel them pulling me down." She looks at you with slight terror ringing across her eyes.

She cradles your cheek in her hand before pulling you close. It's not the bone-crushing hugs Damian gives you. The possessive vice of a dragon who knows you belong to him. It's not the rare ceremonial pat on the back that Master Talia offers from time to time. No, it feels warm and worried. Tight and soft and all so sweet. There is no warning no definitive. It is simply meant to comfort.

It feels like love. At least you hope it does.

Damian pulls you into an empty room after your training. His lips are on yours biting the chapped skin, licking your teeth, and pushing his tongue inside. "I missed you" he mumbles sternly as he cradles your body closer.

He's been gone all week. Accompanying his Grandfather on a mission in the east. You don't ask for details, because you know that he will tell you. He will spare no macabre piece as he tells you how he snuffed the life of those Master Ra's has deemed sinners.

You can still smell the blood on him as he rakes his fingers through your hair. Kissing down your shoulder and arm. Sucking and biting the pulse point on your wrist. "I love you" he admits through a sigh. Like a gulp of air after being submerged for far too long.

"I love you too…" you lie.

"You could come back with me" she offers one night sheepishly biting her lip and looking out at the crescent moon. "Back to Gotham I mean, you'd be safe there, happier too I think." You pause for a moment, staring at her, she doesn't smell of bloodshed or duty. Only lavender and responsibility.

Kate Kane, you roll her name around in your mouth, letting the letters morph and crack until they almost spell "Mother".

You nod.

In Gotham, you thought you were free. Free from that atrocious scent of blood. Free from the man you didn't love. But now the demon's heir has come to Gotham.

Damian's hands wrap around your neck, it reminds you of the times you used to hold hands. His voice is distorted all anger and accusations.

He no longer omits that gruesome aroma. But you know better, you know who's holding his leash. You know he'll snap the moment his father looks away.

He's violence born, and violence raised. That will never change.

You're in an alleyway having been confronting a thief mere moments ago. Routine patrol, until he had showed up. Emerged from the shadows just like in your nightmares. You'd thought he'd tackle the thief, play Prince Charming, and try to "protect" you. But instead, he'd targeted you. Thrown you to the ground and screamed as he laid punches across your body.

"Why did you leave me?"

It sounds so innocent, so juvenile A little boy with a broken heart. But your bones start to bruise under his fists. And you know this is no little boy, no, this is a monster.

Damian gets up quietly, he stalks closer and closer to the terrified man. You hear the haunting sound of a sword being unsheathe, close your eyes and wait for the misreable sound of blade against flesh. But it never comes, instead there's a painful tug on your hair, pulling you up.

Damian wraps your hand around his sword, fingers entwined his breath hot on your neck. "Please don't" You beg between sobs. "I have to" he mutters as he brings your hands down slicing the man from his shoulder to his hip. The body falls and so do you.

Damina kneels next to you, wrapping his arm around your body and tucking your head beneath his chin. There are blood drops on your face, the odor invading your senses, suffocating you until your breath hitches far too tightly.

"Kill me, please just kill me and end this." you plead looking up into his sparkling emerald eyes.

"Darling I can't. I wouldn't. You were born to be mine, it's your legacy, your destiny. You are mine, no matter how far you run, no matter who you masquerade as. You are mine and you always will be."

You bury your face into his chest, crying harder and harder, silently you plead for your mother to find you to save you. You don't want to belong to the demon again…

I have an interesting twist I'd like to implement into the story for who her mother could be…. But we'll talk about that some other time.

[practicalgauntlet]

τότε μείνε μαζί μου

"Then stay with me."

Spencer's POV

Synopsis- They say there are 5 stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Well, I'd like to add one more- Revenge.

Category- Heavy angst, retribution

Warnings- feral Spencer, angry Spencer, grieving Spencer, beating someone half to death, blood and gore, thoughts of violence, actual violence, Spencer goes ape shit the way Hotch beat Foyet. Vivid details of someone's nose breaking, blood, lots and lots of blood, OOC, I paint a very graphic image of Spencer's snap.

Notes- I love writing angst, I don't know why I just hope you enjoy it. And I'll make good on my promise for something tooth-rottingly sweet, so don't get too angry with me <3 This goes out to @slipk-holy for helping me edit, you're the best!!!

Wordcount- 3,123

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Spencer sits in the middle of his apartment, his last words to your lifeless body still echoing throughout his otherwise empty mind.

"I'll wait for you my darling, you better be waiting for me on the other side."

Spencer was not a religious man. But when it came to you, he believed in miracles. He believed that someone out there plucked you from your divine path and placed you in his life. Spencer prayed to whoever had put you in his life to return you. He pleaded to hold you in his arms once more, but there was no answer.

He never believed in the afterlife. He thought of it as nothingness, a lack of consciousness where one ceases to exist on any plane. The idea of holding you, of seeing you once more clung to the fibers of his mind. It kept him from breaking entirely.

So maybe Spencer was a man of religion if only it meant you awaited him with open arms.

He hadn't moved in such a long time, his back aching from the upright and cross-legged position on his hardwood floors. Spencer lacked the motivation to crawl onto the couch or drag his body into the shower. He hadn't had the motivation to do anything really, other than replay the memories he held so dear to his heart.

But as he looked around his apartment, still teeming with the life you lived there, disdain rose up his throat like bile; burning a path through his body until he was boiling over with it.

Your most recent book was still open on the coffee table, the collection you brought with you still mixed with his on the massive bookshelf. Your slippers were still haphazardly strewn across the floor where you left them that morning, the echo of your halfhearted attempt to convince him to call in sick was still so fresh.

He felt something hot and putrid clawing its way out of him, singing every piece of skin and bone it touched on its way out. It was nasty, and vile, leaving a trail of change in its wake. Spencer could feel the mutation in his soul. He could feel the emptiness devour him whole, chewing on his bones for every last morsel he had to offer.

All that was left was a devastating rage. A fury that threatened the world around him. An indignation that promised singed handprints wherever he touched. A wrath so powerful he was no longer the man he was proud of. He was a stranger, an offensive mockery of what once was.

And the best part?

Spencer didn't care.

Spencer didn't care as he stood up and kicked the coffee table into the wall sending glass shattering all over the floor. He plucked the book out of the pile of carnage, not giving a shit about the splinters of glass embedded into his fingertips.

Spencer didn't care as he ripped the pages out of the book, hurling the empty hardback through the window. He watched with a sick satisfaction as the destruction sparkled around him.

Next was his bookshelf, the stories and words he'd share with you when the two of you couldn't sleep now flung across the room. The bookshelf was toppled, and not a care in the world was given as it crashed to the floor.

Spencer was a whirlwind of devastation, a tornado of obliteration so fierce there wasn't a corner nor cabinet that was untouched by rage.

Wherever you lingered, he destroyed. The chair you'd always sit at was slammed into the wall. The mug you favored was shattered against the floor. Every instance of your memory, of your ghost, was annihilated by his hand.

When he got to the bedroom, his chest heaving with firey vengeance, he paused.

Your side of the bed was still crinkled, the indention of your head imprinted on the pillow. Your Kindle was still charging on your nightstand. Your knickknacks and decorations still hung in every corner and on every shelf.

It was like you were just at the store and he should start dinner so it would be hot for when you got home. Like you were in the shower or on call. Anything but dead.

He couldn't tear apart the last remaining proof that you lived, that you had grasped his heart with your bare hands and allowed him the same privilege.

No, he couldn't bring himself to taint the preserved capsule of the life he shared with you with anger. Or sadness. Or the grief that left him raw and vulnerable. He couldn't even step one foot past the doorway.

He closed the door.

There was no use in even trying.

Before he could move on to the bathroom, the itch in his fist for more destruction too tempting for someone so usually non-violent, his phone rang somewhere in the apartment.

Spencer didn't feel like answering it or talking to someone about his wife and the chokehold her death has on him. He was perfectly content in watching his world crumble around him alone.

But it rang. And it rang. And it rang.

In a sudden burst of energy, Spencer marched right up to the source of the maddening noise. His mobile phone was neatly tucked into his satchel pocket, at fifty percent, just the way he left it after unceremoniously tossing the stupid fucking bag to the floor.

Spencer grabbed the phone in one hand and his heaviest lamp in the other. There was something so twisted about the relief that flooded him every time he brought the base of the lamp down on the phone.

His teammates would call it overkill if the phone was a person and the lamp was a knife. They would profile him as someone who was devolving, someone so close to snapping almost entirely that they had to act swiftly. In a way, he was. In a way, he was exactly like the monsters they hunted for the bloodlust that raged through him was for one thing only.

No amount of superficial destruction could keep his need for violence a bay. No, Spencer needed something organic to put his fists through. But for now, the insistent ringing of his phone has stopped, and he felt just a tad bit better.

Until his landline rang.

There was no breaking this phone, the technology old but surprisingly durable. So he only had one choice left if he were to save the last remaining shred of sanity he was clinging to.

"What the fuck is so important that you have to call me every six seconds?!"

He seethes, face hot with ire.

"Woah," J.J, breathes into the phone. "Calm down, Spence. I'm just calling to check up on you."

"Don't call me that."

"Sorry, Spen-. I'm sorry. I just needed to know you were okay."

Spencer was beyond annoyed, beyond aggravated. He could feel himself splitting at the seems with hatred and violence.

And Spencer didn't care if he was taking it out on his friend. Spencer stopped caring a long time ago.

"Oh, I'm fucking fantastic J.J. Just beaming with joy! It's not like my wife died not even twenty four hours ago. No, everything's happy unicorns and God damn rainbows."

J.J. just sighed.

"Spencer, I'm just trying to be there for you."

He could hear the desperation in her voice. But instead of comforting him like it should have, like it had done in the past, it irritated him even more.

"Sure, thanks."

Spencer was ready to hang up, ready to unplug the phone and toss it out of the broken window. But he heard something in the background, and his attention was once again drawn away from his agony.

It sounded as if someone were speaking to J.J., their tone urgent and dead serious. Spencer couldn't make out the words, but he could make out the importance of them.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing. We're just having some problems with an unsub."

He knew exactly who she was talking about, knew why she was purposefully vague with him. And the second it all clicked, the second a plan swiftly formed in his head, he was dead set on a path.

"Okay... just- stop calling me for a while."

He played into the grieving husband shtick, not letting a drop of indignation seep through his voice. Arousing suspicion would nip his brilliant plan in the bud, and Spencer just couldn't have that.

J.J. was hesitant to agree, with her being an amazing friend and all, but ultimately relented. Spencer just needed space is all, at least that's what she told herself.

Spencer gently sat the receiver down, an eerie calm settling over him. It was a rage he'd never felt before, one that guaranteed an end. A retribution.

Revenge.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It was easy for Spencer to just walk into headquarters.

Too easy.

Maybe it was because of the pallor of his skin, or the dark bags that had become so much darker. Maybe it was even the shabby robe he still wore; his pajamas reeking of depression.

Either way, Spencer didn't linger for long. The faster he was in and out, the less suspicion he'd raise. The less suspicion he arose, the longer he'd have with his ultimate agenda.

It was calculated perfectly, executed just so. Swiftly enter the building, sadly waving to the guards all the while mumbling about friends, and help, and shoulders to cry on. Sympathy was so easy to wrangle, so easy to manipulate.

They let him in, their eyes downcast to avoid the miserable expression on his face. He should be upset at how easy it was to get in. There really should be more security. But then again, he didn't really care, did he?

He breezed passed the main office, passed the badge check, and into the elevator. Now would probably be the point where reality would hit. Was he really planning on interfering with an ongoing investigation, just to get answers he could deduce himself?

But none of that even registered as he watched the numbers slowly click up.

The lobby leading into the bullpen was empty, void of his friends or the others he knew only in passing. He was alone. The perfect environment to enable his downward spiral.

That collected calmness puppeteered him like a marionette, its hooked claws pulling the strings of his limbs towards the hallway that led to the interrogation rooms.

This is where he heard the commotion of the BAU in action. Hushed demands, muffled yelling, the occasional sigh of frustration. They hadn't noticed him yet, his socked feet concealing his footsteps.

He popped his head around the corner, watching as Hotch, Morgan, and Emily whisper to each other in front of the viewing window. J.J. and Rossi were sitting inside the room, their backs towards the window and their undivided attention upon Dimitri Cain.

Just the sight of the man had his blood boiling, his fingers twitching, and his throat closing around a violent burst of every emotion possible.

Anger- because his wife was dead and he was the man responsible.

Sadness- because he was reminded that he could never look upon the love of his life ever again.

Jealousy- because he wasn't the one in the room, demanding answers and getting them.

Joy- because he was closer to scratching that itch than he thought possible.

J.J. and Rossi exit the room, their faces grim and arms crossed with frustration. The five of them move away from the interrogation room.

"We need to form another plan,"

He heard Hotch say, his voice tight and stern.

The team agreed and left the door in the hands of a guard whilst they plotted. Now was the perfect time. He couldn't believe the luck he was having.

Maybe there was such a thing as the divine.

"You're not supposed to be here, Dr. Reid."

The guard said as Spencer approached.

"I was called in to help, you can ask Hotch but I doubt he'd enjoy being second-guessed."

"I just don't think-"

"Please..."

Spencer pleaded, and the tone he used was genuine this time. There was no manipulation nor tactic to persuade, only unadulterated desperation.

"I need something to do."

The words unsaid seemed to be as loud as those spoken, the guard's face falling with sympathy as he hesitated.

I need something to distract me.

Only a brief second did Spencer play with the idea of attacking the guard. He knew of all the pressure points to swiftly and quietly take him down; it wouldn't be hard to get what he needed.

But the guard stepped aside.

"Thank you."

The heavy door was opened.

Spencer stepped through, his body tingling with a blazing fire.

The door clicked shut.

He was alone with the object of his undoing. The breaker of his world. And there was nothing more dangerous than a desperate man with nothing to lose.

Spencer sat across from Dimirti, the man in question eyeing him with a speculating gaze.

"You're gettin' nothin' outta me."

Dimitri leaned back and blatantly challenged Spencer.

"I just have a few questions."

"Are you even a fuckin' fed? You look like shit."

Spencer unconsciously mimicked Dimirti's stance, staring the man down with an unbreaking mask of tranquil fury. He let his silence answer for him, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in the chair.

"Alright, I see how it is."

"And how is it, Dimitri?"

"It's that reverse psychology shit, not gonna work on me."

Spencer just shook his head.

"Just ask me the stupid fuckin' questions already so I can get this shit over with."

Spencer hummed, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning forward on his elbows.

"Why did you take her?"

"Again with this bitch-"

"Watch your fucking mouth."

Eyes wide, Dimitri stilled. Then, realization glided across his face. A slow smile spread, tainting Spencer with its wickedness.

"You're the husband."

It wasn't a question but a mere statement.

You got what you want, I have a husband-

Please! I don't want to die!

Spencer pounced like a lion, toppling the table with Dimitri still cuffed to it. He was lost in the rage, mind, and body willingly subject to the agonizing fury that was slowly becoming a shield.

He couldn't hear anything, not a thought registered. Only the broken screams of his wife as she pleaded to live.

Spencer straddled Dimitri, completly in control as the man beneath him writhed.

Something sick and twisted bloomed inside him with the first punch. With the second, that evil forged a bond with his soul. Once pure and golden, Spencer Reid was now as dark as the blood that seeped from Dimitri's nose.

On the third punch, Spencer could feel the cartilage break. The splintering of his knuckles was nothing but an afterthought to the satisfaction and relief that plagued him.

Dimitri wiggled under him, trying with all his might to kick him off or slide his hands out of the cuffs. But Spencer kept going.

He brought his fist down again, Dimitri's face already swollen beyond recognition. The deep burgundy of Dimitri's blood sprayed across Spencer's face, across his chest, and outward into the air.

Unbeknownst to Spencer, he was giddy. His face stretched in a feral grin, every tooth shining with glee as he continued to pummel Dimitri into the stained marble floor.

Someone was screaming, the ragged and unfamiliar sound muffled like it was underwater. His ears were ringing, adrenaline and undiluted grief pushing everything Spencer ever was deep into an iron box and tossing it down the hole you left in his heart.

It wasn't until he was ripped from Dimirti, that he realized he was the one screaming.

"You killed her!"

Spencer thrashed against the strong body behind him, the grip under his arms unmoving despite his best efforts.

"You killed my wife!"

Feebly, Spencer tried to continue the beating, swinging his long legs towards the motionless body lying on the floor. Something wet hit his face, the sensation shocking his senses back into the present.

Derek was behind him, growling his name like Spencer was a rogue unsub who refused to listen.

He was dragged out of the room, his limbs now hanging numbly at his sides. Cold metal was wrapped around his wrists before anyone even tried talking to him.

Spencer welcomed the bite, savoring the only thing he could feel.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Hotch was in his face, his eyes wide with frustration. The team was behind him, but Spencer didn't even spare them a glance. He just looked past Hotch, unseeing and unfeeling.

"Spencer!"

Finally, he dragged his emotionless gaze towards his boss who was frothing at the mouth with anger.

"I don't know."

"I don't know, I don't know? What do you mean, 'I don't know'? I should fire you!"

"Then do it."

What did he have to live for anyways?

A team that would only look at him with pity? A family that would treat him like he were made of glass, cracked and begging to be shattered.

Hotch huffed a sigh, hands on his hips.

"Listen, kid. I know exactly what you're going through. Vengeance isn't the answer."

"Says the man who did the same exact thing I just did. The only difference between you and me is that you got your retribution immediately."

Spencer hated the look of understanding that creased Hotch's brows, the empathy that threatened to undo all the apathy that was holding him together.

"This anger isn't going to bring her back..."

Spencer knew this. He knew nothing could bring you back. No amount of praying, religious devotion, and possible rituals would bring you back to him.

The simple truth was that he was lost without you.

He didn't know how to live without you by his side.

Something dripped onto his hands clasped in his lap. When he looked up and could see nothing but his swimming vision, he realized he was crying.

An unstoppable sob wracked his body, forcing his shoulders to cave in and his chest to implode. The damn was bursting, his walls cracking with each broken cry.

When he took a deep breath, a feeble attempt to control the crumbling mess that was his mental state, it all crashed around him.

His throat burned with the intensity of his scream. All his grief, all his anger, and sadness, and desolation were unleashed. He curled in on himself, hugging his sides as if he were able to replicate the feeling of your embrace.

The team surrounded him, hushed assurances, and murmured comfort as they all wrapped their arms around him. It still wasn't enough.

It still wasn't you.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

A/N- This was supposed to cure my writer's block, but it still has its claws in me. I keep comparing my writing and my stories to those I see on my feed and I only get discouraged. But comparison is the thief of joy, so please let me know if you enjoy this. Feedback is very much welcome in any form but I need to know if I'm doing something right.

[sweetlywriting]

Allegiance

Feyd Rautha x Reader

Part one Part two

Warnings-Dune II spoilers, minor violence, enemies to mutual respect to fiancés(?)

Synopsis- Your planet is rich in horticulture and resources but faces the growing fear of imperialism from other houses. A solution presents itself when you are offered to marry their heir to house Harkonnen, Feyd Rautha.

You entered into the colosseum-esque arena, fascinated with the way the sun cast a veil of black and white onto everything within its grasp. It was subduing, and you felt as though you were in an old imperial painting-where all was colorless but the expressions of the people in them.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy this. Feyd Rautha wanted you to arrive today so you would be able to see the show” The Baron said in his mangled voice, gesturing a pale hand towards you.

“I am honored to be in attendance Baron, especially on such an important day.” You said, musing on how it was rather generous for the Na-Baron to allot your visit on his own birthday.

You were excited, no one had told you quite what the entertainment was but you could imagine great performances and exotic animals in the Na-barons name. A lighter part of you also wished to see what he looked like, how he held himself, the tone of his voice-though surely upon the prospect of marriage it was rational to take into consideration.

A crease began along your mouth as three staggering men in chains were pushed into the arena along with who you could only assume was the Na-baron. Your temperament quickly changed realizing the entertainment was a fight to the death. The discontent grew seeing that two of the weren’t even truly conscious, stumbling and flailing. ‘A cowards move’ you thought pursing your lips.

You felt more foreign than ever, closely observing the calm and jovial nature of the Harkonnens around you, cheering at the calamity. It frustrated and confused you deeply, unable to stand the senseless violence. The intense smell of blood lust made your eyes water and their rims turn a bloodshot red. Why would your house choose you for him? Your home planet and house was far smaller than Geidi Prime but held traditions of peace and neutrality strong. Yet your family wanted you to marry this man? Live on this planet? With these people?

You turned to your attendant and motioned them to sit beside you.

“What were they thinking sending us here?” You whispered softly in your foreign tongue to them.

“The future of our planet my lady.” They whispered back, head down.

You felt uneasy, but understood that without some influence or power your house would soon slip into irrelevance or face threat from stronger houses. You wore the duty only for the love of your people.

You were snapped out of your reflection when the crowd started to roar again, the bodies of three atreides prisoners lay limp on the floor while the Na-Baron raised his bloodied weapon in victory. Bile rose to your throat. ‘How very difficult this will be’ you thought.

***

A banquet was held for the Na-Barons birthday and you were glad that there was no loss of life involved in simple meals and dance.

You roamed in a corner of the large room, dreading having to present yourself and your gift to the Harkonnens, wary of their violent nature, but it seemed the Na-Baron had beat you to it.

“Lady y/n” The Na-Baron said as he approached you. Up close you couldn’t deny that he was frustratingly handsome with sculpted features, tall gait, and skin like the white marble only seen in Kouros sculptures.

“Na-baron” You said, bowing lightly and offering your hand.

He took it, but rather than shake like on your home planet he kissed it. A polite gesture, but a bit rougher than you would have liked. His teeth grazed your hand, and left light marks. You tried to smile and brush the thought of getting some painful infection on foreign planet over something this irritatingly trivial.

“Call me Feyd. I heard you made it in time to see the Arena festivities” he said with a wolffish grin.

“Yes.” You said curtly, knowing if he asked how felt about them you would not be able to lie.

“Did you enjoy them?”

“I . . . thought it was rather brazen, an unecessary power play. All know your house is very strong and affluent, why spill more blood to reinforce something all know to be true.” You said this slowly, choosing your words carefully and hoping to sound more flattering than judgmental and unhappy with the injustice.

His smile dissipated and you could tell this was not the answer he wanted or expected, and a part of you feared the same fate of the Atreides prisoners would befall you. Luckily he seemed to find it humorous and laughed.

“No one has ever told me such an odd thing. Pity for prisoners! Very curious lady y/n, very curious.”

Perhaps he was interested, but you could still see venom where you hurt his pride and aroused his anger. You didn’t miss his arm clutching the sheath of his dagger as he laughed, and the way his smirk was more of a snarl now.

“I do not mean to disdain your traditions, I simply don’t quite understand them.” You said mildly when his laughter had faded.

“It’s alright. I like honesty and I like you too.” His eyes glimmered with malice and charm.

“It is true you have come as a prospective bride, yes?” He said.

“Yes. . . I have brought you a gift” You said, firmly thinking of the kind but worn face you your people as you rehearsed the proposal speech in your head. You motioned for one of your attendants to bring a sachetel with a cluster of flowers inside. You felt less reassured about your gift knowing Feyd’s character but presented it nonetheless.

“This is a heliolaris flower, it blooms yellow even in extreme conditions and without the light of the sun. It will hold its color even through the conditions of your planets black sun. Its species was created specifically for you and Giedi Prime. My planet is minor but we have plants that hold powerful miracles and arable land beyond compare. If you went through with our alliance . . . All of that would be yours too”

He peered inquisitively at the plant. He seemed unsure by the gift and your proposal but it only took a minute before his snake-like manner returned.

“I will plant these flowers. If they bloom in color as you say before the fortnight I will marry you, if not you will surrender your life to the arena that you so seem to despise.”

[empress-ghoul]

Rising Waters, part seven

141 x witch!reader | old gods of appalachia au cw: supernatural elements, blood, vomiting, gun violence

Liars too, then. It didn’t surprise you, per se, but it was still incredibly unsettling. For how brief an incursion, it revealed more than you could have expected. 

You stared into the cabin for what felt like hours before the sound of the four men filing in behind you drew you back. The wards were still thrumming, though fainter now as the swarm fled deeper through the trees and back into the mountain. 

“You alright, love?” Gaz asked.

When you looked into his eyes, it came to you. The rest when you glanced around at the others. Perhaps it was the iron that had been keeping your gift down, or maybe something had taken its place. 

“Kyle Garrick, John Price, John MacTavish, and Simon Riley,” you stated. 

Silence. It was like you had stepped on a trip mine and everyone else was too scared to move, as if any motion at all would set it off. Or like predators moving slowly so as to not startle their prey. They all wanted a piece, after all. 

“Not as much power in a name as y’all think.” You sighed. “And y’all really don’t think, do ya?”

“Careful,” Price— John warned. 

How irksome that his voice still had the ability to make you want to shiver and cower. It shouldn’t. The knowledge that he can’t really hurt you should supersede that. What made it even worse, was that John knew it too. 

Simon tightened his grip on the rifle — the one that blew up the thing inhabiting Phillip Graves’ body — and the tension rose exponentially. Your gaze shifted slowly over to him, staring deep into those hateful eyes. 

“You gonna kill me, Simon?” you taunted. “You really wanna try?”

He didn’t even seem to notice the blood trickling from his eyes. There was no flinch or a shiver to indicate he even felt anything. You kept your gaze fixed there on him, deep in his eyes. Something beyond that hate was buried in Simon, a source to pull it all from. The root— the nerve ending to expose and rip apart—

Had Soap not jumped in the way, a calloused hand wrapped around your jaw and squeezing your cheeks. 

“Dinnae want to do tha’, bonnie,” he warned, pressing you back until your head knocked against the wall. “No sense in hurtin’ yer pretty head.”

He had the same anger Simon had, but with a different pain behind it. You could almost feel the pressure in your skull. A bullet going through — bone, brain, bone — and being pulled out again by the forces that be. Blood flooding his world until all his comrades could do was let it drag them down with him. 

Like a piece falling right into place. 

You stared back, nails like blades digging into his arm, eyes wide in waiting. “C’mon, Johnny,” you murmured. “You’re a good guard dog, ain’t you?”

It held for another beat before he shuddered and black bile sprayed out of his mouth, with the full desire of snapping your neck holding him down. The vile mess splattered over your face, but was the moment you needed to shove him off. He spit up some more at your feet as he stumbled back, darkness dripping from his lips like oil. Putrefaction, to be sure. 

While Simon stepped forward to help Johnny, Kyle watched you with twitching hands. Blood boiled under his skin and out of his ears, the desire to tear your throat out itching at him. You understood the feeling. 

Johnny’s rot was now staining your skin, painting you like an ugly picture of the inner dark. Unclean, spoiled, a poor reflection that you felt too, deep down. 

John stepped in between you and his more volatile comrade. His hands felt heavy on your shoulders as he guided you to the washroom, away from the chaos that very nearly ensued. He was saying something, grumbling in your ear about making a fuss over nothing and getting the lads all riled up. You couldn’t find it in you to listen, but you did hate how nonchalant he was. It was like he saw it all as nothing more than a misunderstanding and you were a silly little girl who needed to calm down.

Once in the bathroom, John began wiping your face clean. He cupped your jaw and ran a damp rag over your cheeks and mouth with calm, gentle strokes to make sure the evidence of Johnny’s corruption was gone. 

You hadn’t used your gift on him yet. Part of you was scared of what you might see. Perhaps it would be a trail of bodies spread across the mountains, or maybe something worse. Maybe whole towns wiped out and unionizers and sympathizers taken care of. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

“That’s better,” he sighed, wiping the last of it off. “There’s that pretty face.”

He enjoyed this. His hand lingered on your chin far too long for him not to. Skin to skin, keeping too close, always with that entertained gleam in his eyes. He even patted your hip when he finished, as if to say good dog.

You thought about repeating what you had said outside – Phillip Graves didn’t know me – but held your tongue. No sense in making them more wary. Even less sense in giving John a reason to keep his current proximity to you, trapped between his legs as he leaned against the sink. 

“I think I need to lay down,” you declared. “I’m…shaken from what happened.”

John hummed, draping the rag over the side of the basin before looking back down at you. “It’ll wear off. Why don’t you start on some laundry? Get your mind off of things.”

As infuriating as it was, the repetition of the task and lack of irons grating on your wrists made for a great opportunity to plot how you would get rid of them. Each bloody shirt further solidified your need to kill them. You clearly weren’t in any danger from Shepherd & Graves – you wondered if it would just be Shepherd now – and these men had lied to you the second you woke up. The hemlock plants all around the property seemed to be your best bet. Or the gun.

On the opposite side of the house, you could hear the door creak against its hinges as it was opened. You could smell the cigar smoke, now with something else mixed in – cigarettes.

While you couldn’t exactly hear John and Simon’s low voices, the ache in your chest gave you the feeling that it was about you. Unfortunately, your attempt to move closer to the edge of the house was thwarted when Johnny walked out and leaned against the wall to watch you.

“Apologies for spittin’ up on ye, bonnie,” he sighed. He sounded genuine, but so dramatic at the same time. “Haven’t been meself in a while and the little jars you made don’t help much.”

Little jars. He even laughed at his own joke, as if the wards that saved all of you were just that. Little jars.

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out softer than you intended. “At least you’re feeling better.”

Johnny hummed noncommittally. He walked away and you realized he was hanging up the clean shirts on the line for you. It was a task he seemed familiar with, so you hoped this wasn’t the first round of laundry done since they’ve been here. While it wouldn’t surprise you, it would disappoint you. 

“Have y’all done laundry since you been here?” 

You didn’t intend to let the words slip out but it was too late. Johnny didn’t seem to mind, though, and actually threw his head back as he laughed. A real, genuine laugh, not some condescending huff or chuckle, but true laughter. Paired with his crooked smile, you felt some sense of ease. It nearly made you blush.

“You wound me, bonnie,” he teased, placing a dramatic hand on his heart. “‘Course we’ve done laundry. You take us for cavemen?”

“Some of us have done the laundry,” Kyle corrected, peeking his head out the back door and apparently having been listening to the conversation. 

Johnny, for his part, looked completely indignant. “What does it look like I’m doin’ now?”

A smile tugged at your lips. Their casualness, despite the scene inside just a while ago and the horror lurking inside of them, was refreshing. 

“Don’t let him fool you, love.” He sat next to you while shaking his head playfully at Johnny. “There’s a reason he and Simon stay on hunting duty.”

The mood curdled and soured at the mention of hunting. You could still hear the sounds of them tearing that body apart. Deer or not, they had done it with practiced ease. 

Both of them sensed your wariness as you took the clean items and began pinning them up. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Johnny shift closer to Kyle. You kept working as they dropped their voices just loud enough for you to hear, but believing to be quiet enough to keep you oblivious. 

“Price wants to do it soon,” Kyle whispered. 

“We should do it soon,” Johnny replied. 

The drum in your chest was beating so fast you thought it might burst out. They were certainly talking about you now, likely about the conversation John had been having with Simon on the front porch. You didn’t know what ‘it’ was and you truly didn’t care to find out. 

You hoped the meat John fed you for supper was venison. He even let you sit at the table while they all talked, if not to distract from the fact that none of them were eating. It was so off kilter, the painful resonance vibrating in your ears to let you know that this was wrong. You really did not need your gift to know that. 

Everything tasted like ash on your tongue after you noticed Simon repeatedly wiping the blood from his nose. Getting your food to settle was an arduous task but you didn’t want to know what might happen should you reject it. They were all still talking but you tuned it out, too focused on chewing, swallowing, breathing until the plate was empty. Four sets of eyes landed on you when you hurried from the kitchen to escape the oppressive energy, your empty plate abandoned. 

Sleep evaded you. It toyed at the edges of your mind, taunting your frayed edges cruelly. Not even you were sure if you wanted to sleep. Perhaps you wanted to be awake if they came in the night to do whatever the hell they were whispering about. 

What were you doing anyways? Doing their laundry, eating at the table with them. Now lying in your bed like an idiot, waiting for something to happen? A sitting duck if you’ve ever seen one. 

But you sat for another few minutes, working up the courage to finally get up. Courage that died when you opened the door and saw John asleep on the couch. A true leader, letting his men take the beds while he kept watch. He had even angled it to watch your door. What good that was doing. 

You hadn’t even felt yourself moving, but suddenly you were standing in the living room with the cold metal of the rifle weighing heavy in your hands. It made far more noise in your shaking palms than it had in Simon’s steady ones just a few hours early. He had more of a penchant for killing than you did. But you didn’t want to kill, did you?

The gun nearly flew from your grip when you realized John was standing. He didn’t look scared or angry. It was still that same aloof, slightly condescending gaze. He was the only one who would be tempered enough to keep his desire tucked beneath the need to get the gun away from you. 

“Let’s put this down, love,” he encouraged. His hand wrapped around the barrel so carefully that it might have been a living thing. He certainly treated it with the gentleness one might give a frightened animal. “Don’t want to hurt anyone, do you?”

“Don’t I?” 

You’d hunted a few times before, right before the weather got hard, and it was not much more than pointing and shooting. Except that had been a rabbit with a much smaller caliber gun. This one might just blow your shoulder from its socket. 

John kept his grip on the barrel, blue eyes burning into you, past the muzzle, with an intensity that rivaled Kyle’s stare. Except you couldn’t find anything behind John’s. It was staring into the void, unable to do anything but fall deeper in hopes of being able to catch onto something. You kept falling, falling, falling, with no hope for clawing back up. 

“Wouldn’t do you any good,” he claimed. 

Something moved through you. 

The gunshot that exploded in your ears dragged you out of the pit. Its splintering cry muffled the thud of John’s fall and his furious cursing. You dropped the rifle and flew out the front door when you saw the black blood rushing down his neck. 

[lunette-png]

When The Sea Fell Silent

In which | a siren seeks vengeance for her fallen kin, but a sailor's mercy changes the tide.

Pairing: Telemachus x Reader [oneshot]

inspired by: "Siren" by Lydia the Bard

dividers by: @anitalenia

The ocean stretched endlessly, a canvas of deep blue that darkened with the setting sun. But tonight, it wasn’t the sunset that painted the waters red. Y/N hovered just above the surface, her tail gleaming like polished onyx beneath the moonlight, while Mona and the rest of their sisters drifted beside her, their eyes fixed on the grisly scene before them.

Mona’s tail shimmered in the dim light, its pale cerulean scales glistening like sunlight dancing on the ocean’s surface. A stark contrast to the dark blood staining the sea.

Bodies. Broken, mutilated bodies of their kin, their tails severed, their arms outstretched as if they had clawed at the sea for life. The water around them swirled crimson, an unnatural tide of death. Y/N swallowed the bile rising in her throat. This was not the work of mere mortals lost to the sea. No—this was a massacre.

A whisper carried through the waters from a neighboring cove, a tale spoken with hushed voices and horror-stricken gazes. Odysseus. The name alone sent a violent shudder through Y/N’s spine. It was he who had ordered the sirens maimed, had them tossed into the waves to drown, all because he feared them. Feared what they could do. Feared that they would keep him from returning to his wife.

Y/N clenched her fists. She would remember this name. She would carve it into the sea itself if she had to.

Mona’s voice was softer than the waves lapping against their tails. “Y/N, vengeance won’t bring them back.”

“I don’t care.” Y/N turned, her eyes blazing. “He will pay for what he’s done.”

Mona sighed but said no more. The sea had already decided to listen.

Years passed, but the wounds remained. Then, at last, word traveled through the tides—Odysseus’s son was out at sea. Telemachus. A name spoken with awe by men who still praised his father’s cunning. A name now whispered with anticipation by the sirens who had not forgotten.

As the dead of night cloaked the sky, Y/N and her kin waited, hidden beneath the rolling waves, watching the ship glide through the water. Mona swayed beside her, apprehension clear in her furrowed brow. “Y/N, this isn’t Odysseus.”

“But it is his blood,” Y/N murmured. And that was enough.

The sirens began their song.

"Oh, sailor dear

You're looking tired

Why don't you come to bed?

Down here with me, I'll keep you warm

Jump in and take your rest."

The melody wove through the night air like silk, smooth and sweet, beckoning, promising warmth, safety, love. The men on the ship stiffened, eyes glazing over. Some stumbled toward the edge, desperate for the embrace of the sea. Others fought against the pull, gripping the mast, shaking their heads as if trying to rid themselves of the spell.

One sailor, younger than the rest, clutched his ears and fell to his knees, murmuring prayers to the gods. Another succumbed, his body swaying before he tipped forward, vanishing beneath the waves. His comrades barely noticed his absence, too entranced by the sirens’ call.

“Come on out of the shallows and into the fathoms below.”

Y/N saw him then—Telemachus. He was his father’s son, in the sharp cut of his jaw, in the way his brow furrowed as he barked orders. But there was something else, something different. He was young, unweathered by war, his presence lacking the cruel cunning she had expected. Still, he was Odysseus’s heir, and that was enough.

The sirens struck.

The night erupted into chaos. Water splashed as men tumbled into the sea, either lured or dragged. The song turned to screams. Mona’s voice called out, but Y/N had already surged forward.

Telemachus fought like a warrior born, ordering his men to tie themselves to the mast, to plug their ears, to resist. He swung the hilt of his sword, striking one of the sirens away, but he was outnumbered. Some of his crew followed his orders, tying themselves down, sweat pouring down their faces as they fought against the song. Others were not so lucky. One man let out a strangled cry before slipping overboard, hands clawing at the air before he was swallowed whole by the dark water.

Another resisted, clinging to the rigging, tears streaming down his face as his body convulsed from the effort. But a siren reached him first, fingers wrapping around his wrist, pulling—

Gone.

Y/N reached for Telemachus, voice laced with venom. “What part of ‘jump down’ don’t you understand?”

His eyes locked onto hers, confusion flickering before realization dawned. “Why?” he demanded. “Why are you doing this?”

Y/N bared her teeth. “Ask your father.”

Then, a cry split the night—Mona, caught in the grasp of one of Telemachus’s men. A dagger was pressed to her throat. Y/N froze. But before she could act, Telemachus did.

He moved swiftly, knocking the weapon from his crewmate’s grasp and striking him down—not with a blade, but with his fists. “Let her go,” he ordered, his voice steady. He turned to Y/N. “I don’t know what my father has done to you. But I am not him.”

Mona, now free, wasted no time in diving back into the water. The sirens hissed, ready to lunge again—but Y/N raised a hand, stopping them in their tracks.

Telemachus’s men, battered and shaken, scrambled to secure what remained of their crew. The sea roared around them, but the sirens did not move.

Y/N watched them go, uncertainty creeping into her resolve.

Mona’s gaze bore into Y/N, disbelief clear in her expression. “You let them go.”

The other sirens circled, their anger palpable. Hisses filled the air, but Y/N stood firm.

“They are not the men responsible for the death of our kin.”

"But their captain, the prince carries his blood", one argued.

Silence. Then, y/n spoke. “But perhaps not all sons grow up to be their fathers.”

The ship faded into the horizon, its battered crew tending to their wounded. Telemachus turned, his gaze finding Y/N’s one last time. A silent understanding passed between them, one neither of them could put into words.

The fate of Y/N remained uncertain. But as she drifted beneath the waves, she knew one thing for sure—the past did not have to dictate the future.

And once again, the sea was silent.

AN: hi- taking a break from waves of ithaca, so here's a oneshot for now. this song has been stuck in my head since it was released. i am soo sorry if it isn't my best work, i am in dire need of sleep ㅠㅠ the format is different, because frankly- i couldn't be bothered to make every line of dialogue bold and italicized, forgive me for that.

also, peep the @lisalamona cameo

[noxturnalmoth]

Repentance

Summary: Repentance: n. the action of repenting, sincere regret or remorse.

Hurt, overworking and miserable, two souls find one another and fates intertwine even when they are worlds apart. How can one deal with the guilt of wanting something they cannot have? And why does going against the very principles you have imposed upon yourself feel so good?

Warnings: violence, crude language, themes of guilt, suicidal ideation, depression

Word Count: 5, 793

Masterlist: here

Chapter 1 - Erring in the City of Iron and Glass

Please gods above, don't take him away from me too.

Please lords above stop this massacre, let my people live, haven't we gone through enough?

"Go! Leave!"

"I can't! We stay together!"

"Just fucking leave! You'll end up dead!"

"I'm not leaving without you!"

Your voice screams, the is air scarlet and heavy with smoke, the sky is painted with burning flames as the stone beneath your feet is stained blood red.

Littered with corpses.

Children, men, women. It didn't matter to Piltover, Zaun and its people didn't matter to Piltover.

You never did.

You run after Hekarim, your older brother, your only family. But he is so much faster and your strides could only hope to match his as he marches into the fray like a Noxian soldier into a battlefield.

Please gods above, don't take him away from me too.

Please lords above stop this massacre, let my people live, haven't we gone through enough?

The smell is enough to make you heave, burning flesh, gunpowder and chemicals, the smell of death.

"Don't leave me!"

"I need to, they need me!"

"You'll die! I don't want to be alone! Mom and dad said-"

He turns around, tears carving through the soot and blood marring his face. "Mom and dad are dead! They're gone! They have been for so long now!"

"You're all I have left! Please don't do this!" You cry out, finally catching up to him as he slows down, your knees giving up from under you as you hold him.

His arms wrap tightly around you, shielding you from the world crumbling around you. "If I don't fight for our freedom, then I don't fight for you. And I'll be damned if I can't strive for a better life, if not for me, if not for Zaun, then at least for you. Our people are fighting out there, and I can help, I need to do this little bird."

"I'm old enough Heka, I can fight!"

"If you don't survive, then I'd have fought for nothing. We finally have a chance at making a difference, I can't let it go to waste. As a Zaunite and as your brother."

Your shoulders shake, his do too. His hands cradle your face softly, his eyes raking over you as if to ingrain the sight in his memory before his forehead gently touches against yours.

The Zaunite symbol for love, a kiss shared to those you love most.

A goodbye.

Please gods above, don't take him away from me too.

Please lords above stop this massacre, let my people live, haven't we gone through enough?

You claw at him as he leaves but your body is too weak for you to rush after him like before, the smoke erasing his silhouette all too soon as you crawl. Bile rises in your throat as you scream for him, shadows of your people falling like flies illuminated by the flaming bridge.

The bodies are piling up, surrounding you in a grotesque painting of mangled body parts and broken spirits. Yells echo in the air, yours, theirs, the enforcers', all swirling into an unintelligible cacophony of hatred, pain, fear, disgust and..hope.

Hope for a better future for Zaun.

Hope for a better life.

"Please!" Your people echo. "We are as deserving of a good life as any of you!"

Yet the pleas of Zaunite souls are ignored by the gods, the deities looking down, mocking your pitiful attempt at fighting for freedom.

Your legs shake, your balance all too troubled by the overwhelming scenery.

There it was, the proof that the lords above didn't care.

No, they didn't give a shit about any of you.

Neither did Piltover.

Neither did the rest of Runeterra.

Zaun was alone in its fight.

And you are now alone too. The last of your family taken in a conflict that should have never been, in a situation that could have been avoided if not for the greed of those in blue and gold.

You are terrified and all you can do is stand straight as you quiver in fear, watching the massacre happen.

Yet a noise you don't recognize resounds in the loudness of the battle, your own. A war cry, choked by tears, making its way out of your throat, ripping it to shreds as you rip a metal pole from a brethren's corpse.

Please gods above, don't take him away from me too.

Please lords above stop this massacre, let my people live, haven't we gone through enough?

You run into the fray.

Fire burns your lungs, licks at your skin, and the blood covering you becomes wet again. The dried metallic essence fueled with life again as you bash an enforcer about to hurt a child.

"Run!"

And she does, her pink haired companion nodding at you in thanks.

You're gonna find your brother.

And if I don't then damn it all, I'll die here fighting too.

The gods don't hear you, they haven't for a long time. So you'll take the matter into your own hands and make them hear, make them see.

Bullets fly by you, piercing you with crimson lances of white hot pain, batons strike your young body, leaving trails of indigo while you soldier on. And you bash and bash, hiding behind the Piltovan forces before you skewer them, hiding between corpses so you can crack their skulls open, rage blinding your vision while you roar again. As loud and as hot as the flames that seemed to come from the river itself.

You have to.

Please gods above, don't take him away from me too.

Please lords above stop this massacre, let my people live, haven't we gone through enough?

This pain is nothing, it's nothing compared to what you're about to lose, compared too all that Zaun has lost at the hands of the ones topside.

As if hell had opened itself up and you were about to be swallowed.

It's unfair! Why? Why? Why? Why?

Why?!

Bomb explode as your eyes watch a life drain because of you. You're a murderer now, you haven been since you entered the fray to fight for your people.

But so were they. Them in their ivory towers, them in their navy uniforms, them from the other side of the river. Them, them, them.

It's all their fault.

The loud bangs sound closer, yet so move forward. Only stopping at the sight of your brother, the man that raised you for most of your life after your parents died in the god forsaken mines Piltover has caged many of your people in.

It seems as if he's dancing, dancing the dance of your people. A dance of rage, of hurt, of hope. Yet you know he's fighting, not for his own life but for your own.

So your dead vocal chords cant help but let out a pathetic sound as the enforcers surrounding him beat him into submission. His body crumples yet he remains straight, even when brought down to his knees.

"Hekarim!"

His head turns and his look of horror turns turns wide eyes as a bullet is shot through his head.

Please gods above, don't take him away from me too.

Please lords above stop this massacre, let my people live, haven't we gone through enough?

Then his body hits the ground, like many others around you. It ragdolls with a thud, crumpling to the ground lifeless.

Yet instead of the chaos you've been in for god knows how long since the revolt began, everything stops. Noises muffled, sight blurry and draining itself of every color. Every one of their eyes trail to you. Their filthy eyes, soulless and angry.

Then it all hits at once.

Kha nas xera.

I hate them. I hate them all.

Your throat doesn't make any noise when you yell and cry, stumbling over yourself as your rage moves your body like a puppeteer, pushing you to rush forward and attack. It doesn't make a sound as you're punched and kicked, as you claw at the men in navy blue.

It doesn't make a sound when they set off a grenade next to you.

Neither when your body is projected onto the stone fences bordering the bridge.

But your bones do.

A sickening crack overpowering every other unbearable noise when your back hits takes the blunt of the shock, a sharp breath burning your lungs with the flames surrounding you. Your mouth tasting blood, smoke and salty tears as you slump down with the other corpses.

You're gonna die. You're gonna die alone and you couldn't do anything else.

Hekarim had been right.

He'd fought for you and you've still gone and fucked it all up.

And now you'll be swallowed by the gaping maws of hell while the gods above get their entertainment.

You've been foolish, stupid, reckless.

You've been foolish and now you're paying the price.

"Wait for me in the abyss, Heka." Your soul calls out to one that has been long gone. "Mama, papa, I'm coming." One last tear escapes your eyes, the loud screeches surrounding you rolling over you one last time before they're drowned by the sound of your slowing heart while your eyes close.

Please gods above, take me away too.

But I beg of you let my people live.

"-llo?"

Janna, is that you?

"-ello?"

Have you finally come to protect us? After you've abandoned us to pain and misery?

"Hello?"

Wait, you're not-

____

"Hello! Runeterra to the bartender, anybody home?"

Your head snaps up.

You rub your blurry eyes, the first thing coming into view being a familiar mop of magenta hair, powder blue eyes concerned and gentle as you emerge from your thoughts. Warmth seeping through your shirt from the person's hand shaking your shoulder hurriedly.

Then comes in the cozy dark green wallpaper and mahogany hardwood floors that you've grown used to these past few years, scarlet curtains framing small booths carved into the walls. Chairs and tables arranged in a way you've memorized, carved in your mind's eye after years, and a cold, scratched, oak counter top beneath your arms contrasting with the warm touch nudging you awake. Next to the pink haired girl stands dark brown haired woman, her tan skin looking soft in the warm lights of the bar as her grey eyes observe you with worry.

Finally come in the rest, the smell of leather and alcohol, tobacco lingering at the forefront of it all. The sound of music emanating from a jukebox in the corner of the room.

"You're good, kiddo?"

A low feminine voice attributed to the older woman rings as you blink away the last of tears you haven't noticed were flowing freely from your eyes like rain from the heavens.

"Yeah, you've been staring at the wall, crying for the past ten minutes."

Only ten?

It felt like an eternity.

But then again, time is different in hell.

You shake your head with a drawn out sigh as your hands wipe at your face hurriedly, getting rid of the last of your daydream and its traces on your face.

"Oh yeah, my bad girls. What were we talking about again?"

"Oh hell no, we're not skimming past that dude." You groan at the scolding.

"Vi, really, I'm good. C'mon, you're gonna get on my ass for being distracted now Miss Darcy. I'm just a bit tired is all."

The girl looks at you unimpressed, her famous "shut up" look craving through her face like a chisel through marble. Yeah, she wasn't taking any of your usual deflection today. And Sevika neither by the looks of it.

"Really, I just think I've been working a little too much lately. I just need to rest."

"Bullshit, we both know you won't." Grumbles the taller lady, slipping behind the bar counter, next to you, before she cages you against the counter top.

"And that you're lying about being just a little tired."

Back groaning at standing for so long, hunched over in an uncomfortable position, you slump against the corner in resignation, grunting as your two friends corner you and hound you with care.

Undeserved.

Too much.

Yet always appreciated.

You've been working with them at The Last Drop for years, Violet recognizing you even years after the bridge "incident", as the Pilties called it, and offering you a spot at her godfather and uncle's bar. Not only to "repay a debt", which you insisted was non-existent in the first place, but also for friendship, wanting more people around her age in her life.

You didn't blame her, you were grateful in fact.

You were grateful to Sevika too, who endorsed Vi in her quest to get you in the staff due to seeing your teen self rushing into the fray thirteen years ago. Admiring your courage and scolding your foolishness, forcing you to promise never to put yourself in such danger ever again.

Back then you let out a bitter laugh, the promise easy enough to make from the traces the battle left for you.

Parts of your spine were broken to such an extent that you'd have to wear a brace for the rest of your life, limiting movement and straining you until the day you died.

Since that day you've been alone. Working shitty job after shitty job to sustain yourself while the Pilties seemed to go back to their peaceful lives. Your spine screaming louder after years of slaving away for your own safety and a life that was worth living.

Yet you persevered.

Clawed your way out of the pit that topside has dug for all of the children they ripped families away from.

And now here you are, working two jobs, having your small shoddy apartment and two friends you wonder if you truly deserve. They tell you that you do, yet it's hard to believe when every night is plagued with the same visions. Ghosts that seem to never want to let go of you, now even throughout the day. Clawing at you from the inside and screaming in your head, filling your eyes with sceneries straight from hell. Yet you know it to be far from the truth. Or hell is on Runeterra, and it likes your pain enough to rip you apart day after day.

You'd think you would have grown accustomed to them. Yet if anything, the constant reminders only make you grow more weary each day that passes.

"What's your schedule been like?" Violet slides next to you, her shoulder nudging yours softly to snap you out of your reverie.

"The usual? I don't know, I don't feel much has changed."

When you turn pain bites at your upper back and your hands grip the bar top, nails biting into the wood while you set your jaw to stop any noise of pain to escape you. Vi looks at you with the same expression she always has in moments like this, sisterly love. For being five years your junior, the girl surely know how to make you feel younger with her affections.

"Tell us, or we're gonna have to tell Silco and Vander about it."

"Yeah, can't have our bartender keeling over one night." Sevika sets herself on your other side and slides your stool under you, reserved for when your back gets too much. You nod your thanks and let out a groaned out breath at the feeling of your body not needing to hold itself up anymore.

"Just nine to five at the library and the usual seven to two in at night for the bar. Same as always."

"Same as always. Well seems like this isn't sustainable for you anymore. I don't even think it ever has been. You do know that working yourself to death is not gonna fix anything, right?"

"Have you been-"

"I have been, Vi. I've been journaling, I've been drinking less, I've been trying to get more than three hours of sleep per night. But I can't, nothing clears my head, I can't even afford a good therapist because they're so rare in Zaun it's like trying to find a unicorn, and like hell I'm going topside because they'll only extort me until I have nothing left."

The women at your sides nod in understanding. They've been trying to help yet nothing seems to soothe the storm of your soul, forever raging, ever restless, screaming from the depths of your very being and haunting you at every moment. Their support means the world to you though, and you feel like you never know how to show just how deeply important their presences are within the nightmare of your life. You feel like you're not grateful enough for all that they've done for you, not deserving enough. Like you're-

"You're not a lost case, Maestro."

You chuckle bitterly at the nickname, your two friends having nicknamed you as such because you were the "drink virtuoso" of The Last Drop. The young bartender that knew people's tastes like the back of her hand at first glance and who always knew which buttons to push to get clients to buy something more expensive if they could afford it.

"Sevika's right. She's doing better, Silco and Vander too, not to forget Powder and I. You'll make it. We just have to find the right coping mechanism, the right…thing."

Violet mumbles, cursing at herself for being bad with words compared to her more "proper" girlfriend Caitlyn, a Piltover enforcer born in one of the gilded city's most noble families.

"I know but I've tried so much. Many options I don't have the time for, others are too expensive, the rest just doesn't work. You two are keeping me afloat but I wonder if I'm just rotten work, like trying to help me or even simply being around me is just gonna end up wearing you down in the end."

The women chuckle and eye one another with a smile, one of their arms wrapping around your back in two half hugs.

"You? Wear us down? Now aren't you underestimating us?"

"I think you forgot who you're talking to so let's remind you. We're your best friends, and if you think you'll ever get rid of us because you're a mopey little shit then you clearly are overestimating yourself."

"Sev's right, you're a cocky bitch if you think you're so cool that you'll be able to push us away in any way, shape or form. We're the dirt under your nails, Maestro. Don't you dare forget that."

"Oh fuck off you two."

You chuckle along, the burning flames of the bridge cooled by the laughter of the women holding you.

"You know we're right."

"Yeah yeah, now stop being gay and help me cleaning. Butch one you take the booths, Butch two you take the floor. I'll take the tables and bar."

"Shut your trap, kid."

"Aye aye captain."

Are chuckled out as your two friends leave your side to get started on tidying up the bar, the soft notes of the jukebox rhythming the cleaning and softening the heaviness in the air while you stretch. Getting out of the stool feels like a ton of lead has been dropped onto your shoulders and pain fires through you like electrical current but you still pick up your rag, a bottle of cleaning product and make your way to the tables.

It's comfortably silent between the three of you from then on. Humming coming from your throat as you bend over, scrubbing away at the traces of alcohol and crumbs left by patrons on every table, placing the chairs upside down on each and every one of them after wiping them down too.

Vi taps your ass with the broom while passing by you and you slap her arm, the girl acting hurt and falling to the ground at the ministration.

"How could you hurt me so, dear friend?"

"You already got a fine piece of ass at home, don't be greedy Darcy."

And you offer your hand and Violet refuses before you grab hers anyways and drag her up, your body shaking in pain as you pick your friend from the floor. She pinches your hips with a softly scolding look before going back to cleaning the floor.

Time passes and the bar top is the last surface that needs cleaning, Sevika and Violet try to get you to stop but you push them away.

"My bar, my responsibility."

"Technically it's Vander and Silco's-"

"I'll rip your tits off Sev."

"Bite me."

"Nah, you'd like that. You whore." She barks out a laugh at that, "touché" escaping her painted lips as she gets out her pack of cigarettes, two little cylinders are pulled out from it and she places both in her mouth to light them. The flick of her lighter echoing through the now silent room before she gives you one of the smoking tubes.

You inhale, the smoke filling your lungs in an all too familiar way and nicotine rushing through you while you slump over the spotless oak with your arms crossed, your eyes softly closing to enjoy the taste of tobacco and the presence of the two women at your side.

Just a normal night, after a very usual day. You dread to think about your weekend, having nothing to do killed you a little every time it happened, the silence of your apartment too loud and only serving to fuel the maelstrom of feelings swirling within you at any moment. Anytime you try to sleep those days off you wake up sweaty and screaming like every night, unable and unwilling to fall back asleep.

Life for Zaun has gotten better, sure. Access to topside was not as restrained, the city was given sovereignty after the complete hecatomb that happened thirteen years ago opened the eyes of many to the destiny of most Zaunites under Piltover's rule. It took about seven years for the gilded city to surrender Zaun and accept it as an equal, since then business had been booming, general health and education got much more advanced yet a lot was still a work in progress.

Progress that was not achieved with much help from Piltover, no, but by the blood, sweat and tears of the people from the Undercity. Who worked hard to make living here much more comfortable with the new influx of income and trades from all around the world.

And you were proud of your brethren for making it this far, you were proud to be part of such an enterprise to make Zaun a better place.

Yet no matter how much you worked then, how much you work now, how much you fought and still fight, you still can't find it within yourself to find forgiveness. Not after witnessing what you had, feeling what you did. Even if Vi's girlfriend was a kind girl and very involved with her family to help Zaun, the actions of one still didn't make the bile rising in your throat when thinking about Piltover subside.

You didn't necessarily hate everyone topside. The targets of your rage were their police force and their politicians who, for three hundred and fifteen years, cultivated a mentality of elitism and classism that was the flail used to whip your people into submission. To make Zaun into their own colony, providing for their every whims while they stood behind you, twiddling their thumbs and laughing at your misery. So you still had a hard time feeling comfortable or peaceful with the people that persecuted your own, directly or by proxy, many had let this happen even if they knew it was wrong and that was something else you could not forgive.

None of the rage you direct towards Piltover can truly fill the hole within you, though.

A hole that had been dug since you were born, the intrinsic Zaunite anger at the unfairness of others' treatments towards you ingrained within every part of your DNA. A hole that became a fissure, similar to those trencher miners would die in, when your parents died in a crumbling mine that was left operating even with the dangers its state was dismal. A fissure that became an unspeakable abyss the day of the bridge revolt when you lost Hekarim and so many of your own, nearly meeting your maker as well in the process.

An abyss that you've tried to fill with anger, with so much work that your body would crumble the second you reached your small apartment, with your two friends' presence that although helped you, never filled the tear in your soul. No, the abyss grew with time, no matter how many books you read, how much music you listened to, how many hobbies or coping mechanisms you tried.

It grew.

And grew.

And although you've ignored it, you're becoming unable to. The exhaustion. Setting deep within your bones from the sleepless nights, from the overworking, the constant reminders of vision's you'd rather forget. It's like no matter what you try, your symptoms only become worse.

And you feel so much guilt.

At not feeling well, at not being able to appreciate the simple pleasures of life, at not seeing how far you've come, at your friends not being nearly enough to fix the broken, ugly mess that you are.

You feel guilt for losing faith at everything in life that pertained to you. You are on survival mode, and you can't flip the switch off. But there's only so much you can do on survival mode before you shutdown.

And right now you were going down that slide at immense speed.

One where your thoughts would drag you to commit something that would never be able to be taken back.

And you hoped that if it ever came to that, you'd at least be missed.

snap

Your eyes swiftly get to Sevika who's snapping her fingers at you, her other hand holding the ashtray under the cigarette currently burning away between your lips.

"Yeah no, we're not taking I'm fine for an answer."

"Sev, c'mon."

"No, girl, c'mon. You're not okay."

"Vi." You whine, taking a deep inhale from your cigarette, the smoke escaping your nose in two streams. "Really, I'll be fine. I'm a big girl I can take it, you know me."

"Not anymore it seems." Inhale, Sevika gazes at you with a knowing look shining through her steel tinted eyes.

"You're trying to do all of this by yourself. And we get it, we really do, but you're just pulling yourself deeper." Exhale, Vi brushes her hand on your arm comfortingly.

"We love you, and all we want is your good health and for you to finally be able to rid yourself of whatever's going on in there. You don't tell us because you want us safe, yet what about you?" Inhale.

"We've thought of something, and we know you'll vehemently refuse at first, but it's free and many people find comfort in it. Especially here in Zaun."

You tilt your head, smoke held in your lungs as you look at your two friends inquisitively.

"So, would you be willing to go to church?" Exhale.

Stub.

"No."

They look at one another in a way you knew all too well. They knew of your stubborn streak, to anything related to Piltover. And to faith.

You had prayed everyday for your parents' safety. They died, alone, in the dark and ripped to shreds by rubble.

You had prayed everyday for your people's freedom. They kept on dying unjust deaths by the hand of their greedy, self-important jailers.

You had prayed for your brother to be alive that day. He was ripped away from you before your very eyes.

You had prayed for your own death, to stop the pain, to stop you from losing everything when nothing was left anymore. Yet you lived.

The lords above didn't exist.

And if they did they had abandoned Zaun.

And me.

So like hell you'd go to a place of worship to any one of them. That day you abandoned them just like they did you, mockingly watching from above as meaningless deaths happened beneath their almighty gazes once more.

"Listen. We know. But would you listen to us?"

You look at Violet with expectant eyes, exhaustion pulling your lids down into a glare that has been carved into your face, never to be erased.

"Powder has a tutor, she has for a while now, and turns out he's a priest for the local Jan'ahremite church. He seems like a good man and maybe he'd know how to help, it's his job to lead those who are lost and all that. You could go to mass, test the waters, you could even confess! It's like therapy, but free."

You exhale a sharp breath.

"Vi's right, but there's also the fact that you'd be surrounded by a community. It would do you good, go at least twice. Please? We know it's far from what you want but it could be what you need. You don't need to believe, just to be there."

"What do you have to lose, right?"

You pull away, slowly making your way to your coat hung behind the bottle filled shelves, your back screaming at you for rest as you cover yourself, slipping one arm after the other in the long sleeves. You pass by the counter where your two friends are, stopping at their level as Sevika calls out for you.

"You can't keep on going like this, kiddo. We may not know what's going on in that head of yours, but we know it's far from pretty. Everyone needs something to believe in, and as is, we know your faith is in nothing but your own fall."

You scoff. "Understatement of the century Sev."

"Even more of a reason to try! We don't ask you to pray, to beg for whatever god may listen, only to see if it'd help. I'd be more than reluctant to step a foot in a church myself, and I know that Sevika too." The older woman scoffs as she nods at Vi's words. "But we know that wherever your mind's headed right now could potentially take you from us, and we can't imagine Zaun without you. Neither can little man or Powder."

"Hell, Vander and Silco would hate to lose you too, every patron around here and everyone at the library too."

"You're worth so much more than you can imagine to so many of us. So, please, at the very least if not for yourself, do this for us."

Your hands grip tightly at the counter top, a lump forming in your throat at the very thought of stepping into a god's space. Wanting nothing more than spit and yell in rage at their pictures and statues, never to be vulnerable for them ever again.

"I'll think about it."

Is all you can manage to let out.

"And that's all we ask."

You nod, the three of you leaving the building and locking up behind yourselves and Vi nudging her forehead to yours as a loving goodbye before she hops on her motorcycle.

"Kid, you know we love you, right?"

You purse your lips, eyes looking down as your heart drops to your stomach. Feeling all too undeserving of the words.

"Yeah, I know Sev." Your gaze reaches hers, and you know she understands what you mean with it.

I love you too.

You sigh and softly place your forehead on hers.

"See you on Monday, kid." She ruffles your hair lightly and walks away, her body illuminated by the kaleidoscope of Zaun's neon signs.

You get in your car, the music not loud enough to drown your thoughts, the words and melodies jumbling in and all too familiar self-deprecating dance as you arrive home.

Your body drags and you step foot within the threshold of the building, it slumps against the elevator's walls as you wait for your floor and it drops onto your bed as you arrive at your bed.

Your phone is put to charge, your clothes and brace are taken off for the night and you refuse to get up for any food or water. The comfort of your mattress pulling you in like quicksand in the deserts of Shurima even if your mouth is pasty and your stomach grumbles.

Your eyes trail to your ceiling, tears rolling down like a waterfall before you even realize what's happening. No sob escapes you, you believe you've exhausted your capacity for them since hell opened its gaping maw and presented you what it had to offer.

Exhaustion, bone deep, was eating away at you like water erodes stone. Your soul was rotting and although you could always keep yourself together it seemed like your willpower was abandoning you.

Just like everything and everyone always did.

Were Violet and Sevika right? Could going to this place of worship work, even with your hatred of those sitting on their golden thrones up above? Could this be it, the one last thing that could help you from drowning further in the dark tar possessing every inch of your heart?

I don't think so.

Yet as much as the thought of standing before the eyes of a deity makes you sick, you make yourself sicker. A hateful, pained and pathetic little thing you are, filled to the brim with so much sadness that no good can truly reach you and pull away the black veil blinding your soul. A disappointment, a failure.

And yet your two friends still remained by you.

You could wallow all you want, but bile rises in your throat at the thought of hurting the girls that stand by your side even after everything.

Even if respite in death is all you crave now.

Maybe you could try one last time. To make them proud more than to save yourself. Although if the latter came with the former you would accept it with open arms.

Yet I still find myself unable to believe that the broken mess that I am can be fixed.

I am beyond saving.

But for them you'll try. Your final attempt at piecing yourself back together.

Your eyes close, the last of your tears contained beneath the dam of your lids. Images quickly flickering from the bridge to Sevika and Violet standing next to a grave, their gazes a storm of regret and pain as they cry and call out to you softly. Praising you even after you took the cowardly way out, even after you abandoned them.

"If not for yourself, do it for us."

Yes, for them you'll try anything.

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[pretty-face-breaker]

Reunion: Nick Catches Up

cw. whumper finding runaway whumpee, manhandling, kidnapping, very creepy and intimate whumper, violence, borderline psychological torture, manipulation, gun

Art by me! :D

next

—

Hayko feels the weight of a hand clamp down on his shoulder just as he’s halfway through his burger. His first instinct is startled confusion—Vlad had only just gone around the corner to complain about his steak being overcooked—but then he sees it.

A grin in the periphery. A familiar razor-slash of teeth.

Nick’s swung around in the booth behind him, arms draped casually over the red vinyl seatback, both hands now planted firmly on Hayko’s shoulders like anchors.

The moment hits Hayko like a car crash. Every muscle locks. His throat closes. His spine stiffens. His heart forgets what it’s for. Every nightmare, every panic attack, every choke-collared memory rises like bile. This can’t be real this can’t—

They’re alone in the corner of the diner. No one seated close enough to hear anything. It’s quiet. Night presses against the windows.

The diner is quiet. No one nearby. Outside, the windows are painted in cold streetlight. In here, just soft rock and his own rapid, ugly breathing. And Nick’s, fanning warm and lazy across the nape of his neck. 

“How’s dinner?”

Hayko’s fingers won’t respond. His hands stay frozen, white-knuckling the fork and knife. His body refuses to remember every self-defense move he’s spent a year drilling into his bones, spent weeks and months staying late in the training rooms until he tasted his own sweat. His mouth doesn’t work. This isn’t how it was supposed to—Dr. Carter said it wouldn’t happen this way.

“I always did like your freeze response more,” Nick murmurs, giving his shoulders an affectionate squeeze, one that makes Hayko’s stomach convulse. Then, his voice dips, low and coaxing. “My love. Look straight ahead. Do you see him?”

Hayko’s eyes flick to the window. Beyond the blinds, a hooded figure stands partially obscured. Watching them both.

“One nod from me,” Nick says, “and he puts a bullet in your friend’s head.”

Another squeeze. Hayko’s breath hitches audibly. 

Nick adds lightly. “Unless you make a fuss, I have no reason to.”

Hayko swallows, voice fraying.

“What do you want.”

“Up.”

He pushes off the booth slowly, barely making a sound. Nick rises with him and in the same motion swings an arm over Hayko’s shoulders, a movement that could have been mistaken for a lover’s, if anybody else had been bearing witness, but Hayko feels the cold snout of a pistol nestling like a promise between his ribs.

His thoughts blank out on instinct.

They walk.

The distance to the door stretches forever, and Hayko catches Vlad’s blond head in the corner of his eye—still turned away, mid-argument with the cook. Hayko wants to scream. Wants to bolt and shout, but—

Vlad’s profile vanishes behind them as they cross the event horizon. In its place: the hooded man. Closer now to the window, a predator stalking its prey and about to pounce, one hand already buried in his jacket where it hadn’t been before and Vlad is still arguing with the cook. He hasn’t noticed and he isn’t fucking going to notice.

“No—”

The protest barely escapes before Nick’s palm crushes it. A hand clamps over Hayko’s mouth, fingers locking his jaw so tight he hears something creak.

“Hold off until I text you,” Nick says, not to him.

The man hesitates and a breath stutters loose in Hayko's throat as he watches his hand slip back out. Empty. But Hayko doesn’t have a second to savor it.

Nick forces him forward. A black sedan glides up to the curb. The rear door swings open.

Hayko resists on good instinct, feet locking against the concrete, but Nick is faster—gripping the back of his neck, forcing his head down and shoving him into the car. He crashes face-first into the seat and tries to right himself, tasting blood, but everything is slowed—his limbs syrupy with shrill terror—by the time Nick’s inside and the doors are locked.

He’s yanked upright. Metal kisses his throat. Pressed right against his carotid as Nick buckles his seatbelt with a soft click, like a parent strapping in a stubborn child.

Then another. Nick buckles himself in. 

“Evening, love.”

The voice slithers in from the driver’s seat. Hayko looks up and locks eyes with the rearview mirror. Platinum blond hair, slicked into a grotesque pompadour. That wolfish, wide grin.

Harvey. That fucking—

Hayko doesn’t even register the sound he makes. His spine seizes. Electricity floods him, a flash-fry of memory—wires, teeth, screaming into a wet gag. All under that horrible, loveless smile. It’s not Nick’s. Nothing fond in it. Nothing in it at all. Just that empty-calorie cruelty wrapped in human skin that Hayko remembers so terribly.

Hayko reels into the flashback, yanked under—until he surfaces, hearing Nick’s breath again far too close. Until his warm leather and cologne ghost Hayko’s nostrils. Until he feels that arm pull him closer. The muzzle of the gun still firm against his throat.

And then—

And then it happens. A sob. Ragged, helpless, cracked down the middle.

Nick sighs in satisfaction beside him, like he’s just finished the best meal of his life. He presses his lips to Hayko’s ear and whispers lovingly.

“God, Hayko. I’ve missed you.”

—

Before this. A year of recovery, but never peace.

Hayko lived small in Montreal. A quiet apartment on the fourth floor. Two bedrooms, one filled with plants that Vlad watered fervently, even having a notification on his phone. The other full of plastic bins marked “don’t touch.”

In them: Doctor’s visits stacked like receipts. MRIs, lung scans, a neurologist who frowned at his reflexes. PTSD, insomnia, night terrors that left him raw-throated and shaking. Scars that ached and itched when it rained. A few months ago, he passed out on the bus because he thought he saw Nick’s silhouette in a storefront reflection.

Dr. Carter, his therapist, had soft eyes and a hard rule: no talking about Nick in the second person.

He earned a teaching certificate. Grade threes. Morning bells and watercolor handprints, tiny socks lost on the playground. He kept his sleeves down and practiced smiling in the mirror in the least fractured way possible. The children called him Mr. G. and he answered to it like anything else would be unthinkable.

They were laying low. But they were living. They were healing. And then—

The muzzle never leaves his back. Hayko walks ahead of Nick up the long stone path, his shoes scuffing on wet grit. The house is unfamiliar. Modern, faceless. Black paneling. Frosted windows. A house for a man who doesn’t plan to live in it but where it might be optimal to keep someone for a day. Or a few, if Nick intends for Hayko to pay more fully for his misdeeds.

The lock clicks. Nick gestures him in.

“Make yourself at home,” he says lightly. “Drink?”

Hayko doesn’t answer. He steps inside. The air is sterile, reeking of oak and varnish, cold metal underfoot. There’s an absurdly luxurious bar cart in the corner.

Nick walks ahead toward it.

He turns his back.

Hayko sees it all at once: the phone dropped on the counter, just out of Nick’s reach. The silence of the house. The hitman—waiting on that text. And there, on the console table, a glass vase catching the dim overhead light.

His body answers before his brain.

He grabs the vase and swings.

It shatters on impact, a crystalline shriek that floods the house. Nick goes down hard, a mess of blood and shards. He snarls, an animal thing that makes Hayko’s skin crawl but is already rising, pain ignored and teeth bared.

Hayko doesn’t let him. He throws himself at him again, fists raining wild, furious. One cracks Nick across the jaw. Another lands square in his collarbone. There’s blood on both of them now—Nick’s, maybe his own. Hayko doesn’t care.

A grunt. A shove. They crash into the wall. A picture frame falls and the glass within shrieks and shatters. Nick snarls, grabs him by the shoulders, shoves back. They stagger over furniture, breathing like animals.

Hayko brings his knee up. Nick blocks it, catches his wrists mid-swing, trips him, and slams him down against the floor. His head impacts viciously hard and Hayko cries out between his teeth, eyes squeezed shut.

“Goddamn it,” Nick mutters, laughing through bloodied teeth, breathing hard. “The diner. Where the fuck was this version of you?”

Hayko lunges forward and sinks his teeth into Nick’s shoulder.

Nick howls—in pain, but not in defeat or even in anger. In delight.

“There you are,” he pants. “Fuck, baby. It’s been so long.”

Hayko snarls, wrenching, struggling, hissing like a feral thing and angling for another shot at ripping out Nick’s throat.

“Get the fuck off.”

Nick keeps him pinned, one hand digging into his forearm, the other still smeared with blood. His voice turns low and practical.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he says. “Stop fighting. I just want to talk.”

“You have a gun to my fucking neck.”

Nick raises an eyebrow, mouth bloodied but smiling.

“I’ll text him. Tell him to back off. That better?”

Hayko doesn’t respond. He breathes hard and uneven, chest heaving beneath Nick’s weight. Sweat gathers under his shirt collar. His wrists tremble in Nick’s grip and he doesn’t answer. Nick can go fuck himself with his mind games. Hayko won’t be so easily swayed with false promises of security, of mercy. Not again.

Not again.

Nick studies him for a long, quiet beat. Then his voice drops, not soft but sharpened.

“I know your house, Hayko. Every inch.”

A pause.

“Your bedroom. The kitchen. The basement, where you keep that box of medical receipts. I touched the flowers in the garden you and Vlad planted last spring. Daisies, mostly. A few sickly tulips.”

Hayko stiffens. His breathing skids.

“For two months, I know where you sleep,” Nick continues, unfazed. “Where you work. Where he works. Unless you plan on tearing your life up by the roots again—I’m in it. I’ll be in it. Forever.”

Hayko shuts his eyes. Regulate. Dr. Carter's voice in his skull: Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Ground. You are safe.

But he isn’t. He never was.

“I’m not going to torture you,” Nick goes on, still holding him fast. “I’m not going to kill you. I don’t need to break you.”

What would be the point? hangs unspoken between them.

“I want a conversation. Maybe we figure something out.”

Hayko’s voice comes out hoarse, a rasp over gravel: “What’s the alternative?”

Nick chuckles. Amused and warm and chilling.

“You don’t want the alternative.”

Silence swells between them. The only sound is Hayko’s breathing—irregular, staggered, sharp.

Then, finally:

“You don’t want a conversation,” he spits. “A conversation. You want me to shut up and kowtow to you and beg for mercy and forgiveness and grovel like the pathetic-” 

He gasps, air catching in his throat like smoke. A sound like a death rattle claws its way out of his lungs. 

“—shell you turned me into.”

Nick doesn’t flinch, only counters as softly as velvet. “You killed people, Hayko.”

Hayko jerks as if slapped. His voice thins, cracks on the edges.

“That was you. You made me.” 

Nick tilts his head. A mock-thoughtful expression, like they’re in court and he’s about to call surprise evidence.

“Beat them to death,” he recites. “Negotiated drug deals. Defended murderers. Slept like a baby some nights, didn’t you?”

“No. No.”

“Should I continue?”

“You fucking made me—”

“All I needed you to do,” Nick cuts in, almost gently, “was the defending part, my love.”

He smiles a terrible, crooked thing. There’s pride in it. Nostalgic recollection of a child walking for the first time, or maybe a dog finally learning how to maul on command.

“I provoked you. You rose to the provocation.”

Hayko stares at him. A pit opens behind his eyes.

He wants to kill him. Truly kill him, this time. Not just with fists or glass. He wants to erase him. Smother him in cement, because that’s all he deserves, and salt the earth where he stood. But it’s like trying to throw a punch in a dream—his fury keeps folding inward. Every move against Nick feels like it happens inside a sealed room, and Nick is always waiting on the other side of the glass.

“You broke me,” Hayko says, voice thudding low. “You broke everything I was.”

Nick steps forward, slow and deliberate. Hayko doesn’t back away.

“No,” Nick says. “I just peeled off the part that pretended otherwise.”

Hayko’s fists clench. His legs tremble. Sweat pools under his arms. He feels the blood rushing in his ears, the fire racing up his throat. He wants to punch, scream, shove something off a balcony. Instead, his voice shivers out of him like steam:

“I had a life.”

“You have a life.”

Nick moves like he might touch him, but doesn’t. And that’s worse. The excess and absence of contact and how they were wielded as one weapon against him. The ache opens right back up. He aches.

“A house. A job. A live-in partner who still believes he can fix you,” Nick says, and his tone is deceptively gentle now. “All I want is a place in it. A seat at the table. A corner, if that’s too much for you.”

Hayko laughs. One sharp bark.

“A corner? You blew up the whole fucking house. I had to teach myself to breathe again.”

Nick gives a small, pitying smile. 

“And look how well you’re breathing now.”

That does it.

Hayko lunges—but Nick slams him back down by the wrists, forceful but nowhere near as cruel as before, when Nick was getting his kicks off Hayko's immobilizing terror. They lock eyes. Nick’s pupils are blown wide with adrenaline and glee, but under it, something more calculating waits. A long game.

Nick is going to get what he wants.

“I’ll call off the guy. I’ll let you talk to Vlad,” Nick says smoothly. “But I meant what I said.”

He leans in, voice dipped in gravity now.

“You will never be free of me. You can live with that. Or you can keep running.”

Hayko’s breathing stutters. His body begins to shake—there's too much fury, too much heat in too small a cage.

He closes his eyes.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

The technique fails. Everything feels wrong inside his skin. But when he opens his eyes, it’s quieter. No less terrible. Just stiller, to the point that he can string together a coherent sentence that manages to make some progress in this waking nightmare.

“Fine,” he rasps. “That’s it. Just talk.”

His voice trembles with restraint, but it holds.

“Call him off. Call Vlad. Now.”

Nick’s phone is already in his hand. He types something out, then locks it.

“There,” he says. “See? Progress.”

Nick rolls his eyes when Hayko just glares at him with accusation, clearly tired of playing the patient villain.

“Fine. I’ll call him off while you watch. Jesus.”

He unlocks his phone, pulls up the messaging app, some off-brand secure interface with Cyrillic UI settings, and clicks through a few chats. A check mark appears next to the message. Sent. Hayko watches the movement of Nick’s thumb like it’s a loaded weapon.

“There. Happy? He’s off. Vladimir lives.”

Hayko’s voice is quiet but firm. “I’m not doing anything else until I talk to him.”

Nick groans theatrically, drops his head back like a man besieged by unreasonable demands.

“Come on, Hayko. You think I’m letting you call him so you can give him a head start?”

Hayko’s voice trembles and accidentally turns desperate. “Call him.”

It must do more than just give him away because Nick eyes him, lips thin. “You switch to Russian, the call ends.”

Hayko nods once, trying not to show his relief.

Nick exhales sharply, then taps open an encrypted call app—one Hayko doesn’t recognize. He dials. Hands it to Hayko.

Vlad picks up on the third ring. His voice cuts through the line like a blade.

“Where is he?” 

Hayko swallows. Suddenly, speech feels like walking a tightrope with a gun to his chest.

“It’s me,” Hayko says quickly, too quickly. He checks Nick’s expression to make sure he’s doing alright. If this is allowed. “I’m okay.”

There’s a pause. The kind that indicates Vlad's already stepped outside the diner, away from witnesses.

“Where are you?” Vlad’s voice is sharp but careful.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“Is he there?”

Hayko doesn’t answer fast enough. Not that he really needed to.

“Bring him back by tonight or you will regret it.”

Before Hayko can answer, another voice cuts in, close to the mic:

“My regret won’t be necessary,” Nick says, sing-song. “Your man will be home before sunrise.”

“Fuck yourself,” Vlad snarls immediately. “You lay one finger on him—”

“Please,” Nick laughs, easy, smooth. “We’re just having a conversation. And don’t bother trying to trace this call, by the way—it’s bouncing through five proxy servers and an Albanian VPN. Your Google Maps won’t help you here, comrade.”

Silence. Then:

“If anything happens to him,” Vlad says, even as ever, “I will not call police. I will call Alexei. I will name the city. And I promise you, Nick, by morning, I will have everything you own.”

Nick’s smile falters, just a hair. He covers it quickly with a chuckle.

“Very pretty, Vlad,” he says, lighter than before, but not quite cheerful now. “Ever the poet.”

Then he ends the call.

Hayko stares at the blank screen a beat too long before gently lowering the phone to the counter. The absence of Vlad’s voice leaves him cold in the bones. But he’s already calculating. Thinking of exit points, of how fast he could run now that the gun isn’t pressed to his ribs.

Nick watches him closely, then breaks the silence with a too-light question:

“Drink?”

“No.”

Nick sighs. “I wasn’t asking. And stop looking for exits.”

He moves to the bar cart again to pick up a new, still-sealed bottle of wine—a heavy red, foreign label—and uncorks it with a pop. The sound makes Hayko flinch. Nick notices, of course he does, but says nothing. Probably delights that he’s uncovered one of Hayko’s post-traumas already.

He pours into a glass. Then sees Hayko’s face.

“Oh for god’s sake.”

He grabs a clean glass from the shelf, holds it up to the light, then takes a cloth from the drawer and wipes it carefully—inside, outside, stem.

“See? Not a drop of chloral hydrate, I swear on my heart.”

He pours again. Slides the glass across the counter like an offering.

“Happy now? Drink. You’ll need something to take the edge off.”

Hayko stares at the glass. The color is dark, almost black in the low light. He doesn’t touch it. He’s not sure if it’s poison—but that’s not what stops him.

It’s that part of him, somewhere deeper than caution, darker than fear, knows Nick is right. He does need something. Something to slow the adrenaline, to anchor him in the room. Something to drink while bargaining with the devil. Because he needs to make this deal. 

Because there’s no alternative anymore.

Hayko picks up his wine and sips it, trying not to look too sour. Nick's life is half-theatre and Hayko will perform if it means they get to live.

Nick watches him with the same ease he might bring to observing fish in a tank.

“Did you really think you could run forever?” he asks, not expecting an answer. “New name. New job. New little apartment where the stove only half-works and the radiators clank all night.”

Hayko’s face twitches. He doesn't look up. His smile is faint, edged with something harder.

“You did a good job,” Nick continues, syrup-smooth. “You even got certified. Helping kids, shaping minds. Safe and sound, in a city where nobody else knows your name.”

He leans forward slightly, forearms on the table.

“Do you sleep better, knowing the men who wanted to carve you up are dead? The ones I killed. Or does that part not count, in your narrative?”

Hayko looks at him now. He does it slow. Purposefully.

“Is this a free therapy session?” he says flatly. “Or should I be charging by the hour for your whinging?”

It lands, despite Nick’s face not moving. His jaw finally clicks—once, audibly—as he grinds his teeth. Hayko sees it. And he smiles, sharp and small.

Good.

Nick’s fists clench, but only briefly. He exhales through his nose, forcibly casual.

“You’re lucky I like you like this,” he mutters.

“Just get on with it,” Hayko snaps. “Your terms. And no—no, sex won’t be one of them unless you’re planning to—”

Nick cuts him off with a dismissive sigh and a pointed eye-roll.

“Obviously I’m not stupid enough to open with that.” He gives him a dry look. “You can unclench. This isn’t that kind of negotiation.”

Hayko doesn’t answer. The silence bristles.

Nick adjusts his sleeve. “But since you’re so curious—fine. Terms.”

He counts on his fingers like he’s listing groceries.

“I want to see you. Talk. Sometimes. Coffee shop, bench in a park, dark alley, I’m flexible.”

Hayko blinks at him. “You think I’m going to just—schedule hangouts with you?”

Nick shrugs.

“You’d be surprised what people will do when their lives are on the line.”

He picks up his wine, sips.

“And keep in mind that yours is. Stalking was fun for the first few weeks. Watching you wait for your bus on Rue Rachel like clockwork, pretending you didn’t see me in the reflection—”

Hayko flinches. The blood drains from his face. He remembers that day. The way his spine locked. The full-body tremor he chalked up to a panic spiral.

“Yeah, love,” Nick says, gleefully watching the realization curdle. “Wasn’t your imagination, was it?”

Hayko swallows, hard. His palms are damp. But he’s still upright.

“How,” he says slowly, “do you imagine this conversation happens on any kind of even ground?”

Nick tilts his head.

“You think we’re equals now? You kidnapped me. You blackmailed me. You—" Hayko's breath stutters "tortured me. For two years. And yeah, you housed me. You fed me. Indulged my masochistic urges. You protected me from being tortured by other people. But that doesn’t erase it. You ruined my fucking life.”

His voice cracks, rising.

“Do you know how recently I got control of my panic attacks? You think that wine is gonna calm me down?”

Nick doesn't even blink.

“I know,” he says smoothly. “I read your therapist’s notes.”

Hayko’s whole body goes still as white horror washes over him. He sees a flicker of Dr. Carter’s handwriting. A post-it with his progress goals.

Nick's voice cuts easily through the fresh horror, unfazed.

“Without me, your body would’ve been dumped in a ditch on the outskirts of Chicago three years ago. You were a loose end. I saved your life.”

Hayko buries his face in his hands.

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispers. “I was so far gone I actually thought—”

He stops himself, shaking. His voice cracks again.

“I thought you loved me.”

Nick doesn’t move for a long moment. Then, matter-of-fact: “I do.”

Hayko laughs. A short, dry bark that’s almost a sob. “No. You don’t. You love owning me.”

Nick doesn’t refute it. He sits very still, fingers tapping once, then stopping.

Hayko lifts his head. His eyes are damp, but furious. His mouth set. His voice, hollow steel.

“Tell me your terms.”

—

TO BE CONTINUED (1/2)

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[bingwriterxo]

my tears are becoming a sea

pairing: vada cavell x reader

summary: in which you have to wait, and wait, and wait

warnings: descriptions of school shooting, blood

word count: 900+

author's note: highly suggest listening to 'my tears are becoming a sea' by M83 while you read

Cops surrounded the perimeter of the school, their radios chattering and the sirens on their cars screaming. Students were scattered along the parking lot in groups, holding onto one another tightly; tears slid down their faces so quickly that no one bothered to wipe them away. Teachers frantically tried to do head counts and swallowed down bile when they couldn't account for a child. Parents were desperately attempting to push through the police barriers, yelling the names of kids they prayed were outside.

You found yourself shell-shocked in the back of an ambulance, your eyes trained on the front doors of the school while an EMT bandaged your wound. A bullet had just barely skimmed your shoulder--enough for blood, but not nearly deep enough to need real treatment.

You had already scanned all of the faces that you could see, yet none of them were who you were looking for. None of them were Vada, and a rock settled in your stomach at the thought that she was still in there--there, where gunshots could be heard and screams were filtering out the windows.

Time was moving slower, each second that passed feeling like an hour, each minute feeling like a decade. For every moment that went by in which her head of brown hair or her face full of freckles didn't appear, you swore that you could feel a piece of your heart break.

And then, the gunshots stopped. There was silence from within the school.

You scrambled to stand as the first line of kids walked out, their clothes bloodied and their bodies trembling. No one missed the tears that cut through the grime on their faces; no one could ignore the cries that fell from their lips. A shiver ran through you when Vada wasn't among them.

You hopped down from the ambulance, ignoring the calls of the EMT, and pushed your way through the horde. No one tried to stop you. No one wanted to get any closer than they already were.

The police tape held you back from rushing forward. You were forced to stand there, behind that yellow line, and wait. You were forced to hope that you'd see her walking out, uninjured and alive.

You watched as your classmates walked past, into the arms of their friends, into the arms of their parents. The blood on them was passed from skin to clothing. A few of them were ushered to the ambulances, the blood painting them red coming from their own wounds.

Then, another line of students. More faces you recognized from classes, or the halls, or the football team, or the pep band. More students who looked like their legs were about to give out, who could barely seem to breathe without sobbing.

Still no Vada.

Anxiety was choking you, its strong hand squeezing your lungs and making it impossible for you to take a breath. You gripped the police tape like it would help and ignored the pain that shot through your shoulder. It didn't matter, not when she still wasn't visible.

The principal walked out, face buried in his hands as he wailed.

The gym teacher followed, his jaw clenched and silent tears rolling down his cheeks.

You saw your math teacher, one of the lunch ladies, a janitor.

Each person that exited the school made it harder for you to breathe, made your tears fall faster, made your hands tremble more. Each person that wasn't Vada made you pinch yourself, wishing that you would wake up from the nightmare.

One after another, students tumbled out of the doors, and the longer you waited, the more you prepared yourself for the fact that she may not walk out.

A boy from your history class; a girl you had asked to the dance back in middle school; Quinton Hasland; a teacher that should've retired years ago but never did; Mia Reed, her hand gripping tightly to--

"Vada!" you shouted, your voice cracking with relief as you saw her.

Her head whipped in your direction, and you sobbed at the sight of her, your breath finally returning to you. Her eyes were wide and her lips moved, saying something that you couldn't hear over the rush of blood in your ears.

She let go of Mia and sprinted to you on shaking legs, ducking under the police tape and launching herself into your waiting arms. You caught her with a strength you didn't know you possessed, your injury screaming but your mind only focused on her--her weight pressed against you, her hair in your face, her nails digging into your back.

"You're alive," she cried into your neck, tears drenching your shirt and turning it even darker than it already was from your wound. She was trembling viciously. "You're alive. I didn't--I wasn't--"

You held her tighter, like she would disappear if you didn't. "You're okay," you mumbled against the top of her head. "You're okay. I've got you. You're okay."

Vada choked out a breath and pulled back, eyes scanning your face. "You're alive."

You nodded, hiccuping. "I'm alive. You're alive."

She kissed you with salty lips, pressing herself into you as much as she possibly could, like you were the air she needed to breathe, like you were the only thing keeping her alive.

"We're alive," she muttered when she buried herself back into your neck. "We're alive."

[dark-and-kawaii]

༺ 𝒱𝑒𝓃𝑔𝑒𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 ༻

Raphael

Summary: Raphael returns to his boudoir with news that will forever burden your soul, the loss of a child is never easy…

Pairings: Raphael x F!Tav/Reader

Notes: This is separate from “Heirs”. I just wanted to write more angst bahaha.

Character Death - Angst - Battle - Blood

Throughout your journey with the absolute, you found yourself entangled in a forbidden love with Raphael, a love that defied all odds. Your union was born from flames, a tempestuous affair woven between two souls, bound by both passion and damnation. Your companions, especially Karlach and Wyll, vehemently forbade it. Karlach, the barbarian tiefling, was particularly against your entanglement with Raphael. She had expressed countless times her disapproval of witnessing you surrendering yourselves so freely to the devil. One day, she finally left your life for good, and you haven't heard from or seen her since.

However, your greatest fear loomed over you: now that Raphael had the crown he would set his sights on Avernus, where Wyll and Karlach resided. You dreaded receiving the news that Raphael had either killed Karlach or one of his lackeys had. His insatiable thirst for power would drive him to conquer Avernus and beyond, and Karlach would be caught in the crossfire.

You knew Raphael would be a part of the fights here and there, at times you worried, other times you were sure of him. But what you never anticipated was that yours and his daughter, a gentle yet fearless soul birthed from your twisted union, would also become entangled in the wars to come.

The knowledge of your daughter's involvement in the chaos gnawed at your heart, a foreboding sense of unease that whispered in the recesses of your mind. She was out there now, surveying the lands near Zariel for her dear father to see where they should strike first… The night was still as you stood by the crackling fireplace, finding solace in its flickering flames while Haarlep laid on the bed like some sort of house cat.

“You have little faith in our precious little girl.” Haarlep spoke freely. The incubus had forged a bond with your daughter, but unlike you, they lacked maternal instincts. “She’ll do well out there, afterall she is also of Raphael’s blood.”

You remained silent, your eyes fixated on the dancing flames. It felt as if you're trying to glean the happenings in Avernus, near Zariel's domain.

The sound of Raphael's return to the boudoir finally broke your trance. Little did you know that he carried a tormenting secret, burdened by its weight. Slowly, he approached you, his steps deliberate as he reached out for your hand. A mix of vexation and despair painted his features as he prepared to unveil the truth that would shatter your world.

"My dear-," he spoke, his voice seething with a mix of sorrow and anger, "in this moment, I must share tragic news that will forever haunt your soul." you could feel the gravity of his words, the pain they inflicted upon him even before they left his lips. “Our daughter, the fruit of our affair, has been plucked from us by the hands of treachery. It is with a heavy heart that I reveal to you the dreadful truth-,” Your heart twisted with anguish, you had feared the consequences of his ambitious plans, but you had never anticipated the loss of his and yours own flesh and blood.

You couldn’t see it, but Haarlep’s tail fell to the bed, hanging limply off the edge of the bed…

Tears welled up in your eyes, anger and grief mingling within you, with a trembling breath, “H-How could this be? Tell me, Raphael.” your voice was demanding while your lips trembled as your tears teeter on the edge of your eyelids, glistening, before finally succumbing to gravity…

Raphael's grip tightened on your hand, his voice seething with restrained fury, “Karlach and Wyll, your previous companions carried out this malignant act.”

You could feel the bile rising within you, your breath catching in your throat as your knees threaten to surrender beneath the weight of unbearable grief. The room spins around you, a cruel vortex of disbelief…

Raphael stood by your side as you took in the horrific news, his hand never leaving yours. Your free hand clutched at your stomach, your fingers searching for the child that was once a part of you. Desperate for stability amidst the chaos of your emotions.

Your vision continued to blur as your mind struggles to comprehend the magnitude of what has unfolded. To realize that those you had once trusted, the companions of your past, were the catalysts of your daughter's passing… It was an unbearable torment. Betrayal, the venomous beast, sank its fangs deep into your soul.

You turned to face Raphael, your expression a tempest of grief and rage. In that moment, the fires of vengeance ignited within you. Your daughter, Raphael’s heir, the child of House Hope, gone far too soon… "Raphael," your voice whispered, your voice trembling with a haunting resolve. He watched you closely, allowing you to speak the words he already had thought about, "We shall not let this cruelty go unpunished. Our daughter's blood shall not stain the ground without punishment. Let Wyll and Karlach tremble in fear beneath the weight of our wrath and power."

“My child will be avenged in the cruelest of manners.”

Amidst the chaos and the clash of steel, your heart pounded with a ravenous rage that threatened to consume your very soul. Your daughter, a precious light in your life, had been mercilessly struck down by the hands of those you once called friends. Wyll and Karlach, their names now etched in your mind as the embodiment of betrayal.

As you advanced, your eyes locked with Karlach's, a flicker of desperation in her gaze. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this," she pleaded, her voice strained. "Your daughter interfered, it was a mistake!" The weight of Karlachs actions settled heavily upon her heart, as the reality of the loss she had inflicted upon you settles in. She never wished to take your daughter's life, to rip a child away from its mother. Even if the child belonged to Raphael, she was still yours that you birthed. Karlach knew the pain, but at the time… It was all a mistake.

You refused to believe such words, "Liar!" Your voice echoed through the battlefield, your voice mighty like a dragon's roar. You swung your sword with a force born of anguish, aiming for Karlach's neck. In that moment, time seemed to stretch, as if the world itself held its breath.

With a swift motion, your blade had connected…

Severing Karlach's head from her body...

The sound of steel meeting flesh filled the air, followed by the sickening thud as the lifeless head rolled away, coming to rest in a pool of blood. It was done, but now what?…

Overwhelmed by the weight of it all, you sank to your knees in the desolate landscape of Avernus. Red skies and a brewing hellish thunderstorm served as a grim backdrop to your misery. Sullen tears streamed down your cheeks, mixing with the blood stains, marking the depths of your sorrow.

As you surveyed the carnage you had wrought, a bittersweet emptiness began to settle within you. The flames of vengeance, once vibrant and fierce, flickered and revealed the true hollowness beneath. The tragic truth of never seeing your daughter again haunts you, overshadowing any satisfaction you may have derived from retribution.

Behind you, Raphael, with his immaculate ascended form, towered over you. He crouched down, his much larger frame curling protectively around your back. One of his wings shielded you from the hells, providing solace and comfort. His head rested gently at your side, Raphael allowed himself to mourn alongside you.

A rare sight indeed, but a much needed one before you both caused the skies around Avernus and every other realm to fall...

"Your reign has just begun, Raphael,” your hand finds the bones to his cheek, "you'll have it all. This I swear to you." Raphael's tail tightens around you, a silent agreement. Because the hells and every other realm haths no fury like a devil and a mother that lost what should never have been taken...

[ko-fanatic]

Leave All Your Love And Your Longing Behind | Chapter One: Double Vision Turning Triple

Rating: Teen and above Pairing: JayVik Characters: Jayce, Heimerdinger, Mel Medarda, Salo, Mylo, Claggor Content warnings: Vomit, References to Suicidal Thoughts/Actions, Very Minor Reference to Self Harm (blink and you'll miss it), Slight Well-Meaning Ableism, Co-Dependency, Anxiety, PTSD, Trauma Summary: Jayce gets spat out by the Arcane, again, after all was said and done. All he knows is that he needs to find Viktor. Things here are... very different. A/N: I’ve fudged ages a little bit to make the narrative a bit smoother for what I want to do. You can probably take that as the Arcane being weird, if you wish. And yes, Jayce is already irrevocably in love with Viktor as it’s post-series Jayce. You’ve heard of slow-burn, get ready for light-speed incineration. AO3 LINK

After what Jayce and Viktor believed would be the end, the first thing he could feel in the darkness was burning. From his stomach, a path scorched along this throat and out of his mouth, lungs seizing as he choked and coughed on viscous magma. For all its discomfort, it struck Jayce as familiar.

Unsettlingly, horrifyingly familiar.

He remembers his time in that other universe, how it felt to be hurtled through timelines and threads of everything that could, would and has been. How it had turned his stomach upside down and his thoughts to static, unable to focus for a good few minutes, at least. Then, he’d opened his eyes to that post-apocalyptic hell. The culmination of all the flesh and blood that’d spilled on Viktor’s path to… “evolution”. Hell. 

However, rather than opening his eyes to blackened, twisted metal and death, what greeted him when he finally managed to pry open his eyelids was… a sunlit room. Granted, with a puddle of bile and whatever else that had managed to stay in his system during his not-so-merry jaunt through time and space, but it was still bright and warm.

Lifting his gaze, he could see a blue sky through an airy window, framed by white, gossamer curtains. A desk that was standard issue and groaning under the weight of books - notebooks and textbooks - schematics and blueprints. A neglected pot plant sat on a high shelf above, flowers shrivelled and leaves beginning to turn brown, but not quite dead yet. Something forboding beat in his chest, a little off-rhythm with his heartbeat, feeling like his guts were going to upend once more but pushing through the sensation. 

There were three walls painted a pale cream colour, offset by one navy to make the place seem a little less devoid of personality, but Jayce knew where he - probably - was. 

An Academy dorm room. 

He’d, of course, had his own apartment during his time there, but he’d had acquaintances and classmates who’d lived there, and it was just so reminiscent. 

The deduction was not at all aided by the uniform hanging from the wardrobe door. 

So he was at the academy, in a dorm room that seemed to be his, despite having never roomed at the academy in his stay. The posters on the wall were just too… him for this not to be his room; sketches, his childhood drawing of himself with his hammer (which definitely didn’t leave an awful taste in his mouth), and various memorabilia from magic shows and the like. At least he knew that, brain leaking out of his ears or not. 

Jayce stumbled to his feet, bracing himself on the wall as to not eat wood flooring soon after waking up. 

“Jayce!” A too-familiar voice called as it knocked politely on the door, “Are you alright, my boy?”

Blinking away the double vision, knowing that it was best to open up and see what the Arcane had in store for him this time, he shuffled his way to the door and twisted the handle. 

If it weren’t for his distinctive voice, Jayce wouldn’t have known it was Heimerdinger at the door. Not because he looked different at all, but because the short Yordle was fully eclipsed from view by a mountain of papers and books. In fact, Jayce had no idea how he’d managed to knock at all, let alone so politely. 

A brief spark of a memory glitched through his consciousness. Viktor clutching boxes upon boxes of metal and gears, before he’d needed to switch his cane for a crutch, debating whether to “knock” (read: kick the door) with his good leg and be forced to balance on his bad, or vice versa. 

He’d reminded Viktor that he could do it, and the other man genuinely hadn’t considered the idea before he’d said it. For a genius, he could be… Not stupid, never stupid, even in Arcane-tainted madness. He could be silly. 

Jayce caught the pull at his lips and dragged himself back into this unfamiliar present. 

“Uh… Fine! I’m… fine,” He attempted to assure, but he didn’t sound all that convincing. Evident when Heimerdinger dropped the stack he’d been carrying - with an impressive thump, one might add - and raised an eyebrow at him. 

“You’re usually up and about by now, and when you missed the first meeting on the agenda, I thought I’d come looking for you,” Heimerdinger explained, “Very unusual behaviour from you, my boy. If you’re ill, you only need to say and I can continue on for today.”

“Meeting…?”

Jayce ran a hand through his - much, much shorter - hair, scratched at his shadowed-but-not-bearded jaw a little, trying to catch up. Heimerdinger was treating him like…

“I can cope without my assistant for a day or two, Jayce, Godsend though you are,” A small, gloved hand reaching up to rest on his forearm in something so painfully fatherly and caring, “You’re pale, and you’re equilibrium and balance are obviously off. Take the day.”

“No!” 

Jayce stopped himself in his tracks, coughing into his fist at the yell that came out unbidden. That probably didn’t help his case; the yelling or the embarrassed coughing. 

“With respect, sir, I don’t need the day off, I’m fine,” He smiled, playing off the small piece of spoon-fed information he’d likely get, “My alarm clock didn’t go off, and I was disorientated from being woken up by your knocking. I’m very sorry, it won’t happen again.”

Heimerdinger looked him over, slowly, before sighing and nodding in a vague approximation of approval. 

“Very well, I’ll wait for you to perform your morning ablutions and dress yourself for today. No need for the uniform, you’ll recall, as we’re mainly going to be off-campus today,” Heimerdinger reminded, as far as the older man knew. 

Off-campus? So, presumably, that left supply shopping, personal errands, or council work. He should probably dress a little nicer, just in case… 

Heimerdinger cleared his throat, Jayce snapping out of the trance enough to watch as the man unclipped a well-loved clipboard that had been fastened to his belt, and passed it over. An agenda. Helpful. 

-*-*-

Working in a lab with Viktor meant that one learned to be as quick as possible when getting ready. Not because Viktor was mean, or demanding, but because of how excitable and surprisingly impatient he could be. Jayce was similar in that regard, the two of them often going days with only the basics of hygiene and self-care in favour of more planning, more theorising, not breaking their concentration for anything. 

Viktor drank sweetmilk and ate a truly horrifying amount of sweet things - baked goods, chocolate, and every fruit that was in season. Jayce drank black coffee that Viktor had tried once and nearly spat straight out, making the most adorable “blegh” sound and sticking out his tongue once he managed to choke it down, looking far too much like a grumpy cat. A probably inappropriate joke likening it to self-harm was made, and Jayce snorted so hard he gave himself a nosebleed. 

It’d probably been something to do with them both approaching the 100-hour mark without a wink of sleep. Still, it was a memory that he still held close, rose-hued and warm. 

Walking alongside the professor down the expansive, winding hallways, he still had yet to see Viktor. Back to the academy days, strange universe or not, he was expecting to hear some comeback or quick wit, or spy a mop of unbrushed hair as he took a “surprise nap” on a desk or table somewhere. 

He’d even been scanning the benches for his lanky frame, in case said “surprise nap” had taken him out in the hallway. No luck, however.

He was almost surprised by the amount of walking and the amount he was expected to carry. If he was Heimerdinger’s assistant also in this world, then maybe the man gave him a bigger, more physical share of the work. It hurt to imagine Viktor attempting to run around, trudging up and down the many staircases while his weak spine bent from the load he carried. 

Another flash of his other life, Viktor’s eyes shying from his own, arms crossed uncomfortably as he talked about his journey from people-pleasing and too “accommodating” for his own good, to self-advocacy and willingness to protect his admittedly fragile health. 

“Heimerdinger was very willing to support me, actually,” He’d chuckled, bathed in lamplight, a wicked twist of humour to his eyes, “At least, after I fell down the stairs.”

Swallowing hard, Jayce kept his head up, striding through the distortion as if there wasn’t any.

“I, uh… Suppose Viktor will meet us there?” Jayce ventured, deciding to try and prod a little more. 

Heimerdinger, however, simply gave him a confused glance. “I don’t know, lad, I’ve no recollection of a Viktor,” He hummed, “A friend of yours?”

A friend of ours, he manages not to say, breath a little too short to work with, everything swimming again. Cracks and fissures sprung through his mind, a recollection of the lifetimes upon lifetimes that Viktor had found him in. Smiling lips and soft eyes… A lack of runestone bracelet.

“He’s… He’s the best student the academy has ever seen…” Was what he did say, unable to keep himself from divulging that, speaking a little too openly for a world he wasn’t meant to be in but hoping that might make Viktor… appear? Like Heimerdinger was… He didn’t know, doing a stupid prank? As if the man would. 

“Jayce, there is no Viktor in the academy, as far as I’m aware,” Heimerdinger fiddled with the hem of his gloves, “And I would be aware of someone like that, if he managed to impress you so. Still, if your new little friend is that bright, he should certainly apply! I trust your judgement in these things.”

He hesitated, for a beat or two. 

“Morality of lying about being a student to - presumably - talk to you aside, of course.”

Viktor… wasn’t here? Not a student of the academy, even? Because Heimerdinger would know Viktor, with the man’s voracious consummation of knowledge and his sheer intellect, Heimerdinger would have to notice that. 

Did that mean that Viktor… Never got out? That he was still in the undercity, with poison in his lungs and pumping through his veins? That the violence and the dank still surrounded him, swallowing up his light?

That he could certainly be dead already, if that were the case.

He doubled over, books and papers dropped and scattered like debris and rubble, feeling like he’d been shoved off his feet, slammed into a wall.

His hammer dropping onto his leg, a mirror image to Viktor.

“A-Actually…” A big gulp of air as he tried not to vomit on the other man’s head, “Professor, I really don’t…”

“Feel well?” 

Soft replaced sharp, Heimerdinger’s careful, nurturing tone somehow a little louder than the screams in his head. 

“Go on, my boy, take a few days off, I can manage,” He assured, “I’ll pop by later, just to make sure you’re alright, but go rest and drink plenty of water.”

“I will.”

Barely ten minutes later, sprinting through the streets of Piltover and towards the bridge, Jayce couldn’t help but think that breaking promises was becoming an awful habit of his.

-*-*-

Heimerdinger could, despite all rumours to the contrary, get on perfectly well without Jayce. He had the agenda clipped to his belt as he had this morning, dropped the mountains of papers in his office, and had got himself to the meeting room with time to spare. He was glad that the perpetual over-worker had been persuaded to look after himself, even if he had to turn an alarming shade of green before he finally retired to bedrest.

However, Councillor Medarda was quick to point out the change of routine.

“Good morning, Professor,” She greeted with her typical smile and disarming humour, “I see you’ve lost your shadow this morning.”

“Yes, Jayce was quite unwell - I managed to shoo him off home,” He explains, taking his seat with a little effort. 

Jayce only tried to pick him up once, but the memory still comes up occasionally when he has to hop up there. Awkward apologies and a puppy-ish will to help that just made him such an endearing person. This morning he was… off. Quiet, and sullen. 

Perhaps he was missing this new friend he mentioned! A quick attachment, certainly, but that actually put another worry he’d had for his assistant to bed: his lack of close friends. 

Jayce was certainly friendly with others, but the more Heimerdinger observed him, the more shallow the connections seemed. Far be it from him to badger his employee about such matters, but as he mentioned before - Jayce was endearing. He wanted the boy to be alright, and his overworking habits combined with few close social connections were worrying. As were other things.

“Jayce, my boy, what are you doing?”

“... Just people watching,” He’d said, eyes cast down over the balcony…

Yes, a friend was just what the doctor ordered! When Jayce was a little less dizzy and such, he could introduce the pair of them, perhaps! He’d be very interested to see the person who managed to captivate him so.

“Fellow council members,” Salo, of all people, began, expression grim, “We’ve uncovered yet more unsanctioned engineering work in the undercity, with the same graffiti as the others.”

Salo passed a handful of pictures to Hoskel, gesturing for him to look through then pass them along.

“This seems to have been a big project, requiring manpower and hours without interruption,” Salo continued, “Along miles of pipeline, as well as naturally occurring cracks in the rocks which lead lower. You are all aware of the system that was put in to migrate the factory fumes lower than the populated areas? Well, it seems our work didn’t meet someone’s standards.”

He spat the last word as if it were a curse, rolling his eyes and looking the most ticked off Heimerdinger had seen him… perhaps ever. 

“The sketches being passed around are of the devices themselves, including the graffiti -”

“I believe the young ones call it a tag, Councillor Salo,” Heimerdinger very helpfully corrected, met only with a slight narrow of Salo’s eyes before the man carried on. 

“Including the tag scrawled on them, but we also have a composite of a possible suspect, seen hobbling away from the scene by a witness.”

Heimerdinger accepted the pictures from Councillor Medarda with a nod of thanks, before parsing through them. 

The sketches of the device itself was… lackluster, seemingly not done by someone with a scientific or engineering background, but even so, it’d be hard to discern specific functions without seeing one for himself, in person. 

The copies of the tag were… odd. On one half was a crudely sketched, blue monkey, all big ears and separated jaw, a cartoonish, angry frown on its face. The other half was some sort of… reptilian creature in the same style. A lizard, or perhaps a salamander, in a green so pale it could have passed for white.

The composite wasn’t much to go by, a filtration mask covering half of the person’s face, but a few key details were available. A tousled mess of brown hair, interrupted with streaks of blue, red and purple; three piercings on each ear - one lobe and two cartilage, symmetrical; hazel eyes ringed with dark liner; a mole peaking out from the golden metal of his mask, beneath his right eye.

While they had nothing of his mouth, nose or jawline, it was… quite a few distinguishing features to go off. Which led to three avenues of thought: the suspect wasn’t smart enough to cover them up (unlikely), the suspect was just that cocky (more likely), or thirdly…

For some unfathomable reason, the boy wanted to be caught.

“Councillor Salo, you said the suspect was… hobbling?” Councillor Medarda inquired.

“Yes, he walks with a cane and a limp.”

-*-*-

Chest heaving, Jayce’s frantic running was finally halted, his lungs feeling fit to burst and legs weak with exhaustion. A blockade of people stretched in front of him, so dense he couldn’t pass without shoving. The need to just keep going was strong, almost reminiscent of the pull of the runestone in Viktor’s hand, his own clasped around like a lifeline.

“We’ll end this, together.”

He was about to start pushing through, when he took a second to actually observe the situation. 

The undercity was bright, almost bustling, and not in any way it had been before. Clean streets, adequate lighting, air that was almost as fresh as above. 

Nothing like the few stories Viktor had divulged, nothing like what he’d witnessed as a council member. 

He then took stock of those around him, seeing… braces, wheelchairs, canes, crutches. If he started shoving his way through, he’d definitely hurt someone, and while some desperate, slathering part of him didn’t care…

“Excuse me!” He all but yelled, trying to duck and weave through any opening he could, just to get a little closer, just to possibly stumble across Viktor in the sea of metal and mobility aids. He needed to get closer, had to find him, had to -

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Jayce’s momentum was stopped by… a scrawny teenager with a bad haircut. Firm on the ground for someone so lanky, squaring up his shoulders despite the general height and size difference between them, “Do you have a ticket?”

“Ticket?” Jayce echoed, trying to stamp down any instinct to just push the kid out of the way, “No, you don’t… I’m looking for someone, I need to see Viktor.”

“You and everyone here, bud, step out of the crowd for a minute.”

… What…?

Jayce barely reacted as he was redirected out of the throng, that floaty, spacey feeling returning once again. The double-vision turned triple, brighter streets fading into crystalline, white structures surrounded by flowers. People turned to disciples and followers, Viktor’s fingerprints shimmering on their faces -

“Y’know, you don’t look very disabled to me - OUCH!!”

Another boy, much stockier than the other, almost seemed to materialise out of the crowd to punch the first in the back of the head. 

“What has Viktor told you about assuming, My?” The newcomer sighed, “Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

“Okay, okay, fine,” The scrawny kid huffed, hands held up in surrender, “He was pushing through, though, didn’t even know about the ticket system.”

“Did you tell him?”

Silence. 

“Thought so,” The boy turned back to him, pushing the gear-patterned goggles from his eyes and resting them on top of his head, “Hey dude, my name’s Claggor, the dumbass is Mylo. We’re working security today. We have a ticket system instead of a line, so people can take breaks to sit down and rest, get something to eat and drink, that sort of stuff.”

“Oh… uh…” Jayce eloquently stuttered. 

“Come on, I’ll show you where to go,” Claggor smiled, “Any assistance needed, just say. Cool?”

“... Sure…”

Jayce had to just… play it by ear, follow instructions. At least he wasn’t aimlessly running anymore, with no way to find Viktor. The other man had almost fallen into his lap, easy to find as soon as he crossed the bridge. 

He would’ve just taken a ticket and waited patiently, as everyone else seemed to be doing, had he not actually… spotted Viktor as he was led to the small booth. 

And time stood still for that moment, the rapid beating of his chest freezing like his heart had simply stopped.

Viktor was very different, visually. Brown hair highlighted with bright blues, purples and reds, his clothes so obviously Zaun that the sight instantly sent prickles down his back, piercings around his ears and tattoos trailing up his arm in swirls of dark ink. 

Even with his back to him, however, Jayce knew it was him. From the cane by his side - covered in paint though it was - the foot of his good leg tapping to the beat of heavy drums and electric guitar blaring from a beaten-up speaker by his side, to how he soldered the plates of metal in that oh-so-familiar way. If he hadn’t been wearing a mask over his mouth and nose, Jayce was sure he’d see his partner’s tongue peaking out the side of his mouth.

It was so different, yet so similar that he moved on his own, magnetised, to his other half.

“Viktor!” He yelled as he slipped out of Claggor’s grip. 

The familiarity ended, as this other Viktor chugged the ominously purple liquid in the cup beside his hand, used his good leg to push off, spinning around in his chair and grinning - not the soft, small smiles shared in the lab with the blue glow of hextech carving his cheekbones - but something more… manic…

Something almost like… Jinx.

“That’s me!” He all but sang, and Jayce could only collapse to his knees.

[fandom-monium]

Sweet Poison - Part 5

Summary: In which you avoid Zagreus, until one day you can't. "What can I say? The life of a demon is a hard one."

WC: 2.4k

TW: Zagreus (Hades Video game) x Succubus!Reader, GN!Reader, a succubus AND an artist bc sex is just work and food, au where in game Zag commissions the paintings using gems, what if boons actually affected Zagreus, slow build, strangers to friends to lovers trope, sex work, fluff, fluff and humor, mutual pining, idiots in love, mild angst, pheromones (technically it’s succubi magic aura), Zagreus is at least 6 ft convince me otherwise, eventual smut, MINOR descriptions of blood and injuries. Physical touch, affection. Just Zagreus being soft and doting and kind to you this chap

Damn her, damn her, damn her, damn—

Teeth clenched, your vision swims as you grip the rim of the basin for balance, washing off the blood as red drops swirl and mix like watercolor paints before the water clears again. It’s days like this where you wish you can get stronger, more powerful, but there’s a limit to everyone’s full potential, and unfortunately you met yours a long time ago.

Still, it’d be nice.

Contrary to popular belief, succubi can be vicious warriors, they’re simply in their own class. Their abilities, their magic, while never measuring up to gods, could ruin an army in a master’s hand, but it has its limits. Especially amongst demonkind.

As the water calms, you grind your teeth at the sight of your reflection, assessing the damage. Blood and darkness, that’s going to bruise, that one’s definitely going to scar, and you curse the universe because your job’s about to get that much harder now that you may have to use a glamor. Oh, you swear next time you get your hands on her, you’ll—

A resounding rumble quakes the room.

Your chamber door.

You curse. But you're sluggish from the blood loss, and before you can hurl yourself out the balcony, Zagreus steps in without his usual greeting, panting and laurels slightly askew, like he rushed in knowing you’re here. Wild eyes dart to every corner of the chamber, as if he half-expects you to be hiding, until they fall on you, embarrassingly hunched over your healing fountain.

One glance at your battered face, he’s beside you in a flash.

"Zag—”

“What happened?” His tone is surprisingly strained as his hands, clean of blood and gore, reach for you. Then something flickers across his face that makes him hover, his eyes—red and green and wide—taking in your new wounds with horror.

If only you had the energy to cower, shield your bruised face. He’s the last person you want to see right now, and your vision blurs, hating how he of all people is seeing you like this—broken, imperfect.

“I’m fine, Zagreus,” You croak, your voice quiet as you swallow your insecurity like bile. A poor attempt to put some distance between you, you try to step aside, but your knees buckle, and before you know it, you crumple like a house of cards.

Of course, Zagreus catches you—asshole—strong, lean arms gentle as he hugs you to his chest, holding you up as if you’re the most precious of gems. Hate how quick you are to relax in his hold, clay in his hands. Blood and darkness, it’s so easy, so quick, so… right.

You squirm against him, but his grip tightens slightly, mindful of your injuries.

“Sure you are,” Zagreus snorts, though he gazes down at you so soft and sweet you want to shout, wondering if he tastes the same. “Come on, I’ll patch you up.”

Unable to protest, you let him carry you like a rag doll, limp in his hands before he gently props you up on the lounge chair. You lean against the back with a groan. “Really, I'm—”

“'Fine', yes, you’ve said that,” Already, he’s rummaging through your cupboards, at least the ones he knows aren’t filled with art supplies. “Do you have bandages?”

“… Second last cabinet on your left.”

Without a word, he walks through your chamber with self assurance, maneuvering around your easel and stepping over splayed out canvas as they finish drying, careful where to leave his burning footprints. He finds what he’s looking for easily enough, a moment later pulling up a chair and plopping down in front of you. His hands are methodical as he lays everything out; two bowls of water, a small cloth, and the saddest little first aid kit.

In your defense, you hardly end up like this.

You watch his hands as he dips the towel in the water then wrings it out, before gently dragging it across your exposed arms. You flinch as he begins wiping off the grime.

“I know,” His tone is soft, terribly understanding as he continues. “Give it a minute, you’ll feel much better soon.”

You want to snort, snap at him that you’re fully aware of how it works, but the cool sting of water, the mild burn from the open gashes and cuts along your skin, is quick to clench your jaw shut. Pain ebbs across your body, and you watch him speechless, the rhythm he follows, painfully gentle as he drags the cloth across your skin, careful not to aggravate your wounds. Clean water, wring out, wipe, rinse, repeat; he even goes out of his way to change the water, and the relief that comes after would make you sink into the couch, if not for Zagreus's silence.

He's yet to say a word since he entered. He'd asked you already, yes, but you take him for someone who doesn't give up that easily. You expected more of a fight. Now, you're not so sure.

"Zagreus, I… I—" It's hoarse, hardly above a whisper, but it's a start.

You feel him pause before choosing to lay into your newfound cowardice like a wet blanket, avoiding his eyes. Who knows what you'll do if you meet his gaze.

Sensing your hesitation, Zagreus clears his throat, "Perhaps you should save your energy. We can chat when you're healed."

You shake your head, though it only makes the room spin. "No, I need to tell you this now. Before..."

"Before what? You start avoiding me again?" He resumes, wrapping gauze around your forearm, his touch ghosting your skin as he holds your arm out. There’s no malice or respite in his tone, soft and withdrawn as it comes, but you wince. If anything, it’s bittersweet, with an acceptance he long held before he approached your chamber, and it leaves your heart clenching. You don't know how to respond. Are you that obvious?

"(Your Name)... did I do something wrong?"

You blink, whirling to face him.

Zagreus bites his lip, emotions he can’t fathom threatening to spill out of him. That's always been his flaw, according to Father. He's attuned to his emotions, more than Nyx, Father, literally any of the chthonic gods. He stares as his hands tremble, attempting to knot the bandage. "Because if I did, please just tell me what it is so I can make things right between us."

"No-no, you've done nothing wrong," You assure him, sitting up through the pain even when Zagreus protests. When he raises a brow at your answer, you rush to add, "I swear! I've been busy with... work." Technically, this isn’t a lie.

"... 'Busy'. Is that how you got these?" Zagreus holds out your mangled arm by your hand, flicking his eyes over your body in the way you hate most. You'd take aura-induced desire over this: pity, disgust.

You wrench your arm away, cradling it in your lap and shrugging. "What can I say? The life of a demon is a hard one."

"(Your Name), who did this?"

You freeze. Nerves go haywire, and you squirm under his piercing gaze, burning through you as you contemplate lying to him, but you know better. At this point, you know each other too well, and—blood and darkness—he'll see right through you. There’s a defeated sigh, then a quiet, "Alecto."

Zagreus's eyes darken, but you wave him off. "Don't worry. In her defense, I kind of deserved it."

Zagreus sputters, taken aback, staring at you as if you offended him. "'Don't worry'? Don't—how can you say that? First I've seen you in days, and you're—" A sharp intake of breath, and he clenches his jaw so hard you're surprised it doesn't break.

"It's not a big deal. I disobeyed direct orders, and..." You trail off, thinking back.

Since meeting Zagreus, seeds of doubt sprout in your chest, in your lungs, suffocating you as you question the system you’ve worked under for so long. You’ve never questioned who you are and what you do, not to say you love your job, but it’s your life. Yet who’s to say there aren't poor souls sentenced to the wrong level? Genuine and kind, noble and passionate—people who don't deserve eternal damnation.

The possibility of your victims being innocent and undeserving makes you want to hurl, tortured shrieks and endless tears flashing across your memory and echoing in your ears. Your stomach clenches just thinking about it.

"(Your Name), I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Zagreus starts, mouth opening and closing like he can't find the words, his breaths coming quick and ragged. He just stares at you, eyes gleaming with an emotion you can't quite place—as if your virtuous act breaks his heart, crushes his soul. Then he blinks, and it's gone, shaking his stupor. “This is my fault…”

You raise an eyebrow, “How is this your fault?”

“I… I just… you shouldn’t have…” You frown as Zagreus struggles, brow furrowed, clearly pained as he thinks over his answer, like whatever he says next determines your fates. Seeming to think better of it, he shakes his head and brings your hand to his lips, and you flush, your heart skipping as his lips graze over the bandages, warmth seeping through the material and into your wounds like a healing salve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” He rasps between each kiss, trailing up the back of your hand and up your forearm, like they’ll heal the wounds faster. Like this is the best he can do, like this is all he can do. Not that you plan to stop him.

Your face burns, but you let him apologize, though you’re not sure what for as he stops before your shoulder. At some point, he slotted himself between your thighs, and now face to face, he studies your cuts and bruises, already fading away as his eyes, soft and glistening, flick over your features. Like he’s debating if his kisses will help them heal faster too.

Gods, if he brings those lips anywhere near your face, you might combust.

You meet his gaze, “What—”

“I lied.”

It comes as a whisper, his voice dry and low that you tilt your head, urging him to continue.

“I’m not some mortal soul, dredging their way through Tartarus,” Zagreus grinds out, scanning your face as if committing you to memory one last time. Then he sits back and stares at the floor, still gripping your hand as he rubs circles over the bandage. “I mean, it’s true I intend to escape the Underworld.”

“Zagreus—”

“And yes, I’m searching for my mother—”

“Zag—”

“But I’m really—”

“My prince.”

He flinches, his eyes shooting up to meet yours. “What?”

“None of this is your fault, my prince. With or without your influence, I’d have done the same thing anyway.” He gapes at you and you smirk, using the little strength you’ve recovered to squeeze his hand reassuringly, “Or would you rather I address you as Your Highness instead?”

Zagreus shakes his head, black hair flopping out of his shocked face. “I don’t understand. You knew?”

“For a bit now, yes,” You shrug as you turn his hand over, large and calloused in yours, swiping a thumb over one of his healed blisters, probably from gripping his weapons. “Took me a while to figure it out, but I can’t say I was surprised. It explained some of your funny behavior.”

He scoffs, the corners of his lips twitching slightly, “What sort of funny behavior?”

“Pretend all you like, but you can’t suppress those noble habits,” You chuckle, eyes crinkling seeing him cheer up. “All your mannerisms screamed ‘royal’, I just didn’t realize we were talking Underworld royalty.”

“Seriously?” Zagreus gazes at you in disbelief. “I thought I did a pretty good job acting—”

“Like a commoner?”

“Like a mortal,” He shoots you a pointed look, and you snort, relaxing into the love seat.

“You were okay.” You purse your lips, “While we’re on the subject of identity reveals, you should know I’m—”

“A succubus?”

You blink before pouting, snatching your hand away to cross your arms over your chest. “You only say that because I was about to tell you…”

“Not true,” Zagreus grins, leaning over to give your thigh an affectionate squeeze. “I knew from the beginning. Succubi magic doesn't affect gods, but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel it.”

“And you still stayed? Knowing what I am and what I do?”

“And you still treated me as any other friend, knowing who I am?”

“That’s not the same, and you know it.”

“I disagree,” He coaxes your hands into his, prompting you to meet his gaze as his expression shifts into something more earnest. “We both tried—and failed miserably—to hide a huge part of ourselves in fear of what we’d think of each other, am I wrong?”

You shake your head.

“Exactly. (Your Name), I hope you know not once did I think any less of you for your work, much less your species.”

You respond in kind, “And not once did I consider bowing down to the Prince of the Underworld, especially not after seeing him stuff his face with wraps he picked off the ground.”

He guffaws. “Good, then we’re in agreement?”

“I guess...”

“Just what every man wants to hear from a beautiful creature.” Ignoring the burn in your cheeks, you roll your eyes, and he adds, “But we’re okay? You won’t avoid me anymore?”

“I wasn’t avoiding you.”

“Sure you weren’t.”

“Keep that up, you won’t be seeing me for another couple runs.”

“I was agreeing with you!”

“Your tone said otherwise.”

By the time your shared laughter dies down, the atmosphere clears, leaving a comfortable silence settling in the small space between you. In that time, he’s yet to let go of your hands, your thighs brushing as he rubs soothing circles against your hands, and while he insists on staying until he’s sure you’re better, acceptance rushes over you like the oncoming tide, because try as you might, Alecto’s punishment was nothing in comparison to Zagreus’s absence. These fleeting moments he stops by your chamber, whether to recover, commission a painting, or to simply have a chat, you appreciate each and every one of them. If that’s all you’ll ever have with Zagreus, you decide, your chest tight with a melancholic warmth, then that's okay.

This is enough.

—

Soon after Zagreus reluctantly leaves you once more, he enters the last chamber of Tartarus.

“Redblood! What say you—ack—hey, I wasn’t done talking!”

If he prolongs their time together, allowing him to indulge his cruelty, then consider it time well spent.

—

AN: One of my biggest peeves in media tropes is the betrayal and angst as a reaction from hiding identities from s/o, like in superhero media. It's overplayed, overdone.

A good, recent example of this is the new animated Superman show, My Adventures with Superman, where (SPOILERS) Lois forces the truth out of Clark, and is pissed when he confirms he is Superman. Bro, you literally said to his face how you'd reveal his identity to the public, can you blame the guy? Idgaf you think he's lying ab his feelings omfg he's protecting his idenity (its a good show tho pls watch it!!)

However, a cartoon that does the scenario right is in the old Nickelodeon cartoon, Danny Phantom (some of yall may be too young to remember), the older sister, Jaz, of the mc, Danny, quietly realizes he's the superhero of their town, and decides to patiently wait for him to tell her when HE'S READY. Like askjgdaksjhf yassss we love patience and understanding.

Which is why I like to imagine while Zag didn't outright tell you who he is, he didn't try to hide it either. The underworld's a big ass place, he's got no control over who and what ppl say and do, so however you find out, whether in passing or of your own sleuthing skills, you both wait.

Ty for coming to my ted talk :D

[eleventhhourfactor]

🌹 with Peasley and Luigi please!!

Peasley being the one infected if that's okay-

What's up, poppet? Glad to see you in my inbox for the ask game. Let's see here...

Okay. Uh huh. Had to pull up Hanahaki for review, but I think I'm reading you loud and clear. It took me a second to get my butt to the computer, and far longer to actually write this, but I've got just the timeline to put an ailing Peasley in.

Let's take a dive back into that alternate universe where Luigi dies and takes a while to heal—the world of The Fourth and Final Time.

Also, since this is a long one, it's been cross-posted to AO3. Link is provided in the previous sentence; just click the last part of it to take you to The Lingering Ills of a Lovesick Prince.

P.S. Obligatory ping to @giddlygoat because the Ghost AU was your baby.

Prince Peasley - Hanahaki Disease🌹

His advisors weren't sure if travel would be wise. It was the same concern that the Beanish Prince had heard for years now, ever since the first day he'd coughed up golden petals and greenish ichor.

Traveling might not have been wise, but it was the right thing to do—especially when your closest allies succumbed to the passage of time.

The Mushroom Queen's funeral had been splendid for a sordid celebration, with a procession through town and peach blossoms scattered through the streets. It was certainly far more pomp and circumstance than when Mario had gone out—not that it was a competition, he chided himself. He certainly wasn't immortal; nobody was, except the gods.

Still, the usual crowd he saw for these occasions had dwindled greatly over the years. Daisy was still hanging in there for a human, but her time would come far before his or the likes of Bowser.

Then again, if this damned disease had its way, he might very well be the next to go.

His illness was a chronic one—his body had turned against him, using its faculties to produce blooms that ultimately made their exit in a mess of blood and bile. The Beanish had many a name for this affliction, but the underlying cause was always the same: an unrequited love that was best to get to the root of, lest one expire from the expulsion of the many flowers that came with it.

Therein lay the rub—Peasley hadn't sought out another love since Luigi had passed; in the sixty-plus years that had flown by since, there had been no one else that could quite capture his heart like his little emerald could. If something had fallen out of favor between the two of them, why had he only contracted this illness within the past decade?

The only possibility was that Luigi was still here—perhaps not in the castle, but somewhere in the realm, oblivious to the fact that he'd spurned a prince's affections. That had to be it. The question was, how was Peasley going to reach him?

The answer, like many, came in the form of a surprise visitor.

"Oh my stars, it can't be. Polty?"

The ghostly canine didn't look a day over…well, he looked more or less the same. Bright as a light and as energetic as a lightning bolt, the creature had brushed up alongside him on a stroll out to the edge of town. Who was Peasley to deny the dog a follower, a bit of company?

"Just where are we going, boy?"

His only answer was a cheerful bark as Polterpup bounded along in the air. Peasley wondered, for a second, whether anyone would notice his absence. Such pondering wasn't meant to last, however, as prince and pup came to a stop in front of a place Peasley hadn't seen in years.

"Oh, dear," Peasley murmured, laying a hand on top of the peeling paint of the picket fence as the gate swung open. "Nobody's come by in a while, have they?"

Just what would his advisors say, seeing him stroll up to a cottage that had begun its descent into decay? Most likely, they'd be at his side as he took a knee, the better to rid his throat of a round of blossoms. Out they spilled onto the ground, a cheery yellow against bracken earth, drifting off in the breeze as Polterpup sniffed at the errant current sweeping them off.

He ought to turn back. Instead, he got to his feet and kept going, letting himself through the door instead of waiting around for a host that wouldn't.

The interior was much as he remembered it—modestly decorated with sturdy wood furniture and green trim. What was different was the disarray—knickknacks knocked from the shelves, papers scattered across the floor. Peasley drew in a breath when he caught sight of the den, with its comfy armchair knocked aside and the old television smashed in.

He had to know what happened here—who could've dared to desecrate his lover's abode long after his death. Before he could, he was seized by another coughing fit, hacking up rosebuds and petals as he sank to his knees.

"Polterpup, it's okay," Peasley managed between coughs. "Just…been under the weather, that's all. No need to be my crutch, boy. Just let me…"

He wheezed as he struggled to clear out the last of it. A single yellow rose, all in bloom, landed on the dusty carpet before him, its ichor glowing especially bright as he caught his breath.

Except it wasn't only his blood glowing. The space before him had taken on a greenish tinge, alight with an energy that beckoned his gaze upward, to fidgeting hands and wide eyes that he knew all too well, even now.

"Luigi?"

The specter before him was missing his cap, and his legs had fused together into a ghost's telltale trailing tail, but Peasley knew that there could be no other before him. The fact that Luigi had persisted beyond his death, to this very day, explained part of why Peasley had been coughing up flowers for nearly ten years.

There was, of course, another question that had to be answered—one that Peasley wasn't sure he wanted to hear, and one that, naively, he hoped he could turn around.

"Peasley." There was no rush to sweep him up in his arms, no gushing or tears or anything of the sort. Instead, Luigi remained rather still, clasping his hands together like he was encountering an acquaintance at most. "I wasn't expecting you to visit."

"I wasn't sure what to expect," Peasley answered. The room was getting chillier the longer he sat on the floor. "If you don't mind me asking, how long have you—"

"Stuck around?" Luigi cocked his head. "Ever since I fell off that balcony."

"All this time?" Peasley got up to took a step closer. "Oh, my darling, if I had known—"

"It's fine." Luigi was now across the room, the result of an abrupt phase away from Peasley. "I-I really didn't want anyone to find out. Can't really have a-a funeral with the dead looking over it, can you?"

"I suppose that makes sense," Peasley admitted. "Might've been harder to accept what happened had you been there—no offense!"

"None taken."

"I guess what I'm trying to say is—"

He couldn't get much out before he doubled over, his airways overridden with another series of painful coughs.

"Peasley?"

Of all the times, why here and now? Peasley's hacking nearly became retching as he forced the flowers up and out of him, spilling out ichor-stained roses before Luigi as Polterpup whined and nudged him.

"Peasley? What's wrong?"

There was the concern Peasley was familiar with, manifesting in a bit of panic and the placement of ice-cold hands on his shoulders. He would've been stunned had he not been battling for breath.

"Just a condition, my dear," Peasley finally said. "It flares up from time to time."

"H-How long have you been—"

"Managing it? A few years or so now." Peasley let the damp petals drop from his palm as he stood back up, assisted by the specter. "A funny thing, really."

"Hm?"

"Though it's a physical ailment, it manifests out of a psychological reason—a one-sided love, as silly as it sounds. There's never been a case where one has died and their surviving partner's body began to destroy itself."

Golden roses, golden heart, surrounded in green. Why hadn't he seen it before?

"Either my case was an unforeseen variant," Peasley said, "or you were somehow still here. Now that I know which is which, I must ask you why."

"Why what?"

"Why have you fallen out of love with me?"

It was then that the temperature fell by at least seven degrees. The chill that could've easily been his age catching up to him was now a steely drop in the local atmosphere.

"You know why," Luigi said slowly. "You know fully well why."

"I don't believe I do."

"Don't play dumb, Peasley. It really doesn't work for you."

"I can easily say the same when it comes to you and denial."

"Can't you just leave?"

The air between them was practically icy; Peasley could see vapors of his breath exit his mouth. Luigi's expression had gone stormy, his entire being pulsing with inner flashes of angry light.

"I've had to watch everyone I love grow up without me!" Luigi screamed. "I didn't get to leave like they did! Something's kept me around, and I could never figure out what it was. Can you really blame me for thinking it might've been you?"

Somewhere in the house, a door slammed. Polterpup was keening beside Peasley, whimpering as his master seethed.

"You didn't think about that, did you? That what we had could've been what kept me from moving on?" Luigi loomed over him, his eyes narrowed as his voice took on a supernatural depth. "Just admit you didn't!"

"My dear, please—"

"SHUT UP!" Luigi had his hands clasped to his ears. "Just shut up! I've spent years trying to forget what we had! Why'd you have to keep holding on?"

His lover's words cut like a knife, but Peasley could see past the anger. He saw his darling Luigi scared, frightened of what he'd become, fretting as a maelstrom formed at his feet.

"Oh no. Oh, nonononono."

It was heartbreaking to watch his green bean fall apart like this.

"What are you doing?" Luigi shrieked, with a glare that pierced Peasley like a flurry of daggers. "Get out of here!"

"I'm not going to leave you like this!"

"You have to!"

"Just let me help you! Please!"

The room was alight with Luigi's energy, manic and erratic in its intensity.

"I won't LET YOU!"

There was no time to brace himself from what came next. With a ferocity and force that rivaled the sort of foes Peasley had fought in his heyday, he found himself shoved to the wayside in his own body.

"If you won't show yourself out, I will."

There was nothing warm or familiar about the ghost taking the wheel. Peasley found himself in the dark as everything around him shook, sending him careening from wall to mental wall as he tried to get his bearings.

"Luigi?" It would be a lie to deny that this turn of events had been jarring. "Luigi, what's going on?"

If his love could hear him, he didn't respond. Instead, Peasley continued to brace himself against the sudden, jerking motions of his mortal vessel acting on someone else's accord.

"Luigi, please! I just want to talk. I just want to know why—"

"I already told you!"

"Darling, if I can barely stand to let you go—"

"Stop it! Just stop it!"

"Then I know you can't stand the idea, either. If we could just talk—"

"Don't you get it? You're in love with the ghost of me!"

Peasley found himself falling through his subconscious, tripped up by a sudden shove forward.

"You're in love with the idea of me."

An invisible force kept him pinned down.

"You had no idea if I was actually still here."

Peasley found his face being pressed into the floor, the dark nothingness that somehow still hurt.

"Why are you trying to tell yourself otherwise?"

In a rush, Peasley found himself back in his own shoes, the sensation of touch returning as he found himself kneeling in the grass of the royal garden. A glow at the upper edge of his vision implored him to look up, but not before a particularly severe spat of coughs made him curl back in on himself.

In the distance, Peasley could hear the clamor of a crowd deep into a search.

"I don't need your help."

He could hear Luigi loud and clear, despite the tremors racking his body as he desperately tried to purge the flowers from his throat. A cold hand lifted his chin upward, to a glare that could turn someone to stone.

"I never want to see you again. Got it? Whatever we had…it can't happen. It never could happen. You shouldn't be hanging on to me."

Without warning, Peasley was dropped back to the dirt, to the pile of roses brought about by the one spurning him.

"Don't come back," Luigi said, dispelling into a ball of light. Peasley watched as it zipped away, hanging his head as his advisors caught sight of him. They carried him back inside, tending to the ichor at the corners of his mouth, too fretful of his current condition to implore him for answers.

Peasley had found the answers, but had lost Luigi. Such a thing would be hard to explain, and so he never did, carrying his discoveries soon after to his own grave.

[the-dork-urge]

The Mess of It All - Ash Williams x Reader

You were covered in blood and guts, like the time you volunteered to smear yourself in fake gore for that high school horror project—corn syrup and red paint, sticky but harmless. Only this was real. The coppery tang in the air, the warmth of it soaking through your clothes, the weight of it clinging to your skin—none of this was pretend.

You dropped the machete onto the cobblestones, its weight suddenly unnecessary, your fingers numb from holding it so tightly. The sound of it clattering echoed off the walls around you. You bent forward, hands pressing against your knees, struggling to find some stability, your breath coming in uneven gasps.

You’d told yourself countless times that you’d get used to it, that eventually, it would stop making your stomach churn and your chest tighten. But maybe a human wasn’t supposed to. Maybe no one was ever meant to feel the slick warmth of real blood soaking into their skin and simply carry on.

Ash was one of those rare people who did carry on. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pause—just kept moving forward like the blood on his hands didn’t weigh him down. He’d seen more, been through worse, lived this life longer than you had. Much longer. Where you hesitated, Ash acted. Where you questioned, Ash already knew the answer. For him, this wasn’t horror anymore. It was routine.

You didn’t want to admit it, but when he was wielding his chainsaw or a gun, when those deadites dropped like flies around you, you looked up to him. It was more than admiration; it was attraction. The way Ash moved, so sure and ruthless, like every swing of his chainsaw or pull of the trigger was a dance he’d perfected. The way his eyes burned with something that felt both reckless and controlled. It pulled you in, made your heart race in ways that weren’t just from fear.

But perhaps, you realized, that could be the adrenaline talking. It was hard to tell what was real and what was just the chaos twisting your mind, the fight-or-flight instincts pushing everything to the surface.

So when the fighting died down, when the adrenaline finally began to fade and the horror peeled off like a second skin, you were left with him as he was—the bumbling idiot. The one who never quite got it right, the one who’d make dumb jokes in the middle of a crisis or trip over his own feet when the danger was gone. In the quiet, he was no longer the fearless, battle-hardened hero. He was just Ash.

And maybe that was the part you weren’t prepared for. The part you didnt want to admit you liked too.

It was then that you noticed it, as you still stood there croached over—the blood, dark and sticky, dripping from your hair, trailing down your face like a grotesque clown, and then dripping down between your shoes. You reached up, combing your fingers through your hair. The more you touched it, the more it spread, the more it seemed to cling to you.

Your jacket, soaked with remnants of the fight, felt like lead, weighing you down with every movement. You couldn’t stand it anymore. You ripped it off, tossing it aside, letting it fall to the floor, discarded like everything else from the battle. It joined the pile of things left behind

Your breath hitched in your throat, the coppery taste still lingering, but now something else, something sour. It built up inside you, rising, burning, until your stomach couldn’t hold it anymore. You doubled over, the weight of everything crashing down on you as you threw up, the bile and the blood mixing together, spilling onto the floor in a violent mess. The moment felt endless. The sound of your own choking breaths. Than he came rushing over. He crouches down next to you, the sound of his boots squelching in the blood-soaked floor, and for a second, you think maybe he’ll just stare at you, unsure of what to do next. But then, in that familiar Ash way, he cracks a grin, even though it’s a little forced.

"Hey, uh, you’re not gonna start puking on me now too, are you? ‘Cause I really don’t have the best luck with... that,” Ash says, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You look up at him, still breathing heavily, your vision blurry. The joke, though meant to lighten the mood, does nothing but make the tension in your chest grow tighter. But it's Ash—he's trying, even if he’s a bit off the mark. You blink, your hand still shaking as you wipe the last of the bile from your lips. “Yeah... not my best moment,” you mutter. Ash nodded, his usual bravado softening for a moment, though he was still fumbling with how to comfort you. "Well, if it makes you feel better, you look fucking badass, covered in guts and puke," he said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly with his fake hand. His other hand hovered near you, unsure whether to touch you, before it fell back. "It's, uh... the look of the season."

You couldn’t help it. You let out a small chuckle, standing up straight again. You reached out, grabbing his awkwardly extended hand for support. He gripped it tightly, holding you steady as you wobbled on your tired feet, trying to find your balance. You took a heavy step away from the mess, letting him help guide you away ''Sorry aboiut that,' You blinked, still feeling the sting of everything, "I’m just… tired," you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He opened his mouth, like he was going to say something—maybe offer you a way out, a way to escape the endless nightmare you both were caught in. Tell you to go if you could no longer do what he did. No one should. He'd offer you a green light, an exit. But before he could speak, you shook your head, knowing exactly what the words were he was mulling over.

"But I’m not going anywhere," you said, and even though the words felt heavy in your chest, you meant them. "I’m staying. Fuck it.." ''Glad to have you," Ash said quietly, a little more earnest than usual, before his lips pulled into a smile. "Well, you and your machete, that is."

He chuckled lightly, slowly letting go of your hand as he searched for your eyes. The sound of his chuckle felt oddly comforting. Despite everything, despite the blood and the mess, despite how close you’d come to losing yourself in it all, there was something in the way Ash looked at you now. You couldn't help but smile back, the faintest hint of something more beneath it. "Yeah, well, you'd be lost without me, Williams"

Ash raised an eyebrow, a small laugh escaping him as he stepped just a little closer, his eyes locked onto yours. "Guess I’ll never know." His voice dropped a little. ''Not planning on testing that theory soon.'' The tension in the air shifted, just enough for you to feel it and you took a step closer again.

You looked at him, really looked at him—his tousled hair, the scars on his aging skin, the faintest glimmer of exhaustion in his eyes, but something more there, too. Something you hadn’t let yourself notice until now. Should you ignore it? The way your body betrayed you, leaning in just a little, drawn to his lips—the same lips that had spoken such profane things, the same lips that had joked and teased you, made you question his sincerity more times than you could count. The lips that smoothed over words for every woman he met, effortless and easy. So why now? Why did it feel like the world had narrowed down to just him, just this moment, and the way his eyes held yours?

But even as you hesitated, you could feel the heat rising between you both, an unspoken thing that thrummed in the space between breaths. He hadn’t moved away, hadn’t stepped back. And you didn’t either. Then, before you could think or question it any longer, he grabbed you. His hands on your waist, pulling you closer, and in that moment, everything you had ever felt, everything you’d tried to suppress, flooded back.. All the walls you’d built, all the excuses you’d made, crumbled away. You remembered everything. Every moment you’d spent fighting alongside him, every argument, every time you’d caught yourself watching him with more than just annoyance or confusion. You realized you wanted him—all of him. The fighting parts of him, the reckless energy, the parts that made you so damn angry, the vulnerability hidden behind his bravado. You wanted it all. The good, the bad—the mess of it. The contradictions that made him who he was, the reasons you had stayed through all of it. You felt your heart race, the pounding of blood in your ears drowning out any rational thoughts. This was it. You didn’t want to stop it. You didn’t want to stop him. The moment your lips met, it was clumsy—raw, imperfect. His skin, sticky with sweat and blood, pressed against yours. The faint, lingering taste of bile hung like a breath between you. It wasn’t the sweet, polished kiss you’d fantasized about, it was messy, and it should have repelled you. But it didn’t.

You felt every rough edge of him, every imperfection—his hands, slightly shaky as they cupped your face, the uneven rhythm of your breaths. There was no grace, no pretense. And right now that was everything you needed.