#healing burns are actuall the worst kind of healing injury and i stand by that

[metal-requiem]

arhfghhhhhh i have a burn on my finger thats hit the itchy stage of healing and i am going to BITE something

[essayofthoughts]

Good questions!

I think it depends on how much he continues heavy forgework as he ages? If he didn’t, the muscle would atrophy and while bones change less once you’re matured they can still change. There could be heavy metal residue if that was any part of making guns, but given Percy doesn’t want to make more guns it’s quite possible he stopped doing that, and any residues would be significantly less. I don’t know if the black powder might embed in his bones - black powder is the ignition and it burns up pretty quick, I believe? - but it’s not impossible that there could be metal fragments left from Ripley’s shot when she killed him, which would definitely be very cool! It’d certainly be a viable option for guessing at the cause of at least one of those healed gaps that likely mean resurrection.

However,  I think it’s possible there might be trace residue on the clothes that would end up in the coffin? Depending on how detailed the study was, or if the person studying the coffin was made aware of who it was, or directed to test for it, that could show up. That said, I don’t think Percy would want to be buried with his guns - he considers making them the worst mistake he ever made, so I can’t see him wanting to be buried with them, let alone significant quantities of black powder.

And well... I don’t know if it’d be a puzzling thing to see wear and tear that matches to heavy metalwork given the torture marks and other injuries? It’d actually be pretty easy to conclude he was a local, for some reason he lost his original standing as a de Rolo (again, a DNA test could confirm his relation to others in the de Rolo crypt and that’s even before checking inscriptions and historical records) and had to support himself in some other way. It’d be uncommon but it wouldn’t be hard to conclude to. What would be interesting is that he regains that status - and that’s probably the kind of thing that would lead an archaeologist studying it to guess who it might be even before getting information from their colleagues.

I could see some small clockmaking tools being buried with him possibly. I don’t think he’d want any of what he used to make guns buried with him. That would also be interesting - and also be identifying, and would be yet another thing to back up the idea that this was Percy de Rolo even before cross-referencing with inscriptions and historical record.

Thanks for the bonus questions! They were fun.

So I had a terrible terrible thought.

Oh Wise Friend of Paleopathology... what do you think you would be able to learn from Percy's tomb, whenever he kicks the bucket and ends up buried? Assuming a language barrier + at least a few thousand years (and Kiki can't just chime in if still alive).

What strains of his life would still be on his bones? What about the teeth? What do you think Whitestone’s burial customs would be like (and how would his status/history be conveyed in that context)? Would any fabrics used in funeral dress be likely to survive, or only his wedding ring + buttons + whatever that shiny thing is in his ascot?

What would you, future archeologist, make of that earring in just one ear???!

I would note that it has been several years since I properly studied the subject, but Palaeopathology and Skeletal Analysis were some of my favourite classes and I do remember a fair bit. But for any currently practicing Archaeologists - forgive my oversights. It has been Too Long.

Now. Before I get to anything else in this scenario, we have to think about the likely context. This word means different things in Archaeology and Anthropology but for our purposes here today the short definition is "What is he found with? Where do we find the body? Is there a tomb, a grave, grave goods? What is there here that is not the body, that can tell us about how the body got here?"

I don't know how to explain to you that this is one of my favourite parts of archaeological thought - everything matters, everything plays a part, everything is context enabling us to better understand a site or an artefact. Every new thing we discover is another datapoint to weave into a greater whole until the web resolves into something greater than the sum of it's parts.

So in this instance we're going to have to start with the following questions:

Where is his body interred?

What kind of inhumation is it? (graveyard, cemetery grave, wooden coffin or vault casket or leaded sealed, mausoleum, crypt, ossuary?)

How well preserved/damaged is it?

What are the burial customs of Whitestone nobility and how will that affect things?

Why am I exhuming it?

Now, we know a few things from canon, most namely that the de Rolos had a family mausoleum beneath their castle. This suggests a formal burial in a family crypt. We do not however know if the bodies were placed in coffins, or niches or even if they were cremated! From the transcript of Reunions Pt2:

MATT All right, so. You progress through the undercroft as quietly as possible. You notice as you get past the first section, you look to your right and left and the inside of these small like cubby offshoots that contain these separate ten by ten stone tombs. The walls have shelves burrowed into it, in which there are urns and small gems and offerings-- things that were buried alongside the family members as part of a remembrance. →

So it seems like some may have been cremated! Being adherents of Pelor, this doesn't actually surprise me - the sun burns, after all. But then again, neither would traditional burial - Pelor is also associated with agriculture and standard decomposition returns you to the earth that fed you.

Though... that would be a bit complicated in a sealed stone tomb.

Given also how I'd equate to modern time periods and technology levels... I'm inclined to say embalming hasn't taken off in Exandria at the time Percy dies. And... even if it was possible, I rather feel it'd be associated with Necromancy more than standard burial, plus Whitestone is predominantly Pelorian and Percy's wife is Champion of Pelor, and Pelor is god of agriculture. Embalming chemicals seep into the soil and are catastrophically bad for the environment - there's a reason American cemeteries expect caskets to be fully sealed and in a concrete vault - to prevent exactly that. I can't see Pelor being down with that kind of embalming, so most likely a body is neatened up, shown for funeral, and buried, with minimal messing about. Even nobles being buried in crypts where they won't immediately return to the soil, I imagine they'd want to stay true to the general idea.

Further, from Matt in that same episode:

#MATT Continuing down, a long set of whitestone-constructed stairs descend for about 45 feet before they level off into the de Rolo mausoleum. A long hallway continues forward that contains two ten-by-ten stone structures that contain the entombed bodies of previous generations of de Rolos, with six passages-- three on each side-- that split off of this main hallway that contain their own stone-encapsulated corpses. → This is a place of silent prayer and showing appreciation for the previous families. Not all of them are full, and there were extensions planned as the family grew, but the first thing you notice is all of the tomb doors are open. →

So the idea is that the graves stay in use! This isn't a case like Sedlec where bodies are periodically disinterred to be reinterred in an ossuary, these are meant to be lasting burials.

So... why am I excavating here?

Given Keyleth's lengthy lifespan I would assume that Whitestone likely survives quite well (yes, even with the Apogee, shush, I've only watched C1 so far). It's also a source of, well, whitestone and residuum, meaning it's likely to remain inhabited. Even given the significant shifts a thousand plus years bring - castles and keeps and forts are pretty good at lasting in some form! We have a lot of remnants of old castles (In Britain alone: Tintagel, Colchester Castle, Tower of London, the Roman Forts at Hadrian's Wall, various Caers throughout Wales), and they frequently get built on or rebuilt over time. In a case like Whitestone, with valuable resources and economic links, even if it were, say, invaded, colonised, etc. - the castle would be a good seat of administration or even just a tourist hotspot. And crypts are well down in the foundations: even if the castle was damaged or destroyed, it actually has good odds of staying intact. The Alabaster Sierras are mountainous, but given the ziggurat survived from the Calamity to when we see it well enough it only took the Briarwoods and Ripley a few years (minus the time excavating down to it) to restore it, it seems that they're not terribly tectonically active.

So... this is likely a very stable site, with good odds of at least 500 or so years of protection (Pike and Scanlan are set to have long lifespans, JB too seems set to live there, all would have reason to see it protected) even before we get to Keyleth's likely thousand-odd year protection. Given that much time to build itself stronger, I see Whitestone as most likely still existing, and the castle a significant historical site and cultural heritage.

I can see some degree of linguistic drift, but if the area has remained inhabited then there's good odds there'd be scholars of the area able to translate Pre-Apogee-Era Tal'Doreian Common. And, likewise, if the area has had so long protected then there's good odds the Chamber is still around, and so there's probably a good library and even recorded genealogy of the founding de Rolos, even if the family itself had died out. (Factual accuracy of these records might be suspect, but I'll get to that.) This kind of persistence of a culture would not be without IRL historical precedent - Ancient Egypt lasted for thousands of years using largely the same Hieroglyphics, even as Dynasties rose and fell. The culture absolutely changed, but good chunks of records were still around.

Given all of this, most likely I can see the reason being some kind of refurbishment of the castle prompting archaeologists to be called in for the safe disinterrment of the tombs and then some kind of funded study by the Chamber of Whitestone of the bodies in those tombs to help inform on who Whitestone's forebears were. This, again, is not without precedent - if I'm recalling my Sixth Form case studies correctly, Christ Church in Spitalfields had a massive crypt of lead caskets that were disinterred, catalogued, studied and, wherever possible, returned to relatives.

Let's return to those questions, yeah?

Where is his body interred?

Most likely in the de Rolo crypt under the castle.

What kind of inhumation is it? (graveyard, cemetery grave, wooden coffin or vault casket or leaded sealed, mausoleum, crypt, ossuary?)

Stone tomb burial - likely dry but not anaerobic. Reasonable odds of non-human disturbances (rats, flies, bugs, etc.)

How well preserved/damaged is it?

Good odds of reasonable preservation. Depending on how well and consistently the crypt is tended it could be best case for the scenario or somewhat less.

What are the burial customs of Whitestone nobility and how will that affect things?

Given Taliesin has said that the de Rolos took a bit from Prussian nobility in etiquette and manners, I'd be inclined to say probably similarly, with an eye towards our 1800s funerary practices simply because that's when the Pepperbox was prominent in our world.

So most likely, Sunday best, plush coffin, but - unless royalty - left to rot. Royals (in the UK at least) have historically been prone to leadlined caskets but that tends to lead to a specific kind of anaerobic putrefaction that results in something called corpse liquor.

Ick.

So let's hope that's not the case. Given Whitestone is primarily Pelorian in devotion, at least in Percy's day, I'd be inclined to say they're not completely sealed - possibly even just interred as bodies, but unlikely - plus the crypt is in the family castle and it seems that the crypts were visited periodically by family prior to the Briarwoods' attack - the odds of someone breaking in to try to steal royal relics is pretty low, unlike the public royal burials in Westminster Abbey.

Why am I exhuming it?

Castle refurbishments prompting a Chamber-sponsored study on the historic remains in the pre-Chamber de Rolo crypt.

OKAY. Now that's all out of the way, let's get into what I might discover, yes?

So most likely I've gone through several other bodies before I get to Percy. During exhumation the details of the tomb would have been recorded - it's placement in the tomb, which tombs it was next to. Now, I would imagine his tomb would be between Cassandra's and Vex's, but while working I likely wouldn't know that! Assuming linguistic drift and font changes, most likely the burials and tombs are labelled in the database something like T6E2 - Tomb 6 of the 2nd East Section. I would then have to find a scholar working on recording and identifying any inscriptions and translating them - so names, dates, quotes, etc.. And, most likely, I would be kept in the dark until I was done! Archaeology is best done without recorded human history to bias one and huge amounts of history have no contemporaneous record to speak of.

Now, if I'm just doing the Palaeopath then likely with a specialist in coffins, caskets and funerary fittings, I would record the state of the coffin and body inside, as well as the positioning of the body inside. Is the body extended (laid out flat as we tend to bury bodies now) or contracted (foetal position, very common prehistorically)? How intact are the remains?

And then, recording everything as I go, I would extract the body from the coffin, bit by bit. I would want to ensure that no bones were left inside the coffin, no tiny tatters of cloth - assuming any remained, cloth disintegrates shockingly quickly and if it wasn't fully sealed it's likely the moths got to it, let alone any rats - and that I didn't misplace any bones as I laid them out per diagram.

Jewellery, buckles - any metal grave goods would also be extracted here and recorded. Also, given Exandria - Detect Magic. Make sure anything enchanted is Identified so we know what it did (hello Earring of Whisper!). Again, I'd probably end up giving them over to someone who knows how to compare them to similar items to properly study them.

Now... Percy's fleshy bits would most likely be gone. Unless he mummified which is not impossible with a dry stone internment but between two thousand years, one's own gut bacteria (remember, modern embalming is unlikely), rats and bugs... yeah I can't see much remaining beyond fragments of cloth and bones.

Oh, and his glasses.

That would have been noted during removing the body from the coffin - this person wore glasses. From my colleague examining them, we'd be able to see if they were prescription (or as historically close as you could get) or if they were a stylistic choice - so we'd know this person had bad eyesight.

Now, the first step after checking every bone is present would be to sex it and to look for damage or signs of wear and tear. Given this is Exandria 1. Gender equality for ages and 2. Magical with options to trans one's gender. This is also a high-status burial so there's good odds this person was living as their chosen gender; and sexing the body could tell us what that was. Even if there's a mismatch - grave goods can also tell us. Is the jewellery more commonly seen on men or women of the era? Percy would likely have a pocket watch (he does make a clocktower! I'd be shocked if he didn't make himself a pocketwatch) which is often a more masculine item, and an ascot pin - ascots are a masculine fashion - and his Earring of Whisper, which is a bit more complicated. Any remnants of clothes could also tell us. And of course - the coffin furniture. Any plaque with inscription, or inscription on the tomb panel. After drawing my own conclusions I would ask my scholarly colleague if their findings lined up with my own.

Given also that this is Exandria, it'd probably also be very important to identify which (DnD) race he was. Elves seem to be more gracile than humans, half-elves likewise albeit to a lesser degree, genasi would likely have magical influences, likewise aasimar, tieflings having horns, tails, hooves, claws, dwarves being short and stocky, while halflings are short and comparatively gracile and gnomes are smaller still. Goblins would be ruled out by size alone, goliaths would be massive and probably have big muscle attachment marks and dragonborn would have very obvious conformation compared to a human.

I don't think identifying Percy as "Most likely human" would be hard - but we can confirm it later.

Now... damage.

Percy's torture would almost certainly show on his bones. Given it was torture, I highly doubt Ripley wasted magical healing on him. It was only a week or two, so likely no broken bones - unless she only wasted enough healing on him to keep him alive, in which case... yeah absolutely some wear and tear. Signs of partial healing, mixed damage. Scarring on the bones, evidence of dislocations, etc.. Likewise, injuries from his time with Vox Machina would show - him leaving his hand in a bulette's mouth probably left marks on those bones, his death at Ripley's hands probably is extremely interesting in the skeletal record - most of his pre-mortem injuries only partially healed if that, while the actual cause of death being healed up completely, a lacuna in the record. Likewise - Percy's cane. If he was buried with it we would probably look for some kind of leg injury. Was the cane an affectation or was there an injury it was compensating for? What injury might that be, what could have caused it? Or even... was he not buried with it? Would we see a leg injury that implies a need for a cane, but no cane to go with it? If so, we could assume that presentation in death had significance, and they were presenting a "perfect" "whole" version of him at death. Again, there's cultural precedent for this! Ancient Egyptians would provide wooden prosthetics and false eyes during mummification because of a belief that how one was interred was how one would arrive to the afterlife - they could be given limbs they had lost or even never had in life.

Just due to all of this I'd probably also take a close look for any evidence of malnutrition - though this might be significantly faded after his many comfortable years retired. That said, Percy was tortured and then washed up on a fishing boat and dissociated for two years. Given this was at the tail end of his puberty, I'd be shocked to find no sign at all of lasting physical trauma at that.

I'd also find he had one arm that was just. Fine. Factory reset perfect. Nothing wrong at all. What the hell. Did someone cast Regenerate on him? (If they did cast Regenerate: did that have an accelaratory effect on any bone remodelling his healing bones were going through after the Vecna fight?

Assuming I've studied some of the other crypt bodies before Percy's this would be very interesting! Most of those would be de Rolos who likely went through little to no hardship - Percy stands out.

I'd also want to check to see his teeth - what kind of teeth care is he getting? Any cavities, calculus build up, abscesses, missing teeth? How worn down are they? Are there any fake teeth? Given Vex would probably chivvy Percy to take care of himself (and wouldn't care for stinky breath) and they have Pike on hand for healing, I imagine he has very good teeth for his age.

This is a good thing.

You see, assuming this is a very thorough study and all of that time between Percy's era and know gives me access to modern technology or some equivalent I would want to a few destructive tests. Namely - carbon dating, isotope analysis and DNA testing.

And these are often best done with Teeth. Teeth are fun! They are growing bones which live in our bones! And we lose our milk teeth and gain our adult teeth on the same reliable time frame as we use to age infant skeletons (sealing of skull sutures in that case) which makes them really useful. Like. Unspeakably useful. Teeth are fantastic. Take care of your damn teeth.

DNA testing is the thing that would tell us if he was human, and, depending on how advanced it is, might even be able to tell us a few phenotypic genes! Melanin levels for skin and hair, eye pigmentation - possibly if he was genetically predisposed towards a few diseases. It would also allow us to compare him to other bodies in the data set! We would find out that the female body interred on one side of him was most likely his sister, and while the woman interred on his other side shares no meaningful DNA with him, there are other nearby bodies which share DNA with both of them, being their children! And from those children we'd know that there was a tiefling in the family, which would allow us to infer that somewhere in this family there was some kind of infernal influence.

Isotope analysis - if I'm recalling correctly, you can use isotope analysis to both identify some part of a person's diet in life (carbon and nitrogen analysis, usually) and where they came from (strontium and oxygen analysis).

So we'd have some idea of Percy's general diet, and also know he was local! I imagine given, you know, Exandria, magic - we'd have not just strontium analysis to place him as a Whitestone native, but also likely some lingering magic from the local whitestone rock to further establish that. Now, if I recall rightly, strontium analysis only really works for childhood, but based on the injury and malnutrition pattern, the idea that he either went through hell locally or left in some relation to that is not an unlikely one - just hard to prove.

CONCLUSIONS

We would see from his grave goods and the circumstances of his burial that he was high born and likely associated with the de Rolo family. From DNA analysis we'd know he was related to a good number of people in the crypt and that his apparent spouse was not, meaning he is most likely the de Rolo of the pair. Plus the strontium analysis we'd know he was local and his likely spouse was not, again furthering the idea that he was the de Rolo.

We might also have some idea of how he'd look, and if we decided to try to do a digital or artistic facial reconstruction we'd likely have some pigmentation pointers. Also, we know he wore glasses and that he needed them - that they weren't a stylistic choice.

We'd know he'd been badly injured at various points in his life, and, depending on how severe his various post-Glintshore and post-Raishan injuries were, we might still be able to see the gap of the resurrections in his bones, which would further suggest he was someone of means to have afforded such a resurrection. A lot of his injuries could probably be put down to an adventuring lifestyle, which the resurrections and any evidence of magical healing would probably attest to, and without the kind of surface scarring torture leaves, while we'd know he was injured badly over the course of his life, I don't know if we'd be able to easily conclude it was all at once. Certainly some marks on the bones would seem older than others but bones remodel over time! Some of it might be damn near invisible, while others would remain obvious. He also has a mysteriously perfect arm for Some Fucking Reason.

We'd likely have his wedding ring (I'd be shocked if it didn't have some inscription on the inside; this was very common historically and Percy is a complete sap), an ascot pin, a belt buckle and some buttons or fasteners for his clothing, a pocketwatch and chain (and again, I'd be surprised if the pocketwatch didn't have an inscription or a hidden flap with a miniature of his family or something). We'd have his glasses and possibly even his cane. We'd likely have the Earring of Whisper and based on how well Purvan Suul's two magical items lasted - one of which was not a Vestige! - I'd be inclined to say an Identify would let us know what that was once Detect Magic turned up that it was enchanted.

I imagine someone would also have catalogued any offerings left outside his grave - keepsakes, mementos, inscribed tablets of memorial, etc. which would help to let us know not just who he was but what he meant to the community in which he lived.

After all, the dead do not bury themselves - this is what I meant at the start by context. He was buried by people around him - his community. They chose his grave and his grave goods, they chose the inscription of his tomb (he may have requested it, they chose whether or not to honour that) and they left offerings and markers of what he meant to them.

And... from all of this? Assuming Scanlan really went ham telling the Legend of Vox Machina and bards keep telling it? I'd think an in-world archaeologist could make a good guess as to who this body was even before getting it confirmed by the scholar checking the inscriptions. And with the Cobalt Soul storing information - good odds they'd have a record of Scanlan's version of the tale and their own additions (see also Chronicles of Exandria books, intended as being from the Cobalt Soul). And, also, of course, Tary's version too! There's likely to be several different contemporaneous sources, not to mention later additions from the Voice of the Tempest.

So... I imagine this would probably help to fill out things that weren't covered by Scanlan's tale, refute things in Tary's and generally do as finding Richard III's body did for Britain - give us more information about the person behind all the stories and propaganda. Flesh out their life, give us hints of the hardship they went through - if there's inscriptions on his ring or pocketwatch, give us a hint of the heart he shared with his family.

It certainly wouldn't be everything, but it would be enough to let you touch another's humanity across a thousand years or more.

[sophierequests]

(slides a dime in your direction) headcanons for dating david kostyk as a healer? ty!! <3

healer!reader dating headcanons

Navigation┃Main Masterlist┃Request

Pairing: David Kostyk x gn! Reader

A/N: (slowly puts dime into my pocket and nods) My first time writing headcanons, so I'm kind of excited! I adore this man with every fibre of my being, he has done noting wrong ever, and I stand by that!!! Thank you sm for requesting this, it was so sweet! <333

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: Mentions of blood, injuries and fainting

As a Fabrikator, David is bound to get hurt sometimes. A gash from an unexpectedly sharp piece of metal? Burning himself after touching something hot? Or just his general clumsiness getting him into a shitty situation? You name it.

Your healing abilities came in handy for these situations, hence why he always came to you, when he had accidentally hurt himself at work.

This was also how you met for the first time. He had a pretty ugly cut on his arm, making him bleed profusely. You were the only person currently available, so you were glad to help. From then on he would only come to you, and you were happy to oblige.

When these ‘accidents’ started to happen way too often, you had the sneaking suspicion that they weren’t all too accidental, and just an excuse to see you again.

“David, you know that you don’t have to hurt yourself only to see me? You can always ask me out on a date.”

And so you started dating.

Time is a truly icky thing for both of you. You were almost always busy helping others, and improving your powers, and he basically lived in the workshops, so you only truly get to spend time together in the evenings.

You love listening to him talk for hours on end, whether it be about a new invention or just about what happened today. It helped you calm down after a day of seeing the most gruesome injuries one could imagine.

All his involvement with the Darkling and other powerful people made you quite uneasy, always trying to hover over him after a long day, checking if there are any injuries.

“I swear to the Saints, if they even dare to only scratch you slightly, I’ll kill them.”

“Darling, you’re a healer, not a heartrender.”

“I could still kill them.”

Zoya and Genya low-key ship it. They were the first ones who noticed his frequent ‘medical’ visits, and immediately understood what was going on.

He got you a promise ring, that he made himself, matching the colour of your kefta. He loved seeing you in it, even though you disliked how stern you looked in it.

Sometimes, when he misses you too much, he fakes an injury (without actually causing any physical harm, because you would scold him for that) just to visit you and hear your voice again.

He keeps a journal where he writes down what kind of injuries affect you the most so that he knows how to respond properly after a particularly hard day.

After you started dating, he doesn’t feel completely comfortable letting you heal him, since he knows how hard it can be on you after dealing with wounded people all day. But you always reassure him that he is one of the few people you would never get tired of healing.

Much to your surprise, most of his wounds don’t happen while working but whilst reading. Paper cuts are his worst enemy.

He accidentally visited you during a pretty nasty wound treatment and fainted almost immediately upon entering the room.

You have the assumption that he is squeamish around blood, but you never ask him about it, in order to not embarrass him.

You really like his hands. They are so soft, but also at the same time quite rough from working with metal the whole day? How does he do it?

He often surprises you with little gifts, most of the time things you had talked about previously, whilst thinking he wouldn’t listen.

You almost got yourself thrown out of one of the Fabrikator workshops because the others were annoyed that you kept distracting your boyfriend. He didn’t mind them though.

He proposed to you after almost dying after one of his experiments went wrong. You wanted to kill him, but after patching him up for almost two hours, you set that idea aside and accepted. (He also made that ring himself.)

[its-deputy-caleb]

haiiiiiiiiiiiiii can we get a john x fem reader wherein the reader is the doctor and a friend of the macfarlanes and they patch him up after getting shot by bill LOL (rdr1!! i’m not sure if you’ve played that but if you havent it’s ok to ignore this tysm :3)

WOAHH this is long overdue but I haven’t played the first (don’t kill me) so I decided to watch a 10hr play through— I’m yet to finish it cause its long and I’m watching it in short segments but I think I could tackle this. I really hope this doesn’t flop bc idk what I’m doing lmao.

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

It’s just a regular afternoon when Bonnie returns back to the ranch, you’re cleaning some of the medical cabinets, making lists of what needs to be topped up when you next take a trip to town or the Ranch’s general store. It’s light work for an easy afternoon but that all change pretty quickly when Bonnie came storming through the door, asking you for help on a man who’d been shot and needed urgent medical attention.

The list of medicines is dropped to the floor as she shows you to one of the units where he was currently laid out in the bed. You sat down, clearing his shirt and jacket to stop the bleeding and clean the wound. You were well focused on your work, stitching up the wound with practiced ease and addressing his other minor injuries like the small cut to the back of his head from hitting the ground and the bruising to his ribs from the bullet wound. Unbeknown to you, Bonnie has taken a stand behind your shoulder to watch you work.

“Damn fool thought he could take out Bill Williamson.”

“Bill Williamson?”

You could only stare down in surprise at the unconscious man before you. A man like Bill Williamson was not to be reckoned with, especially in a shootout if the evidence before you is anything to go by.

It took a few more hours of care but Bonnie stayed with you to make light of the situation and keep you company, only coming and going to bring back any supplies you needed. Once you’d properly bandaged his abdomen you stood from the shabby wooden stool you were sitting on and dusted your hands. You collected your tools into your bag and placed a soft hand to Bonnie’s shoulder.

“He should be fine now. He’s going to need lots of rest while his wound heals and he’ll probably be disoriented and dehydrated when he wakes but nothing more, you’ll find me if his condition worsens?”

Bonnie gave you a short nod in agreement, happy to stay with him for a few hours while you went and got some rest.

-

John woke with a splitting headache and a burning pain in his side. The events of the last few days coming back to him. He didn’t get time to think about it much however, when a golden haired woman came through the door, instantly giving him a light hearted lecture about chasing after Bill Williamson and getting shot at.

“Well while you may have done something stupid— we got to you in time and the Doc fixed you up real fine, got the bullets removed a few days ago. You’re a lucky man Mr…err?”

John made his way to the edge of the bed, sitting up and groaning at the pain that is usual for a bullet wound.

“Mr. Marston— John Marston and I suppose I should be thankin’ him for fixing me up.”

The woman leaned against the handle of the door, watching him shuffle on his feet awkwardly as she smirked at him.

“Bonnie MacFarlane. Miss, Bonnie MacFarlane and I hope you do thank her. She did a real fine job of takin’ care of you. She spends her mornings up on the hill by one of the large oak trees by the paddock, I suggest you pay her a visit before you start working off your medical bills.”

And with that, John picked up his hat from the wooden table that Bonnie had saved for him and started making his way over to you.

-

You were standing over by one of the smaller sheep paddocks off to the side of the MacFarlane Ranch and took in a deep breath, basking in the morning sun and leaning your elbows against the fence. You usually took the mornings to yourself, having half an hour to wake up slowly and enjoy yourself before you tented to a range of injuries and illnesses. Having been longtime friends to Bonnie and her father, your family had always been respected at the ranch and that came with certain privileges such as time off work in the morning.

Your peaceful moment was distributed, but not unpleasantly as you noticed the man who Bonnie bought in yesterday walking towards you. When he reached a certain distance his hat came off and held it in his hands, flattening his stringy hair as he addressed you.

“Pardon me ma’am, I didn’t mean to disturb you. Miss MacFarlane said you were the one needed thanking for taking care o’ me— so thank you.”

You noticed how he fiddled with the brim of his hat in his hands, trying not to look what you’d guess was embarrassed.

After you two introduced each other and you accepted John’s thanks, you offered for him to come and stand beside you by the fence.

“So who does a man have to be to go after an outlaw and bandit such as Bill Williamson?”

Your question was supposed to be lighthearted and fun, ready to tease him just as Bonnie had done for waltzing into Fort Mercer alone. You didn’t expect for John to answer you honestly

“An old friend…”

You stared at him in shock but he didn’t seem to notice as he stared out into the paddock of grazing sheep.

“Wait you know Bill Williamson?”

He could only nod for a moment, giving you a polite but almost sad smile at what seemed like a painful memory.

“Yes ma’am. There was a time when Bill and I weren’t so different.”

-

You actually spent a lot longer than you’d anticipated talking to John. For some reason unknown to you, John seemed to open up a fair bit. Maybe it all came down to the fact that you were approachable and kind, a quality you needed as the ranches doctor. Nevertheless he spent hours telling you about some of his time with the old ‘Van Der Linde Gang’. John spoke of train robberies and homesteads, what it was like to steal from folk and live wildly. He even mentioned gang rivalries and the epic tale of surviving a wolf attack.

He told you of some of the best times and even the worst but all of them were distance memories and he seemed quick to change the topic about why exactly he wanted to ‘reunite’ with Bill.

“What about you, Miss? How’d you end up here? Don’t see many female doctors around— w-with no offence intended ma’am.”

You let out a small laugh, hearing his curiosity turn to something desperate as he realised he may have been offensive. You kept your weight on one elbow, facing towards him and smiled.

“Well my daddy is the head doctor but he’s now semi retired. He’s a good man but he wasn’t always a doctor. A long time ago, when I was just a little girl our family were ranch handlers just like Bonnie’s family, but well… one season all the cattle got sick and were dying so my father moved to medicine. The MacFarlane’s are old friends and we’ve been with them ever since.”

John hummed, turning his gaze from you to stare at the vast Ranch that was almost a village in his eyes.

“Seem like good people— real decent folk.”

You nodded in response, growing up on this ranch became your home and you loved the MacFarlane’s very deeply.

“Indeed they are Mr.Marston, decent folk are hard to come by these days.”

Your pleasant conversation with John was suddenly interrupted by Bonnie who whistled down by the stables, clearly signalling for John to come and assist her with chores around the ranch. You could only hope that meant seeing more of John.

“It seems Miss MacFarlane will be needing my help. Thank you again ma’am, you saved my life.”

You didn’t get to say much as John took your hand in his, brining it to his mouth in a polite kiss to your knuckle before walking down the hill. He didn’t get far before you stopped him one last time.

“Oh Mr. Marston! I need to ride into town tomorrow to restock on medicines that they don’t stock at the general store. Would you be so kind as to accompany me?”

You eyes were full of hope and joy as he nodded and gave you a warm smile.

“It’s John, and I could think of nothing better than to help you ma’am”

You couldn’t stop the smile that spread onto your face as you watched John load his horse and ride of with Bonnie and a few others to work at various places around the ranch. You couldn’t stop the fluttery feeling in your stomach either at the anticipation and excitement of getting to see the mysterious but intriguing man John Marston.

(I will do a part 2 since i need more time to get a feel for rdr1!!)

[minty-mumbles]

To Honor, In Ink

Summary: While the chain is staying in the Karakara Bazaar, Wild heads off to Gerudo town for the day. He comes back sporting a new tattoo.

Author's Note: This was inspired by some people talking about the boys getting tattoos, specifically @gaylactic-fire. Really, only the second half of this is about tattoos... oh well

Read on AO3 Here

EDIT: You can see Wild’s Tattoo Here

EDIT 2: @bunnyambushed drew Wild's tattoo as well! Check it out here

~~~

The group had stumbled in the KaraKara Bazaar late last night. So late that it had nearly been morning. The entire group was exhausted. They had come across a particularly vicious pack of infected Keese a few hours before they arrived, and it hadn’t turned out well for them.

Keese, even the infected ones, weren't that difficult to take down. Unfortunately, there had been a lot of them. The swarm had been at least a hundred strong, and the old verbiage that there was strength in numbers had some truth to it. Especially when there were a couple bokoblins hidden in the swarm you didn't know about.

Sky had ended up with an arrow in his arm, courtesy of those same bokoblins. The rest of the group had been quick to take them down, and at that point, Time had given Warriors permission to use the fire rod that Legend had lent him. That had taken care of the keese nicely. Legend had to wonder why they hadn’t just done that in the first place.

He groaned, pushing himself up from his comfortable bed. Wild had taken one glance back at the exhausted group yesterday, and silently slid the extra rupees across the counter to pay for the extra soft beds. Usually, there would have been an argument about one of their own spending extra rupees on the others unnecessarily, but they were all too exhausted to care. Wind had already fallen asleep on Warriors back. Hyrule had been swaying side to side, and Sky was only staying upright because Twilight was supporting him.

No one had protested the thought of even more comfortable beds.

Legend had to admit, the extra soft beds did wonders. That had been perhaps one of the most satisfying nights of sleep he’s had since they had been at his own house in his own Hyrule. He had been sharing the bed with Four last night, which he had internally rejoiced at. Many of the others had a tendency to take up more than their share of the bed space. Four was the opposite, liking to curl into a little ball to sleep.

The small hero was already gone from the bed when Legend woke. In fact, most of the group was already gone from their beds. The only ones still in bed were Twilight, and Sky, who was awake and propped up in bed, reading a book. He’d likely been confined to bed rest by Hyrule, at least for the mourning.

They had managed to heal the worst of Sky’s injury, but it wasn’t perfect, and he would need extra rest to be up to traveling again.

Legend suspected that they would be staying in the Bazaar for a few days. Not that he was complaining. These beds were damn comfortable.

He stood, nodding at Sky as he put his outer tunic and boots back on. Clasping his belt around his waist, he stepped out into the morning sun.

The sun couldn’t have been up for an hour yet, but Legend could tell it was already shaping up to be a scorching hot day. As they were in the desert, that was to be expected. Legend predicted that most of them would be shedding their outer layers before noon.

He could see Four and Time over by some merchant stands that were set up in the shade of the tree. Four looked like he was haggling over some fruit, while Time was chatting with some other customers.

Wind was already in the water, swimming around like a dolphin in the shallow pool in the middle of the Bazaar. Warriors were nearby, keeping an eye on him, dipping his feet in the pool as well.

Legend looked around curiously, not spotting either the cook or the traveler anywhere. He swallowed the reflexive panic that rose in his throat. The champion could be reckless sometimes, but even he was not blasé enough to say someplace was safe when it wasn’t, and he had assured them last night that no one needed to stay awake to keep watch.

Anyways, none of the others were panicking at all, so it was probably fine.

And now that he was paying attention, Legend could hear Hyrule’s voice coming from around the corner of the building. As he rounded the corner to investigate, he found not only Hyrule, but also Wild, and a man wearing a frankly astoundingly large pack.

Hyrule was bartering with the man over what sounded to be the price of some bugs. Legend recalled that Wild had pointed this kind of bugs out to the group, and called them Cold Darners. Apparently, they were very useful in the making of heat-resistance potions.

Legend knew he was usually one of the only ones of the group that paid attention when Wild spouted off random bug facts. Not that the others were trying to be offensive, and Wild never seemed disappointed when no one but Legend was listening to his lecture about different types of fish or flowers

Legend figured that the information just went in one ear and out the other for the rest of the group. He, on the other hand, paid strict attention when Wild spoke about the natural flora and fauna of his Hyrule.

These portals were unreliable, and if Legend ever got stranded in Wild’s Hyrule without the champion, he wanted to be prepared. This was the kind of information that you wanted to absorb when you could. He knew from experience that he might end up thanking himself for it later.

Apparently, Hyrule had also been listening to what Wild had been saying yesterday, because he was now forking over enough rupees to buy enough of the bugs to make heat-resistance potions for all of them. Legend was impressed by his forethought. Legend himself probably wouldn’t have thought of potions until he himself was already halfway to sunburned.

As the merchant wandered away, Hyrule offered the bugs for Wild to store in his slate until they were ready to make the potions.

Wild waved him off, and the three started moving back to where the rest of the group, including a groggy-eyed Twilight, was gathered around the pool. “I actually have some things to do in town today. I have a few things I need to get, and I have an appointment I need to make. I had thought I would need to reschedule due to all the, well...” Here he gestured vaguely to the group, and the rest of them hummed in understanding. ”But, ehh, we're here, so might as well go…”

He trailed off, pulling out his slate, considering its contents. After a moment, he shrugged off his thoughts. “Anyways, you’ll want to keep a hold of those things yourself, Hyrule.”

Time spoke up from where he and Twilight had joined Warriors in dipping their feet in the pool. Twilight and Warriors had already shed their outer layers to try and combat the heat, and Time apparently hadn’t even bothered to put on his armor at all. “Do they have a leader you could ask about any sighting of black blooded monsters? You might as well ask while you’re there.”

Wild nodded, a smile overcoming his face. “Yeah! I’m on pretty good terms with the Chieftess, Riju. We go sand seal racing sometimes.”

“Well,” Time began, “take one of the others, and ask her, and then do what you need to after.”

“Ahh,” Wild winced. “I’m probably going to take a while, and you guys won’t be able to get in, remember? Women only.”

“So how do you get in?” Warriors asked, brow quirked.

Wild snorted at that. “You’ve already gotten a hint, though. It shouldn’t be that hard for eight heroes of courage to figure it out, should it?”

“Hold on,” Warriors protested, ”since when have we gotten a hint?”

That actually got a laugh out of Wild. “You’ve held what I’ve used in your hands before, Wars. Figure it out.”

With that, he tapped on his slate, dissipating in strands of blue light before Warriors could protest.

~~~

Wild was gone for most of the rest of the day. Hyrule sat down shortly after he departed, and made the heat-resistance potions, which everyone had been thankful for.

Legend had been right in thinking it would be a hot day. The Gerudo scattered around the plaza seemed unaffected, but all the Hylians were sweating buckets. By mid-day, everyone had shed their outer tunics. Those of them who were able to tan, and didn’t burn after an hour in the sun even took off their under-tunics to try and cool off that little bit more. Legend himself would rather not look like a cooked lobster, so he had kept his tunic on.

Many of the younger heroes joined Wind in the pool, as well as Twilight. (Legend sighed internally when he saw that, and braced himself for the inn to smell like wet dog that night.)

Wild was gone for both lunch and supper, and the only one who had been willing to cook was Hyrule, they had bought some fruit and pre-cooked meat from the stands, and made a meal out of that.

It had been decent, but not as good as what they had seen the champion cook before. Legend had particularly enjoyed the bananas, but when he went back to buy a few more, the seller had glared at him suspiciously. Eyeing the way she was fingering her blade, Legend decided to go with another slice of hydromelon instead. The seller calmed down after that.

Warriors sat around for a good hour or two, trying to figure out how exactly the champion was getting into town. Legend didn’t really care one way or the other, but the puzzle of what he was using to get into town was good, and Legend couldn’t resist a good puzzle. He had run through all the weapons he had seen Wild use, and the items he had in that slate of his but he couldn’t come up with anything. The paraglider, maybe, but Legend didn’t think Warriors had ever held that. Warriors wasn’t able to think of anything either, by his dejected expression.

After the worst heat of the day was over, Warriors convinced Wind and Hyrule to come try sneaking into town with him. Legend tagged along, eager to see what shenanigans the three would get into. The look Time sent him told Legend that he would also be bailing them out of jail if they got in any trouble.

They didn’t have any luck, and were back at the bazaar in time for dinner, Legend’s wallet thankfully as full as it had been when they left.

~~~

Wild only showed up after dinner was over. The sun had already set when he finally made it back. Legend wondered what had taken him so long. He had mentioned an appointment, but hadn’t specified, so the group was left in the dark.

Wild strolled leisurely into camp, and plopped himself down at their fire. Legend could see, even in the dark, that he had switched out of his normal clothing into something that looked much more appropriate for the heat, if a little revealing. He barely wore anything except a pair of pants and a pauldron on his shoulder.

“You took a long time,” Twilight noted, “run into any trouble?”

“Nah,” Wild shook his head, then changed the subject. “I didn’t see any of you in town. Couldn’t figure it out?” He shot a smirk at Warriors, who had to shake his head in defeat.

“He tried sneaking over the walls plenty of times,” Legend supplied, smirking. “They eventually placed a guard on him, so he had to give up.”

Wild gave a grin at the mental image of Warriors sulking while under the strict gaze of one of the gate guards. “I could have told you that. I can’t tell you the number of times I got thrown back over the wall before I figured it out.” Legend could have told Warriors that too. He had, in fact, but the captain had seemingly taken that as a challenge. Legend hadn’t minded, as it was amusing to watch.

Eventually, he had gotten bored, though, and had struck up a conversation with the guards, hoping to wrangle some information out of them. Unfortunately, the guards did not; have anything to tell him. They had just insisted that there were no exceptions to the rule, not even the Hero of Hyrule. They insisted that they hadn’t even seen the man in a few weeks.

When he told Wild this, he unexpectedly chuckled, waving him off. “Yeah, they would say that, wouldn't they? They definitely saw me, they just wouldn’t have told you. Besides, where else could I have gotten this done? The artist there is the best one I know.” He stood, turning to display his bare back, and the fresh tattoo that was inked there.

Wind was the first up, nearly bouncing in excitement. “Wow! Did it hurt?”

Wild laughed “Yeah, getting a tattoo hurts. Thankfully I don't have any scars where it’s placed, so it was easier for the artist, and less painful for me.”

The rest of the group slowly gathered around to admire the design. It was placed along the upper half of his spine, between his shoulder blades. It was relatively simple, as it would have to be to get it done in one day. Four colored spheres in a neat row, with an animal within each one. The top one was blue, with an elephant. Then there was a red one with a lizard, a green one with a bird, and the last yellow with a camel. Vines with blue flowers that Legend had heard Wild call Silent Princesses wrapped around the outside of the design. It was simple but elegant.

“I got it in memory of the champions,” Wild explained unnecessarily. They all knew the tale of the other champions and their divine beasts. The symbolism was obvious. “The flowers are Zelda’s favorite, but they're also, uh, common symbols of mourning....” Here, he trailed off, looking like he was lost in memories. Legend cringed.

Ugh, feelings.

Now Wild was upset. Legend never knew how to fix these types of situations, but as the silence dragged on with none of the others saying anything, Legend drew himself up to interject. None of the Links were particularly good with words, or subtle, and even those who were the best with words, like Warriors or Twilight, could stick their foot in their mouth easily.

This meant that they, more often than not, choose to leave the talking to someone else. Unfortunately, there was no one else this time, and one of them would need to break the awkward silence that was no doubt only making the champion feel worse.

“Wow!” Wind, bless his good timing, chimed in before anyone could say anything. “It looks so cool! I want a tattoo too. Granny said I could get on when I turned sixteen, but she wouldn’t know. Will you take me? Please!”

Wild, thankfully looking less uncomfortable, smiled at the sailor. “I don’t think that you’d have the time. I talked to the chieftess while I was there, and got some information about increased Yiga attacks. As long as Sky is feeling better, we’ll probably leave tomorrow.” When Wind sighed in disappointment, Wild pointed out “And besides, you weren't able to make it into the town anyway, and the tattoo artist doesn't do out-of-town appointments.”

“Oh, right…” Wind trailed off, obviously thinking of other places he could possibly fulfill his goal of getting ink injected into his skin.

Personally, Legend could see the appeal in getting inked. Wild’s designs were beautiful, and had significant meaning to him. Legend thought he might not mind having a small hibiscus flower tattooed somewhere.

However, he couldn’t imagine why anyone would willingly put themselves through the pain of getting a small needle jammed into them hundreds of times. It seemed like an unnecessary pain to go through, and Legend wasn’t one to intentionally put himself in pain.

When he said such out loud, Warriors laughed. “What, are you too tender-skinned for that?”

Legend scoffed. “Well, I don’t see you with any tattoos either, pretty boy.”

“I do have some,” Warriors smirked. “Just not where you can see. Army regulations.” He stood, stripping off his tunic. Across his chest, detailed in a bright gold that glimmered in the firelight, was the crest of Hyrule. On his back was a depiction of the master sword in black and white along his spine.

“That\’s impressive work,” Sky hummed. “Not many people get tattoos in Skyloft. The rocks we need to make the ink with are rare, so people don’t usually bother. Only a couple of people actually know how to tattoo.”

“That makes sense,” Warriors said, shrugging his shirt back on. “I guess rocks are hard to come by on a floating island. They're a finite resource.”

Wild nodded. “The tattoo artist I went to requires you to bring the materials that she needs with you. She‘s good enough that people come from all over to get tattooed there, and she can demand you bring your own materials. Mostly a lot of charcoal, but also some plants and other kinds of rocks to make the ink colored.”

Hyrule piped up from where he was sitting. “Do you have any, Sky? Being a chosen hero of Hylia seems like it would be special enough to warrant a tattoo.”

Sky nodded, but didn’t elaborate, and the rest of them left it be. When someone in the group didn’t choose to elaborate on something, the rest of them knew better than to push them. They had learned that lesson the hard way. Even something as innocent as a tattoo could have bad memories attached to it for the heroes.

“What about you two?” Wind questioned, gesturing towards Twilight and Time. “You guys both have tattoos, obviously.”

Time replied with a completely straight face, staring at Wind. “These aren't tattoos. They’re scars, a gift from a demon I… encountered.” He said it with such a blank face that Legend could see even Twilight couldn't tell if he was being serious.

“Ah.” Wind said, squinting at the old man suspiciously, before he seemingly decided that it wasn't worth asking more questions. He turned to Twilight. “What about you? Your tattoos actually kind of look like the markings on Wolfie. He’s your pet, right? Did you get them in honor of him?”

Legend couldn’t help but snicker as he watched Twilight trying to sputter out an answer to that.

Four took pity on Twilight, and started to show off his own tattoos to change the topic of conversation- a cluster of four swords surrounding his right forearm. Each had a different color gemstone in its hilt, Green, Blue, Purple, and Red.

As the conversation moved on, visions of small hibiscus tattoos floated in the back of his mind. Maybe getting one wouldn’t be so bad, in an inconspicuous place.

Putting yourself in pain on purpose did sound stupid. But Legend had done a lot of stupid things in the past. Getting a tattoo in memory of someone, to honor them, didn’t sound like it would even begin to stack up against the other idiotic things he’s done.

And besides, he’d been in plenty of pain before. He was sure he could handle a needle, right?

[absolute-flaming-trash-archive]

Hurt - Part 2

Was not expecting that many people wanting a part 2, but who am I to deny y'all?

Trick question, I myself am insatiable

Pairing: Hisoka x Fem!Reader

Smut and Angst

Word Count: 4′645 This was supposed to be short

Warnings: NSFW, Dubcon (bordering on Noncon), Unprotected Sex, Blood, Hisoka being a cheeky little shit. Semi-edited.

I’m gonna use this opportunity to say that, even if your partner doesn’t outright say “no”, that is NOT consent. Unfinished sentences, hesitation, and no response at all does not mean “yes”. Always check in for consent.

That being said, enjoy my fellow Hisoka fuckers. I loved writing this and I will actually cry if this flops.

Part 1, Part 3 

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

The silence that filled the room was palpable, interrupted only by the rhythmic drips of water falling from the cloth into the bowl.

Hisoka had yet to release his hold on you, making you narrow your eyes in annoyance. He licked his lips as he stared down at you, enjoying the direct line of sight he had down your shirt.

“And what if that isn’t my cards, what would you say then~?”

“Then I’d say that if you have enough energy to be thinking about that, then you are capable of cleaning yourself up. Your wounds have stopped bleeding, anyways.” You wrenched your wrist from his hand, trying not to think about how easily he let you go as pushed yourself to your feet. “You know where the shower is, there’s clean towels under the sink as usual.”

He leaned back against the couch, tilting his head slightly as he regarded your aloof attitude with a chuckle, “What if I really do require your... assistance? I have lost a lot of blood, after all.”

You scoffed and folded your arms in front of your chest, “I think we both know it takes a more than a little blood loss to make you lose consciousness.”

He hummed and stood, walking towards you to bring a finger underneath your chin, “Will you be joining me, just to make sure?”

You swallowed thickly as your cheeks burned when his hot breath fanned across your face, and you wanted to kick yourself. His heavy-lidded gaze did nothing to help the feeling that stirred deep in your gut. You pulled yourself away from him, taking a step back to collect yourself and fixing another glare on him, only making his smirk widen. “Don’t be ridiculous, and don’t use up all the hot water.”

I’m gonna need one after cleaning up all your shit

You let out a sigh of relief as he relented, walking towards the bathroom. You hadn’t realized you had been holding your breath.

Running a hand down your face, you slung the bloody cloth over your shoulder and turned your head to examine the damage done to your couch since his arrival. You groaned at the sight. Deep red patches stained the cushions and armrest, there was no way that those were coming out no matter how deep you cleaned. There was only so much that online tips and laundry detergent could do, but that was a problem for later.

Your attention turned to the bloodied shirt that Hisoka had tossed unceremoniously on the floor, grimacing slightly at the way the clotted blood stuck to your fingers when you picked it up. Fuck, it was.... absolutely drenched! How the hell he was even able to stand was a miracle to you, but you didn’t want to think about it too much. That man was an enigma enough as it was.

The faint sound of the shower starting filled the silence in the house, making you relax slightly; the tension from earlier finally beginning to dissipate a little bit. You moved to the kitchen in order to attempt to restore the atrocity in your hands. It would need to soak in cold water for at least an hour before you could even begin to try scrubbing the blood out.

The sound of the sink filling with water aided in calming your nerves further as you held your fingers underneath the stream to test the temperature, tossing the bloody cloth onto the counter. It didn’t take long for the water to reach the halfway point before you turned it off.

The water immediately turned a deep red as soon as you placed the shirt in the sink. You repressed the urge to gag as gobs of clotted blood began to float off and onto your hands. No matter how many times you bandaged him up, you would never get used to the sight of the blood...

You paused briefly; your hands starting to get numb from the cold of the water as your mind wandered. How many times had you done this? How many times had he come into your house whenever he pleased, only for you to treat him without question? You let out a small laugh, shaking your head at yourself. ‘Without question’ wasn’t entirely accurate, but who could blame you for asking the Magician with a death wish what the hell he gets up to every once in a while. You frowned, looking over your shoulder towards the hallway that led to the bathroom. What were you going to do with him?

Guilt began to eat away at your heart as you thought about the gash going down his chest. You made him clean himself up, then again, he deserved it, but you wouldn’t leave him to patch himself up. You sighed, and picked the shirt up out of the water, ringing the material as much as you could before pulling the plug in the sink. You’d have to keep changing the water if you wanted any hope of getting the majority of the blood out.

While the sink filled again, you retrieved your kit from the living room and set it on the counter by the sink; pulling out what you believed you would need. Gauze for sure, it didn’t matter if the wound had stopped bleeding, you would need to pack it. From the state of his clothing though, you figured the worst of the bleeding had stopped before he arrived. Antibiotic ointment was mandatory... so was the compression bandage...

You groaned and massaged your temples in an attempt to relieve the oncoming headache. You couldn’t do stitches, which meant he would have to stay in your home so you could monitor his recovery. Which meant you’d have to get close to him to change his bandages. Multiple times.

The couch was out of commission as a place to sleep on now, given the state it was in...

You wanted to scream.

Hitting the handle on the tap a little harder than necessary, you placed the shirt back in, this time the water turning only a dark pink as it began to soak once again. You worried your bottom lip while wiping your hands with a dishtowel, trying to think of any possible sleeping arrangements that didn’t result in him sharing your bed; your anxiety rising the more you realized that it was looking like he might just have to share your bed...

God. Fucking. Damnit.

You shook your head, glancing over at the stove to read the bright red numbers that displayed the time.

11:06pm

With another sigh, you threw the towel on the counter and turned around to go deal with the couch. What you did not expect was to see Hisoka standing directly behind you, making you flinch in surprise and letting out a startled gasp.

“Holy mother of hell, Hisoka, warn a girl would ya?!” You panted, placing a hand over your now racing heart, sending yet another glare to the offending man in front of you. The glare, however, was short lived as soon as your realized his state of undress. The only thing keeping this man from being entirely stark naked in your kitchen was a grey towel that was slung a little too low on his hips for your comfort. You coughed and averted your eyes, despising the heat you could feel creeping up your neck and onto your cheeks.

“Would it kill you to put a pair of pants on?”

It was difficult to keep yourself from tripping over your words at the sight of him, and you glared at the wall when you heard him laugh in response.

“You’re so red, my dear, am I making you uncomfortable?”

You grit your teeth in frustration, seething at how his casual drawl wasn’t making anything better for you. You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply through your nose in an effort to calm yourself down before looking back over at your newly acquired house guest.

“You are beginning to overstep your bounds when it comes to my hospitality, either cover up or find someone else to treat your wounds.”

It was an empty threat and you both knew it. You both knew you were too kind to kick him out of your house, despite how uneasy he made you. It just wasn’t in your heart to do so. You ran your hand down your face again, your fingers pinching the bridge of your nose as you felt the headache begin to form once again.

“Just... grab the pair of sweatpants from the top left drawer of my dresser at least. I’ll wash your clothes tonight, since that’s the only guess I have for you being naked as a jaybird. I’ll meet you in the living room when you’re done.”

Grabbing your kit and a chair from the kitchen table, you brushed past him as quickly as possible and placed it in front of the one patch of the couch that wasn’t covered in blood and set your kit down on the floor. You peeked over your shoulder to see if he was still standing here.

He wasn’t. Thank god.

He reappeared moments later in the pair of grey sweats that looked way too good on him for how small they were. You felt heat creep back into your cheeks for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

“Take a seat in front of me, please.” You began to pull out what you would need, “it’ll make things easier if I don’t have to crouch in front of you.”

It would also make it harder for him to pull the same stunt he did before. A look you didn’t recognize flashed through his eyes before he complied. You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, holding your hands under your chin as you began to reassess the damage.

The injury on his torso wasn’t as bad as you initially thought. It was deep and would still require stitches, but with the blood washed away it didn’t look as horrid as before. Clearing your throat, you began to work.

“I’m going to have to do this once or twice a day depending on how you heal,” you said, scooping some antibiotic ointment onto your fingers, “you won’t be able to do any more jobs until the large gash is fully healed, or anything too strenuous really.”

He simply hummed in response as you began to apply the ointment to his chest, trying to ignore how his muscles twitched with every swipe as you worked over his wounds. God, his skin was so hot against your hands...

“That being said, this isn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be,” you began to pack the wound with gauze, being careful not to press to hard on the wound, “with the amount of blood on the couch and on your clothes, I was expecting a lot worse...” you trailed off, the realization hitting you way later than it should have.

The sly smile that graced his face was frightening.

“Most of it isn’t mine, darling”

Your stomach lurched when he confirmed your suspicions out loud, but you forced the bile rising in your throat down; only nodding as you reached for the compression bandage. Your discomfort was still noticed by the magician, however, who leaned forward towards you a little more than necessary as you began to wrap the bandage around his chest.

“Because of the state of your injury, I would suggest you stay here for the next little while so I can keep an eye on your progress.”

You didn’t like the smile that crept across his face at that, or the way he leaned in closer to you when you wrapped the bandage around his back, “How long are we playing house then, hmm~?”

You gulped. His voice was teasing as always, but the implication behind it combined by the fact it was spoken directly in your ear sent shivers down your spine.

“I’d say about week or two.” You didn’t trust yourself to say much more as you secured the bandage with tensor clips. You checked��your work over one last time before beginning to gather your things up. A frown tugged at Hisoka’s lips from the less than pleased tone in your voice.

“Don’t you want to play with me~?”

You shot him an unimpressed look as you stood up, wanting to be away from this man sooner rather than later. “I’m not your toy, Hisoka. I’m doing this for the sake of your health, because believe it or not, you are mortal.”

He followed your movements, standing in front of you before you had the chance to create any more distance between the two of you; once again taking your chin in his hand, this time more gently than before. It was.... caring almost.

“And it’s for reasons like that, my dear, that you are my favourite toy, and the idea of... playing with you in such a way is too much to pass up.”

It was your turn to frown at his words, “I don’t know what you mean, and I’m quite sure I don’t want to know.” That was a lie. You got the message loud and clear, but by god you wanted it to be wrong.

A dramatic sigh left his lips before he clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“My my, do you need me to explain it to you more simply?”

He didn’t. Shit.

You stared up at him, his red locks tickling your face from how close he was to you.

“Why me?” Your voice was barely a whisper. He tilted his head almost mockingly so.

“What was that, my dear?”

You narrowed your eyes, a sudden resurgence of bravery. “You could have anyone you want, why me?”

You expected him to give you that insufferable smile of his, or to at least laugh at you for even daring to ask such a question. Instead his eyes bore into you with an intensity that you’d never felt before, “Because you’re the only one that I want. You healed me when you didn’t have to and did so without question. I don’t think you understand what that means, my dear.”

You let out a surprised squeak as his lips collided with you in a kiss that held pure unbridled lust, teeth clashing from the intensity. He left you panting when he pulled back, licking along the shell of your ear. “You’re mine”.

You couldn’t even get your bearings before he kissed you again, just as bruising as before. Your gasps granted him the access to your mouth that he so obviously desired. The feeling of his hands wandering up your sides to your breasts brought you back to your senses enough to pull away from him and send a hand flying towards his face.

The smack resonated around the room, leaving your hand stinging while your chest heaved. You felt dizzy. Too much was happening too fast.

“How fucking dare you,” your voice was barely audible as a whirlwind of emotions ran through you. Hate? Want? Fear? You didn’t know anymore, but all you knew was that it was too much for you to handle, “You mistake my kindness and hospitality for something more. I am not yours, Hisoka.”

His head was still knocked to the side from the force of your slap. He wouldn’t admit it, but you hit harder than he expected. His shock was quickly replaced with a look that could only be described as predatory as he looked back towards you, licking his lips, tasting the blood from the small split you had caused; a mixture of a moan and growl leaving his throat.

“Oh, but you are, Y/N. You have been mine for a long time.” 

The dread hit you like a bus. He had never said your name before, never in all the times he had come into your home. He was serious.

Oh fuck... what had you gotten yourself into...

In a last ditch effort, you bolted, but you didn’t get far.

You felt yourself getting yanked back, making you lose your balance and land on the floor; knocking the wind out of you. You wheezed, coughing from the force of the fall, stars littering your vision from your head smacking against the floor.

You regained clarity to the sound of your clothes being torn from your body, making you yelp, kicking and slapping the man on top of you in a vain attempt to get free. He chuckled and easily batted your hands away, gathering them into one hand and pinning them above your head. You whimpered, your clothes around you in ruined strips, leaving you bare beneath the man you had just treated moments ago; a small feeling of betrayal forming in your chest.

You were trapped.

The room was silent as Hisoka stilled above you for a moment, seemingly admiring the view. You were frozen in a state of shock and fear, tears beginning to form in your eyes while he ran his other hand down your body, stopping to cup your sex. You squirmed at the look he gave you when his fingers came away wet. How could you be wet from what he was doing to you?

He began to stroke your folds, letting his head fall into the crook of your neck and letting out a loud groan.

“Why you, you say?” He dipped one of his fingers into you, smirking into your neck as your breath hitched, placing open mouthed kisses along your throat as he began to thrust slowly.

“Because of this.” He punctuated the word by biting into the skin on your collar bone and sucking harshly, making you keen when he inserted another finger. “I’ve dreamt of this~”

You turned your head to the side, refusing to acknowledge the pleasure he was giving to your body when his lips wrapped around one of your nipples; his teeth lightly scraping making you shudder involuntarily. He groaned in response, shifting his heavy-lidded gaze towards your face and releasing your nipple with a pop.

“Oh, no, no, no, my darling~” He quickly withdrew his hand from your cunt hand and gripped your cheeks, forcing your head straight; his nails on his fingers, still wet from your arousal, digging into your skin harshly. You whimpered when your eyes met his, the intensity almost too much for you to bear, “I want you to watch every single thing I do to you.”

He slowly let go of your jaw, dragging his claws lightly down your throat to your breasts, giving them a light squeeze. You flinched, your hands clenched in fists at your side.

“I’ve dreamt of you under me...” He continued; the sentence broken up by wet kisses placed down your body. Your eyes widened, realizing his intentions immediately, but forcing yourself not to look away in fear of what he would do if you did.

“S-stop.” God, you hated how weak you sounded. Tears began to slip down your cheeks as he ventured lower down your body until you could feel his breath right on your cunt. “Please, Hisoka, I-”

A loud growl against your skin killed whatever pleads you had on your lips; the pupil of his eyes blown so wide they nearly swallowed the golden iris. He looked feral.

“I love the way you say my name, Y/N”

A squeal left your throat when you felt his tongue on your slit, your hips bucking on their own accord when the hot muscle dragged from your core up to your aching clit before he latched onto it and sucked harshly; making you toss your head to the side as you squeezed your eyes shut at the burst of pleasure that shot through you, more tears dripping onto the floor.

The breathy moans and growls from Hisoka only added to your reluctant growing arousal as he ate you out like a man starved. His hands gripped you from under your thighs so he could pull you close to his face while holding you down; the sounds coming from his mouth loud and downright lewd as he lapped at the new slick.

“I want you to say my name over, and over again; I want you to scream it so loudly your neighbours can hear exactly who you belong to.”

Your breathing hitched as you felt a familiar tightening beginning to form in your lower stomach. You bucked against him, the last of your resistance starting to die out as your orgasm continued to build. You felt him groan into your core more than you heard him, making you shudder.

“Moan for me darling, don’t hide any of those pretty noises from me.”

You cried out when you felt his fingers back at your entrance, dipping into you with less caution than the first time. You could feel his nails dragging along your walls as he fucked his fingers into you at a steady pace, scratching lightly on your g-spot in a way that should not have felt as good as it did.

“Hisoka!”

“Cum for me, darling, let me hear you~” He purred, suckling on your nub with vigor as he pumped his fingers into you faster.

You came with a chocked sob mixed with a moan, your pussy clamping down on his fingers like a vice, gushing around him. You felt sick as you came down from your high, watching as he released his assault on your clit with a lewd pop, a thin trail of drool connecting his lips to your swollen cunt. 

“You’re so good for me, darling.” He cooed. You could only muster up a withering look, your words failing you. This, of course, just made him chuckle as he pushed the grey sweats down his hips, his length springing free and slapping against his stomach. “However, I’d much rather feel you come undone on my cock.”

Your eyes widened... he couldn’t seriously go through with this... could he?

Could he?

“Hisoka wait!”

Your shout made him pause briefly before he kissed his way back up your body, coming to hover just above your lips; that insufferable smirk back on his mouth that shone with your slick. Your face flushed at the sight, and you rolled your head back to the side in shame.

“Please... please don’t...”

Another silence filled the room as he regarded your trembling form pinned beneath him. A spark of hope was reignited in you, his hesitation giving you the courage to bring your hands up, pressing lightly against the bandage on his chest in your attempt to push him away.

That spark was quickly snuffed out when he let out a guttural moan, his eyes rolling back slightly before focusing back on you.

You forgot he liked pain.

“Didn’t I already say, love?” He teased the head of his cock against your swollen clit making you squirm, new tears forming in your eyes from a combination of the stimulation and the hopelessness. Your back arched off the floor and your jaw fell open in a silent scream as he sank into you in a slow, agonizing thrust. He licked a stripe up your neck with a possessive growl, stopping just in front of your ear. “You belong to me.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust to his size before he pulled back and thrust his hips against you harshly, the sound of skin hitting skin echoing throughout the room along with your moans and hiccupping sobs.

“Oh fuck, Y/N...” He gasped, his head tilting back in ecstacy, your walls fluttering around him as he hammered your insides; stretching you out in a painfully blissful way.

You loved it, and you hated yourself for it.

“Oohhhh darling, you were mine the first time you treated me.” He grunted, shifting the angle of his hips to penetrate you deeper. You bit your lip, desperately trying to contain the whines leaving your throat with each brush of his cock on the bundle of nerves deep inside of you, his words only making you flush deeper... if that were even possible.

“I would’ve taken you then and there, had you begging and crying under me like you are now.” You felt his dick twitch inside you at his own words and your pussy clenched around him.

God, what was wrong with you?

He growled, and suddenly pulled away from you. Relief flooded your system for a split second before you felt yourself being flipped over, your hips being pulled back and his cock sheathing back inside you with a thrust that made the whines finally spill from you; your arms laying limply next to your head as he resumed to pound into you at a pace that could only be described as inhuman. His balls slapped against your clit each time he bottomed out, making your breath come out in quick, desperate gasps.

“Do you like that, my dear? Knowing that I could’ve done this to you sooner?”

You only groaned in response, the coil in your abdomen beginning to form again. The tears slipped from your eyes as you weakly shook your head. Why did this feel so good? Why did your body react to him like this?

Your teeth dug into your bottom lip when you felt his hand circle around to your clit, rubbing in rough circles that made your eyes roll back into your head.

You couldn’t take it.

You couldn’t help the wanton moan that passed through your lips as you came, your head hanging loosely as your body continued to bounce from the power of his thrusts; your pussy convulsing around his cock as he fucked you through your orgasm.

“Hmmm~ you didn’t want to cooperate a few minutes ago, look at you now,” He fisted the hair at the base of your skull and pulled you back to his chest, his thrusts never wavering as he spoke into your ear, “coming undone for me a second time.” His chuckle gave way to a breathy moan as his thrusts became more erratic, losing rhythm as he began to slam into you with fever.

“I’m going to fill you up, my dear.” He growled, biting down on the junction between your neck and shoulder, making you cry out when his teeth broke the skin. The sight of your blood making him thrust into you harder and faster. “Then you’ll truly know that you are mine.”

Your moans left you with no restraint, incoherent babbling falling from your lips at the overstimulation. You could no longer think, all your energy focused on the dick that was pistoning in and out of your squelching cunt.

Hisoka’s hips stuttered as he came inside of you, his cock spurting thick hot ropes of cum right against your cervix, coating your walls as he bit down on your neck once more, lazily fucking into you a few more times before he stilled.

Your breathing was ragged as everything slowly came to a stop, the weight of everything crashing over you as your lids dropped with exhaustion. You whined weakly as he pulled out of you, the sudden emptiness now foreign to you. You slumped to the floor, emotional and physical fatigue washing over you as you stared blankly up at the man who had just ruined your trust and your body. Your eyes flickered to the bandage on his chest, a thin line of red beginning to form from your exertions.

Even after all that... you still cared.

Damn him.

He ran a hand through his hair as he stared down at you, a pleased smile on his face as he took in your fucked out form, his dick twitching at the sight.

Oh yes.

He would enjoy playing house with you much more now.

----

Part 1, Part 3

Tag List: @prettycutebunny, @my-child-gaara, @shorkbrian, @luesi, @mynameseri, @yep-seeyalaterbranflakes, @trash-writings

[ladyfogg]

Heal My Wounds - Part 1

Heal My Wounds - Part 1 of 3

Fic Summary:  After you meet the infamous Kit Walker, you realize that he cannot possibly be guilty of everything they say he is. Determined to treat him with kindness and compassion, you end up falling hard for the handsome man with gorgeous dark eyes. But you both are playing a dangerous game and you must decide just how far you’re willing to go to save the man you love. Part 2. AHS Masterlist. 

Fic Rating: 18+

Fic Song: War by Poets of the Fall

Pairing: Kit Walker/Female Reader

Warnings: Language, Smut, Slow Burn, tw: mental illness, tw: asylum setting, tw: violence

A/N: I ended up finishing this a lot quicker than I thought I was going to. Enjoy! For @tatestripedsweater​ and @kitwalker02​. 

You’ve seen many things during your time at Briarcliff. Being a nurse, you deal with truly awful alignments, either self-inflicted or acquired under “mysterious” circumstances. This usually means that a guard roughed the patient up or Dr. Arden can’t be bothered to treat them himself. You learn to expect the worst, not in the patient but in what they are afflicted with. In truth, your heart goes out to every one of them. Regardless of what sent them to Briarcliff, it is always your mission to treat them with the respect and dignity they deserve. 

Which is why, when you hear that the infamous Bloody Face, aka Kit Walker, has been transferred to the asylum, you try not to be concerned. You knew all about Bloody Face and what he’s done and when they arrested Kit, you aren’t ashamed to admit that your first thought was, “Good riddance!” However, you force yourself to change your tune once you learn you’ll be treating him at some point. Plenty of dangerous people had come and gone through Briarcliff’s doors. You aren’t going to treat him any differently than you would the other patients.

No matter how dangerous he is. 

It isn’t long before you find yourself face-to-face with him. He is there less than a day before he’s brought in to see you, his lip and his nose a bloody mess, the red a stark contrast to his pale skin. His appearance surprises you even though it shouldn’t. You read the papers; you’ve seen his face. Yet, in person, he’s so handsome it takes your breath away and you need a moment to compose yourself.

“What happened?” you ask Kit as the guard forces him to sit on the bed. He is bound with cuffs and chains, an overkill if you ever saw one. 

“He got into a scrape with another inmate,” the guard says in a gruff voice. “Bloody Face here got the worst of it.”

“They’re called patients, not inmates,” you correct him with a glare. “And I wasn’t asking you, I was asking Mr. Walker. That is his name, that's what he will be called while he’s under my care.”

The guard, whose name you think is Hardy, looks taken aback by your words. He is a new one who hasn’t had to deal with you yet. While many of the female staff are nuns, you are not. You are there purely for medical purposes, not religious ones. Therefore, you have no reason to force politeness to the guards. After all, why should you? They never show you any. The sooner Hardy learns you will not tolerate his bullshit, the better. 

You have been talked to by Sister Jude several times regarding your attitude but since you are appointed by the state, there is nothing more she can do. Eventually, the both of you came to a mutual understanding. In fact, you suspect she admires your non-nonsense attitude as it most often gets results. If there is a patient in your infirmary, you can call the shots. Of course, the male guards don’t like that, but they can get fucked. 

When you turn back at Kit, he has a surprised look on his face. 

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” you ask. 

“Just my face,” he answers. “And my hands.”

You glance down and see his bruises and bloody knuckles. Clearly, he defended himself but given the fact that the other patient hasn’t been brought it, you assume Kit got the worst of it. You go about collecting what you need to disinfect his wounds. 

To Hardy, you say, “Remove his chains.”

“No can do. Not for this one.”

“His knuckles are bleeding, and I need to examine his hands to make sure nothing is broken or fractured. Remove his chains.”

There is an intense stare-off between you and the guard before he relents and unbinds Kit. Once his restraints are gone, you wave Hardy off. “You may step outside.”

“Now hold on a minute! This man—”

“Has rights. He deserves the same privacy as every other patient. Besides, I won’t have you getting in my way while I patch him up. You can step outside and wait. I’m more than capable of handling myself.”

Hardy snorts, annoyed and done with arguing. “Fine by me. Don’t complain if you get killed.”

“I won’t, considering if that happens, I won’t be able to. Or are you not aware how death works?”

With a sneer, he stalks away, and you heard him mutter, “Stupid bitch.” under his breath.

“Smart bitch actually,” you call after him. “And shut the door on your way out, please.” It slams behind him and you return your attention to your patient. 

Kit looks at you with awe. “Forgive me for saying so, doc. But you’re one tough broad.”

You laugh, pulling a chair over so you can sit in front of Kit. “I’m not a doctor, I’m a nurse. And you have to be though, especially in this place. The gentle don’t last long. Now, let’s take a look at those hands.”

Kit extends his hands, and you take them in your own, examining his wounded knuckles. After moving each finger and his wrists, you determine there was nothing broken or fractured so you set about cleaning the scrapes. Kit watches you the entire time. Even though you don’t look up from your work, you can feel his eyes on you. 

“I think you’re the only person in this place who’s not afraid of me,” he says after a stretch of silence. “This is the first time I’ve been treated like a person since this whole thing started.”

“Should I be afraid of you, Mr. Walker?” you glance up and are immediately taken in by the soft expression on his face. 

“Call me Kit,” he says. “And I never hurt anybody. All the things they say I did are lies. I have no idea what happened to those girls and I have no idea what happened to Alma other than they took her.”

You consider his words for a moment and pull away, letting his hands fall to his lap. The bloody towel you hold is tossed onto your tray of supplies before you sit back and cross your arms. “Alright then, Kit. Tell me why I should believe you.”

Kit doesn’t seem to know what to say at first. You’ve dealt with numerous patients who swear up and down they didn’t do what they were accused of. Most of them had. Because of that, you are pretty damn good at reading people because even the best liar has a tell. An eye twitch, a knee bounce, a lip bite…anything. You trained yourself to look for these things because, in your line of work, it means the difference between life or death. 

The man in front of you doesn’t look like he’s hiding anything. More to the point, you don’t feel scared of him. You aren’t made of stone; you feel fear just like everyone else. You are simply better at masking it. However, that violent vibe you’ve learned to sense doesn’t radiate from Kit and as you look into his deep brown eyes, all you see is fear, frustration, anger, and sadness. They all pass one after another on a loop. 

“I don’t have a reason,” Kit finally says after a long pause. “If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t believe me either. But you showed me kindness no one else has and I’m grateful. Really.”

“I think this place wouldn’t be half as bad as those colleagues of mine showed a little kindness too.” You go back to work, cleaning his hands. “This is going to sting a bit.”

Kit flinches as you pour alcohol over his cuts. Carefully, you clean them some more before you are sure they won’t get infected. Once that’s done, you wrap them in bandages. 

“There, good as new. Just try to keep those bandages dry for a bit. You can take them off tomorrow to let the cuts breathe. Let me make sure your nose isn't broken.”

Kit remain still as you gently cup his face, turning his head left to right in order to take stock of his injuries. Being so close, you realize how handsome he truly is. That jawline is to die for, and his dark curls looks so soft, you want to run your fingers through them. Once that thought entered your brain, you scold yourself. He is your patient and is in the asylum to see if he is fit to stand trial for murder. Thinking about him in any way other than professional is a dangerous game. And very stupid.

“That bad huh?” Kit asks with a slight smirk. 

It isn’t a malicious one by any means. In fact, it’s almost hesitant. Like he is afraid to be so comfortable joking with you. You don’t blame him considering what he has gone through. You offer him a smile in return. 

“Just a split lip and it doesn’t look like your nose is broken. It’s not even swollen. There shouldn’t be any permanent damage.”

You grab a fresh towel and dip it in warm water before gingerly cleaning the blood from his face. But before you can get far, Kit reaches up to stop you. Instinctively you freeze, worried that you may have hurt him. Maybe his nose is worse off than you originally thought?

“Did I hurt you?” you ask.

Kit shakes his head. “No, I’m just…” He pauses as if he’s not sure what to say next. “I’m sorry but I just...why aren’t you scared of me?"

“You really want me to be, don’t you?”

“What? No! Of course not. I’m just…” He stops when he sees you holding back a smile. “You’re messing with me.”

You shrug and go back to your work. “A little,” you admit. “But to answer your question, I’m not scared of you because I believe you. I don’t think you killed or even hurt anyone. I just don’t sense that sort of evil in you. As for what you claim to have witnessed, that I don’t know about. But I do know crazy, Kit Walker. And you’re not it.”

It is like the remaining tension leaves his body and Kit slumps against you, a few tears running down his cheeks. Without thinking, you pull him into a tight hug, letting him rest his weary head on your shoulder. The warmth of him is invigorating and you savor the feeling. It’s been a long time since you’ve been touched in any way. Long work hours make your social life non-existent and you carefully keep your distance with your patients.

Except Kit, it seems. You don’t know why your well-constructed walls are crumbling under the weight of one interaction with one man.

“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that,” he says, his voice muffled by your uniform. “No one will listen. No one believes…”

“I’m listening. But first, sit back before you get blood all over me.”

With a weak laugh, Kit pulls away.  He wipes the tears with the back of his hand which you’re grateful for because you were about two seconds away from gently brushing them away. Pulling yourself together, you continue to clean his face while he tells you his story. It’s definitely strange. The idea of being abducted and probed was one you’d rather not think about.

But you don’t just listen to his words, you watch his expression, pay attention to the tone of his voice and his body language. Even though you’ve heard some of it through the papers, it’s different hearing it from him directly. Once he’s done, you’re even more certain he didn’t kill anyone. No one who talks about their missing wife that softly and heart felt could possibly be a vicious serial killer.

It’s his eyes that give him away. There’s so much emotion and depth, you can’t help but believe him. You wish you can explain it, but some things are beyond explanation.

“You sure I’m not crazy?” Kit asks when you don’t respond to him right away.

“After that story, you’re absolutely batshit.”

He chuckles when he realizes you aren’t serious. You pull your hand away, finally done getting rid of all the blood, but he stops you with a gentle touch to your wrist. “Thank you for listening. I could tell you weren’t judging when I spoke, and I appreciate it. I appreciate everything you’re doing for me.”

“It’s not my place to judge. Only heal.” You sit back, breaking all contact with him, hoping it’ll clear your spinning head.  “There. Now you’re just as handsome as you were before. Do me a favor and at least try not to get majorly hurt again for the rest of the day?”

“He started it.”

“Everyone always starts things here. And given your current situation, it’s best to keep your head down as much as possible.”

“What’s the point? They’ve already made up their minds about me being guilty,” Kit says bitterly as you roll your tray over to the sink. He sees a pack of cigarettes on your desk and nods towards them. “Mind if I have one?”

You wave for him to go ahead as you clean up. “I wish I had words of encouragement for you. I wish I could say it will all work out. But unless they catch the real Bloody Face, your choices are either here or the electric chair.”

Kit pops a cigarette in his mouth and lights the end. “I have to see the state-appointed shrink. My last hope is to convince some head doctor that I’m not crazy.”

Your heart goes out to him. His situation really is a double-edged sword. If he proves he isn’t crazy, then they are sure to send him to trial and his death. If he keeps spouting off about strangers abducting him and his wife, then they will keep him at Briarcliff. Either way, he loses. It isn’t fair. 

“Stick to your story,” you tell him. “If it’s really the truth and that’s really what you know happened, then stick to it. I mean, it’ll probably get you confined here for life. But at least you’ll be alive.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?”

You don’t get to respond. The door bursts open and Sister Jude strolls in with Hardy right behind her. You wonder how long he waited outside before running to tattle on you.

“Why is this patient not restrained?” she asks in that stern voice of hers. 

“I needed to clean his hands and couldn’t very well do that when they were bound,” you say. “He’s all set now.”

“In the future, I would appreciate it if you would leave the door open. No young woman should be alone with this one,” Sister Jude says, motioning to Kit. “Not until he’s been properly medicated.”

“He deserves just as much privacy as any of us do when being medically treated.”

“Not here. Not under my roof,” Sister Jude counters. “I like you, girl, but don’t push me on this. Kit Walker may have the looks of an angel but he’s far from it.”

“She didn’t do nothing wrong,” Kit says angrily.

Sister Jude motions for Hardy to grab Kit. Anger courses through your veins when you see how he is manhandled. “Hey, be careful! I don’t want to have to treat a dislocated shoulder,” you say.

Kit sends you a grateful smile which Sister Jude unfortunately notices. She steps up to him and in a low voice says, “Quit your leering! You don’t fool me, Kit Walker. You can keep spouting that innocent act all you’d like but I know there’s darkness in your soul.”

Kit’s body tenses and you see him clench his fists in anger. The nun yanks his cigarette out of his mouth and puts it out on your desk. 

What a bitch.

As he is led away, Kit dares to look back at you and you see the glimmer of another smile before he is gone. The empty room suddenly seems more so without him there. It’s strange how comfortable you feel around him, especially considering the circumstances. After cleaning up the remnants of his cigarette, you sit back at your desk. But focusing is not in the cards for you. The rest of the day, you find yourself constantly sidetracked by the handsome brown-haired man with the deep brown eyes. So much so that you get angry with yourself.

You are hardly ever swayed by just a pretty face. Then again, there’s more to Kit than that. Although, it certainly helps. The way he stood up for you even when he was in trouble spoke volumes about who he is a person. You don’t think there is a selfish bone in that man’s body.

The next day during meds, you don’t see him in the Day Room with the others. It suddenly occurs to you that after the fight the day before, he probably was thrown in solitary. You hate solitary being used for any of your patients but the thought of Kit in a small dark room, bound and alone makes your heart break in your chest. All you can do is hope he’ll be out of there soon. 

At least three days pass before you see him again, mostly because you spend most of that time in the infirmary rather than in the common areas. It’s early morning and you are enjoying a rare moment of silence when the door opens, and Kit is led in. He’s bleeding from a cut on his forehead, which has already begun to bruise and swell. 

“What happened?” you demand as you leap to your feet. 

The guard, a brute named Dixon who you can’t stand, forces Kit onto one of the beds. “He slipped and fell.”

You doubt it. Your eyes slide over to look at Kit, who gives you a subtle shake of his head. “Oh really?” you ask Dixon, narrowing your eyes in distrust. “This seems like a pretty big bump just to happen from a slip.”

“Just treat him so I can get him back with the others,” Dixon orders. 

“He hit his head. I’m going to have to keep him here for a few hours to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion.”

“Fine.” Dixon shoves Kit until he was laying on the bed. When he reaches for the restraints, Kit fights back. 

“No! Let me go!” Kit struggles against him.

“Those aren’t necessary,” you declare, crossing the room to try to stop Dixon. 

But the guard isn’t having any of it. The next thing you know, he pushes you away, hard enough that you trip over your feet and fall right on your ass.

“You son of a bitch!” Kit exclaims. He leaps up and punches Dixon square in the jaw.  

What happens next is a flurry of blows and swears as the men fight each other. Knowing this can only end poorly for Kit, you manage to get back up before prying the two apart. “Enough!” you snap. “No fighting in my infirmary!”

Dixon is practically snarling as he wipes blood from the corner of his mouth. “You don’t scare me, Bloody Face. If I had my way, you’d be in the furnace by now.”

Kit makes a move to go at him, but you stop him with a hand on his chest. “Mr. Walker, lay down so Dixon can bind you. If you don’t, I know the right injection that’ll make you so tired, you’ll wake up next week.”

Kit’s eyebrows knit together as he looks at you with concern. You throw him a subtle wink. Breathing heavily, he sits back on the bed and allows Dixon to restrain him. Even though it pains you to do so, you help to keep up appearances. But you don’t tighten them as much as you should. Kit’s jaw is clenched as he watches Dixon’s movements, as if he’s waiting for him to attack again.

Once Kit is secured, you reach into your pocket. Unbeknownst to the guards, you carry around a sharpened scalpel for your own protection and the second Dixon lets his guard down, you press it to his neck, making him halt his movements.

“Listen here, you sick fuck,” you growl. “If you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll shove this so far into your neck you’ll have to take your meals through a tube. Are we clear?”

Dixon sneers and takes a step back. “Whatever you say, woman. Call us when this psycho is ready to go back to his cell. And I’d be careful who you threaten. You wouldn’t want to end up like one of your patients, now would you?”

His threats send a chill down your spine, but you keep your hand steady, the scalpel still pointed at him as he backs away. It’s not until he’s out the door that you cross the room so you can lock it behind him.

“Are you alright?” Kit asks the moment it’s clear the two of you are alone.

You cross the room, pocketing the sharp instrument as you go. “I’m fine, Kit. Don’t worry about me.” As quick as you can, you undo his bindings. “Sorry about this. I fucking hate using bindings, but it was the only way to get Dixon to leave. He’s got a nasty streak in him; I’d stay clear if I were you. Are you okay? What happened to your head?”

“That asshole smashed my face into the wall,” he says as he sits up, rubbing his wrists. “He caught me wandering out of the Day Room.”

“Now why would you go and do a stupid thing like that?” you ask, hands on your hips. “Didn’t I tell you to keep your head down?”

“I just needed some peace and quiet. On my own terms and not in a dark dirty cell. Besides, others wander. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because the others aren’t wanted for murder. They mean to make an example out of you, Kit.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

You sigh and head to the icebox in the corner of the room. As you put together an icepack for him, you say, “These guards will look for any excuse to get rough. And they especially have it out for you. You have to be careful.”

“I hate this. I hate all of it. I feel like I’m going crazy. My head is so cloudy, and I can barely feel anything.”

“Those are the meds. Meant to keep you docile.” You carry the ice pack over to him along with supplies to fix up his head wound. “And suppress other impulses.”

“It’s inhumane, that’s what it is.” Kit barely makes a face as you clean the cut and dress it. “How am I supposed to defend myself if I don’t even feel like me? I think I’m slipping, doc.”

“I told you, I’m not a doctor.”

“Well, what should I call you then? You never gave me your name.”

You tell him your name and press the icepack to the bump on his head, “Here, hold this. Your nose is bleeding…again.”

Kit does as he’s told. After a moment, he says your name. It’s soft and beautiful coming from his lips and you can barely focus long enough to hear his question. “Can I confess something to you?”

“I’m no priest or nun.” You start to dab at his nose with a damp towel.

“It’s not that kind of confession. I wasn’t just wandering for the sake of wandering. I was trying to come see you.”

You pause, heart pounding in your chest as your eyes flickering up to meet his. “Why?”

“I feel safe here.”

You go back to your work. “I’m glad you do, but I don’t want you to get yourself hurt just to see me.”

“I didn’t know that asshole was gonna beat the shit out of me just for wandering.”

“Say you have cramps.”

Kit raises his eyebrow. “What?”

“If you want to see me…I mean, come to the infirmary, tell a guard or one of my assistants that you have cramps or a stomachache. It’s something most people don’t question since stomach stuff is really common, ‘specially around here. It usually comes with vomiting or diarrhea and no one wants to deal with that.”

Kit smiles. “Good to know.”

You finish cleaning him up and add, “But don’t overuse the excuse. Otherwise, if something is really bothering you, they won’t listen.”

“Understood. Do you really think I have a concussion?”

“No. Your eyes are clear and you’re not slurring your words. I figured it would at least give you a little reprieve from everything out there.”

Kit’s smile widens. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Although, I will have to at least keep your feet bound. That way if the guard comes back, I can quickly bind your hands before they enter. The lock will only temporarily slow them down since they have keys.”

“Hey, if it means spending time here with you instead of out there with everyone else who thinks I’m a vicious murderer, I’ll take it.”

Once you have him settled in the bed, you give him a cigarette before going about your daily routine. It is nice having Kit there. Occasionally, you talk as he smokes, but for the most part, the both of you enjoy each other’s company. He asks you about yourself, minor things, nothing too personal or probing, which you appreciate. You feel like he’s also trying to keep some distance between you, understanding your position and what a friendship with him could mean.

A few hours later, when you hear footsteps coming your way, you quickly bind Kit’s hands.

It takes a second for the door to be unlocked but then it opens and Dixon enters just as you’re pretending to check Kit’s bandages. “Walker here needs to see the shrink,” he says gruffly, crossing the room towards you.

“I was just about to call you.” Your lie is so effortless it even impresses you. “He doesn’t have a concussion. You can take him.”

Dixon is rough as he unbinds Kit and yanks him off the bed. To his credit, Kit doesn’t fight back or resist, understanding the stupid rules he needs to follow if he’s going to get anywhere in this place. Once he’s gone, you start to wrap up for the day, finishing any last minute tasks before getting ready to go home. As you’re straightening up your desk, your eyes catch the medication logbook, and an idea strikes you.

Sitting down, you flip through the pages, taking a look at the medications that are prescribed to each patient. At the bottom of the list is Kit’s name and, with a quick flick of your pencil, you manage to subtly cut his doses in half. It’s not much. You wish you can outright stop giving him the meds but that’s impossible. Hopefully, this way he’ll start to feel like himself.

You expect to be worried or guilty for what you’ve done. But honestly, you don’t. It feels right. Far too many patients have lost themselves in Briarcliff and you’re determined not to let Kit be one of them.

---

Kit’s world is not even recognizable anymore. One day he’s home with his beautiful wife, the next, she’s gone, and the police are accusing him of murder. He sees those damn creatures every time he closes his eyes, hears that loud noise echoing in his ears. If it’s not that he’s hearing, it’s the screams of the other patients.

When he saw you for the first time, heard you snap at the guard for mistreating him, he thought he was still dreaming. You have to be a dream. Nothing that good or sweet can possibly exist in this place. The way you look at him makes him feel seen for the first time in months.

He can’t get you out of his mind. After that initial visit, all he could think about was your warm embrace and the concern in your eyes.

To have someone care enough to worry about him meant everything. Especially during such a dark time. Trying to sneak away to see you had been a stupid idea but one he thought was worth the risk. He needed to know if he would have the same feelings each time, the same security and comfort. Do you really believe him or are you just a great actress?

The second time, you’re just as kind and generous as the first, and Kit knows that he is in trouble. A different kind of trouble than he already is in. This one is emotionally based and has the potential to end very badly.

Kit knew himself well enough to recognize the signs that he is falling for someone. You have only known each other a short while but already he can’t get you out of his mind.

The day following his first appointment with Dr. Thredson, he sees you in the Day Room and has to stop himself from immediately going over. It’s clear you’re busy, making the rounds and checking in on the other patients. Kit watches from a distance, smoking a cigarette as he leans against the back wall. Your kindness extends to everyone you come in contact with. He watches with admiration as you sit patiently with Pepper, checking on the small scrapes and abrasions she has.

You smile and his breath gets caught in his throat. Fuck you’re gorgeous.

Curiously, Kit watches as you slip something into Pepper’s hands before moving on to someone else. It turns out to be a small chocolate, which Pepper immediately devours before going back to her book. Kit smiles.

You catch each other’s eyes across the room just then. It’s a charged moment, like nothing in the world matters but the two of you. He makes a move to walk towards you, unable to help himself anymore. But then meds are called, and the moment is lost. Kit stubs out his cigarette and gets behind Lana as everyone lines up for their medications.

“This is bullshit,” Lana mutters under her breath. “Not all of us need medication. I don’t like that they force it on us. Makes my head all foggy.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Kit asks, echoing your sentiment from the day before. “Keep us under control.”

“I have a point. One I’d like to shove right up their asses.”

Kit snorts at Lana’s blunt phrasing. At first, she had been weary of him but now the two have developed a mutual understanding. Neither one of them belongs there and it’s better to support each other than fight. The line moves and Kit watches you join your assistant to make the medication process go faster.

When it’s his turn, you hand him his cup and briefly, his hands touches yours. It’s like a bolt of electricity shoots through your fingertips and into his, coursing through his veins at such a speed it makes his head spin. On the outside however, he remains calm, bringing the cup up to his lips to knock back his meds. Except, he notices they look slightly different than the days before. His eyes briefly dart to yours and there’s a subtle change in your expression. Your eye closes just enough to seem like a wink without fully being one.

Kit downs the meds with less hesitation than before.

Sadly, he can’t talk to you after that. Once meds are distributed, you go back to the infirmary and he’s left alone once more. Briefly he considers faking a stomachache to see you again, but your warning is still ringing in his ears. The fact that you offered him the excuse was risky on your part. He doesn’t want to get you in trouble by overstaying his welcome in the infirmary. Even though he is curious about the medication change, he lets it go.

It’s not until he’s in his room that night that he realizes he’s feeling clear-headed. Usually, once lights out comes around, the meds have him so loopy he rolls over and goes to sleep. Or at least tries. This time, however, he feels more like himself. Of course, that also means he’s more aware of the dark and the loud screams, but once they subside, he’s left with silence and his own thoughts.

She must have lowered my meds or something. She’s fucking amazing.

Kit smiles, curling onto his side as he allows himself to think about you without worry or fear. Again and again your meetings replay in his mind and when he closes his eyes, he can almost smell the scent of your laundry detergent and perfume. The way your soft hands gently held his made him flex his fingers instinctively. Those lips of yours…he’d given anything to kiss them.

Kit’s eyes fly open when he feels his cock swell. It’s been so long since he’s felt any kind of sexual desire even before being medication. It’s a wonderful change of pace, however now he has a slight problem. Kit feels ashamed of himself for thinking of you sexually. All you’ve done is show him kindness and he’s thinking about doing all sorts of things to you. With a frustrated sigh, he rolls onto his stomach and tries to ignore it.

This turns out to be a bad idea. The pressure of his body against the hard mattress causes wonderful friction and Kit finds himself pressing his hips down for some semblance of relief.

Fuck it, he thinks, shoving his hand in his pants. I need this right now. I need her.

It’s been a long time since he’s done this himself. It takes a second to find the right angle and rhythm. He stays on his stomach, arching his back just enough to give his hand room as he jerks himself off. Burying his face in his pillow, he bites down to stifle his moans as he pictures you in your nurse’s uniform. The way it hugs your frame suddenly assaults his vision. When you had leaned over him to check his head, he had caught just the barest hint of cleavage. Then, he had purposefully closed his eyes to be respectful.

Now, it’s all he focuses on, thinking about how he’d love to run his tongue across your salty flesh while his hands cupped your tits. He’d bury his nose in your skin and inhale your scent before kissing and sucking every bit of you he could reach.

Would you moan his name? He bets you would, and he bets it would sound fucking fantastic.

Kit grips himself tighter, speeding up his movements as he keeps the fantasy going in his mind. Suddenly, the angle is too constricting, and he rolls onto his back, biting his bottom lip as he hand brings him closer to coming.

He pictures it being your hand. Pictures him laying in that hospital bed, you leaning over him and jerking him off as you watch his face. He thinks of you telling him to come for you and as soon as that thought crosses his mind, he explodes, coming all over his own hand as he quietly moans your name.

Sweating and panting, Kit lays there in his bed, heart racing and head spinning. He uses his blanket to clean himself up, tossing it onto the floor before curling into a ball. He expects the shame or guilt to hit him any moment, but he can’t find it in himself to feel either. All he feels is aching in his heart for the real thing.

The next morning, when they open the cells, he remains in bed. Once he hears the guard come closer, Kit begins to moan in agony, clutching his stomach.

Thankfully, Hardy is the one who check on him. Ever since you told him off, he’s been mostly tolerable to Kit. At least to his face.

“What’s wrong?” the guard asks.

“My stomach,” Kit moans. “I think…I think I ate something bad.” When Hardy kicks Kit’s soiled blanket aside, he adds, “Wouldn’t touch that if I were you. I felt real sick last night.”

Hardy wrinkles his nose and gestures for Kit to get up. “Come on. I’m taking you to the nurse.”

Laying on the theatrics, Kit forces himself up, still hunched over with his arms wrapped around his stomach.

You’re sitting at your desk when he enters. The morning light is filtering in through the barred windows and it catches you ever so slightly. Enough to almost make Kit forget he’s supposed to be in great pain. When you see him, your face grows concerned.

“This one is moaning about a stomachache,” Hardy says. “Where do you want him?”

To his dismay, Kit notices you’re not alone today. There’s a patient asleep in one of the other beds. You’re out of your chair in a second, pressing one of those soft hands to his forehead.

“He’s burning up.” Your ability to lie so smoothly makes Kit admire you even more. “Here, let’s get him on this bed right here.”

Hardy and you help Kit onto one of the beds in the corner of the room, one that’s hidden behind a divider. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” you say, tucking Kit in. “It’s probably just food poisoning. I’ve told the cook a million times they need to store the food better.”

“Think he needs to be tied down?” Hardy asks.

“No, of course not. Have you ever dealt with a patient who’s tied down and soiling themselves? My job is hard enough as it is. I won’t be dealing with that today.”

Kit makes retching noises if for no other reason than to see Hardy grow pale and uncomfortable.

“Oh, you better go before he starts up,” you urge, shooing the guard away.

Kit keeps up the act until he hears the door close and you turn to him, giving him a wide smile. “Wow, bravo. Great work, Kit.”

He smiles, sitting up. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll have a shot as an actor when this is all over.”

You chuckle and glance over at your other patient to make sure he’s still sleeping before sitting on the chair by Kit’s bed. “How are you really feeling this morning?”

“Better, actually. Do I have you to thank for that?”

“Well…it did seem overkill to have you on such high doses of medication when you aren’t mentally unstable. I’m sorry I couldn’t take you off them completely.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Kit says, reaching out to lay his hand over yours. “If anything, I’m sorry for you having to take that risk. I don’t want you to get in trouble, or worse, because of me.”

You look down at his hand and he immediately draws it back, worrying he may have crossed a line. There’s something in your expression that puts him on edge. He can see that you’re struggling, which only makes him feel worse. He berates himself for foolishly giving into his desires. Already things are tough, and the future is scarily uncertain. He’s on the hook for murder for fuck’s sake.

Before Kit can continue the self-deprecating spiral, you surprise him by carefully getting out of your seat and sitting next to him on the bed.

“Kit…” you say. “This friendship between us…I don’t know if it can continue.”

Kit’s heart sinks and he looks away from you, his gaze now fixated on the floor. “I don’t blame you,” he says. “It’s not safe being near me in any way. Honestly, it was stupid of me to come here like that. As much as I like spending time with you, I never want to put you in a compromising position. I’ve seen these guards and I know how they treat women. You’re in just as much danger here as I am.”

Your hand takes his, and he snaps his head up to look at you.

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” you say. For the first time since you met a few days ago, he hears the slightest crack in your voice. “I’m worried because, if we continue this friendship, I know that for me, one day, it might not be enough.”

His heart speeds up at your confession. Kit can’t believe his ears. The fact that you are feeling even the slightest bit of the attraction to him that he’s been feeling for you is enough to give him the sliver of hope that’s been severely lacking over the last few weeks.

Kit hesitantly links his fingers with yours, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t. When he says your name, his throat is dry, and he has to clear it before he can go on. “I have no right liking you as much as I do. I don’t believe in God, but I can’t help but think that you’re my damn guardian angel. Because of you, I’m actually starting to think that maybe there’s a way out of this. Or at the very least, staying here won’t be so bad so long as you’re here.”

Your gaze softens and you look away, trying to hide the tear leaking out of the corner of your eye. With his free hand, Kit reaches up to wipe it away with his thumb. He can’t stop himself from cupping your cheek, needing to feel the warmth and softness against his palm. You shut your eyes, leaning into his touch, a shaky exhale escaping through your parted lips.

Your lips.

Kit’s eyes can’t look anywhere else. They look so inviting. He bets they’re just as soft as the rest of you, maybe even more so. Without even stopping to think what he’s doing, he starts to lean in, so slowly that you don’t seem to notice until you open your eyes to meet his. You pull your head back. Not abruptly or angrily, but enough where he gets the message to stop. Kit sighs with disappointment at the refusal. But a second later, you’re leaning in this time, at the same achingly slow pace he had been before.

Your lips brush and there’s a heated charge that soars between you, making you pause before you even properly get a kiss. Your eyes are wide as they meet his, searching for the same thing he’s looking for in yours: permission, acceptance, desire.

Kit closes the distance.

With one hand still cradling your face, he kisses you deeply, drawing your body as close to his as he dares. He feels you melt under his touch and it urges him to keep going, to keep kissing you, to deepen the kiss so he can savor the intense waves of desire washing over him.

You let him, opening your mouth so that his tongue can glide along yours.

It all becomes too intense for the both of you and you have to break the kiss, panting as your foreheads rest against one another’s.

“This is such a bad idea,” you say, the breathlessness of your voice making Kit’s cock twitch. “We have to be smart and we have to be careful. If we really can’t stay apart, then you have to listen to what I say and follow my instructions. Okay?”

“I can do that,” Kit says. He’d honestly agree to anything you say at that point. “Trust me, baby. I know the stakes.”

“Me too.” You take a deep breath and pull away, breaking all contact with him. It immediately leaves him cold and wanting more. “My assistants will be coming to collect the meds any moment. I need to go prepare.”

You reach out to cup his cheek and Kit holds your wrist, keeping your hand there for another moment so he could savor the contact. The way your eyes soften at him only makes him want to kiss you again. Instead, he settles for a peck on your palm before letting you fully pull away.

As you stand and collect yourself, you take a step towards the divider before you pause and look back at him. “No one can know, Kit. Not if you want to stay under my care. If anyone finds out there’s something between us, they’ll transfer me somewhere else and I won’t be able to protect you.”

The fact that you’re scared for him in this scenario and not yourself makes Kit want to throw you on the bed and ravish you. “I promise, I will find a way to clear my name,” he says. “Then once I’m out of here, I’ll take you away. Far away where this place can’t reach us.”

You smile and reach out to stroke his cheek again. “Easy there, Mr. Walker,” you tease, stroking his bottom lip with your thumb. “Keep talking like that and I may think you’re already falling for me.”

He watches you walk away, only one thought on his mind. Too late for that.

[today-only-happens-once]

Pitch Black

Title: Pitch Black

Word Count: 2398

Summary:  “Come on, Virge,” Roman grits out. “I don’t know what he did to you, but you can fight this. You can.” Generic fantasy!AU. Platonic DLAMP, platonic Prinxiety. Mind-controlled!Virgil. 

Warnings: mind control via magic, angst (happy ending), violence and blood, serious (but non-permanent) injury to a main character, Logan and Janus have and use magic, mention of killing, Logan lowkey kills a bad guy, elements of self-sacrifice. Mention of cursing but no actual curse words are written. Please let me know if I should tag anything else. 

A/N: You know that trope of “Character A has been mind-controlled and must fight their loved ones who refuse to hurt them while trying to break them out of it?”. This is that trope. Because I love that trope. Edited by yours truly so all mistakes are mine. 

...

“Wh-what did you do to him?” Roman demands, unable to take his horror-stricken eyes from Virgil. Virgil cocks his head like an unnatural twitch, his pitch-black eyes inhuman and distinctly not Virgil.

The throne room around them had taken them days to reach. The large, circular room was dotted with marble pillars around the outer edge. Burgundy, silver, and black banners hang on the walls. Torches set in sconces offer a dim flickering light, helped slightly by the larger fire pits that sit on either side of the large onyx throne a few yards in front of them. 

In front of the throne, the sorcerer stands in black and silver robes. His long, dark hair is slicked back and falls around him like a hood. Virgil stands beside him, like they’d both been waiting for them to push through the doors. So much for taking the sorcerer by surprise. 

The sorcerer sneers, but it’s Virgil’s mouth that opens to respond. “I would worry more about what I’m about to do to you, Princey.”

Roman’s stomach twists painfully at Virgil’s voice because it’s not him but it sounds painfully familiar. Roman flexes his grip on the sword in his hand, casting a glance to Janus to his left and Logan to his right. Behind him, he hears Patton release a disbelieving breath.

“Janus,” Roman says under his breath, “Can you do anything?”

“I can try,” Janus growls, the edge in his voice razor sharp. His form ripples before it vanishes and Roman hears the quiet scuff of his feet against the marble floor beneath them moving away from the group.

“The sorcerer is mine,” Logan says darkly. “Just keep Virgil busy.” He’s gone, skirting around the cylindrical room away from Roman in the opposite direction that Janus had moved.

“Virgil,” Roman tries, unable to hide the desperation in his tone. “Please, listen—”

Virgil charges, the dagger in his hand glinting in the firelight from the torches.

Roman braces himself for impact, afraid that if he were to side-step, he’d manage to get Patton. Virgil—the real Virgil—would never forgive himself if he hurt Patton.

Roman catches the edge of Virgil’s dagger on his sword and uses the clash to shove him back. “Virgil, stop. This isn’t you.”

Roman risks a glance behind Virgil’s shoulder just in time to see Logan duck around a pillar and a blue glyph flicker in his hand. Logan was working some kind of magic, but Roman wasn’t close enough to tell what type. It’s all he can tell before the glint of steel grabs his attention and he barely manages to duck in time for Virgil’s knife to whistle past his ear and clatter against the stone behind him.

“Virgil!” Patton calls from somewhere to Roman’s left. “Snap out of it!”

Another flash of something and Roman instinctively flicks his sword. A throwing star cracks against the marble pillar to his right. Virgil rushes forward, hands empty. Roman doesn’t think about it. He drops the sword, grabbing for Virgil’s arms instead.

“Janus!” he shouts to the open. “Now would be great!”

“Ah, ah, ah,” the sorcerer tuts, before a streak of red light slams into the wall somewhere in the direction Janus had run. Roman hears a shouted, alarmed curse that was unmistakably Janus’s voice.

In his face, Virgil flashes teeth in a snarl. “That all you got, Roman?” he growls. His grip against Roman’s arms is cold—frigid—and he focuses on everything he can except Virgil’s black eyes. They remind him of the worst, darkest shadows. The ones that held nightmares and in which monsters lurked.

“Come on, Virge,” Roman grits out. “I don’t know what he did to you, but you can fight this. You can.”

Patton appears behind Virgil, grabbing for his arms as well to help pull him off Roman. “Kiddo,” Patton says, his voice strained and Roman doesn’t think it’s only from the physical effort, “Please. We need ya back.”

If Roman had blinked, he knows he would have missed it. But he swears there’s a flicker of clarity in Virgil’s eyes. A flash of white and brown, before the black swirls over again. 

“Yes!” Roman cries out. “Yes, Virgil, that was it. Keep fighting.”

A growl that doesn’t sound fully human wrenches from Virgil’s lungs and he shoves Roman back. Roman feels the air rush out of him as he collides with a pillar beside him. Virgil jerks out of Patton’s grip, stumbling to one knee. 

In the distance, Roman sees a flash of blue followed by a streak of red. Logan’s sharp, pained cry echoes against the walls. Roman is still blinking the stars from his vision, but he thinks there’s a moment where Virgil freezes at the sound. 

The prince can feel his heartbeat in his throat. “Virgil, you don’t want to hurt us. I know you don’t.”

Metal screeches against stone as Virgil snatches up the discarded throwing star to his left and hurls it at Roman. The prince barely has time to roll out of the way before it cracks against the pillar. Roman scrambles to his feet. Across the throne room, Roman sees flashes of red and blue as Logan and the sorcerer hurl spells at each other. A bright flash of yellow on the other side tells Roman that Janus is trying from his own assortment of spells as well. 

Virgil growls low in his throat and dives for his dagger. Roman’s eyes sweep frantically for his sword, and sees it discarded several feet away. He can’t get to it. 

Roman holds up his hands, sinking his weight and preparing to dodge. “Virgil--”

Virgil moves to lunge, but Patton is just a fraction faster and rushes to tackle him to the floor. Virgil stumbles but doesn’t fall, baring teeth in a furious snarl and slashing with his dagger over his shoulder. 

Roman’s eyes widen in horror, feeling like he’s watching in slow-motion. The dagger sinks into Patton’s shoulder and tears. With a strangled, pained cry, Patton releases his hold on Virgil and staggers back a step, pressing his hand to the wound. He trips, his back hitting the nearby pillar and sinking to the floor. 

“Patton!” Roman shouts, and he scrambles to get to his sword. He snatches it up in less than a second. Patton is already pale, his eyes squeezed shut tightly. 

The dagger in Virgil’s hands--stained dark with blood--clatters to the floor. Virgil presses his hands to his head, his face twisted tightly into a pained wince. He sways, then drops to one knee. Roman can see the way his whole body is trembling. 

“Roman,” he says, his voice strangled. Roman starts. That voice sounds like Virgil. Their Virgil. 

“Virgil--”

“Please,” he manages. “I--I can’t--” His voice breaks off, clutching his head harder. His fingers fist in his hair. 

Roman doesn’t understand what Virgil wants. 

And then Virgil’s eyes open (and Roman feels a wave of relief so intense he thinks he could cry at seeing his brown eyes rather than black) and settle on the sword in Roman’s hands. 

Roman’s blood turns to ice. “No.”

There’s a bright flash of red light and Virgil yelps, his eyes squeezing shut again and curling around himself. “Roman.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to,” Virgil snaps through clenched teeth. “I can’t--I can’t fight it. Please, Roman.”

The throne room is awash in flashes of red and blue, getting faster and brighter and more intense. The cracks and sizzles of ricocheting spells still does not drown out Patton’s distant, shallow breathing. Virgil looks up at him through his disheveled hair. 

Roman’s hands are trembling. 

“It’s okay,” Virgil presses, the desperation in his voice sinking like stone in Roman’s stomach. “It’s--” 

The black cloud in his eyes swirls over and Roman makes a noise in the back of his throat as he drops the sword (because he can’t, he just can’t) and lunges for him. The edges of Roman’s vision are blurring. He wrestles Virgil’s lean, athletic weight to the ground. He gets behind him, wrapping his arms around Virgil’s to anchor them against his sides. 

He holds on for dear life as Virgil thrashes. Come on, Logan, he pleas silently. 

“I’m not giving up on you, Virgil,” Roman says in his ear, grunting with effort when Virgil tries to knock his head against Roman’s. The prince barely dodges the blow. “So you’re not allowed to give up on us. Not today. Not ever.”

Roman’s eyes flash to Patton, still on the floor by the pillar and clutching the wound in his shoulder. The prince is certain he sees a flicker of someone else appearing beside him as the room flashes red, then blue, then red again. 

It’s Janus. Roman remembers that some of Janus’s magic deals in healing wounds, and Roman goes slightly weak with relief. 

It’s a mistake.

Virgil twists out of his grip and scrambles to his feet, snatching the discarded sword from the floor and pointing the edge of the blade towards Roman’s throat. Roman goes very still, looking up at Virgil towering above him. His eyes are completely black. His chest heaves with exertion. In the alternating flashes of arcanic color, Roman can see the sheen of sweat to his brow. 

“You made a mistake,” Not-Virgil growls. “Not killing him when he asked you to. You’re weak. Just like him.” 

Roman feels a burning fury ignite in his chest. He glowers. “Virgil isn’t weak. He’s fighting you, and he’s going to win. He’s our protector.” 

“Unfortunate for you,” he says darkly, and Roman doesn’t miss the way his grip flexes around the hilt of the sword. “Because then who is going to protect you all from him?” 

Logan suddenly shouts something arcanic--his voice high and desperate and echoing--and there’s a blinding flash of white light that fills the space. Roman shuts his eyes against the sudden onslaught, turning his face into his shoulder. 

When the light fades, the alternating flashes of red and blue have stopped. The only light in the throne room comes from the torches attached to the walls. Roman looks frantically over towards where Logan had been and sees him standing, barely. He’s leaning against the wall, but the sorcerer is an unmoving heap on the floor by the throne. Roman’s eyes flash over to Virgil, still standing above him. 

Virgil blinks rapidly, the black clearing from his vision again. His brow furrows in confusion. His gaze is distant. Roman, very slowly, pushes himself to his feet. 

“Virgil?”

Virgil’s gaze flickers up to him. He sways, his face rapidly draining of color. He looks down at his hand, still holding the sword, then back up at Roman. He drops the weapon, and the clatter of the steel against stone echoes loudly in the sudden, deafening silence that had followed Logan’s final spell. 

“Princey?” 

His voice doesn’t sound desperate and strained and choked anymore. Tired and confused and small, yes, but no longer like he was fighting for every word. And the voice is still unmistakably Virgil. There’s a sudden, hard lump in Roman’s throat. 

“There he is,” Roman manages with a weak smile. “Welcome back.”

Roman sees the exact moment Virgil regains clarity, because he watches the horror dawn in his dark brown eyes. Virgil goes perfectly still. He looks like he’s going to be sick. 

“Hey,” Roman says quickly, closing the distance between them to put his hands on Virgil’s shoulders. “Hey, it’s not your fault.”

“Patton--”

Janus is the one that speaks up this time, from a few yards past Virgil. “Will be fine,” he says. He’s still kneeling by Patton’s side, his hands glowing with a golden aura as they hover over Patton’s shoulder. “The bleeding has stopped. Wound is closed to avoid infection. A little rest and hydration, and Patton will be back to normal.”

“Easy peasy,” Patton chimes in lightly but weakly, but Roman sees the crease of concern between his brows as he looks at Virgil, who still hasn’t turned to face him. 

“I…” Virgil swallows hard. “I almost…”

“But you didn’t,” Roman tells him, softly and with conviction. “You didn’t, Virgil.”

“But I tried,” Virgil insists, his voice carrying a very faint tremor. His gaze flashes up to meet Roman’s. His eyes look haunted. He swears under his breath and averts his gaze. “I tried.”

“Falsehood,” Logan says as he crosses back to the group. He’s pale, Roman realizes. And he seems a bit unsteady on his feet, but he’s alive and standing and Roman counts it as a no small win that they all are in one piece. 

“Logan’s right,” Roman adds, with a nod of both acknowledgement and appreciation. “What you tried to do, Virgil, was fight it. That’s what matters. That is the only thing that matters.” 

Virgil shrugs out of Roman’s hands and takes a few steps away. Roman pretends he doesn’t notice the way his eyes were getting glossy. It also doesn’t escape his attention that Virgil still hasn’t looked at Patton. From the slightly distressed look in Patton’s eyes, he’s noticed the same thing.

“Virgil,” he begins, but Logan interrupts him gently.

“We should get out of here.” Logan’s eyes meet Roman’s steadily. “It won’t be long before backup arrives, and I don’t know how much I’ve got left in me. For that matter, none of us are really in fighting shape.” 

Janus says something quietly to Patton that Roman doesn’t catch. Patton nods once, and Janus helps him to his feet, ensuring he’s steady before letting go. Roman takes a breath, then nods his agreement. He snatches his sword off the ground. He sees Logan pick up Virgil’s dagger, wipes Patton’s blood off on the inside of his cloak, and then cross to Virgil. 

He hands it to him. Virgil shakes his head but Logan says something in a low voice and Virgil hesitates only a moment longer before taking it from him. 

Roman has the feeling that it will be a long time before Virgil is okay again. But as far as Roman was concerned, he would still trust Virgil with his life. This didn’t change any of that. And he’s pretty sure that Logan giving the dagger back to Virgil was him telling Virgil the same thing. 

Virgil makes them better. And Roman’s certain they’ll spend as long as necessary proving that to Virgil until Virgil begins to believe it again himself. 

...

Tags: @creativenostalgiastuff, @helloisthisusernametaken, @ren-allen, @quoth-the-sparrow, @princelogical, @random-pianist, @ravenclawicecream, @erlenmeyertrash, @milomeepit, @at-least-seven-pretty-potatoes, @rileyfirstname, @pinkeasteregg, @sassy-in-glasses, @vigiliantvirgil, @generalfandomfabulousness, @lacrimosathedark, @thepoolofthedead, @monikastec, @heir-of-the-founders, @yourworstnightmare999, @artistictaurean, @kanejandkruge, @cdragontogacotar, @damienswifeolicitydallysgirl, @angst-patton, @savingshae, @noneed4thistbh, @awesomelissawho, @unikornavenger, @bopthesnoz, @spiralofsilencetheory, @finger-gunsss, @crownswriter123, @swlotakulady34, @gaylotusthatexists, @analogical-mess, @dolphidragon, @flix-net, @narniasfinestavengingsociopath, @friedlieb-ferdinand-runge , @bibbidy-bobbidy-booyah, @procrastinations-my-middle-name, @theburntesttoast, @monroig, @secretlyawyvern, @puddinglec4t, @give-me-a-minute-to-think, @whispers-stuff-in-your-ear

[vagrantblvrd]

AU where Luke and Leia are the children of the queen of Naboo and powerful and well-respected Jedi Knight, just about the age to marry and it’s this Responsibility hanging over their heads.

Their parents would never marry them off to someone horrible, but that’s not the point, and anyway, anyway, they know their duty.

(It breaks their parent’s hearts, but barring the same sort of Very Specific and Unique events that conspired to allow Padme to marry Anakin the best they can hope for is to like their future spouses, so.)

But then!

Conspiracies and the whatnot, and whispers of war spreading across the galaxy thanks to some faceless warlord pulling strings from the shadows and so on.

Worlds that co-existed, thrived, suddenly at one another’s throats and out of fear for their children’s safety they arrange for them to visit dear friend Bail and Breha on Alderaan.

(There’s meant to be a celebration, eligible suitors for Luke and Leia while keeping them far from skirmishes that have taken place too close to Naboo.)

Unfortunately Leia gets sick just as they’re about to leave, nothing too worry over, lose sleep over, but travel would only make it worse so she’s to stay behind while Luke and leaves for Alderaan on schedule.

(He visits her, the night before he leaves. Sneaks into her rooms the way he used to when they were younger and supposed to be asleep hours ago but young and foolish and the kind of reckless rebellion of the young and so on.

Leia’s tired, still recovering but she still manages a smile, a laugh, when Luke tumbles in through the window a though their parents haven’t been training them since they were young.

Politics, of course, but their father is a Jedi Knight and their mother is the queen, and anyway, anyway, any clumsiness they show these days are deliberate, so.

They talk, aware this may be one of the rare chances they’ll get like this again, what with their duties and responsibilities and privileged as they are the universe is far from fair.

Luke smiles, jokes, but there’s a flat tone to it that Leia hears all too clearly and Luke -

“I have a bad feeling about this,” he says, wry twist to his mouth.

It’s a childhood joke borne of the stories their father and his former mentor would tell them at bedtime, well-worn phrase that heralded the kind of adventure that made them into legends, and now -

Leia grips Luke’s hands tight in hers because she does as well, dread a heavy weight in her chest.

“Don’t go,” she tells him, knowing he has no choice in the matter. “Luke, please.”

It’s on her face, in her voice, her yes, and there’s nothing they can do.

So.

Luke smiles, jokes, reminisces with Leia about the adventures they had running around the palace and its grounds and causing no end of trouble to their minders when their parents were busy until Leia falls asleep and Luke slips out the window and back to his own rooms without waking her.)

Leia knows long before word reaches Naboo that Luke’s ship was attacked in transit, all hands lost.

(Knows when their father senses it too, his rage and grief enough to send her to knees, draw the tears she refused to shed until then. She’s Force-sensitive, yes, but her father and brother are stronger, and if he’s so certain Luke is gone, then there’s no hope left for her.)

BUT THEN.

Luke’s not dead, of course he’s not, what kind of story do you think this is?

As it turns out, Luke’s ship was attacked, but one of his guards, escorts, manages to get him to an escape pod and away from the ships painted to look like one of Naboo’s allies turned jealous and bitter and angry over years and some insult or other.

(Conspiracies on conspiracies and so on.)

Lands on a planet, rocky and desolate and very much alone, injured.

Stumbles out of the escape pod, emergency supplies held tight in hand and absolutely certain he can’t stay there. Can’t wait for rescue to come, not knowing if whoever attacked his ship might find him first and finish the job that claimed his ship and the lives of people he’s known since he was young.

Manages to get a decent ways away from the escape pod before exhaustion and his injuries lay him low.

Cave in the distance he might be able to seek shelter in, assuming there are no native predators or otherwise living there, and he almost, almost makes it before he passes out.

Comes to however many hours later to a voice he doesn’t know pitched low and annoyed, but the hands checking him for injuries - he hopes, would be the worst luck to be robbed, looted, after recent events - are surprisingly gentle.

“What?”

Luke said that out loud, didn’t he.

“...Yes.”

Luke would laugh if it didn’t feel as though his head might burst, result of his skull meeting with a bulkhead at inadvisable speeds, and that had happened before the escape pod landed, so.

“Sorry,” Luke mumbles, because he does have manners. “But if you are robbing me I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer.”

There’s a long pause then, whoever is there with him so still Luke has a moment to wonder if they’ve left, offended by Luke’s words or disappointed he’s not worth robbing and then -

“Hmm.”

Luke frowns, risks opening his eyes and sees a kneeling beside him, oddly shiny.

“’Shiny’.”

Luke squints, tries to make out the figure, but it’s difficult as there seem to be two of them, and -

“I think I might have a concussion,” Luke informs the oddly shiny figure, and passes out again.

Later, however many hour later, he comes to with that same annoyed voice in his ears, but now there’s a fire merrily burning.

Nice, because it’s nighttime now, and cold and -

“You’re awake.”

As far as observations like that go, it’s incredibly unimpressed.

“Hmm,” Luke hmms, fuzzy memory of his oddly shiny companion doing the same, and also Luke being a natural-born smartass,

(Hereditary, he’s been told, along with stubbornness and fondness for eschewing things like common sense and a flair for the dramatic.)

There’s a sigh, long and heavy, and then the sound of the oddly shiny person moving closer, shadow falling over Luke that he can’t see with his yes closed the way they are, but, well.

His father is a Jedi Knight and he and Leia take after him in noticeable ways.

Luke opens his eyes and thinks oh, and hmm, and Leia is going to kill me, because his companion is indeed oddly shiny.

Or, well.

Perhaps not so odd, what with the armor and all.

Din - because of course it’s Din - is super unimpressed with Luke and his everything and Luke is just ??? because Mandalorian???

Not known to be BFFs with Jedi or Jedi-in-training, like Luke???

But Din can be excused for not partaking in this old feud/rivalry/animosity between them because Luke isn’t dressed as it befitting someone of his position, no.

He’s wearing the clothes he prefers on long trips when the are no other dignitaries along because to start with, they’re comfortable? But also Luke likes to tinker??? Little projects and such and maybe his father sent along a speeder or some other tinker-able vehicle to keep Luke occupied on the trip, use when he gets to Alderaan or...whatever.

Doesn’t look like the royalty, especially after recent events, and nothing to mark him as the prince of Naboo, or a Jedi-in-training and sworn enemy of the Mandalorians, and really, it’s incredibly, amazingly convenient, but it is what it is.

Din grumbles and complains, but he stays with Luke until he’s able to stand on his feet and even walk a fair distance without falling on his ass, and sighs when Luke invites himself along later that day when he says he has business elsewhere,

And then the two of them traveling to...somewhere, Din didn’t volunteer that information and Luke was too grateful to be headed away from where his escape pod crashed and potential search parties (doesn’t feel like trusting to the fact they’d be friendly towards him) and so on.

Doesn’t chatter incessantly as the annoyed set of Din’s shoulders heavily imply, because Luke is still injured and while his head isn’t an agony at the moment, it’s hardly a joy to deal with.

But, he does talk.

A lot.

About everything and nothing, off on a tangent here, there, wander far and wide the better to annoy Din into forgetting what questions he asked Luke. (The ones asking who he is, how he got there, and where the hell he’s going next, because Din’s patience lasts only so long.)

To Dins quiet horror, however, he actually starts to like Luke???

Like.

Annoying, yes, with the talking? But he doesn’t complain about all the walking they’re doing, or sleeping conditions when they make camp for the night and so on.

And, alright, sometimes it does get a bit lonely out here - conveniently far enough away from settlements or cities where someone would definitely recognize Luke - but he doesn’t tell Luke that, goodness no.

They run into trouble, after a while.

People who took part in the attack on Luke’s ship and other baddies on Mandalore connected to them and it’s a matter of bad luck meeting worse luck, and anyway, anyway.

There’s a fight, and some guns with the pew-pew shootout and Luke being the one to save Din’s life, escaping with him to some abandoned mine or underground tunnels, something and -

“Ah,” Luke says, breathless from the running and hiding and saving Din’s life and then hauling him somewhere that was supposed to be safe, even with the help of the Force.

(His head is killing him again, nowhere near healed enough to expend as much effort as he has just now, but it that or die, and he’d rather not get Din killed as well since the man’s only shown him kindness - and his special brand of charm - and anyway. Yes.)

He’s expecting it to be the people who ambushed them, but to his surprise, wariness, dread, it’s a Mandalorian. (Armor’s a dead giveaway and all.)

One who cocks their head when they see Luke’s face, blaster dipping slightly at the sight of him.

Luke tries for a smile, but Din groans, low, pained, and the best Luke was able to do was check the wound wasn’t life-threatening and slap a patch-job bandage over it before they made a break for it, and -

“I don’t suppose it would be asking too much if you had medical supplies, would it?” Luke asks, expecting to get shot for his trouble - sass, snark - but the Mandalorian holding them at blaster-point huffs out a laugh and holsters said blaster.

Jerks their chin towards a side tunnel and strides off, clearly expecting Luke to follow, and after a moment’s hesitation - no way to know if the Mandalorian is taking them to their deaths - but no better option available to them, so Luke follows.

(Murmurs an apology to Din when he groans again, guilt heavier than Din’s arm slung over his shoulder, the weight of Din and his armor, knowing he wouldn’t be in this situation if he’d left well enough alone after stumbling on Luke. So.)

Mystery!Mandalorian leads Luke to a room with medical supplies stored neatly. Clean and well-lit and after getting permission - nod of Mystery-Mandalorian’s head and wave of their hand that seems more amused than mocking - Luke sets about properly treating Din’s injuries.

Fumbles a bit, because Luke’s still injured himself, over-extended himself in the earlier fight, and it’s catching up to him now they’re somewhere arguably safe.

(No one actively trying to kill them, anyway.)

Mystery!Mandalorian watches as Luke tries to et his hands to stop shaking - stress, injury, exhaustion, any of a dozen reasons and he swears, low under his breath because now isn’t the time -

He startles when Mystery!Mandalorian takes the medical supplies out of his hands, didn’t notice him moving close enough to do so, and allows the hand on his shoulder that guides him into sitting on a stool as they do for him what he can’t in that moment and looks after Din.

Watches quietly, closely, but Mystery!Mandalorian knows what they’re doing, and truthfully Luke knows if they intended them harm there would easier ways, more efficient ones than this.

So.

He watches Mystgery!Mandalorian tend to Din’s injuries, and blinks up at them stupidly when they turn back to him, head tilted just so.

“What?” Luke asks, and Mystery!Mandalorian huffs out a laugh, quiet breath of laughter and then it’s Luke’s turn to be treated.

Careful, gentle hands and Luke’s mind drifts while Mystery!Mandalorian cleans and dresses a blaster burn on his shoulder, graze courtesy of a shot he hadn’t seen coming, attention on Din instead and he knows if it were a normal (...somewhat) normal situation he’d get a lecture on that lapse.

(A lecture, his father’s face stern, and under it worry, concern for him Luke’s never doubted, and after that his mother and quiet, soft words interwined with the same firece love his father has for his children. .)

As it is...

“Thank you,” Luke says, hopes Mystery!Mandalorian hears the things he can’t find the words for, the gratitude he feels.

Mystery!Mandalorian studies him for a long moment, Luke returning their regard best as he can even as he feels his mind going slow, stupid, as exhaustion rolls over him.

He can feel Mystery!Mandalorian watching him, them, unexected guests, visitors, complications, and there’s another sigh.

A gesture towards an unoccupied medical bed, slight tilt of his head that feels of that same brand of amusement from earlier.

Luke eyes it longingly because he’s tired, isn’t he, too much happening in too short a period of time and this feeling in the back of his mind that something is happening.

Whispers and rumors building towards something catastrophic if left unchecked and murmurs though the Force he’s known all his life.

“Rest,” Mystery!Mandalorian says, gentle, kind. “I’ll keep watch.”

It shouldn’t be a reassuring as it is, shouldn’t feel like Luke is breathing his first full breath since the alarms on his ship started wailing, intangible dread he’d felt once they left Naboo’s made real.

And yet...

There’s something about Mystery!Mandalorian he can’t help but trust, and Luke’s mind is tired, muddled, clear thought a struggle but the way the Force coils around them is enough to set his mind at ease.

“Thank you,” Luke says, and the words aren’t enough to articulate what he means, but it seems to be understood anyway.

He makes his way to the medical bed, and it isn’t long until he falls asleep, swears he hears Mystery!Mandalorian say, before he does, strangely soft, fond.

“You really are just like your father, aren’t you?”, and with no little amusement, “Skwalkers.”

And then shenanigans???

Luke waking up to Din staring at him from his own medical bed, at a loss regarding their situation, everything, and annoye (at himself???) about it, because Luke saved his life, didn’t he?

Saved it, and saved it again by getting them to safety and out of the hands of whoever attacked them, and that’s about the time Mystery!Mandalorian shows up, and Din is -

Not thrilled???

Doesn’t recognize the armor, person, regarding the two of them with this underlying amusement. (It rankles, that amusement, leaves him wrong-footed.)

Still, he follows Luke’s lead when he insists Mystery!Mandalorian is a friend - “Well,” Luke allows, at the look Din gives him when he says that. “He hasn’t tried to kill us. Yet.”

Which.

Fair, if not a ringing endorsement, but it’s not like they have much choice in the matter when Mystery!Mandalorian tells them to follow them, and off they go.

Underground tunnels and such until they get to some sort of base.

Other Mandalorians and Din is like oh, no, because these ones he does recognize.

“Resistance,” he says to Luke who’s picked up on his unease, gaze flicking to Din’s behind Mystery!Mandalorian’s back as they’re led down corridors to meet with what must be leadership.

Because Mandalore and unrest and that same something Luke’s known about his whole life and the way it affects the universe around him and just, yes.

Mystery!Mandalorian cocks his head as the lift they’re on descends, listening in, and still that amusement.

“Indeed,” he says, and something about it snaps Luke’s attention to him, makes Din...wary.

Just as well the lift stops, doors sliding open and then more corridors that seem to go on forever until they reach a set of doors.

Mystery!Mandalorian glances back at them for a moment, and huffs a quiet laugh at whatever he sees, and then they’re pressing forward.

It’s...not what he was expecting.

An office of some kind, with a holomap table off to one side and monitors and consoles beside it. A stripped down version of the control room they passed by floors down, and a slight figure in armor, head bowed over the holomap table.

Mystery!Mandalorian clears their throat, a courtesy, and the armore figure lifts their head, looks over at Luke and Din.

At Mystery!Mandalorian, and there’s a look exchanged between the two, silent conversation before Mystery!Mandalorian glances at Luke and Din again.

Sighs, and reaches up to remove their helmet, crooked smile on their - his face - at the way Luke goes so, so still beside Din.

Silence stretches long enough for Din to feel it, the weight of the revelation even if he doesn’t understand it.

“Hello, Luke,” he says, tired, aching.

Sharp inhale, and Luke tears his eyes away from Mystery!Mandalorian to look at Din, something so very wrong with the smile on his face.

“It’s Ben,” he says, and his voice cracks as he looks back at Mystery!Mandalorian, laughs at something Din doesn’t understand, something that makes Mystery!Mandalorian wince, even as he holds Luke’s gaze when he looks back at him. “Old Ben.”

Din frowns, because the man is older than them, Luke, that much is certain, but surely not old enough to have earned a title like that.

Because, look, alright.

Look.

Obi-Wan and sekrit missions because everyone knows trouble’s brewing, and a duchess of Mandalore contacted Padme, and things kind of just. Grew from there, to the point Obi-Wan went to Mandalore as an emmisary, ostensibly for political reasons, but really to help root out what information he could with Satine’s help and things went wrong.

Had him, and Satine, presumably killed in an uprising, no longer a threat to an unknown enemy.

Until the resistance took root, grew, and other such things.

Satine and Obi-Wan at the head of it, getting what information back to Padme, Anakin they could and everyone agreeing it was best for the time being if they stayed dead.

And then Luke’s ship being attacked and everything that followed, and anyway, anyway welcome to the resistance Luke Skywalker and friend, glad to have you.

Luke is understandably confused, angry at having been left in the dark, and angrier still that he has to admit to the necessity of it.

(He understands, but he’d still mourned for Obi-Wan, his father’s former mentor, teacher, and beloved uncle to Luke and Leia. He understands.)

And then there are briefings, because it’s very much a war the resistance is waging, against a common enemy and while Luke pay close attention to everything he and Din are told, he watches Obi-Wan, Satine.

Thinks oh, of course, when it hits him why the way the two of them interacts seems strangely familiar, known, because it’s the way his parents are, isn’t it?

Familiarity and trust, a knowing, and that little knot of anger buried deep in his chest at the deception involving Obi-Wan’s supposed death all those years ago unravels until he’s no longer breathing around it.

And then!

Shenanigans in which Din very much tries to NOT be part of this madness, because no, okay, no.

Simple bounty hunter and so on, and Luke don’t look at him like that, it won’t work -

So of course that’s when things go to hell and the base is attacked and Luke is taken and Din finds himself staring “Old Ben” down in the aftermath because this may not be his war to fight, but Luke is an idiot.

“Well,” Obi-Wan says, corner of his mouth quirking. “He does take after his father that way.”

Dramatic Rescues and Dine being So Done with everything, but also, like. Being heroically injured by shielding Luke and Luke’s pale face and fear in the back of his eyes as he leans over Din to keep him from bleeding out.

Striving for calm, soothing Din in between yelling for help, Obi-Wan and the others on their way, and Din laughing at him because he was told Jedi didn’t panic.

“Shut up,” Luke says, laugh all wrong. “I thought nothing could get through Mandalorian armor?”

Well.

Things go fuzzy for a bit, Din remembers pain and blood and yelling - a lot of that - and then he wakes up in a medical center somewhere.

Not the resistance base, but he doesn’t recognize it.

“Idiot,” is the first thing he hears, and then, “Stupid,” and so on, and when he turns his head Luke is glaring at him.

He must make for a terrible Jedi, Din thinks, because Jedi aren’t supposed to have attachment, are they?

Dangerous, terrible, and yet.

“You are, yes,” Din says, voice haorse, more of a croak, and when he laughs at the affornted look Luke gives him for that it hurts - still healing and all - but so very worth it.

And then, okay, and then.

It comes out that Palpatine has been building a base of power for himself for years, slow patient, and setting his enemies at one another’s throats to weaken them.

Conspiracies on conspiracies and Din watches Luke as his father - his father, mother, and sister who hasn’t left Luke’s side since they arrived - tell them.

(Because, you know, because. Luke’s family and secrets weighing heavy and of course, of course Leia would not be held back, would not just let Luke’s death go so easily.

Would investigate, relentless, until she stumbled over everything and her parents and a shared look and she gets it from you, you know, and me? you have to be kidding, and I get it from both of you, now tell me what’s going on right now.

Adventures, because Skywalkers. A chance meeting with a scruffy smuggler and his long-suffering Wookie friend, and a rickety, rusty freighter

.Hey, that’s no way to talk about a lady, and as if you’d know, and don’t encourage them, Padme, and Of course not, Anakin, and heavy, resigned sighs because Leia has always been terrifying like her mother and somehow more stubborn.

A resistance - “Rebellion,” Obi-Wan says, glint in his eye when Anakin looks at him, “seems more fitting don’t you think?” - growing as well in secret.

Both brought into the light with recent events and untold battles ahead, and just.

It’s a lot.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Luke says, and Din doesn’t tense at his voice, quiet, something sad to it under his amusement.

Din hmms, glances towards Luke.

So much has happened since they meet, learned of things far bigger than them, and still -

“We’re meant to be enemies,” he says, a Mandalorian to a Jedi, albeit one still in training if what Luke told him is true.

Luke cocks his head, and still crosses the clearing to sit beside him.

Hmms, right back at Din and Din bites back a sigh, watching Luke from the corner of his eye.

With everything that’s happened, they’ve learned, the old grudge seems petty in comparison.

Also, Obi-Wan and Satine, and it hardly seems important anymore, long before his time as it was, and while Luke’s certainly many things, he’s never felt like an enemy.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, calm, cool of the night and so much between them they don’t have words for yet, and none of it unwelcome.

When Luke gets to his feet, holds his hand out to Din, he doesn’t have to think about it when he takes it. Lets Luke pull him to his feet with that surprising strength of his, and falls into step with him just as easily.

And then they have Adventures and death-defying shenanigans and such. Steal kisses here and there and never put a name to this thing of theirs, but it’s strong enough to last through a war and to the other side of it.

Would-be Empire scattered and broken and a good bounty hunter’s experience is invaluable in stamping out the remnants.

Almost as much as a Jedi Knight who earned their title through countless battles and conflicts, steady familiar presence at his side.And really, really, it shouldn’t surprise him so much when Luke gives him this soft little smile when Din comes home after a solo mission, small green gremlin of a kid he’d found (rescued) in his arms and knows their little family has gained another member.

(And again and again, because Luke’s just as bad as him and Finn and Rey are fine on their own, but Grogu? An absolute nightmare and evil mastermind and Din doesn’t care what Luke says, the small green gremlin child gets it from Luke’s side of the family.)

Also, though.

The day Finn and Rey met Poe (Ben a little confused, bemused, blissfully unaware of what he was witnessing) signaled the beginning of the end and Luke is absolutely laughing at Din, don’t think he doesn’t know what that looks like by now. >:(((((((((((((((((((((((((

[ofbloodandbullets]

So it’s recently come to my attention that not everyone in the world has actually watched The Old Guard (WHO KNEW?!) so I’m going to try and do some info dumps about the world, the general canon and Andy’s history, personality, powers etc.  This will ... probably get kinda lengthy. 

Also: MAJOR MAJOR SPOILERS FOR COMICS & MOVIE.

The first thing you need to know is that for the main part, the history and the world that TOG takes place in is the exact same one as the real history of the world.  It’s set in modern day, though the plot points stretch back to 7k+ years ago.  It’s also important to note that there is a lot of historical inaccuracies and some things in canon that conflict themselves so it’s best to just take it all with a grain of salt and just go with what works best for your particular preferences etc. 

The main difference between reality and TOG is that in TOG there are a very minute like .00000000002% of the population that are immortals.  Now, it’s important to note that these people can die but they resurrect pretty close to immediately after they die no matter the amount of damage done.  Now it can take some time to fully heal or reform, depending on how extensive the trauma (being blown to bits or burned etc. will take longer to fix but there’s no amount of damage that we know of that can actually keep them dead).  

There are times when, for reasons unknown to the characters in character (or to us as readers  of the comics / viewers of the movie etc) that the immortality just stops.  There’ll just be a time that they suffer injuries that just don’t heal, and they die.  There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to this, be it age, number of times they’ve died, whatever.  Now, I have my own entirely headcanon and personal preference based theory which you can find HERE but it’s totally just a random idea that I had that I liked to explain the loss of Andy’s immortality in the movie (that doesn’t happen in the comics) and lets me say that she regains her immortality post canon so that I can nudge things back in the direction of the comics for post movie plots and so on.

Andy is, as far as we know, and as far as she knows, the oldest (human) immortal, coming in at around 7,000 years old.  She was born into a tribe, the Scythia (hence what she’s generally called: Andromache the Scythian).  A nomadic warrior tribe that I headcanon to be a matriarchy, Andy was betrayed by the ‘queen mother’ when she was sixteen and killed in battle because the leader feared that Andy posed a danger to her continuing rule.  This person was practically a mother to Andy and it was a horrific betrayal.  What was almost as shocking to Andy was the fact that she got back up again after being literally stabbed in the back and killed.

In the vein of trying to thwart prophecies making them happen, Andy killed the matriarch and took her placce ruling the tribe, eventually becoming a God King to her people and ruling over them for hundreds of years until her loneliness absolutely overwhelmed her and one day she just vanished.

At some point after this, she began to dream of a woman, feeling a pull towards this stranger that she couldn’t begin to explain.  After dozens, maybe hundreds of years, she managed to track down the woman in question (Noriko in the comics, Quynh in the movie) and realized that they’d been dreaming of each other.  (In the comics she meets Lykon before Quynh/Noriko, whom she had also been dreaming of).  

Now, the connection between these immortals isn’t explained in canon, and for a long time, Andy, Lykon, Noriko (and eventually Joe, Nicky, Book) thought they were the only ones but there is a scene in the second set of comics that implies that there are other ‘packs’ of immortals.  I headcanon that it’s a ‘like calls to like’ / kind of Sense8 simpatico type thing - like minded souls drawn to each other, which is why Andy and the others didn’t know about the other immortals, but again, that’s just entirely my thoughts on the matter. 

Lykon is the first to succumb to the loss of immortality, a short couple hundreds years after he and Andy find each other.   He dies on a battlefield, one that he and Quynh/Noriko and Andy fought on like a hundred/thousand before, champions for the abused etc.  Skip forward a couple hundred years again and enter Joe & Nicky, a Knight and a Muslim warrior who kill each other on the battlefield only to both wake up and spend (an unspecified amount of time) hunting and killing each other before eventually Andy & Quynh/Noriko find them.  In time, Joe & Nicky realize that they love each other.   (Important to note that Quynh/Noriko and Andy were also lovers).  In the movie, when the first major surge of witch hunts began, Quynh/Noriko and Andy go to help the women that stood accused, only to be captured and accused of witchcraft themselves.  After being hung, drowned, burned at the stake and coming back to life every time, the witch hunters settled on locking Quynh into an iron coffin and dropping her into the ocean.  (In the comics, Noriko is lost at sea during a massive storm that had thrown their ship entirely off course with Andy having no clue where they actually were at the time.) 

Joe & Nicky arrive in time to rescue Andy, but Noriko is already gone and despite spending decades tracking down every person even remotely involved in the so called ‘investigation’ into the women’s inquisition and punishment, Andy wasn’t able to find anything about where Quynh could be. 

Cue angst & depression & guilt for ages after.

The trio still steps in over the following decades, trying to help prevent the worst of atrocities, but Andy quickly begins to spiral into an, at best apathetic, at worst, entirely distant and withdrawn mindset and steadily begins to lose hope that they’re actually making any difference at all.

Skip ahead a century or two and enter Book; a Russian conscript who had been forced into the fight after being convicted of forgery.  Hung for desertion, Book spend days dying over and over again as he hung there, unable to attempt an escape until the troops finally packed up and moved on.   He and Andy, Nicky and Joe meet up and Book kinda reluctantly joins their little group.  It’s revealed that Book dreams, still, of Noriko/Quynh and while he can’t tell where hse is, dreams of her still dying, drowning on the floor of the ocean over and over and over like she had been for the last hundred or two years.  

Book returns at some point to his mortal family which ended in disaster when his last remaining son was dying of cancer, cursing and screaming at Book for ‘choosing not to save him’ by making him immortal too, even though it’s something Book had no ability to transfer or make happen.  Between his nightmares, losing his son and a number of other factors, Book decides he wants to end it all but no matter what he tries, doesn’t die and stay dead.

Eventually he’s approached by a pharmaceutical company that has figured out what he is and wants to run tests on him to see if they can unlock his healing / immortality for other people.  Merrick’s company works in league with an ex CIA agent whose wife died of a horrific terminal disease who hopes that they can find a way to keep anyone else from dying if they don’t have to.    Initially it was just supposed to be him, but he’d set up a display to stream for proof of what he was / they were and the corp decided they wanted all of the immortals.   Book ends up betraying the team, and he and the others end up locked up and tested on / killed / experimented on etc.  

There’s another character introduced in the meantime, the first new immortals in centuries, an American soldier named Niles.  There’s a lot more that goes on here, but the main point is that in the movie, Andy stops healing from her wounds shortly after she tracks down Nile and is put into incredible amounts of danger when Merrick (the leader of the pharmaceutical company) captures Andy, Joe, Book, Nicky.  Book is devastated, Nicky and Joe are furious, Andy’s just tired.

Eventually, Andy and the others break free with Niles’ help, destroy the lab they were originally held in etc and set out to try and hunt down any other proof, lab results, anything that Merrick got his hands on during the tests.

The group meets and settles on a hundred year exile for Booker (which I think is one of the stupidest things - like, the man’s clearly desperate and depressed and lonely and mentally unstable so by all means let’s isolate him for a fully century) and at the end of the movie we see him stumbling home to his apartment six months later to find Quynh standing in his apartment, pouring and drinking a glass of water which is a whole power move considering how many millions of times she died by drowning.

In the comics, Quynh/Noriko was driven entirely mad and to the point of wanting vengeance against Andy for abandoning her and spends a while gaslighting Andy and torturing her physically and emotionally and what not until she manages to isolate Andy from the other immortals and scoops in to ‘rescue’ Andy.  IDK what they’re going to adapt this to in the second movie, 

Again, via the link posted above, my Andy slowly begins to regain her immortality (again, IDK what they’re going to do with the next movie).  

Uhhhh yeah.  So I .. think that’s the majority of what you need to know for canon info about Andy.  THIS is also an important PSA regarding my Andy’s history & her longest lasting relationship that has nothing to do with canon at all but that is part of Andy’s bg in every verse, even if it never comes into play.

[mxvladdy]

True Form- Leviathan

Here it is. Sorry for the delay! I hope you like it!

True Form- Leviathan 

In the celestial realm, he loved the waters and was gifted a body that was best suited for it from his father. It was beautiful, so sleek, shiny, and fast. When he was in the water even Mammon had trouble keeping up. But, the best part of it all was that some angels were envious of it. 

He was pretty close to Asmo during this time too. Asmo would help him dry brush his scales and moisturize the harder to reach areas across his body. In return when Levi would shed Asmo got to keep his pretty scales. From there Asmo would make makeup and jewelry from them. 

When he would visit the human realm with Lilith and Belphie they would play near any body of water that tickled their fancy to teased the mortals with his splendor. They would get a good laugh out of the stories of mermaids and great sea beasts that were created around him afterward. 

During the fall he was separated from the rest of the brothers. His unconscious body flung away from the pack to careen into the parts unknown while his brothers plummet into the Devildom. 

He comes to briefly to the feel of his blistered flayed skin hissing on impact by the cool ocean waters of the human realm. 

He slumbered for a long time down there. His body recovering from the war in the quiet. It adapted without him, working overtime to survive its new environment. His broken halo’s edges dull out, the deep trench’s currents buffering and polishing it down to horns. They grow out slowly into a large coral reef for the deep-sea inhabitants. 

The lack of light turns his skin a translucent grey color, the warm glow from the celestial realm leached from him. While his scales and hide turn dark and take on an oily sheen. Great clumps of basalt rock grow over the burns from tearing through the earth's atmosphere. The rapid heating and cooling of his skin formed iron-rich patches around his flaking scales. 

When he wakes he is distraught. His once illustrious serpentine tail and radiant body were now battered and stained in his eyes. He stays down there in the depths out of shame for a few more years. 

The rest of the changes to his body were of his own making. A grand mixture from the creatures that he observed around him. His bright celestial markings now took after the bioluminescent creatures that would flock around him. He grew his hair out, enchanting some strains to take after the jellyfish he ate. Absorbing their toxins to imbue into his hair and blood. 

He finds the fish with razor sharp teeth and large net-like mouths fascinating and takes after them too.  Once he is satisfied (and has pulled himself out of his little self-pity party) he moves from his den, traversing the ocean floor and migrating with some of the other larger sea beasts. 

The years of separation from his brothers did a number on his mental health and social skills. Being trapped under the water for so long healing has stunted that part of his physique. The years before his brothers found him have dulled his social skills with higher beings and humans. Making him antisocial as well as paranoid. 

His communication skills with sea life are much better. During his travels, he bested and then befriended many mythical creatures. But his greatest ally has to be the legendary sea beast Lotan.

The older beast taught Leviathan a lot about the human realm and what has changed over time. Took up a bit of a parental/ mentor role for Levithan. They settle together in the waters of the east sea. 

Leviathan was drawn to this particular patch of water because of the pretty boats, atakebune Lotan called them. For years he watched the coastal regions of China and Japan grow and prosper and more ships entered his territory. 

He became somewhat of a local legend. Sailors and warriors would bring him offerings of food, gold, people, and other valuables for safe passage through his waters or help in an upcoming naval battle. He sometimes helped but most of the time he just observed.

He did take great joy in battles. It was a great game for him. Something different from the boring year among the fish.  

Contrary to belief, he can’t control the weather or the seas but his massive body can create devastating waves and his control of sea life is deadly to sailors. His fishy friends eat well when he emerges for a battle. He keeps the bloated and rioting corpses of fallen soldiers. They feed his smaller friends and help him maintain his coral horns

His brother’s eventually find him and bring him to the Devildom after they hear rumors of a mischievous sea serpent.

Whether it was because of his old injuries or just all his time under the sea with a tail he doesn’t have great control in his bipedal form. Both his human and demonic form have a slight limp and no aptitude for physical activity. 100% has a pass to get out of P.E. 

Moving back in with the brothers really brought out his cardinal sin of envy. He used to be so close with them all and then he was separated for so long he feels like he will never catch up. Between their new forms (that he finds much more practical and prettier than his) and his inability to adjust to their new lifestyle, he cemented himself in his envy. He tucks himself away in his room and surrounds himself with distractions and stories. 

Diavolo gifted him his enchanted aquarium after hearing about his struggles to adapt from Lucifer. Levi was appreciative but will never say it. When he gets overwhelmed by life and his video games can’t distract from his racing thoughts he likes to go in for a swim and tend to his aquatic gardens.

Mini Fic

Warm water laps at your toes. The salt of it clinging to your feet in thin crusty layers. You wiggle them, washing away some of the grime and to propel yourself deeper into the water. You take joy in disrupting the mirror-like finish of the once still water. Smiling up at the giant sun lamp mounted over you, you adjust your sunglasses. 

Sunday lounge days were the best. Just you, a cold bottle of soda, and a new swimsuit. You missed the beach and waters of the human whelm but not the crowds. Ugh, screaming kids and impolite beach guests were the worst. This was the best alternative you could have imagined. Between the warmth of the heat lamp and the slow motions of the water underneath you, you felt the stress of the week slowly washing away.

Dipping your hands in the water you begin to push your floaty further away from the edge of the thick aquarium wall. The light blue water underneath you deepening to an emerald green when you reach the drop-off point of Levi’s tank. The water is cooler here, but still comfortable as most of your body is still dry and safely nestled in his oversized pool float. Little surface fish and aquatic animals swim by, splashing your floaty and nibbling at your toes gently in greeting. They all knew better than to actually bother you.  

Letting the gentle current of the water pumps push you around in lazy circles you pull out the manga Levi had bought you (magically coated to make it waterproof) and flip back to your last bookmark. Enjoying the peace and quiet you immerse yourself in his latest hyper fixation. 

A few chapters in and three empty soda bottles later you notice your idle turning had stopped. Leaving you at a complete standstill. The water around you was still. The little fishies that had been following you had disappeared to the devil knows when. Yet despite the sudden abandonment of your aquatic entourage you still felt a presence. The heavy aura of a predatory gaze makes the fine hairs of your neck stand on end. The self-preserving part of your mind kicking into fight or flight mode. Best to just ignore that for now...Peeking out from behind your sunglasses you lean over your floaty to see what had stopped you. A gargantuan milky white eye stares back up at you. 

When you had first been introduced to this side of Levi his pearly gaze had been so guarded. It had been by complete accident that you saw well- him. So that couldn’t have helped much with his confidence. You had come by to drop off a few handheld consoles that he had lent you to see if you would like one as a gift. You remember being by his desk trying to find a noncluttered space to put them all when the blue glow of his room was suddenly thrown into darkness.

That was the first time you had been face to face with The Leviathan. It was magnificent. Even your textbooks in your Introduction to Demonology didn’t do him justice. It was breathtaking and bone chilling all in one. You remember locking eyes with him and the both of you freezing. His reflexive gaze boring into you a mixture of betrayal and fear fighting for dominance. A wordless dare for you to scream or curse his appearance. They had been closed off to all your kind words and encouragements at the beginning. 

Now they are open and warm. If not a little mischievous. Scratch that-very mischievous. 

“Don’t you dare.” You warn with a dawning realization. “Levi!” You shout over the edge of your float after him. He sinks down without even making a ripple. The shadow of the beast's body turns the green waters black as he jets underneath you. The little flicks of bioluminescence on his hide blink in and out of focus as he moves. Distracted as you were leaning over the side you didn’t notice the slim tip of his tail rise from the other side. 

It happened quickly, a slight jerk on your ankle and then a shock of cold water. Coughing and sputtering you breach the surface. Floundering about blindly for your floaty, your hands rest on something thick and sturdy. He chitters and laughs at his little joke. “Ya-ya laugh it up.” You grip his tree trunk sized tail like a lifeline. He keeps still giving you time to blink the water out of your eyes. “Ok. You got me in the water now what?” 

HAvE- sUrpiEssss. Levi’s large mouth clicked clumsily over the syllables. His long thin teeth always made it hard to shape his words. It had taken some time and effort to get him to loosen up enough to talk. He was very self-conscious of the phlegmy- waterlogged sound of it. The years spent under the sea having permanently filled his lungs with briny saltwater. Each breath of air rattle deep in his barrel chest.  

Schooling your expression you shot him a scowl Lucifer would be proud of. “What, a mouthful of salt wasn’t enough?” He scoffs white eyes narrowing, seeing right through your false agitation. This wouldn’t be the first or the last time he got your attention like this and he knew you were fine with it. “Alright you oversized guppy, how far down is it?” 

Levi beams, wide mouth stretching to flash you his blood-stained fangs. His gills flaring up in excitement down his large neck and rib cage. Careful of his more toxic strands of hair and the abrasive patches of rock around his neck, you swim closer accepting help from his long pale fingers. Clutching onto his strong neck you give him a small thumbs up.

He dives into the water with practiced ease slowly descending to give your body and the magic protecting you time to acclimate. It was bone-chillingly at first, your whole body seizing as you are submerged. But soon the magic of your pact began to work warming you and making you able to breathe underneath the artificial currents. Eyes slowly adjusting to the lack of light you nestle into the crook of his neck for the remainder of the ride. 

He takes you to an underwater cave. The mouth hidden behind flowing purple and green water weeds. The entrance of the cave was like nothing you’ve seen before. Other caves in his habit were filled to the brim with coral and little crustaceans. Sometimes even an elusive mermaid or capricorn nursing injury. But this one was- empty. Warmer too as you swam deeper. The great sea beast dragging himself through the cave with his needle like claw above you. A defensive stance if ever you saw one. 

You catch his eye and raise a brow. Don’t worry- itss ssafe...I think. 

“Wait? You think?” You stop in your tracks only to have a massive hand nudge you along. He pushes you through the last of the tangled seaweed and kelp you look up into a- “nursery?” Levi smiles and nods twitchily. 

Do you like it? I’ve spent months getting this place ready. He leaves you to look around freely, instead slithering up to a slightly less floral. You gape turning slowly in circles to take in the beauty around you. The cove simmered with the lights from his heat lamp pushing through the cracks in the rocks from above. The yellow warmth makes it easier for the crazy amount of plants and sponges to thrive. But the vast majority of the light came from the jellies and fish that had probably never been seen by human eyes before floating around you. 

They were busy, grooming the anemones and rainbow colored corals, eating and pushing bits of waste away from large lilac colored eggs.  The larger of the sea creatures swim above you checking on some of the moving eggs completely ignoring you and Levi... “Are they-”

Sirens. Lotan found a broodmother and her clutch last winter. We thought they had been wiped out centuries ago. He chitters at one of the eggs and scratches at his coral horns. She needed a place to nest so we made a deal. Taking great care he pulls at a large clump of sargassum from the base and pats it into a bare patch of rock. You watch him with a growing smile as he pulls more plants and critters from his horns. Once satisfied he scoops up a few of the larger eggs below him and nestles them into their new home.

You peek over his shoulder to look into the nest. Hauntingly beautiful babies look back up at you. Cherub sweet faces follow you and Levi’s movements. Levi grins proudly as one of the girls stretches out in her small space. They should be hatching soon. With some prompting from Leviathan, you accepted an egg. The inhabited squirming and clawing at its elastic membrane. It looked too small for its leather confines. The baby siren opens her tiny mouth and screeches, little needle teeth biting and ripping at the egg.

“Should I help it?” You ask. She was squirming so hard it was a fight to keep her in your arms. Levi looks over and emits a little series of clicks and coos at the fussy babe. The babe stops wiggling as hard but begins to claw at a thinner part of the shell. He turns after that to tend to a few squirming eggs himself. His claws were much more helpful than your blunt human fingers. Well then... You wait until the little beast has punctured the shell itself before helping it widen the breech. 

Once freed the siren floats to the soft cave flooring. The kelp and anemones cushioning it, covering her body almost lovingly.  A swarm of little crabs and shrimp descend on it picking and eating away at the remaining goo and membrane clinging to the infant. She giggles at the tiny pinches and mouths nibbling at her tail and claws. With a squeal of delight, she crawled after them and began to devourer them. Blue and green blood coming up in clouds from her mouth. 

Levi laughs at your look of disgust momentarily distracted from freeing a few more babies. They will grow to bring the bodies of sailors to me for Diavolo’s navy. This is but practice. 

“Oh-” You blink down at the monster now enraptured with your toes. The mood changed quickly.

Oh no. Levi buries his face in his hands instantly regretting opening his big mouth. That’s gross, isn’t it? Of course, this whole thing is disgusting to a human. I should have never shown you, nobody likes this stuff. He coils in on himself sinking to the bottom, eggs forgot to his misery. 

“Now what a minute! I didn’t say that.” You sink down after him. “I don’t think it’s icky. Just another learning curve for us normies right? Honestly, this is kinda cool.” 

Really? He peeks out from behind his hair and fingers.

You grip his hands, struggling to pull them away from his face. “Yeah!” You beam. “I mean you built all this? It is beautiful. Totally reminds me of that anime you watched with me last month.” 

I think my roommate is a sea god and almost drowned my ex? He brightens tailing wagging. 

“Exactly! You’ve really outdone yourself this time. Plus think of all the cool names you can come up with for all these sirens.” His gills flare again with a shrill screech. 

Henry’s!

Ah- well maybe it would be better if someone else named them.

[theninjamouse]

33 for Shore and Gaster maybe? Id say maybe a little off shoot from the Silks versions of them if you're feeling up to it?

33. An unexpected kiss that shocks the one receiving it.

(Note: This will reference stuff that happens in the fic. It’ll be left intentionally vague but there will be some *minor spoilers* for Lightning and Silks. Also this is a scenario that might possibly show up in the fic itself so...consider this, at the moment, semi-canon)

~~~~

Stupid, you were so stupid. You knew better than you try and make jumps when you couldn’t clearly see the landing area. But it was a path you had taken a dozen times before, you knew the patch of concrete that your feet would meet between the layered boxes that offered a shielding wall from prying eyes like you knew each scrape and scuff on your shoes. 

But knowing a place doesn’t mean it won’t ever change. 

The fall itself is a bit of a blur. You jumped, you saw that it was not clear ground before you but some kind of large metal equipment and twisted your body to avoid collision with the sharp edges. The burst of pain through your left side, the deep and damning snapping in your ribs, now that you remember. That had left you shoving your fist in your mouth, muffling the shrieks tearing at your throat as you breathed through the pain. Once you caught your breath, you had staggered home, limping and pressing a hand against your bleeding arm. It definitely counted as one of your worst landings, perhaps save for the one where you landed directly onto your current employer. 

Cleaning up had revealed harsh red lesions and bruises all over your ribs. Every breath made sharp pain slice through your lungs. Reason tells you that you’ve got a least one broken rib. You shove it down, telling yourself it’s just bruising. 

Even if it is broken, it’s not like you can really do anything about it. What are you supposed to do, take time off from work? Tell Cinders ‘Sorry I can’t help you track down the bad guys for a few weeks, I got a boo-boo on my ribs?’ 

Nah, you’ll grit your teeth and get through it. You’re good at that

So it’s with only a limp very slightly showing and long sleeves on that you show up at the club for your silks show, one of your less see through suits shoved in your bag. Grillby’s nowhere to be seen, thank god so you quickly slip back towards the dressing rooms. You doubt he would’ve outright said something had he seen you but you’re far more concerned about-

“Not even going to say hi?” 

You barely bite back the yowl that shoots straight from your ribs as you jump. Teeth grit around a hissing breath, you turn. “Well, I can’t very well say hi if you hide in the shadows like a creep.” 

Gaster peels himself off the hallway wall, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks. “For once I wasn’t hiding in the shadows; you just looked like you were too busy planning a murder to notice me.” His red eye lights dance over you. “Little warm for long sleeves, isn’t it?” 

“I don’t wanna hear that from you, Mr. Turtleneck.” You turn on your heel and continue down the hallway. Gaster trails after you, silent save for the very slight rustle of fabric. 

“You’re limping.” 

“Am not.” 

“Crash into another dangerous monster on a run did you?”

You snort. “Like I could afford to be in debt to another Grillby.” You’ve reached the door and instinctively move to grab the handle with your bad arm. Ow, nope, bad idea. You switch last minute, awkwardly shifting your bag on your shoulder and reaching out with your left hand. “Anyway, I’ve got to get ready, did you actually need anything?” 

The door shuts with a solid thud. You blink at Gaster’s hand just above your head, keeping the door firmly shut. Your heart shoots up into your throat and your skin prickles from the mere presence of him right behind you. “What the hell are you doing?” you ask as calmly as you can, still facing the door. 

“I was about to ask you that,” he says just as casually, as if his arm wasn’t trapping you one on side. “Or rather, what the hell did you do?” 

“What, the limp? I just took a rough landing earlier, it’s no big deal.” 

You can hear the grin in his voice, the smug bastard. “I thought you said you weren’t limping.” 

Lip curling into a snarl, you turn around. “Look, you can’t just--”

You’re cut off suddenly. Because Gaster has leaned down and pressed his mouth against yours in a kiss. All annoyance, all pain and all thoughts stutter to a complete and utter halt. Your bag slips from your shoulder and lands on the ground with a muffled thud and still you stand frozen, mouth caught in a shockingly gentle kiss that can barely be called a kiss at all but rather the press of smooth bone against your lips.

What is he....what the hell...?

Then, pain shoots up your arm at a sudden grip and movement and you jerk back, head smacking against the door. 

Gaster has already moved his stare away from you, hands deftly pushing your sleeve up your injured arm to reveal a harsh marring of bruises and scraps. “Several lacerations, most appear superficial but clean. Bruising, will probably darken over the next day or so.” 

“Hey--“ Your voice is a high croak. 

His hands release your arm and instead press very, very lightly against your side. His eye lights flare and you shiver under the press of magic that sets off your senses like a sudden wave of cold. “Two breaks, clean. Aorta is stable but further motion may cause puncturing.” 

“G-get off me!” You shove him back, not that it does a single thing to actually move the towering monster. But he does let his hand fall and takes a step back. “What the hell! Why did you do that?” 

“I needed to assess your injuries.” His tone is still clinical, though you do catch an undercurrent of some emotion that you can’t quite place. “I didn’t want to just grab you and possibly cause further harm.” 

“So you kissed me?!” 

“I distracted you.” He’s frowning now, eye lights still boring into you like he can see the extend of your injuries through force of staring alone. “Let’s try this again; what did you do?” 

Head still spinning with the force of your racing heart, you don’t bother to gentle the truth. “I nearly got myself sliced by some kind of metal equipment thing, alright? I didn’t though and just landed hard. It’s not that big a deal.” 

“You have two broken ribs.” 

“It’s none of your business!” 

He ignores that, shoulders very slightly loosening out of their tense hold. “You weren’t attacked?” 

You blink. “No?” 

A long and heavy breath of air leaves Gaster’s mouth at that and he closes his sockets for a moment. Then, with a quick flick of his wrist, his phone appears in his hand and he presses it up against his skull. After a moment- “Cinders? You’re going to need another act for tonight.” 

A burst of noise from the line has you wincing. 

“Stop spitting, she’s fine. Well, no actually she’s not but she’s not dead, which is something.”  A pause. “I don’t know, you’re the owner, figure it out! Love you, byeeeee.”

He hangs up, that familiar spark of annoying glee back in his sockets. “Well, you’re cleared for the night. Now come with me; I’ve got the keys to Grillby’s penthouse.” 

Excuse- penthouse?! “Why?” 

“To get those ribs taken care of of course. You can’t be leaping around rooftops like this.” 

“You can’t- look, I’ll be fine okay? Ribs have to just heal on their own, there’s nothing you can do.” 

Gaster gives you a flat stare. “There’s nothing you humans can do about it. I am capable of far more than what your measly human doctors could even hope to dream of.” He leans over you, a promising grin on his face. 

The sight makes your lips burn with the ghostly echo of his kiss.

“Are you going to make me carry you, or do you want to hold on to what’s left of your dignity and walk?” 

You gape up at him for a moment before snapping your jaw shut. “Fine.” 

“Good choice.” He pats your cheek, picks up your bag and slings it over his own shoulder and then smoothly walks away, fully expecting you to follow him.

You do so, the fingers of your good hand reaching up gingerly touch your lips. 

A distraction. That’s all it was. 

Right. 

…Right?

[writeblrfantasy]

born from the prologue of the way of kings, some old school supernatural inspiration, and my entry into the hannibal fandom, i give you cyril's hell! all the characters in this are gods of actium state and urkon, and this happens well before acogs takes place. nikolai and katya tell this story over the fire over the course of the book. it's a mythology story.

cw blood, very vague descriptions of pain and torture and injuries, everything you can think of about someone being tortured in hell basically

word count about 7000

thank you guys for all the love on the summer of seret ashling, it definitely inspired me to write another short. i love writing shorts--you get the serotonin from finishing a wip and seeing people's reactions to it much faster. lower stakes. i have plans to write many more :)

enjoy! <3

Cyril wakes to burning pinpricks of agony seared into his arms. Unfortunately, this is perfectly normal.

The ghost of Alabaster’s laugh echoes in his ears, slowly fading out, but never completely. He never leaves Cyril alone, whether he’s sleeping—if you can call it that—or widely, excruciatingly awake. He’s dropped Cyril back in what has become his home, a room brightly lit with distant fire and a musical background consisting of the screams of the damned.

This place, out of all, is probably the safest for him, despite the metal piercing his arms, the chains connecting him to the ceiling. His arms went numb from the angle minutes ago. He tries not to jostle them, as well as his collection of new wounds, only healed enough not to kill him.

What does Cyril have to do to prove he knows he can't escape?

It’s not about that, he knows.

Alabaster's hell is more than pain, more than agony. It transcends anything Cyril has ever experienced, and yet every week Alabaster finds ways to show him something else new.

How long has it been?

Does it matter?

Alabaster’s cologne lingers on Cyril’s skin, one more layer of invisible pain. The worst thing is perhaps how he’s unable to wipe away the sweat dripping into his eyes. It only takes minutes after Alabaster deposits him back in here for his whole body to become soaked again.

Cyril naively thought, when Alabaster first brought him here, that it wouldn’t be so bad. That everything he’d be made to endure would be softened or cushioned in some way, more about drama than actual pain.

How wrong he was.

Alabaster, or perhaps just his own mind, has trained him to be relieved when he comes to unlock Cyril’s door every week. Freedom, he thinks, respite from the endless heat and sweat and reprieve for his aching arms. For the first few seconds, Alabaster’s smile looks pleasant. He’s undoubtedly excited to see Cyril, but Cyril somehow manages to forget every single time that smile means nothing good for him.

“Hello, beautiful,” Alabaster always says, in such a familiar tone it’s imprinted in Cyril’s dreams. “Let’s go.”

Reprieve turns into regret quickly.

Cyril has learned how to manage this, somewhat. Stay very still, don’t trigger anything, don’t tense up, try to sleep. Doing nothing but sleep for the whole week until Alabaster comes still won’t do enough, but in sleep, he has relief for a bit longer, a chance to see Damokles’ face again.

Tonight, when he closes his eyes, it’s not just Damokles’ kind eyes waiting for him, it’s Thea’s dark ones, clearer than usual, almost like they’re calling out for him.

He opens them and jostles himself a bit by accident, groaning in agony. He searches the shadows in the corner of the room for her face, and he could’ve sworn—

There’s nothing there but the sweat in his eyes.

***

As he drifts through sleep and wakefulness, Thea’s dark eyes return to him. He sees flashes of her through the haze of flames and screams, a striking dark clarity and a sense of peace.

The days just before Alabaster collects him are the worst. He finally has his strength back, or as he much as is possible down here, and it’s a new kind of agony to feel so glorious the day before his feet will be knocked out from under him. In the early days, when he still believed he could sway Alabaster by repetition alone, that if he begged just enough, Alabaster might listen, he pled to be left alone for just one more week.

“Not this time,” he’d sob, back when he still sobbed, when he gave Alabaster the pleasure of savoring his carefully crafted creation. Let him see, let him have it, he once thought. If he gave Alabaster what he wanted, he’d get a reward, because that’s how fair people work. All it did was make Alabaster hungry for more of his tears.

“Thea?” he whispers, low, as he swears her face appears in the shadows again. She’s exquisite, and she’s not real. if he’s not just seeing things, she’s one of Alabaster’s new experiments designed to drive him out of his mind.

Cyril will not fall for it.

“Thea?” he asks, still, hopeful and naïve despite everything.

The darkness in the corner moves, too clear to be a product of the shadows cast by the flames. Cyril stands straight so that his feet are supporting his weight instead of his arms, alleviating the perpetual ache in his back for a precious moment.

Theadora, in all her glory, walks out of the corner, dripping darkness and shade. Her long dark hair flows behind her, and her skin shines under the straps of her long dress. She doesn’t seem to walk on solid ground—her feet and the bottom of her black dress melt into shadows before his eyes.

Cyril loses his breath. She’s just as beautiful as he remembers. Most wonderfully of all, she’s clean, her face free of sweat and her arms free of blood and age old wounds.

She rushes over to him immediately, cupping his pale, ashen face in her dark hands. “Cyril,” she whispers, perhaps afraid of disturbing nonexistent peace. Cyril would be more afraid of drawing Alabaster’s attention.

“You’re not real,” he murmurs as she presses their foreheads together. She smells like their garden in the clouds, sweet and fresh, not a trace of smoke anywhere on her. She kisses him, and Cyril melts into it like liquid, imagining he can sip freezing water from her lips. She’s so refreshingly cold. Her heart is the only part of her that’s warm, and pleasantly so. It burns for him.

“He fabricated you to taunt me with for his pleasure. You’ll be gone in a moment, and I’ll be screaming for you because I still haven’t learned after all this time, and in a few days he’ll come in to see the results.”

“No. Cyril, I am real.” She touches one of his hands, clearly resisting the urge to squeeze it but knowing the ramifications. The way she stares at the chains holding him to the ceiling makes him shiver. He’s almost forgotten any type of power existed other than hot, burning, prodding pain.

How he’s missed the icy power of the moon.

“I am here to get you out,” she insists. He closes his eyes—they’re the words he’s dreamed of thousands of times, exactly in her sweet, desperate voice, but it’s too good. If he concentrates hard enough, he can see Alabaster’s grin in Thea’s eyes.

“You can only open the door from the inside, and he sure as hell wouldn’t let you in,” he argues. Anything else pleasant would tear him apart when it inevitably crumbles down on him. “You—you wouldn’t happen to have any water, would you?”

“Of course.” She brings out a jug and raises it to his lips. He drinks eagerly, the water sweet and cold, probably from the Pelia, her favorite. He doesn't care if it's poisoned.

Her silver bracelets sparkle in the firelight, and his eyes follow her fingers as she wipes the swipe off his face with a velvet cloth. He jerks his hands towards her as she begins to pull away on instinct, remembering his chains with a sigh. She’s still close enough for him to press his lips to her dark wrist, light as a feather.

He jerks again when something wet hits him, but his heart lurches when he looks up and sees that it’s her tears. For a moment, the only sound is the crackle of the fire lining the walls and the distant screams of Alabaster’s victims.

Cyril has never wanted his hands back as much as he does now. He wants to wrap his arms around her, whisper assurances in her ear like he used to when she grew worried. Instead, she wraps her arms around his torso and buries her face in the hollow his neck, crying quietly. The slight twinge of pain her salty tears bring to his hundreds of wounds old and new is more than worth it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, closing his eyes.

She gathers herself enough to say, “What? Why?”

“I’m sorry for getting caught. I never should’ve left you. I should’ve been smarter, shouldn’t have let him anywhere near me, I knew what would happen—”

For a moment he's back in that seedy human tavern with both of them, intrigued but not alarmed by Alabaster's sudden presence and mischievous grin. What a fool he was to let Alabaster take him outside. Before he knew it, he was here.

“I would slap you," Thea says. "This is no one’s fault but Alabaster’s.”

He raises his eyes and smiles at her through his lashes. Thea makes him feel young again, as free and painless as if he’d never been dragged down here.

She pulls back, dries her eyes, and says steadily, “Me and Damokles have been waiting outside the door every night. Alabaster has been greedy, going out more often to collect new victims. He’s been careless. He leaves the door open enough for me to slip in through the darkness. He’s bright enough to take up all the light, he doesn’t notice me.”

Cyril’s heart pounds. Damokles. He resists temptation to ask about him—Thea would tell him if something was amiss with him—and instead asks, “How long have you been trying to get in here?”

“Too long. I’ve only been able to set foot inside some of his maze before he comes back or locks the door. This place is convoluted.” She swallows. “Do you even know where you are?”

He doesn’t care about where he is, he cares that she is actually starting to sound real, which is the worse option. If she’s just Alabaster’s creation, she’ll be ripped away from him. if she’s real, she’ll be ripped away from him when Alabaster discovers them together, and that will hurt ten times as much.

“Yes,” he says, smiling. “The eighth ring of hell. I’ve been through them all. The misconception is that each gets worse the further up you go, but that’s not true. Each sector of hell is just as bad as the last, just in different ways.” He licks his lips.

“Alabaster has spared nothing spared nothing in my tour of his domain. He’s shown me every piece of what he calls art. I have become so intimately familiar with the beauty of hell, the beauty of pain, the purity of it. He says it reduces us to our most basic needs again, tears down our walls and erases our dignity. He loves watching the change.”

Her mouth drops open. “He—” A distant creak draws her eye, whipping her hair into his eyes.

“That’s nothing,” he says. “I hear that ten times a day.”

“Nothing for you, maybe. That’s the sound of Alabaster opening the door.”

“Really? It’s that quiet? That’s a bit anti-climactic.”

She hasn’t taken her eyes off the door. “I need to go.”

“No,” he says, rattling his chains, which is more likely to draw Alabaster than their voices. He seems to have a sense for when Cyril is struggling or in pain more than when he’s talking to himself. “Please. Don’t leave. I won’t survive it.”

I won’t survive it? He’s survived far more corporeal pain than Thea’s absence. Moreover, where is this panic coming from?

“I’m sorry,” she echoes—now she’s the one with nothing to apologize for. The last thing he wants is her getting trapped down here too. He’d sooner endure everything Alabaster has done to him again than let him touch her. “I’ll be back, I swear. Damokles and I miss you more than you know.” She feeds him the rest of the water and kisses him one more time, a break from the endless heat. He takes it greedily. He’ll take everything he can get.

“That one’s from him,” she says, longing eyes raking him over one last time, before disappearing into the shadows of the corner. He knows she’s gone—the flames flicker, almost going out, before returning in full force. The sweat she wiped away from his forehead returns quicker than he would’ve liked, but at least Alabaster doesn’t come running.

***

“Hello, beautiful. Let’s go.”

Alabaster sweeps into the room in a ray of light blocking out the darkness of the hallway behind him. The clank his lantern makes when he sets it on the floor is a noise Cyril hears in his dreams.

Cyril stopped speaking to him long ago, and he ignores Alabaster while he reaches up, spreading his sweet smell everywhere, to free his arms. Through gritted teeth and a stifled shout, he lowers them, resisting the familiar temptation to shake them out.

“You know you don’t have to hide your sounds,” Alabaster says. “They’re like music to me, the finest lutes and cellos all at once.”

“That’s exactly why I do.” It’s the first time he’s spoken in a week, and his voice is hoarse and dry with thirst and underuse. “No water this time?”

“I have something better.”

“Better for you, maybe.”

Alabaster grins, showing sharp white canines, running a hand through white blond hair. He’s always chosen a wickedly tall body with long, pale fingers, skinny as a stick. The sleeves of the crisp white shirt under his brown waistcoat are always rolled up above his elbows, ready at a moment’s notice to get elbow deep. Black trousers are always stainless and black shoes are always shined perfectly.

He never wears a hint of the filth that lives in his mind, the grime that’s often under his fingernails. The only light he gets is that of the flames—he’d never go near Cyril’s sun if he could help it, just in case it might hurt him. He only leaves to draw in more victims, never under Thea’s moonlight. Cyril has been around him long enough to know that he’s not invincible, not mentally, at least. He does have fears.

To be fair, Cyril can’t think of many who wouldn’t be terrified of Theadora.

Alabaster rests a hand on his lower back as he escorts him out of his little room; Cyril jerks out of the way.

Alabaster is a whole head and slim shoulders above him, and Cyril hates having to look up at him, but his power on this place prevents Cyril from changing his own appearance. He’s been stuck with white skin, plain blond hair and sea blue eyes for however long he’s been down here, a short body with a bit of fabricated muscle—Thea liked that. He hasn't seen his own shirt since he got here, and his pants are somehow still clean.

Gods don't need to eat, so Alabaster never feeds him. Just one more pleasure he can deprive Cyril of.

After this, when he gets out, because there will be a when, Thea will come back—he’ll never be able to stomach wearing a toned body again. Perhaps the strength Cyril gave himself improved his endurance a little bit, but he stopped counting his blessings long ago.

He and the others are the ones who give the blessings. They shouldn’t be able to take them from each other, but Alabaster has taught him with not just words that anything can be broken if you try long enough, human or god.

The only thing Alabaster doesn’t have control of down here is his eyes, orange like his flames. Every master of hell has to don them while they’re down here.

The orange glows and dispels all hints of innocent gold. That gold fades every time Alabaster sets foot here in his heaven, and returns when he mingles with normal humans, enticing them with his beauty to follow him to the point of no return.

“So,” Alabaster drawls as they walk out of Cyril’s little prison room into the darkness of the hall together, the screams louder and everything dirtier, “you’re in a rather good mood.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. You’re glowing. I work hard to make sure no one glows except me.”

Cyril rolls his eyes. Let Alabaster psychoanalyze him all he wants, that won’t change the fact that for the first time, Cyril has hope built on fact. Hope is something Alabaster can beat out of him, but not if he doesn’t know why Cyril has it, and he’s already exhausted the Thea-and-Damokles-aren’t-coming-to-save-you angle. It’s a novelty now.

Alabaster shepherds him to a room Cyril could easily find on his own now, hell’s elevator, or as Alabaster likes to call it, the hellevator. The box of iron bars is decorated with skulls. Cyril started naming them a while ago to occupy his mind. Tiana stares down at him from the top corner, Alis from the outside looking in.

He waves at them. Alabaster doesn’t keep him in chains outside his room, since there’s no hope of him escaping hell. Only the master of hell can open the door, and only from the inside.

The elevator takes off with a lurch that knocks Cyril backward. It's nothing more than a cage, and no more stable, but Alabaster is convinced of his own invincibility, that nothing will ever befall him in his own domain. Cyril is determined to prove him wrong.

As the elevator finally stops, he lands with another lurch that ends with him face first in the filthy ground. It’s far from the first time, and he picks himself up with what dignity he has left while Alabaster strides out upright.

Alabaster brings him past room after room, cell after cell of unfortunate people like him who have endured Alabaster’s abuse like him. They stop in front of a pair of bone decorated double doors that stretch up toward the sky, shadows licking at the walls. Screams seem to come from within, or perhaps that’s just Cyril’s mind.

The doors open slowly, apparently triggered by Alabaster’s presence. “Welcome to my newest creation,” Alabaster says with a grin, spreading his arms. The room is large and shiny and new, not yet tainted with bloodstains and misery. Cyril is here to break it in.

Cyril lays on the table where Alabaster asks him to, doesn’t try to run. He’s tried, so many times. It gets him nowhere. It’s easier just to submit.

Alabaster probably likes this best. Not the physical pain, the scars, the blood, but rather watching all the joy and hope fade from Cyril’s eyes.

Alabaster loves nothing more than inflicting pain, but he has too many unwilling participants to get to. He only personally tends to a handful of his favorites, but he’s made it abundantly clear that Cyril is his ultimate favorite. “I’ve managed to capture a god,” he said when Cyril asked. “An equal. How could I not treasure that? I will find time to visit you personally every week however long as I keep interest in you.”

Alabaster will never lose interest.

What gets Cyril through it this day is the memory of Thea’s icy hands on him, her tear filled kiss, her promising words. Hope. Hope will get you killed here, or it can sustain you if you’re lucky. If you hide it well enough.

Hope is the memory of the natural warmth of his sun on his chest instead of the harsh heat of hellfire. He thinks of one day in particular, laying in a field north of Actium, flowers arranged in his hair by Thea, the wind threatening to blow them away while Damokles’ fingers carded mindlessly through it.

They had so few worries, then. They are gods, what do they have to worry about? They are eternal. Nothing can hurt them but themselves and each other.

The irony of that, as Alabaster does what he does best, is striking.

***

The next time Thea visits, she brings Damokles.

Damokles has no control over the shadows, the darkness, hell, and especially not keeping silent, so Cyril doesn’t know how Thea managed to sneak him in, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that in seconds, Cyril has Damokles wrapped around him for the first time in who knows how long.

Thea stands to the side, her eyes brimming with tears but letting a weeping Damokles have his moment. Not much except pain can bring Cyril to tears, but the deep, chest wracking sobs Damokles lets out nearly do. “Oh, Cyril,” he cries, clearly unafraid of drawing Alabaster’s attention the way Thea was. “Sweet, sweet Cyril. My love. What has he done to you? I will rip him apart with my bare hands.”

Cyril smiles. “I’ve always loved your passion, but I think Thea’s iciness will be more lethal. You are nothing but fire, and while it is beautiful, Alabaster revels in it. Is resistant to it.” He looks over Damokles’ shoulder at her, the way she crosses her arms and passively admires them both.

“Fair enough.” Damokles kisses him with salty tears trapped between them, igniting the fresh wounds on Cyril’s face, but it doesn’t matter. His lips stretch his wounded cheeks into a stinging smile.

“Cyril, have you seen yourself?”

His smile fades. “No. Why?”

Damokles slicks back his black hair with his hand, and Cyril gets to admire the way the firelight dances off his olive skin. Cyril has a love hate relationship with the flames and the light they paint onto his lovers’ faces.

“Thea, can you get him a mirror?” Damokles asks, now decidedly not looking at him. Cyril’s heart begins to sink.

“I’m ugly to you now?” he asks quietly.

“No, no,” Damokles predictably says, cupping his cheeks. “Nothing could ever make you ugly in my eyes, or hers.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Damokles.”

Thea passes Damokles a mirror, who holds it up in front of Cyril’s face.

The sight there takes his breath away.

Alabaster never gave him a mirror down here, ever, and for good reason. What has to be months and months, maybe even years of abuse and torture is shown on his face in lines of scars like claw marks. There’s an x over his right eye—he doesn’t even remember that one. What Alabaster does to him sometimes bleeds into mindless waves of pain.

“Tilt it down,” he breaths in a voice deep and full of grief that’s not his own. Thea takes in a sharp breath, and Damokles searches his face uncertainly before complying.

Cyril has never been vain about his looks—how could he when he could just change them anytime? But Alabaster’s hell is different. He can’t just wave away his scars. Anything etched into his skin down here will remain, which is probably why Alabaster has been so thorough in marking him.

The first time Alabaster brought him out of his little prison room, freed him from his chains, Cyril attacked him. Alabaster would’ve hurt him regardless, but the fire in his eyes increased after he pried Cyril’s hands from around his neck. He gave Cyril his first scar, a slash across his palm that cut deep and bled deeper. Before Alabaster put him back in chains, which effectively cut off his powers, Cyril tried to heal himself. Alabaster’s laugh afterwards still haunts him.

“That won’t work,” he said, smiling. “Hell’s scars cut deeper. They can’t be wiped away by anyone but me. I am going to enjoy making a canvas out of you, beautiful.”

Cyril spat in his face, but that didn’t change the outcome. Now, Alabaster’s masterpiece is unveiled to him for the first time. The body looking back at him in the mirror is unrecognizable in its horrors, faded pink lines wrapping around his torso like a rope, a collection of slashes over his heart, one long cut from his jaw to his collarbone.

He remembers that one, remembers wondering how it didn’t kill him. Of course, Alabaster would never let him die. He has utter control of every piece of matter in every circle of hell, from the worst torture rooms at the top, to the sixth ring where Cyril’s prison lies, to the door leading to the outside world at the bottom.

Cyril is strangely fascinated by his new appearance. A wave of panic that he’s stuck with this now washes over him, but he stubbornly pushes it back. He’s survived so much worse than vanity.

“Please, be honest,” he begs, hanging his head, letting his arms hold his weight like he does when he’s alone. “You truly don’t think differently of me?”

Thea and Damokles are silent for a long time, exchanging uncertain glances, which does nothing good for Cyril’s esteem. Finally Damokles turns to him and says, shaky and angry, “Of course I view you differently. I view you as someone who’s gone through pain and horrors I can’t even imagine, with scars he would probably love to get rid of but can’t. Cyril, I’m pissed.”

Cyril swallows. Thea murmurs Damokles’ name and lays a hand on his arm, but he shakes it off. Damokles never hides his emotions. There isn’t enough space within him to contain everything he feels—it’s the reason every human looks to him for guidance with the head and the heart.

“I’m pissed that Alabaster did this, more pissed than I could ever express. I’m a little pissed at you for not being pissed at us, for thinking we’d ever abandon you, that we haven’t been trying to find you. Don’t deny it, I know that look on your face. Most of all, I’m pissed that we took so long to get here. I’m pissed at myself for not doing more.”

He pushes his hair back again, long curls always falling into his eyes, and seems to get some of his sense back. “Thea will attest that she had to hold me back every time we watched Alabaster leave hell. I could barely keep my hands to myself, I wanted them around his pale little throat. His unmarred, unscarred throat.” Damokles’ fists clench. Cyril shivers under the burning rage in both their eyes, boiling—or in Thea’s case, freezing—just under the surface.

“Cyril, you are the bravest thing I’ve known. I love you. Nothing could ever change that. How could I ever be anything but horrified for you?”

“I don’t want you to be horrified,” Cyril says. “I want you to treat me the same way you always have. I just want to go back to how things were before I was abducted.”

Thea’s sad eyes tell him what he already knows: things will never be the same again. But Cyril can shut his eyes and pretend, just for a moment, that they’re back in the field under the sun with Thea’s flowers and Damokles’ fingers in his hair.

“Can you hang in here just one more week?” Damokles asks. “We’ll get you out. I have a plan.”

Cyril’s eyes dart to Thea, raising an eyebrow. She’s staring at Damokles like she’s never seen him before.

Cyril swallows all his questions and nods. “Okay. I trust you.”

Damokles breaks into a blinding white grin and kisses him again, sweet and hot in the way Cyril needs. Thea is wonderful, and sometimes is the break from reality he needs, but Damokles is the dose of truth no one else will tell him.

Thea’s icy kiss comes next, with both of them their arms around him to follow. “When you’re out and completely free of pain,” Damokles says, a promise burning in his eyes, “I’ll show you exactly what I think of your scars.” Thea hits his arm, calls him inappropriate, but Cyril’s grin reassures them both.

They disappear into the shadows, Damokles holding tightly to Thea’s arm. The heat of the flames doesn’t feel so intense, now. When Alabaster comes the following week, Cyril is almost grinning, and no question Alabaster poses in between cuts and bruises can make him give them up.

***

It’s not Alabaster’s abuse or declining sanity that will kill him, it’s the anticipation, the waiting. When Thea and Damokles finally melt out of the shadows, after an eternity of waiting, Cyril’s stomach is in knots. Even stranger, both of them are empty handed.

“How are we going to get me out of here if you have nothing to do so?” Cyril demands before noticing the expressions on their faces. Damokles’ mouth is set in a grim line, and he tries to force a smile that just doesn’t stick. He’s uptight and determined about something, or, more accurately, stubborn.

Thea is furious. She’s perfectly composed and neat as always, but her fists are clenched and the air in the room is more frigid than usual. Cyril isn’t complaining about the latter, but they’re obviously withholding information. “What’s going on?”

“We’re here to get you out, like we promised,” Thea says in a far stiffer tone than he pictured her saying those words, glaring at Damokles’ back. Cyril has tried getting her to budge when she shuts herself off before, and it’s a fruitless effort, so he doesn’t even try now. He’s always been the calm force keeping those two storms from destroying each other. Without him there to separate them, who knows what they’ve gotten up to.

“And how are you going to do that?” Cyril asks again, shaking his chains. “Only Alabaster can get me out of these.”

“Oh, love, is that what he’s been telling you all this time?” Damokles asks with the pain of the heartbroken. “We can’t open the doors of hell, we can’t remove your scars, but gods have more influence in hell than you would think.”

Cyril’s blood begins boiling just under his skin. “Are you telling me I could’ve freed myself somehow this whole time?”

“No, those chains are as anti-god as I’ve ever seen. We didn’t free you before because we didn’t know—we just found this week—but it’s probably a good idea we didn’t. I would’ve hated causing you the pain of replacing them before Alabastard got back.” Damokles closes his eyes and breathes slowly, fists clenched at his sides. The fire flutters in the room, and a pop of air follows.

The breath is knocked out of Cyril as the chains abruptly break and drop his arms from the ceiling. Much like the elevator, he falls to his knees with the force of it. Thea is there immediately to hug him while Damokles deals with the noise of the chains. Cyril leaves the possibility of Alabaster in their hands, they’re not stupid. He allows himself to bury his face in her neck and shake, weak with relief.

“It’s okay now,” she murmurs into his hair. “You’re going to see your sun again soon. My moon.”

He begins quietly sobbing.

He told himself, all the times he foolishly dreamt of freedom only for Alabaster to drive the dream out of him, that he wouldn’t cry. He’d stay strong, he’d pretend he was fine. Damokles and Thea are too perceptive, too sensitive, he didn’t want to upset them any more than he knew they would be.

So much for that.

“Please,” he begs, a word he’s used so much, but never like this. He’s shaking all over, bleeding from his lip, bleeding inside, burning. He’s always burning, always bleeding, always pleading. Alabaster thrives on it. “Help me. Get me out of this place. Can't you just take me out through the shadows?”

“We will get you out,” she says shakily, dodging the question, cradling the back of his sweaty, bloody head against her. She’s on the verge of tears. Damokles drops to the floor to join the pile, wrapping chiseled arms around them both. They sit there in silence for a moment, grieving and celebrating and fearing and hoping. Cyril’s heart is so full of love for both of them he could burst.

“What about Alabaster?” Cyril has to ask at last. They can’t avoid him forever.

Damokles stands and suddenly shouts, “Alabaster! Come out, you bastard. Face us.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Cyril hisses, but Thea holds him down. "Let's just go out through the shadows." He'll leave Alabaster behind, he'll leave it all behind without revenge if it means he can just be safe.

“He’s an idiot,” she says, “but you have to trust him. He has a plan.”

“I know how hell works, Thea. I know the limits of Damokles’ stupidity.”

She just cradles him closer. He should've known Damokles wouldn't be able to leave without revenge.

After a few minutes of nothing, a great rumble begins shaking the room. If Cyril still hides his head in Thea’s neck, who’s to judge?

Alabaster has never made a dramatic entrance like this before, which must mean Damokles is onto something.

Cyril hears the moment Alabaster enters the room, firm boots on stone, Thea’s inhale. Cyril raises his head and sees Damokles standing tall and strong, his favorite handmade sword stashed somewhere else. It wouldn’t do anything against a god—Thea begged him not to include that in the list of things it could slice through like bread, and he loved her enough to agree.

Quick as Thea’s lightning, Damokles lunges forward and wraps his arms around Alabaster from behind. He is the patron of soldiers for a reason, his strength is unmatched, his grip sure. Alabaster struggles to no avail.

Cyril studies the contrast in them with pleasure. Damokles meets his eyes, panting, and smirks. Alabaster isn’t struggling, bucking Damokles off like he did so easily with Cyril. Perhaps it’s Damokles’ natural strength, maybe Alabaster is more afraid of him than Cyril.

“Oh, Alabaster,” Cyril says, smiling. “You spent so long trying to teach me the beauty of your ways, but you never believed I’d start agreeing with you. Well, here you go.” He raises his arms, trying to hide a wince and stifle a groan of pain. Thea’s hands on his waist help steady him—though that might just be her calming powers. “Here is the result of your hard work in all its glory. Are you happy now?”

Alabaster looks at him through long, pale eyelashes. He manages a manic grin through the grimace breaking out on his face, licking the sweat off of his lip. He’s blinking and flicking his hair like that will do anything about the sweat. Cyril is looking forward to watching him realize nothing will work.

“This won’t work,” Alabaster says. “Keep me as long as you want, but you’ll never leave. Only the master of hell can open the door, and from the inside, and I swear I’ll never open it for you as long as I live.”

“Good thing you’re not going to be the master of hell much longer,” Damokles says, lowering Alabaster to his knees in front of him, hands held behind his back. His eyes meet a breathless Cyril’s. “Shall I place him in your hooks?”

Cyril, open mouthed, is speechless even for that question. He can only manage a small shake of the head. “Keep him low, where he belongs. Don’t give him the dignity of meeting your eyes.”

Damokles nods in approval. Thea helps Cyril to his feet to avoid that exact issue, and Damokles ties Alabaster’s hands more securely with some rope. “What the hell do you mean?” Cyril asks.

Damokles meets his eyes without fear, a dark, intense stare. “I mean, I’m going to kill Alabaster and take his place.”

The whole room freezes. Even the fire seems to still.

Cyril looks at Thea for help, but her arms are crossed and her face set in that same muted furious expression she arrived with. He understands the fierce determination in Damokles’ eyes now.

“You’re not.”

“I will. That bastard doesn’t deserve to live, and you two deserve to get out.”

“Why can’t you just take both of us through with your shadows?” Cyril demands of Thea.

She’s crying now, silent and strong, even with her cheeks shiny and wet. “The moment Alabaster places his mark on someone, like a scar, they are bound to this place and its rules. No shadows for you.”

“Not even after his death?”

She shakes her head and squeezes his waist. “I tried so hard to talk him out of it,” she says, gesturing to Damokles. “His mind can’t be changed.”

“Damokles, no,” Cyril says. This can’t be real. “Don’t do this to us. I can’t lose you.”

“I don’t want to lose you, either,” Damokles says, his own eyes shining. He’s smiling, though. “If we could, I would have you kill him.”

Cyril breathes out. “I don’t want you to get trapped down here! At least, uh”—he rubs his forehead— “you be the master only until Thea and I can find someone to take your place. We’ll find a way to do it without you having to be killed.”

“You would involve a human in this mess? An innocent?”

“I won’t lose you.”

“It’ll be preferable to what you went through,” Damokles counters, though Cyril sees his hands trembling. Cyril’s lower lip begins trembling.

“I’m not sure it will be,” he chokes out. “You’ll be without the physical pain. The rest is the same. I never had to manage the eight rings of hell.”

Damokles shakes his head, turning his eyes back to his prey. He sighs, then his hands are moving.

“Damokles, no!” Cyril yells. Thea’s hands hold him back, but it’s too late—rather, Damokles ignores him. He wrenches Alabaster’s head to the side with a crunch as satisfying as it is agonizing to watch. Thea squeezes his hand and lets out a harsh, shuddering breath, as Alabaster’s pale head falls limp.

The room begins shaking again. Thea falls to her knees and presses her forehead to the ground, Cyril is rooted to the spot. Damokles stands tall and breathes in, embracing his new role. When he opens his eyes, they’re bright, flame orange.

“You idiot,” Cyril hisses, shoving him back. “You didn’t give me any time to input. You never think. We could’ve worn him down in one of the hundreds of rooms alone I was sent to. We could’ve gotten our revenge and our freedom. Instead, you decided to become the master of hell instead. We’re split up again.”

“Better me than you.” Damokles yanks open the door of Cyril’s little room and walking with purpose. Cyril follows him. “Tell me where the door to this place is. I don’t know this place from the inside yet.”

“West,” Cyril says automatically, then curses himself. “You can’t just leave with us. Too long away and you’ll start to wither away, and I’m not coming back here if I can help it. This isn’t a solution. Far from it.”

“Hell no you’re not coming back here. Never again, for you.” Damokles takes a deep breath as Cyril guides him to the elevator. Thea is hot on their heels, shadows licking the ground. “Cyril, I did this because I love you and Thea more than I’ve ever loved anything. I would set fire to our Actium in a day if it meant protecting you. I didn’t care what it would take to free you, I just didn’t want you to suffer you anymore.”

“When you described how we’d spend our time when I was free, had you made up your mind then? Were you lying through your teeth?”

“No, dammit,” Damokles growls, turning around and pushing him against the wall. It burns Cyril’s back, but not as much as his kiss. “Don’t worry about me.”

“What if I love you, too?” Cyril yells back. “What if I never wanted us to be apart again? I will find a way to fix this. We will get you out.”

Damokles doesn’t argue.

When they reach the door Cyril tried to break out of so many times, tall, white, and uncharacteristically clean, Damokles kisses Thea goodbye. Tears begin filling Cyril’s eyes again as Damokles presses both hands to the door and murmurs something under his breath. It opens as easily as a human door.

“There you go,” Damokles whispers. Cyril can smell the fresh air, and it almost brings him to his knees, but he doesn’t look yet. He stubbornly looks back at the aching oranges and blacks, the smell of smoke that’s ingrained into his soul now, the blistering heat they’re leaving Damokles behind in. Thea’s hand snakes into his, and Cyril squeezes it like he’ll die if he doesn’t.

“We’ll meet again,” Damokles promises, before the door swings shut and locks with a boom. Cyril misses him immediately in a wave of incredible grief.

He turns around.

The sky is so very black, the stars so very bright, the air so very cool. Cyril closes his eyes and breathes in, long and slow the way he dreamed of for so, so, so long. But his right hand is painfully empty, the pains of hell too fresh. He needs a thousand baths, a thousand days in the sun, but he’ll never stop wishing Damokles was there.

Cyril breathes, closes his eyes, and with barely any effort changes his hair to a dull, mousy brown. It's an immediate relief, enough to bring tears to his eyes.

“I never thought I’d say this,” Cyril says, “but I already want to go back.”

“Yeah,” Thea murmurs, thick with tears. Cyril lets her cry, too in pain and exhausted to do anything but hold her hand and stand in solidarity.

In his mind, he’s in the field with flowers and fingers and laughter in his hair, the sun warming them all.

It's so peaceful at night.

It's wrong.

acogs taglist (lmk to be added/removed) @magic-is-something-we-create @inkflight @spencer-nyx @writing-is-a-martial-art @ashen-crest @wisteria-eventide @nikkywrites @denkis-phone-charger @myhusbandsasemni @lynolord @ettawritesnstudies @golden-apple-s-blog

tag of interest: @aelenko

[lulaypp]

Note: While this is meant as a mini follow-up of my Three Dark Walls And A Collar, it can be read seperately.

Warnings: Panic, Flashbacks, Mentioned Nightmares, Referrenced Torture, Injuries

----

Nightmares were common for them. Far from pleasant, but definitely not a rarity.

Jason bit his lip as he panted, his chest sore as he tried to control his rapid breaths. The night light by his bed softly illuminated the room enough to stave off part of his panic as he fumbled to untangle himself from his sheets.

It had been a week after Black Mask had caught him. Dick and Alfred had deemed Jason well enough to leave the med bay but not the manor, which was fine by him. At least he got to stay in his own room without people crowding around him all day long. But as peaceful as the solitude was, it made nightmares a bit harder to wrangle down. Even so, it was nothing he wasn't used to. He had been living alone with his nightmares for years.

But it would be easier without the rain and flapping branches outside, a storm brewing quick and heavy.

His breaths and heartrate were still running fast by the time he settled under the blanket again. His healing ribs were protesting at his movements and curled up position, but he stubbornly tucked his knees to his chest. He kept his eyes on his dim nightlight, trying to ignore the non-existent smell of mud, the shadow that clung to the far walls and the solid pressure on his neck.

The rain pattered heavily onto the window and he could almost hear the sound of the drops hitting the earth and grass despite being indoors and far too high up. Nearby tree branches rapped against each other and onto the brick walls as the wind swept them back and forth. If the pitch is heightened up a notch and the sound sharpened, it could almost sound like-

Jason sucked in a breath, blinking away images of a glass wall standing far too close and pulled the sheets tighter around him. It frustrated him to no end that the effects of his short-lived captivity still lingered in his mind, randomly throwing him to little fits of panic. He understood that it was natural and normal, even for his insane family of vigilantes and ex-assassins-in-training, but it always bugged him.

He could hardly stand any sort of sharp clicking anymore. He discovered that the hard way after he was helping Dick looking over a case and he had been idly fiddling with a retractable pen. He had been putting it back together after dismantling it when there was a strong pressure on his neck and the pen’s clicks grew louder. On hindsight, he felt rather foolish for accidentally triggering himself, but at least he knew that now and avoided all computers and clicking stationaries.

In the privacy of his bedroom, he allowed himself a soft whimper, trying to will himself back to sleep yet attempting to stay away from it with equal measure. He was exhausted, but he was tired of nightmares. At the most, if he got tired in the morning, he'll get a nap once the storm blows over. Maybe Damian would be generous enough to be a pillow.

Thunder split the tapping at his window and he jumped, burrowing further into his thick blanket. His chest was throbbing horribly and the injuries littering his arms were aching. His still-kind-of-broken fingers screamed from where he was clutching at the sheets, but he didn't let up his tight grip.

His neck hadn't yet healed. It probably had suffered the worst damage, along with his throat. The collar had left burns from where the metal had charged volts straight onto his skin and his trachea had been mangled after suffering repeated strangling pressure. It wasn't as bad now, but Alfred had insisted to leave it bandage-wrapped to help the healing process. No one mentioned the fact that it also deterred Jason from accidentally clawing at the burns and scratches, be it during his nightmares, panic attacks or absentmindedly. He didn't quite appreciate having something around his neck, but he understood the benefits.

His sight was blurring slightly and he hoped that it was sleep finally coming to take him again. Until he realised that it was just his breathing running out of control. Air was shallowly entering his lungs at a quick pace, his neck turning fiery.

He squeezed his eyes shut and slowly worked himself back from near-hyperventilation. The noise outside was really starting to get into him. He doubted he could get any sleep right now. Especially not a decent one.

With his mind made up, he gathered his large, fluffy blanket more firmly around himself and shuffled out of bed. He gingerly rested his weight onto his injured ankle before slowly making his way to the door and out into the corridor, a headache slowly brewing the longer he stayed up. After a short pause at the top of the stairs to catch his breath and right his tilting vision, he carefully limped down and crossed multiple winding hallways before finally reaching the kitchen. Which was, unfortunately, occupied.

His headache was reaching a brain-pinching level and he had been too focused on not tripping over his blanket and his own feet that he didn't realise the other person, jumping when a deep voice greeted him.

"Jason? Are you supposed to be up?"

Jason blinked at the hazy figure approaching him. "Bruce? When did you get back?" As far as he was aware, Bruce was supposed to be on an outer space mission with Justice League and wasn't due back until a few days. Maybe Jason was actually asleep and dreaming.

He let Bruce push him onto one of the stools at the kitchen island. Bruce took a seat right beside him before answering, "Just over an hour ago. What are you doing up this late?"

Jason scowled, realising that he probably looked a little pathetic, childishly wrapping himself in his fluffy blanket. "'m not a kid." His throat decided now to remind him that talking was still not a wise thing to do. "'s'not like it is that late either."

"It is four in the morning and you are injured. You're not shouldn't walk around with a sprained ankle."

Just because that was true, didn't mean that Jason would agree, even if his leg did. "That was days back. Besides, it is not like you can judge how badly I'm hurt and what I can and not do just by staring at me for-"

"I read the reports, Jay. Damian told me what happened last week which is why I came back early."

"At least I'm not stupid enough to fling myself back onto the streets." Jason rolled his eyes, huffing as he leaned against the counter. He tried to ignore the blooming warmth bubbling inside him at the thought of Bruce coming back from space just because he was hurt. "I'm fine and old enough to take care of myself, old man."

Bruce's lips were pressed into an unhappy line but he let the silence reign over them. Jason had forgotten why had he thought going downstairs it was a good idea, regretting it now that his head and leg were throbbing.

Just as he was weighing the pros and cons of getting up to make himself tea, Bruce spoke up.

"Is there any reason why you decided to come down to the kitchen?"

Too tired to make up a lie or to deflect, Jason mumbled as he tried to make himself comfortable with his head on the counter top, legs tucked under himself and the blanket firmly covering him. "Couldn't sleep." The marble tile was cool against his forehead and he closed his eyes, burying his nose into his soft blanket.

He didn't see Bruce coming closer, but fingers were running lightly through his hair. While they were nice, it also meant that the man definitely noticed the supressed jump when a loud thunder cracked and rumbled. The sound made him aware of the noise again, the insistent pattering of rain drops.

The blanket around him shifted slightly before Bruce said, "C'mon. Let's get somewhere more comfortable."

Jason didn't quite feel like moving, finally finding a position comfortable enough that his ribs wouldn't protest, his back wouldn't hurt and he wouldn't fall off the small stool, so he stayed put. But the decision was made for him when he was ripped away from the counter. He blinked in surprise, taking a while to realise that Bruce was lifting him up before leaving the kitchen.

He wriggled in Bruce's arms. "Bruce, put me down. I'm an adult and heavier than you are. You don't get to carry me."

Bruce only held tighter the more Jason struggled. "Well maybe I don't get to carry you, but you get to be carried and seeing as I am the only one around..." Bruce was obviously hiding a teasing smile.

Jason huffed, resigned to the relative comfort, and closed his eyes. Just as he thought sleep might come to him, another lightning split the darkness of the hallway as thunder shook the windows they passed. He pressed his head into Bruce shoulder, heart running loud in his ears. Dirt was tacky on his tongue and bandages around his neck felt suffocating. His chest ached worse with the effort to keep his breathing even and his head was spinning. His fingers reached up to assure himself that the thing strangling him wasn't metal.

Something squeezing his shoulder startled him. It was Bruce's hand rubbing and lightly patting, the angle awkward from where it crept up from under Jason's shoulder. He felt momentarily embarrassed at the thought of Bruce noticing his spiralling panic but the feeling was gone when the thundering outside kicked up again.

"How was space?" He probably shouldn't be making small talk with his sore throat, but he really wanted something to overlap the storm.

Bruce must have caught up on that as he started talking. A lot for a man whose native languages were incoherent grunts and growls. "It wasn't really eventful. I don't really see why I was brought along since it was a negotiation mission and the Lanterns and Clark could have handled that on their own, but I assumed that they wanted me for the budget handling."

As Bruce went on about funding and budgets, Jason closed his eyes, paying little attention to the words but wholly to the voice and tone. He never thought he'd ever willingly listen to Bruce drone on about finances of all things, yet here he was feeling comforted by it.

By the time Bruce stopped, Jason was already in a half-asleep daze. He felt himself getting lowered and blinked slowly to take in his surroundings. It was darker now, but the blurry silhouette of Bruce pulled him back from any rising fear. The sound of the storm was also gone. Where were they?

His blanket was pulled away from his loosening grip and he was about to protest when it was adjusted to properly drape over him. "Where're we?" he mumbled. The surface under him didn't feel like a bed so it couldn't be his or Bruce's room. And the place lacked any windows. Not to mention that it had to be deep enough in the manor to block out the noise of thunder.

"Theatre room." Bruce was hovering somewhere in front of him, fingers running through his hair.

"Oh." That made sense. The theatre room was designed to be relatively soundproof.

His eyes were slipping close when a kiss was pressed to his forehead. Call it placebo, but he felt his headache starting to clear away from that one gesture. He let out a contented sigh, melting into the figurative warmth around him.

"Sleep, chum. I'll be right here." Bruce shifted closer, pulling off what felt like a makeshift hug while still keeping his carding fingers as he started humming a tune.

Jason heard himself mumbling something in response as he pressed into Bruce's shoulder, eyes closing and breaths evening out.

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Psychosomatic- Prompt Fill

Soooo I forgot to fully read the prompt, so this isn’t season 2.  Sorry!  Have a bit of a follow up to my broken ribs fic!

cw nausea, vomiting (brief mentions), headaches, migraines, injury, anxiety, fever, oh and Jon is kind of gaslighting himself a little

And I have finished all my bingo prompts, but I plan on choosing another prompt list soon, so keep an eye out if you wanna make some requests! And the rest of the bingo fics will be out soon (I tend to post on Wednesdays, but I make no promises for consistency).  Thanks again to @celosiaa​ for the wonderful bingo card!

“Jon?  Are you sure about this?”

That’s Martin talking to him.  He ought to pay attention.  

Jon wonders if there is a correct answer to the question.  There probably is, if he can think through the headache.  

Think.  

He is at Martin’s flat, has been for about a week.  

Martin is finally going to let him back to work.  Partly because he is starting to heal, and even so there isn’t much you can do for broken ribs.  Partly because Jon needs to save the world, and he has been doing his all the convince Martin of this.  There is also that terrifying thing about needing Statements now.  Not that he really wants to share that with Martin.  Because Martin is the only one who actually cares anymore and he could ruin it if Martin were to… He doesn’t know.  His chest is tight.  Partly from the pain, partly from anxiety.  

Stress, that’s why he feels like shit.  

Stress.  All in his head.  

Christ he has to answer before Martin gets concerned.  

“Yes.  I’m fine, Martin.  You can stop fussing.”  Does that sound like him?  How brusque is he normally?  Does this fall under the typical Jon being an arse (which… he feels very badly about but at this point what does he even say?  They had a few moments …but he never knows what to say now or he’s in too much pain or under too much stress to really be a good conversationalist, and being rude is better than …no it isn’t.  He’s just afraid of letting Martin get too close?).

Christ his head is pounding, and it isn’t like he’s done anything.  

Just the stress.  

Probably.  

Stress or statements.  

He’s fine.  

“It’s just… are you sure?  You look a bit peaky.  And you do need to be gentle with your ribs so they heal, so you don’t, you know puncture a lung and die or something.”

Jon dodges Martin trying to feel his forehead and hisses with pain.  He batts Martin’s hand away instead, pressing his other to his rib cadge.  

If he’s running a fever…  It’s probably just the pain.  He’s been in a lot of pain.  Ribs and now this headache, witch, could easily become a migraine.  

He wonders if he has Excedrin in his office, or hidden in the stacks with what’s left of his belongings.  

“I’m fine.  Just… worried about the Unknowing.  I’m trying to save the world, but had to take some time off… a bit hard to relax with that over my head.  You’re no stranger to anxiety, I’m sure you know the feeling.”  Shit.  Is that too personal?  Was the insensitive?  It’s a bit difficult to ignore, even for Jon, that Martin struggles with anxiety.  He’s seen the prescriptions by the bed, and around the Archives when Martin was living there.  He wasn’t really invading.  Not like he had back….  No.  It’s fine.  He’s fine.  No the anxiety certainly isn’t twisting in his core now, sloshing his insides.  Just the stress.  It’s fine. 

Martin sighs.  “Yeah.  Yeah… I do.  And it isn’t going to get better if we sit around here, is it?  But, you’ll let me know if working doesn’t make you feel better, yeah?  You still need to take it easy.  You aren’t better yet.”  

Jon purses his lips.  Not sure how to answer without outright lying.  “I’ll do my best?  It’s all a bit muddled?  Ribs hurt so it’s hard to sleep.  Stress makes it harder to sleep.  Stress and not sleeping lead to a headache.  Which won’t get better until I sleep, which I can’t do until I can make some progress at work so we all don’t literally die.  Christ, I’m sorry.  Let’s just go.  I’ll have a lie down after I read a Statement and do a bit of research, how about?  I… appreciate what you’ve done for me, but I’m imposing and probably putting you in danger, and I’m not the easiest person to live with…”

“It’s no trouble.  It’s… nice having someone else here.  I’m glad you let me look after you.”

“Not really like I had much of a choice, but I’ve had worse kidnappings.”

Martin makes a face.  

Jon worries he’s gone too far with a joke that isn’t all that funny.  “Sorry.”

“Let’s just go.  Sooner we leave the sooner I can get you back here and resting.  Yes Jon, I am bringing you back here if you’ll let me.  It’s actually less stressful when I know where you are so I can be sure you haven’t been kidnapped again.”

Jon can’t really argue with that.  

The tube may have been a mistake.  

It’s crowded, and there aren’t any open seats, and no one seems to care that he’s carrying a cane.  And while he could probably ask… he won’t.  Martin tries to shield him from the worst of the crown, but it’s the lighting.  Scraping at the backs of his eyes, threatening him with a migraine.  It’s the jolting of the train between stops where he stumbles because he can’t lift his free hand high enough to grab one of the grips without it tugging painfully on his ribs.  Martin tries to hold him steady, but it isn’t enough.  And to make it worse, Jon is certain that every eye is on him.  He’s small but conspicuous.  Messy hair, cane, scars, limp.  

Is it just his paranoia?  Is it the eye?  Is he just tired?  He doesn’t know, but it makes him want to curl up as tightly as he can, ribs be damned, and get out of sight.  It makes him feel sick.  

Martin tuts gently when Jon almost whimpers at the next judder of the train.  “Should have called a cab.”

Jon shakes his head.  “I’d rather be jostled than carsick.”  

Martin glances at him in concern.  Probably assessing the likelihood of Jon getting sick in the carriage.  

Jon wishes that weren’t a valid concern.  

He’s fine.  

It’s the headache.  It’s the stress.  He’ll read a Statement, he’ll do some research, he’ll take a nap if he needs to, but he should be feeling better by then.  

Martin checks on him every half hour or so.  It’s… distracting.  

And concerning.  

The Statement didn’t help.  He still feels dizzy and sick, and the headache has only gotten worse.  He wants to turn off the lights, but sitting in one position, trying not to vomit from the pain has made his ribs stiff.  Stiff to the point that he isn’t sure he can move.  

He tries to do research, but the words start swimming on the page.  Shit.  Is this even stress?  Is he just having a shitty day?  Is he sick?  He can’t afford to be sick.  If he has to recover from an illness that puts him even farther behind.  No.  It’s just stress.  Stress migraine.  

Probably.  

The Statement didn’t help.  Not enough anyhow.  

He doesn’t want Martin to see just how badly off he is.  Can’t bear the disappointed look, the worrying.  Martin has worried enough.  Jon just wants to hide.  To be miserable in peace, just like has has done for years.  But he doesn’t have flat now.  He has a few clothes and a toothbrush at Martin’s flat now.  He has the same at Georgie’s.  And he has a shelf with some blankets and a few boxes of things from his flat in the stacks.  Far enough back, and semi covered by a tarp that he’s not yet been discovered there.  

He should go there, if he can.  Curl up in his nest of blankets and pillows, see if he can find some Excedrin, and hope that helps.  

He should eat something before the meds, but he’s nearly overcome with nausea when he leavers himself to standing.  Has to detour to expel what little Martin made him eat that morning.  He limps to his shelf.  And nearly cries when he has to try to get himself on in without hurting his ribs more.  

Sneaking off before Martin can notice just how sorry a state he is in.  

He manages to sleep.  Deeply.  Painkillers helping enough that he can pass out for a couple hours.  Probably.  His head still hurts too much to look at his phone.  Enough that he shouldn’t try moving, but he’s certain Martin must be out of his mind with worry.  But…

But he can’t move.  His ribs hurt too much.  And trying to sit up makes him nauseous enough to wonder if he has anything to be ill into should the need arise.  

He wants to sleep more.  He wants to sleep long enough to find the Tim of last year to find him.  He misses his friend.  He wants the old TIm.  He wants the old him.  He wants to be dragged upright at his Research desk by Tim and for Tim to demand to know why he’s at work in such a sorry state.  

He wants Martin to find him.  

He wants Sasha to.  

(He wants his mother to).  

He feels too poorly to pull the blanket up, so he shivers, whimpering a little when that jostles his ribs, jostles his migraine.  

He drifts.  Too nauseous, too achey to really sleep.  

He almost doesn’t hear Martin searching for him.  Sounding tired and worried.  Calling his name, and presumably checking all the rows, all the shelves for somewhere Jon might have tucked himself.  

Jon wants to call back, but the minimal noise Martin is making hurts too much to think about responding.  He’ll find him soon enough.  Probably.  Jon isn’t feeling well enough to disguise his hideaway.  Even if that makes him feel dreadfully exposed.  (Vulnerable to Daisy and Elias and even Melanie and Tim on their more aggressive days).  

He drifts more, as Martin draws closer.  

Jon wakes properly to Martin feeling his forehead.  Brushing a few stray tears away.  Tutting at the fever Jon presumes he is running.  “Oh Jon, why didn’t you say something?  I’ve been so worried.  Burning up, we ought to get you home.”

Jon is ashamed to say he whimpers at the thought of moving.  “Hurts.”  It’s slurred and pathetic.  

Martin shushes him gently.  “Is it alright if I lift you?”  

“Careful.”

“I will be,” Martin promises.  

And he is. 

It still hurts.  

And the cab ride makes him sick.  

But then it’s over and he’s back in Martin’s bed, and he can’t make himself worry about anything anymore.  

[omg-someone-actually]

Remus feels miserable. He's also hiding under the covers. He knows it's childish and probably useless because the one person he's trying to hide from shares the flat with him, but the uselessness of his solutions has never stopped him from executing them before so why start now.

He can hear Sirius shuffling in the kitchen, the kettle whistling and the mugs tinkling. The strong, sweet spicy aroma of bergamot is slowly wafting through the open door to their bedroom.

Remus exhales. Earl Grey then. That means Sirius is making tea for Remus as well as for himself. Remus doesn't drink any other but Sirius prefers green tea and yet he always makes Earl Grey for both of them whenever they're home together. He says he doesn't mind having the same as Remus but Remus knows he does it just because the water for Earl Grey needs to be heated just slightly under the boiling point whereas the water for green tea should be around 80°C. He told Sirius multiple times that he can make his green tea first and Remus can boil the kettle for his Earl Grey later but Sirius just looked at him while walking to the couch with their mugs and answered, "But then we would never get to drink the tea together," like it's the most obvious thing on the planet. Just like that, casually hitting Remus' feelings in all the right places. How dare he.

He secures the blanket over his face tighter and burrows deeper into the pillows.

Footsteps. Sirius is walking over and placing something on his nightstand.

"Love, I made us some sandwiches and tea. Marlene is coming to pick me up for the Order mission later. I thought we could eat together in bed before she arrives so you don't have to get up?"

Remus groans. He doesn't deserve this man.

Yesterday's full moon was terrible. He hasn't had a bad one like that in years. The deep exhaustion is still lingering in his bones, his joints ache and muscles feel strained, stretched on a body that looks way too old to be this young. He's normally somewhat functioning the evening after. Not today.

He fell asleep right after Sirius healed the worst wounds on his ribs and thighs and apparated them back to their flat. In times like this, he's beyond grateful Sirius chose being a healer as his career. It makes the post full moon mornings so much easier.

He slept like the dead through most of the day and if that wasn't any indication of how bad the night was, the dull pain in his entire body should have been enough. But none of that prepared him for the shock he found himself in when he stumbled to the bathroom to use the loo and saw his face in the mirror.

There, still red and not fully healed yet, was a new scar across his face.

Now, scars weren't anything new. He's used to having them all over his entire body and finding new ones after almost every full moon. But never before has a scar appeared on his face. It's strange really, that he has managed to avoid his entire head for so long. He probably didn't have this big area of smooth unblemished skin anywhere else on his body. Well, not anymore. Run out of luck, I suppose, he ponders.

Remus never thought of his own face as something exceptionally beautiful or desirable. But the fresh scar, raised and big and ugly, spanning from his right temple, going under his eye, across his nose and ending on the left side of his jaw, makes him look absolutely horrendous.

He's already self conscious and standing next to his gorgeous boyfriend makes him feel unsure at the best of times and inadequate and undeserving at worst. How much worse is it going to be now?

The bed dips under Sirius' weight as he climbs on the mattress next him. "Come on, Rem. Come out of the blanket cocoon and have some food. You haven't eaten all day," he says softly.

Remus doesn't move. Instead, he asks something he's meant to ask Sirius for a while now. Hidden from view, he allows some of the worry and fear to seep into his voice. "Why are you staying with me?"

"What do you mean?" Sirius confusedly inquires.

"Why are you dating me?"

Suddenly, hands are caressing his curls back softly and trying to take the blanket off his face. Remus just holds it tighter.

"Because I love you. What kind of question is that? What's going on?" Sirius is starting to sound worried.

Remus only grumbles in response.

"Love, take the blanket off your face and talk to me. I'm not having this conversation with you hidden under the covers."

"Well then get used to it because I'm not coming out from under them any time soon," he retorts.

"What? Why?"

"Because my face is disgusting and no one needs to see it, least of all my very attractive boyfriend."

Sirius doesn't answer. Then he shifts his body so he's laying behind Remus and hugs him completely within his cocoon to his chest.

"If this is about your new scar I already know about it. Not only because I saw you make it yourself in the forest but also because I healed the wound and carried you to bed, all the while with your face pretty much visible and I haven't combusted or turned to stone from the sight so I think I'm good. Now, as your official healer I would like to inspect my patient, please."

Hot burning shame runs through Remus' body. Sirius does so much for him - turns into a dog to run around all night every month, has to watch his lover turn into a bloodthirsty beast, he looks after him, heals his wounds and makes him tea and he even reads to him sometimes, when the full moon isn't that bad. Remus really doesn't deserve him.

What does he have to offer in return? Cynicism, snarky comments, empty bank account, and petulance. He could have at least told himself he's a good enough shag but will Sirius even be able to look at him like that when the most prominent feature of his face is forever going to remind him (and everyone else) what a monster he really is?

Tears prickle in the corners of his eyes and he sniffles.

Sirius, alarmed, takes the blanket Remus has hidden himself under and tugs at it again. It comes off easily, Remus is not clutching at it anymore, and finally uncovers his face.

Sirius puts his palm on Remus' left cheek and smiles at him tenderly.

"Here you are, love."

He starts studying the scar with a wrinkle on his forehead that appears every time he's focusing on something. "It's healing very well. The scar shouldn't be too prominent but it will probably stay. I'm sorry about that. I tried to spell it as soon as you transformed back but you know how it is with werewolf injuries. They rarely heal completely."

Remus frowns. "You take such good care of me already, Sirius. Don't you dare apologize for something you can't control."

Sirius grins. "Then there's no need to hide something YOU can't control either, is there?

Remus' frown deepens. "That's hardly the same thing."

Sirius kisses his nose. "It makes no difference to me, Remus. You're still you. I still love you. And I will continue to do so," he traces one of his fingers along the scar, "whether you have ten of these or none".

Remus gazes into Sirius' eyes and when he finds nothing but truth and honest devotion, he lets himself be gently kissed into the pillows.

When he wakes up later, he finds the bed empty but he can hear Sirius chatting with somebody behind the closed bedroom door. Marlene must be here then.

Remus gets up to greet her and groans when his limbs crackle in protest. He's almost at the door when he hears what they're talking about.

"....it was a rough night," Sirius explains.

"I hope Remus is okay." Marlene's voice sounds tired, like everyone's in the Order these days.

"He has some new scars but otherwise he'll be okay."

"Marlene," Sirius growls. She must have made a face.

"Oh no, I didn't mean it like that. Actually I think it fits him. He has this...roguish vibe and the scars just make him look edgy. Not that I would be into it even if I swung that way but I always wondered if you…"

"What are you on about?" Sirius demands, his voices still a little angry.

Marlene takes a deep breath. "So many pretty people chasing you, but it was only ever Remus for you. Why?"

Sirius sighs and stays quiet for a minute. Remus almost thinks he's not going to answer. Why should he, anyway? Maybe Marlene just made him see the truth, maybe he realized he would like to date someone else after all, maybe he finally sees the stark absurdity of someone as gorgeous as Sirius dating someone as hideous as Rem-

"You know, sometimes you meet someone so beautiful, and then you actually get to talk to them and five minutes later, they're as dull as a brick. Then there's other people and you meet them and you think, "Not bad, they're okay." And then you get to know them and… And their face just sort of… Becomes them, like their personality is written all over it. And they just… They turn into something so beautiful."

He pauses and then exhales, "Remus is the most beautiful man I've ever met."

Remus doesn't come into the living room to say hi to Marlene for another ten minutes. And if it's because he had to sit for a moment and dry some tears, who's to say?

A/N: The last thing Sirius says in this is inspired by this scene in Doctor Who

Big thank you to @kattlupin for her quick betaread! <3