#he probably makes a small ‘grave’ where you died. your body dissolved so there isn’t a body under the snow but he still kneels at it as if

[m1d-45]

I desperately wanna believe albedo wouldn’t kill reader but realistically yes but my weak heart says no because he’s bby🥺 (a bebe that can kill tho) -🦑anon

he is baby. a lethal one, at that.

[starculler]

Whumptober 2021: Day 1

Word Count: 2489

Read on AO3

“Jason.”

Dick turned his head, trying to get a proper look at his brother without adding momentum to his slow, circular spin. His arms had gone alarmingly numb a while ago, pinned above his head, bound at the wrists by the same thick cord he hung from, and bearing the bulk of his weight unless he stretched out onto the tips of his toes. He considered doing so for a moment if for nothing else than to plant Jason firmly in his line of sight, but figured his peace of mind wasn’t quite worth stretching the painful length of bruising up and down his torso.

He’d managed well enough for the … hours? Days? Time had started to blend together after a spectacularly precise his to the side of his head, the blood long-dried and flaking against his cheek and jaw where it had dripped down from his hairline. His lack of broken bones — not for lack of trying if the pain in his sides was anything to go by — were at least a point in his favor. A little luck on his side, though he wouldn’t hold his breath hoping it stayed that way. It was a matter of if not when, as Jason’s own swollen, mottled-purple bruised wrist had proved.

“Jason,” he rasped again, wincing at the dull ache in his throat. “Jason, please,” he said, hating the frustrated edge leaking into his voice, “this isn’t the time for—”

“For what, Dick-face?” Jason snapped, voice echoing and too-loud in the still silence of whatever damp basement they’d been stashed in. “For more of your fucking martyr-hero stick? Maybe another round of trying to bullshit those fuckers into letting us go ‘cause that went so well last time? Maybe —”

Dick frowned as he finally circled back around to facing Jason, still bound at his ankles and wrists and cuffed to the leg of what might have been an old, rusted water heater or an antique stove after he’d slipped his restraints once already. He’d been caught only because he’d tried to help Dick. Jason’s next attempt had been a sore point since.

“Just,” Jason snarled, cutting off whatever he’d been about to say. “Just keep your useless trap shut unless there’s an actual idea rolling around in that empty fuckin’ head of yours.”

Thick, acrid anger burned through Dick’s chest and bubbled, useless, in his throat. His head throbbed, the steady drumbeat in his skull he’d felt since the hit that might as well have dissolved his concept of time in this godforsaken place growing to a much less negligible roar. He breathed through the pain and anger and the sudden nausea roiling in his stomach, the same slow, measured breaths Bruce had taught him as a kid. It would only do so much, but better that, he figured, than either letting his mouth run away from him or throwing up. Again.

“Jason,” he tried again once he’d sorted through the worst of what he felt, and wondered if he’d wind up with the name tattooed to his tongue from how much he’d repeated it. Had he ever used Jason’s name so often before now?

“Got anything new to say?” Dick pressed his lips into a thin, grim line and remained silent. Jason sneered. “Then shut the fuck up already.”

Dick sighed. He tried to shift, numb, prickling fingers wrapping clumsily around the cord keeping him suspended, and pulled to ease some of the pull on his shoulders only to slip. He hissed through clenched teeth, scrambling to stretch onto his toes and ignoring the ache along his sides and the burn in his back. There were more than bruises there, he knew — he’d screamed himself hoarse as they’d worked him over — but had refused to give it much thought beyond a brief acknowledgment of the pain. He stayed on his toes just long enough to breathe through what he’d done before easing off, slow and careful as he let his arms take the brunt of his weight again.

Jason’s head ducked, glaring once more at the cold, cement floor the second Dick’s gaze focused back on him. Some distant, probably slightly hysterical part of him wanted to laugh at that glimpse of concern he’d caught in his brother’s eyes. The anger for him rather than directed at him. It was nice, in a way, to know Jason cared — to be shown, however unwillingly. They had never really been close: Dick too distant to a brother he hadn’t wanted before Jason’s death, and too distracted after he’d come back to life and mellowed out enough to really come back to the family. It was nice, but unhelpful.

More than anything, Dick needed the ruthlessness the Red Hood was known for. He needed the man able, if not willing, to do what was needed for the sake of a plan. Not that Dick’s plan was much of one. He understood Jason’s anger in that regard. If anyone had told Dick to willingly leave one of his family in danger, he would have sucker-punched them in the face or worse. But he was the more injured of the two, strung up and beat and barely coherent most of the time because he’d spent his time running his mouth to keep their captors’ focus on him rather than on his brother.

Close or not, Dick had decided years ago that he’d do what he could to keep his family safe. If that meant taking a beating to spare someone else, then so be it. Even if it really fucking sucked.

“Jason,” he tried again, and rushed to talk when Jason’s head snapped up, glaring and ready to shout over him if need be. “No, shut up,” Dick hissed, gratified when Jason grimaced, fuming but silent. “I’m not telling you to abandon me here.” He was, they both knew he was, but there was no need to say it out loud. Their captors were playing with them right now, hoping to make Jason talk by hurting Dick. The chances of Dick dying after Jason was gone, though, were high. Still… “You’re not abandoning me. You’re getting help. We need help. Even if you somehow managed to get me down with a broken wrist, I don’t think I could walk out of here on my own and, again, you have a broken wrist. There’s just no way you’re getting me out of here alone.

“No,” he snapped when Jason moved to argue. “We’re good, can’t do what we do if we weren’t, but we’re only human.” Dick sucked in a single shaky breath and forced a grin that further split his lower lip. “I know you’ll come back for me, you and B and anyone else you can get your hands on. But first, you need to get out of here, find out where we are, and make the call. Got it?”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Jason growled, but there was no real heat to it. His shoulder had slumped, face twisted into a frown, and resignation visible in every line of his body. Dick was right and he knew it. “You’re not dyin’ here Dick-face,” he said, sharp and unhappy.

“I’m not,” Dick agreed despite the knots his stomach tied itself into.

Jason nodded, slow, and got to work getting free. The light across the room was too dim for Dick to see clearly — little more than the outline of Jason’s body and a few details catching the light visible, but he was enough of an escape artist himself to guess what Jason was doing. It would have been easier, faster, if they’d been caught as Red Hood and Nightwing instead of Jason Todd and Dick Grayson, but not impossible. All of them tended to carry at least some basic supplies on their person: lock picks, multi-purpose tools, a knife or two.

Dick held his breath while Jason worked, praying they hadn’t wasted too much time arguing and hesitating, and let it out all in a rush when he heard the distinct click of a cuff unlocking. He watched Jason stand, gingerly checking his fractured wrist and hissing when his fingers brushed it. Dick flashed him a smile, smaller this time but no less full of the same false confidence he’d injected into his earlier grin. And just as see-through. Jason frowned, nodded once, and stalked to the room’s only exit. After a brief moment spent listening for people on the other side and another to pick the lock, Jason strode through, silent as a shadow despite his bulk, and left Dick alone in the silence and near darkness.

Without another person there to occupy him, despite how neither had spoken much beyond brief check-ins and arguing about escape plans, time grew fuzzy. It seemed to slip through metaphorical fingers, no way to tell how long it had been since Jason had slipped out. The only relief was the lack of sound — no shouting, running, storming the basement, or anything else that might have indicated that Jason had been caught.

It was a relief.

It was a relief, until it wasn’t.

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

Jason couldn’t breathe.

The stale air cycling through his helmet tasted sour, made worse by the mingling damp, mold and the thick, coppery stench of blood. A fine tremor started in his hand, his white-knuckled grip on his pistol tightening until it threatened to either crack the grip or snap his fingers. He breathed in the deep, meditative breaths they all tended to use, but it did little to lessen the tightness in his chest and even less to banish the red haze creeping in at the edges of his vision.

A hand settled on his back under his jacket and pressed into the sweat-damp sweater he’d been wearing since they’d been caught, small but steadying. Firm and warm. A comfort and a warning bundled together in that special way only Cass managed. Calm, it seemed to say, but he could feel the way it shook, just slight enough that if he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been trying to focus on anything else but what lay in front of him. He swallowed, wanting to gag on the taste in his mouth. Wanting to storm out of this stupid cellar and press the muzzle of his gun to the temple of the nearest idiot and pull the trigger.

He wanted to crawl out of his skin. Crawl back in his grave. Be anyone or anywhere else because then, at least, this wouldn’t be his fault. He wanted to go back in time and strangle his brother for his idiotic ideas and too-good-self-sacrificial bullshit and find a way to switch places. Let Jason be the one on the floor because at least he’d already died. He’d lived the torture, the hopelessness, the last trembling breath before the explosion and the brief, concussive burn, so hot he’d felt cold. That, too, had been his fault.

It was funny, just a little, in an odd, hysteric kind of way.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t cry. Didn’t move until Cassandra took him by the wrist and pulled him back up the stairs and out of the basement. His broken wrist throbbed, braced and in a sling because he’d refused anything more time consuming in lieu of going back personally with the others. It had taken him over an hour to find his way out of the maze of a hotel their captors had holed up in — some old place half fallen over with more rotted wood than intact some few miles outside of town — and another one and a half to find another living person with a cellphone.

Cass and Stephanie had found him some time after he called, his jacket, helmet, and guns in hand despite how they told him they were supposed to take him back to the cave so Alfred could check him over. Bruce, Tim, the demon brat, and Duke had gone after Dick. The girls hadn’t needed much convincing at all to take him there too once they’d at least stabilized his wrist and gotten him half-dressed in his Red Hood gear.

Stephanie and Duke were on the main floor, tense but trying to look casual where they leaned against moth-eaten, damaged furniture. Cass pulled him in their direction and past, out the door and into the cool, night air. Jason breathed it in with numb relief. He nearly jumped when another smaller hand touched his back, a brief pat before pulling away, and he looked to find Stephanie on his right and Duke on her other side.

“B commed,” she said, subdued and strained. “They made it to the hospital and N’s been taken in for surgery.” Her breath hitched, voice cracking toward the end. “They’re not sure if he’ll …”

“He will,” Jason rasped. “If there’s one thing I know,” he said, voice noticeably thick even through his helmet’s modulation, “it’s that luck fucking loves him. ‘S not about to run out any time soon.”

That pulled a startled laugh out of all three of them, and Jason’s lips pulled into an unwilling grin despite himself. He forced himself to breathe in sweet, fresh air and let some of the tension in his body drain out on the exhale. Dick would be fine, he told himself. The day Dick Grayson died without a single gray hair on his head was the day hell froze over, even if Jason had to drag him back to life kicking and screaming to make that true.

“I think we should make him a cake, for when he gets back,” Stephanie said, voice pitched up in a mostly poor attempt to cheer herself and them up. Duke nodded, about to say something when Cass interrupted with a cheerful chirp of:

“Two cakes.”

“Four,” Duke doubled to the girls’ obvious delight.

Jason groaned, tipping his head back dramatically and drawled, “None of you hellions are touching A’s goddamn kitchen. I’m not sitting through gross, obscure recipes for a week just ‘cause you decided to try playing baker.”

“I can bake!” Stephanie groused, and Jason laughed.

“You can go to a bakery,” Jason shot back. Stephanie huffed and Duke clapped her on the back while Cass muffled a small laugh of her own behind her hand.

Jason breathed in and finally holstered his gun as they reached the three bikes the trio had ridden in on. Dick would be okay, he told himself again, and for now he could do this. Play nice. Be a big brother. He owed that much, at least.

“I’ll bake,” Jason said giving the three a look before they hopped on their bikes, “and you can help.” He rolled his eyes behind his helmet as one cheer and two laughs rang out, then pulled himself carefully onto the back of Cass’ bike as she revved the engine, waiting for him to grab onto her so they could get back home.

[zodiyack]

Rest Easy For Me

Requested by anon: If requests are still open could you pls do one with Tommy Shelby, where the reader is a long time friend of Tommy and on the night where the gunman attempts to shoot Tommy, the reader, who was closely near Grace and Tommy ends up the one being shot and dies, and soon enough Grace begins to find out about Tommy’s true feelings for you during his grieving process.

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x reader

Warnings: Death, murder, swearing, immature humor (before death)

Note: Only people who listen to cavetown will get the title And this story probably makes sense or it probably doesn’t, I wouldn’t know currently because I’m sick and tired and blasting music to stay functioning. Enjoy!

Taglist: @captivatedbycillianmurphy​, @stydia-4-ever​, @matth1w​, @redspaceace​

Masterlist | Peaky Blinders Masterlist

“What do you think of that?”

“I think you should not drink Vodka with Champagne.” Thomas, smoothly, rejected Tatiana’s proposal and attempted to walk away, turning once she started yet another question.

“Does your wife know that the sapphire she is wearing has been cursed by a Gypsy?” She giggled.

“What did you say?”

Tatiana’s face went serious, “Nothing on Earth, would make me wear it.” She walked away after answering Tommy in her own strange way. The girl left Tommy confused and a bit fearful.

“Ignore her, Tatiana is probably speaking nonsense so she can get you to sleep with her instead of your wife. Oh and by the way, congrats Tommy. Grace seems like a lovely woman.” Y/n spoke to him, her eyes on the woman she was speaking of and her words directed to Tommy.

He was shocked, blinking a few times at the sudden appearance of his long time friend, but followed her gaze and nodded, responding with a small grunt.

“You don’t seem too happy to be here, huh?”

“No no, it’s not that, I’m just a bit...well it’s a lot, ya know?”

“And with Tatiana’s scare...yeah. I can imagine, I apologize.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?” She finally turned to face him.

He faced her as well and shrugged. “No. You have no need to apologize. You should just enjoy this time with me while we can. Just stay with me for a bit ...I need to ask you something.”

“Tommy. You’re married and a grown man now. You’re gonna have to start going potty on your own from now on.”

“What?” She held her breathe for a few seconds before cracking into laughter and hugging his side. “You can be such an ass, Y/n.”

“But you love me, so that makes up for my assiness.”

Tommy closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Many thoughts were going through his head at the moment, but Y/n couldn’t quite tell what. She felt like he was wanting to get out of the situation, so she hugged him tightly and apologized.

“No. Please, don’t be sorry. You’re right honestly, I love you whether or not you’re mean or immature.”

“I love you too Tommy...now Grace is giving me those suspicious wife eyes, go talk to her and enjoy some nice spouse to spouse time, alright?” She pat his back softly.

“Alright. Thank you Y/n.”

“Of course Tom. I’m always here for you, nothing can ever get rid of me. I promise.”

Of all nights to say those words. She picked the one she’d meet her maker. It was unintentional, yes, but Tommy remembered it. All Tommy saw a man, pointing his gun in the direction of him and and Grace. He extended his arm and put it over Grace, pulling her to him and out of the way. However, he didn’t see Y/n behind them. 

She was close behind, he could’ve saved her if not both females. Just as he thought the bullet missed the person he loved, the bullet hit her. A bullet, right to the body it wasn’t supposed to hit. The gun was meant for Thomas Shelby, instead, it hit Y/n L/n. She wasn’t meant to die, but one bullet made her fate come sooner than she’d expected.

Grace noticed a change in Tommy’s attitude. He was more depressed, more saddened, as if he’d just lost the love of his life. That didn’t make sense though, wasn’t she the love of his life? She had no clue, for all she knew, the wedding could’ve meant absolutely nothing to him.

Could he have been lying to her the entire time they were together? That was a strong possibility. And a strong possibility that seemed more like the truth than what Grace wanted to believe. So this new truth, the true truth, was shown by her husband’s closest friend.

He was hardly at home. Hardly in his office. Not even his family knew where he was. Grace took it upon herself to search for him one night when he didn’t return. It didn’t take her long to find him. He had set camp far from their home, but exactly at the place Grace thought to search first.

Y/n’s grave.

The one at whatever cemetery they decided to use wasn’t real. Thomas begged them to put her grave in a special place, a place they used to visit when they were kids, a place where only he could visit because it was special to the two of them. He told her family of the location and they visited at least once.

He rested there, a (favorite flower) in hand and tears running down his cheeks. Unknown to Grace, his mind flashed with memories from that night as he thought of words to speak to her, knowing she couldn’t respond from beyond the grave. Tommy’s hard shell dissolved and his soul poured out.

Grace kneeled behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Tommy. What’s going on?”

“Grace...I’m sorry...”

“Start from the beginning, alright?”

“The night she was killed. I remember it. She promised me, nothing could ever get rid of her. But I turned and she was there, eyes bulging and hands clasped over a bleeding wound. She mumbled my name before dropping to the ground and dying on the spot...”

“Tommy. Some people die, she didn’t know she was to die that night. Her promise was genuine, she’s in here, ya know?” Her hand rested on his chest. Thomas grabbed her hand and looked at it for a second, then he grabbed it and set it on her lap.

“The bullet was meant for me. Grace...I loved her.”

“You...”

“I loved her. I was in love with her. I just never knew...I never knew I was, I never knew how to say it, I was so dumb and young, and now she’s dead and the only way I can admit it is to my fucking wife. I’m sorry Grace.”

“Thomas...I-”

“No. This isn’t fair on you, it isn’t fair on me and it definitely isn’t fair on Y/n.”

Grace tried and tried to argue, to reason, but Thomas was set on his answer. The bulled indeed was meant for him, and the bullet finding the wrong person was all it took for his heart to find it’s true owner. Grace went back home, leaving Tommy to mourn his dead friend. His dead love.

For many months, Tommy came back to her grave. He wept at it, ranted to it, talked to it, overall shared his human emotions to it. A coping with Y/n’s death. Pol snapped him out of it, explaining how Grace was becoming more distant and wanted a divorce, more was happening besides that.

Tommy still visited Y/n’s grave, and every time he went back home, he spoke a final sentence to her. “Rest Easy For Me.”

[dabard]

Immortality Is Wasted On Oneself

It was 1348 and London was in shambles. I had not been here since the time of the Romans and I had sought it out hoping for a final resting place, for a way to die here where the great Republic began to fall. People were sitting in the streets, either dying or already dead, nobles hurried by clutching perfumed cloths to their noses in an attempt to mask the scent and stop the spread of the disease. I was dressed modestly, but people still glanced at me nervously as I walked among the bodies of those that were not long for the grave without a care. My leg caught on something and to my surprise it was not an errant stick or wayward bramble. It was a child. “Water.” The girl croaked, her neck was swollen with the tell-tale lumps of the Black Death yet her grip held firm on my ankle. “Please, water.” For a moment I considered simply walking away, she would die anyway, if not today then in a few years when she took a wrong turn down a dark alley, or sometime after that when age got her. These people can’t help but perish. And yet I didn’t. There was a well nearby and although I was unfit from the apathy of my last few centuries, I hauled a bucket from the local smithy to the waterhole and filled it to the brim. No doubt I looked a fool as I struggled to drag that laden container from one side of the square to the other, but when I reached the girl she surprised me with a genuine, heartfelt smile. “Thank you m’lord.” She coughed, before almost plunging her head into the water and gulping down great amounts. “Woah, wait a moment.” I admonished, much to my own surprise. I pulled her back from the water and gently leaned her against a wall so that she was upright. “You need to drink it slowly, or you’ll just be sick and throw it up everywhere.” “I’m already sick sir.” The girl said, her wry laugh dissolving into another fit of coughs. “Then there’s no sense in making it worse.” Came my stern reproach, cupping some water in my hands and offering it to her. “Drink it slowly this time.” Her name was Emily, and underneath the grime of her days on the street she was a fetching young woman. I helped her first out of pity, but as hours turned into days, and days turned into weeks, I found myself worrying over her eating eating habits, her sleep schedule, whether she was being treated kindly by the other teenagers. When my ministrations brought her from sickness to health I thought my part in things was over, but a realization took that thought from my plans. “Where are your parents Em?” I had asked not long after “Borrowing” a blanket from a royal’s house down the street for her. “Dead.” She had replied simply, avoiding my gaze. “Rats got them. Where are yours?” “Dead.” I replied, already standing as the next half century or so of my life suddenly had a purpose. “Sumerians got them. Why don’t we find somewhere better for you to sleep? There’s plenty of empty houses around, there’s no sense in letting them rot with no one inside.” She was a curious creature, wry and laconic with a good sense of when to leave certain topics alone. We squatted in a house near the Thames for a time, I began working as a doctor to bring in some money so that she wouldn’t starve. Weeks became months and she finally broke the golden rule. “Why don’t you eat?” Emily had asked at the breakfast table, toast and oatmeal in front of her while I read a book on herbs rumored to be cures for the plague. “Can’t afford to feed two people.” I said with a shrug. “But you don’t eat at all.” She pushed, curiosity burning behind her eyes. That wit I admired so much in her now pointed directly at me. “That isn’t normal.” “I suppose it isn’t.” I admitted, resolving to give her at least a partial truth. “I don’t need to eat, I can if I want, but it isn’t necessary. That’s just how I am.” She accepted that with a nod, biting into her toast with a thoughtful expression. “Are you the devil?” I snorted, turning a page in my book. “Even if I was, what makes you think I wouldn’t just lie about it?” Months became years, and Emily grew nervous around me, at first I believed she still suspected me of being the devil, or a demon in some capacity, but that suspicion was dashed when she finally broke her peace while we sat in the living room. “When are you going to do it?” She had blurted, slightly fearful. “Do what?” I had asked gently, afraid of startling her. Tears welled in her eyes and I panicked slightly, worried that somehow I had upset her with some action or lack thereof during our time together. “You know what!” She had accused. “Girls don’t just get given dresses and a house and food and love. Not without something in return.” Realization dawned on me, along with a horror at the implication my new ward was making. “Emily. I’m not going to… To force you to do anything. You aren’t some prisoner or servant here, you aren’t some investment I’ve made. You’re my friend.” Those tears finally broke over her cheeks, relief and guilt mixing in her eyes and spilling down her face. “I am?” I stood, but made no move towards her, simply opening my arms and waiting. She lurched forwards and hugged me tightly, her face buried in my shirt for the longest of moments.

Months became years, and a new person joined our home. Her name was Christine, and her father was a drunkard named Thomas that I had no patience for. When Thomas’s wife had died of consumption the poor girl found out why her mother never went a day without “Falling down”. Emily and Christine were fast friends and often spent the night in Emily’s room gossiping and playing checkers, or so my young friend would have me believe. I hadn’t realized Christine had spent almost a week living in our house until Thomas came to my door. He was a foul tempered brute and the swill he had been drinking didn’t help that fact at all. “Give her ‘ere doctor!” He had yelled, red faced with anger and balled fists at his side. “She ain’t been doing her chores and I’ve had enough of it!” “Tom, you’re making a scene.” I said calmly, glancing up the stairs to find the girls watching. Christine was all but cowering with fear, while Emily gave me a simple, single shake of her head. “I don’t give a fuck what you think of what I’m making!” The drunk bellowed, trying to force his way past me. “CHRISTINE, GET YOUR ARSE DOWN HERE NOW!” I put my hand on Thomas’s chest and my leg swept behind him as I gave a slight push. The other man went tumbling into the street as I descended my front steps and rolled up my sleeves. “I think she’s perfectly fine where she is thank you Thomas.” “You’re gonna fight me doc?” Slurred the slovenly brute with a laugh before he brought up his fists. “Man like you probably never seen a real fight in your life.” I could describe for you what happened next, but if you had never seen the Visigoths lay siege to Rome, or the Persian invasions of Greece then you’d have no context for how my experiences played a part in the struggle. Needless to say however, that it was not my first or last fight. With Thomas squared away Christine moved into the house permanently, the girls would have liked me to believe they were living in separate rooms but I had visited the Isle of Lesbos and spoken with Sappho herself. They eventually came to realize that I understood their relationship and after years became decades we moved from London to the country, where Christine became my “Wife” and Emily became my “Widowed Sister” so that the girls could get by with relatively little problem. My appearance soon raised further questions with Emily, but at that point she accepted my vague answers with a small smile and a wry joke. It was when we had to move the third time, where Christine became my spinster aunt, and I became Emily’s son that I finally sat down with them and revealed what I was. It went over fairly well, but at that stage they had already accepted my divergence from mainstream humanity. “You’re my friend.” Emily had repeated, over four decades separating my words from hers. “Nothing changes that.” It was 1598 and I had just cleaned Emily and Christine’s grave stones. They seemed at peace beside one another in the churchyard, a fact I found solace in before returning to the task I had set myself. The Irish were trying to throw off the yolk of English oppression and there on the battlefield I put to work the skills I had honed in caring for my two friends throughout their life. I sewed the wounds of an English pikeman that had fallen victim to the claymore of a scottish mercenary. I treated the broken arm of an Irishman that had been separated from his kinsmen and run through with a spear. I shepherded villagers out from their town before the army of Robert Devereux could trample them into the mud. It was 1701 and I was headed for the New World with a ship full of others escaping the Spanish Inquisition, who had began a renewed hunt for those bearing the devil’s touch. Again I tend to the sick, because it has become a habit for me. If only the poor could afford the medicines of rich men. It was 1850 and I was running. We just needed to reach the border, where my Comanche friends would take over, but on our heels was a US Marshal that didn’t take kindly to people who freed slaves. I fired behind with my revolver, missing the Marshal by mere inches and forcing him to pull his horse to the side so that trees would give him cover. We were approaching the site and I could taste the freedom my friends deserved. I stopped in my tracks and waved them on, hoping to keep the Marshall busy while they escaped with the Natives and made their way to Canada. A few bullets weren’t enough to take me down, and it would be worth the reward. It was 1999 and Lana was talking to one of the boom operators. “I don’t know how to do it, I’m just not earning enough to put Casey through school and with my wife’s scoliosis acting up our medical bills are just…” Jack sighed. “It’s all just a little much right now.” “We’ll sort something out.” Lana promised, patting his shoulder. It was 1999 and I was in Lana and Lilly’s office. “You want us to do what?” Lilly asks with a gobsmacked expression. “Donate it all to the crew.” I repeated. “I’ve made enough right now, I can go without another ten million, especially if it means they earn what they’re worth.” “This is just… You don’t really see this happen in Hollywood.” Lana said, shaking her head. “Especially not from someone so young.” “Oh, it’s nothing.” I said, waving it off. “People my age should know better by now.” It was 1999 and a letter had been left in my trailer. Work on the movie had closed down for the last time and I was just going to fetch my laptop. Curiously I opened the letter, the writer had left out their name, but I had a feeling I knew who had left this two word note for me to find. The cursive letters were in an almost completely different language, but they reminded me of a study in London, where I taught a young girl to write. Now, thousands of years and miles apart, I found the same satisfaction in how I ended up spending my immortal life. “Thanks, Keanu.” Read the note.

[awritesfanfics]

Hell to Paint Pt. 2

part 2! here’s part 1!

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader

Word Count: 1,563

Warning: Violence, Blood, Gore, Cursing

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In a sudden flash of dim light, the heavy hood was ripped off your head. You sat in a small room, chained tightly to a metal chair. Your head bobbed weakly back and forth as you tried to collect your senses. A calloused hand grabbed a chunk of your damp hair and pulled your head up to face his cocked fist.

“Where is it?!” The man yelled.

“Where is what?”

He slapped you across the face with the back of his hand.

“Don’t play dumb you bitch!” He spat. “I know you’re working with the detective, and he knows where the stolen Rembrandt is. Getting him to talk is nearly impossible, so it’s your turn. Tell me where it is!”

Out of nowhere, a solid fist struck you directly in the center of your face, throwing your head back against your neck and nearly sending the chair tumbling over. You were in such a state of shock that you didn’t realize the pain.

“I don’t... I swear I...” Another hit to the chest, a smack against the head, a kick to the shin. You tasted the blood in the air before you tasted it on your lips. You knew he wouldn’t listen, but you were telling the truth: Sherlock barely talked about that case. He didn’t like theft cases very much, but Mycroft forced him to look into it. You genuinely had no idea where it was.

“I can’t remember!” You screamed out between blows. He finally let up, just long enough for you to take a deep breath before wrapping his hand around your neck.

“I will find out where the painting is,” he growled, his thick German accent hanging in the air around you like smoke from a cigarette. He let go of you and walked out of the room, his heavy footsteps disappearing down a long hallway.

You gently let your eyes close. You were terrified that the assault wasn’t over, but you needed to collect yourself. Slowly, you began to feel the pain. A rhythmic throbbing overcame your entire body. You couldn’t keep it in anymore. Tears fell steadily down your face, the salinity mixing with the metallic sting of the blood. Swollen cuts riddled your once smooth complexion, and you couldn’t see out of one eye. You inhaled sharply and winced; it felt like you had at least two broken ribs, but you weren’t certain.

Suddenly, you heard rapid footsteps approaching. The man that had interrogated you appeared in the doorway, a .45 clutched tightly in his hand. He looked furious, and you were surprised he didn’t blow your head off at that moment. He put the gun to your temple and wrapped his other hand around your mouth.

More footsteps approached. You could tell that it was more than one person this time. You couldn’t help but imagine that it was Sherlock and John, and to your disbelief, it actually was. You let out a small squeal as they appeared in the doorway, but at the same moment, the man pushed the gun harder against your temple.

“Make one move and I’ll blow her fucking brains out!” He yelled. Sherlock and John exchanged a nervous glance.

“We don’t want any trouble...” Sherlock took a step forward.

The man cocked the gun and aimed it at Sherlock, stopping him in his tracks, then aimed it back at your head. “I’ll paint her all over these fucking walls! Tell me where the painting is!”

In a flash of sparks, John had pulled out his own gun and fired at the lights. The man panicked, firing into the darkness. John’s steady aim sent two more shots into the mans chest, dropping him.

“(Y/N)?!” Sherlock called. You could hear his horrified heartbeat from across the room. John turned on the flashlight on his phone and rushed to your side. He felt your diminishing pulse as your heart struggled to pump blood around your battered body.

“Hey, look at me, we’re going to get you out of here, all right?” John patted your leg as a reassurance, but his small smile dissolved into a grave expression as he glanced down. Your captor had fired his gun in a panic when the lights went out. Luckily, the bullet missed your head, but John didn’t know if it missed your femoral artery.

“If that bullet hit her femoral artery, she’ll die in about 5 minutes. Give me your scarf, now!”

Without question, Sherlock obeyed. John wrapped it tightly around your leg and handed the ends to Sherlock as he searched the room for something to removed your chain restraints. A key hanging from your attackers belt removed the padlock that kept the two ends of chain together. Without the support, you slumped forward. Sherlock caught you, and with John’s help he gently pulled you out of the chair and into his lap.

You started to nod off. Sherlock pulled tightly on the makeshift tourniquet as you rested your head on his chest. You didn’t hear what John said, but with a swift motion, you were cradled in Sherlock’s arms. He glanced down at you constantly as he responded to something else John said.

“Hold on, please, you have to hold on,” he whispered through clenched teeth. You nodded weakly as the two scrambled to keep pressure on the bullet wound as they raced through the hallways of the old building.

Lestrade was there outside within minutes, and a group of EMT’s raced to your side. They gently helped lower you onto a gurney and wheel you into an ambulance. You let your eyes begin to shut again as the sirens began to wail and the ambulance sped down the street.

-

“Oh there she is! Thank God!”

“See? Told you she’d pull through.”

“Yea, shes too stubborn to be killed over something like that. Her subconscious wouldn’t let her,” Molly giggled and sighed, relieved.

Through one bruised eye you looked out at the world. Molly and John sat at your bedside, smiles stretching widely across their faces.

“Good morning. You don’t know how glad we are that you’re okay.”

You reached over for the remote to help prop you up in bed, but your bruised arms were stiff and sore. “I wouldn’t exactly say ‘okay,’” you mumbled. You allowed yourself to break a smile through bloody, cracked lips, though. “Where is...”

“Mrs. Hudson stayed back with Rosie, but she’ll probably visit later. And Sherlock is in the lobby. Says he’d rather be in alone.” Molly answered.

“Would you mind, if we just talked for a little, him and me?” You asked quietly. You knew Sherlock. He’d find some insane way to connect the dots and blame himself for the whole mess. You had to find a way to convince him otherwise.

“No problem.” Molly gave your hand a gentle squeeze as John ushered her out the door. Slowly, Sherlock walked in, carrying a bouquet with a large “Get Well Soon!” banner stuck right in the middle.

“I don’t understand the whole flowers-for-the-sick thing, most of the time the person you get them for either can’t take care of them or doesn’t want to, and they die anyway.” He avoided your glance. He always acted this way when he gets nervous.

“Better them than me,” you piped. He didn’t respond. “Can we talk about this?”

“What’s there to talk about there’s nothing to talk about, what do you want to talk about?”

“I just want to make sure you know this isn’t your fault.”

“Of course I know, why would you even say that yes I know I didn’t put a bullet in your leg or beat you to a bloody pulp-”

“Will you come here, please?” You shot a glance at the seat closest to your bed and waited. Almost bashfully he took the seat, but he still avoided your gaze. “This is not your fault.”

This time, he said nothing.

“Sherlock, do you understand?” You reached out a shaky hand to meet his, but he pulled away.

“Of course it’s my fault! If I hadn’t made you stay late and do that report, then you would have gone home with Molly and if you did then you wouldn’t have had to walk home in the rain and-”

“If I wasn’t this sore I would hit you. You better watch out when I actually get the good painkillers in my system.” You grabbed for his hand again, this time he let you take it. “If you’re going to blame yourself for everything that happens to me, then...” You scanned the room for something to say. His eyes finally met yours. “Then I don’t know what to do. Because I would not trade a single thing that has happened in my life since I met you. Not even this. If I never met you, I would have probably still be home in my tiny flat, day-drinking the unemployment away with four cats. I would probably have fewer scars, but honestly, you’ve given me a reason to keep going. To make something out of my life. So yea, maybe you did cause this somehow. But that’s okay. I’m okay, and it’s okay.”

His eyes welled with tears as he gave your hand a small squeeze.

“But if I nearly died for a painting that you’re trying to hide, Sherlock Holmes, there will be hell to pay.”

[shutupandshipit]

Red as Blood - Ch.5

Summary:  With trembling fingers, he pulled a page and pen towards him. The first words he wrote were, ‘The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.’

Chapter: 5/16

Previous <- Chapter 4

Chapter 6 -> Next

Masterpost

Perched on the edge of a bed covered in lush reds and whites, Akmazian twisted his fingers together. Anxiety coiled in the pit of his stomach. His foot tapped out a fast, inconsistent rhythm.

Pinks and more reds and more whites covered the room he hyperventilated in like some kind of cliché Valentines Day room from the old Earth movies his bisabuela loved. A creature with ears as large as a wall and a long snout that he thought may have been what she called an elefante could be found throughout the room, in the patters on the fabric, in the metal work along the walls, in the shape of the tapestries.

He startled as the door pushed open softly, surprise sending him to his feet, nearly tripping onto his face.

A heavy sigh preceded the individual followed by a bowed head of pink hair and a set of long, toned legs. Ryan Dalias paused as his eyes rose, following the length of Akmazian's legs to the patch of dark skin visible above the collar of his shirt to the pink scars tracing along his throat and up a cheek to finally rest on his eyes, warm and brown and friendly (at least he thought so). Ryan stared at him for a long moment before his whipped out a night stick that Akmazian was by all rights baffled at its appearance. “Who are you? How did you get into my room? If you don't answer my questions in the next minute, I'm going to break your nose and probably more than that,” he threatened, holding the baton in front of his body.

To say that Akmazian's brain shutdown would have been putting it lightly. As such, he reverted to his natural defense mechanism: cockiness. His accent grew unimaginably thick as a lopsided grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. “I thought that would have been obvious. What does a patron normally come to your rooms for, darlin'? A candle lit dinner?”

Ryan bit back, “I don't have male patrons. Who let you in?”

Akmazian sidled forward, keeping a generous distance between the end of the baton and his person. He much preferred his limbs intact. Pressing a finger to his lips, he feigned thought. “Oh, what was her name again? Average height? Hair like a Siberian Husky, and so blue it hurts to look at?”

“Jane,” Ryan snarled, eyes flickering towards the floor where thick carpet pressed against their feet. His eyes traveled back up Akmazian's body, slower this time, pink beginning to rise in Ryan's cheeks. “I don't service men,” he said as if more to convince himself this time as he reached Akmazian's eyes again.

Akmazian shrugged. “I didn't come here to be serviced, darlin'.”

“You couldn't afford me anyway.”

“True enough. Not with the payments on this blasted arm.” He tapped affectionately at his bionic arm, his smile growing. Truth be told, he'd gotten the arm from a merchant who owed him an expensive favor when the Alliance had taken his good one, and a trusted friend had performed surgery on him to implant it. He owed that friend a debt he was sure he'd never be able to repay.

Ryan's eyes darted towards the arm, his hand jumping up to clutch at the back of his neck. “I didn't notice it at first. Who was the craftsman?”

Akmazian frowned. “I'm not sure.”

“Oh.” They were silent for a few long, awkward moments, Akmazian's cockiness waning with each second that Ryan's eyes were plastered to the dingy metal, head tilted curiously. He nearly flew from his skin as Ryan's eyes snapped back to his, ferocity clouding their kaleidoscope color. “I don't service men. Why did Jane let you in my room?”

Akmazian blinked for a long moment, searching for the words he knew he'd been taught growing up, but everything was in Spanish and he was having a hard time reading the English subtitles, not that they were an accurate representation of his thoughts anyway. Finally, he said, “I'm not lookin' to be serviced, darlin'. I didn't ask to be brought here. I would like to... talk? If you'd be so inclined.”

Ryan laughed, the sound bitter and disbelieving.

The sound sent ice racing through Akmazian's veins.

“Don't tell me you're one of those 'I just want to cuddle and talk' guys. You don't have to lie to me. People only come here for one thing, and it's not to talk. It's your money, but really, you might as well get your money's worth,” Ryan told him, his smile condescending.

Akmazian's frown deepened. “I'm not paying for you, darlin'. I don't pay for my company. I have more self restraint than that. I prefer to woo them into my arms.” The laugh that slipped from Ryan's mouth was more natural this time, though he pressed his lips tightly together immediately after, his eyes narrowing in reproach at himself. “This was all Jane's idea. I didn't come here to take what isn't mine to receive.”

Ryan bit at his lip, carefully lowering his arm and pushing off of the door. “Okay, fine. Let's talk. What do you want to know?”

“What's your name?”

Ryan shot him a disparaging glare as he moved around him and to the folding screen on the other side of the room. He pulled it open, stepping behind it. “I know you haven't been calling me 'darling' this whole time because you don't know what my name is.”

“Yes, but I want to hear you say it.”

He was quiet for a long moment, only the rustle of clothing filling the overcrowded room. “Ryan Dalias. What's your name?”

“Robin Hood.”

Shoving his head around the edge of the screen, his shoulders bare, Ryan's glare pierced through his physical form straight to the soul hidden beneath. “You're a putain mentuer. That's not your real name. That's the name of an Earth legend. What's your real name?” He jerked his head back behind the screen.

Akmazian blinked, taken aback before laughter spilled from his lips. “Okay, okay. My name is Akmazian.”

“...just Akmazian?”

“I lost the right to own my surname just recently. My bisabuela is probably rolling in her grave just from me mentioning that I had one.”

“That sounds like a story that would make me push you out an airlock.”

Akmazian's laughter was more forced, a little sad. “I suppose it would.”

“Then don't tell it to me just yet. Next question.”

“What's your favorite activity?”

Pushing the screen closed, Ryan moved passed Akmazian in a set of lilac scrubs and toward a small table laden with sweets and coffee and teas. He poured himself a cup of coffee, pushing a hand through his hair. “If I told you 'fucking', would you believe me?”

“No,” Akmazain told him decidedly, needing no deliberation.

Ryan thought for a moment, staring at the ceiling. “Swimming and being in the infirmary. Maybe dancing. Your turn.”

“Stargazing far from any city lights in a rover that likes to prattle and flirting with people far out of my league.” The lopsided grin returned.

Ryan rolled his eyes hard towards the ceiling, eyes skimming over a clock made of gears and a ticking mechanism. He nearly spit out his coffee. “Fuck!” he spat. Dropping his coffee on the table, he shoved his feet into a pair of tennis shoes that were a rainbow of colors. “I'm going to be late. Dr. Urvidian is going to kill me,” he muttered. As he tore the door open, he glanced over his shoulder towards Akmazian. “Stay here or go back to whatever cargo bay you crawled out of, I really don't care. I won't be back for the next six hours at the very least. We'll finish this conversation later. I won't take your money without putting in the time.”

“Okay, darlin',” Akmazian told him even as he was slipping out the door before sighing, “but I'm not paying for your time.”

…..

Akmazian wandered the corridors, learning EOS 10 in a new way as the party died down and guests disappeared into their respective rooms or the respective rooms of some very persuasive performers, coaxed along with sweet kisses and gentle caresses. He turned a corner in time to see Ryan ram his shoulder violently into Jane's, nearly catapulting her across the hall. He scrambled back, peaking around the corner to observe the confrontation.

“What the hell, Ry? That really hurt. Why are you being so mean already?” Jane whined, rubbing at her shoulder, her bottom lip puckered in a pout.

“You know why!” he snapped irately, “You know what grave offense you've committed!”

She batted her lashes innocently up at him. “Enlighten me, I must have forgotten. It has been such a long night, and I had a customer earlier, and it's just been so stressful,” she said, her words ringing false even without the added view of her expression.

“'The boss wants to see you tomorrow. But before that, there's someone he wants you to meet. But before that, you have a customer',” Ryan mocked in a high pitched, grating rendition of Jane's voice. "C’est des conneries! You know I don't service men! You know that for a fact, you frigid salope!"

Jane grinned, turning back in the direction they'd been traveling. “You're using a lot of French curses right now, Ry Ry. You must have liked him a lot. Very handsome in a rugged sort of way, isn't he?”

Akmazian could have been mistaken or it could have been a trick of the light or it could have been a trick of his imagination, but he could have sworn he saw color climb up the back of Ryan's neck.

He stammered out a shaky, “Non!” before his speech dissolved into a stream of very angrily emphasized French.

“Ryan, use your English words. You know I only know enough French to get by in the food courts, but I do love listening to you. You sent to slip into the language when you prattle too much, have you noticed?”

“Shut up!” Ryan finally snapped, following at her side, “What game are you trying to play at? You know it won't work.”

“Honey, I love that you try to pretend that you're as straight as a plank of wood, but you're just a noodle,” Jane told him soothingly, placing an accepting and patronizing hand on his shoulder, “You're not fooling anyone.”

“What's that supposed to mean? What the hell does a noodle and I have in common?”

Jane's smile widened. “You're straight until you get wet.” She took off at a sprint, Ryan giving chase after her.

“Ta guele!”

Akmazian turned in the opposite direction. He wasn't going to follow them, not if it meant having to run, so he returned to his cargo bay, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

…..

“So you want to work here, specifically, you want to perform.” Dr. Urvidian's words were clipped and short with low tolerance, his eyes narrowed in irritation. Ryan leaned against the wall beside the door, sulking. “What do you have that would be useful enough for me to bring you onto our ship? The performances will come once you've proven your worth.”

“I'm very good at... procuring items that are otherwise... restricted or hard to get through normal channels,” Akmazian said, choosing his words slowly and carefully, “And I'm pretty good with engines.”

“Pretty good? What does 'pretty good' even mean?” Dr. Urvidian waved off his question before Akmazian could answer it. “What kind of items can you get? Can you get Ceriliac Ale?”

“No! Becuase you're a recovering alcoholic!” Ryan snapped, jumping into the conversation before it could continue further to slam his hands to the top of the desk Dr. Urvidian sat behind. They glared at each other.

“Why must you ruin all of my fun?”

“Because rehab is not fun and neither is relapse! You remember what withdrawl felt like? You want to go through that again?”

“Maybe. Maybe I do. I miss Tom,” Dr. Urvidian spat back petulantly, “He was a great listener, unlike some people.”

“Who the fuck is Tom?”

“The gorilla.”

“Oh for fuck's sake! You named the monkey?”

“Gorilla, not monkey.”

“Same difference,” Ryan snarled.

Laughter burst from Akmazian's chest, and the pair shot him eerily identical glares. “Sorry,” he muttered, pressing his lips together thought he couldn't help the smile on his mouth.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Ryan stood straight, shaking his head. He lowered his hand after a moment. “Could you... could you get textbooks?”

Akmazian frowned. “For what?”

“Medicine mostly, but anything else you can scrounge up too. There's a lot of us who want to... continue their education... maybe make a life for themselves that doesn't include selling themselves to pay off debts. Some that were well earned, but debts none the less.” He gripped the back of his neck, staring at the desk top.

Dr. Urvidian fell silent, staring at his hands.

“No, that... I can do that. That will be simple.”

“Fine, you're hired on for a probationary period. You'll work the floor with Jane and Levi for the next few nights, get them whatever they may need. After that, we'll discuss performances,” Dr. Urvidian stated curtly, turning and standing, “Now, both of you, out. I'm meeting a potential investor. Out! Go make yourselves useful somewhere.” Shoving them form his office, he slammed the door behind them.

Glancing to each other, Akmazian asked, “Do you know who could be investing in EOS 10?”

Ryan shook his head, starting off in the direction of one of the food courts. “No clue, but hopefully, he won't be as useless as that last few.”