#had to draw something soft to counteract the pain

[freckled-paints]

HAPPY BIRTH @batsyvie !!!!

the fav boy special for u <3 little star boy!! who wouldnt love him

vers without test under the cut!

[latte-fairytaekwoon]

𝑺𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝑫𝒐𝒘𝒏 (𝑲𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒀𝒆𝒐𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒈) 𝑹𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅

Pairing: BFF! Kang Yeosang (Ateez)/ BFF! Reader (Female)

Genre: Smut, Slight Angst, Fluff, Non Idol! AU.

Synopsis: Yeosang decides to show and prove to his best friend that slow and sensual sex is superior to rough fucking.

Word Count: Around 3-4K

Warnings: Mentions of smoking/drinking, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, nipple play, semi-drunk sex, sex taping (with consent), sweet vanilla sex with music/ led lights in the background, protective sex that transitions to unprotected (always do safe sex), creampie, best friend/ non-romantic relationship (?)

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"Room for one more?"

Turning her head in the direction of the deep, husky voice next to her, Y/N shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't really care. Not my place anyhow."

She lifted the almost finished cigarette to her lips. Taking a small puff of it, she blew out the smoke with then turned back to the dark brown male that had now taken a seat next to her on the porch.

"Want the last one?" She held up her cancer stick for him to take.

"No thanks." He shook his head.

Y/N scoffed at that. "What? Not hard enough for someone like you?"

Throwing the tiny butt onto the ground, she didn't care at all to put it out. Rolling his eyes, Yeosang extended his leg to finish the task of making sure she didn't set anything on fire.

"Sucker." Y/N repeated what she'd often call him.

"Dumbass." He counteracted her attack with his own nickname for her.

"Why are you even out here? Wouldn't you rather be inside and join in on the fun?" She asked him.

Picking up a nearby stick, Yeosang began drawing random shapes on the ground below him.

"What do you classify as fun? I mean, besides destroying your lungs and aging faster."

"Haha, you're so fucking hilarious." Y/N replied sarcastically.

"As if you're any better Yeo. I'm surprised you're not stumbling back to your shitty apartment with either Hwa or Joong helping your wasted ass."

"Need I remind you that you practically live in my so called 'shitty' apartment cause your roommate can't stand you at the dorms." He snorted at her.

"It's not that she can stand me! I can't stand her bringing her douche boyfriend in the middle of the night or at odd hours of the day just so they can fuck each other's brains out!" She exclaimed in frustration.

Smirking at her, Yeosang couldn't help himself as he said:

"Maybe you should get your brain fucked out once in a while. Might help you be a little less bitchy."

Y/N scoffed.

"I'm not bitchy and I certainly don't need it."

"Your face says you do. Like seriously Y/N, when was the last time you got a good fuck? Let me guess. Probably 8 months ago when you let Youngbin pound you behind the bleachers?" He laughed at her.

"Ok! You know what?! Fuck you Yeosang! I can't believe you brought that up!"

Standing up, she began to storm away from him, away from the party and decided to just go to the nearest bus stop so she could go hide under her bed and pretend she didn't exist. Crossing her arms over her chest, she shivered slightly when a slight breeze blew against her. But still she continued walking, not paying attention to the voice calling out for her from behind. She had gotten a block away from where she was when she heard the sound of something scraping against the pavement behind her.

"You're hard to find." Yeosang came up next to her, his feet firmly planted on the skateboard under him.

"And you're hard to get rid of." She threw a passive aggressive smile in his direction.

"Listen..." Shifting the board to the left, he blocked her from walking any further.

"I'm sorry ok? I didn't mean to upset you." He apologized.

"You didn't really upset me.....I just hate bringing that jerk up again."

Yeosang chuckled at her pouty expression. Getting off the skateboard, he kicked down on one of the sides, making it fly up so he could catch it with his hand and tuck it under his elbow.

"Come on. Wanna hang out at my place tonight?" He offered.

"Still got leftover booze from last time?" She asked in anticipation.

"Now who's the alcoholic here snip?"

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It was well past 11 and Y/N had already downed more than half the bottle of the hard liquor. She lifted the glass up again to her lips when she was stopped by her friend beside her.

"Easy tiger. I think you've had more than enough."

Taking the bottle away from her, he wiped the top off before taking a quick gulp before setting it down somewhere next to him.

"I'm not even drunk yet.." Y/N mumbled out.

"Certainly not, but you're definitely not sober. So I'd say you're just a tad bit tipsy."

Y/N shoved him with her shoulder when he tried to lean his head on her.

"No. Go away. I'm still mad at you." She barked at him, clicking her tongue in annoyance.

"So I take it I'm sleeping on the couch again?" Yeosang raised an eyebrow at her.

"Well I certainly aren't. Shit's uncomfortable af."

Standing up, she threw her crop sweater over her head and tossed it somewhere in the room, her black shorts soon following after. Yeosang barely batted an eyelash at his friend's actions, so used to her walking around half naked around his place.

Slumping down on the bed, she reached into Yeosang's dresser and opened the drawer, knowing she'd find his stash of tootsie pops in it. Picking out a cherry flavored one, she unwrapped it and popped it in her mouth, discarding the wrapper on the waste bin a few feet away from her. Turning on her back, she hummed softly before taking the lollipop out of her mouth momentarily to pat on the empty space next to her and say:

"Sangie, come here. I wanna cuddle."

Yeosang grumbled at her words.

"Whatever happened to me sleeping on the couch?"

"Never said you should. Now come on." She repeated at him.

Yeosang sighed in disbelief, seriously questioning why he even put up with his friend for so long. Removing his plaid pullover hoodie and black skinny jeans, leaving him in just a plain white T-shirt and his black briefs, he slid down next to Y/N and wrapped one of his arms around her waist.

"Happy now?" He inquired of her.

Y/N shifted a little so that they ended up in a more comfortable spooning position.

"Yeah I guess." She murmered softly.

Yeosang began to draw circles across her hip, occasionally pulling the side of her black panty and making it snap against her skin, making Y/N swat his hand away whenever he did.

"Can I have some?" Yeosang gestured to the candy in her mouth.

Pulling it out with a loud 'popping' noise, Y/N held it out for him to take. Putting it in his mouth, Yeosang sucked in it briefly then took a small bite out of it before handing it back to her.

"Heathen." Y/N derided him when she saw the mutilated lollipop.

"Puss." He snickered at her.

They laid there in silence for a few minutes, the only sound coming from them was the occasional sighs or hums that would elude from their mouths. Getting tired and bored of the painful lack of noise, Yeosang reached for his phone and connected it to his bluetooth speakers. Scrolling through his playlist, he smiled smugly as he found the one song he had been listening a lot to lately and did not hesitate to start playing it. Y/N jolted a little when the blaring of trumpets resonated through the room.

"Jesus fucking christ, why must it start in such an unholy manner?" She complained as she shifted a little in Yeosang's embrace.

Yeosang couldn't help but laugh softly.

"And you know that's not the unholy part about it."

Y/N couldn't help but smile at the sincerity of his words and especially not when the first verses started.

~Tell me what it is you wanna know

Finish up the bottle then we'll go, babe~

"Speaking of which, we didn't finish our bottle."

Y/N made a move to get up, but Yeosang pulled her back down, this time making her lay on top of him.

"Kang Yeosang!" She grunted at him, eyebrows furrowing at him.

"Snippy pants." He winked at her then placed a kiss to her nose.

His hands began to travel down the curve of her lower back, momentarily resting on her ass, his fingers digging into her soft skin.

~I'm too phased, it's too late

But coming down is all I ever do, babe, yeah~

"Pervert." Y/N accused him when he slapped her ass lightly.

"You weren't complaining when Youngbin-"

Y/N silenced him with a kiss to his lips, her tongue running across his upper lip. Yeosang tried to capture her tongue with his teeth, but she pulled back before he got the chance, making him whine softly.

"Mention that atrocity one more time and I will blow up your dick." She threatened him.

Yeosang couldn't help but poke fun at her.

"I wouldn't necessarily say no. I've heard your blowjob stories."

Y/N smacked his chest.

"What?! You think guys don't talk about it around me? They don't hold back just because we're close." He ruffled her hair.

"What about you? How come I never hear any stories from you? Is our little Sangie an actual saint?" She jeered at him.

Yeosang smiled softly, his hands pulling on Y/N's bra strap.

"First of all, let me assure you I'm not little.."

Lifting his hips up slightly, he grinded against her so she could feel his semi hard on. Y/N widened her eyes momentarily, her subconscious wishing he'd repeat the action one more time.

"And I'm not a saint. I'm just not as promiscuous as the other guys, that are into rough fucking all the girls in our class." He explained as he moved Y/N's strap so it fell off her shoulder.

Y/N couldn't help but look at him incredulous.

"Seriously? Getting fucked like a pornstar is one of the best feelings ever. Best kind of sex there is."

"I beg to differ babygirl. I find it to be completely overrated." He mused softly before placing a kiss to her exposed shoulder.

~And I'm so down if you're ready

I'm floating but I'm heavy

And I'll show you if you let me, girl~

"So what? You mean to tell me vanilla sex is better?" She rolled her eyes.

Yeosang couldn't help the mischievous smile that formed on his sculpture like face.

"It's not just better.....it's superior."

Yeosang's hand grabbed the remote next to his lamp, which he promptly turned off. Clicking on the first button, the room instantly illuminated a dark red from the LED lights that Yeosang had installed when he first moved into the apartment.

"Want me to show you?"

Y/N hadn't even responded but Yeosang was already unclasping her bra. His hands caressed her exposed back as he patiently waited for her answer. Feeling brave, Y/N sat up to let the garment fall off her body and onto the floor. She looked back to see Yeosang's reaction. He bit his lip, his hands gripping the sheets beneath him in an effort to contain himself from touching her before she gave her consent.

Y/N leaned down, her hand cupping his chin.

"Show me then."

Closing the distance between them, she kissed him tenderly. Yeosang hummed into the kiss, his fingers tucking a side of her hair behind her ear.

~I don't know if you already know how

But girl, I got the feeling that you know now~

Yeosang's tongue pressed against her bottom lip, making Y/N chuckle, but nonetheless granted him access to her mouth. Holding the sides of her neck, Yeosang swirled his tongue inside her, before pulling her own into his mouth to gently suck on it.

"Hehet....you smell like alcohol." He said in between their makeup session.

"Shut up and kiss me you dork."

She pulled him back in and deepened their kiss, her mouth hungrily and sloppily kissing his, her lips trailing across his chin and jaw at times.

"Fuck. How desperate are you?" Yeosang asked.

"A whole lot, now can you fucking stop being the ass you are and get on with it?" She pleaded with him.

In a flash, Yeosang flipped her onto her back. Burying his face in her neck, he placed open mouth kisses across it until he found exactly what he was looking for when Y/N's breath hitched.

"Found you."

Yeosang began to suck onto the sensitive patch of skin he had discovered. Y/N tilted her head to give him better access, which he took complete advantage of. Yeosang only pulled away after making sure there'd be a crimson red mark for anyone to see the following days. Satisfied with his work, he moved further south and began to kiss down her sternum, his hands going from her hips to her waist.

His lips went from kissing in between the valley of her breasts, to gliding over and taking one of her perky nipples into his mouth. His other hand made sure that its twin wasn't left unattended as he pinched and played with it delicately between his long and slender fingers. Without realizing it, Y/N arched her back, making Yeosang smile against her skin.

"You're definitely enjoying this." He teased her, biting faintly on her tiny bud.

"Sh-shut up..." She mumbled.

"And I haven't even gotten to the fun part."

Yeosang dragged his mouth painfully slow down her stomach, placing open mouth kisses on several parts of her skin. Once, he reached her belly button, he couldn't help but feel a little playful. Pressing his face down, he blew against her skin, causing her to squeak and giggle at the vibrations.

"Sangie!" She gushed at him and his awfully cute action.

"Sorry." He apologized but the sparkle in his eyes indicated he was anything but.

When he realized he was in between her legs, only a piece of fabric separating him from her most intimate place, he looked back up at her, mentally asking her if she still wanted to continue. Maybe it was the partially drunk part of her brain or maybe it was the sober part, either way, Y/N nudged Yeosang with her knee, urging him to do something.

Getting the hint, Yeosang grabbed the sides of her panties and began to rid her of them. Y/N lifted herself up so the process was easier for him, and even parted her legs for him, her neediness wanting him to just do as he pleased.

Yeosang inhaled and exhaled sharply as he stared down at his best friend's glistening and almost dripping core, the astonishment and lust in his stare quite unmistakable. His hands wrapped themselves on the back of her knees, his body leaning closer to get a better look at her.

"Well?" Y/N chuckled when he stayed dumb for a while.

Smiling an ironically pure smile, Yeosang didn't take his gaze off from between her legs as he responded:

"It's pretty.......so fucking pretty."

Turning his head, he kissed her right knee tenderly, dragging his lips around it. Eventually, he began kissing up her inner thighs, both of them, leaving no spot unattended. Y/N began to breath more rapidly as she watched him earnestly inch closer and closer to her lips.

"Oh-oh..."

Y/N gasped when Yeosang dragged the tip of his nose up her slit, making sure to press down on her clit.

"Fuck! You smell absolutely delicious babe."

Releasing her knees, he brought his fingers up so they could spread her folds apart so he could glide his wet muscle up and taste a bit of her. Yeosang couldn't get enough of her taste, as shown by his relentless effort in licking and sucking at her clit. One of his fingers began prodding at her entrance, swirling around and finally sinking inside her.

"Fucking hell Y/N, you're so tight and you're already sucking in one of my fingers. Seriously how long have you not gotten any dick?" He inquired as he added a second finger, beginning to scissor them inside her.

"Too. Fucking. Long."

Shutting her eyes, her hands went to Yeosang's hair and began pulling at it, her hips pressing against his face.

"Yeosangie..... help me..." She whined at him.

Paying attention to her needs, Yeosang buried his face in her heat once again, sucking and lapping enthusiastically, moaning occasionally as his 2 fingers slid in and out of her at a moderate pace. Y/N's chest began rising up and down, she could feel herself getting closer and closer to spilling all over her friend's face. The thought of her actually cumming in Yeosang's mouth riled her up more than she'd ever think it would. Yeosang felt her walls tightening around his fingers, clear indication she was about to cum. Being the teasing asshole he was, he pulled his fingers out and detached his mouth from her core, panting slowly from having been eating her out so passionately, some of her arousal smeared on his chin, upper lip and even on his nose.

"What the hell you jerk!?"

Y/N sat up, fully committed to smack him across the face, but he gripped her wrists as he forced her back down.

"Calm down Y/N, I promise you'll be cumming soon."

Leaning in, he kissed her forehead lovingly, sending flutters down her body. Her hand placed itself on his chest.

"Off." Although it was technically an order, she meant it more as a request.

Yeosang pulled his shirt over his head, allowing Y/N to gawked at his lean but toned abs and muscles.

"Fuck.......when did you start working out skater boi?"

Yeosang blushed and giggled shyly.

"Around the same time you began showing off your legs a lot more."

Y/N watched in anticipation as he began to remove his boxers. She widened her eyes when she saw her long time friend's cock slap against his stomach, the tip already leaking out precum.

"Holy shit. You weren't kidding when you said you weren't little." She complimented him.

Y/N reached out to try and grab it in her hand, but Yeosang swatted her hand away.

"You can suck my cock another time. Right now though, I'm dying to have it inside your tight hole."

Y/N clenched at the mere thought of having such a good looking cock inside her. She'd never outwardly admit it, but she always had a thing for visual stimulation and above average dicks.

Opening the drawer, Yeosang took out a condom and ripped it open with his teeth, soon rolling it onto his length. He slowly lowered his body on top of hers, kissing her softly as he aligned himself at her entrance. With a roll of his hips, he slid inside her, both of them moaning loudly. Yeosang let a few seconds pass before he began rolling his hips, starting at a slow and steady pace that matched the rhythm of the music playing in the background. His face hid in her neck, biting and kissing at her shoulders as his hands kept her waist firmly planted on the mattress.

"Fuck, you feel amazing Y/N." He whispered against her ear, making her sigh blissfully.

Wanting to dote on her more, he began spurting out a relay of compliments.

"You look so beautiful like this baby. Fuck! I wish I could capture this moment forever."

Feeling bold, Y/N held out her hand and began tapping around until she found what she was wanting to grab. She held out Yeosang's phone to him.

"Then why don't you?"

Yeosang groaned, halting his movements so as to not cum from her insinuation.

"Are you for real?" He wanted to make sure she wasn't kidding.

"Please just don't film my face. I don't want anyone to know it's me in case it gets in the wrong hands or you upload it to a porn site." She stated making him burst out in a lighthearted laugh.

"Oh honey I won't do that. I'm keeping this for my fap material."

Yeosang sat up as he turned on the camera. He began moving once the phone started recording the naughty scene taking place in his bedroom, this time going a little rougher than at first. He loved watching the way Y/N's tits bounced every time he pushed back inside of her. The red LED lights only made it more thrilling, adding a more erotic aesthetic that the camera captured perfectly.

~I'm burning up, yeah, all I see is red, ah

She said "Fuck me like I'm famous"

I said, "Okay"~

Yeosang's free hand ran across her stomach, momentarily pressing down on the bulge protruding from there. Then it began to squeeze at her breasts, fondling and groping them in a not too harsh fashion.

"Yeosang..... I need more..." She spoke out.

Yeosang pressed paused to help her out.

"Want more? Ok. Turn around for me baby."

~Push a little further on the edge

Crawl a little further on the bed, babe~

Pulling out of her, his hands helped her turn her body for him. Y/N immediately got on all fours, but Yeosang pressed his hand on her back.

"As cute as you look right now my friend, that's not what I had in mind."

Pushing her down, he made her lay her body on the mattress into a low doggy position. Y/N looked back at him with a questioning gaze.

"Trust me Y/N. It'll have you cumming in seconds."

Picking up his phone again, he was about to resume recording when Y/N's words made him snap up.

"Sangie please fuck me raw."

Yeosang swore he had a mini heart attack when she said that.

"Y..Y/N....what are you-"

"It's ok! I'm on birth control and I just really want to feel you and have you cum inside me." She confessed unashamedly.

Yeosang thought about it for a minute before deciding 'screw it' and threw away the condom that was wrapped around his dick. Pumping himself a few times, he finally pressed record again, wanting to capture the moment he entered his friend completely raw.

This time his thrusts were more deep and fast paced, wanting to have Y/N come as fast as possible, which wasn't going to take too long, if her now loud gasps and moans were a major clue.

"Oh- oh my g-god!"

Y/N now understood what Yeosang meant when he said he'd have her cumming in seconds. With his cock pushing in and out of her rapidly it made the mattress underneath her rub against her clit in the most addicting friction she'd ever had.

"T-told you so.." Yeosang couldn't hide the shit eating grin on his face, which Y/N would have slapped off if she could see it.

Gripping at her hip harshly, he angled himself so he could hit that special spot in her, finding it quite easily after many practices in the same room from past lovers. Y/N tried biting her lip but it wasn't enough so she resorted to hiding her face on the pillow in front of her, muffling her near shrieking moans.

~You're buried in the pillow, yeah, you're so loud

But I'm about to show you, baby, slow down~

Lifting her head up slightly, she tried to warn him.

"S-Sangie...I'm gonna-"

She threw her head down again, not wanting Yeosang's next door neighbors to complain next day about the noise, given how thin the walls were.

Positioning his phone on the dresser, Yeosang crouched down and lifted her face up to look at him. She looked almost completely fucked out, her hair sticking onto her face, sweat beads piling on her forehead. Yeosang kissed her messily, his mouth silencing some of her moans as well as his own.

"Go ahead gorgeous. Cum for me. I'll be right behind her."

Yeosang let out a deep, gutteral moan when he felt her clench around him, her body shaking underneath him as she came hard. A series of cursing ensued as he spilled himself inside her, coating her walls with his cum. He slowed down his movements, but never halted them completely, wanting her and himself to ride out their orgasms. When he finally stilled inside her, he grabbed his phone again and held it close to where their bodies connected.

"Holy shit. That's so hot." He said in an almost gloating tone as he pulled himself out of his best friend and watched as part of his cum seeped out of her.

Turning off the camera, he reached for the box of wet tissues on his nightstand and began wiping Y/N down. Tapping on her shoulder, he asked:

"You ok there bud?"

Y/N let out a muffled "Yeah."

"Cute." He shook his head.

Turning off the music, he plopped beside Y/N, turning her so they could resume spooning like they were in the beginning.

"So....?"

Y/N opened her eyes and tilted her head to look at him.

"So what?" She looked at him rather puzzled.

"Do you agree now that vanilla sex is superior?" He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

Y/N hummed as she pondered about it in her head. Turning around so her body faced his, she pulled him closer.

"I don't know.....might need a little more convincing..." She joked.

Yeosang took notice of the slight smirk that tugged at the corners of her lips. Wrapping his arms around her, he kissed the top of her head.

"Oh trust me. I don't think this will be the last time...."

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~Song used here: Slow Down- Chase Atlantic ~

[falling-pages]

I'm Sorry but your writing is so captivating that I had to jump on your prompt list if I could. What about "I can’t go back, please...I’m sorry." For Hikaru x Haruhi ? 🤧💜

Yes!! Thank you for the angst inspo 😈

(ask list closed)

"I can't go back, please, I'm sorry."

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Hikaru Hitachiin x Haruhi Fujioka

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Genre: Hurt/Comfort, heavy on comfort

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WARNINGS: This contains trauma, ptsd, nightmares, and memories of kidnapping and abuse. Please read with caution.

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Silver manacles around her wrists, clanking cold against her skin. Darkness over her eyes, ratcheting up her sensitivity to every sound. Wetness blooming against her side, pain leveraging through her head, the slaps from brutal hands and kicks from unyielding feet. The thunderstorm brewing outside her cage. And the horrific, never-ending voice of the man who tormented her.

Scream as loud as you like. It won’t help.

You didn’t think he’d come for you, did you?

He has prettier and richer playthings at his disposal.

Do you really think you’re worth such a high price?

You’re mine, now, doll.

Haruhi’s eyes flew open in tandem with her scream, staking the night’s silence with her terror. She fought against the silk sheets tangling her limbs, cried as loudly as her voice would allow her. Even sitting up didn’t help, the heavy comforter trapping her in bed, and the silence choked her throat, splitting the oxygen straight off until she couldn’t breathe, clawing for anything, something, a liferaft before she drowned.

“Haruhi!”

Her fiance bolted upright, hazel eyes shining in the moonlight. They shared her terror as he grabbed her shoulders, the weight forcing air back into her lungs. She wrenched her eyes back shut--she couldn’t look at him, not when the face of her kidnapper still flashed in her vision.

Shaking, she grabbed his shirt, fisting the soft material to ground herself. He took the invitation to wrap his arms around her, watching as she buried herself in his chest, inhaling that sweet scent of home.

“Hika,” she wept, staining his shirt with tears and his heart with fury.

Hikaru swept his hands through her hair and down her back, detangling with one while rubbing circles with the other. Her cries were beyond gutteral, beyond desperate, straight up inhumane, and they tore as much at his soul as they did at her throat. It had been nearly a month since her rescue, and even though she had made much progress in therapy, she could barely hold onto her humanity when the nightmares struck.

“You’re safe,” he whispered, drawing shapes along her shoulder. Her skin rippled with goosebumps, warm from his embrace, but foreign. “Remember what the therapist said. Cling to what makes you feel safe. The nightmares will pass.” He grit his teeth and she clutched him tighter, snuggling further into the warmth and safety of his neck. “That man can’t touch you. He will never touch you again, I fucking swear.”

It was a bad idea to mention him, he knew, but his anger surged through his body and choked a growl from his throat. Even the memory of finding her, chained up like a dog in a cage, dirty and malnourished and blindfolded, evoked an anger so deep within his core he wasn’t sure if it were entirely human. But then again, that man certainly wasn’t, and Hikaru felt his anger justified.

Not strangling the man on sight was the only shred of mercy he could manage.

“Listen to my heartbeat,” he suggested, guiding his beloved’s head lower down his chest. He rubbed behind her ear, a soothing weight to counteract her spiraling feeling. Following what the therapist suggested, he straightened his posture, making himself as big as possible for her to cling onto. “You are so strong, my beloved. You’re going to get through this night.”

Haruhi only whined his name again, and he pulled her closer, completely onto his lap and settling her legs. She shook like she was going to fall apart, like she had before; it was his job to ensure that she never would again.

“You’re alright,” he continued. “You’re safe. You’re in our bed, in my arms. Safe and warm. Nothing can get to you here.” He smiled, kissing the top of her head. “You’re so strong and beautiful, baby. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. You’re gonna be okay.”

She sniffled, and her voice was barely detectable from his chest. “I can’t go back, I can’t go back, please…”

His heart squeezed. “He can’t hurt you anymore. He’s in prison, and he’s going to stay there for a very long time. There’s no way he can hurt you from there. You don’t have to be afraid, baby, you’re never going to go back there. You’re safe here.”

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” she whispered. “He said such awful things, Hika, and I believed them, I...I believed him, I didn’t think you’d come…”

“Shhh, Haru. None of that.” He propped her up to look at her, so she could see the truth in his face. The broken moonlight reflected in her doe eyes, making silver the unshed tears welling within. He held her gaze, waiting for her to be back in the right headspace, before continuing. “Everything that man told you was a fucking lie. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, no mountain I wouldn’t climb, no ransom I wouldn’t pay.” He brushed his lips against her forehead, calming her as she shuddered. “I would pay ten times what he asked to make sure you were okay. The nightmare is over, and you’re with me. You’re okay. I'm...I'm so sorry that happened to you.”

She groaned, holding onto him as another memory washed over her. Alone in the parking lot, loading groceries, the screech of car brakes, cold handcuffs around her wrists and and even colder hand over her mouth, restricting her screams. The cruel words whispered against her ear, the grating laugh as she struggled, the terror as they slipped the mask over her eyes. The wetness of a tongue stroking up her neck, biting the lobe of her ear, a voice whispering the astronomical price of her ransom and reminding her of the snaking words force-fed every moment of her captivity.

No one is coming to save you.

And then, a different voice, piercing through the darkness, stilling the hellish pace of her heart and thoughts.

Haruhi.

Haruhi, I’m here.

She looked back up at him, intimidated but comforted, as he spoke words of gentleness and love. His long fingers stroked her hair and drew patterns against her back, stars and hearts and even his own name, over and over again:

Hikaru. Hikaru. Hikaru.

She was safe, she was his, and she would never have to face that bastard again.

-

Kofi

[willowcrowned]

I just read your most recent sith Obi-wan au and you mentioned in the tags you have another sith au in the works. Yes please we do want to read your ramblings !!! And fics!!! on another sith au. Or ANY au. If it’s in a fic format all the better but ramblings are great and funny as well!

Ahh thank you >-< I’m so glad you’re enjoying my AU ideas as much as I am!!

The Sith AU I mentioned is actually one already on this blog! You can find it here. What I wrote for it was basically just me sorting out the lore for that AU via Zannah talking about herself and her life to a young Obi-Wan. I didn’t think it would be particularly interesting to anyone, but since you asked, here it is:

 “What do you have against these new Sith?” Obi-Wan asks with a grimace, wincing as he applies bacta to the blaster burn. “Not that I think you don’t have a good reason, I just—”

“Would like to know why, exactly, you’re getting shot?” Zannah gives him an amused half-smile, though it turns regretful when her gaze alights on the burns. “You remember what I told you of my old master?”

“Darth Bane,” Obi-Wan answers. “You said he lacked foresight.”

“Yes.” Zannah frowns. “My old master was... clever. I’ll give him that. But the wars drove him closer and closer to the brink of madness. At the end, he was all desperation and no planning. He was terrified that the Sith wouldn’t survive— that our knowledge, our ways would be gone forever.” She smiles ruefully. “It might have been better for the galaxy if they had been destroyed.”

“No!” Obi-Wan protests, with a vehemence that surprises even him.  

Zannah raises an eyebrow, gaze soft. “The Sith were destructive, Apprentice. They still are. Loss of knowledge, loss of culture— both of those are tragic— but more tragic still is the loss of life. Even with our great temples, our ancient history, our songs and our stories, we were still destroyers. The Sith enslaved and killed wantonly, and would do so again if given leave. Be careful what it is you mourn— the loss of knowledge or the loss of the Sith.”

Obi-Wan looks away, trying not to let the sullenness show on his face.  

“I am glad I survived to see you too,” Zannah adds, “You have been a singularly wonderful apprentice, and I would regret it now if you had been left alone.” 

 Obi-Wan's expression softens, and Zannah gives him a fond look before returning to her story.

“In any case, Bane saw the problem with our ever-spreading way of life, and inverted it, taking it to the other extreme. At the time, I said nothing— I had nothing to say. He would not be persuaded. When the time came, I struck him down as he had asked, leaving the imprint of his spirit in the tombs of Korriban.”

‘When I left, I did not take an apprentice for nearly a century. Part of it was self-preservation— I had no desire for a Jedi to catch wind of the last of the Sith— and part of it was simply that there was no one who met my standards. The war had left the galaxy torn apart, and everyone was too full of fear for the sort of training I wished to conduct. Eventually I did find one— a Kryotian from the oceans of Iulia— and I trained him, teaching him the Rule of Two. Eventually, he killed me, and took the mantle of Sith Master for himself. After that, I lived on a small moon in the Outer Rim—”

“I thought you said you were killed,” Obi-Wan interjects.  

“Am I not alive now?” Zannah smiles. “But in this case, you are correct. I allowed him to think he had bested me. I had grown tired of being the last of the Sith. I felt it was time someone else take that mantle.”

“Why didn’t you just ignore the Rule of Two? He didn’t have to kill you.”

“To tell the truth, my dear,” she says, “I had grown tired of the dark. Bane died before I was fully consumed, and since I used it sparingly to avoid being caught, I was still myself by the time I took an apprentice. Even as I taught my apprentice to use it, I could feel myself slipping away— pragmatism becoming cruelty, pride becoming arrogance. What I’m teaching you now— I had yet to come up with the idea. I allowed him to think he had killed me, and moved on with my life, barely using the Force.’

‘That was when I happened upon Atén— a mandalorian. She was clever, accomplished, and very kind— and absolutely infuriating. I loved her dearly.” Zannah has a distant look on her face. “I could not dishonor myself while she loved me; I would not cause her pain by failing to keep myself in check. And when I failed, though I tried, it was she who grounded me, acted as my moral compass when I had none, gave me a reason to keep from Falling.’

‘You see now why attachments grounded in the light are so important. There must be reason to counteract madness, honor to counteract duplicity, kindness to counteract cruelty. We are none of us alone, Obi-Wan. To act as if we are— to force ourselves to operate as if we have no one to rely on— that is what dooms us.”

“And what if our attachments lead us to dishonor? What if we’re consumed by them?”

Zannah looks at him wryly. “You’re quite a baby Jedi, aren’t you?”

Obi-Wan blushes, ashamed.

“That was a compliment, Apprentice. Only a Jedi child would think to ask a question like that, but I think it was a good one.” Zannah watches as Obi-Wan turns his attentions back to his injuries. “What you speak of is overwhelming fear, of presumption, of the mistakes that come from believing that we can protect ourselves and our loved ones from all harm. That is not possible— and more importantly, it is not something the person who loves you should want. If you choose the person to whom you give respect, love, and loyalty carefully, if they are good and brave and kind, they will not ask selfish things of you. You must listen to them, let them hold you to better things than an obsessive, consuming, love.”

“That,” Obi-Wan says, “sounds very Jedi.”

“They’re not wrong about everything,” Zannah admits, then adds, with an impish smile, “just most things.”

“You still haven’t told me why you hate the new Sith.”

Zannah inclines her head in agreement. “My apologies for getting derailed. Where my master lacked foresight, these new Sith lack perspective. Plagueis and Sidious both dream of immortality, of an eternal empire that lasts past the death of every sun in our galaxy. They fear death too much to realize that such a thing is impossible. Death comes for us all.”

“But isn’t that what you did with your holocron? Escape death?”

“Cheeky,” Zannah remarks, “and not entirely incorrect. Just because I have delayed my death, Apprentice, doesn’t mean that I don’t accept its inevitability. I quite enjoy living— I have no plans to stop any time soon— but one day I will have to give up this form, as I gave up my previous one, and return to the Force. What those Sith dream of is never dying, never failing— becoming as perfect as the Force they draw from.”

“And that’s impossible.”

Zannah nods. “Even now, I can feel them beginning to create their own doom. A vergence in the Force nears, born of their meddling— a remedy to the damage they cause.”

Obi-Wan frowns. “If they’re dooming themselves, why are we fighting them?”

“Because, my dear apprentice,” Zannah says with a sharp, hungry, light in her eyes. “I want to feel their consciousnesses crumble under my fingertips, and watch them realize that there was no place they could lock me away that I would not escape from. I want them to know that they are pretenders to the old thrones of the Sith. I want them to see me, and know what power truly is.”

[hazbincalifornia]

Midnight Snack

Chapter 25: Blitzo gets peckish.

Warnings: As always, mpreg, and implied animal death. Also stuffing if that needs a tag I guess, and BABY VIOLENCE. (Violence committed by a baby, not against a baby.)

Likes, replies, and reblogs are all appreciated, both here and on ao3!

Ao3 link

Blitzo’s stomach gurgled, and his arms tightened around the pillow that he was hugging to his chest. A fussy, hungry stomach wouldn’t have necessarily been a problem, except for the fact that it had been doing it for the past hour, and he was just about ready to tear it right out of his skin and rip it in half. Acid sloshed around audibly in his empty gut- or maybe the freeloader wanted more room and was just squashing the organ down so much that it had resorted to griping as loudly as it could. Relatable fuckin’ content right there.

Dinner had been two burgers and fries smothered in hot sauce and mayo from the grease trap down the road, which was more than enough to coast through until breakfast. Besides, he’d be damned if the kid was going to make him deal with the grocery store any more than he had to in this condition. No, he was staying right where he was, especially considering he’d been denied any sleep last night. One day low on sleep was manageable with reduced caffeine, two would suck satan’s left tit.

“C’mon, that was enough and you know it, I don’t want you ruining my figure any more than you already have,” he grumbled as the muscles clenched around his stomach, wringing it out like a sponge and drawing a pitiful whine out of his throat. “I’m not gonna just- give in and give you whatever you want, daddy’s gotta do him sometimes and I’m not letting you empty out the fridge. I ate enough, siphon blood outta my system like a normal leech does. I’ve got plenty of that.”

The reply was another gurgling groan and a hard clench as Blitzo’s empty stomach demanded sustenance, this time loud enough to make his middle vibrate even through the pounds of baby. He stuffed the pillow over his mouth, drool leaking down the case and over his chin as he forced out a scream.

He had to take a few seconds to pant before setting a hand on the side of his stomach, fingers drumming. “This is a battle of wills, and I am not letting you win. Your baby-daddy already started all this shit, so I’m just going to treat you the same as him- by ignoring you as long as feasibly possible until you decide to pop up and make everything difficult. Sound good? Yeah, sounds perfect.” There was a nudge from inside and Blitzo nodded in satisfaction at the apparent agreement, settling back down on the bed. He’d gone to sleep hungry plenty of times before, the baby gut notwithstanding, he just had to muscle through this for the next few-

There was no time to muffle the next scream as a sudden pinching pain went from ‘noticeable’ to ‘holy shit who’s tearing up my guts with a chainsaw?’, and there was a thud and a shuffling of feet before Loona started pounding on the door.

“You having a heart attack in there or something?”

Blitzo clutched at his stomach, wheezing as he was clawed apart from the inside out. “N-no!”

“Look, if you die, I’m on the hook for the rent.” Still, there was a semi-worried vibrato to her voice, and he swallowed down the coppery taste flooding up with the saliva to his mouth.

“I’m- fINE-!” His voice pitched up at another pinch-turned-horrorshow and his claws dug all the way through the pillow, stuffing spilling out like viscera.

“What the fuck are you doing in there?” The doorknob jiggled. Where was a portable x-ray when you needed one? Or ultrasound, or whatever the fuck you used to look at a baby that was trying to kill him before it even got out yet. What kind of horrible mouth or claws must it have- oh, fucking hell, Stolas had said something about his kid having a razor-sharp beak from birth, hadn’t he?

“Okay, I’m coming in.” Loona eased the door open, already in her pajamas and clutching a package of opened peanut butter crackers tightly enough that crumbs were sticking to her fingers. “You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit, so good-” Sharp inhale for breath, let it out- “-To know that I’m all on the same page.”

She dropped down on the bed with a metallic creak. “What’d the kid do now?”

“It feels like they’re biting me again, but w-worse- fuck!” Another nip, this one dragging a line on the inside of the womb like they were drift racing in there. Wait, dragging? He swallowed down more coppery bile. “Okay, fine, fine, sheesh, I’ll fuckin’ eat something, happy you little shithead?”

Loona raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say anything.”

Blitzo shoved himself up off the bed to wobbly knees. “Junior’s gotten real bold, and instead of just sucking up the meat I’m eating for them like a good little lump, they decided to put me on the menu- ow, fuck, I’m going, keep your baby-tits on!”

“Babies don’t have tits, Blitzo.”

“They do if I say they do, sweetie.” Blitzo ruffled Loona’s fur between her ears as he waddled across the room, pausing next to the TV to take a breath.

Loona raised an eyebrow. “Do you need me to bring you something? I don’t want you passing out in the middle of the apartment and tripping over you tomorrow morning.”  In response, Blitzo just waved a dismissive hand.

“I can handle walking across two rooms, Loonie.” The active chewing had paused for the moment, but whatever they’d shredded in there was still shredded, and he’d rather not make it any worse- he had work tomorrow, dammit.

The fridge bathed him in a sickly, hospital-like glow as he tugged it open, and drool immediately started leaking from his mouth as the smells of half-forgotten, time-ripened leftovers hit him. A small mouse with four red eyes leaped up from the floor when he opened the door, burrowing into a box of takeout on the bottom shelf that Loona must have gotten when he’d been at Stolas’s place. His tongue snapped out automatically, snatching its furry body up and slurping up the tail between his lips before swallowing, and it took a second for his brain to load enough to register- after it slid down his throat.

Holy shit, did he just…? It squirmed a little as it descended, little hairs stuck in his teeth, and his fingers tightened on the side of his stomach before he reached for the box it had been after to wash out the aftertaste.

Everything after that was a bit of a blur, although he did retain enough sense of mind to avoid the six-pack of cheap beer in the back that still had four cans on it. Better to not risk puking all of this up or ruining the kid any more than they already were. Carbs, meat, a few wilted veggies that Moxxie had pawned off on him, sweet, sour, cold chili and whole untoasted bagels- it didn’t really matter what it was as long as it was at least mostly edible (he was pretty sure he swallowed a wrapper at some point), he just needed it inside of him now. Smothering everything in hot sauce and salsa and mustard made it more palatable anyway, especially the ice cream. The kid didn’t start taking chunks out of him again, at least, so he must have been doing something right. More and more of the white fridge walls became visible as the floor around him littered with containers, and his stomach grew tighter before he finally slumped back against the nearby counter with a groan. His legs sprawled out on the cool tile, both hands now stained with a mixture of about five kinds of leftovers, and he cradled his stomach after muffling a burp.

“Are you happy now, you needy little shit?”

Blitzo didn’t really expect a reply and almost didn’t hear it over the churning gurgles of digestion, but a soft ‘eee’ of a hoot, more a whisper-screech than anything, murmured from his midsection. He stared down at it, the warmth of his full stomach counteracted by ice dripping down his back.

“Oh, of course you sound just like him.” His claws dragged along the sensitive, itchy-while-stretched skin before the protection spell sprung up and pushed the fingers away. It only let him touch his own stupid body when he laid his palm flat. “Sure, it’s cute now when it's all little and squeaky, but you’d better not be as entitled as he is, alright? Or as you are now, since I’ve gotta do everything for you until you’re born. Considering you just settled right down in there without even asking in the first place, I doubt it. Rude.”

There were no more noises other than his stomach grumbling about going from empty to full so quickly, and he stayed slumped against the cabinet for long enough to let some of it digest. He must have been more tired than he thought, because he swore that he already looked bigger than he’d been when he’d finished binging. Maybe it started swelling in a bad reaction from whatever fucked-up food cocktail he'd accidentally made.

When he didn’t feel quite so much like a boulder had gotten stuffed inside his guts, it took three tries to haul his ass off the tile and drag himself back to bed, huffing like a cop running for the last doughnut in the process.

The ice had crept from his spine to the rest of his bones and muscles as he tugged the blanket tight around himself, but at least the churning food kept his stomach warm, and he passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

[bracefacefreak]

So I just finished the first fic I have written in AGES and the first thing I’ve ever written for TMA, so I thought I’d post it here. 

It’s an alternate take on S3 from about MAG 98 in which Nikola kidnaps Martin, not Jon. Basically very angsty with some realisation of feelings and implied canon-typical violence because I like to make my boys suffer apparently. May write more if I feel like it but for now this is just a peek at my idea. 

CW: implied violence, knife violence, strongly implied graphic violence, implied blood, implied skinning, captivity and kidnapping, restraints, stalking. 

I cut you a piece of me 

also available on ao3 

“Martin? Tim?”

Jon pokes his head out of his office, tired eyes squinting through murky lenses to try and make out anything moving amongst the shelves and teetering boxes. A chill creeps up his spine, the sensation akin to the slow tickle of spider’s legs over his skin. It makes his stomach turn; the sour taste of bile rises at the back of his throat. A light flickers somewhere on the other side of the archives. It is brief, likely nothing more than some dodgy wiring - or a plastic body passing in front of a bulb. Jon bites down, catching his tongue between his teeth.

His fingers twist in the wool of the cardigan he wears, tugging at the well-worn fibres as if they are some sort of lifeline. The garment is too big on him, the fabric spilling over his shoulders and bunching in thick folds around his wrists. He had found it shoved under a shelving unit in document storage, the crumpled, butter-yellow lump too inviting to ignore. It has quickly become a comfort for him during long nights in his office poring over statements, something soft and warm to counteract the increasingly dark world he finds himself inhabiting. He pulls it tight around him, but finds today it offers little more than a thin veneer of safety.

CLUNK.

He starts.

His eyes flick towards the stacks to his left, scouring the shadows that rest heavily between the shelves. The noise comes again, more drawn out this time and followed by a series of metallic taps. It doesn’t take much imagination to hear the snap of huge, mechanical jaws in the rhythmic sound.

Jon swallows thickly.

“Martin? I-is that you?”

The hollow clang comes again; this time Jon is able to trace it to somewhere above. Lifting his eyes, he half-expects to see a grinning plastic face staring down at him from the highest shelves. Instead, he is met by the sight of decrepit pipes, quivering slightly as the ancient heating system struggles against the pervasive chill. His shoulders droop as the pipes rattle in reassurance.

Slowly, he turns back to the original source of his suspicion, staring down the narrow walkway that leads to the assistant’s office and break-room.

Beneath the occasional clang of the heating, the archive is silent, still.

But he could have sworn he’d heard footsteps earlier: the soft shuffle of shoes over carpet and the squeak of the bottom stair that no-one seems bothered enough to fix, despite the numerous emails Jon has sent to maintenance. He had been recording a statement, one from the early 2000s about disappearances from a travelling funhouse, when he had heard it. He was certain. But then again…He takes a shaking breath; could this just be his rearing its ugly head?

No.

NO.

He was over that.

He knew what he had heard. Jon squares his shoulders, knowing that his small stature and bright yellow cardigan will hardly strike fear into the heart of any evil creature that has managed to get into the Institute. He pulls the pen out of his hair anyway. It will not be much use if it comes to a struggle, but it is better than nothing.

Measured steps lead Jon across the archive floor.

He calls out in a tight voice, rising to shrill at the end.

“Melanie?”

His pulse thuds in his ears.

“Tim? Basira?"

Sweat coats his palms and pools in the well of his clavicle, turning cold and tacky.

“Martin?”

He rounds a corner and is greeted by three empty desks.

Since arriving, Melanie has settled at Sasha’s old desk; it no longer bears its previous look of organised chaos but is strewn with shredded paper, a few crumpled fast-food wrappers, and pages covered in black scribbles that are indecipherable to Jon. It sends a pang of grief through him that echoes around the empty space where Sasha’s memory should be.

Tim’s desk is clear, no work having been done there in months.

And Martin’s is….

Jon frowns.

Next to an empty mug and a collection of pastel fine-liners Martin sometimes uses to make notes, is a cassette tape. It is unmarked, the brand different from any he has seen before in the archive. Jon reaches for it, hesitates, and then snatches it up. He turns it over in his hands, the shape and weight familiar. Something is building beneath his skin, fizzing, crackling, a flurry of static that rises and rises the longer he holds the tape. It calls to him. The white noise is a siren song drawing him in until he is moving towards his office and the tape recorder he keeps on his desk. His hands shake as he pushes the tape into place and snaps the recorder shut. For a moment the world narrows down to the feeling of the play button beneath his finger, its weight as he presses down, the soft whir-like a sigh-as the tape begins to play.

“Hello, my dear archivist.”

The saccharine voice that spews from the tape washes away the frantic desperation that had sent him scurrying to his office like a starving dog. He shivers, the memory of hard plastic hands around his throat making it hard to breathe.

The Eye drinks in this flash of terror, consuming it with abandon.

“It’s so luvely to be able to talk again. I was hoping to see you in person but ….I’m sure we’ll get to that later.”

There’s a tinkling laugh; the sound of fairground chimes, or blood dripping on porcelain.

“I thought now would be a good time to check in about that old skin you’re supposed to be getting for us. Not that I really need to. I am having you followed. It’s not because I don’t trust you but…well, I don’t trust you and I want to be sure that when you find it you don’t do anything silly. It is very powerful after all. I have to say, little archivist, I’m mighty….disappointed….by your lack of progress. It’s been a week now and nothing and I am on a bit of a deadline, you know. The world won’t dance itself new on its own.”

Nikola stops with a breathy gasp.

Jon waits, fingers clenched in the sleeves of his too-big cardigan.

He can make out the creak of plastic, followed by what sounds like a heavy door being opened. He leans in, straining to hear the dull thud of feet on stone. The jaunty melody of carousel music lingers in the background, ever-present and just flat enough to set his teeth on edge.

“Unfortunately for you, that means I need to up the stakes a little. We can’t have you getting complacent, that just won’t do.”

Another grating sound, metal against concrete and then a jumble of muffled grunts, almost as if someone is trying to speak against restraints.

“Do try and keep him quiet.”

Nikola hisses to someone whose response Jon cannot hear.

Something coils in his gut, cold and heavy.

“He spotted one of us outside the Institute one evening, tried to follow us. A rather stupid move if you ask me. You may want to rethink your hiring strategy.”

The mumbling intensifies.

Jon feels sick. His stomach churns, a deep sense that something is very wrong knotting up his insides.

“He seems awfully fond of you, I must say, putting himself in all that danger to try and keep you safe. What on earth did you ever do to deserve such devotion, little archivist?”

He shakes his head, trying to speak around the hard lump in his throat even though he knows Nikola can not hear him.

“P-pl…”

“Would you like to say hello?”

There is a painful ripping sound, then a scraping and a few ragged breaths.

The cold dread in Jon’s gut begins to unfurl, spreading out, freezing him to his chair.

“Jon?”

His heart stutters.

“Jon, p-please….please…d-don’t…”

Martin’s familiar voice, shaking and edged with panic, erupts from the speaker like a scream.

The copper tang of blood spills over his tongue. He looks down, realising he’s been biting his knuckle so hard his skin has split. Even as he watches the blood pool and trickle down his fingers, he feels no pain.

Nikola laughs again, something knife-sharp behind the sweetness.

Jon is cold, so cold, even beneath his tea-scented cardigan. His hands are like ice as he claws at the tape recorder, smearing blood over the plastic casing. He is not sure what he’s trying to do, his thoughts too muddled. He thinks he may be trying to reach through to wherever they are, to wherever Martin is.

“You see archivist, now we have some collateral. So, if you don’t manage to find that ancient relic, well….shall we have a demonstration?”

A strangled whimper is all Jon can manage as he listens to the squeak of plastic fingers, the tearing of fabric, the clear zhing of a blade. His eyes lock onto the tape recorder, transfixed with horror as he hears Martin grunt and then…..

Jon has never heard screaming like that before.

It cuts through him, reverberating down to his bones and settling in his marrow, so deep he will never be rid of it.

At the same time, it drowns him. Each new cry washes over him, relentless, never giving him time to breathe. He is suffocating beneath the sound, helpless and guilt-ridden, hands twitching as if trying to pull himself up for air. He can’t think, can’t speak, can’t breathe – chest too tight, pulse racing. His vision swims, blackness creeping in from the edges as Martin screams and screams and screams.

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, cold tears spilling down his cheeks. He presses his hands over his ears, but no matter how hard he tries he cannot escape it.

It feels like a lifetime before the screaming begins to quiet and an eternity until Nikola speaks again, high and airy.

“Impressive. That was even through a gag. What fun we’re going to have!”

A sob fills the silence, faint and broken. Jon matches it with his own.

Somewhere the Eye swells and glows in gluttonous satisfaction. Jon can feel it preening, brimming over with stolen terror. He shoves it away in disgust.

“Lucky for us there’s plenty of him to use.”

Something slaps wetly. There’s a squelch, like fingers being shoved into dough.

Jon retches.

“This will make a luvely pair of gloves, don’t you think?”

He doubles over, heaving dryly into his wastepaper bin, for once glad he didn’t have lunch. Sweat beads at his hairline, spots dancing in front of his eyes as he gasps around the convulsions of his nauseated body.

“Now now archivist, no point getting upset. The sooner you find us the gorilla skin the more of your assistant there will be left. I wouldn’t wait too long if I were you. Goodbye.”

The voice fades, leaving only panting breaths and pained groans before the recording ends with an abrupt click.

Jon lets it run on while he struggles to find a rhythm to his breathing. The background whir is a comfort, something to dampen the horrific shrieking that still rings in his ears.

Guilt sits heavy on his shoulders, a deadweight. First Sasha and now Martin. How many more people will he fail before the end? Who else will have to suffer because of him? He curls himself up in his chair and tries to consider what he should do, but his thoughts either will not come or fly past too fast to crystalise into an actual plan. Eventually, he gives in to the lingering heaviness of his limbs and the hollowness in his chest and he cries.

---

He isn’t sure how long he sits there.

The tape finally finishes and cuts off with a burst of static and the pop of the play button.

He is sat in silence when Basira finds him, folded up and trying to ignore the screams in his head. Her firm footsteps alert Jon to her presence as he can barely see out of his tear-swollen eyes. Her breathing pauses as she takes a moment to assess the situation.

Jon can picture the scene clearly: he sits, knees to his chest, hands tangled in his greying hair. The tape recorder perches haphazardly on the edge of his desk, smeared with blood that has dried a rich, rust colour. There are gouges in the surface of his desk and matching splinters beneath his fingernails.

“Jon?”

He thrusts out an arm, knocking Basira’s hand out of the way. The tape recorder falls to the floor with a crack, the cassette flies out, magnetic tape spooling on the floor. He stares at it for a moment. At least now she cannot….will not….and he does not have to either.

“Jon!?”

Her voice is clipped, hard. There is no room for argument or bullshit, no hint of concern. He would expect nothing less of Basira, and he has always respected her bluntness and the ability to bury her emotions so she can get the job done. As much as he would like to believe he can do the same, he knows it is a lie. Today has just proven that.

“Jon!?”

He opens his mouth to answer but only manages a strangled whine, which devolves into a sob. He takes a shuddering breath before trying again.

“M-“

It hurts. His throat is raw, almost as if he has been the one screaming. He is not entirely sure he hasn’t been. No one would have heard him all the way down here. He thinks Elias meant for it to be that way.

“Ma-“

The name sticks in his throat, coats his tongue with a sour taste, and lodges itself behind his teeth. He can not say it….does not deserve to say it…Nikola’s words repeat in his head, over and over.

What on earth did you ever do to deserve such devotion?

Jon thinks of all the times he has berated Martin, the mornings he has purposefully left his tea undrunk just to spite him, the cold manner he has used to decline every offer of help or comfort. And still, Martin had smiled, had rinsed out his mug and stubbornly left another on his desk made to his exact taste, had even pushed himself to research the Vittery case, almost risking his life just to try and get a good word out of his boss.

Martin, who writes poetry that overflows with tender melancholy. Martin, who had stayed up into the early hours with Jon while he had been staying in the archives, somehow aware that Jon was alone and afraid. Martin, who had persuaded the ECDC to hand over a jar of Prentiss’ ashes so he would feel safe. Martin, who had made it his mission to ensure Jon got at least one hot meal a day. Martin, who had lied on his CV to help his ailing mum. Martin, with his mop of curls and goofy smile and stupid hipster glasses and…oh…Martin....

Jon buries his nose into the yellow wool at his shoulder, inhaling the faded scent of Early Grey and spearmint toothpaste and lavender laundry detergent. It only leaves him feeling emptier.

Nothing, he wants to shout in reply to Nikola’s question, less than nothing!

“JON! What's going on?”

He sniffs, lifting his eyes to stare blankly down at the ruined tape recorder.

Basira’s gaze flicks to the device, before landing back on Jon.

He shivers, licking his parched lips and forcing the words out, voice cracked and tight.

“M-Martin….I-I need to f-find Martin.”

[meimi-haneoka]

Comments + translation differences for Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card Chapter 49

Hello everyone, and welcome back to our monthly moment of madness with another chapter of  Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card, drawing nearer and nearer to the climax!

Gif of the month:

Because this is literally what I felt this month. And I’m afraid of rollercoasters. There should be more gifs of the month for this chapter, because to me it was a mess of feelings, but I think the rollercoaster represents it well.

The chapter is as usual available in 6 languages on the official CLAMP-FANS website, through their Youtube channel! Go and support it! Like last month, a quick disclaimer: once again there’s gonna be some YunaAki content in this analysis post, so if you don’t like it you already know what to do.  🤗😊 No hard feelings, peace!

And now let’s proceed under the cut to find out what the heck happened to the Sakura Cards!!

First of all, let me spend a couple of words for the color page, which I found very cute, soft, winter-y and also very concerning. Yes, because when there’s a cute cover page during a difficult period in the plot, it means the chapter itself is so emotionally challenging that CLAMP feel somehow obliged to provide something cute and carefree to balance. I’m never sure if the Queens like to f*ck with us when they do that, or what, but at this point I learned their tricks quite well.

The Sakura Cards’ Runaway

The chapter starts with a very concerning Syaoran, crouched on the ground, in visible pain. Whatever/Whomever took the Sakura Cards, really did seem to literally tear them away from his body. I had the impression he was keeping them tucked inside himself just like he does with his sword, the safest place....but also the most painful one. AND IT SHOWS! In this regards I don’t think it was a direct attack, but rather a consequence of the Cards being ripped away from him. Sakura shouts “The Cards!!” in that cute, affectionate way of hers (カードさん達, “Kaado-santachi”) that never let us have a single doubt about Sakura seeing the Cards as real people. Sakura, of course, is worried sick for Syaoran too, but the brave knight stands up and urges her to run after the Cards (small difference between JP and ENG versions: ENG “Don’t let ‘em get away!” JP “Let’s go after them!” )

I found interesting how the Cards seemed literally pulled towards a precise direction, in fact we see them escaping all together through the school gate and then towards the sky. They didn’t scatter like when Sakura opened the Clow Book. This kinda makes me think that someone or something was summoning them, but it’s really difficult to tell. We see both Sakura and Syaoran give their all to try to get the Cards back, both using the Clear Cards and the other Sakura Cards that Syaoran manages to get back. The peculiar thing is that the Siege card (of the Clear deck) manages to successfully contain only a part of the Cards, while others still escape through it. I’ve never quite understood if the Sakura Cards are supposed to be stronger than the Clear Cards, or the other way around, the only thing that is certain is that “only Sakura’s magic is able to counteract Sakura’s magic”.  And so this makes me really wonder what’s happening here. The Cards couldn’t possibly have escaped on their own will, could they? Reminding us that Sakura’s magic can be counteracted only with more Sakura’s magic really makes us understand the utter importance of keeping all the Sakura Cards safe and at close distance from their master, regardless of the obvious reasons (the affection for all of them). 

Syaoran manages to get back all the Sakura Cards...except for one. The Mirror. Panic strikes across both kid’s faces. They really seem to me like two parents who have just lost a kid. 😅

At this point, let me take the opportunity to point out something really interesting about this scene: I’ve noticed how much it resembles the disappearance of the Cards in the Sealed Card movie: that one time it was The Void’s card fault, we all know that. That time, too, the Cards all seemed to be pulled towards a particular direction. And that time, too, someone tried using Windy to stop and get all the Cards back (Sakura, at that time failing miserably):

I found it particularly interesting, because this movie keeps popping up every now and then (more in the anime version, of course), and we have to remind ourselves that it was written by Ohkawa, so I have to wonder whether she’s kinda re-using certain ideas in a different media, or.....this has got some other meaning that we don’t understand yet.

The Art Class of DOOM

So we have The Mirror missing. Later on, during Art class, we have Sakura herself informing us that time resumed flowing normally after Syaoran got back almost all Cards, and we can see that Sakura is really distressed about this, but somehow none of them tried to make an attempt to look for The Mirror. Maybe they’re really at a loss, they can’t feel anything and wouldn’t be able to track it down. Or maybe this is simply one of those chapters that will be developed fully and better in its anime counterpart (we’ve had many of those before, one for all is the SyaoSaku date).  If they really couldn’t do anything about it, going back to their classes is all they had left to do, like they did.

So Art class, Sakura’s class is splitting in groups of two and *of course* Sakura pairs up with Akiho, especially after Tomoyo asked Chiharu to pair up with her (I’m almost sure she did this on purpose because she had the feeling Akiho needed to tell Sakura something). Honestly I’m not even sure why they’re asking anymore, it’s such an automatic thing at this point. 😆

So we have the two adorable girls trying to draw a portrait of eachother. Akiho takes the chance to confess something to Sakura. She knows she will understand. And ladies and gentlemen, I have something to confess too. I started melting in a puddle of emotions, seeing Akiho talking about her chat with Kaito of the night before. 💗 I kinda imagined they would tell us later what they talked about, but I didn’t certainly imagined this.

Akiho says that they strolled through their garden (Eriol’s garden) while chatting about their journey, all the countries they’ve visited together, including their time here in Japan. She mentions being the one to make most of the talk (and how could you expect otherwise, from that other punk), but Kaito managed to do something good: he remembered all of them. All-of-them, down to the smallest details . Now, I could’ve guessed he remembered, but the small notion of him remembering even the smallest things, those that end up buried under everyday’s life (from the JP text)....it kinda surprised me. And made me think.  This journey with her really is important to him. She is important to him. I don’t even know if we need more confirmations at this point but the more elements are added to it, the more this idea becomes real, tangible. And I found the art in this scene extremely on point, in the flashback we can see Akiho as beautiful as ever, with adoring eyes, talking to Kaito. You can really feel she’s the happiest person alive, by his side. Sakura says it out loud, “You must be happy!” (Translated in ENG with “That’s wonderful!”) Kaito in the flashback smiles too, and he seems happy somehow, but also very tired. But you know how it is with that doofus, you never know what he’s thinking. And then, the final blow: Akiho says that she treasures all the moments they’ve spent together (small addition of the JP version: ひとつ残らず, “without leaving even one out” which makes even more clear the strength of this affirmation), and she hopes that Kaito feels the same. She doesn’t need him to hold dear ALL their moments together, as long as he can at least consider one important to him. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is when I screamed “Akiho you’re killing me”. For what she said, but also for the imagine of him that CLAMP kindly provided.

This is Kaito, while talking to Akiho on a night of full moon. And I’ve never seen him like this. Not as her butler, not as a shady magician, not as the guy who’s taken the burden on himself to save her from her tragic destiny, but simply as the companion of a long time travel, someone who came to experience a multitude of memories with her.

And what’s more, what’s more. Akiho, like many other characters of this series, doesn’t love her most important person out of an egoistic, greedy love. She doesn’t need him to consider each and every memory with her important, like she’s doing, as long as he holds dear just one. Just one. This is like saying “It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t reciprocate my feelings, as long as I can have a small place in his heart”.

Okay.

Now go and tell me this girl doesn’t deserve the love she’s longing for... While Akiho is saying all of this wearing the sweetest expression on her face, Sakura is no second to her in making the sweetest face ever. Because she understands. And she’s so glad to see Akiho this happy, talking about the person she loves the most. She knows what it means because she’s got many people important to her, one of them above all, and she wants those people to stay happy forever, along with their memories shared together (here the ENG version forced its hand a bit saying “I never want to forget the people I love”, that was implied but she didn’t straight up say that) Sakura wants Akiho to have this kind of happiness for all of her life, and she decides to tell her that. ENG: That goes for you too, Akiho-chan. I want happiness for you, too. JP: You too, Akiho-chan. To me, you’re someone I want to see happy forever.

And you could’ve never imagined that such an endearing act would actually trigger the most tragic of the outcomes.

Akiho is shocked. Shocked, moved to tears by her friend who’s so kind to her. But soon that feeling is completely obliterated by the bitter realization that this is the first time she’s been ever regarded as important to someone. Her voice is broken, you can literally feel it in the JP version for how scarce are the words she’s saying. She remembers the cutting words her relatives told her. JP: “Everyone told me I couldn’t do anything right” JP: “They told me I was useless”.  It might not be immediate in the ENG version, but Akiho is directly quoting the Squids with the exact same words they used in the chapters of her backstory.

No one ever wished for her to be happy. Even if Kaito meant to her any good, having the emotional understanding of a stone, he probably was never able to tell her something like that. The grief is too much. The scar too big. Kaito’s seal, the one that kept “the book’s time at bay”, ultimately wears off, and Akiho loses her consciousness. Sakura, who stood up and went immediately to hug the crying Akiho, realizes in horror. The “Book” spreads itself once again, trying to swallow Sakura exactly like it did during the pool incident. Only that this time around there’s no Kaito stopping time. But there’s something else. A giant, transparent rose engulfes Sakura, de facto destroying the book pages that were about to swallow her whole. And just like that, time stops. Ladies and gentlement, enter the magical tool n.1: Nadeshiko’s clock pendant! But it’s not over, oh no. To Sakura’s utter shock, MOMO appears out of nowhere, shouting Akiho’s name in terror. She felt that time stopped, and thought that was Kaito’s doing, but she was wrong. But most importantly, she felt that Akiho lost her consciousness once again.

I just want to borrow a second to point out something small, but that I felt it had a very big significance, in Momo’s words.

In the ENG version, when she talks about believing that time was stopped by Kaito, it was used a general “him”. But in the JP version, Momo says あの子, “that child / kid / boy” . Momo doesn’t see Kaito as a man, or as a grown up, but she sees him in all his weaknesses, like a child. She talks exactly like the image she’s been giving me all this time, like a caring aunt worrying over the children. She’s not only protective towards Akiho, but towards Kaito too, and we had proofs of that, before. But I was quite surprised, and moved, to see what an endearing way she used to refer to him. But back to us. Momo, without much surprise, understands right away that Nadeshiko’s clock pendant is the responsible for stopping time (apparently both this time and the previous one, with the Sakura Cards flying away). And she explains that the clock didn’t let anyone else move, aside from her and Sakura. It seems like it’s been designed to work that way. I have to point out something else in this particular scene, to clarify some confusion I’ve seen around. ENG: “It was the watch...that set the time magicks in motion” JP: “The one that activated the time magic...was that watch” While Momo here uses the same words Kaito uses when he talks about the Time Book, I don’t think it’s gotten actually anything to do with it. Stopping time is a form of time magic, that’s all. So she’s basically saying that a time magic was activated, and it stopped the flow of time.

The chapter ends with Momo saying “  So...now what do we do?” with a face and posture that, honestly? Doesn’t inspire anything good, to me. 😂 The editorial text says “The magic that was entrusted to Nadeshiko’s watch. What is Momo’s strategy?” I mean, truth to be told, there are other things in this chapter that are reeking of red flags and “shit is going to hit the fan soon”.

Like, for example, Akiho and Kaito’s scene. Yessir.  Between last chapter and this one, we got a detailed idea of what happened between them: a scene that had all the romantic connotations, where they talked about their memories together under the full moon. What could’ve prompted Akiho to start a conversation like that?  Remember last chapter? “I love you, and I’m worried about you”. THIS WHOLE SCENE feels like the last time they get to talk together like this, before something big and possibly irreparable happens. Like Syaoran says, I don’t have solid proof, but it’s the way in which it’s built, that leads me to think that. 

And last but not least, we have the dearest The Mirror missing, here! I just hope she’s in the hands of a positive character who wouldn’t hurt her, if it’s a person, that is. I wonder if we should expect more Cards disappearing, just like it happened in the Sealed Card movie.

Next chapter, unfortunately, will be released on February 1st, that will probably mean January 31st for Comixology. Yessir, CLAMP are taking a break after such an important chapter. I won’t go in details about my reaction upon seeing that, I just hope to spend alllll this time left drawing fanarts, lol. Let me know what you think of this chapter and your theories, in my inbox! See you for the big boy Chapter 50!! An important number, first chapter of the future volume 11, who knows what will happen??

[notcanoncompliant]

Flight (And What That Means To You)

Merry Christmas to @darker-soft-starker! <3

@starkersecretsanta

(I read your prompt and my brain took off, totally deviated from the rom-com feel, I hope you still like it!!)

warnings: mild violence, anxiety attack symptoms (kind of)

****************************************************** 

The Prompt:

Canon Divergence AU - Tony and Peter are neighbors. Tony is not obscenely rich, just a regular Joe, maybe a cop or something and lives across the hall from Peter's apartment. Peter is still Spider-Man and regularly gets caught by Tony limping back to his apartment bloody and beaten, peter gets stuck to his doorknob and there are a lot of awkward moments etc

And away we go...

******************************************************

Like many important things, Tony’s life resets with a ‘bang’. 

On his back, ears ringing, staring up at inky-grey smoke that eats up whatever view there had been of the stars, he takes ragged half-breaths and wonders if he’s done enough, if this was the right way for him to go. When his vision tunnels and his consciousness begins to recede, he still doesn’t have an answer.

*

You’re lucky. 

It’s what everyone keeps telling him. Lucky he was far enough away from the blast that he didn’t lose any pieces, lucky his vest held up just enough to keep the shrapnel from burying itself in his chest.

Lucky.

He might be, but it’s hard to feel it when he still hurts like there’s a baby grand parked on his ribs. Harder still when he wakes up, over and over and over, with the taste--the grit--of sand and copper in his mouth the echo of too-hot sun on his skin or the stinging, freezing cling of ice water on his face (in his mouth, his eyes, his stomach, his lungs--he can’t, he can’t, pleasenomorehecan’t).

It takes him four days to wake calmly enough he doesn’t bolt upright, doesn’t frantically pull off sensors and yank the drip out of his arm, doesn’t get held back down and sedated.

It takes four days for him to get his hands on a notepad and a pen.

When he does, he draws a metal behemoth shooting into the open sky.

He has no idea what it means, but he feels free.

*

‘Indefinite medical leave’ should’ve been a punch to the gut, a slap to the face. By the time they’d gotten around to giving him the mandatory psych eval, though (and it had gone as swimmingly as expected), he’d been out of the hospital for three weeks, and well-acclimated to feeling like he’d taken a fist to the stomach.

Before, he might’ve argued, fought, done his best to prove that he could still be an asset to the team, that his mid-forties are practically his prime, god damn it! 

He doesn’t, though. None of it seems as important as it used to.

Being taken off the force is the least of his concerns, not when the tug to vent the dreams (visions, almost) onto paper-canvas-something is so strong he shakes with it.

The dreams are wild. Vivid and jarring. He draws bits and pieces of them all. 

He’s got the time to do it, now. 

*

Rogers is the first to stop contacting him. Barnes follows suit. 

Clint hangs on a little longer, but ultimately stops coming around after the first month.

Rhodey doesn’t feel like a loss, for all that he and Tony have undeniably drifted apart. Rhodey’s got his family; Carol and the kids. He has time for coffee, for a quick chat sometimes. He doesn’t ask after the dreams. Tony doesn’t blame him.

Nat sticks around a little longer. Stops by every couple weeks. Comes in and drinks his crappy instant coffee and looks at whatever he’s working on. Sees him go from pencil sketches to paint. 

When she sees his latest piece, she arches a brow at him.

It’s a glove, she says, flatly. The hint of good-natured amusement sparking in her eyes is nice, even if it’s not enough to counteract the rest of her reaction.

She’s a better liar than the others, because she lies with her whole body, her whole self. It’s only because Tony knows where to look does he see the wariness in the way her glance keeps flicking back to the canvas, catching on the bronze shape, on the spots of bright color that contrast so sharply.

The visit ends more quickly than usual (and they were never long to begin with), the redhead gone after a well-crafted excuse and a lingering hug. Tony knows he’ll see her again, but it still feels like a goodbye, of sorts. 

He’s not bitter about any of it, doesn’t blame or begrudge his team for not staying; their jobs, their lives didn’t end when Tony took that blast, when a cut-and-dry shipyard raid (as cut and dry as any raid can be) went a little sideways.

And, if he’s being honest, the relative handful of times he’s seen any of them after his retirement (after four months he’s given up calling it ‘leave’, given up assuming he’ll ever even try to come back), there’s something hanging silently over them, dragging between them. 

The feeling of distance (and slight relief when they part) is mutual, Tony thinks.

*

There’s one constant, outside the dreams. One figure flitting in and out of the corners of his days, his nights, his mind.

His neighbor, Peter, is a mystery. A gorgeous, twenty-something, world-weary mystery who’s eyes flicker too sharply over the whole of Tony’s body whenever Tony opens the door to find him standing there at completely ridiculous hours.

(Not that Tony’s got a healthy circadian rhythm to disrupt, anymore).

It feels less like random kindness and more like he’s been assigned security detail, the kid’s greeting and polite inquiry--How are you today, Mr. Stark? (because he can’t get the kid to call him ‘Tony’)--accompanied by eyes moving too sharply over the whole of Tony’s body, checking for damage, before he’s off again to do whatever it is he does.

Tony’s not really sure what to do with it at first, how to respond. He’s not used to being watched over, is typically the one doing the watching, the protecting. It’s especially difficult the first couple of times, because the kid--Peter--always looks a little worse for wear; favoring one or more of his limbs, and at least one visible, fresh bruise, small scrape or cut marring his features.

He does him the courtesy of not asking about them, because Peter doesn’t ask invasive questions and obviously tries very hard not to look past Tony and into the apartment, important concessions to Tony’s privacy. It’s only fair to let Peter have his, feels like an even (if increasingly painful) trade-off.

He also doesn’t want to do anything to risk losing this. He’s glad his ‘detail’ keeps showing up. Keeps existing. 

*

After a while, it becomes routine. Once a day, Peter knocks, Tony opens, and they have their exchange. It’s...a spot of light in Tony’s world, even if it feels sort of heavy.

The lightness is due in part to the way that, regardless of apparent injury or hour of the day, Peter always offers Tony a genuine smile, even if it’s also quick or small or tired.

Sometimes, though, the smiles are more grimace than anything else. There are bands of steel behind those ones, and Tony wonders how (why) this kid got so strong, and why it doesn’t seem like there’s anyone telling him he doesn’t have to be. On those days, Tony thinks about inviting him in, offering to take a look at the injuries; he’s got first aid training and still keeps his own supplies in his place.

(He doesn’t ever offer to drive Peter to the hospital; the option never seems to occur to him until after Peter’s already vanished, down the hall or into his own apartment across from Tony’s.)

There’s something that stops him, something beyond the respect for Peter’s privacy. Something about the faint blush that appears on Peter’s cheeks sometimes during their short conversations, something about the way his own eyes sometimes drift over Peter’s form in return.

*  

He wonders, sometimes, what Peter would think of the paintings. 

He's imagined it a few times; showing him, watching him see them. He doesn't know if Peter's into art at all (not that Tony even really is, not in the technical sense), but it wouldn't really matter; Tony's fantasies don't usually revolve around the younger’s critique of his work.

More than anything, he wants to see Peter in his minimalist-but-cluttered space, sitting on his couch or leaning against his kitchen counter, propped against the windowsill, a mug of something hot in his hands and a truly relaxed smile on his face.

Sometimes the fantasies are less innocent, but...something in him just wants to see Peter safe.

*

“Okay, we need to talk about this.”

They’re standing in Tony’s doorway, another ass-crack-of-dawn ‘status check’, and there’s blood actually trailing down from Peter’s left sleeve, dripping off the kid’s fingers.

Peter fidgets in place. “...About what?”

In spite of his concern, Tony nearly snorts a laugh at the completely terrible evasion. 

He reigns it in, arches his brows. “You’re getting you on the carpet.”

The kid shoots a quick glance downwards at his hand, blanching slightly. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s--it’s really nothing, I just--”

“‘Nothing’ is a papercut, Peter,” Tony snaps. “Putting aside the bruises, fat lip, and the fact you’re obviously favoring your right leg, you’re standing here with blood running down your arm. That’s not ‘nothing’.”  

He’s tired and frustrated and afraid, finally venting these feelings after weeks of this, weeks of wondering if Peter’s just going to stop showing up, weeks of being on edge between visits even if they come like clockwork because he just can’t lose these moments, he can’t--and he doesn’t realize he’s moved forward into Peter’s space, how close he is until he finishes speaking. 

Peter’s staring at him with saucer-wide eyes, a pink stain on his cheeks, his slightly wheezing breath fanning across Tony’s chin.

Tony backs off quickly, hands in the air. “Fuck, I’m sorry--”

“It’s okay,” Peter says, and Tony watches the bob of his throat as he swallows. “You--I’m okay. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I am. You don’t need to worry about me Mr. Stark.”

The determined set of Peter’s jaw is both compelling and frustrating, and Tony just barely manages to muscle back his urge to argue further.

“Just...I’m here,” he says, finally. “If you need to talk. If you need anything. Please.”

Something desperate and pained slashes across Peter’s features, and then it’s gone. The younger man nods, short and tense, turns and disappears into his apartment.

Tony stares at the closed door for another moment, before stepping out and shutting his own door, heading down the hall. 

Air. Air will be good.

*

Air is good. It’s always good. Always helps after the dreams, chills away the sweat, clears his head.

It doesn’t do quite as much, now, when his worries are linked to reality instead of a dreamscape, but it feels good nonetheless. 

He stands on the roof of the complex, high up, until the edge of the sky begins to change color. Like he does every time he comes up here, he thinks about his favorite of the dreams, the brief period when his nights were filled with the exhilaration of flight.

He hopes Peter has somewhere like this, that he has something good to return to, his own version of reaching the sky.

*  

"Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good..."

Wind. Reddish puffs of dust in the air, unnaturally colored sky--everything is wrong, everything is ending, failure, failed, no--

"I don't wanna go, please--I don't wanna go!"

He can't lose him, he can't lose the kid--it's his fault, Tony's fault--he shouldn't have been here, he shouldn't have--

Tony bolts upright, gasping past the taste of dust in the air--gritty on his tongue, in his throat, burning his eyes.

With a clumsy, half-conscious drive, he drags himself up off the couch to the easel, practically throwing the painting of the glove (gauntlet) to the side and slapping a blank canvas up.

He doesn't start this one with a pencil sketch, no swipes of graphite or charcoal. The paint ends up on his bare hands, coating his fingers, and then he's frantically tracing and contouring a face, neck, shoulders, craggy grey rock and more of that reddish dirt--shades of beige and brown, orange and red and blue, grey and black twisting (crumbling) away.

Time is nothing, a non-entity; all Tony knows is the need to touch, to hold, to stop the inevitable--

When it's finished, the energy drains with disorienting suddenness. It's difficult to keep his arms extended, so he doesn't; he pulls them towards himself, hunching over with a sob and burying his trembling, paint-tacky hands in his hair.

The dreams have only ever been abstract; images in a mental blender. Vague human shapes and random objects, landscapes--weird, vivid amalgamations of feelings and colors and sensations. Tasting the dirt, feeling the loss; those things are par for the course.

But none of the people in them have ever had a voice; no one has ever said a word.

He couldn’t make out clear features of the face, even staring head on...but the voice that still rings in his head sounds a lot like Peter’s, and now that the frenzy is over, it’s almost paralyzing.

After an indeterminate number of minutes, the dream fades in the way dreams do, and he uncurls with a heaving sigh and stands, drags himself to the kitchen counter to make coffee.

He's already painted it out, it’s usually enough, but when he sits back down in front of the easel, he feels sick, anxious. His hands are unsteady, knuckles white where he grips the handle of his mug, the liquid inside it rippling slightly. 

Patches of the paint are still shiny-wet on the canvas, and part of him wishes it would stay that way, something about the wetness making it seem alive. It's blurred, as though he’s looking at the image from behind frosted glass, but there’s an obvious shape, the body of the owner of that heart-rendingly familiar, rasping voice. It's faceless; a kernel of (relative) normality he clings to, so he can try to convince himself this painting doesn't feel like the manifestation of his greatest failure, of a grave error that doesn't really belong to him but still spreads, aching, behind his ribs.

He's sore everywhere--his shoulders and neck from being hunched over, his arms from being held aloft for far too long. His hands ache, too, and they’re dry, paint cracking and peeling in an ugly neutral blend of the colors he'd smeared on his fingers.

He showers, manages to get the paint out of his hair. 

But he can’t watch as the color flecks and melts (disintegrates) from his hands and disappears down the drain. 

 *

Every day.

Every day for the last four days. 

The dreams and the art are a cycle: he dreams, he draws, he gets a few days respite while he finishes the piece...and then he wakes again from a new nightmare or dreamscape and starts over. 

He’d finished the first painting the same day...but he keeps having the same dream. Keeps hearing Peter beg to stay, keeps feeling the body in his hands crumble away to nothing. The taste of dirt in his mouth won’t leave, isn’t touched by coffee or food. He’s got five variations of the same painting piled in the corner of his apartment, and he’d been sure that if he doesn’t do something, he’s going to live the same horror over and over and over.

So he’s doing something.

He’s maybe ending this vicious repetition, but he’s also making up for the way he’s been ending their conversations more quickly, the way he’s been holding back and hiding, pretending he doesn’t see the flicker of hurt on Peter’s face when Tony’s the one who evades, bids farewell and closes the door.

He’s the one knocking, now.

“Mr. St--Tony?”

Seeing Peter like this--standing there in a t-shirt and boxers in the doorway of his apartment, less bruised than normal, looking confused and alive, he looks amazing--blows whatever plans Tony had away, ash on the wind. 

He doesn’t think, just sighs Peter’s name and pulls the younger man forward into a tight hug, buries a hand in his hair, presses his face in the softness, too, everything in his head spinning with relief and joy and a painful kind of apology--

--before he notices how stiff Peter’s gone in his arms. 

Probably because, in the months since they’ve been doing this, they’ve never actually engaged in physical contact...or had a real conversation beyond the single argument those days ago. Peter doesn’t know about the dreams; he doesn’t know anything, and Tony must seem like he’s having a mental break.

Before he can make himself let go, though, Peter’s arms snap up to wrap around him, tight, so tight it makes Tony’s ribs ache.

It ends too soon, Peter pulling away to stare at him with suddenly wet, red-rimmed eyes and hope so sharp it hurts to look at.

“Are you--do you know? Do you remember?”

Cold trickles down Tony’s spine.

He knows, without a doubt, he should. He should remember, and he doesn’t. It feels like another failure that he can’t say ‘yes’, that he can’t bring himself to answer that hope with something other than tense silence.

His heart breaks when Peter steps back after a few seconds, looking embarrassed and a little panicked.

“Never mind, I’m sorry--”

“Wait, no,” Tony blurts, barely resisting the urge to pull Peter back in. “Don’t--Look, I can’t...I don’t know what you’re talking about, but maybe you could tell me? I just…” He sighs, frustrated at himself, at the feeling that he’s missing something huge and that huge thing is Peter-shaped

“I just need to be around you for a little while,” he finally says. “Is that okay?”

He’s sure he’s going to get a door shut in his face; Peter’s expression is torn, aching, and Tony wouldn’t blame him in the slightest.

But he’s lucky. 

“Um, yeah,” Peter says carefully after another long moment, something like resignation coloring his tone. “Come in, please.”

*

The layout of Peter’s apartment is a mirror of Tony’s, but significantly less cluttered. Pretty minimal, actually, less like a choice in aesthetic and more like he’s only just moved in: a futon and a desk for furnishing, a small microwave and coffee pot on the counter, no pictures on the walls or taped to the fridge. 

Tony’s not judging, can’t; he’s never lived particularly extravagantly either, and his studio only looks lived in because of the art supplies taking up a good third of it. 

As for the lack of personal touches, of photos, memories...If anything, it makes Tony feel a further sense of closeness, of camaraderie. He doesn’t have pictures up either, not anymore; can’t look at the ones of he and the team, of he and Rhodey through the years. Not since everything changed.

The futon draws his gaze, again, still pulled down flat, like Peter’s just woken up, or had just laid down for bed. Tony stares at the pillow and rumpled, pulled-back comforter, and feels a twist of guilt (not enough to leave, but it’s still there).

“I’m sorry about the mess,” Peter’s saying as he closes the door and moves to stand a little off to the side. “I wasn’t expecting company at...um. Whatever time it is.”

Cracking a joke would be ideal to diffuse the tension, or maybe even giving a generic, polite response (‘it’s fine’, ‘I don’t mind’, or, ‘you have a lovely home, literal man of my dreams’), but when Tony pulls his gaze from the futon, Peter’s lips are curved in a tight smile, his stance awkward, yearning, like he’s trying not to approach Tony, but he wants to.

“Can I touch you again?” Tony asks. 

He realizes how it sounds as soon as he’s blurted it out, and as he watches Peter blush, lips parting in silent surprise, he wishes he meant it that way; that he was only trying to finagle his way into further messing up Peter’s bedspread, wanting to touch for a reason so mundane as arousal, instead of out of the powerful desire to reassure himself of Peter’s continued existence. 

Before he can apologize or rephrase, he’s got an armful of shaking, but warm and solid, Peter.

Peter’s face--his cheeks, his nose, his lips--are warm, pressing into the bare skin at the junction of Tony’s neck and shoulder, a sensation that takes Tony’s breath away more so than the return of the tight bands of Peter’s arms, one low around Tony’s waist, the other angled up between his shoulder blades. 

Fabric tightens across his shoulders and a little at his neck, like Peter’s gripping a handful of his shirt, and Tony feels more than hears the younger speak. 

“Yes, please. Touch me.”

Tony swallows thickly and hugs Peter back. The ‘thank you’ is burning in the back of his throat, threatening to spill out...so he lets it. Breathes it strained and hollow into Peter’s hair, the kind of ‘relieved’ that hurts so much worse before it gets better, and Peter shivers in his hold.

It shouldn’t feel so good. It shouldn’t feel better to hold Peter, this virtual stranger, than it does to even think of being near his family, his old friends (his other friends, other; they’re not gone, they’re just...distant--not gone, not gone, not wrong), but it does. It feels right, in a way nothing else seems to feel anymore. 

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself say, “I’m so sorry, Peter, I’m sorry…”

He’s sure he’s holding on tight enough now that it has to hurt, but he can’t make himself stop. His hand ends up back in Peter’s hair, fingers twisting into the soft brown curls, his other hand gripping at the back of Peter’s thin, worn t-shirt, and suddenly he needs more. Needs more proof, needs more confirmation that he’s not dreaming, that Peter’s not going to crumble apart in his arms. He’s just not sure how to say it, if he can--

He flinches when he feels Peter shift, feels him nosing at his throat, feels lips parting.

“I miss you,” Peter whispers, ragged and strained, breath warm against Tony’s skin, and it doesn’t make sense, but it does.

*

The fading bruises on Peter’s skin taste the same as the pale, unblemished places, are just as soft when Tony’s lips and tongue brush over them, and this isn’t what he’d meant to do, but it’s what’s happening now and neither of them appear inclined to stop it.

They should be talking; Tony should be wondering about the question Peter asked when they hugged for the first time. He should be panicking about how Peter apparently knows him enough to mourn him (he’d said ‘I miss you’ the way Tony talks to his mother, like he was talking to a gravestone) even though Tony had definitely never met him before he left the force, before the dreams. Would’ve remembered a face like his (an everything like his, really).

But they’re not talking. Instead, he’s tangled with Peter on the futon, dragging his lips from bloom to bloom of fading green-yellow-purple down Peter’s torso, his scalp tingling with every reflexive tightening of the fingers in his hair, the disbelief and awed arousal on Peter's face as much an aphrodisiac as the taste of his skin, the texture of it under Tony's hands.

Every motion feels like something slotting into place, the restless places in Tony's mind settling a little further, the empty spaces filling with heat and emotions too big for how little he really knows this person--this beautiful, strong, wonderful being.

Tony’s not panicking. He’s not wondering. He still doesn’t know how this is happening, still doesn’t know Peter beyond the last few months, barely knows him now, but nothing has felt this easy, this right, in a long time.

When Peter spills, warm and liquid, over where their hands are wrapped together around their twin hardness, Tony swallows Peter's soft gasp, kisses him and groans Peter's name as he finds his own release.

*

There are things he needs to say, things he needs to show Peter, the way he knows there are things Peter needs to show him, tell him.

The enormity is there, a strangely relieving weight, blanketing as they sink into each other in soft, post-coital haze.

It's complicated. It’s bigger than the dreams, bigger than anything Tony can fathom.

But when Tony fades, curled together on the futon, Peter's head under his chin and one of Peter’s hands resting on his sternum…

He dreams of flight.

***

[screensirenfic]

Menthol Cigarettes - Chapter 10 - NSFW Warnings: Slight Dub-Con

Out of all the punishments Billy chose to deal out on me for various fictional offences; edging had to be the worse.

He’d tried spanking, biting, hair pulling, making me fuck myself on him, but nothing had me begging and crying in quite the same way.

Maybe it was weird that Billy liked my tears so much; a strong dominant impulse making him enjoy the sight of me completely vulnerable beneath him, practically shaking for him to give me release.

Tonight’s punishment was no different; Billy having already brought me to the edge eight times, only to pull back at the last second.

It was time consuming, agonising way to take out his insecurities on me; my thighs twitching from strain and my clit practically numb from his continuous rubbing, but Billy was enjoying this; his hard cock leaking onto my ass, letting beads of precum trickle down and into my pussy.

“Billy; please... Stop...” I begged; my voice strained as I whined against the mattress, hips bucking against thin air as he drew back a ninth time.

“Ahhh, ahhh...” Billy cautioned; the smooth smirk in his voice enough to make me want to hit him; but I couldn’t, not with my hands going numb behind my back.

“I thought you were going to take your punishment like a good girl?” He asked; his hand returning to its place between my thighs as he began to finger me again with hard and rough strokes that had my back arching painfully against the bed.

“I am; I am...” I sobbed, having to bite down on the comforter, because Billy was making me want to scream with his hands alone.

“I just feel sick, Billy...” I complained, and it wasn’t a lie.

My stomach was cramping so hard from unspent orgasms that I could feel his load rising back up in my throat, and I feared I soon wouldn’t be able to stop myself from redecorating his bedsheets.

“Alright; you’ve been good...” He relented, and I breathed a sigh of relief at the thought of a reprieve.

“Just one more time, baby, and then we can stop...” Billy cooed, making me clench as he slid a third finger in; the pressure near agonising in my overly tight cunt.

I tried to relax, closing my eyes to counteract my vision from going blurry, as Billy laid claim to my pussy.

I loved Billy; I really did, but sometimes his kinks were too much for even me.

I got that I was his first proper girlfriend, and that he liked to experiment, but I always ended up being the one held down and forced to cum over and over until I couldn’t walk, or alternatively passed out.

It was a real seratonin rush, but when he made it hard for me to ride my motorcycle for the next few days; I kinda wished he’d ask how hard I’d like to go that night.

My final orgasm was rising upon me; toes curled into my feet as I held my breath, already knowing he was gonna pull out before I had time to finish.

“Last one; baby girl. Last one...” He reassured me, watching as my pussy lips began to twitch, and taking it as a signal to rip his fingers out of me.

I gasped like I’d been shot, the sudden lack of stimulation making all my muscles cramp in protest.

My body shook, and I could feel tears beginning to fall down my face, unable to stop myself from letting out small choking sobs that were muffled into the mattress.

“Oh; sweetheart...” He cooed, reaching out to stroke my side in a way that made me jump; every nerve in my body on edge from his overstimulation.

“Are you crying?” He asked; his voice almost pleased at the revelation, another insight into the darker side of Billy Hargrove.

I didn’t answer; too breathless and shaky to even begin to explain how I was feeling.

Still; Billy liked to know his efforts were appreciated, reaching out to cup my face and turn it towards him as he bent over me; face mere inches from my own.

“You are...” He grinned, biting his lip at the sight of me all red eyed and tear stained.

“Don’t worry...” He continued to coo, stroking my hair like I was some pet as he continued to study every inch of my puffy red cheeks.

“You’ve been a real good girl...”

He leaned in to kiss me; his lips soft but demanding as his tongue snaked into my mouth, forcing even more moans from my tear strangled throat.

I savoured the taste of him; the warmth of his body, desperate for some sort of stimulation to bring me over the edge.

He pulled away too soon, settling back on his haunches as he took a firm grip of my bound wrists; the other hand resting comfortably on the curve of my hip.

“And because you’ve been such a good girl; I’m gonna take care of you...” He drawled; the implications of his words making my heart skip a beat.

A suddenly felt something wet and hard and warm press against my entrance, and I held my breath, so hoping he didn’t choose now to tease.

Lucky for me, Billy was a man of his word, slowly but surely pushing into me in a way that made my toes curl and forced every ounce of air from my lungs.

He felt so good, it was painful; every steaming hot inch sinking into me making my over sensitive walls convulse with need.

It was bound to be messy; my already drooling pussy leaking openly around him, letting streams of my arousal trickle down my legs and onto the comforter below.

Still; Billy never cared. Having to scrub his sheets was well worth seeing me cry and beg for him whilst he fucked me into oblivion.

Every vein and bump on his smooth cock was like torture, and I found myself clinging to his hand, fingernails biting into his skin as I tried to ground myself with anything besides the sensation of him splitting me open.

Eventually, he bottomed out; this angle so much deeper than usual that he pressed heavily against my cervix; and if I didn’t know better, I’d suggest that in time, the head of his cock might breach it completely.

There was so much skin contact like this, Billy bent over my back as he kissed his way across my shoulder blades, firm strong thighs pressed against the back of my own giving me no choice but to stay upright.

“Oh; Billy...” I sighed, managing to get something that resembled his name out as I closed my eyes, enjoying how he filled me completely without a single millimetre of wriggle room.

Billy straightened up again, moving away from my sweat covered back so he could begin pounding into me; not even giving me a seconds reprieve to get over his hard and fast thrusts.

It made my head spin; the impact of his thighs against the back of my own forcing a pained cry from my lips with every buck of his hips; my pussy already beginning to twitch with the start of an orgasm.

“Jesus; Billy!” I cried at one particularly hard thrust; my spine arching heavily as electricity began to run up and down my body.

“You ready to cum; sweetheart?” He asked, using my arms as leverage to bounce me up and down his cock, watching how I wriggled and squirmed desperately against him.

“Please; Billy! Please-“ I gasped; my neck cramping from how vigorously I was nodding, desperate for him to let me finish for the first time in forty minutes.

“Alright; I’ll be good to you.” Billy agreed; one hand snaking down my front, and at first I thought he was gonna play with my clitoris, but instead he just pressed down hard on the front of my stomach.

It felt weird; like I suddenly felt the urge to pee, but  I tried to ignore it, focusing on the intense feeling of Billy’s cock pistoning in and out of me.

I could hear him grunting, and I wondered if he planned to finish with me; though considering he’d cum already, it was more likely he was planning to draw out my orgasm, and maybe even try for consecutive ones.

Billy began to press harder on my stomach, and that sensation of fullness got worse, making it feel like the moment he drove me over the edge; I wouldn’t be able to control it.

I began to panic, so desperate not humiliate myself in front of him, especially when he was so in the mood.

“Billy; stop- please-“ I whined, squirming under him in an attempt to dislodge him from my cunt.

“Shhh; it’s alright sweetheart. We’re almost there...” He cooed, clearly mistaking my protests for my usual concerns over intense orgasms.

“No; Billy, you don’t understand- you gotta stop-“ I exclaimed, wriggling more and more to little avail.

“It’s alright; baby. Just relax into it...” He soothed, pushing on my stomach and back in tandem so I had no choice but to just go with it.

“Cum for me, baby...” He purred, and my eyes rolled back into my head; my vagina suddenly clamping down on him as my orgasm hit me.

I felt that pressure in my stomach finally be released, and a sudden rush of wetness that was far more than was usual released, but still; I didn’t have time to be embarrassed, Billy still rocking in and out of me as he began on his challenge to see how many orgasms he could coax out of me.

TAGLIST: @lemonypink @daringvixon

[half-bakedboy]

Hi, I love your writing! Do you do platonic jalec? Like where they're not together but super close? If so, #20 please :)

I Love Her, TooRead on AO3

It was late, later than Jace had expected to find anyone else up, when he heard the heavy slam of a book coming from the direction of the library. He knew it wasn’t Clary as she was still asleep in his bed after another early night of terrors. The library wasn’t exactly Izzy’s known hangout and Max was still in LA with his father, so he decided to check. He should have guessed it was Alec, flipping through the pages of another codex, four others thrown haphazardly in a pile of open pages beside him. He groaned and ran a hand through his hair as he slammed another book closed. 

“Dammit,” Alec cursed to himself. He hadn’t heard or seen Jace yet, but Jace could see him, see the stress in the way his shoulders tensed, his arms bulged, and the uncomfortable way his back arched over the table. Jace made a mental reminder to tell Alec to stop bending over like that as it couldn’t be good for his back.

“Hey, buddy,” Jace said softly as he rapped his knuckles against the door. Alec looked up, the usual glare on his face softening when he saw it was Jace. Jace could feel the anxiety lessen in his parabatai rune. Alec’s face immediately clouded with worry and his hand shot to where Jace knew his own parabatai rune was. “You didn’t wake me. I just heard the book abuse as I was walking,” Jace explained with a small smile in Alec’s direction. Alec laughed and shook his head, eyeing another book in the more neatly stacked pile to his left. 

“Research,” Alec said as he grabbed it and placed it on the table in front of him. He flipped through the pages more casually than he had before, his eyes scanning as another scowl grew on his face. Jace walked over and grabbed the book, ignoring the offended look from Alec and plopped down on the couch a few feet away. He beckoned Alec over with his head as he scanned through the pages. It was filled with runes, ones that Jace knew Alec had already memorized. They were mostly runes he recognized, but some that were rare and illegal to draw without Clave approval. He ran his thumb over the wedded union rune, the sacred rune he usually glossed over in his studies, and sighed. 

“What are you doing, Alec?” Jace asked, suddenly exhausted from his place on the comfortable cushions. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes when he felt the couch beside him dip signifying Alec had joined him. He heard Alec sigh and felt the book lift from his lap. 

“We don’t know much about the twinning rune,” Alec started, his voice uncharacteristically soft. Jace’s head turned quickly and he stared at Alec. 

“You’re researching the twinning rune?” Jace asked in astonishment. Alec had so many other things to worry about. With Magnus without his magic and Izzy messing with Heavenly Fire, Jace didn’t think Alec needed something else to stress about. Especially something involving Clary. 

Alec seemed to read his thoughts when he spoke again after a long silence. “I can feel your pain, Jace, and I can’t ignore that it’s because of Clary.” Jace felt his heart clench at the words and suddenly found himself barely able to breathe. “I found this rune,” Alec said as he grabbed another book from the table and opened to a page near the end. “If I read this correctly, it could counteract the twinning rune just enough for us to pull Clary back until we find a real solution.” Jace watched as Alec traced the rune with his finger before slamming the book closed. “I just don’t know if it’ll have any side effects and I don’t know if you’re willing to--” Jace launched at him, pulling his parabatai into a tight hug with his arms wrapped around his shoulders. Alec held him back, the book dropping to the ground with a heavy thud. 

“Thank you,” Jace said in disbelief. “I know she’s not your favorite--” Alec pulled back and let his hands rest on Jace’s shoulder. 

“I feel your love for her, Jace. It was only a matter of time until it bled into me,” Alec said with a firm nod. Jace let him go and grabbed the book off of the floor, clearing his throat to try and will back the unexpected tears he felt building behind his eyes. 

“Okay, tell me more,” Jace asked. He watched as Alec explained the steps with wild waves of his hands and thanked the Angel for giving him a family like the Lightwoods. 

[trashmenofmarvel]

Devil’s Backbone - Chapter 22

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x S.H.I.E.L.D. agent!Reader

Summary: With your team dead and your mission failed, you’ve been taken by the assassin to an unknown location and are at the mercy of your cruel tormentors. (This fic is explicit, 18+ only, dubcon in earlier chapters)

Chapter Warnings: Violence, blood, references to past sexual abuse, general Hydra creepiness

Word Count: 2.7k

AO3

(gif by @dailymarvel​)

Step three: Once the highest threat is identified, eliminate it.

You rounded the corner and pulled the trigger over and over, giving Rumlow zero opportunity to return fire. You charged forward and quickly took cover behind a desk to your right; wood and glass dividers shattered above your head from bullet impacts.

On your knees, you shot around the corner of the desk in his direction, pulling back when you saw movement from his side. Even with the fresh pistol, you soon ran out of ammunition, but so did he. Once silence filled the room, Rumlow shouted.

“You’re out!”

“So are you!” you yelled back.

He chuckled. “That’s my girl.”

You saw red. The hurt, the betrayal, all of it flowed into your spine, and all you could imagine was Rumlow’s body at your feet.

“No! You don’t get to say that! You betrayed S.H.I.E.L.D.!”

“We are S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he responded in an amused tone.

“Then you betrayed our team! You betrayed me.”

Your voice shook from the force of your anger, and that was fine. What you hated was how easily the hurt bled into your words. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deep his betrayal had wounded you. Because it hurt fucking bad.

“This isn’t what I wanted.” There was a pause in which you thought you heard Rumlow sigh. “You were supposed to be with us by now.”

Your vision blurred and you blinked away the tears, refusing to shed them on his account.

“Did you do it?” You wanted him to say no, even now. “Did you order the hit on the convoy?”

His voice drifted over to you from across the room, and for a moment, he was your commander again. You could almost see him in your mind’s eye, pacing in front of the team with his hands clasped behind his back as he gave a mission briefing.

“Kartal was working for us. Or he was, until he got cold feet, or a conscience, or whatever the fuck. Pierce couldn’t have him going to the feds, though, could he? And I needed to weed out the weaker members of the team who I knew wouldn’t make the cut. More importantly, I made sure you were kept alive. I had you spared, Williams, because I knew you’d come around. With some persuasion.”

Your stomach roiled and your throat burned.

“I will never be a part of HYDRA,” you spit out.

“Kid,” he laughed, “haven’t you been paying attention? You’ve been HYDRA all along. You just didn’t know it.”

You couldn’t listen to one more word or you would scream. You pushed off from the desk you had been sitting against and stepped out into full view.

Maybe he heard you, or maybe he just knew you that well, because Rumlow did the same. He pulled the combat knife from his belt, twirling it between his fingers, his voice almost sympathetic. “It’s not too late, you know. Pierce wasn’t lying when he said he was impressed.”

Another twirl of his fingers, his smile just as razor sharp.

“Of course, he doesn’t know how sentimental you get. You’re a scrappy little shit, like a mongrel that just won’t die no matter how often it’s kicked and starved. First I thought it was really fuckin’ sad, but then I saw the one thing no one else did. Your potential.”

You tried not to react—failed—and your frown turned into a grimace. Rumlow’s smile widened to a grin.

“But in order to get there, you had to have the softness beaten outta ya. So I toughened you up, cut off all the baby fat. You gonna resent me for that, kid? After all I’ve done for you, you’re gonna turn this around and pretend I didn’t make you the best damn agent since Romanoff?”

His grin faded and dark clouds gathered over his eyes.

“You fuckin’ owe me everything, girl.”

Something within you broke, and you launched yourself at him before you could rethink your strategy. Your ferocity caught him by surprise; he nearly dropped the knife when you kicked at his arm. Rumlow held tight to his weapon and moved backwards, dodging out of range of your attacks.

You knew what he was doing, drawing you out and trying to exhaust you. The only way to counteract that was to close the distance, but then there was the knife to consider.

You picked up a filled three-inch binder from a desk, charged at him, and used the book to shield and deflect the slash of his knife.

It was no vibranium shield, but it worked; you got close enough to kick him hard in the gut. Rumlow rolled backward and stopped at a crouch, slowly standing up as he wiped the blood from his torn lip. His expression wasn’t so controlled now—there was real anger there.

“Pierce had such high hopes for you. You were gonna be our golden goose. HYDRA’s greatest project in history, until the asset went fucking nuclear and killed everyone on the goddamn medical team.”

The asset. The phrase stuck in your throat, tarry and sick and foul.

“What did you do to him?” you asked hoarsely.

Rumlow raised his knife again, readying himself for another round. You didn’t think he was going to answer, until he did.

“Same thing we were gonna do to you,” he said with a smirk. “Pump you full of super soldier serum—a special Soviet blend—and break your mind into itty-bitty pieces.” His smirk faded into a frown. “But then he fucked it all to hell, and we still don’t know why.”

He lunged.

You had been so shocked by his words you didn’t react in time. You managed to deflect his knife once before he slung his arm around your neck and pivoted you around, slamming you against his chest.

You wheezed, barely able to breathe as he held the knife in front of your face.

“How’d you do it, huh? How’d you get inside his head?” His warm breath hit your ear and you tried to twist away, but he held you in an unbreakable vice. “The asset was compliant one day, batshit crazy the next. Pierce was gonna wipe him that night, you know. Said you were a goddamn nuisance, a distraction. Some fuckin’ bullshit that was, weapons don’t get distracted. They have a purpose. They get used. And boy, did we use that fucker until he couldn’t be used anymore.”

Icicles trickled down your spine. Your mind couldn’t grasp the meaning of his words, wouldn’t grasp it.

“He killed the doctors, the technicians, almost everyone in the prison. I expected they’d find your body in a ditch somewhere, battered and broken, but there you were at the safe house, alive and whole. So, how’d you do it? How’d you take control?”

Rumlow’s warm breath hit the side of your face and you turned away, wincing. You struggled again but he had you trapped, helpless to do anything but listen to the horrible things he was saying.

“The guys on duty did say he visited your cell a few times. Is that why he’s outside right now, tryin’ to help Cap? You femme fatale’d him into obedience?”

You said nothing, baring your teeth and trying to pull his arm off your neck. It was pointless, given that the limb was almost pure, corded muscle.

Rumlow gave a bark of sharp laughter so sudden it startled you.

“Or… no. No, you didn’t do anything to him at all. It’s what he did to you.” Another laugh, delighted in a way that made your stomach twist. You said nothing, more focused on clawing at his arm then entertaining his nasty accusations. He ignored your struggles, you wondered if he could even feel the bite of your blunted nails.

“Shit, I didn’t know he had it in him,” he continued on, grating. “Christ. If you had any idea what Pierce had in store for you two, you’d realize how fuckin’ ironic that is. He got his dick wet and they didn’t even have to order him to do it. I mean… shit. That’s all sorts of perverted—“

You slammed your elbow back into his ribs and felt a satisfying crack. He howled in pain but somehow still held on as he stumbled backward, his grip even tighter now around your neck.

You wanted to cover your ears or scream or do something. Anything to make him stop.

And still he kept fucking talking.

“Yeah, got under your skin, didn’t I?” he growled through his staggered, labored breaths. “Not that it matters. The asset ain’t gonna remember you once we get our hands on him again. I can’t tell you how many times his brain has been scrambled. It’s a goddamn miracle he’s not a drooling vegetable at this point.”

You would have screamed at him if you had the air for it, but Rumlow had shifted his grip and the edges of your vision were starting to recede. The world was going quiet, distant… but not enough for you to miss the sensation of Rumlow gently stroking your hair.

“You don’t gotta worry about that, kid. I won’t let any of ‘em touch you,” he murmured into your ear. “When you belong to HYDRA, I’ll take good care of you.”

He fisted your hair tight enough to make the burns on your scalp light up with electric pain. You gasped as he slightly shook his fist, tears blurring your vision.

“And then,” he murmured, low and sinuous in your ear, “you’ll finally learn some fuckin’ gratitude.”

The thing that took hold of your body wasn’t you. It couldn’t be, because no single person could contain that much hatred.

You grabbed his wrist and jabbed it downward. The knife sliced through your side and cut straight through your jacket and down into Rumlow’s thigh.

Rumlow’s earlier scream was tame compared to the wild noise he made now, and he released you on reflex. He also made the mistake of letting go of the knife, and you yanked it free of his leg and whirled around, slashing at his shoulder. He stumbled backwards, red flowing over his corded muscles and smooth skin like a river through a dune sea.

You coughed and gasped for breath. Your face felt like a mask, unfamiliar and tight, and you couldn’t imagine what was across its surface.

He grinned at you, a red-tinged smile from his busted lip.

You could do it, right now. End it. He was off-balance, wounded, and no matter how disciplined he was the pain would slow him down.

Adjusting the knife if your grip, stalked forward, chest heaving as your muscles bunched for the attack—

A shadow blotted out the sunlight cast through the windows. It was moving fast, alarmingly so, and you skidded to a stop when you saw what it was.

A Helicarrier hurtling out of the sky at a steep angle, directly toward you.

Without a second look at Rumlow, you dropped the knife, spun and stumbled on the smooth tiled floor, and bolted. You didn’t turn to see if he had spotted the impeding airship.

You stabbed a finger into your ear comm and shouted, “Wilson! Please tell me you’re nearby!”

“Where the hell have you been?!” he shouted back, sounding very put-out. “We’ve been looking all over for you! Tell me where—“

The impact of the Helicarrier slamming into the Triskelion was enough to make you stumble and skid across the tilting floor, and it was more than enough to give Wilson his answer.

“Shit! You still there, Agent?”

“Not for long!” you yelled as you somehow managed to avoid a collapsing pile of building falling from the ceiling. “Forty-first floor! Northwest corner!”

There was no time to wait for confirmation. You hurled yourself at the window and curled into a ball just before impact. The glass shattered around you, the sound drowned out by the massive airship cleaving into the side of the building.

Your stomach twisted as you free-fell through the air, the ground rushing up at an alarming rate—

Wilson appeared just below you, rolling onto his back and grabbing you as you slammed into his chest. He managed to wrap his arms around you as he flew out from under the shower of collapsing tile and glass.

“Jesus Christ!” he yelled over the comm despite the fact he was also right in your ear. “Are all your S.H.I.E.L.D. agents this crazy?!”

“What happened to the Helicarriers?” you shouted, ignoring his first statement. You tried to twist your head around to look, but you couldn’t see anything but the river below. Panic rose in your throat. “Where’s Bucky?!”

Wilson banked and you gripped him tighter, feeling like a small lizard clinging to a very large bird. From your new vantage point, you saw there was only one Helicarrier still airborne, and it had been the one that had just sliced through a portion of the Triskelion and was now heading directly over the Potomac River.

“We’re still onboard,” Rogers answered, sounding out of breath.

“What? Why!” you cried out. “You’re heading for the river!”

“There was… falling debris,” he said, voice strained. “Bucky’s trapped. I’m digging him out.”

“Why are you doing this!” Bucky yelled over the comm. “Leave, Rogers!”

“Not gonna happen, Buck,” Rogers responded, his voice oddly soft. “Not without you.”

“We have to get to them!” you shouted to Wilson.

He must have agreed because he yelled, “Hold on, man!” He held onto you tight as he tilted through the air, the wind hitting your face and making your eyes water as he picked up speed. “We’re coming!”

“No, Sam, you gotta stay back. It’s too dangerous. This thing is falling apart around us.” The same resignation that had been in Bucky’s voice earlier was now in Roger’s.

“Don’t ask me to do that,” Wilson responded quickly. He sounded as anxious as you felt. He was approaching at a parallel angle to avoid the smoke and falling debris, and you could see the underside glass dome of the bridge and the damage inside.

“Move closer!” you yelled.

“I can’t!” he yelled back. “Too much shit in the air!”

“I don’t care!” You shouted hard enough to crack your voice, struggling in his arms now, trying to twist around so you could see the carrier better. “Move us in!”

“Woman! Knock it off or you’re gonna get us both killed!”

Despite his protests he angled his wings and banked toward the drifting carrier.

“Rogers!” you yelled into your earpiece. “We’re almost there!”

You were fifty feet away, close enough to see details inside the dome. It was a warzone, strewn with heavy crossbeams and collapsed walkways as the air filled with smoke and tongues of flame.

“There’s no time!” Rogers yelled, suddenly urgent. “You have to—“

An explosion ripped through the back of the ship. It was so hot and expansive that the shockwave hit you and Wilson like a solid object, causing him to tumble back through the air. He gripped you tightly around the waist and all you could do was hold onto his arms as the world spun sickeningly around you.

By the time he was steady again, the Helicarrier had split in two.

All the air left your lungs. The horrific sight above you blotted out the sky with fire and falling debris.

Wilson descended and landed on the riverbank nearby. You wanted to scream at him to take you back up, that it wasn’t too late. Instead, you watched the Helicarrier fall in broken pieces into the river. Your legs gave out and you collapsed onto your knees.

“Steve?”

Wilson’s voice was shaking. Desperate and pleading.

“Steve… are you there? Come on, man… Answer me.”

You touched a trembling finger to your comm to make sure it was on.

“Bucky?” Your voice was even more broken than Wilson’s. “Bucky, say something. Please? Bucky?”

You were both met with the finality of silence. The only sound that floated to you on the wind was the quiet rumble of the remnants of the Helicarrier falling into the Potomac.

Next Chapter

[duncvns]

Identity Stricken (Michael Langdon x fem!reader)

Summary- After years of being in Outpost 3, devoid of the touch you so badly needed, an all-too-familiar stranger by the name of Langdon meets you in your sleeping quarters and loves you in all the right ways.

Warnings- smut, lots of teasing, non-protective sex, aftercare (if you squint)

Words- 1901

"Who are you?" You tilted your head as you looked into his eyes, searching. Langdon was but a stranger, but it felt like you've known him forever. His hard eyes sparked in the firelight of your sleeping quarters. You wanted nothing more but to be with him, to feel, to touch, to feast.

For he was your meal.

"I'm somebody who knows you, Y/N. I know your deepest desires, I know your greatest fears, I know what makes you cry..." He took a step towards you, his black scent filling your sinuses. You gasp, the tiny speckle of noise tumbling from your mouth as he steps closer, almost nose to nose with him. "I know your carnal urges, what makes you shudder." His ring-clad hand trials down the side of your thigh before tracing it's way between your thighs.

"I don't even know you," Your bottom lip was held hostage between your teeth as his hand circled back out onto your outer thigh. His mere existence carries so much dominance, the way he walked into the library made your knees weak with sheer attraction. There was a scary familiarity in his face the more you look at him. His now strong cold glare was once soft, innocent. You remember it.

Suddenly he backs up and turns away from you, his hands clasped delicately behind his back. You drop your arms down against your dress in defeat. You remember his beautiful head of blonde locks once being short and shaggy, falling in front of his eyes when he would tilt his head forward in the slightest. Tears came to your eyes at the memory. If it even is one. "You're remembering," he turns to face you, his eyes brimmed with tears. You nod, allowing a single tear to fall from your eye, just to followed by another, and another, and another.

He draws closer to you, a bare smile ghosted over his beautiful face. More memories flood to you of Michael. You remember all the laughs you shared together, how distraught you were when he was arrested and taken to The Hawthorn School without saying goodbye. You remember growing your powers together in the privacy of his bedroom. Then you remember.

"Mikey?" You cry, holding your arms out to him, desperate to feel your love after more than a year being apart from him. He kisses the top of your head repeatedly, whispering 'I love you' over and over without fail. Your Michael was always a perfectionist. "Why did you do it?" You croak out into his chest, your voice just reaching his ears.

He sighs and shakes his head. "Y/N, I had to keep your identity as well as mine, hidden, for your own safety." He kissed you once more on your head before clearing his throat to continue. "The witches, they have clairvoyants. I know I killed them all but Cordelia, along with some others escaped. I couldn't risk losing you from your knowledge."

"You know I'm powerful enough counteract them, Michael." You sniffle. He looks down to you, the hardness in his eyes long replaced by fondness and admiration. "You let me stand here and tell you that I don't know who you are. My God, you grew out your hair,"

"Sh, my love." Michael tucks some of your hair behind your ear before running his thumb across your bottom lip. "Let me make it up to you, baby. Show you how much I love you." He gently wrapped his arms across your back before lifting you. Instinctually, you twine your legs around his midsection, letting him walk you delicately to the bed where he places you, your back barely hitting the mattress with a thump.

He climbs on top of you, his breath fanning over your face. You always remembered how much he loved kissing you. He loved the gentle movement of his lips against yours and the way you would chase this tongue as he pulled away from you. You always loved his hands. How masculine and large they were. You memorized every vein, every tendon. You would spend hours playing with his long, nimble fingers while he droned on about how much he couldn't stand Jeff and Mutt.

His lips trail lightly over your neck, kisses falling lightly onto your blushed skin. You missed his touch so much it was almost painful. Tears still fell from your eyes, which he kissed away, murmuring a consistent 'Don't cry baby, I'm here', which only made more tears slide down your face.

"I've waited so long," Michael started, toying with the zipper on the back of your dinner gown before pulling it down and sliding it off your body. "I counted down the fucking days until I could visit Outpost 3," His warm hands searched every inch of your body, never missing a spot. "I dreamt of when I could hold you in my arms again and touch you. You were always so beautiful," His bulky rings ghosted lightly over your face, sending a slight shiver to erupt throughout your body.

"Michael, please." You begged. You were so starved of his touch once your memory came to. Of course, you had touched yourself when you were void of your true identity, nobody can live like that, void of touch. Michael shook his head lightly, he always disapproved of your begging. He thought it made you sound needy.

But you are.

You're so needy for him.

"God, you always loved to beg. Even though you know how much I hate it," His voice was low, deep. Creating a soft thrum between your legs. God, even his voice turned you on. His large hands traced just under your silk slip before hiking it up just above your blank cotton panties. His long fingers trail lightly over the fabric, just barely catching some of your juices, soaked through your underwear.

"I-"

"Sh, let my lips do the talking, baby." His face was mere centimeters from yours, you could feel the vibration of words ricochet over your flushed face. You nod quickly, giving yourself whiplash. His licked over your bottom lip before gently connecting his intoxicating lips onto your own.

Together, your lips danced, almost like a waltz. Silent music swayed nonexistent in your ears as Michael guided you, his fingertips grazing lightly onto your skin.  Your hands wavered as they tangled into his long hair that you absolutely loved on him.

His lips departed from yours and made their way down your body. His fingers toyed with the straps of your bra before sliding it down, leaving the flimsy material bunched just under your breast bone. Warm lips peppered your skin, leaving tiny chill bumps in their wake. Michael has always been proud of you. Proud that you were his, utterly made for his love. He was the only man who've ever touched you in this way, the first man to break those barriers, and he absolutely drank it up.

"Such a beautiful specimen," He murmured against your lower stomach, the vibrations, of course, making you soak further and further through your panties. Michael brushed his nose over the soaked fabric, a low hum falling from his throat. "So sensitive, so responsive to my touch," Your breathing picked up as he fingers hooked the waistline of your panties before starting to pull them down. He was slow with his actions, taking in your needy expression as you looked down at him, eyes pleading for something, anything. A tiny smirk rested upon his face as he pressed his thumb down on your clit, making you impossibly wetter. The first real moan of the night rippled through the room as he massaged the tiny bundle of nerves with haste, his eyes, of course, never leaving yours.

"It's been so long, hasn't it baby girl?" He purred. His mouth now mere inches from your ear. You nodded quickly, keeping your attention locked on the delicious burning in your lower abdomen, signaling your release. Obscenely loud whimpers and moans rip through your throat as Michael carries you seamlessly through your first orgasm. Once your breathing becomes steady, your lips meet in a messy kiss.

In quick succession, Michael stands straight, ridding himself of his constricting pants. You keep your eyes locked on his quick hands with your bottom lip imprisoned between your teeth. He kissed you once more before circling the head of his cock around your drenched cunt, spreading your wetness over his tip. He was trying to tease you.

You whined high in your throat, begging him to just hurry up already. Can't he tell you needed him? You needed his touch?

"Michael please," You pleaded, clawing at his back for purchase. He ignored you, continuing to kiss down your jawline and neck. Leaving a red trail in his wake. One final whine was all it took for him to finally settle into you. Shaky pants and a string of curses fell from your lips once he was seating fully inside of you, his cock creating a heady pressure on your cervix.

Michael always loved looking at you during sex. He would keep his gaze locked on yours, drinking in your flushed face and red bitten lips. Loving that he's the one who did this to you.

Your eyes rolled back in your head as he started steadily thrusting in and out of you, of course never tearing eye contact from your face. He wanted to see what he was doing to you. He wanted to see the product of his delicious torture, and now finally giving you what you so badly needed. "Look at me baby," he grunted, his words coming out as gravelly pants. You sighed sensually before opening your eyes to meet his gaze. His head hung deep in between his shoulders as he continued his smooth pace, fucking into you.

Incoherent words and phrases delicately painted the room as Michael's thrusts became uneven and short, signaling his near release. A low growl radiated through his chest as he inched closer and closer to his release until finally painting your velvety walls with his seed. He continued to fuck into you as if he was hoping to impregnate you, and maybe he is.

He fell beside you on the bed with a thump before pulling your fucked out body into his own. "I'm never gonna leave you again," He mumbled, his lips pressing a chaste kiss just above your ear. You never had any reason to not believe him, so you nodded, savoring his solid, warm body next to yours.

"I know," You hummed, your fingers tracing lightly over his smooth stomach. "I wonder what Venable would say if she was me know. Her favorite, copulating with the mysterious stranger," You chuckled. "It's a shame she has to be eliminated, I've always kind of liked her."

"You grow fond to easily, my dear. Given who you are, and who you're with, you'd think fondness wasn't in your nature. It's unlike anything I've seen," He drawled, his hand tracing over your jawline.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," You sat up, escaping his hold. "I'm nothing like normal,"

tagged inspirations❤️- @lvngdvns @katiekitty261 @wroteclassicaly @langdonsrapture @lanawintrs @duncvn @icylangdon @holylangdon

[livestrust]

 ‘ ☜ + :) so anyway what abt sarah’s death - ’  ; @partiallystcrs  ────── [  MEME / OPEN ]

“  Becker...  ”   He’s seen blood before;  his own,  his brothers’.  Usually the more mundane the scenario for him the more startling a strip of fresh red is,  razor burn,  the slice of a kitchen knife - blood seems to him to be out of place in a kitchen.  A battlefield,  not so much.  Once you’ve seen sand painted that garish red once or twice,   it appears to become something of the norm.  So why are his eyes blistered and peeled back with shock?  Why is his heart knocking against his breastbone as if it’s ready to retreat itself?  Becker’s body moves of its own accord which is fortunate enough,  for her.  He’s acting quickly while his mind puzzles over its own ostensible crisis.  The man works on assessment and muscle memory to counteract a situation.  Doesn’t need the mind for this.  Good job,  too,  she’s bleeding out right before his eyes.

Searing metal never ceases to remind him of the desert,  those first days spent holed up in ruins with the rest of B Squadron wondering just what the hell had brought them so far from their target city.  The following firefights answered those doubts with sincerity,  at least.  They learned quick enough.  But the car burns his palm when he swings in through the open window.  Why?  Because this isn’t a battlefield,  and this is Sarah.  That’s why you’ve no idea what your mind is currently running for.  The image is grim when he folds his upper half through the space,  her eyes are wide as a startled filly’s,  the whites shining up at him like spotlights and the sweat on her face sharp as crystal.  It is innate,  the hand dropping to cup her cheek,  smooth a line down the ball of her cheek.  

Across from him,  Lars is raking through her rucksack as quietly as possible;  the medical kit. Unless she’s got a team of paramedics and an operating theatre tucked away,  Becker doubts her ability,  and his own.  Won’t say it,  can’t even think it for longer than a half-second.  They lost their medic two-hours into this mission,  an arm and half a suppressed Heckler left in the dust.  There’s a hold around his wrist that suddenly roots him,  and he glances down after scanning their perimeter once again for any sign of the things that fill his sleepless nights.  Sarah holds onto him,  her grip strong for a woman who’s lost about a half of her torso.  The perpetrator lies dies at Lars’ feet,  and the now-empty SIG having dispatched it is abandoned in the nearest footwell.  His second’s eyes,  when they do look up from the mess that’s left of Sarah’s ribcage,  confirms his wildest fear.  They cannot speak,  not here,  but the eyes say all he needs,  the pursed lips.  They can’t do this here.  If they can do anything at all.  Lars’ is blinking through her own blood, a two-inch gash near-scalps her at her left temple,  and Becker,  at the entire image nearly loses himself to his fury.  They should never have been here.  Sarah should never have been here.

“  Beck-er,  ”   A poorly-timed sputter beneath him,  blood spat up his wrist,  and he cradles her chin in his palm.  They have their options:  she bleeds out here,  or,  and it’s unlikely,  they move her and find some way to stabilise her until an extraction team finds their way to them.  Lars’ is watching him,  her hands moving without the need of sight,  like butterflies skating over her charge’s torso.  She’d peeled back the black jumpsuit and found a crater.  Lars’ is watching him.  Watching his mind spin until the cogs within it finally make connection with one another again.  She receives a nod,  short,  sharp,  determined.  Tells her they’re moving.  Tells her they’re saving Sarah.  And Becker’s removing his belt,  folding it in his hands and gesturing,  gently,  gently,  that Sarah open her mouth.  She’s malleable now,  a little too malleable.  Like soft clay.  Cold.  He prises her jaw open for her,  and locks it around pleated leather.  It won’t be enough to muffle her,  both know.  They’re going to need to be quick.

He’s up on his toes,  hauling one leg in and through the window so his shin props Sarah up.  That movement alone begets a cry through leather.  Too loud,  too fucking loud.  Louder than his heartbeat in his ears  and his breath in his throat.   He resigns himself to covering her mouth,  catching her next whimper against his palm.  Her breath is warm,  ragged,  comes in pieces,  and he won’t look down at his hand covering her mouth and forcing silence.  What’s free of the dilapidated vehicle is his torso and one leg still, a suppressed P226 pistol in the thigh pouch.  Now in his hand whilst his other steadies Sarah’s head against his knee.  The first predator seems to peek from behind an overturned 4x4 like it’s nervous - Becker clocks its teeth first,  saliva reflects the unending sun here in slick strands.  He has none left himself,  mouth a dustbowl.  So he swallows sand,  and pops the creature right between the eyes...  had it any.  The second finds its way over its brother’s corpse with less apprehension.  It’s taken by two suppressed bullets mid-leap,  landing at the toe of Becker’s boot.  They take the moment,  seize the aftermath,  and clumsily hook Sarah over Lars’ shoulders.  What bandages were available have been secured about her middle,  but that doesn’t stop the red shower down Lars’ back and arms,  nor the bleating screams she tries and fails to smother under her tongue.  Lars is quicker than her Captain,  who finds himself stuck like a pig on a meat-hook for a juvenile pacing its way forward.  He makes a tactical decision,  tosses himself back and in.  Another car,  another foot-well.  He hopes it’s not a vice.  No,  this one’s different;  he sinks into a spongy pool of blood.  Close quarters this time;  this juvenile fancies a chunk of his chest,  and is swiftly dispatched by the dagger wrenched from his boot and thrown up through the roof of its mouth.

His exit from the long-rusted vehicle lacks finesse;  he lands on his shoulder and briefly makes contact with the predator’s corpse by the naked wheel before hauling himself backward further still.  Lars has hauled herself and Sarah through a sliding door,  assumes he’ll follow just as well.  He does,  edging himself backwards on his heels,  ignoring the cling of his shirt now stuck with blood and checking his watch;  they’re running out of time.  Sarah never even made it to the computer room she was here for. Spitting what he presumes to be bile between his feet,  Becker does one final scan,  and slips himself through the door.  Sliding it closed behind him throws them into pitch darkness.  What his torch illuminates almost brings all that bile back.  Sarah’s stopped weeping,  her arms laid out by her sides,  but her chest hasn’t ceased its convulsing.  She’s trying to breathe.

A quick scan clears the room,  whatever it once was - a garage,  maybe.  He clears the space between them in two broad steps,  and kneels at Sarah’s head,  his knees either side of her face.  Palm tucks beneath her neck,  draws her features up and toward the ceiling,  toward him.  This clears her throat of her tongue at least,  and he thinks she even recognises him for a half-second.  The light in her eyes returns,  or he imagines it.  Hope distorts perception and gives you a view of exactly what you want.  What’s truth is that she can’t form his name in her mouth anymore and every exhale comes with a red bubble at the back of her throat.  Some he clears with his fingers;  can’t risk holding her on her side as she is.  He keeps her breathing,  even if it is in fractals.  There’s no strength to her anymore,  lets him tilt her chin with two bloodied fingertips.  He paints her with herself,  her own spilled life dripping down her neck and pooling in the hollow of her throat.

“  Well --  ?  ”   His own voice surprises him,  hushed as it is but fractured,  sharp pieces on his tongue.  How frailty tastes,  despair.  Lars at least does her best to look him in the eye.  Floating over what’s left of the archaeologist beneath her.

“  We need an extraction unit.  ”

She doesn’t say immediately,  or two fucking hours ago,  Boss.  Doesn’t say the truth out loud,  that the whole ordeal has been a lost cause.  Causalities now far outnumber the missing.  The entire operation has proven to be cataclysmic,  and the look between the two soldiers says well enough that neither have suffered a failure quite like it before.  There’s no training to cover dystopia,  a hellscape,  beasts feasting on your comrade’s flesh right before your eyes.  Nothing to cover the notion of consistently being prey,  hunted;  human desire is to overcome and remain the opposite,  strong enough that people tear one another apart for victory.  Impossible here,  they’ve learned.  There’s no training for this.

Sarah regains something of herself;  her fingers twitch and dance over the concrete beneath her,  then her arm bends,  her hand lifelessly dropping against his knee.  He almost chokes on relief.   “  Hi,  Sarah.  ”   She strains through the bubbles stuck in her throat,  and is afforded a smile in greeting from the dishevelled Captain.   “  It’s alright.  ”    he strokes her face,  combs her hair from her brow.  His eyes shine with something that makes her frown.  She’s long-since lost her ability to speak,  but does swing her arm upright until it connects with his face.  There she manages something of a grasp upon his chin,  but retracts at the red stain she leaves.   “  It’s alright,  we’re here.  ”    Her fingers fan like she isn’t aware of them  - Becker would later note that she likely wasn’t -  and in her haze,  paws at his cheek.   “  We’re not going anywhere;  we’re staying right here,  with you.  Hear?  ”   Strength remains just to curl her fingers,  like she’s committing touch to memory in fascination.  Three red stripes paint his cheek when all fails and her hand falls to the concrete again with the smack of knuckles.

There’s nothing after that. 

Sarah still stares up at him,  somewhere between delirium and resignation,  her lashes blotted with tears and sweat,  her lips parted with a final rattle Becker’s become all too familiar with.  Delirium and resignation.  She was numb to pain in the end. 

[deliasbabygirl-blog]

The Death of Aphrodite

Prompt: #51: “And I thought there was a spark between us.” - anonymous

Summary: AU - Cordelia Goode is no longer able to look over all the witches within her coven by herself, so she requests the help of a powerful witch from New York City - Miss Wilhelmina Venable. The new mistress of the mansion rules with an iron fist, mightier than Cordelia ever would, but it appears she has a soft-ish spot for a younger, doe-eyed witch named Y/N. Y/N finds herself falling head over heels for the regal woman, but is she seeing things that aren’t truly there? Only time will tell...

Pairing: Wilhelmina Venable x reader

Word Count: 1,763

A/N: this is my first time writing for venable, but i could not resist this request. this piece also features cordelia goode, obviously from the summary. i hope i did the character and request some justice. feedback and love is always welcome. 

November

The thin lavender lace covered her soft breasts and round of her ass, her crimson hair falling over her shoulders, brushing along the delicate fabric. She hovered above you, thighs pressing against the back of your own, her hungry touch ripping open the black silk of the bralette you wore. A quiet moan vibrated from your throat, feeling her fingers running along the curves of your body as though she had craved this very moment, as though she was roughly memorizing each piece of you.

Her fingers found the hem of your underwear, tearing them from your skin with the strength she relished in showing you, a satisfied smirk playing on her crimson-smudged lips. The aroma of peppermint on her breath and vanilla within her hair ghosted over you, delighting your senses, mixing with the tender feeling of her touch along your clit, her teeth suddenly sinking into the soft flesh of around your collarbone.

“Miss Venable!” you heard a familiar voice calling for the striking woman above you, and she grunted in frustration, retracting herself from your skin, rolling those lustful eyes as she angrily collected the lilac blazer from the floor. “Miss Venable, a word please!” the voice called again, evidently closer to the locked door of the older woman’s bedroom.

“Fucking Cordelia Goode,” she mumbled beneath her breath as she clothed her bare skin with her usual suit, cursing the woman requesting her presence. Her eyes flickered toward you, glaring into you with a burning fire you could feel coursing through your veins, your blood boiling from her stare. “Well, you can’t just stay here like some slut,” she gritted.

Swallowing the excruciating lump growing within your throat from her harsh words, you untangled yourself from the white sheets, hurrying to collect your own bundle of black clothing from the hardwood. “I’m sorry, Venable,” you found yourself mumbling as she shook her head, ignoring you, walking out of the room with her usual refinement.

Though your heart sunk deeper into its cage, resting at the bottom of the housing bones, you forced a smile onto your face for you almost made love to the most exquisite woman you had ever seen. Buttoning your shirt across your chest, you frowned once more, aware of the anchoring feeling weighted within your stomach.

 February

Within the reflection of the mirror, you saw the handle upon your bedroom door turning, the shadow of feet beneath the painted wood. Feigning ignorance to whom was entering without knocking or announcing their presence, you continued brushing through the knots of your hair, glancing quickly toward the vase of red roses and a single lilac upon your nightstand. The appearance of familiar crimson hair and purple clothing crossed the threshold, the sound of the door clicking shut cocking your brow. “Hello, Miss Venable,” you smiled at her in the mirror, noticing the smirk toying at her lips.

“I see you got the flowers,” she stated, her tone indifferent. Though her attention now laid on the disheveled sheets upon your bed, you nodded. “I did. They’re beautiful,” you turned toward her once placing your brush upon the vanity, thinking of how she had left them in the open on your bed. There was not a single way you could have missed them. “Thank you.”

She hummed contently, pushing the bedding toward the opposing edge of the bed allowing her to sit down upon the smooth sheet along the mattress. “Come,” she demanded, a tint of amusement ribboning the single word. Her eyes were finally on you now, the dark gaze watching you through those adorable glasses perched on her nose. The fluttering in your heart tickled your bones, the wings of butterflies aiding you toward her, your hands finding her thighs as you leaned into her for an awaiting kiss.

Fingers tangled within your hair, drawing a subtle groan from you, her soft lips working against yours. You slowly straddled her thighs, feeling her free hand sliding around your waist to press firmly against your back. Tongues met shyly at first before she greedily dominated the embrace. She rolled you from her lap, nearly slamming you against the mattress below, climbing atop you.

Capturing her breath, allowing you to catch yours, she looked down at you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, the tender touch causing your stomach to knot in anticipation. Her bottom lip tucked between her teeth, and you swore she smiled down at you, but she was never one to truthfully smile. “You’re such a good girl,” she whispered, darting her attack toward your neck. With a flick of her wrist, the door audibly locked, your thighs trembling at the awareness of her motives.

 April

The savory aroma of rosemary and garlic wafted around the crowded dining room, the lengthy wooden table occupied with baked chicken, roasted chicken, prepared greens, steamed seafood, macaroni and cheese, and other varying comfort foods steaming from their assigned dishes. Around the table, nearly chair seated a witch of the coven, elbows brushing elbows, but the chair residing at one end of the table remained empty: Venable absent from the family dinner.

At the opposing end of the table seated an irritated Supreme, pushing around the food upon her plate, her cheeks painted a flushed pink. She had already grumbled about the other woman’s absence to all of you, her displeasure evident in her feign excuse for the older woman not being there. You silently watched her, it seemed all of the witches did, neglecting their food on white plates to ensure their Supreme was alright.

Suddenly, the eruption of doors swinging open, slamming against the walls behind them, abducted the worry for the blonde woman, rather capturing all attention on the entering witch. Cordelia must have known just whose entrance would cause such a ruckus for she neglected to look behind her at the duo of opened doors or the woman sauntering into the room as though she was on time.

A familiar throbbing appeared between your thighs seeing the elegant yet conservative woman, and the swollen feeling of adoration pumped within your chest. She continued toward her assigned end of the table, passing each chair in silence, ignoring the bashful, worrisome stares following her. Fingers brushed along your shoulders, over the edge of the chair, causing a shiver to trickle down your spine.

The flush of heat surged through your chest, warming your cheeks with a blush you prayed you could hide from the other witches, staring down at your plate, neglecting to tuck loose strands of hair from your face. Knowing the moment Venable was seated, for the usual mumble returned to the table, you dared a glance at the older woman, finding her eyes already awaiting yours, and a bashful smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

Cordelia loudly cleared her throat, erasing the grin from the woman’s smile, stripping your attention from her. “It is nice of you to join us, Miss Venable. As a future reference, we meet for family dinners every Wednesday at six. I am sure you got confused or carried away with all of your other activities around the coven,” the blonde spat venom, her eyes flickering to you before she continued. “But this is something we are prompt for.”

“Dear, Cordelia,” the older woman counteracted with poison laced in her syllables, you heart thrashing from the realization that the Supreme was aware of the ongoing relationship. “I assure you, there is nothing more important to me than sitting around a hundred year old table eating dry chicken and overcooked potatoes. I will ensure I am on time next week.”

 August

“This has gone on long enough, Venable,” you heard Cordelia’s voice nearly echoing off of the walls of her greenhouse, your tears continuing to stream down your cheeks as you hide outside of the open doorway. “I asked you here to help me train these young women to better understand and control their powers, and I find out you’re fucking one of our students!”

There was a sinister chuckle from the other woman, a menacing snicker promising the blonde’s roaring was unmoving, unimpressive. Ghosting fingers squeezed at the animal within your chest, the excruciating pain of worry that the best thing to ever happen to you would disappear the moment this argument ended between the women.

“I’m sorry, I don’t see what is so humorous, Venable! You are here to train these young women, not use them for your own twisted, perverted games!” the Supreme continued, and you heard the shatter of glass before another deafening laugh. Silently heaving, attempting to catch the breath stolen by crippling anxiety, you sunk to the dirt beneath you, indifferent to the filth collecting on your clothes.

“Y/N,” you heard your name on the blonde’s steady voice, realizing she was summoning you, aware you were there, but the fear paralyzed you to the earth. Two differing heeled footfalls neared you, silencing on the dirt beside you. You could not peel your gaze from the several plants laid out across from you, could not glance toward the two women whose stares burning into your skull.

“I thought,” you sniffled, breathing haphazardly into the night, your lungs frantic and panicking. Cordelia crouched beside you, placing a reassuring hand upon your shoulder, her thumb running along the slight exposed skin. “I-I thought…was that all I was to you, V? A game? I thought I meant something, and,” you swallowed, your words sounding as damaged as you felt. “And…I thought there was a spark between us, or something like that.”

The response of thundering laughter compared similarly to knives slicing through every single layer of your already battered heart, their blades falling into the oblivion of your stomach, the most excruciating aching you had ever known. “A spark? There is nothing between us, dear, you just listen very well. You’re very obedient. I like an obedient slave.” And as though the thought of conversation bored her, the woman walked away, the image of crimson hair and lavender slacks blurring as she disappeared toward the house.

Screaming into the warm Louisiana night, you clawed at your hair, cursing yourself for being so childish, for thinking she could have loved you. Cordelia’s gentle embrace held you tightly, your head falling to the crook of her neck, soaking the fabric of her black shirt with saltine tears. “Venable loves no one but herself,” she whispered, running her fingers through your hair. You hardly heard her voice over your angered, pain whimpers. “Trust me, darlin’, I thought she loved me once.”

[contraloci-blog]

Fool Me Once - Ch. 6

Felix survives the fall. Locus leaves Chorus.

One way or another, though, they’re still going find each other.

AO3

Ch. 5...Ch. 7

Ch. 6

A'rynasea’s tight quarters didn’t make for comfortable living. Only the ship’s bridge was suitable for human occupation – everything else was taken up by the most souped up engines and weapons that a ship this size could accommodate.

Normally, Locus didn’t mind it. A'rynasea wasn’t meant to be used for long voyages anyway, so its tight quarters was a problem that lasted for only a few hours.

What he hadn’t foreseen in its design was how awkward first-aid was without a helping hand. Locus pressed gauze into the torn stitches on his shoulder to stem their bleeding, and examined the medical equipment at his disposal. He had everything short of a fully-equipped clinic, but a surplus of equipment didn’t alleviate his problem.

Locus turned to examine himself in the wall mirror again. The anesthetic left him feeling disconnected from the process, as if he were watching this happen to someone else. He had four major stitches, running from the base of his neck to the middle of his back, holding together lacerations gained after shrapnel from the Tartarus cut through his suit. Three of them were still whole after that small tussle in the jungle.

One, however…

Locus gently touched the split stitches on the span of his shoulder. He’d need to pull out the torn stitches and salvage the rest before it could pull apart. If he let this tear continue down his back, then it would be impossible to fix on his own.

And explaining the problem to Dr. Joanes would be… preferably avoided.

Felix could have done it, Locus thought.

∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙

“Jesus Christ,” Felix muttered as he pulled the suture closed, “aren’t you the one who’s always nagging me about being more careful?”

“Your aid isn’t necessary.”

Felix slapped Locus’ hand out of his way. “Yeah, right, and who’s going to fix up this giant fucking gash in your leg?”

“I can –“

“Don’t even start,” Felix said and gave the needle a small yank. He smirked at Locus’ soft gasp. “Stitching yourself only works in the movies. Just get over the soldier bullshit for, like, two seconds and let me do this.”

Locus’ mouth pinched as Felix bent over his leg. At least the stitches so far were neat and uniform. When Felix offered no more smart commentary, Locus relaxed enough to lie back against the pillows.

He would never be sure when exactly he fell asleep.

Two hours later, he woke up alone with his leg propped up on a pillow, the stitches complete, and covered in a blanket that hadn’t been there before.

∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙

He mopped up the blood oozing down his chest and picked through the medical cabinets with one hand. He found the needle and thread. A bottle of rubbing alcohol. A canister of biofoam to be on the safe side. Two small clamps that he didn’t know the exact purpose of, but would be handy for holding his skin together.

“A'rynasea,” he said as he used the clamps to pinch together his skin.

The ship chirped.

“Is this ship equipped with a tutorial on stitches?”

“Please specify the type of stitches,” chimed the ship’s on-board computer. “Do you mean stitches that regard sewing, needlework, embroidery –“

“Medical stitches.”

“I’m sorry, that is not available.”

Locus paused his task of threading the needle with his teeth and one hand. Why… didn’t the ship have that kind of information? “…does this ship have information on any kind of stitching?” he asked slowly.

“Tutorials on basic needlework are available.”

He pursed his lips and looked at himself again. His shoulder was practically split open now. If it weren’t for a frankly unsafe amount of anesthetic, he’d have passed out from the pain. And if he didn’t treat it himself, he’d have to go to Dr. Joanes.

“Bring up the basic needlework.”

“Certainly. Please specify which.”

“How many are there?”

“There are two thousand and seventy three tutorials on basic needlework available on this ship’s computer.”

“Why?” Locus blurted before he could reign himself in. He dipped the needle and thread in the alcohol.

“Well, it appears that during installation of the computer, Engineers Ramsey and Clyde –“

“No, that wasn’t a request for more information. Bring up… bring up a tutorial for a basic stitching pattern to connect two… materials.”

“Certainly.”

A tutorial appeared on-screen. Locus squinted at it and sighed.

The split stitch was on his right side. He was right-handed.

He picked up the needle with his left hand and measured where he needed to start. This was going to be a long day.

∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙

It took him an hour to finish the job. In that time period, the anesthetic wore off enough that his eyes began to water from the pain. To counteract it, Locus injected a local numbing agent into his arm.

Most of his right side promptly fell out of operation within five minutes.

On the bright side, he no longer felt the pain. On the less bright side, half his body lagged behind the other half. At least his body matched his mental state now.

Locus stumbled to the bridge like a particularly uncoordinated sloth and slumped into his chair. The lights of the technicolor console swam headily.

Luckily, A'rynasea had autopilot and the coordinates for Camp 10-B was already punched in. Locus passed out before the ship was even airborne.

∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙

The hour’s flight to A'rynasea passed by in the blink of an eye. Locus had only meant to rest his eyes for a few seconds, but he was already here.

The ship settled down in the jungle like an invisible bird of prey. Locus pulled on clean clothes, tiredly shaved off stubble, and attempted to look a little livelier than he actually felt. The bruises, bloodshot eyes, and gaunt cheeks staring back at him told a different story. The numbing agent had mostly worn off, though his right eye retained a small droop.

He looked more like someone’s battered spouse than a mercenary.

It would have to be good enough. Locus left the armor behind for a different face.

Sam wore frayed baseball caps and flannel. He carried a crossbow for protection that was loaded with handmade bolts. His pants were faded jeans torn at the hems and his cowboy boots had seen better days. He wore his long hair down, but braided it when the situation called.

Sam didn’t look like Locus. He didn’t look like someone who hunted bandits either, but Locus was counting on that impression. For some reason, people trusted Sam a lot more than they trusted him.

“A'rynasea, stay,” he ordered, swinging out. “Mode – cloak and signal blackout. Respond if called.”

The ship chirped affirmation. Locus pulled his crossbow up higher and trudged in the direction of Camp 10-B.

∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙

“We do get new faces around here. But that’s not really a new thing – it just happens, y’know? We had a couple caravans come in yesterday, a wounded soldier got taken in, uh… I think a few families moved in and out – 10-B is pretty close to 10-A and 10-C, so. It happens.”

The busy marketplace of Camp 10-B’s main agora pulsed with the overwhelming noise and commotion of the day crowd, and Locus hunched deeper into his seat. His head hurt, the tea he was drinking tasted terrible, and his paranoia was ticking higher by the second, but he endured it for the mission.

Gordon, the man who operated the tea stand, continued to talk at him. Locus listened to the man prattle on quietly, well-practiced in letting chatty people handle all the talking.

He didn’t have a habit of yelling in frustration, at least, so the urge to snap at him was low. The information he provided wasn’t interesting. It certainly didn’t mention three people in search of medicine.

“How is the bandit problem?” Locus asked in between sentences.

“- and we have – oh, what? The bandits?” Gordon made an expression of distaste. “Well, you know how it is. Some people fight during a war. Some people try to survive that war. And some people just…” he pitched his voice lower as if to impart a secret. “Some people just go crazy.”

Locus’ grip on his crossbow tightened.

Gordon didn’t notice. “And these bandits? Well, they’re basically all the nuts in society who suddenly have the power to act out. So they run around, stealing, and killing, and hurting good people because they can. Dogs, all of them. Nothing but dogs. I know people who lost family to them.”

“…have you seen any?”

“Actually, now that you mention it,” Gordon said, leaning back, “they’re showing up less and less lately. Sometimes we find some in the woods, you know? Injured, tied up, babbling crazy-like about some invisible man in armor – too much dehydration, I’d say.”

“Good to know,” Locus said quietly. He dipped his head, letting his hair fall in front of his face. The concealer he had hid his scar decently but it was two shades too light for him, so he ended up looking mildly blotchy. It wasn’t bad enough to draw the stares that his scar did, but up close like this, people started noticing. What people noticed, they remembered.

Locus stood up, unsatisfied with what he got. The bitter tea sat in his gut like a stagnant puddle in a pothole and his headache spiked up something fierce after Gordon’s careless words. Idling here and gossiping wouldn’t get him anything. He needed to find someone responsible for the medical supplies here. Perhaps they would know more.

“So, Sam, what is it you’re doing again?” Gordon asked.

“Hunting,” Locus answered and left the tea stand.

∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙

“What do you need me for?” asked the woman he’ been directed to. She was black, with long dreads tied back into a ponytail, and wore army fatigues. A pistol hung at her hip. She held herself like a soldier, but she didn’t look like anyone Locus knew from the Feds.

“Are you Doctor Ayesha Hailey?” Locus asked.

“I am,” the doctor confirmed. She looked up from the crate she had been organizing. “What is it?”

“My name’s Sam,” Locus said awkwardly, sitting down on the upturned crate next to her. “I am looking for a few people. There should be three of them. They were looking for medicine. I thought they would be here.”

“Three people, huh?” Hailey looked contemplative. Then she peered at him. “What for?”

“I know them,” Locus said, which wasn’t a lie, not really. “Wanted to find them.”

Hailey stared at him for a moment. Locus shifted his weight from one leg to the next, then looked away. His hair fell in front of his face.

“There were a few people, yeah,” she said after a pause. “Said they wanted antibiotics for a friend. They were willing to pay in cash which I found a little strange.”

“That sounds like them.”

“Mhmm. Go check the temp residentials. People who’re here for a short time stay there.”

“Thanks.”

He moved to leave, but she held up her hand. “Wait.” She opened her mouth to say something, paused, and her eyes flicked over his face again.

Does she know? Locus tensed, wondering how he would stifle her if she screamed. Was she from the army? But they never saw my face, she can’t –

“Squad 104th?” she asked and Locus’ train of thought screeched off its rails.

That was something he hadn’t heard in a long time. Preferably, he would never hear it again. His jaw set as he turned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, sorry,” he heard her say. “I thought you looked familiar.”

He didn’t remember meeting her before.

But that was the thing about being former UNSC. Old memories sprung up where they were least wanted.

∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙

[maximumneon]

Unfortunate Business

Alrighty! So this isn’t Hamilton surprisingly. No this is my first crack at writing an idea for BBC Sherlock. My friend @strike-down-the-punk requested something between Moriarty and Moran so I did my best! I hope you enjoy it, Green!!

Well, this was a bit unfortunate.

Oh, it could have been worse! Plus, it was an entirely unique experience. Surely, nothing could ever compare to running through snow as deep as your shins with frigid creatures intent on blood in swift pursuit. Except, of course, the first time, the second time, the third time- Needless to say, Mycroft had a habit of trying to kill Moriarty. Truly, he had no idea why.

Moriarty was far from scared. He outran these very same creatures over and over countless times, but it didn’t stop him from being a bit peevish. They couldn’t kill him. Doing so would eradicate all fear from the face of the earth, and even the most basic of minds understood that such an idea was completely impossible without eradicating all human life. He wished the same understanding would get through Mycroft’s head so the man would stop wasting his time. Plus, while they couldn’t kill him, it would still hurt like hell to be ripped to shreds. Moriarty clutched the wound on his side as he burst through another patch of underbrush. Inky blackness spilled over his fingers and dripped with a hiss onto the snow beneath him. Still, he had no time to stop. Had he been human he would have perished long ago, but given his supernatural status, he was able to practically fly across the ground even with such an injury. However, that meant little when he was being hunted by creations of an Antiquorum, an Original. Gods and goddesses born with the earth held old power that even Moriarty couldn’t imagine. But his power? Oh his power was new, and, much to the dismay of the Original gods like Mycroft, he made good use of his ever-growing strength. The more humans gained in power and numbers, the more influence he had. Of course, using that influence usually led to little situations like so. Speaking of which-

Moriarty skidded to a halt as an almost bear sized wolf of nearly crystal-like ice swerved into his path. He lurched back against a tree and scowled at the creature. If it hadn’t been sent to destroy him, Moriarty would have silently appreciated how strikingly beautiful it was. Like glass, he could see his path of escape through it, though warped with how the light of the moon bounced through its body. Its eyes glowed a piercing blue, and with each step it took closer to him, Moriarty could hear a soft chime like wind through a chandelier.  The wolf snapped its jaws and tensed before lunging toward him.

Moriarty was expecting a lot. Mostly he was prepared for pain, agony lacing itself through his body as his vessel was torn apart and eventually forced to slowly and painfully rebuild itself. Essentially, he was expecting a huge and arduous waste of his time.  What he was not prepared for was the large column of thick ice to pierce through the wolf mid jump and pin it like a butterfly to the ground. His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but before he could question anything he heard the howls of the remaining wolves draw close.

He also saw the source of his rescue. Barely fifteen feet to his right, clothed in a grey tunic so frosted over it was nearly white, stood a man at six feet tall and every inch radiating intimidation. His breaths came out in white puffs and his hair was so dusted with snow he looked like a man left out to die in this wintery environment. But oh. None of that held a candle to the cuts of blue ice embedded in his skin like stripes- no, like scars. They were incredibly intriguing if Moriarty were to be honest. If was as if the man’s skin was merely a facade meant to hide brilliantly blue ice plucked from the heart of the polar caps that made the man. Like a broken pot with cracks packed with diamonds. He was a creation of winter. Obviously a tool of Mycroft’s, but what? He wasn’t new, but something spoke of incredible power -of ancient power- locked deep beneath those shiny scars. Whatever he was, he was strong and there was no way Mycroft would let a toy of this quality wander around and get lost. He had to be rogue. A traitor of the god of Winter? Oh, Moriarty was interested. Once again, Moriarty was not given time to ponder on that thought. Within seconds, the rest of the frozen wolves crashed into the small clearing. Their focus was entirely removed from Moriarty and was zeroed in on the mysterious man instead. The eyes of the largest wolves faded from their blue to a nearly blinding white as Mycroft’s shocked voice spilled from its jaws. “Sebastian?!” A smile split Sebastian’s lips as he responded in kind. “Boss.” Sebastian reached down into the snow as if he were retrieving a lost item and pulled out another large spear of ice. He tossed it into the chest of the white-eyed wolf and effectively silenced Mycroft’s objections with an ear piercing shattering sound. The last two wolves snarled and jumped into action. Moriarty watched as Sebastian merely grabbed one out of the air and dug his fingers into its neck, cracks splintering from where he gripped it until the head popped off with a satisfying snap. Moriarty was practically buzzing with glee by the time final wolf began to circle Sebastian almost warily. He couldn’t let the guy do all the work.

With his side practically completely healed -what wonders a little time can do for a god- Moriarty stepped forward and allowed his shadow to bleed like spilled ink across the glittering snow before lifting and wrapping around the wolf like a hand. Moriarty dugs his fingers into his palm and the shadow’s claws followed suit. The shadow constricted and pierced the wolf, crushing the creature until it exploded with chucks of ice and a puff of powdered snow. His shadow fell back to the ground and quickly moved beneath him once again. Moriarty let a wicked smile grow on his face as he watched the brief look of shocked awe flutter across Sebastian's countenance before disappearing.

“A god, huh? Haven’t seen you before.” Sebastian hummed, brushing some snow off his shoulder. Moriarty was beyond thrilled. It showed in the way he gave an over exaggerated bow before responding quite cheerfully. “Moriarty, god of Mischief and Fear. At your service.” Sebastian tilted his head. “Fear?” Moriarty blinked. So it was true. This man has to be much, much older than humanity. He must have been created far before fear and mischief had an outlet that allowed Moriarty to manifest as he was now, but where was he when the second generation of gods and goddesses born from the existence of human arose? Did Sebastian truly have no concept of fear? Moriarty pulled himself from his thoughts as his dark gaze met the eyes of Sebastian. The other had been silently waiting an answer. Moriarty felt a smile curl his lips. “Please. Let me show you.”

Mycroft let out a shout as the spear destroyed the vessel of the wolf before he could fully separate his mind from it. A pounding pain resonated in his head as he scrunched his eyes shut and focused. He finally cracked open his eyes as the pain stopped, only to land on his brother lounging peacefully on his long ornate couch. “Trouble in the hunt, dear brother?” Mycroft paid him no mind. His face was drained of color to the point he was nearly as pale as the robes that hung from his shoulders. Sherlock frowned and sat up, the teasing wiped from his tone. “What?” Mycroft ran a hand over his face as he let out a soul-shaking sigh. It couldn’t be. It could not possibly be true. He locked Sebastian away nearly 11,500 years ago and yet there he was standing within feet of Mycroft’s, the world’s, biggest enemy. By the gods, he could feel the dread settling in his stomach at the thought of Moriarty figuring out just exactly what he had discovered. Mycroft was forced from his thoughts at Sherlock’s impatient huff. He steeled himself and regarded his brother with an air of seriousness that had the younger god falling silent. “It appears we may be facing something much more catastrophic than we imagined.” Sherlock perked up. “Moriarty?” “In part.” Mycroft hummed, approaching his window and staring out at the large fields muted by the snow clouds above. “However, he is no longer alone.” Mycroft knew Sebastian. Knew what he was capable of. Pairing up with Moriarty would be no surprise, but no less concerning. “Oh, spit it out already.” Sherlock snapped, jumping on to his feet. “Stop with these short remarks and explain, Mycroft. I understand that you are perfectly capable of talking an ear off so go on with it. Who is he with? What is he with? Why is the god of Winter practically shaking in his shoes at the very thought of those two together?” Mycroft frowned. He knew Sherlock would find out one way or another. Though the options were limited to an explanation via himself or an investigation. The last thing Mycroft wished for was for Sherlock to search out Moriarty and Sebastian. Finally, Mycroft grit his teeth and began to speak. “Do you remember, long long ago, when humans were just beginning? Very near the time I found you, the god of Curiosity and Innovation, nestled in that cave next to the world’s very first manmade flame?” “I have no idea what visiting memories has anything to do-” “Think, Sherlock.” Mycroft snapped. “Why did man create fire?” Sherlock frowned. “Why else? To counteract the cold.” “Indeed. A cold that was gaining momentum enough for fire to be next to useless.” Mycroft paused before turning his attention back to the window. “That kind of conditions would have rendered this planet uninhabitable and all life to be ceased. I had to put a stop to Sebastian. I had to lock away my ultimum telum.” Now it was Sherlock’s face to drop in shock. “You mean he is your weapon? Winter’s tool?” “Yes,” Mycroft nodded. With every original god came a weapon born along with them. Not so much of a god themselves, but tools of war. The gods of the seasons were well known for the powers they possessed. Summer had their Heat Wave, scorching temperatures that could erase all life down to the last drop of water. Autumn had their Decay, a stroke of death that would cast the world into a hollow limbo of rot. Spring had their Rains, downpours that could suffocate all life on land with flood waters beyond those in the tales of Noah. Finally, Mycroft, the god of Winter, had a tool that had grasped the world many times before he gained control and stopped his tool’s rebellion. It had frozen the world well within the throes of death, made life nearly impossible to thrive, and displayed the frigid bodies of its kills within millions of walls of ice. “Regretfully, you are right, Sherlock.” He took a breath. “Sebastian Moran is the Ice Age.”