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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 1: Am I More Than You Bargained For Yet]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the lair of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, a brief history of burn treatments, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), a wild Sunfyre appears, catching feelings for literally the single most inappropriate man on the planet.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Sugar, We're Goin' Down" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

💜 I’m going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world! 💜

@doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis @juliavilu1 @amiraisgoingthruit @lauraneedstochill @wintrr13 @r0segard3n @seabasscevans @tsujifreya @helaenaluvr @hiraethrhapsody @backyardfolklore

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters!

You scream when he grabs you, this lightning strike of a man with a grip like an animal trap that splits bones. He pulls you away from the soldier you’re soothing—a young dark-haired Norcross, disoriented, doomed, his intestines spilling out onto the grass and blood on his lips—and through the forest of smoke and corpses and pine trees. Your eyes sting and water, your boots snag on gnarled roots. When you yelp and stumble to the earth, the man drags you upright again. You struggle like a beast with a blade at its throat, cold, serrated, pressure on the jugular. You shove and scratch at him, trying to plant your boots in soil strewn with gore and glowing embers.

“Stop, stop it, you’re hurting me!”

“Hurry up.”

“You’re going to break my wrist—!”

He wrenches you around to look you full in the face, and only now do you know who he is. A gasp hisses through your teeth; the acrid air in your lungs vanishes. Every muscle and tendon and ligament of you is taut with horror, tight enough to snap. It’s like meeting one of the Seven, the Warrior or Stranger or Smith, a shade you know only from myths and nightmares. It’s like being led to the executioner’s scaffold. His long silver braid hangs over one shoulder. His eyepatch conceals the childhood maiming that left him half-blind. There’s blood and ash on his scarred face, a ruthless breed of fear in his remaining eye, icy blue, creek-shallow, soulless. The man clasping your wrist is Prince Aemond Targaryen. “I’ll break your neck if you don’t come with me now.”

He does not wait for your protest or acquiescence. You couldn’t give it anyway. Your muddied boots move numbly as he tugs you forward, this man they call Aemond One-Eye, a monster, a murderer, a kinslayer. The earth is littered with carnage from the battle, charred ribcages and disemboweled horses, scattered armor and severed limbs. Ashes fall from the smoldering treetops like dark snow.

What does he want from me?

Rape seems unlikely; everyone knows Prince Aemond’s deviancies do not run in that direction. He is cold, hateful, dispassionate, made of stone. He does not lust for anything but power and retribution, fire and blood.

To kill me?

But why not do it here, now? There is a sword hanging from his belt, a dagger in one fist. There is no reason to wait.

To take me prisoner? To feed me to his dragon? To torture me for information?

Surely there are more knowledgeable people around to torture. What use could you be, a healer, a woman? Unless…

Unless he knows who my father is.

You glance down at the fabric band looped around the upper half of your right arm, the only mark you wear of your house, stark white banner, skittering red crabs. It is soaked through with blood. It is unreadable.

Someone is shrieking, but not like a dying man. He has too much fight in him for that, too much glass-clear agony, unwanted blistering consciousness. He screams like someone being flayed, gutted, burned alive. You’ve only ever heard this sound once before. You choke on the greasy, putrid, metallic sweetness of scorched human flesh as it sears down your throat, not knowing if it is real or remembered.

There is a tent in the midst of the pine trees, fluttering canvas that’s green like emeralds or jade. The wind is picking up; you will need to evacuate soon. The cinders will spread and the forest will blaze. Somewhere a dragon is roaring, wounded and mournful like the cry of a lost child. The screams of the man grow louder; they fill your skull like a fever, scalding and senseless and red. Aemond yanks the tent flap aside and pulls you in. And when you breathe it is nothing but the sickening miasma of burnt flesh, coppery blood, suffering, sweat, ruin.

He’s writhing on a wooden table, the man the Greens call king. It has to be him: white-blond hair down to his shoulders, blue eyes and fine aristocratic bones. Two ancient, shaky-handed maesters—hastily commandeered from the defeated House Staunton, you assume—confer nearby, clutching glass bottles of milk of the poppy. A man in armor is cutting tatters of clothing from the so-called king. When he lifts the fabric away, skin sloughs off with it. Aegon wails, struggles, begs him to stop. Aemond goes to his brother and carves away scraps of melted leather and charred cotton with the swift blade of his dagger.

“Shh, shh, don’t fight us, we’re trying to help—”

“Aemond, let me die,” the burned man rasps. He is trembling violently, he is half-mad with pain. Meleys’ flames claimed a swath of his right cheek, his neck and chest and back, his arms down to his wrists, his belly to the crests of his hip bones. “Please. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want it to hurt anymore. Don’t try to help me. Just let me die.”

Aemond looks back at you. “Can you treat this?”

He thinks I’m a Green, you realize with panic, with relief, with terror. And of course he would: you had wandered into the Greens’ side of the battlefield and therefore did not surrender or flee or die with the other Blacks, you were tending to a Green soldier when he found you. Aemond the Kinslayer would not comprehend the notion of service to humankind without a line drawn down the middle of it, of uncategorical compassion.

“Can you help him or not?!” Aemond shouts; and you know that he is not just afraid but shattering, spider-leg cracks inching across a window or a mirror. Perhaps the Greens have souls after all.

You shed your paralysis like daylight erases the stars and approach to examine the so-called king. You do not touch him; still, he whimpers, sobs, quakes like waves in a storm. “He needs more milk of the poppy. A lot more of it.”

“Yes,” Aegon agrees immediately. His streaming eyes—a bleak, murky blue like the sea off Claw Isle—list to you, agonized and grateful.

The maesters gape. “More could kill him,” one says. And they are petrified of being blamed for it. They are plagued by visions of Aemond hacking off their heads and displaying them on spikes above the stone walls of captured Rook’s Rest.

“No drawbacks at all then?” Aegon manages between moans.

“If his pain does not abate, he will die of shock,” you say. “He must be unconscious.”

“Knock me out,” Aegon pleads, pawing at Aemond. “Tell them, tell them.”

Aemond looks to the man in armor: dark-haired, olive-skinned, Dornish. Sir Criston Cole, you realize. The Hand of the King. The Kingmaker. After a moment, Criston nods. “Do it now,” Aemond orders the maesters.

Grimacing, grim, they pour the opalescent liquid into Aegon’s mouth. He gulps it down as quickly as he can. “Enough,” you tell the maesters. Instinctively, you reach out to comfort Aegon: a palm rested lightly on his forehead, fingers threaded through silvery hair that’s filthy with soot and blood. You should hate him, but you don’t. When you look at the Greens’ broken king, you cannot see a murderer, a usurper, a depraved hedonist, a consumer of innocence. You can only see a man worn threadbare by ill-advised bravery.

“Hello, angel,” Aegon murmurs as he gazes up at you, a ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes really do remind you of home: ocean currents like iron, fog like flint. “Welcome to the end of the world.” And then he’s out, extinguished, eclipsed.

Servants bustle into the tent carrying heavy buckets. “What is that?” you ask.

“Pork lard,” one of the maesters says. “For his wounds.”

“No, no, no, some of these burns are nearly down to the muscle. They’re too deep, too fresh. Lard is for later, to help with scarring, although olive oil or rose oil would be better. He needs to be cleaned with vinegar diluted with water. Or red wine, if that’s all that can be found.”

“Vinegar?!” one of the maesters exclaims.

“It helps prevent infection. Nobody knows why.”

The same maester turns to Aemond, imploring him. “My prince, I can assure you, the Citadel recommends pork lard or cow dung as topical cures, or both used alternatingly. There are also reports of cases where frogs have been helpful, warmed in oil and then rubbed on the affected area.”

Criston blinks. “I’m sorry, you do what with the frogs…?!”

They’re going to kill him, you think. Not with malice, but with stupidity. A wasted life, a wasted death. You demand of the maester: “When was the last time you treated burns this severe?”

He glowers at you, sharp dark eyes like flecks of onyx in a nest of wrinkles. And you know you’ve won when he replies: “When have you?”

“My brother was burned in a housefire started by an upturned lantern. It was five years ago, but I remember the direness his injuries. And what was done to save him.”

Silence in this tent the color of summer: green grass, unsinged trees. Aemond waits for the maesters to produce some astute rebuttal. When they cannot, he orders the servants: “Vinegar, water, rags. Now.” They dash off to oblige him, wide-eyed and quivering like small dogs. Then Aemond looks to you. “What next?”

“His wounds should be treated with honey and then bandaged. The dressings must be changed frequently, at least once per day. He must be repositioned so the scar tissue does not immobilize his joints. He will suffer, it cannot be avoided, but he should suffer as little as possible. Listen to him when he says the pain is too much. Let him sleep. When he is awake, he must drink plenty of fluids. He is losing water through his burns, and it must be replaced. Milk is preferable. Tea and fruit juices are good as well. Some wine is acceptable if that’s what he likes best.”

“And it certainly is,” Criston mutters. You’ve heard the same: that the Greens’ king is a drunk, an adulterer, a coward, a ghoul. You cannot speak to any of this. You know him only as someone who is horrifically pained and sick to death of fighting. Again, without thinking, you comb your fingertips distractedly through his hair as he lies unconscious on the table, bleeding from everywhere. He’s so young, so breakable, so unlike the monster you’ve been led to believe he is.

“Get honey and bandages,” Aemond tells the maesters. They depart, casting each other incredulous glances: Are these our new overlords? Men who heed the wisdom of impetuous young women filthy with blood and earth?

“I’ve heard salt can be helpful for wounds,” Aemond says. “They used it on me when…” He gestures to his eyepatch, to his scar. Lucerys Velaryon took that part of him in self-defense; at least, that is what you have always been told. But you’ve read enough to know that for every event, there are at least two stories. Whatever the truth is, Luke paid for that eye. He paid, Rhaenyra paid, the world continues to pay the price over and over again.

“Because it dries. It absorbs moisture.” You skim your palm over Aegon’s forehead, without lines of fear or anguish as he sleeps. There is a ring on his left hand, a gold dragon with glinting dots of jade for eyes. You twist off the ring so it will not hinder circulation as his fingers swell and give it to Aemond. “But burns weep as they heal. They need to be wet. If they get too dry, they will crack open and fester.”

“Is that what happened to your brother?” Aemond asks.

“Where we did not pay enough attention. The backs of his knees, the soles of his feet.”

“But he survived.”

“Yes,” you tell Aemond; and you can see how desperately he is searching for hope in your face, your words. “He did.”

The servants return with buckets of water, handfuls of rags, glass bottles of vinegar that is cloudy and rust-colored.

“What’s it made from?” you say.

“Fermented a-a-apples, my lady,” one of the boys sputters. He watches Aemond out of the corner of his eye like sheep look for the shadows of wolves. He shivers, he sweats. This boy, who last night was fetching meat and mead for Lord Staunton, has heard the same stories you have: the degenerate king, his murderous brother.

“That’s fine then.” You haul over one of the water buckets and Criston helps you lift it up onto the table. You empty half a bottle of vinegar into the water, mix it by wobbling the bucket back and forth, and then soak a rag in the pungent liquid. “You can help,” you tell Aemond and Criston. “Dip a rag in the bucket, wring it out, then press it to his wounds. Remove any dirt or scraps of fabric. But don’t rub. Try not to damage the skin he has left.” You demonstrate: dabbing at flesh that is torn and bloody and blistered, a black-and-ruby wasteland that at best will leave him irreparably scarred and at worst will swallow his life like ships sink in storms.

Tentatively—with hands at ease with killing but not tenderness—Aemond and Criston join you, studying your movements and imitating them with great care. There is a sniffle, a teardrop that falls onto Aegon’s filthy but unburned left hand and glistens there like a splinter of glass; you are alarmed to see that the Kingmaker is weeping.

“Criston,” Aemond says gently. “We are doing everything we can for him.”

“Since the day he was born, I promised…”

“I know.”

“Your mother…”

“I know,” Aemond says again, and you think: The Greens aren’t demons, they aren’t savages. They’re just patchworks of memory and flesh and suffering, the same as any of us. “He will live. And his sacrifice won us a victory today.”

As you tended to wounded men caked with blood and pine needles, you saw them tangled above in the overcast sky, scales of scarlet and gold and an ancient muddy viridescence. There were flames and shouts, and then all three dragons hurdled towards the earth and out of view. “The Red Queen?” you ask Aemond, mindful to keep your voice perfectly level.

“Dead,” he says: dark satisfaction, fearsome pride. “And so is her rider.”

“The gods are good.” You are amazed at how easily it slips out, a reflex of self-preservation while your mind is elsewhere. Does my father know yet? Does Rhaenyra, does Daemon, does Corlys? People will be searching for you soon. If you do not appear from the smoke and chaos of the battlefield, your eldest brother Clement will come looking with his sword in hand. Everett, scarred and unagile but clever, will be pouring over maps to see where you might have ended up.

There is no suspicion in Aemond’s face when he glances over at you. He is gingerly cleaning soot and charred strips of ruined skin from Aegon’s chest, which rises and falls in deep, slow breaths. “Which family is yours?”

House Celtigar, but you can’t tell him that. You scramble for a noble family of the Crownlands whose accent you share, whose history you have been taught, whose men fight for the Greens but are not so distinguished that Aemond will know them well. “House Thorne.”

He nods. “Are you one of Sir Rickard’s sisters?”

You startle. Perhaps you have chosen the wrong disguise. “Far less illustrious than that. Just a cousin.”

The two maesters return, their archaic hands piled high with linen bandages and glass jars of honey, a fiery gold like sunset. “Set them down over there,” Aemond orders, pointing. He has a presence, it cannot be denied. He is tall, fierce, swift yet calculated. He moves like a man who has killed once, twice, again until it is no longer something that keeps him awake at night. It is something that has become a part of him like arteries or bones. “Prepare a room in the castle.”

“For Prince Aegon?” one of the maesters says, then quickly corrects himself. “I mean, for the king?”

“For until we decide what to do with him.” Aemond stares at Criston. Criston stares back, his dark eyes huge and shiny. There is a war to be waged, but Aegon will not be able to help them. Not for months, at least. Not ever, if he dies. The maesters disappear again, grumbling to each other. Unwelcome tasks, unwelcome guests.

Rhaenys is dead, you think as you work. It doesn’t feel real. Meleys is dead. Hundreds of Black soldiers are dead. Rook’s Rest is the Greens’ greatest victory yet, and one they desperately needed. This war is nowhere near over. And the betting odds keep changing.

You say to Aemond and Criston: “Help me turn him. We must clean the burns on his back as well.”

They listen, they obey, they help you because helping you means helping Aegon. When he is washed as well as he can be, you spread a thin sheen of shimmering honey over his wounds—an amber river that will trap moisture and discourage inflammation—and wrap him in bandages. The only burn you leave uncovered is the one on his right cheek. It creeps up over his pale face like red tentacles, curling and grasping, hungry, insatiable. They match now, you think. Two brothers, two scars.

Criston assembles a group of Green soldiers and Aegon is carried in a litter to the castle that serves as the seat of House Staunton, once allies of Rhaenyra, now traitors, now dead men walking. Outside rain has begun to fall, putting out flames born from dragonfire. The pine forest is saved; wounded men lie in the dirt with their mouths open hoping to quench their thirst. By the time Aegon is placed in an opulent bedroom with a view of Blackwater Bay, he has already bled through his bandages. You clean him again, bandage him, dribble milk of the poppy down his throat when he begins to stir and whimper. Aemond gives you command of a makeshift fleet of caretakers: the two requisitioned maesters, three maids, servants to bring food, drink, bandages, wood for the crackling fireplace.

My family is searching for me, you know as you battle to save their enemy’s life, this maybe-king with silver hair and eyes like deep water.And then: I cannot leave him. Not now, not yet.

In the night, as cool rain patters against the ocean and Aemond and Criston are slaughtering House Staunton men down in the castle courtyard, you dose Aegon with milk of the poppy every few hours. The maesters refuse to take responsibility for it; if the king is poisoned, it will be you who swings from a rope for it. You hold cloths dripping with cold water to his forehead. You feed him nibbles of bread and venison when he is conscious enough to eat, cinnamon tea, pomegranate juice, goat milk. You inspect him for any signs of infection. You braid a small lock of his hair before you’ve stopped to consider why you’re doing it.

And when no one else is watching, you untie the bloodstained armband of your own house and burn it to ashes in the fire.

~~~~~~~~~~

Someone is jostling you, grabbing at you. You fell into an exhausted, sporadic sleep in the next room long after midnight. It’s morning now; warm sunlight blooms like flowers on your face, yellow roses and buttercups and daffodils. When your eyes open, they are sore and unfocused. Aemond is a blur of white hair and black leather. He is tugging on you again, his lithe fingers like a vice around your forearm.

“Stop it, get off me!” You shove him away. He waits, bemused. “You can’t keep dragging me around like this!”

“Why not?”

Because my father is one of the wealthiest men in the Seven Kingdoms. Because I may not have silver hair or a dragon, but if you cut me open the blood of Old Valyria would spill out like red waves. Because the man I am pledged to marry is good at killing, very good at killing, maybe even better than you. “Because I’m a noblewoman. I’m a lady.”

“You don’t act like one,” Aemond counters. “Ladies flee from blood and gore. Ladies are nowhere to be found on battlefields.”

“I like being useful.”

“Then I have brought you a gift. You are needed now. Aegon is asking for you.” And then, when you hurry out of bed, finding your footing on chilly wood floors: “Well, that certainly got you moving quickly.”

“He’s in pain?”

“Not especially, from what I can tell. I think he just wants you.” Aemond glides out of the bedroom. You follow him to Aegon’s chamber. The Greens’ king is propped up in bed on a great mass of pillows, bandaged, limp, eyes glazed and barely open. There are men huddled around him. You recognize Criston, though not the other ones, some old and some young and all in armor. You hope that none of them are Sir Rickard Thorne.

You feel Aegon’s forehead for fever. To your relief, he is no more than modestly warm. He catches your hand, holds it tightly, doesn’t let go. After a moment’s hesitation, you sit down beside him on the edge of the bed. There is a curl of his lips, just a whisper of a smile, just a phantom of one. Aemond glances at you and Aegon with mild interest, then turns his attention to Criston.

“Aegon,” Criston informs the king, patiently, like a good father would. “We have to move you back to King’s Landing.”

“No,” Aegon says. His voice is so low and weak that he’s difficult to hear.

“Your recovery will be long and arduous,” Criston explains. “Aemond and I will be needed in combat. We cannot stay to guard you. The Blacks may try to retake Rook’s Rest. You staying here is not an option. King’s Landing is safer. It is well-supplied, it is protected. And we have our own maesters there who will help tend to you.”

“Can’t leave,” Aegon croaks. “Sunfyre.”

“Aegon—”

“I can’t leave without Sunfyre,” he forces out with immense effort. Then he gasps and moans, tears pooling in his eyes. You offer him milk of the poppy; he guzzles as much as you’ll allow him to have.

Criston sighs. “You can’t stay. And Sunfyre can’t leave. One of his wings was nearly ripped off, he’ll never fly again. We have no way to transport him, he’s too heavy.”

One of the armored men mutters: “And that’s assuming he wouldn’t incinerate anyone who ventured close enough to try.”

“Where is he now?” Aemond asks the man.

“Down on the beach, my prince. Eating dead soldiers.”

Criston shudders. Working in close proximity to dragons has not given him a liking for them.

“Can’t leave him here,” Aegon whispers, shaking his head.

“You must,” Aemond says.

“What if it was Vhagar?”

“I’d leave her. I’d have no choice.”

Aegon frowns, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s all too much for him. “Not the same.”

No, perhaps not; Aemond’s dragon may be the largest and most lethal in the world, but Aegon’s bond with Sunfyre is said to be what legends are built of, words written in ink and stone. You watch the agonized confliction on Aegon’s drawn face: can’t leave, can’t stay, can’t fight, can’t run. You say softly: “Could Sunfyre be assigned a detachment of guards?”

Aemond looks at you as if just remembering you’re here. “What?”

“Men could be tasked with ensuring the dragon is secure and fed. From a safe distance, of course. They could report on his health. Then perhaps when he is stronger, he can be reunited with the king.” The king. Again, it stuns you how easily the treason rolls out, like waves bubbling over rocks and sand.

Aemond turns to Criston. “Could it be done?”

“I don’t foresee many men volunteering for the task. But it could be done, yes. Sure.”

Aemond asks his brother: “Would that make a difference?”

Aegon’s eyes drift to you. They are churning with sluggish, clunky thoughts, heavy burdens to bear on raw shoulders. The braid that you wove absentmindedly into his hair is still there. “Alright,” Aegon agrees at last. “I’ll go.”

“Good,” Aemond says. “We leave at dawn tomorrow.” Then he looks to you. “You will come south with us.” His tone invites no argument. He doesn’t even conceive of it as a possibility. Why would you refuse? Why would you, a purportedly devout Green, shy away from the opportunity to nurse your king back to health? You bow your head in compliance. You wonder what is being discussed in the Black Council; you wonder what your father is thinking, what Everett believes happened to you.

“But I have to see him first,” Aegon says.

Aemond does not understand. “See who?”

“Sunfyre.”

“But you can’t walk to the beach,” Criston says. “You can’t walk anywhere.”

Aegon grins, showing his teeth. His dazed, deep blue eyes glitter mischieviously. His hand has not disentangled itself from yours. “Then carry me.”

The deal is struck, like a face minted onto a coin or a bolt of lightning meeting the earth. Soldiers transport Aegon down to the stony, mist-sopped shoreline. Blade-sharp agony is flooding back into his face, but he refuses more milk of the poppy. He wants to be awake when he gets there. He wants to be himself.

The soldiers cannot get too close to Sunfyre; no one besides Aegon can. He is helped off the litter and then tries to amble across the wet, grey sand. After a few steps he collapses. You rush to him, dodging Aemond and Criston’s grasps as they try to stop you.

“No,” Aegon says when you attempt to help him to his feet. He is panting from the pain, his face flushed with torment and exertion. His white-blond hair whips in the wind. “Do not follow me. Not even if I pass out, not even if I’m dead. I don’t know what Sunfyre would do to you.” And then he crawls forward alone on his hands and knees.

Waves crash, spraying saltwater into the air. Crabs scuttle over rocks. Gulls swoop low to claim mouthfuls of flesh from bloated corpses in worthless uniforms. The dragon known as Sunfyre the Golden is curled up on the beach. Many of his metallic scales are singed; the pink membranes of his wings are tattered like lace. His right wing hangs at a ruinously odd angle. You would know how to set that if he was a human. And you could do it without the threat of being reduced to ash and history.

Sunfyre unravels as Aegon nears him, long angular face rising, frayed wings settling by his sides. You have seen dragons before, of course—Syrax, Caraxes, Arrax, Vermax, Meleys—though never from this close. They horrify you. You cannot look at them without thinking of the devastation they sow like a plague, of how they so unmistakably no longer belong in this world.

Sunfyre’s head stretches out towards his rider, a half-dead man kneeling in wet sand and wearing only bandages and loose cotton trousers. Beside you, Sir Criston Cole sucks in a noisy, nervous breath. Aemond watches Aegon, his face like stone. His hair hangs in long, damp waves.

Aegon embraces Sunfyre, clinging to him, resting his face against the dragon’s. They stay like that for what feels like a very long time. Then Aegon crawls back to you, sobbing with pain by the time he is lifted into the litter. You give him milk of the poppy and he accepts it eagerly. He is unconscious again within seconds. Down the beach, Sunfyre looses a soft desolate cry like a plea: Don’t go. Don’t leave me. You might never come back.

~~~~~~~~~~

The drivers have been instructed to proceed slowly and with caution; still, the carriage pitches and jolts as you traverse the Rosby Road towards King’s Landing. In addition to the caravan’s most precious cargo—the Greens’ fragile and intermittently sentient king—it transports also two severed heads: Lord Simon Staunton’s in a basket, and Meleys’ in the bed of a mule-drawn wagon. High above in slate-grey clouds, Aemond and Vhagar are safeguarding your progress. Criston rides on a monstrous warhorse just outside the carriage. You are leafing through a book that you found in the castle library at Rook’s Rest: anatomy, surgery, sicknesses and cures. Aegon is bandaged and heavily medicated in the cushioned seat across from you. While servants flit in and out frequently, you are the only passengers in the carriage at the moment. You do not know that Aegon is awake until he speaks.

“Sinful,” he says. His voice is groggy, only half-here. He is gazing blearily at the illustration on the open pages of your book: a quite detailed naked man, his arteries and veins mapped like the roads of Westeros, his cock bare and sizeable.

“It’s informative,” you reply in your own defense, smiling.

“My father would have hit me for looking at something like that. If he’d noticed.” Aegon smirks, resting his head against the back of his velvet seat. His hair has been scrubbed and rinsed by servants, the braid you made for him undone. “He probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Mine has a great love for all books.” Bartimos Celtigar is eternally turning pages: computations, records, revenue. He does not just sit on Rhaenyra’s council. He is her Master of Coin. He funds her war effort, he fuels her like wood to a fire. “Besides, I have seen naked men in person. No book can scandalize me now.”

A little twitch of his silvery eyebrows: fascination, amusement. “He does not lose sleep over your spent innocence?”

“He has other things on his mind presently.”

“Like what?”

Like helping Rhaenyra win the war. You find a different truth to tell him. “Some men consider one daughter to be too many. My father has four. His attention is thoroughly divided.”

“He doesn’t like you?”

“He likes me plenty. He just doesn’t need me.”

Aegon nods. His eyes travel over you slowly and meditatively, not leering but learning, memorizing slopes and angles, taking you in like he’s never been able to before. He is in the brief lull between doses of milk of the poppy: lucid enough to speak but not so much that he can feel the full extent of his injuries. “Are you married?”

This is a bit of a fraught subject. “I am betrothed.”

“Oh,” he says, with what might be disappointment. “And he wouldn’t rather have you home right now? Putting all that knowledge of male anatomy to good use? That’s difficult to believe.”

You peer evasively down at your book. “He has a role to play in the war. I’ve been given permission to serve in my own way until it is over.”

“Permission,” Aegon echoes. He finds this interesting. He studies you for a while before he asks, his voice gentle: “What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing. He’s honorable, he’s brave. He’s marvelously formidable. He could carry you around like a sack of potatoes.”

Aegon chuckles, a slow reflective laugh, curiosity, intrigue, something to think about besides the fact that he’s missing half his skin. “Do you fear marriage?”

What is the answer to that question? Do you even know yourself? “I fear being possessed. And having no remedy if the circumstances are not to my liking.”

“You can’t get one of your three superfluous sisters to marry him instead?”

You smile faintly. “No, we’ve met. He chose me, he favored me. I’m not sure why.”

“Probably because you’ve read all there is to know about cocks.” Aegon grins, drowsy and crooked and playful. “Who is he?”

“Just a man,” you say. You can’t tell Aegon more than that. It would give your Black affiliations away.

You are betrothed to the Warden of the North, Lord Cregan Stark.

#aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #hotd fanfic

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colinrobinsonscardigan · 4 months ago

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Rewatching Hannibal, and I forgot how funny Chilton is. He's bitchy. He's a loser. It barely feels like he's in charge of the asylum he owns. He survives being shot in the face. He survives being shot in the face and disembowelled and there's not even anything remotely cool about it. If he was a cartoon character he would step on the rake he previously left out as a trap for someone else. Banana peel type man.

#hannibal #hannibal shitpost #frederick chilton #hes hilarious props to the guy who played him #really tied with abel gideon for the best part of s2

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clockwayswrites · 2 years ago

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Like Betta Fish Do- Part 3

Masterpost of ao3 link and all parts. wc: 1263

“Sorry for intruding on your haunt! Total accident. Please don’t disembowel me. Sorry again,” Dick read off the card that had been tucked into the gift basket. He glanced from the card, to the rest of the assembled batclan, and back to the card in confusion.

Of course Dick had insisted on coming with Jason to check over Crime Alley. Of course when they found the basket Dick had insisted on bringing it back to the Cave to be tested for poisons—

“They’re bathbombs, who’s going to fucking poison bathbombs.”

“We’ve seen weirder, Jaybird.”

—and so of course the whole family was there now.

Before Dick had even let them move the basket, he checked it out for basic booby traps. (To be fair, this was the first thing Jason did too.) Once the basked had been to the Cave, it was checked over, again, by various Bats. Then, Tim had taken all the contents to run a chemical analysis on the chocolate and bathbombs (seriously, who poisons bathbombs?). And finally, Bruce gave the all clear on examining the basket itself.

Dick had snagged the little card out of it’s little envelope before Jason could even make a grab for it and read off the message. “’Please don’t disembowel me’? What the fuck, Jason.”

Jason raised his hands up with a shrug. “Don’t ask me. Sure, ‘please don’t behead me’ I could get—” he ignored the slight flinch that caused from Tim and Bruce— “But pretty sure word has gotten around that killing isn’t really my sort of MO anymore.”

Thankfully the computer beeped before they could get into all that.

Again.

Tim read over the results before announcing, “Report came back clean on everything.”

“Huh.” Dick seemed actually surprised by that. Jason was feeling really fucking done with his family.

“Perhaps a chemical inside the bathbombs that will explode when exposed to water?” Damian suggested.

Really fucking done.

“We do all get how messed up it is that your brains go there, right?” Duke asked. (Duke might be Jason’s favorite at the moment.)

“Can’t be that,” Tim said, ignoring Duke’s comment about their mental stability with practiced ease. “I took a sample core all the way to the center. It really is just a basket with bathbombs and some chocolate.”

“Sweet,” Stephanie said as she made a lunge for the box of chocolates. Jason quickly pulled the basket and its contents out of reach.

“Back off, it’s my gift,” Jason said with a snarl that was only half for show. As much as he had calmed back down, he still felt tense— like there was a heavy weight in the center of his chest.

Damian gave him a wholly unimpressed look. “Why? Do you deserve it for, and I quote, not disemboweling someone?”

“I mean, I haven’t,” Jason said with a shrug as he grabbed his helmet; the gift basket was tucked securely under the other arm.

“Jason, we have to talk about this,” Bruce said in that tone of his; the one that implied Jason was making a stupid mistake. The one he always seemed to have—

Jason shook the thoughts away. He didn’t need to tempt the Pit today by doing down that path. He could feel that green tinged anger lurking on the edge of his mind already. He kept heading to his bike. If he got out of here, the temptation to pick a fight would go away. He knew that. He just had to make the choice to walk away from the fight. “Fuck no. Look. I’ll check my system and put up new cameras or some shit, okay?”

The footage on every camera he had up around the exterior of his apartment had either shown nothing at all or had glitched out into a fuzz of static. There had been someone at his door— a slight person, dark clothing— but that's as much detail as they could get. Which was, sure, concerning, but seemed like no harm no foul. (Not that the rest of the family agreed with that assessment.)

“I’ll bring over some better cameras in a few days and check through your system,” Tim said, already turning his attention to the task.

Jason didn’t want that.

He didn’t want anyone else messing with his system. But he was starting to understand that having his hands on the information of his family was Tim’s way of showing he cared. Jason hated it, but he understood it, so he’d allow it. He owed Tim more than a little acceptance. He owed Tim so much.

“Sure thing, Replacement.”

-----

Jason spent hours going over every inch of his place when he returned. None of the traps or markers had been triggered to show that anyone had actually come inside his space. The feeling he had experienced at dinner hadn’t come back. All that he felt was a slight unease and that was easy enough to dismiss as lingering feelings from earlier in the day. It wasn’t any worse than a Pit hangover.

Finally, satisfied that his place was secure, Jason sank down onto his couch with a huff of air.

The gift basket mocked him from where it sat on the coffee table. He’d dumped it there when he first came in, ignoring the odd present in favor of making sure that his place was safe. It would have been convenient for someone to break in and set up a trap while they were off dealing with the basket, but no one had. Now both him and the Pit were settled and the basket was still there.

Who the fuck gave bathbombs for not being disemboweled?

Leaning forward, arms resting on his knees, Jason plucked out the card. It was a simple thing, just a bit of cream cardstock in a little envelope. No logo or distinguishing features. The writing was a scrawled, half cursive— just this side of legible. Distinctive, but not any handwriting that Jason recognized. It wasn’t signed.

That would have been too easy.

That was the real issue of it all, wasn’t it? Who would leave a note like that for him? Jason Todd shouldn’t be getting a note like that. Red Hood, sure, he could understand getting such a message. He hated it a little, now that he was further away from the worst of the Pit Rage, but he got it. But him as Jason? Reclusive, miraculously returned son of Bruce Wayne? Jason shouldn’t have anyone afraid of him like that.

It spoke to someone knowing of his life as vigilante turned crime boss turned vigilante again, and that was dangerous. It was dangerous for him. It was dangerous for his family. It was dangerous for Crime Alley.

It was just another fucking thing he had to deal with. As if it wasn’t enough to having only recently, officially, returned to the living. There was also the work he was trying to do as Red Hood, the work he was trying to do for Crime Alley as Jason, and the effort of trying to spend more time with his family (preferably without stabbing anyone). Now he had this mystery too.

Maybe the bathbombs actually were a good gift and didn’t that idea make him scowl. When was the last time he’d actually taken some time to just relax? It had to be a while with the size that his ‘to read’ pile had grown to was any indication.

He could use one. They were just bathbombs.

He could run a warm bath, relax, crack open a book, eat some chocolate… and just try not to worry for a bit. Nothing was going to be solved tonight. Bruce had ordered him off patrol— which normally wouldn’t stop him, but Cass had given him big worried eyes too. There were no other pressing matters. His apartment was secure…

Fuck it. He grabbed the little basket and headed to the bathroom.

Time for some self care.

-----

AN: We'll likely get a Danny scene to cap chapter 2 off, but I though this was a nice little bundle to post! And my poor migraine is going to get even worse with the Artic front so wanted to get this posted~

Thank you all for such a lovely response on the other parts! This will be going up on ao3, but I want to get at least three chapters done first to get a little buffer. Everyone who asked should be in the tag list (as of yesterday), but if I missed you, or you want to be added, just let me know in the replies!

Stay delightful my darlings!

#dp x dc #dp x dc fanfic #red hood #jason todd #batfamily #like betta fish do

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tadpolesonalgae · 8 months ago

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Fear of the Dark

Dark!Ghost!Azriel x reader

synopsis: after escaping from the Shadowsinger, the High Lord provides you with a new home, in a location entirely of your own choosing. One that just so happens to be frequently visited by window-rattling blizzards, and snow so heavy you’ll often find yourself trapped within the supposedly safe haven. But when things begin moving on their own, and shadows stalk your well-lit halls, you begin to think maybe the Spymaster somehow eluded death, too.

warnings: references to implied noncon, dark!az, paranormal events, nonconsensual touching (shoulders, mouth, hip)

a/n: dedicating this to @azrielhours , and inspired by her wonderful Company of Phantoms🧡💛

want to know more?

word count: 1,963

-Fear of the Cold-

It’s been six months since he died in the fire.

Six months of roaring screams echoing through the desolate hallways.

Half a year.

It goes by quickly when swallowed by delusion. Of persistent psychosis.

Of imagined shadows stalking your corridors. Of dragging footsteps just outside your chambers. Of the windows rattling, and not from the sudden blizzards that sometimes hit—seemingly out of nowhere. Unpredictable, and haunting.

Some days you’ll wake up, greeted by the barren landscape or grey skies and greyer rock, and others all that lays there is white. Blinding, dominating white, like a blanket smothering the harsh, unforgiving terrain.

You know why you picked here to be your place of refuge. For complete isolation.

The rocky landscape means no one could stumble upon your house without intention, tucked up in the sides of the rugged mountain, weathered by icy rain and lashing winds that could make the blood in your fingertips recoil in the space of a breath. Cold so penetrating it could snatch the air from your lungs.

Few understand the true horror of the cold.

Absolute, inescapable cold.

Nature’s blade, that could cleave glaciers in two.

With the stormy skies, there is no access by air. Winged creatures staying clear of your northern-facing home. And yet, despite the utter isolation, you’re faced with company.

After not even a week in your new house, the hairs had been rising at the back of your neck. Unexplainable drafts ghosting up your spine, or kissing the length of your throat. Doors clicking shut during the grey hours of limited daylight. Books that fall from low shelves, the chandeliers that swing softly when you enter a room, plates that appear where they hadn’t been left.

It’s rarely dark in your house, but the weight is smothering. Every corner is kept clear of shadow, flame purging the darkness with a quiet conviction that feels almost reassuring. But there’s nothing reassuring about your new home. Forearms almost constantly littered in goosebumps, hairs rising, skin prickling.

Even at night, candles burn away at the dark, eating at every shadow that tries to crawl in from the cold. But it feels like lighting a fire in the barren wasteland of the frozen tundra. Flame blazing with superficial strength, until it melts the snow bowing the branches far above, ice slipping free, and smothering the fire in one smooth avalanche.

The glass is rattling again, deathly cold wind whipping, icy rain lashing down as you try to lower yourself into sleep. But every time you near that precipice, something pulls you back: the groan of heavy wooden beams that creak through your house, flame flickering with dwindling light as if blown by a ghostly breath, a strange coldness rising from the foot of your bed. That seeps into your blankets first, then spreads to your feet. Slowly crawling up your body, until you’re wrapped in the haunting embrace of long-dead arms.

Even fire can’t always clear his kind of dark.

Dark that smothers, and festers. That concentrates in the hollow space beneath your bed, that hides in the softness of your pillow, that lurks in the pits of your pupils.

He found a way inside, and now he’s sunk his claws in. Like hooked blades that disembowel when they’re extracted. You’d have to empty your brains out into a bucket to be free of him.

Even then, your body would remember. His touch memorised into the tissue of skin, his terror embedded in the sinew of flesh.

The window spiderwebs, the distinct sound of fracturing glass dumping icy water over your near sleeping form. Hauling you up from the pit of an ocean, wrapped in seaweed to face the stormy grit of the blizzard outside.

Instead, your attention is sucked in by the ever-shifting shadow at the foot of your bed, chilling wind pouring in through the glass, candles winking out. Swallowed in darkness.

The air is pulled from your lungs faster than the cold can snatch it, sat bolt upright in your still-cooling bed.

The darkness holds no recognisable form, simply clustered together as a writhing mass of overwhelming shadow, but there’s no mistaking who it is. Who lurks beneath those suffocatingly concentrated umbras. Inky and undulating.

You’re frozen to your mattress, an icicle thawing out far above as it drips cold sweat down onto your brow, every breath biting at your lungs, making your throat raw.

It’s dark, and you have no protection as he looms so tauntingly before you, hands trembling as they try to grip the freezing sheets. But you can hardly move.

Air chokes in your throat as the shadowy mass expands forward, encroaching toward the foot of your bed. Your eyes widen with terror, watching as talons of darkness spider-crawl onto your duvet, feet recoiling like hot blood against the cold, knees pulling up to your chest, back pressed against the headboard.

“You’re dead,” you breathe out, air thin and slippery between your lips. “You’re dead. You can’t hurt me.”

Your stomach seizes, lurching as the shadowy tendrils stutter in their movements, like shoulders shaking with silent mirth. You get the feeling he’s laughing. Crawling closer still.

He reaches past your feet, darkness swarming over your knees, and within the cloying night you can feel the weight of hands. Of heavy, corporeal touch. One that sinks into your bones as they tremble with old fear.

“You can’t be here,” you whisper, pressing tight into the cold cushioning of the headboard, head tucking into your shoulders as you try to pull away from his overwhelming darkness, writhing throughout the deathly cold room, his touch like ice. “Leave me…” you breathe, voice breaking.

The weight of a palm weighs into the mattress, beside your hip, tying you in place as the living night, faceless and dominating, swells above you.

Your hand reaches sharply for your bedside table, viciously shaking fingers fumbling with the box of matches, sliding the cardboard out with a last trembling hope. Again the darkness stutters, a shadowy laugh whispering beside your ear, an icy draft kissing up the length of your throat.

The match strikes…once…twice…three time before sizzling into a small lick of flame.

In the few seconds of light you’re afforded, shadow easily melts away, pulling out instead hauntingly dark hazel eyes, piercing as the flame sharpens them. The cold, dead mouth that had once hungrily claimed your own, teeth dragging and prominent as they bit you into pieces. The eerily pale tones of his face, warmth vacant from the smooth planes.

You choke on a breath.

Soft, cruel lips curve at the edge, eyes twinkling with the reflection of your match, before his weight shifts over the bed and scarred, calloused fingers pinch out the flame. Skin that remembers its burn now extinguishing it without thought, freed from its sizzling agony.

You scream into the darkness, sinking down into the false safety of your duvet, hauling it over your head as you tuck yourself tight, trembling violently despite desperate attempts to still yourself. A cry breaks from your lips as you feel himself lower over you, directly atop you, trapped beneath his bulk. A cannonball shackled to your ankle, pulling you beneath a frozen lake, blood icing in your veins.

He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be alive.

You heard him die, watched as the flesh slid from his bones, muscle melting beneath the blazing inferno of the house fire.

You smelled it. Could taste it in the smokey air.

“Come out…come out…,” the shadow rasps mirthfully, weight brushing atop the blanket, stroking down your arm, drifting to your hip. Touch biting into bone. “Come out…and play…”

“Go away,” you beg under your breath, squeezing yourself tight, tears burning as they drip over the bridge of your nose, sliding off your face. “Leave me alone…”

The darkness laughs, and your stomach seizes as the duvet is slowly pulled back, dragged firmly from your grip. Numbed fingers try to grapple with the sheets, but he’s so much stronger than you. Just as he’s always been.

“Stop it…” you beg, trying to turn to the side as the blanket is pulled away, revealing his swarming darkness that looms above, with a weight that should not be possible. A spectre should not be corporeal, should not have the right to touch the living. He should have lost that privilege upon passing.

Icy fingertips brush your cheek, and a small cry breaks from your lips, quiet and terrified, eyes squeezed shut in feeble attempts to keep him out as the storm rages.

He dips down, and chilly breath grazes the space beneath your jaw, a whimper pulling from your throat as a broad palm makes its way up your front, settling across your sternum heavily, pressing down on your chest, making it difficult to breathe.

“Please…” you whisper, crying now, “just leave me alone…”

His cold mouth opens over your neck, soft lips sealing over a patch of skin as he tastes you, tongue slowly licking over the junction between your shoulder and neck. Darkness shrouds your bedroom, encasing you in a perpetually cold bubble, sealing out the lashing wind and rain, but trapping you in mist. Thick and impenetrable.

The phantom pulls away, lips grazing your jaw, and even with your eyes closed you can feel his proximity. The piercing weight of his attention as it presses up against your skin.

“Call out for me,” he rasps, voice shadowy and shifting, as if speaking in multiple tones at once. “Call out for me,” he urges, coldness thumbing across your cheek, as if trying to coax your eyes to open. So he can feel their warmth, and their terror.

But you shake your head, teeth chattering as you shiver, shuddering beneath his touch. “Go away,” you beg, “leave me alone.”

A soft puff of breath ghosts over your lips, like a faint laugh, and you shrink back into the mattress while his shadows wrap closer around your body, squeezing like serpents. “Call out for me,” he repeats, his gaze roving over your mouth, parted for air despite its bite.

Hot tears scald your skin as they drip out, peeking open your eyes, as breath is again snatched from your body. A mountain of pressure sitting atop your chest.

He’s as haunting as you remember, cruelly carved beauty, hewn from an ice that tries to be soft, but will only end up flooding if it thaws. Drowning you in his deadly affection. Filling your lungs until they’re close to bursting with his poisonous infatuation.

Hazel eyes flicker as they greedily devour your own, overwhelming and immense as you’re submerged into his obsession. Saturated in his hunger. Starvation so deep it persists after death.

“Azriel…” you breathe, lips trembling around his name, feeling as though its the last line of an enchantment, solidifying his presence, binding him to your own mortality.

Soft lips curve at their edges, a spark of life stolen from your existence. Fed off of, until he’s permanently entwined with your being. Persistent and parasitical.

He hums lowly, approvingly, and you swallow. Fear making you feel sick.

Slowly, as if basking in the descent, he settles his mouth atop your own, snow-soft lips slanting against a frozen stiff set, applying gentle pressure as he savours the feeling.

He still moves with such grace, such innate refinement that between the two of you, you seem the more lifeless. With unmoving limbs, and vacant eyes, you are the more dead.

The shadows pull away, blood gingerly rising to where his touch had been.

“I’ll return,” he whispers, mouth still faintly curved into a soft deception of tenderness.

Flickering night morphs and shifts, dissolving along with the wind.

“Find me in the dark.”

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya

dark!az taglist: @honeyandhalfmoons

#azriel x reader #dark!azriel x reader #dark!azriel #ghost!azriel #dark!azriel x you #azriel fic #dark!azriel fic #fear of the dark

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vampirebloodie · 1 year ago

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Jealous jealous jealous boy | Mark Hoffman x Reader (Part 1)

Summary: Where you were Mark's ex-wife and even after so long he was still jealous of you, especially with Strahm.

Warning: angst/sad history, mentions of trap and blood.

You've reached your limit, he's reached his limit. You didn't know what a hole you were in until you discovered who Hoffman really was, his second "job" was simply the most disgusting thing you had ever been aware of in your life. As much as you loved him, you knew that after that you couldn't trust him anymore and that's why you decided to leave the apartment where you two lived.

Mark was at the police station while you packed your bags with some clothes and personal objects, your tears wet the clothes you were folding, it had been three days since your personal investigation made you discover that he was Jigsaw's apprentice, three days you held back so as not to explode and tell someone everything.

You had been suspicious of Hoffman for some time but you refused to believe in anything like that, after all, he was your husband, someone you swore to trust forever, but the evidence was very clear, all the police officers at the station were dying being tested in the worst traps, but not him, as if he were invincible, and that was why the investigation never moved forward, with Hoffman's hands probably sabotaging the evidence.

You wanted to tell and end it all, but if you did that you could easily end up dead, rules are rules, and as much as Hoffman liked you, you didn't want to test how far his loyalty to Jigsaw would go. An image of Angelina flashed through your mind, she had been killed by her boyfriend because she discovered he was a criminal and drug user, what if Hoffman did the same to you if he discovered what you know?

You had already bought a ticket to your hometown, far away from him and all these cases, everything would go well, you would disappear and start your new life somewhere else, without Mark, without murders. When you closed the suitcase and placed it at the bedroom door, you heard the sound of the main door lock opening. You had completely forgotten that Hoffman was leaving work early today, your heart fluttered and you hid the suitcase under the bed before he entered the room, trying to act as normal as possible.

“Hey, babe. What are you doing? You look so pretty, is this all for me?”

Hoffman came in and gave you a quick kiss, you felt a little disgusted.

“Hi... I was cleaning our room, why are you home so early?”

“I just came to have dinner with my beautiful wife.”

He smiled and left the room heading to the kitchen, you sighed. You even thought about putting poison in his food, but Mark wasn't stupid. Maybe if it was a situation before that, you would have been happy hearing him call you that. You put your bus tickets inside your makeup drawer and left the room to eat with him, even though your appetite wasn't present. Hoffman was already sitting at the table eating when you picked up your plate and sat down too, starting to play with your food instead of eating.

"Babe, what happened?"

He asked wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"Hm? It's nothing."

You shrugged. You was so scared. You was afraid of him.

"Don't lie. You've been acting strange for days."

He tried to touch your face and you immediately pulled away, getting up from the table, panicking and starting to cry. Mark was scared by your reaction, you had never treated him like this in all these years of your relationship.

"Do not touch me!"

You shouted pointing the knife from your meal at him. The images of the bodies of all those victims of the cases flashed through your mind, your husband was one of those responsible for all that happening and you could no longer bear the pressure of knowing that. You felt disgusted to think that you shared a bed every night with someone who always got their hands dirty with other people's blood, who did an extremely dirty and cruel job, torturing people by making them disemboweled, mutilated, who killed people even though he knew what happened about his own sister had been murdered in a brutal way.

“Y/n! Put that knife down, what happened?”

He asked with a worried expression trying to get closer to you again, making you move further away.

“I can't do it anymore... I need to go, i need to get out of here...”

You said, throwing the knife on the floor and going to the bedroom, Hoffman followed you immediately, you pulled the tickets out of the drawer and took the suitcase from under the bed.

“A suitcase... Where are you going?”

He asked confused.

“It's over, Hoffman. I can't anymore, I can't be together with you anymore. I need to go."

You grabbed your suitcase and tried to leave the room but he pulled you back.

"Why are you doing this? Why are you leaving me? I love you, you can't do this to me. Please....”

He asked looking into your eyes, his eyes were watering. Flashes of your wedding day hit your mind, those same blue eyes looking at you in a passionate way as he held your hand at the altar and said the most romantic words in the world to you, promising to always protect and love you.

“I love you too, but i can't stay with a.... with.... with you... If you really love me.... Let me go..”

You almost said "killer"

"But why? Please don’t leave me, i only have you...”

“Some things don't last forever, Hoffman. The same goes for our marriage.”

You touched his face leaving a kiss on his lips, one last kiss, only to turn around and leave the apartment with your bags in hand. Tears covered your face and you tried to avoid them, but it hurt so much to have to leave him. Everything both of you experienced in three years of marriage was something surreal, even with all the fights because he was an extremely complicated person to deal with, it had never reached such an extreme point, only at the most with you telling him to sleep in the living room, which don't lats two hours because soon you would miss him in bed and call him again. You left the building starting to call the only person who could help you at this moment, an old high school friend.

“Special agent Lindsay Perez, how can i help you?”

“Perez, i need help. My relationship is over and i need to get out of town, can i stay at your place for a few days until i settle down again? I already found a job interview and i just need to go to the bus station .”

“Oh Y/n... I'm so sorry, yes of course, my house will always be open for you. You don't need bus, my car is being repaired, but i can ask my work partner to pick you up, he's in your city for an interview. His name is Peter Strahm. I think you gonna like him.”

#saw #imagines #saw x reader #mark hoffman #mark hoffman x reader #saw x #saw franchise

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mjshortformcjesus · 1 day ago

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OK LOOOONG POST (i ranked all the saw traps except for the spiral ones)

starting with the worst and i’ll work my way up :3

74. lawnmower trap (saw 3d) because its boring and stupid

73. edgar munsen’s trap (jigsaw). this whole movie sucks ass but. the lack of filter on like this whole scene pisses me the fuck off

72. shotgun chair (saw v) idek it just sucks

71. hangman’s noose (saw 3d i believe) its really boring and basicccc

70. cyanide box (saw 3d) boring as hell im afraid

69. sentry gun (saw 3d) its kinda funny i suppose???

68. hoffmans ugly fucking rbt (saw vi) its fucking ugly

67. suspended cage (saw 3d) i would survive this no problem

66. chain hangers (jigsaw) i dont care for it and the needles and i hate it

65. spike trap (saw iv) its good i think its just like the one trap i cant watch :/

64. scalping chair (saw iv) idkkkk its justs like boring and yawn (really funny on 2x speed though)

63. grain silo (jigsaw) lordddd its badddd

62. electrified staircase (saw ii) i think this would fix my knees but like. the way its filmed lowkey sucks

61. public execution (saw 3d) good golly this one ugh. i think it couldve been good if it werent a stupid reason to get put in a trap

60. drill chair (saw i) lost points for being named jeff

59. shotgun keys (jigsaw) funny. i suppose

58. shotgun hallway (saw i) i liked sing ;-;

57. freezer room (saw iii) slow ass fucking jeff

56. cycle trap (jigsaw) not a personal fav but the corpse is really funny

55. brazen bull (saw 3d) diy top surgery ig but the wife didnt deserve that

54. ceiling jars (saw v) they couldve all fIT IN THERE

53. antidote safe room (saw ii) i hate xavier and i dont really enjoy when he cut the back of his neck off :/

52. electric bathtub (saw v) i liked the lady that got zapped ;-;

51. razor box (saw ii) its good but also akdjdjosjeoskdo

50. disembowelment (saw x) wooble wooble wooble

49. gas chamber (saw x) i hate cecilia so sos os os so much

48. oxygen crusher (saw vi) its a wee bit fucked up ngl

47. buckets room (jigsaw) personally i dont like it very much but @w3bcu1t does and i love her

46. neck tie trap (saw v) LMAO THE DECAPITATION

45. pipe bomb (saw x) ughhh its good but ughhhh

44. zep’s test (saw i) idek yall

43. magnum eyehole (saw ii) yea

42. spine cutters (saw iv) i liked art…

41. bedroom trap (saw iv) its icky but well done

40. horsepower trap (saw 3d) all i wrote for this was “lur lur lur” idk what that means

39. leg wires (jigsaw) ://////

38. wisdom teeth combo (saw 3d) the peanuts :3

37. jeff’s final test (saw iii) kajsisjslkaksndkd

36. razor wire maze (saw i) man oh man its a classic

35. the furnace (saw ii) :3

34. steam maze (saw vi) yea

33. exploding puppet (saw iv) OWAGHH lindseyyy

32. pig vat (saw iii) juice

31. flammable jelly (saw i) ngl its just for the name

30. knife chair (saw iv) hehe ha

29. eyeball vaccuum (saw x) slurrrppppp

28. silence circle (saw 3d) i wont explain myself

27. nerve gas house (saw ii) lowkey this trap fucks hard. easily the best group trap

26. laser collars (jigsaw) listen. i know it sucks. idc

25. the cubeeee (saw v) in my cube. straight up breathing it. and by “it” well haha lets justr say. neck air

24. classroom trap (saw iii) again. my notes just say “lur lur lur”

23. brain surgery (saw x) pabdodjeokeow

22. impalement circle (saw 3d) i…have no idea

21. radiation (saw x) gabrielaaaaa

20. bloodboarding (saw x) ITS SO AINSOEMEPW

19. pendulum (saw v) he-he got cut in half lmao

18. acid room (saw vi) tghe fucking body melting??? PEAK

17. bathroom trap (saw i) gay people

16. ice block trap (saw iv) fuck eric amiright

15. venus fly trap (saw ii) i loveee this one but poor michael probably didnt deserve that

14. shotgun collar (saw iii) live. laugh. lesbian.

13. pound of flesh (saw vi) this is a classic and i love it sm

12. the gallows (saw vi) AMERICAN HELATHCARE

11. shotgun carousel (saw vi) USA 🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🦅🦅🦅🦅!!!!!

10. 10 pints of sacrifice (saw v) when- when the hands do the flappy i lose my shit

9. amanda’s test (saw iii) ANSOSJOSJknosjoskijsi&/918Jwboajaosj

8. needle pit (saw ii) isjsisjsoajaoanoak

7. reverse bear trap (saw i and 3d) amajda ambda andbaa mandy ambda amanda (and jill i suppose)

6. mausoleum (saw iv) mmmmmmmmmm

5. eric’s test (saw ii) oh goodness. i fucking hate eric matthews.

4. bone marrow (saw x) i really like this one

3. glass coffin (saw v) silly haha

2. the rack (saw iii) THE PRACTICAL EFFECTS RAHHHHH

angel trap (saw iii) i loveee kerry i loveee the effects i loveee the rats on her in saw iv i loveee amanda appearing as kerry’s ribs get ripped open

yayayaya i did it. yall can ask if you have questions :3

#saw #saw franchise

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sincerely-sofie · 7 months ago

Note

I just realized how crazy Opal’s family is on paper. Imagine you’re a greedy crook so you kidnap the child of the random Charmeleon lady who you know has more money than she lets on. Then you send a ransom letter and set up a dungeon so this Charmeleon woman can give you the money for her child back. It’s fool proof!

And then you find out said Charmeleon lady is not JUST a Charmeleon lady, she’s the lady who stopped the world from getting paralyzed with her friend. Okay, no problem. They probably haven’t fought in a serious battle for years. It’s still an easy job- oh she still goes into dangerous mystery dungeons and so does her previous partner Kip. Okay, startling, but you can still pull through on this- oh wait, Grovyle the time gear thief, Dusknoir the hit man, and the time traveling mythical Pokémon Celebi are also part of the family? They also care about this Charmeleon lady?? And they’d also be apoplectic about this? Okay, now you’re a lot more worried, but it’s nothing that hiring a few accomplices can’t handle! Wait. The father of the baby is the guy who actively tried to cause the planet’s paralysis? The one who managed to torment an entire town? And all have of them practically stared Dialga in the face and said “yeah I can win this/I have to win this” and actually did win? Or at least one of them caused Dialga’s insanity?

You now realize you have only a few options:

1. Lie to potential accomplices about who exactly you messed with because no one sane would look at the full implications of this and go “yeah let’s do it!”

2. Hope the Charmeleon lady won’t call for backup, and that said backup won’t find out and come anyways, therefore plan proceeds without a hitch.

3. Just give the baby back and apologize.

If you’re really greedy or desperate for money, you’d choose one of the first two options. Otherwise, you’d choose option three and run for the hills.

And that’s before said criminal realizes they kidnapped a baby legendary.

The best part of all this is that her family never talks about the craziness of their lives. So you think you're just kidnapping some rich lady's kid and then a brigade of highly competent, highly dangerous individuals come swooping in simultaneously, but the brigade is comprised of:

That old man who you saw agonizing over what cookware to buy at the market the other day and apparently knows how to corner people who are running from him with startling efficiency

A scrawny, ugly grass-type you crossed paths with at the clinic when he was getting some medicines for his chronic pain and who is also unbelievably fast and hits like a truck

A marshtomp who, despite having famously (and shamefully, according to many) retired from exploration, is arguably even more dangerous now despite his calmer occupation, because he knows everything about the ruins you’re hiding out in, including where all the traps are

The rich lady whose baby you stole and also has apparently BESTED MULTIPLE LEGENDS IN COMBAT with the help of that marshtomp we mentioned earlier, and is currently tearing her way through the countryside and rapidly closing in on your location

And two entire legends who are not only extremely capable on their own, but can destroy your psyche by showing you the exact location, date, and cause of your death (right here, right now, her disemboweling you personally with her bare hands) or locking you in a perpetual nightmare. Also that one over there is the baby's dad? Oh heck you're so dead—

AND THE BABY HERSELF IS A LEGEND WHO KEEPS TURNING INTO DIFFERENT ROCK + STEEL TYPES WHO WEIGH VARYING UNHOLY AMOUNTS AND IS SHRIEKING LOUD ENOUGH FOR ANYONE IN A 30 MILE RADIUS TO KNOW WHERE YOU ARE. OH HECK YOU'RE SO DEAD.

Beyond this scenario, imagine being an older Opal who's chilling with the fam during the holidays. Everyone is having a nice time hanging out and soaking in the good company. And then your uncle who cries whenever you call him Uncle mentions that he hasn't had this good of food since before his parents kicked him out of the house when he was a kid. You don't say anything, but you're extremely confused. Did he say he was evicted from his family home as a child? Maybe you misheard...

And then your other uncle says that he got the recipe from some bidoof during that window of time that your mom didn't exist. Your aunt nods sagely and says that it was very kind of the bidoof to share such a treasured family recipe with him during that time. He probably needed the comfort food while grieving his best friend.

At this point you are very much baffled by the conversation, and then your grandfather politely asks if we can stop talking about this, because he'd rather not be reminded of the fact that they all died when he's still finishing dessert.

Your dad then chimes in by saying he'd appreciate a topic change as well. His appetite is rather soured by the reminder of his part in their deaths.

You have never been more confused. And they all just move on to chat about the weather like nothing about what they said is absolutely unbelievable. So later you go to ask your mom about it and she has the audacity to reply:

TFW you’re finally old enough to comprehend The Family Lore™️

#shadow baby au #pokemon mystery dungeon #pokémon mystery dungeon #pmd explorers #pmd sky #pmd eos #pmd2 #pmd #pmd darkrai #pmd dusknoir #pmd grovyle #pmd celebi #pmd2 partner #sofie answers asks

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ombrathefurry · 2 months ago

Text

general bad things sf HAS been through (many of these multiple times):

cut or stabbed with every sharp object imaginable (kitchen knives, combat knives, surgical knives, other types of blades like xacto knives or razors, pins and needles, scythes, swords, scissors, saws, claws, teeth, axes, even a sharp disc)

burned in many different ways (burned with fire, almost burned to death, essentially boiled, branded, acid burned, burned by lava/molten material being dripped onto him, electricity burns, burned with wire wrapped around him)

electrocuted

drowned (in blood as well as water)

eaten/mauled (including being cannibalised)

forcefed

forced self cannibalism

whipped

hung

trapped (mostly in snares though)

shot (with bullets and arrows)

strangled/deliberately asphyxiated

broken many bones both deliberately and unintentionally

dislocated bones

beaten/blunt force trauma to the point where he's bruised through scar tissue

beaten up in general (as opposed to being intentionally tortured)

caged

scarified (people have played tic tac toe on him, and also have made drawings with symbols and other etchings that would bring him further harm for more complicated reasons)

poisoned (as well as venom)

severed tendons (mostly in legs)

muted (via severing vocal chords or mutilating his tongue or both)

crushed

hunted down

bounty hunted

starved

concussed multiple times

declawed/ripped claws out (both intentionally and unintentionally)

forced isolation/solitary confinement

drugged

medical malpractice

mock slaughtered/butchered

tooth damage/removal

used as target practice

had his wrists and throat slit more times than one could count (his throat is now physically malformed because of this+the fact it was an entrance wound for electricity burns)

had his throat actually collapsed

pinched nerves

blinded

thrown from great heights

threatened as a means of leverage against loved ones

turned into a fullbody glass mosaic by having shards of broken glass pressed into his skin

tortured

tortured on tables

tortured restrained on tables

tortured while being hung

torture devices

waterboarded

crucified (at the same time he was waterboarded)

mock executed

skinned (it was put back on)

disembowelled

On top of this, he has also:

witnessed I believe 3 different people he cares about be decapitated

been tortured/beaten more because he was being too loud

been tortured/beaten more because he wasn't being loud enough

been tortured/beaten for crying while being tortured/beaten (and has even had measures placed to make crying temporarily painful)

had his life on the line for literal games against his will

been tortured for both losing and winning said games

been told "dare or die" more times than countable and has been forced to do dangerous things this way

been shot in the eye (his blind one) (on a scratch roleplay) (I dont know how they didnt get banned that wasn't the only thing they did to him)

had the skin on the inside of his ears torn out

pinned his own tendons back together with a safety pin so he could move to help his friend who was being tortured

been tortured by people he trusted to avoid being killed instead

been tortured by impersonations of people he trusts/loves

been forced to hurt people he cares about

witnessed many people he cares about being tortured and beaten

had death parties organized so significant multiples of the characters who want to hurt or kill him got together to torture him all at once (these have since been publicly discontinued I believe)

killed multiple people out of self defense

felt the sensation of being torn in half (it didn't actually happen, but he experienced what it would have felt like)

had his throat torn open with a literal cheese grater (?????????)

been trapped in a cave as a captive and periodically tortured by an organized rotating cast of tormentors

been restrained during a thunderstorm and forced to listen to the weather (thunderstorms upset him severely because one character who has tormented him extremely badly is associated with them)

been conditioned to interpret (extremely) gentle touches as hostility

been conditioned that he is a subject for torturing and not his own person with rights to feelings and life (though he has since recovered from this)

been conditioned not to fight back or resist (though he is often able to overcome this conditioning, but with the price of developing an irrational anxiety that it WILL backfire no matter what)

Okay I did my best here I'm missing a lot of details but this is a huge summary that I will update if I think of more

i dont know if ive ever revealed publicly the extent of which SF has been traumatized but hopefully this gives you an idea (and this is only the (mostly) physical stuff)

#random #oc #violence #mentions of violence

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cookies-and-mirrors · 2 months ago

Text

Prison of Stone and Flesh

Chapter Twenty One

This is a collaborative fic between @cookiesupplier and @faceless-mirror.

Dividers by @samspenandsword @cafekitsune @saradika-graphics

Authors Note: Angsty SMUT ahead

Pairings: Multi-Pairings, Everybody x Everybody.

Triggerlist: transphobia, homophobia, abuse, SA, dubcon, religious trauma, past suicide attempts, mental health issues, grief, death, violence, (To be added to)

Christopher, Justin, and Ryan are members of the Gargoyle Order, soldiers fighting in the angels war against the demonic supernatural evils of the world to protect human kind. Through the years they lost comrades and now just the three of them remain in their little town.

Now, Ricky and Vinny are moving into their church, stirring up old and new feelings, along with the past, posing the challenge of navigating this new chapter in their lives.

Can they all navigate this path successfully and break free of the prisons that is their lives of both stone and flesh, or will they all be trapped forever in a world that could prove to be a constant misery?

MASTERLIST HERE

Taglist: @miamore0570 @21-century-tae @dragon-chica @shilohrosechicken @comforting-madness

@missduffsblog @witchyweeb34 @spicywhenspeaking @lacktoesandtoddlerants @blackveilomens

@bngurngheart @dominuslunae @collapsedglasshouses @emmmm127 @sunsshinesunny

@latenightmusiclover @dontdiganothergravetoday @high-wire

(please comment/like/reblog/message to be added to taglist)

Chapter Twenty One

Ryan was thankful that he was on patrol with Chris, as much as he loved Justin, he did, he knew that the man wasn’t able to ever keep his mouth shut. He would just jabber on and on all night long. Look at what happened after Chris spent the night with Vinny, he brought him home almost disembowelled by a demon, Ryan didn’t want his insides almost to end up on the ground thank you very much. All because Justin couldn’t keep his mouth shut. No, Chris would be respectful, and hopefully, potentially keep his thoughts to himself.

Though, even if that was asking too much, he’d at least be decent about it, and stop if he asked him to.

Chris, he was just happy to get out of the Church. While he’d gone out the night before and had his little tiff with the hellhound before that, had Jerahmiel called it, Oli? Had shown up, what kind of hellhound had that one been? He’d never seen the likes of one that massive before. It was either old, or a new breed so massive, that hell had specific plans in mind for it. That worried Chris, what did Hell have planned to have sent something that massive out to guard a fallen angel? Jerahmiel had to be a fallen if Gwynn was classed as one, right? Gwynn was a precious being, to be called fallen, Jerahmiel had to be one too.

They were walking in silence, both of them so focused on keeping guard, and their own minds if they were honest. Chris had Chenza back in Vinny, and Ryan… Ryan was not going to talk about it, about any of it. Most of all, though, it was the night after Halloween, and the night after Halloween was just as bad as the night itself. There was no telling how many demons were able to slip through the veil between the realms the night before when it was so thin.

Hearing a scream down an alley down the street, Ryan already had his hammer drawn, extending the handle ready to swing, Chris extracted his daggers from their sheaths immediately, unquestionably. Their steps quickened on the pavement as they broke into a run down the street, following the sounds of the mortal's distress. They rounded the corner of an alley to find a circle of demons surrounding a woman, that was all, a single woman.

“Never change it up, do you boys, always have to gang up on the weak and the helpless.” Ryan’s words came as both gargoyles grew larger, their bodies shifting into their bestial forms, covered in their living stone, wings erupting from their backs as the demons let out vicious shrieks. Scales shed from the beasts before the gargoyles down in the alley, they didn’t even need to run at them. The hoard of hell spawn didn’t have a cell in their collective minds when they decided to come at the immortal warriors, running toward them to their dooms. They intended to guard their prey, but Chris and Ryan weren’t about to let that woman stay in their clutches.

At the church, Gwynn was up and moving best they could, though right now, Gwynn was eating, as Vinny was feeding Honesty and themself as many eggs as possible, along with feeding Justin. Ricky had crashed back to bed as soon as he had come back from the restroom, and was currently still asleep in his room. Vinny had already lured his mate away with cheesy scrambled eggs and fresh bacon and ham steaks with green onions sprinkled over both. Justin had walked out of Ricky’s room, and taken one look at Atsuko with all those plates in front of him, and smiled. He remembered that first morning with Vinny cooking all those different eggs for him, Vinny making all those different types, trying to figure out what he liked to eat, and figuring out… yesss cheesy scrambled eggs. Climbing onto the stool, and devoting his love for Vinny right there, she was perfection.

Gwynn had been dazed, not remembering much but feeling… good and confident. They were eager to see Ryan after patrol, wanting to wrap him up in their arms and wings, but part of them knew better, still fearful of that harsh touch.

Chris and Ryan fought hard through the hoard of demons, and it was a hoard. Turned out there was a small tear in the veil that they used a rune to seal before they could leave. The more they fought, the more demons that kept pushing through, thankfully the woman got away unscathed while they slashed and smashed their way through the gore of the masses. The bodies of the demons bursting into flames and descending back down to hell the moment they were hit with the runed weapons. Once Chris had sealed the tear with his daggers dipped in holy water, they killed the last few of the demons and finally, they could rest… Just a moment… Shit…

Now, now, they could make their way back to the church.

Rather than walk, they took to the skies, knowing they were drenched in blood, and if they were seen, they would raise a few eyebrows… just a few.

A teenager looked out the window to see them and shouted, “DAD. THERE ARE GIANT MONSTERS OUTSIDE-”

A booming voice came from deeper in the home, “Damn it, Will! Did you get into my mushrooms again?”

Chris took in a sharp breath, glancing over at Ryan, they had both heard the kid shout, even from the sky, they could hear, well, everything almost. What were they going to do, usually it was dark enough they could be hidden, and then, before either of them could say anything, the next voice came… The amusement that washed over him was such a shock to his system that he almost forgot how to fly for a second. For a second, he almost fell from the sky, Chris having to grab at him before he got too low... that had his commander smirking and laughing his ass off at him.

“And to think, I didn’t think I’d get a laugh out of tonight.”

Gwynn looked up as the rush of the night air changed, they were back! They moved to greet them freezing seeing Ryan, jaw slack and looking over him, they swallowed, “Hi.” they wanted to reach out and touch him, but something told them not to reach out. A voice. A worry in the back of their mind, itching and angry, snarling in their head.

Landing on the balcony of the rectory, while they had more access than that, they had the different alcoves open, this was the one that they used. There was also the fact that so many of the alcoves used to belong to fallen members of their troupe, and it felt, different, to traipse over them sometimes. They were both so covered in blood, and heaven knows what, they were probably dripping it everywhere…

Chris looked between Gwynn and Ryan, “I'm going to clean up at Vinny’s.” Escaping the rectory before either of them could say a thing, he wasn’t going to deal with that tension right now, not to mention he wanted to be near his mate.

Ryan took in a deep breath, swallowing, there was an adrenaline rush after a fight, but he was covered in blood and the thought of tainting Gwynn, tainting… clearing his throat brokenly… “I’ll just… uh…”

“I could join you- or… I would have but-” Gwynn stopped talking, remembering their leg, and sighed, “Go ahead and clean up. Get some rest if you want… whatever feels right.” they said gently, licking their lips, “If you want to… find me later?” they offered sweetly.

Ryan’s breath caught, if he wanted, what he wanted, the feeling then that gripped him was like Jerahmiel was standing behind him, reaching under his rib cage, and wrapping his fingers around his heart and gripping. A rune on his back glowing, focusing the pain for a moment before fading back and disappearing again, the illusion disappearing with it. Swallowing heavily, his fingers flexing by his sides, “Alright.” Shifting on his feet before making for the bathroom, inching his way around them.

Gwynn took off from the balcony, going up to their old alcove, touching the door before easing in, seeing it covered in dust and dirt. Some birds had once roosted here but no longer… they paused before clapping, and it steadily cleaned itself. Leaving the room spotless, Gwynn sighed and looked around. They upgraded the bed with a simple touch and laid down groaning softly, their body stretched out as their fingers worked their pants out of the way, stroking their fingers over their folds slowly, moaning softly his name.

Listening just inside the door for the sound of them leaving, sighing as Ryan knew he was alone, damn, what was he doing. This morning, this morning, had been so different. He hadn’t even slept properly, in what more than twenty-four hours, he was dead on his feet. Okay, he’d rested some with Gwynn this afternoon, and it had felt so strange, nothing compared to a rejuvenation cycle of stone, but, not the point, he, he didn’t know what the fuck he was thinking right now. Stripping the bloody clothes from his body in the bathroom, discarding them aside, he stepped into the shower, he started it and just began scrubbing, washing every inch of his marred and scarred body.

They weren’t supposed to scar. Gargoyles, with their ability to seal their wounds with one rejuvenation cycle, they were never supposed to form visible scars on their bodies. Even Chris, when he’d taken so long to heal, it had all been internal, his muscles struggling to support his bodies internal functions. How or why they could never explain it, but injuries that they endured always took longer to heal, leaving them to linger in pain.

Once he was clean, that was when Ryan’s fingers were wrapping around his cock. Sighing, thinking about one person, a face, a name he’d once forgotten falling from his lips, that he hadn’t said like this in so long.

Alone, Gwynn was whimpering and mewling in pleasure, legs shaking, as they remembered the feeling of waking up with Ryan. His cock had slid between their clothed cheeks and remembering that, Gwynn stroked faster, teasing the clit that had adapted instead of their cock they still missed. They teased their folds as they melted in delight, trembling with their eyes rolled back.

Ryan braced himself against the wall of the shower with his other hand as he stroked his cock, head hung forward. Hair wet as the scalding hot water running down his body washing away pink with the blood down the drain all evidence of the patrol forgotten now as he moaned out, “Gwynn…” Having his hands on them this morning was too much, and, not enough, more than he’d ever deserve again and he knew it.

Gwynn was moaning fingers working into them as their other hand gripped the sheets beneath them softly, whimpering out Ryan's name, pleadingly. “Ryan- Ryan please-!” They whispered, throbbing as they moved just a bit faster.

Groaning as the warmth of the water was a poor replacement for the press of Gwynn’s body against his, the feel of them wrapped around him, being inside of them, their cock in his hand instead of his own. No… fuck… that could never happen again, could it? He’d never feel their cock in his hand again… not that he had any right to touch them at all again any longer, anyway. Thumb rubbing over the tip, so careful, and it wasn’t even how he liked, it was, he sobbed, they, they had always liked, “Go on baby, cum for me…” Words barely gasped from his lips as his hand works them in his mind, not wanting to let go of this moment. He wasn’t going to get a reality, why couldn’t he have this?

The angel squirmed and gasped, wings fluttering as they fought their orgasm for a minute before crying as they came, imagining Ryan’s frame pressed over theirs as they sobbed out his name cumming hard. They wouldn't get it for a while yet… they would earn it back. The right to touch him.

The feeling of his orgasm ripped through Ryan as he came into his hand with Gwynn’s name on his lips. There was a pain to his pleasure now, and admitting that to anyone never happened, ever, but a sob escaped him, knowing that he couldn’t escape it. Escape the things that he’d done, the horrible monster that he’d become, giving in. He hadn’t just been abused, he’d wanted it, time and time again, just so he could feel anything at all, for centuries. Sure, Ryan had never been wanting for lovers in the troupe, even as their numbers as dwindled, but it had always been different. He was the monster, he was ruined, and he knew it, Jerahmiel always made sure he knew it. He had accused Gwynn… And yet, he was the one that would never deserve them… Ever.

Gwynn stared at the ceiling, tears in their eyes, longing for the gargoyle they loved, wanting to be buried in his arms once more. Wondering if they would ever feel him like that again now that he knew how broken they were. What they had been used for. Then they got up, cleaning up and laid back down curled up ignoring the throbbing in their leg.

Chris had gone to clean up with Vinny, and spend some time with her, coming back from a patrol like that was always a horrific feeling. He had known it would be jarring for her to see him like that, and while he could have cleaned up beforehand, continuing to hide everything, wouldn’t have felt right. What's more, staying around Ryan, and Gwynn, with that tension, he didn’t think anyone in this building wanted that.

Sexual, emotional, it was just all kinds of tragic and passionate and none of them wanted to deal with it.

So after he cleaned up, and spent a rather substantial amount of time wrapped up in bed with his mate, reaffirming her he was alive, and perfectly fine. No more injuries. No demons had gotten a scratch on him… Even though one had almost gutted him just a few weeks ago, yes he understood her upset there, these things happened, he was fine… Chris went looking for Gwynn. Eventually, he went looking for them in their old room. He couldn’t remember if anyone had ever taken up their old alcove they’d once shared with Ryan, or if even Ryan had been able to bring himself to stay in there, after…

Knocking on the doorway, he waited, “Gwynn, Justice?”

“Come in.” Gwynn called, standing up, leaning on their cane as they grunted softly. “I'm good. I'm right here… I figured I should clean up the alcove… since…”

The alcoves tended to appear a lot smaller from the outside of the church than they were on the inside. This was one of the higher ones, and if Chris was honest, he was surprised the magic expanding the inside still worked. Then again, it was connected to Gwynn, so that was why it did. Nodding as he stepped in, “Of course, I just thought, I’d come by, see how you were going, healing, whether physically, or, otherwise?” Chris had gotten used to being the one to watch out for those around him, even if it was technically Gwynn’s job, it didn’t even occur to him to let it go now they had returned to them. Gwynn was still healing, just demanding everything of them would be detrimental anyway.

They smiled at him softly, “I'm okay… I'll be fine… I don't know if Ryan will ever want to move back in here… but…” Gwynn stopped looking over to see the hand carved cradles that Ryan had made for their future babies and their eyes watered. “When I was in heaven, I had dreamed of being here… home with Ryan… I'm fine. I’m fine…” Gwynn said, talking fast enough to distract themself from the cradle haunting them. They had been so excited, remembering when Ryan had shown them the matching set of cradles. Their diamond eyes gleamed in pain and anguish. “... I’m fine, but, but Ryan-”

Chris couldn’t say if Ryan would want back in this particular alcove either, sometimes, the past could weigh on you, such as those cradles. Would Gwynn feel the same about those cradles? So bittersweet with both wonderful and painful feelings, it would bring should anyone suggest using them for any babies the troupe brought into the world, some potentially very soon. By the angel, if Jerahmiel was right, those babies weren’t just going to be half-breeds, and Gwynn had heard everything. They hadn’t blinked. He wasn’t sure how to take that if he was honest.

“Gwynn, breathe, Ryan will be fine.” Chris was worried about them, he knew Ryan, he knew he could handle himself. They would have to figure out how to get him help, but he was more worried about Gwynn right now, with the way they were talking so fast. He reached carefully for their shoulders to gently turn them away from the room to the panel to the outside from the alcove. “We will work it out, you have my oath. I’m more worried about you right now.”

They looked up at Chris, silver eyes glimmering. “… what if he doesn't want me anymore? Am I too broken? I'm not able-bodied anymore. I can't even walk properly-” they whispered, closing their eyes and leaning their head back, staring up at the stone ceiling. “I wouldn't blame him if he hated me for everything… I can’t even fight right now, I’m not strong enough anymore… I don’t know what to do.”

The angel was broken. “And now… knowing because I was gone… Ryan got hurt more than I could have imagined… I hate myself more.”

Chris shook his head slightly, “Vinny told me Ryan’s first reaction upon seeing you, well, aside from confusion, there is no way, in the creator's blessed earth, that gargoyle does not want you anymore.” Sighing, these two, what was he going to do with them. “Besides, sadly, you are not the only one that is broken, able-bodied or not, it's not going to matter to him Gwynn, or any of us… Vin and I care for you too, and I’m sure Justin, and Ricky will love you just the same once they know you.” Provided the nephilim issue doesn’t prove a problem…

Reaching for Gwynn’s hand now, “Gwynn, I’m so sorry, but the truth is this isn’t your fault, the only people at fault were the people who kept you away, the people that tortured you both. Until we can get justice for both of you, all we can do, is do our best to help the two of you deal with this trauma… tell me, please, how can I help you deal with yours?” This wasn’t all about Ryan.

They looked at Chris’ hand holding their own, and they trembled, holding it just a bit tighter, “… Chris… I don’t know… I have no idea what to do… for the first time I’m clueless, and I’m looking for stability… and I can’t find it. Every time I think I have a grip, it's torn away… I felt best being near him. I don’t know what to do… Chris. I just wanted to be close to him, but he didn’t seem to want to be close to me, and I don’t know how to relax around him again. I just want my mate to touch me.” they whispered, chest aching. “Yet I’m terrified of his touch at the same time. What’s wrong with me…? He… I miss him… But… I don’t know what you can do… I’m better from resting with Ryan for a bit… My leg isn’t as sore… but…” they sighed, “If you could get him to come and see me even if I’m asleep… That would help.”

Pausing, Chris couldn’t say on what Ryan wanted, though he did know while he was fighting against being near Vinny, every cell in his being wanted to be right beside her, but he pulled back, so… maybe. The difference was, they were already mates, and for them, it was so much more painful, he knew Ryan had to be feeling this as much as Gwynn, they had both been feeling this pain for the last thousand years. It was a part of the bond. It had been, to put it as kindly as possible, slowly killing them. Nodding slightly, his hand squeezing Gwynn’s gently, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Gwynn nodded slowly, braiding their hair a bit, mostly just to keep it out of the way with how dreadfully long it was now. They would need to cut it soon… Perhaps in the morning. “Thank you- thank you, Chris. I don't quite know what to make of this…”

“None of us do.” His mate had come back from the dead, their handler had come back from heaven, and turned out wasn’t as dead as they had been led to believe. Pausing, “We should get out of the Church for a moment, to breathe… Maybe after we take some time to sleep all of this off tomorrow morning.”

They nodded with a soft smile, sitting back down and crawled under the covers. They were exhausted, but at least it was better.

Chris moved towards their bed, reaching for the covers to pull them tighter over Gwynn and tuck them in, he’d go down to Ryan, and then go talk to the others about what they could do tomorrow. Something they could work out they could do that was relaxing, or at least together. They needed to be able to watch over Gwynn and Atsuko, Atsuko, because it had been so long since he’d been, well, socialized. If Chris was honest, Atsuko had never been that good around mortals, he had a tendency to, well, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He loved him, he did, but you try convincing him that lying was the actual virtue when it came to hiding from the mortals what they were. Still, after how long in the catacombs, he deserved out in the world too. Even if they had to duct tape his mouth shut! Gwynn, was healing, Chris wasn’t going to risk them getting traumatized anymore.

“I’ll talk to the others, and figure something out for tomorrow. You rest… And Gwynn,” As he tucked them in, he spoke softly, leaning over, Chris pressed a soft kiss to their cheek, “Ryan isn’t the only one that missed you.” He did. He knew their relationship hadn’t been the best. Chris had been different back then, but he’d trusted Gwynn with his life, more than any other angel, and he’d give his life for them. Having them back meant the world. “Sleep well.” Now, to go kick Ryan’s butt and get him up here.

Gwynn's eyes widened, and they turned, leaning up enough to kiss his cheek in return. “I missed you all as well… sincerely.” they added as they laid back down, curling up once more. With that, they nodded and after a few moments drifted off, savoring the quiet and being home… As much as home was right now.

Their leg was stretched out stiff from earlier but otherwise comfortable on their side of the bed, and that was how Ryan found them when he stepped through the doorway of the alcove. Chris had indeed come down to the rectory. None of the three of them had stayed in any of their alcoves in so long, they hadn’t seen the point, besides, when their beast forms had been moved, they hadn’t really had a choice anymore. Gwynn they actually slept, Ryan he, he remembered now, laying beside Gwynn, wrapped up in their arms, after patrol, waiting for them to wake from their nap.

Chris had argued, that no matter how Ryan felt, that he knew that just being in his presence would aide, Gwynn’s healing. So whether he felt that either of them deserved the other…

“No, no, don’t argue, I don’t care what you think Ryan, I don’t want to hear it. I’ve heard Gwynn’s side, I’ve no doubt yours is probably the exact same on the reverse. You are both going to be a pain in my ass, I can feel it. Just go up there, and lay with them. You and I both know, the mating bond, and touch, helps the healing process. Now march.”

Ryan had felt guilty hearing that, remembering Chris in his delusional state trying to get to Vinny. They all realized later that he had accidentally mated to Vinny already, and if he’d let him go to her, his healing might have been smoother. There would have been a lot more questions, but it would have been smoother. Now he climbed into bed with Gwynn, and sighed softly, wrapping around them, gently, careful of their leg, slowly drifting off to sleep for the rest of the night, and into the next day.

#chris motionless #ryan sitkowski #justin morrow #miw fanfic #vinny mauro #chenzo mauro #ricky olson #ricky horror #chris cerulli #miw band #miw #fanfiction #angels #gargoyles #band fic #monster fic #motionless in white #smut

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kourabiedes · 5 months ago

Text

Carmine and Kieran Roleswap AU: Indigo Disk Edition

A while back I posted this thing, here's the rest of it! Long AU under the cut, there be turtles afoot. No pictures this time, sorry folks!

Right, so, the Indigo Disk. Carmine is still the one who promotes you to Cyrano as an ideal exchange student, because she wants you to show yourself and be crushed. She's changed dramatically in appearance, and the aggressive part of her personality is fully on display. Kieran has been the one running around with Briar in various regions. Carmine has taken over the Blueberry League and is running it with an iron fist. She's also tweaked her team to be thoroughly savage. Maybe Sinistcha in this universe has a third evolution, or her ace is a different Pokemon entirely. Point is, she has basically laid a trap for you. It's not a very good trap, since her whole goal is just to smack you down with witnesses, but it's a trap nonetheless.

So you go to Blueberry Academy, get initiated, then Kieran calls and is excited you're here! But he's also worried about his little sister because she's acting fuckin weird and he hopes you can help... again, Kieran is kinda oblivious to emotional cues and probably doesn't entirely realize Carmine would happily disembowel you right now. Drayton shows himself and invites you to the League Club Room. The scheming bastard is hoping to use your presence to overthrow Carmine as Champion, as in canon. He invites you to the cafeteria to meet with the rest of the E4 and Herself, to discuss you formally joining the BBL*. Carmine doesn't notice you at first, since she's busy eyeballing Drayton hatefully, but the minute she's aware of your presence she laser locks on you. She knows why you're here. She doesn't even really register the E4 debating whether you should be allowed to join, until Drayton asks for her opinion. She eyeballs him -- she knows he's scheming, but he's also played exactly the card she wanted to come up. Of course she wants you to join. What could be better, in fact? She can pull strings and let you start at the level that lets you challenge the 4. The unusual nature of the situation will draw gossip. The rest of the BBL* will be fascinated. There will be eyes everywhere.

And when you make it to the top, she'll be waiting, ready to cut you down in front of the entire student body.

So you're in.

It's only when he walks in on half the E4 and his sister inducting you into the BBL* that Kieran realizes how bad the situation actually is. He tries to reason with Carmine, only to be dismissed coldly.

For a while, everything proceeds exactly as she wants it to. She knew you could defeat the E4. She knew you would make it to her. She knew you would be across the field from her, and she's worked so hard to be ready for you.

Then, you fight her down to the wire. She pulls out all the stops. You're down to one Pokemon apiece and she has her ace out and Terastallized and she knows she has you.

Your final Pokemon... is Ogerpon. The monster. The martyr. In either case, a symbol of Kitakami, of home.

And for a moment, just a crucial, critical moment, Carmine no longer knows why she's doing this.

Ogerpon Terastallizes her mask, swings her cudgel, and Carmine's ace falls, vanishing into its Pokeball in a flash of light. Ogerpon roars, and Carmine wants to scream, but she can't manage so much as a whimper.

Her trap sprang, and you turned it back to bite her instead. Now it's her that's on her knees, while the student body turns its back.

Of the people who are still able to react, Drayton moves first, and he does so to get a little of his own back at her. He leans down and taunts her, and now, she does scream. You and Kieran both want to help her, but now everyone with a Problem with this event is gathering to air them and getting in your face.

Then the intercom goes off, and you and half the rest of those present are summoned to a classroom, and Briar's discussing a trip into Area Zero -- your second at least! -- and it could not be a worse time. Carmine agrees immediately when Briar mentions Terapagos, and Kieran agrees when she does because he's not sure what she might do in this state, and you agree because among other things, Geeta is gazing at you from across the room and she knows you went down there once already and her expression says I will come down on you like Hell itself if you don't agree to help with this. So you go.

Area Zero is as much a Lost World as ever and you descend, down, down, down to the Lab where you fought for your life not so long ago, and then further because of the weird disk Geeta gave you before you left. You didn't think Area Zero could get weirder, but it does. There are Pokemon down here doing things you have never seen before, and you can't help but wonder if this weird Terastal energy is messing you up too. Meanwhile Carmine's got a strange closed expression you don't trust, though now she's starting to act a little more like the girl from Kitakami and not the BBL* Champion in this unfamiliar place. Kieran is watching her, but he's as off balance as you are down here. Briar is absolutely no help.

Then you're in the deepest spot, and there's a crystal that could be Terapagos, and Carmine comes to life. Surely, if she has a legendary Pokemon of her own, she can finally take you down. Briar eggs her on and Kieran tries to dissuade her.

They wake up the turtle.

The turtle takes a look around and its gaze locks on to you.

In canon, Kieran has the Ogerpon experience foremost in his mind when Terapagos almost chooses you. Carmine doesn't have that, but she's no less quick to throw her Master Ball and capture it. Letting it reach you would be another win for you, and she cannot have that, not now, not after all this! The Master Ball does its job, and she picks it up with an expression torn between exultation and terror.

Briar then does exactly the wrong thing in a situation that was already bad and pushes her to use the damn turtle so she can study it. She locks eyes with you.

But Terapagos, like many legendary Pokemon, has a mind of his own, and he clearly doesn't care for being woken up and stuffed into a ball. He fights for her, but his power is minimal, and Ogerpon beats him easily. Then Briar suggests Terastallizing, and Carmine floods the little fella with energy, and suddenly a young god is awake... and angry.

At that moment, everyone present learns what happens when someone tries to capture a legendary Pokemon who feels nothing for them. The Master Ball shatters, and Terapagos strikes out at Carmine. She recoils in terror and it could have ended there for her, except that you're there, and your partner 'raidon is faster than any crystal turtle. She looks at you as if she's seeing you for the first time, and maybe, in a way, she kind of is.

If you had a nickel for every time a berserk legendary Pokemon had tried to kill you in Area Zero, you'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot but it's weird it happened twice. Now you have to fight the tiny, overwhelmed turtle, and Kieran's down to his Hydrapple, and Carmine has locked up in horror because now she realizes how much of this was her fault and also completely unnecessary. But she finally snaps out of it and comes to your aid, and hot damn if you both don't kick the ass of a legendary turtle.

Then, on the way home, it takes Carmine the entire trip to work up the courage to ask you to start over again. Maybe you could be friends this time, for real.

You tell her "fuck no" and skip off into the sunset holding hands with Kieran and Ogerpon.

Okay no please don't do that. Maybe the thought crosses your mind though, because man she has put you through the wringer...

Oh yeah and like a month later Kieran does the mochi dance

*brazilian butt league

#pokemon #pokemon scarlet and violet #alternate universe #gen 9 #indigo disk dlc #carmine #kieran #pokemon kieran #pokemon carmine #yep I watch mandjtv #text #also starring terry the turtle

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