#i think i abuse fragments almost as much as i abuse run ons

[cheriecelestial]

Angel Pt.1

pairing*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Red Hood!Jason Todd X fem!reader

disclaimer*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ fluff. slight suggestive content (?). swearing. canon typical violence. kinda long. not proofread !

a/n*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ based on that one prompt “Wow ! You’ve grown so much since I last babysat you” “I want to rail you so bad”. Reader is like 26 and Jason is 19-20. Set in the WFA verse + joyfire are a team. Kinda non canon complacent. Smut in part II

Part II

Under the nocturnal skyline of Gotham perched on a towering building was the vigilante anti- hero Red Hood watching, observing the city like a hunter stalking its next prey. His jacket whipped against the wind of the boisterous and animated city. He closed his eyes and listened to song of wailing sirens and the distant cries of people, ready to respond to the city's calls for help.

Gotham was a city that, much like its vigilantes, thrived in the night. The city was hued in the rapturous and vivacious of the nightlife. Neon signs flickered casting flashes of colours across the pavements of the night clubs. People scattered across the pavements like ants, some making their way home from a tiring day of work, others more aimless and leisure - their destinations less defined and indulgent. He pulled out his grapple hook gun and shot to a building a few blocks away from where his bike was parked.

In the shadowed alleyways, Red Hood felt a sinister presence stir. He kept walking without letting them know that he noticed their presence. By the footsteps, he could tell six no.. seven. Four of medium build and three a bit more burly. Judging by their lack of ability to mask their footsteps, he could guess they're amateurs. Well in all honesty, almost everyone was an amateur compared to him. Slowing his pace, Red Hood's hands instinctively moved to his holster, anticipating a potential confrontation. Nothing beat the thrill of beating up bad guys. However, amid the approaching group, he discerned another set of footsteps — urgent, lighter, tinged with fear, and most importantly heading directly toward him.

He felt someone clutch the lapel of his jacket desperately. "You're a vigilante, aren't you ? Please help me sir. I think there are bad people following me." Red Hood looked to his side and saw a woman much shorter than him and shaking like a leaf in wind. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at her. It had been almost a decade since he had gazed into those warm large eyes—a fragment of his childhood that he had long relegated to oblivion. Jason Todd had what most would call a troubled childhood. Abandoned by his birth mother and the only other one he had dead from drug abuse and an even worse father who died the hands of Two Face. Tossed through the foster system, he eventually found himself on the unforgiving streets of Gotham. Amid the darkest moments of his youth, one saving grace remained —his angel,Y/N L/N. One he completely forgot about when he assumed the mantle of Robin.

"Help me please." She implored, her voice trembling and on the verge of breaking - the same one who would calm his raging storm on bad nights and tell him that he was going to be okay, and in the moment he swore he was. Her gaze shifted between the men and the vigilante, moving closer to him without realizing to shield herself from the villains in the shadows. Almost as if in a trance, he raised his gloved hand to caress her cheek as if to check if she was real or not. "Just follow my lead." He spoke in a low tone and the woman nodded frantically. His hand encircled her wrist and he started running, dragging her behind him the second he heard the thugs charge. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't think twice before starting a fight and having it his way. But he couldn't bear endangering her in the slightest so getting her to safety was the only viable option.

Her breath came in rapid gasps, and beads of sweat glistened on side of her forehead as they navigated the maze of alleyways in their path. The flickering glow of distant streetlights created fleeting glimpses of their pursuers. Her heart pounded in her chest like the strumming of a frantic drum as adrenaline pumped poisoned her veins. Jason noticed that she couldn't run fast enough to outrun the thugs with her stamina. "Sorry about what I'm about to do”,he warned in a hushed whisper and without hesitation, he lifted her over his shoulder and began running. Y/N gasped, clutching onto the vigilante for dear life. Wind ruffled her hair as she watched the vigilante leave behind their pursuers effortlessly. "You know if this vigilante thing doesn't work out you could try out for the Olympics." She muttered not realizing she said it out loud. Red Hood let out a gruff laugh, "I could but I like beating up bad guys and saving people such as yourself just a tad bit more angel." Y/N blushed at the nickname but waved it off as commonplace banter.

He set her down next to his bike. And took off his chocolate coloured jacket and draped it around her shoulders. "How could I ever thank you?" The h/c haired woman smiled at him with a smile so infectious that the corners of Jason's lips curled up without his realising under his mask. "Don't thank me just yet princess. They aren't near done." Y/N blinked in confusion and followed Red Hood's line of sight where she saw three black cars racing towards them. Her features morphed from relief to horror and alarm in the blink of an eye.The vigilante revved his bike and looked at her,"What are you waiting for?" The woman looks at the approaching cars and back at the vigilante, contemplating her options and got on the back of his bike. His hand envelops her and plants it onto his waist as if silently asking her to hold onto him. Y/N flinches at the contact as it she touched something really hot and retracted her hand.

The masked vigilante plucks a helmet out of the saddlebag and strapped it on her head."You might want to hold on angel." Y/N hums in acknowledgment and holds the grab handle behind the seat. Jason rolled his eyes at her refusal to hold onto him and revves the engine making her lurch forward and crash into his back. Realising that doing this any other way apart from his was futile, Y/N timidly encircled her arms around his waist.

The vibrations of the engine shook her whole being as he raced down the streets. The streets, trees, people blurred in her peripheral vision and she started feeling light-headed. Gathering all the morsels of courage she could find, she looked behind her to see the thugs chasing them. They hadn't lost the three cars and things just got worse when she saw a man peek his head out of the window with a fun in his hand. I'm so dying today. She clasped her hands tighter around him and pressed her face against his rigid muscular back in fear.

Sensing her unease, he looped his arm around her waist and pulled her infront of him. Y/N let out a yelp from the suddenness of the contact.

"What are you -"

"You don’t want your back facing them when they start shooting soon." Y/N looked over his shoulder to the thugs and then sunk back into and then sank back against his chest.

"You know if it makes you feel better just know this is an average Tuesday for me." Y/N blinked at him incredulously and in a small voice muttered,"It's Thursday today." A nonchalant shrug was all the answer he decided to give her. How the hell does he manage to remain calm through it? I'm on the verge of a panic attack and he's swerving as if this is a joyride in his kingdom. And in that moment if someone said that he was the king of Gotham, Y/N would find it hard to refute it.

The bike picked up speed causing the h/c haired woman to crash against his chest harshly. It was as if the pressure of the wind glued her against him. To calm herself, she decided to try concentrating elsewhere. Absentmindedly trailing the ridges of his armour and the red bat symbol on his chest. She heard whispers and rumours about Red Hood, the prince of crime, the scourge of the underworld—an outlaw employing more lethal methods against crime than Batman. Despite initial conflicts with Batman, he was acknowledged as a Bat vigilante some time ago. This man was dangerous and unpredictable then why did he feel so familiar to her ?

“I know I have god-tier pectoral muscles but I’d appreciate if you stopped distracting me like that.” Red Hood quipped, sounding almost smug at her fascination. Heat rushed into her cheeks and she quickly withdrew her hand, realising how inappropriate that must’ve felt and hastily clarified,“ I’m so sorry, I’m not a pervert I swear.” Y/N felt his chest rumble with a chuckle.

“Hold on.” Red Hood skidded the bike across the road with a loud screech, making Y/N wince at the sound of the metal scratching against the gravel. He loaded his gun with one hand still wrapped around Y/N protectively and aimed at the tires of the approaching car. “I’d suggest for you to not look at it.”Y/N averted her gaze and moments later, she heard a series of crashes and explosions.

“Jesus Christ I thought I was going to die !” She exhaled in relief. Red Hood turned his face towards her slowly and looked at her as if deadpanning through the mask,“ I’m here you know. What makes you think I’d let you die ?” He retorted taking full offence of her words. “I- I didn’t mean it like that -” she stammered, partly scared to offend the vigilante.

"Whatever I'll drop you off." Jason rolled his eyes and patted the seat behind him. Y/N hesitated, remembering her mother's warning about getting on bikes with strange men, but given her current situation, she realized it was too late to dwell on that now. With no one pursuing them, the ride felt much more pleasant. The speed and the wind against her hair seemed to turn her blood to gasoline as the air dissipated from her lungs. Adrenaline fueled activities weren't for her, at least that's what her sense of self preservation told her. Y/ N pressed her cheek against Red Hood's back. Vigilantes had a symbiotic relationship with the city and as was a common saying in Gotham "The less bats you run into the happier your life is." She knew that this encounter might be a fleeting one, so she decided to relish the moment for now.

Feelings and thoughts were long forgotten, where everything faded into the background and only her physical self exists and the dancing lights at the hazy edges of her vision offered an intoxicating taste of freedom that was indescribable — stripped of obligations, responsibilities and consequences.

Y/N almost doesn’t notice when he stopped the bike. “Do you plan on holding onto me for long ? Not that I mind but we’re here.” Red Hood hopped off the bike and Y/N took off her helmet and hung it onto the handlebar. She scanned her surroundings, they were in front of a five star hotel with sports cars parked on either side of of the road. “Why are we here ?” The woman asked following behind the masked vigilante. “Well for one I don’t know your address so I can’t drop you home and second it’s too late so you should stay the night at a hotel and go home in the morning. It’s safer that way.” Y/N stared at him in disbelief,“ But I don’t have the kind of money to rent a room in a place like this.” Red Hood retrieved a key card from his pocket and placed it on her palm,“Who said anything about paying ?” The h/c haired took it reluctantly and slowly walked to the entrance of the hotel, looking back at him again and again. It wasn’t until she was inside the hotel that she saw him drive off. Y/N walked to the concierge desk and showed her the card. The receptionist eyed her with suspicion considering how she looked so out of place compared to her opulent setting. “Please fill this form. It’s for security purposes.”

The form asked things like her address and her phone number. As reluctant as she was, the receptionist looked like she wasn’t letting her through unless she filled it. Wary of the dangers of misuse of information, Y/N tried to keep her responses as brief as possible. Paranoia was the best friend of a Gothamite considering everything that went down in this hellhole. It was good to always assume the worse and subsequently prepare for it.

The receptionist offered her a tight smile and walked her to the suite. Calling it a suite was an understatement since it was the penthouse on top of the hotel. Just how rich is this guy ? Y/N assumed that the house was a property he didn’t live in because the place lacked personal touch. Either that or he was a real minimalist which was unlikely considering bat vigilantes’ love for theatrics. Y/N wondered if all the bat vigilantes were like a huge family with Batman as papa bat. Where would Red Hood fall in the hierarchy ? If she were to guess, she’d say he was probably the black sheep of the family. Y/N looked around the house, it was one straight out of architectural digests with its high ceilings and cool grey and white interior. She looked at the time and decided it was best if she hit the shower and go to bed and finally put an end to this crazy day.

Jason Todd checked into the hotel the next morning and was greeted by the overly friendly receptionist, personally he didn’t mind fangirls but anyone with even half a braincell knew the risks of being a vigilante groupie. She passed him the form that Y/N filled. He couldn’t help but smile at the form. Filling her work address and a phone number both which were most likely false give the conspicuous number of 7’s in the number ? She’s smarter than most civilians, he’d give her that. The penthouse looked almost unhampered with. His jacket was neatly folded on the dining table with a note reading “Thank you so much for saving me. Regards.” The tone of the note was clear ‘I appreciate you saving me but I hope we never meet again.’ Jason pocketed the note and left the penthouse. Fates had been kind enough to reunite him with his angel and he’d be damned if he let her get away .

“Yoohoo Y/N to earth. Anybody home ?”Y/N’s coworker snapped her fingers in front her face, snapping her out of her reverie. “Sorry about that Steph.” Y/N apologised with an awkward laugh. Stephanie Brown, albeit several years younger, was one of Y/N’s closest friends. She was a bubbly and cheerful soul anyone could tell that by the first impression she projected.

Since the night almost a week ago with the mysterious vigilante, Y/N often found her thoughts plagued by him. Curiosity of where he would be or what he would be doing right now. Her eyes often looked for any news of him while watching the news. I really have to stop thinking about him, even though they lived in the same city, the odds of them running into each other were minute.

The door opened and the bell on top of it clanged, announcing the arrival of a customer. “Mornin’ ladies.” The customer greeted. Y/N turned her attention at the newcomer at the counter. “Good morning detective !” she greeted the customer with a bright smile.

Dick Grayson served as a police officer under the GCPD and was one of the cafe’s frequents. From experiences of her own childhood, Y/N consider the police nothing but corrupt individuals on payroll of powerful people who bullied those weaker than them. But detective Grayson was one of the good and honest ones. He played a massive role in restoring Y/N’s faith that there were those in the police force who could be relied upon and ones that fought for a better Gotham.

"I'll go with the..." he glanced at the menu, a ritual he often performed. "the regular?" Y/N finished his sentence. He responded with a smile, revealing his dimples. "I never understand why you bother with the menu when you always order the same thing," she remarked. He shrugged nonchalantly, as if saying 'who knows.' A smile crept onto her face as she made his order.

“So how’s everything with the family ?” Y/N asked, making small talk. Beyond his consistent ordering and punctual 9:00 AM café visits, he frequently shared his sibling issues. "Oh, where do I begin? My brother is acting up, yet again. He pulled some crap about a week ago. He broke one of Dad’s rules, even though he said he did it to help someone but Dad was just not having it."

“ Which one ? The cool rebellious one or the little gremlin one ?” Y/N laughed sympathetically. She didn’t feel the need to probe and ask much but she always lent an ear to a friend so naturally she knew them by characteristics and not by name. From what she knew, Dick Grayson had three younger brothers - the broody rebellious one, the caffein addict smartass and the 4 foot gremlin edgelord from hell.

“The rebellious one.” he sighed wearily. Y/N placed his order on the counter, including a small pack of cookies. “On the house. You could use some sugar anyway. They’re free testers before we put them on the menu.” Dick accepted the coffee and cookie packet, flashing a bright smile. “Thank you so much. You’re an angel.” An odd feeling resonated within her when Dick called her that. That’s what Red Hood called her. Somehow the way the word rolled off his tongue seemed so different compared to when anyone else said it.

“Hey Dick do you mind if I ask you something ?” Dick nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. “What do you know about the Red Hood ?”

Dick choked on his drink and burst into a fit of coughs. It took him a while to compose himself. “He’s alright. I mean he does help the GCPD I guess but he’s too unpredictable and we don’t exactly approve of his methods. He doesn’t hurt innocents but he’s bad news. Why do you ask ?”

“No reason.”Y/N brushed off the inquiry, and although Dick seemed skeptical, he left after leaving a tip. There. Is your curiosity satiated ? Even Dick said he’s bad news now can we stop thinking about him ? Her inner conscience reprimanded her.

Y/N's weary steps echoed in the quiet street as she walked home from work at night. The flickering light from the street lights streetlights casted long almost sentient looking shadows. Her thoughts — a mix of the day's challenges, the longing for the comfort of home blurred into oblivion when a strange chill crept up her spine with a sense of foreboding. Cautious of her surroundings, Y/N constantly kept watch around herself. Just a few yards before her apartment building, she heard their neighbourhood strays agitatedly hiss to something near the dumpster. Not wanting to get involved in whatever trouble Gotham had brought to her feet, she fastened her pace. Suddenly, a flash of vibrant red —the same shade she had been secretly craving to see in the past week, caught her eye.

“Red Hood ?” Y/N stepped into the shadows cautiously as if ready to flee at the first signs of trouble.

“Angel ?” He asked gruffly. Y/N walked closer and found him against the wall, clutching his side. His wound wasn’t a death sentence but needed to be tended to quickly. Her eyes widened in horror when she noticed the crimson coating his fingers,“You’re hurt !”

“ ‘Tis but a scratch m’lady.” He let out a pained laugh seeming to ease her nerves. “We need to get that treated.” Y/N urged. She knew that vigilantes couldn’t just walked into hospitals to get patched up because of the whole secret identity thing. And she also knew that taking it upon herself to treat him would go against every plan of self preservation she had. But she owed him his life. I’ll pay off my debt and we’ll never meet again. Y/N mentally decided and looked at him with newfound determination in her eyes. “My apartment is just upstairs. I have a first aid kit. Come with me.”

Red Hood gazed at her, momentarily lost in thought, then lifted his other hand to gently stroke her cheek. Y/N flinched at his touch, making him withdraw his hand. “Sorry I thought I was hallucinating you because from the blood loss. ” He admitted meekly. Y/N sighed and placed his hand over her shoulder. “Can you stand?” The masked vigilante nodded, rising slowly with a grunt.

Swallowing her rising concern, she brought him to her house and beckoned him towards her couch. Red Hood’s every step betrayed a hint of discomfort, his grimace almost visible even behind that signature mask. The second he dropped on her couch, she disappeared. He caught flashes of her running around the house like a busy bee at work. In seconds, she produced a first-aid kit and knelt next to him. “Lift your shirt.” She maintained her clinical tone, but the concern was evident with her eyes trained on the wound.

“Angel you know if you wanted to –” Jason started with a cheeky tone but was cut off by a stern glare, “Ahem yes ma’am”

Y/N breath hitched every so slightly when she saw the injury. It didn’t look like a bullet wound, the malformed spindle shape resembled a stab wound. “I’m sorry I don’t have any anaesthetic.” She didn’t look up from the wound as her cotton swab glided over the grevions injury. Shifting her elbow to his other hand on his thigh, Red Hood tilted his head seemingly questioning her,“ You can hold my arm and squeeze it if it hurts. I’ve heard that helps.”

“Appreciate the gesture angel but I’m pretty sure I’d snap your arm in half if I did.” His tone was both dismissive and endearing. Y/N didn’t insist, given his strength what he said was probably true. Vigilantes were exceptionally trained, surpassing conventional human limits. Unlike the caped metahuman from Metropolis, the bat vigilantes were more cryptid in nature. None would be where they came from and where they went. Invulnerable and insurmountable. Despite him being in a position that would render others vulnerable, he appeared unfazed, akin to a wounded yet formidable beast. There was a natural aura of dominance and power about him. They don’t call him the Prince of Gotham for no reason that’s for sure.

“You’re good at this. Like one of the best I’ve seen.” He spoke up, seemingly trying to come off as capable of being civil. “Well three years of med school. Some stitching is the least I can do.” She explained. Red Hood visible froze for a good second and inquired,“ You’re a doctor ?”

Y/N scoffed,“ Look around. Do I look like one ?” Red Hood looked around her apartment. Although well maintained, an ode to her efforts, the apartment was old and almost pitiful . Most of the furniture looked second hand and cheap. The curtain rods were rusted and the paint was peeling off from the walls with damp spots on the ceilings.

“You dropped out ?” He guessed. “Yeah. Couldn’t afford it.” She chuckled bitterly.

“Didn’t they offer scholarships or something ?” Jason was aware of Wayne Enterprises’ scholarship programs for talented students. When Bruce took him in, he assured Jason that if Y/N met the criteria, she would be enrolled in the program. Y/N’s intellect had always impressed Jason since childhood, he remembered that she would often sneak into libraries and memorise books worth of stories to recite them to Jason to help him sleep. There was just no way she wouldn’t be accepted into the program.

“They did but that didn’t pay bills. I needed to find a job to pay for my mom’s hospital bills.” She kept her response short, clearly not wanting to delve deep into the topic. “Work for me.” The statement was like a whiplash for Y/N. Work for him ? There weren’t many things Y/N had to take a double take for but this proposition was entirely unexpected. It caught her off guard, she stared at him incredulously with widened eyes. Red Hood was know for operating in the gray areas between legality and criminality and wasn’t exactly your quintessential example of a righteous lawful hero.

“Not in the way you’re imagining.” He hooked his free hand under her chin, gently closing her agape mouth. His tone was soft and reassuring,“ I’ve been meaning to find a backstreet surgeon to stitch me up. Comes in handy for a guy like me. I’m sure you understand angel.”

“B-but why me ?”Y/N stuttered, avoiding eye contact as her nerves threatened to overwhelm her. She could feel a chill of nervousness and panic creep up her spine. What if he got angry if she refused ? Jason noticed the change in the air around her and the stiffening of her muscles in panic that she was clearly trying to hide from him.

“Because you’re convenient. Your place is easy to get in and out of undetected, you’re talented and most of all —“ He gently lifted her chin to meet his gaze. Y/N let out a shuddered breath as Red Hood stroked her cheek with the back of his gloved hand. “— you fear me enough to not go around squeaking to the wrong people about me. No ?” Jason couldn’t help but relish in the reaction he elicited to the feeling of the leather gliding against her cheek in a silken featherlight touch. How adorable.

Y/N swallowed nervously before nodding slowly. A beat of silence passed and she let out a small sigh, recollecting herself and weighing her options. “How much are we talking ?” She asked him in a low voice. Jason could hardly contain his excitement, grinning wildly under his mask. A sense of pride washed over him as her first question after his offer focused on the financial aspect.

“Let’s see how about 2 grand a month ? Too less ? 3 grand ? 3.5 ? That enough ?”he suggested eagerly. Y/N’s eyes widened in disbelief, almost bulging from their sockets. Without waiting for her response, he added, “Plus, there’ll be extra incentives when I’m feeling generous.”

“All that for some stitching ? There has to be a catch.” She reasoned. It seemed implausible that he would offer such a substantial sum for such a minor task. Jason chuckled," You’re smart. I like that in a woman. And to answer your question, it’s not just stitching. It’s about your discretion and loyalty. It’s a complete package. Plus that sort of money is pretty much pocket change to me.”

“And if I were to betray your trust ?” Y/N asked in a hypothetical sense, of course she had more sense than to betray someone of his stature and power. “Do you really want me to answer that ?” He countered sounding equal parts smug and menacing. Y/N shook her head in negation and continued stitching his wound. The process of stitching became a meditative rhythm - the needle piercing the skin, the pull of the thread, the knotting, and the slight twitch of Red Hood’s muscles with each stitch.

“I’ll take it.” She muttered. Jason was grateful for his mask and injury otherwise, he might have been unable to hide his urge to jump up and punch air in celebration. Agreeing to his proposition marked just the beginning of his grand plan for making Y/N his and for now, everything unfolded according to his wishes and he couldn’t be happier.

Y/N wrapped gauze around the wound and secured it with a metal clip. “Normally I’d suggest a few days’ rest but I have a feeling there’s no point in saying.” Red Hood commented with a shrug as he inspected the injury. Y/N rose and fetched him a glass of water from the kitchen, setting it on the table. “If you’re trying to get me to remove my helmet, it won’t work.” he remarked. As much as his distrust stung, Y/N rationalised that it was typical for someone like him.

She retrieved a scarf from the coat rack, folded it and tied it around her eyes before taking a seat on the edge of the couch, keeping a respectable distance from the masked vigilante. "What's with the blindfold angel ?" Red Hood asked, his tone tinged with amusement.

"Isn't trust earned through actions?" she responded. Y/N heard the thud of his helmet being placed on the table. Jason seemed genuinely impressed by her gesture. His gaze lingered on her figure as she remained motionless, noting how much she had changed since his childhood memory. Yet her kindness to those in need while still keeping herself guarded from those who would abuse it still remained unchanged. Jason’s hand twitched with the impulse to touch her. To hold her. He wondered how her face would look in his palms with her bare body melded against his own.

“ ‘Suppose it is.” Jason chuckled as he downed the glass of water and put his helmet back on. “I’m finished. You can remove that blindfold now, although it does look adorable on you.” He noticed her chest rise with a sudden hitch, and her cheeks flush red. Y/N couldn’t help but feel a bit embarrassed, knowing the other implications blindfolds carried. As she removed the scarf and looked around, Red Hood had vanished without a trace. Her window was open and it was as if disappeared into the wind just as he came. She got why the bat vigilantes were often likened to cryptid beings and phantoms. Y/N was left to ponder over the events that had unfolded. Under the glass of water she offered him three hundred dollar bills were tucked. “I suppose I’m now working for the Prince of Gotham now.” Y/N mused to herself, realizing her attempt to avoid getting involved had failed miserably.

Jason's parents engaged in another round of screaming matches, this time he decided he’d had enough and thought of running away. Despite previous fleeting thoughts of escape, each time night fell — he faced the harsh reality of lacking sustenance and shelter. Convinced that the streets offered a marginally preferable refuge to the shithole he was force to call home, he wandered aimlessly till he found himself at the dumpster of a bakery. He knew shops like those threw away left overs even though they could’ve given them out — Jason saw it as a glaring manifestation of selfishness of adults.

He hid behind the dumpster and waited for someone to come and throw away the leftovers. After waiting for almost half an hour, the sound of the door opening caught his attention. Glancing cautiously from his hiding spot, Jason spotted a young waitress walking out. She was likely just a few years older than himself, a middle school or a high school student maybe, he thought to himself. As she approached to dispose of the food, she paused midway. No way did she see him ? Jason shrank back against a cardboard box, hoping she wouldn’t notice him.

“Hey kid you can come out. I already saw you.” the waitress said softly. Jason slowly crawled out and approached her. He eyed the tray of leftovers in her hand, wondering if he could snatch them and escape quickly enough ? The waitress seemed to notice this and raised the tray above his reach. “Against bakery policies kid. Where are your parents ?” She asked. Of course she wouldn't be generous enough to offer him any. In his mind, all adults were rotten to the core and selfish —why would she be any different ?

Jason scoffed,“ Does it matter ?” His statement was met with a sigh from the waitress, her expression conveying annoyance, a scene all too familiar to him. Bracing himself he said,“ Just do it already. I’ve had it from guys thrice your size.” Jason was well acquainted with the drill with diner employees — catch a few shoves and slaps, pretend to go away and wait for them to leave and then come back pick up the food.

He shut his eyes and waited for her to slap and swear at him to drive him away like everyone else. Yet moments passed but the expected blow never came. Instead, Jason felt a gentle pat on his head and looked up to see her smiling empathetically, though her eyes betrayed a hint of sadness. Wondering why she seemed so melancholic, he accepted the loaf of bread she offered and wolfed it down. “Won’t you get in trouble for this ?” He asked. With a forced laugh she admitted,“ I probably will but I can’t let a kid hungry now can I ?”

“I won’t tell anyone.” The young boy promised earnestly and she returned his smile. His gaze fell upon her nametag—Y/N L/N. Maybe not all adults are bad.

It had been barely four days since she last saw him that she heard from him again. In the dead of night, her doorbell rang. She approached the door cautiously and grabbed a baseball bat from the umbrella rack as a just in case. She didn’t hear any movement on the other side of the door so she cautiously opened the door, peering out. To her surprise, she found only a small, shoddily wrapped parcel resting on the floor with her name written in red.

There was no one except a small poorly wrapped parcel on floor with her name on it. Retrieving it, she carried it inside. Within the parcel lay a modest yet exquisite golden necklace accompanied by a handwritten instruction manual. Observing it she realised it was one of those necklaces that acted as an SOS signal. The parcel also contained a big folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, she discovered a map of Gotham City with specific locations ominously marked in red and the stark warning “DO NOT GO” emblazoned in bold letters. Y/N couldn’t help but smile at his thoughtful gesture, maybe this is not all that bad.

Over the following days, Red Hood would appear unannounced giving Y/N enough jumpscares for lifetime, when she would walk into her living room and find him bleeding out on her couch. He wasn’t much of a talker which wasn’t a surprise.

His injuries presented a variety of shapes and sizes each time he visited, but recently, his injuries bore uncanny resemblance the markings of knife wounds. Some were superficial, while others cut deeper. However, considering the depth, placement, and angles, Y/N questioned whether they were the result of his typical fights. "Are you testing my loyalty? Seeing if I'll betray you?" Y/N clenched her teeth with silvers of anger and frustration glinting in her eyes. Red Hood appeared slightly taken aback but remained silent in response to her outburst. "Do you really think I wouldn't notice ? Either that certain type of knife has become Gotham’s thugs number one choice or you're doing this to yourself. Why ?" She pressed further.

“ I knew I shouldn’t have made it so obvious.”Jason wasn’t accustomed to others fussing over his safety. Typically he received, at most a pat on the back from those who worked alongside him, knowing he had endured much worse and could handle it. Her anger and frustration hinted at concern, echoing the tone when he would go and pick fights with boys twice his size.

“What’s that supposed to mean ?”

Red Hood let out a sigh and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “Listen, I enjoy spending time with you and I wouldn’t bother coming unless I needed medical attention. So you know —"

“— So you cut yourself ? To hang out with me ? What’s wrong with you ? What if you actually got into a fight with those injuries ? What if you got hurt for real ? You could really get hurt. How could you do that to yourself ? ”

Jason lowered his head in remorse, realizing he hadn't fully considered his actions. Despite understanding her perspective and acknowledging the wrong in purposefully hurting himself for her attention, he couldn't deny a secret sense of satisfaction. "I’m so sorry," he muttered his apology, genuinely meaning every word. Y/N released an exasperated sigh and took a moment to compose herself before speaking again. "Next time, just ask. It's not that complicated."

Jason's head lifted with hopeful curiosity, resembling a puppy eager for a treat. " I can do that ?" he asked tentatively, unsure if her words were genuine. Jason blinks, and then smiles. Her words cause something to stir within him, a sensation of warmth and affection he hasn't felt in a while. Y/N nodded and got up to dispose of the bloody cotton swabs in the kitchen. Jason’s eyes followed her eyes, watching closely and to see if she was still mad at him. Y/N was a pretty forgiving person but in all honesty, he did mess up pretty bad. She returned and settled back down with a sigh, causing a slight nervous flutter in Jason. “So what do vigilantes when they’re not fighting bad guys ?” Y/N initiated as an icebreaker, much to Jason’s relief. It’s not like he could say ‘hey I’m in love with you please hang out with me with marriage in mind’. Wait marriage ? Where did that come from ? Images of Y/N in a white gown walking down an isle flashed through his mind. Y/N Todd. That had a nice ring to it, Jason mused silently. He had heard that Bali was a popular honeymoon destination but Y/N once told him that she always wanted to see the stargazing so the Atacama desert isn’t a bad destination either.

“Um earth to Red. You still here ?” Y/N waved her hand in front of Jason who seemed to have spaced out.

“Red ?”Jason asked sounding positively amused by the unexpected nickname. She shrugged and replied,“ Calling you Red Hood seemed too long, so Red it is. Not very creative, I know.”

Jason chuckled,“ I’ll allow it. And to answer your question, vigilantes don't have much time for leisure. When we're not fighting, we’re either training or passed the fuck out from exhaustion.” Y/N felt tired just hearing that, understanding the reasoning behind it, but the question remained: he wasn’t wasting time by being here, was he ?

“Seems like there’s no room for hobbies?” Y/N quipped, eliciting another soft laugh from Jason as he visibly relaxed. "I suppose so but pros can squeeze in time for special things here and there." he replied, his voice still quiet but now tinged with a smile. His body language seemed brighter and happier, and for the first time since she saw him actually looking relaxed.

Y/N reached for the TV remote, flipping through channels before tossing it onto his lap and standing up. “I’m going to fix myself something. Do you want anything?” she asked politely. Jason shook his head, declining, “I’m good.” Y/N walked to the kitchen and started making herself popcorn. What sort of movies and tv shows would vigilantes enjoy ? She guessed they might lean towards crime-related or action-packed content, but then remembered her friends’ complaints about the inaccuracy of such portrayals.

“Seriously Janet ?! There’s no way you’re picking that dress. Just cuz it would look good on Jessica doesn’t mean it would suit you ! I can hear the wails of the colour theory all the way from here.” Jason shook his head, sounding genuinely disappointed. He probably didn’t even notice Y/N shuffling closer to the television, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. So I guess that answers my question.

“That’s an interesting choice.”

Jason rolled his eyes and diverted his attention back to the television again. “What ? Can’t a man enjoy some good entertainment ?” He retorted. Y/N laughed lightly dismissing his remark,” No no it’s not that. Personally I’m more of a k-drama and anime girlie but I hold nothing against reality tv.” He nodded in acknowledgment of her preferences and resumed watching. Sitting beside him, Y/N observed as he commented on almost everything the people on TV said, finding herself amused by how much more entertaining his live commentary was compared to the actual show.

Minutes rolled by and after almost a couple hours, Y/N got up to go use the washroom and when she returned he had vanished once again, as was his habit. A small note lay where he had sat on her couch earlier. She picked it up and read, “Had a great time. Thanks for today - R” Y/N chuckled and shook her head, Damn these bats and their theatrics.

Jason would show up every three four days, most of the time unharmed thankfully. The two would do a variety of things like watching movies and tv shows together, playing board games and video games and just talking in general. At first it was just discussing their common interests but eventually he would sporadically divulged minor, unimportant details about himself. Some things she was able to piece together were that one, the bat vigilantes was a dysfunctional family with Batman as their patriarch. Second, the Red Hood worked alongside Starfire and Arsenal as his teammates. And third, that he had to be the biggest classic literature nerd she had come across.

“What do you mean your best friend tried to set you on fire while you were taking a shower ?! Didn’t you like lock the door or something ?”

“Locked doors don’t really do much to people like us angel.”

“So who’s your favourite bat sibling ?” Jason fell silent at her question, contemplating the answer. “Well that’s a tough question. I have my set of challenges and grudges with all of them. We’ve tried to kill each other atleast once. More so with my brothers than the girls. I’d say I get along pretty well with spoiler and batgirl. And if you ask about my brothers, I’d say Nightwing. He’s the funny nice one, Red Robin’s the smart, loyal one and Robin is the little obnoxious one.”

Y/N chuckled,“ Guess the article checks out.”

“What article ?” Jason asked curiously. Most of his intel came from law enforcement agencies databases, informants, surveillance technology, his fellow vigilantes and his own investigative work so he didn’t really feel the need to keep up with the cheesy articles in Gazette.

“The cinnamon roll tier list !” Y/N’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

“The what now ?”

“So there’s this popular meme going online,”she started to explain,“ so there are four categories - first, looks like a cinnamon roll, is a cinnamon roll. In that category are the signal, the spoiler and nightwing. Second, looks like a cinnamon roll, could kill you. That one is for Red Robin and the Robin. Third, looks like could kill you but is a cinnamon roll, that one is for Batgirl and the last is -” she paused because she knew the next tier on the list might potentially sting him.

“Looks like could kill you and would kill you ? Let me guess that’s one for me ?” Jason chuckled humorlessly, fully aware of the kind of reputation that preceded him. He wondered if she held the same perception of him. Y/N remained silent, neither confirming nor denying his statement.

"You know, you don't need to constantly worry about offending me. Believe me, I've heard far worse than anything your pretty mouth could say to me." Y/N couldn't help but feel upset, while his words were true, there was more to it than that. She wanted to express that she wasn't entirely afraid of him, but that wasn't entirely true either.

“Anyways – ”She interjected, clapping her hands once to shift the flow of the conversation,“ I got a new video game from a friend. Let me go get it. DO NOT DISAPPEAR. I’m serious it’s creepy.” Jason responded with her a cheeky salute,“ Yes ma’am.” Y/N disappeared into the bedroom briefly and returned with the DVD. When she came back she noticed Jason had reclined on the couch, appearing to have dozed off.

“Red ?” she asked softly, approaching him. She tried to get his attention again, but he remained unresponsive. He must’ve fallen asleep, she figured remembering what he said about his schedule. Retrieving a blanket from the side of the couch, she gently covered him. She sat there for a while, observing him as he slept. Watching him like this felt natural and familiar. Leaning back on the couch herself, she tried to unwind in the peaceful silence. Y/N couldn't help but admire him and all that he had achieved. Finding a friend in such an extraordinary circumstance was something she had never anticipated.

After a while, a somewhat wicked notion crept into her mind. She tried to shush the voice. Hanging out with Stephanie was sure working its magic, she thought to herself. It was a harmless little prank really, surely he wouldn’t mind. Against all logic and rationale, she decided entertained the idea. Tiptoeing to her closet, she retrieved the item from her closet and cautiously returned, double-checking if he was asleep. Here goes nothing.

[miss-dollette]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader | Devoted to you.

TW: Angst, insecurity, and past domestic abuse implied.

Note: I feel like this is how I would love Simon if he was real. Like, I'm such a romantic person, but I'm so scared of love 🙂. Anyway, I love Simon. I've been thinking of writing more civilian reader x Simon because I'm tired of badass (Y/N) and just want a wife (Y/N) for once. I just want to be Simon's little housewife, who he loves very much. Can a girl dream??

At times, childish, girlish whims would stealthily creep through her body and mind. Vivid dreams of romance, where she and a mysterious boy would frolic through a sun-kissed field of vibrant wildflowers, their love rendering them blissfully oblivious to the world, often jolted her awake in the dead of night. She'd find herself drenched in a cold sweat, a solitary tear tracing a delicate path down her cheek.

Gently, she'd raise her trembling hand to brush away the tear with the back of her palm, desperate to cling to the fading fragments of her dream before trying to surrender to sleep once more. But the embrace of slumber eluded her, casting her into a day where she roamed like an earth-bound spirit, lost and yearning.

Despite the painful scars left by her ex-boyfriend, whose mere thought sent shivers down her spine, there remained a tiny corner of her heart that clung to the hope of a true love, a man who would enter her life and adore her completely. It seemed like an impossible, almost unreal notion—did such men truly exist?

But then, as if summoned by destiny, Simon appeared in her life. With each passing day, she found herself falling deeper and deeper in love with him. She had believed it was impossible to love again; her ex-boyfriend had shattered her hopes, eroded her self-confidence, and extinguished her courage like one would smudge out a candle flame with their forefinger and their thumb. Still, the memory of Simon's darkened eyes ignited a fluttering sensation in her chest, setting her heart racing and her breath catching in a way she thought she might never experience again.

It was love, a love so pure, so exquisitely beautiful that it consumed her every thought and emotion. She yearned for him with an intensity that bordered on desperation, a longing to hold him close and never let go.

Yet, life's cruelty knew no bounds. Simon, the object of her affection, was a soldier, stationed in some distant, unknown corner of the world, locked in a struggle against an enemy whose identity she was uncertain of. The odds of them reuniting, already thin, seemed to diminish with each passing day.

The constant worry gnawed at her, making each day without him feel like an eternity. She clung to the memories of their time together, replaying them in her mind to stave off the loneliness that threatened to engulf her.

Every time her phone rang, she would scramble to retrieve it, her heart racing with anticipation, hoping to see Simon's name flashing on the screen. But more often than not, the disappointment washed over her as his name remained absent.

She couldn't help but wonder, if he could sense the depth of her affection, would it send him running in the opposite direction? Would the intensity of her feelings be enough to frighten him away? The uncertainty gnawed at her, creating a cloud of doubt and anxiety that threatened to overshadow the budding connection between them.

Even if he chose to run away, her love for him would remain unwavering. It was a love that would eternally reside in the deepest corners of her heart, an unending flame burning with timeless passion. She would willingly release him if that's what he needed for his happiness, even if it meant letting go of her own desires.

But in those moments when she contemplated their separation, a bittersweet sadness would wash over her. She would forever rue the missed opportunities to savor every precious second they shared in each other's presence. The memories would haunt her—the way his scent enveloped her, the sensation of his touch that sent shivers down her spine, and his deep, resonant voice, with its rugged texture that had the power to make her feel weightless, as if she were floating on air. The thought of not fully cherishing these sensations tugged at her heart, hurting in the most bittersweet way.

If fate were to claim him in the midst of battle, it would mark one of the worst moments of her life. She envisioned herself on her knees, her pleas to God flowing from a heart shattered with anguish, a desperate supplication for his life to be spared. With tear-filled eyes and a voice quivering with sorrow, she would beg relentlessly, as though the intensity of her entreaties could defy the cruel hand of destiny. She'd beseech the heavens until her knees turned a shade of bruised purple, until her very strength waned, and she couldn't anymore.

But when he returned home, the back of his bruised and healing, cut knuckles would tenderly caress her cheek, and his deep eyes would lock onto her gaze, that brimmed with an overwhelming love that enveloped her. In that moment, every ounce of anxiety and concern within her seemed to dissolve into nothing. He was her sanctuary, a respite from a crumbling world, and she had unwavering faith that Simon's strong arms were there to shield her from its gaping maw.

[atinyslittleworld]

The Void Series

Hongjoong | Seonghwa | Yunho | Yeosang | San | Mingi | Wooyoung | Jongho

Summary: After a painful breakup, Y/N calls her best friend Yunho for comfort.

Word Count: 1,205

Genre: angst, comfort, romance

Warnings: emotional abuse, toxic relationship, emotional distress

The shattering sound of glass echoed through the small apartment as another object was flung across the room. Y/N stood frozen, tears streaming down her face as her boyfriend—no, ex-boyfriend—continued his tirade. His words were venomous, laced with anger and disdain, each one cutting deeper than the last.

“You’re nothing! You’ll always be nothing!” he shouted, his voice ringing in her ears. He grabbed a framed photo of the two of them, smiling and happy, and smashed it against the wall. The glass exploded in all directions, fragments falling to the floor like pieces of her heart.

Y/N felt paralyzed, unable to move or even breathe as he unleashed his fury. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was over. He stormed out, slamming the door behind him, leaving her alone in the wreckage—both physical and emotional.

The silence that followed was deafening. Y/N’s legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the floor, sobs wracking her body. She had never felt so broken, so utterly devastated. Her mind was a whirlwind of pain and confusion, the sting of his words replaying over and over.

In her desperation, she reached for her phone with trembling hands, dialing the only number she knew by heart. Yunho. Her best friend, her rock. He answered almost immediately, concern evident in his voice.

“Y/N? What’s wrong?” he asked, the worry in his tone making her tears fall even faster.

“I... I can’t... Yunho, please... make it stop. I can’t take it anymore,” she choked out between sobs. “It hurts so much. Just make it stop.”

Panic gripped Yunho as he heard her desperate plea. He could barely make out what she was saying, but the fear in her voice was enough. “Are you hurt? Where are you? I’m coming right now!” he said, already grabbing his keys and heading out the door.

Y/N couldn’t form a coherent response, the words catching in her throat. All she could do was cry, the pain overwhelming her completely. But she held onto the phone, knowing that Yunho was on his way.

It wasn’t long before Yunho was bursting through her door, his heart pounding with fear. The sight that greeted him made his blood run cold. The apartment was a disaster—broken glass and scattered belongings everywhere—but what terrified him most was Y/N, huddled in a corner, her body shaking with sobs.

“Y/N...” he breathed, rushing to her side. He knelt down next to her, his hands hovering uncertainly, not wanting to startle her. “I’m here... It’s okay, I’m here.”

She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, her face a mask of pain. “Yunho... I need you to help me forget him,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I don’t want to think about him anymore. I want to erase him from my mind, like he never existed. Please, Yunho... make it stop.”

His heart broke at her words, at the sheer desperation in her voice. He pulled her into his arms, holding her close as she cried against his chest. “I’m so sorry, Y/N... I’m so sorry this happened,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’m here now. You’re not alone.”

Y/N clung to him, her grip almost painfully tight, as if she was afraid he would disappear. Yunho held her, letting her cry, feeling her pain as if it were his own. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but eventually, her sobs began to subside, leaving only quiet sniffles.

She pulled back slightly, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. There was a raw vulnerability in her gaze that Yunho had never seen before, and it made his chest tighten. Without thinking, he reached up to gently brush a tear from her cheek, his thumb lingering on her soft skin.

“Yunho...” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Kiss me.”

His breath caught in his throat, his heart skipping a beat at her words. For a moment, he just stared at her, trying to process what she was asking. “Y/N... I don’t think...”

“Please,” she interrupted, her voice trembling. “I just need to feel something else... anything else... I need you.”

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He could see the pain in her eyes, the desperate need to escape from it, even if just for a moment. He wanted so badly to take it all away, to give her the comfort she was asking for. But he also knew that she wasn’t thinking clearly, that this wasn’t what she really needed.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice laced with concern. “You’re not thinking straight right now. This isn’t the answer.”

She shook her head, more tears spilling over. “I don’t care. I just want to forget... even if it’s just for a little while. Please, Yunho... kiss me.”

He hesitated, torn between his desire to protect her and the deep affection he had always felt for her. But as he looked into her eyes, he realized that this wasn’t just about the moment. It was about her needing to feel loved, to feel wanted after being torn apart by someone who was supposed to care for her.

Slowly, Yunho leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a soft, tentative kiss. She responded immediately, her hands gripping his shirt as if anchoring herself to him. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent as she poured all her pain and desperation into it.

But just as her hands started to wander, Yunho gently pulled back, his forehead resting against hers. His breath was ragged, his heart pounding in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm. “Y/N, we can’t... not like this,” he whispered, his voice full of restraint.

She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. “Why not? Please, Yunho... I need this.”

He cupped her face in his hands, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “Because I care about you too much to let this happen when you’re hurting like this. I want you to be sure, to be ready... and right now, I know you’re not.”

Her eyes filled with tears again, but she nodded slowly, understanding even though it hurt. “Just... kiss me,” she whispered. “Please, Yunho, just kiss me.”

Yunho’s heart ached at her plea, but he couldn’t deny her. He leaned in again, capturing her lips in a tender, lingering kiss. It was full of all the love and care he had for her, a silent promise that he would be there for her no matter what.

When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers again, his hands gently stroking her hair. “I’m here, Y/N,” he whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere. We’ll get through this together, okay?”

She nodded, a small, broken smile playing on her lips. “Thank you, Yunho... for everything.”

He kissed her forehead, pulling her back into his arms, holding her close. “Always,” he murmured, his voice full of quiet determination. “I’ll always be here for you.”

And in that moment, with Yunho’s arms wrapped around her and his heartbeat steady under her ear, Y/N finally began to feel the darkness start to lift, knowing that with him by her side, she could face whatever came next.

[leighsartworks216]

I Come With Knives Pt10

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Not proofread. I was supposed to be editing text for a class, but I suddenly had to write this chapter or I wouldn't be able to sleep. It is almost midnight.

Also, I'd like to remind everyone that I have not played the games, so I know none of this is accurate to the events, and I'm sure a lot of the things I write about are happening out of order, but don't worry about it. Think of it as an AU, or as, ya know, a story that was written just for fun because I love these silly little guys too much

I'm almost out of space on my masterlist for links so I might move some fics from the First BG3 Masterlist to the Second just to keep this story all in one place. But we'll worry about that when we get there in a couple chapters

Warnings: references to kidnapping, references to emotional abuse/manipulation, alcohol consumption, references to slavery

Word Count: 1,639

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

I Come With Knives Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Young tieflings ran around, playing games with each other and causing mischief. You couldn’t stop watching the way they teased and laughed and got along so well. When one tripped and fell, the rest were there to help them up, holding hands as they continued running around. After so much darkness and death and fear, to see so much energy and unbridled joy overwhelmed your heart.

A frown slid onto your face as you tried to think back to your childhood. Had you run around with the same reckless abandon? Had you tripped and been helped to your feet again? Had you teased and laughed and had not a care in the world, once? All you had were tiny fragments. A familiar wall here, the impression of a fence there. Silhouettes without faces; with no defining features at all. Years of your life, missing.

You could remember the night you were stolen away. The feeling of being lost, and a beady pair of red eyes staring hungrily at you with a smile that stretched too wide. The gravely promise of helping you find your home.

You shivered and hugged yourself close, shaking your head to jostle the memories from your mind. Now was not the time to dwell on the past. You won this battle - that’s what mattered.

Astarion sat down beside you on the log, a bottle of wine in hand. The light of the campfire danced across his features in a way quite familiar to you by now, and yet you couldn’t help tracing the shadows that defined his cheekbones and eyes. He smirked at you. “Something on your mind, darling?”

You sigh. “Too much, I think.” You turn back to the kids. Halsin had somehow calmed them down enough to demonstrate whittling a duck. They were completely enraptured, with wide eyes and pleas to teach them how to do it, too. “We’ve been on the road for weeks trying to do the seemingly impossible, I just forgot what was at stake. Not just our own lives, but theirs, too. Everyone’s.”

“Hm, and you’re going to carry it all on your shoulders.” He holds a goblet in front of you, urging you to take it. Red liquid settles inside, a deep, dark crimson. “You need to relax, love.”

You chuckle. “I don’t really know how,” you admit. You carefully take a small sip. Your face scrunches up immediately.

He laughs, taking the goblet back from you and finding absolutely no resistance. He swirls it around. “Well, in my experience, it’s very difficult without a good vintage and not just vinegar in a fancy bottle. Fortunately for us, my dear, I happen to have saved a bottle from one of our many expeditions. And,” he leans in conspiratorially, “I may even be convinced to share.”

“Oh really?” You tilt your head, squinting your eyes like you didn’t trust him, but the grin dancing on your lips gave the ruse away. “What’s the catch?”

You think he likes when you joke with him like this. It’s so difficult to get a chance with so much on your mind, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes almost one-to-one with the spark in the tiefling children’s eyes. “No catch,” he promises, “just your company. Away from all this.” He sighs, scowling as he leans back. “I can’t say I enjoy being looked at like some hero.”

You scoff. “You are a hero.”

“You’re the hero,” he insists. “Don’t go lumping me in with every goody-two-shoes that’s gotten stabbed in the back for being too nice.”

“Hm. And would you be the one doing the backstabbing?”

His scowl softens. His eyes do, too. There’s something warm there. You can’t name what it is - it’s completely foreign to anything you remember - but you feel… safe in his gaze. Protected. “You can consider your back perfectly safe, as long as I’m around. Cross my, erm.” He clears his throat. “Now, will I be enjoying the night alone?”

You look around. Some of the kids are cutting away at wooden lumps, with gentle guidance and supervision from Halsin. Wyll and Karlach are talking with cheeks as flushed as their skin tones allowed. Shadowheart is enjoying some wine and Lae’zel is nearby, but though they glare there’s no threats. At least, not any that will be taken out tonight. Gale has contented himself with cooking a large meal to feed all the hungry mouths that abound, reading a book with every spare second he has. Everyone is happy, everything is peaceful. Why shouldn’t you slip away?

“Where did you have in mind?”

He smirks and stands up, dumping the nasty wine from the goblet into a bush before he offers you a hand. His touch lingers longer than you think it will. You even wonder if he was going to gently tug you along with him, but he lets go. He slips into his tent briefly and emerges with another bottle and another glass. The vinegar-wine has disappeared, perhaps for him to drink later despite his complaints. With a smile and a nod to the treeline, he leads you into the woods. The sounds of the party fade away behind you.

-

The moon is huge in the sky, full and bright. There is no need for candles when her light chases away the darkness in a cool, blue glow. In a clearing in the forest, you’ve settled down on the ground, cushioned only by soft grass. The bottle was almost empty by now. You don’t know how many glasses you drank, but you felt full and warm. Content. At peace. You didn’t feel the need to jump at every shadow, nor did you have any fear in your mind for what could linger in them.

You laid back on the ground and stared up at the brilliant sky overhead. Astarion lay beside you, wondering if he would have ended up here if he’d ignored your past, ignored your kindness, and tried manipulating you as well.

“Thank you,” you say out of nowhere. You flush at how loud it was, but he just smiled. “For this, I mean.”

He hummed, turning his head to look at you fully. “I never even considered… Was this your first time drinking?”

You giggled and turned to look at him, too. “Was it obvious?”

“Not at all,” he huffed. He had that soft look in his eyes again. It seems to have spread to his smile, as well. “You do make for a very lovely drunk.”

You roll your eyes, looking back up at the stars. “I’m not drunk. Just a bit…”

“Tispy?”

“Mhm.”

He traces your profile, studies the way the moon highlights your features so masterfully. It’s almost as if your years of servitude had disappeared. All inklings of battle and torture were gone. All that remained was you, him, the moon and the stars, and the grass beneath you both.

You roll onto your side, cushioning your head with an arm as you look at him. “What’re you looking at?”

He chuckles softly. “I thought that much was obvious, dear.” He rolls over as well, mirroring you. Like this, the moon catches your face differently. It’s no less beautiful.

You huff. “What are you thinking about then?”

Oh, so much. He couldn’t recall a time when he’d simply laid with someone without sex being involved, but part of his mind was quite occupied trying to be sure. Other worries for the future, about Cazador and Kir Parthene, came and went, as they always did, leaving a residue of their passing like a thick sludge trailed behind them. More of these thoughts worried about you. About your freedom. About what would happen to you after all this. The thoughts that dominated his mind tonight, though, were far simpler, and far sweeter.

He reaches out to trace a finger along your cheek. Your skin is warm, as it usually is, but the flush in your cheeks from the wine makes you feel even warmer. He can see your mind fighting instinct as it tries to decipher what to do. But then you’re leaning into his touch, welcoming him to continue. He cradles your cheek in his palm.

“I think you look beautiful in the moonlight,” he admits. His voice is merely a whisper. “And I think, if you weren’t drunk right now, I’d liked to have kissed you.”

You laugh softly, out of shock more than anything. A compliment that wasn’t followed by something cruel, that wasn’t intended to act as a bandage, combined with the genuine care in his words. The only kisses you’d received in these years had been along your body, across your shoulders and on your neck, but they were never real. They were all for your master, a reminder that you belonged to her. This was not that. Tears prick at the corner of your eyes.

“I think I would have let you.”

He smiles and strokes a thumb below your eye, brushing away a tear before it ever has the chance to fall. “Well, we have plenty of time ahead of us.” He trails his hand from your cheek down your arm until he’s holding your hand. He brings it to his lips, and presses light kisses to your knuckles. “One day soon, perhaps.”

You wipe at your other eye. “I’d like that.”

Once he’s kissed each knuckle, you pull your hand from his and wrap it around his waist, pulling yourself to cuddle against him. He easily welcomes you, wrapping his arms around you and drawing you even closer. You press your face into his chest. He pets your hair in long, even motions. As you revel in the safety of his arms and the moonlight, and as he indulges in your body heat, you both eagerly await what the future will bring.

---

Tag List:

@hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @kindadolly @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @olitheghostboy-blog @puppyg1rl666 @maruichio @cyber-dump-171 @katharynmarie @twinkliker3000 @cherifrog @catching-fire-in-the-wind @phantoms-fandom-blog @thespectacularspaceace @lynnlovesthestars @tototini @ashrio20 @bambamwolf87 @astarion-imagine-archive @thistrashisreadytobash @rosxtinted

[blazehedgehog]

Do you think there might be some problems that could develop with SAGE showcasing indie games? SAGE was created as an event for the Sonic fandom to make fan games, but now indie games have become part of it. Nothing against it on principle, but what about the legal area? SAGE is still tied to Sonic's image, would it count as using Sonic to sell other products? Or would it be a Chip 'n Dale's Movie Sonic case?

Top comment on the showcase trailer video:

If there were problems, Sega would be the ones causing them, and that's the official Sonic brand account giving their sign of approval.

SAGE was created, speaking as the creator of SAGE here, to demystify fangaming and show the world it had a positive effect on the world. Fangames were seen as illegal bootlegs when I started the event, and I sought to change that perception.

Now, yes, generally speaking, I think if you're trying to stay on the up and up, disconnecting your fangame from commercial promotion as much as humanly possible is the best way to keep your nose clean. Don't run ads on your website, don't run ads on gameplay footage, DEFINITELY do not in any way even LOOK at crowdfunding or paying employees. Stay away from any and all money I/O. Which is very difficult if not impossible because even hosting a website means you are exchanging money with someone in order to distribute your game.

So you have to decide an acceptable level to compromise your morals if you hope to put your game out there, and how much risk that creates for you depends on the company in question, I guess.

Hosting your game on Itch.io? Well, as long as you create a standalone account separate from any real monetized game creation you plan on doing, that might be okay. They don't run ads on Itch.io that I know about.

Hosting your game on Game Jolt? Slightly more risky, because Game Jolt serves ads on their download page.

Mediafire? More risky, because I feel like Mediafire shows extra invasive ads, including, last I heard, those ads that have fake download buttons on them. So not only is Mediafire making money, they are engaging in active deception.

Hosting it on a Patreon? Way more risky. Even if you have the post set to $0, you are bringing people to a page where they can give you money for your services.

I technically do this with some of my very old game projects, but none of those are anywhere close to finished games, and they are all almost universally just fragments of unimportant side projects. For example, I do not have builds of TFH up there, or MarioWeen. It's mostly just software I started and did not finish, mixed in with a couple of like, early alpha engine tests if I remember right.

I've also thought about just straight up taking them down and hosting them somewhere else (the itch.io archive might be my best bet, or even archive.org). It does make me uncomfortable to have them up there, but it was a stable, clean place to host things like that when I first launched that Patreon, like, what, 8 years ago? Now they're buried at the very very very bottom of my post list and I'm probably the only person who remembers that they're there.

Anyway, if it was a problem, I think Sega would let us know. And I say "let us know" instead of, say, just stomping their boot all over SAGE and killing it without recourse. I think, given what a positive force it is not just in the community, but in the indie gaming space, if it was a problem, they could talk it out with whoever is running the show that year.

But this is a place to cultivate future game developers. It is good for the game industry. And I've said it here, or maybe other places, but I've often wondered if Steam's multiple demo events they host every year was inspired by something like SAGE. It's kind of become a big deal, and it keeps growing to be a bigger deal every year, and at least so far, nobody's abused or exploited it yet.

Not that they even could -- SAGE is curated. Not a lot, but enough that I know there were booths rejected for 2024. You can be, and people have been, kicked out of SAGE for being abusive. Participating in SAGE is a privilege, not a public service.

So I think everything will be fine.

[ohraicodoll]

Interwoven | Chapter 4

Chapters:  4/6 Fandom:  The Sandman (Comics & TV 2022) Rating:  Mature/Explicit Relationships:  Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Original Female Character, Dream/Reader Characters:  Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Original Female Character, Hob Gadling, Original Characters, Matthew the Raven, Lucienne, Calliope, Mervyn Pumpkinhead, Calliope, The Endless, Eve, Delirium, Death, Desire Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, Explicit Sexual Content, Past Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Possessive Behavior, Domestic Abuse, Domestic Violence, Jealousy, Trauma Responses Tags: Character Development, Established Relationships, General complicated feelings, meeting the family, meeting the friends, talk about fantasies, domestic life, fluff, past Relationships, ANGST, OFC: Dahlia, Named Reader, 1st POV

Summary: She had very few people in her life and while he denied it, Dream had so many. People that cared for him, people that warned her. Or in other terms, Dream and Dahlia’s casual relationship is turning not so casual. Chapter Summary: A family meeting of sorts

4th in the Fragments Series | Read on AO3 Writing Masterlist Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 Previous in Series: Possession Next in Series: The Complications of Family Chapter 4: Delirium & Death

I spent my time going from dream to dream, trying to resort my tangled thoughts, almost oblivious to what was going on around me. I needed to walk, to move, or else I would spiral down into something dark and insecure.

Giants loomed in a forest of emeralds, helping a young girl to swing back and forth by tying rope and a board to their fingers. Her laughter helped but I felt like I was darkening the mood. An endless maze of a house grew and grew for a boy who desperately wanted to find a way out and I watched him run past me over and over again, not realizing the house was a loop. His distress was bitter so I walked on. A young woman dreamed of opening a bakery inside of a giant sourdough loaf, the walls toasted and warm and tables made of slices of butter but I stayed slightly cold. Falling back into old habits, doors appeared, leading me from one dream to the next as if my subconscious or the magic that allowed me the ability was trying to help. But I could only think about the story Eve had told me and her warning. Loving Lord Morpheus is not for the faint of heart. I didn’t love him, that was jumping the gun when so much of our relationship was…confusing. It wouldn’t be hard to, if I wasn’t terrified. Love had pushed me into a cage long ago, had led me to take suffering and abuse because at least I was loved and that made it all better. He had loved Alianora, even if it was Desire’s doing, and she had loved him, but time had corroded it away like it does all things and he’d been cruel. Cold. She’d been caged in the same way and that was terrifying. Somewhere out there was dream island where his old love was tucked away so she couldn’t bother him. Out of sight, out of mind. I wondered if being mortal was a perk for him. At least when he got bored of me, I’d go home and die off. I sighed, going through another door to another dream, a boy with a mermaid tail swimming passed through the air while a school of flying fish followed him. I was underwater but not, able to walk on as if on land and breathe normally even if the water lifted my hair. The Morpheus people spoke of always seemed so different from the one I knew. When he had triggered my trauma, he’d learned and corrected himself, aware of the pain it caused. He played at being annoyed at me disobeying him but I could see the lightness and humor when I did so. And when I argued with him, he was stubborn but didn’t push me away as a dumb simple human. But there were hints there. When we had fought about Calliope, it’d been there in the coldness and the words he bit out but also easily pushed away. He had changed and yes, was also fighting it. Maybe his time in imprisonment had affected him more than I knew, but it didn’t erase the person he was. It was hard to process that echo of cruelty that seemed to reverberate in the stories of his past and the sharpness in his eyes and I sighed again. I entered another door and paused, eyes trying to adjust to the bright technicolor buildings that surrounded me as I stood on a city street. The buildings were an array of neon colors and seemed to pulse and sway, giant eyes blinking in place of windows and peering down at me. It was most likely a drug trip induced dream, something I had come across a handful of times. The sidewalk was less solid and more like jello, bouncing slightly as I walked and the world around me so bright against my black dress. It was like walking into a bad Lisa Frank painting. Two girls lay star-fished on the ground in the middle of the road, head to head, blinking up at the rainbow sky. Butterflies and fish and spiders floated around them like buzzing insects. I frowned, feeling my eyes strain at all the color. “Hi,” a voice called out, coming out of one of the girls in word-shaped smoke, a small smoke smiley face following then dissipating. I smiled softly and walked forward a bit, arms wrapped around me. One of the girls had blonde hair, braids and beads knotted throughout, bright blue eyes glassy as they stared unblinking at the sky. She didn’t register me, barely seemed to notice anything happening around her which made me frown. The other girl had bright red hair with streaks of color, half the side shaved down and colorful eyeshadow smeared. One eye was sharp and blue, the other green with silver flecks. The mismatched eyes found mine and something thrummed through me as if someone had put one hand to a live wire and the other into a bowl of slime. It was strange and uncomfortable but I knew that while she was in this dream, she wasn’t the dreamer or even of the Dreaming. A visitor, trespasser. “Hi,” I replied slightly confused, staring at her in her upside down position. “You’re really pretty,” she said in a singsong voice, the words coming out in more word shaped smoke but now in swirling color. My lips quirked even in my confusion, the smoke moving around me, “Thanks. Are you…supposed to be here? You’re not a dream.” Her own lips pursed, large eyes blinking while her hands twirled in the air around the floating butterflies and fish. The blonde girl still stared unseeing on the ground opposite her. “I mean, am I supposed to be anywhere? Are you supposed to be here?” she let out a string of words, smoke struggling to caption in the air, “I don’t know, that’s not really my thing. I don’t know, I guess I wanted to be here but maybe I am supposed to be here! I bet my brother would know in the big book- ooooh! What if we go and ask him and then we can see if we can go somewhere it doesn’t say but then maybe now that I’ve said it the book would know and we would be doing what the book said- I don’t know! Oh we can ask if bricks or planks would be better!” My brain felt like it was melting, struggling to keep up with the line of dialogue she was going down, registering an older sibling. Not a dream then, but her description of a book sounded awfully familiar. I could only smile and nod, “Uh, I’m not sure we can see your big brother but we can ask Dream-” “Oh no, let’s not ask him. He’ll probably do his frowny face and be scary and say how I’m interrupting his very important work again,” she cut me off, sitting up off the concrete, her voice going low to impersonate his voice. Her red hair floated around her a bit, large and almost swallowing her waif-like form. She was so young, a teenager maybe, with a fishnet stocking bodysuit that was ripped at the knees and elbows and an oversized men's jacket hanging off of her. Something seemed to click, some instinct deep inside like instinctively knowing how to breathe or blink, and I knew before the words were out, “You’re Delirium, aren’t you? His sister?” She quirked her head, hair falling into her face, worry slipping into her mismatched irises, “Oh… Yeah, I guess I am. Are you going to tell my brother I’m here?” And at that, I couldn’t help but smile at her and how utterly normal that statement was coming from an Endless. She was chaotic but tiny, standing up to my chin and looking like such a kid. Definitely radiating little sister energy, “No, not if you don’t want me to. Are you okay? Don’t you all usually go through your galleries?” Delirium put a hand to her chin, sleeve flopping over to completely cover it, “I’m…okay, I think? I was talking to this lady and she offered me some little candies that make you see all the invisible squiggles that float around and since that was really nice I gave her a special gift to let her see extra colors in return, the ones that don’t exist, but when I was in her brain she went to sleep and I was like oops and tumbled in but then her dream was really cool so I stayed here cause the floor feels like jelly and is fun and then you showed up and started talking to me. So yeah. I think I’m okay.” Despite telling me she had essentially taken drugs with a stranger, I doubted it was what made her like this. It was very likely drugs and alcohol and the sort didn’t affect the Endless at all. But I  looked down at the blonde girl at our feet and the glassy look in her eyes and frowned. The girl was really high and I wasn’t sure it was good she was unresponsive even in her dream. “Well, would you like to go somewhere else? I don’t think your friend is going to be doing much,” my hand fiddled with the black stone necklace and I looked behind Delirium as a door appeared without really being summoned. I was getting better at that. She smiled, blinking her mismatched eyes and a floating spider landed on top of her head, “Really? Oh yes, please, I don’t like jelly.” I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing at the complete one-eighty turn on her feelings towards jelly and nodded to the door, leading her away from the girl. I didn’t know what would happen to a mortal who not only was in one Endless’ realm but had another Endless still in her brain. Probably not great so getting her to a neutral zone would probably be best. I opened the door and we both walked through, coming to the familiar green plains of Fiddler’s Green. Delirium laughed and twirled around, the tall grass around us leaning into me as if to caress and comfort and acknowledge my presence. I smiled and ran my hands through it, walking down a small path. “Wow, I mean I heard you could walk through dreams but like wow ,” the youngest Endless laughed, the word clouds not dissipating in this new dream meaning they were coming from her. Slowly though, they turned from smoke to bubbles, small circles that morphed into various shapes around her. “You’ve heard of me?” I asked and walked beside her as bubble animals floated passed. That made me pause a bit. I highly doubted Morpheus would mention me to any of his siblings except maybe Death, which meant word had gotten out of our involvement. It was odd and slightly uncomfortable that beings of such high power were speaking about me. I knew Dream would not be happy about it. “Yeah, kinda,” she hopped along, dancing from one foot to the next, “Desire mentioned Dream was with someone new and they were interested but they’re always interested cause they like to do dumb things with Despair but then I heard you were human and a Dream Walker and thought that’s cool! And maybe I’d want to meet you because maybe you were nice so here I am.” Desire had mentioned me. Definitely wasn’t sure how to feel about that. While I had yet to meet them, what I had heard from stories and Morpheus himself hadn’t exactly been great though I also had to consider that the source was ever so slightly biased. “You wanted to meet me?” I asked gently, trying to shake away the discomfort I was feeling. She paused mid hop, foot half balanced in the air as a prancing bubble unicorn moved past, “Yeeeeeeeah, but Dream would get mad if I asked and he makes that frowny face and his weird eyes get all black hole-ish and he scares me so I didn’t ask.” Her lip wobbled a bit as it morphed into a pout, foot still in the air, “And now he’s going to get mad that I accidentally slipped into his realm and is gonna tell me how I’m bad at my function and I’ve met you so he’s gonna be extra angry and-” “He’s not going to get mad,” I cut her off, putting a hand on her shoulder until she finally planted both feet on the ground, “I’ll try and tell him not to, you don’t have to be scared. He’s still your big brother after all.” Delirium sniffled, a bubble dog diving in and out of the floating red strands of her hair, “Yeah, but he doesn’t like me very much. I’m not sure he likes any of us except Death.” I sighed. Morpheus was…intense. Very rarely did he allow himself to relax and his work and responsibilities were always first. Honestly, he was so type A I was surprised he was even interested in me considering how often I poked fun at him and generally disobeyed him, but he did. He didn’t allow himself to be silly or relaxed or anything. I could see how that would clash with Delirium and his other siblings. It made me a little sad though. For while they were Endless and ageless and existed since the beginning of time, they were also a family. They had each other, as evident by Desire coming to his aid with Alianora even when they hated each other. I was an only child, had only had myself for so long, even more so after my parents died. I was…jealous, a little. To have a big family, but not appreciate it. “He’s…difficult,” I frowned sadly, “But I promise I’ll make sure he doesn’t yell or get mad at least.” The silver in her green eye swirled like a fish in a pond and she smiled, the sadness vanishing in a second, “I like you. I’m sorry I can’t give you extra pretty colors.” The sudden change was jarring but I only smiled and chuckled, patting her shoulder again, “It’s okay. I like the colors I see now and I like you too.” The bubble dog came prancing around her, the size of my palm and shimmering in its oil slicked form. I raised my hand and watched it leap on, sitting and panting with a wagging tail. It should have popped but this was the Dreaming and the bubbles were Delirium’s creatures so it wasn’t too surprising. Pursing my lips, I tried to imagine another smaller bubble dog next to it, tapping into that same place where I imagined the doors and could bring myself to different areas of dreams. It couldn’t be that hard, much smaller effort than taking my whole person and teleporting it, plus this was the dream realm. Anything should be possible. With that thought, there was another small dog sitting there that was slightly different in color and not quite as animated, but there all the same. I smiled as Delirium gasped in delight and lowered my palm as the two dogs barked and wagged excitedly at each other. “Oh, you made one too! Oh my gosh, look at the little doggies ,” she clasped her hands and the bubble dogs chased each other through the air. I couldn’t help feeling slightly proud of myself, having done it especially without Dream’s help or guidance. I’d been able to manipulate some things in the Dreaming, but only the tiniest bit and usually in my own dreams. This was new and I felt a little more confident in my ability. We walked a little further, watching the bubble dogs run and knock past other bubble animals in their excitement as leaves from the overhead trees bowed and grazed my skin and a cherry scented wind skimmed over me. Delirium was mumbling to herself, though I could only hear her repeat my name a few times under her breath, the hard D sound repeated over and over along with the rest of her family’s names. All D’s. The meeting was proving to be a good distraction from the spiral my thoughts had been taking and I was enjoying our walk. Then I felt the shift in the Dreaming a second before the sizzle of his power coasted over my skin and through my necklace and tried not to groan at the sharp metallic scent to the wind that cut through the pleasantness that had been there. The bubble dog that I had made gave a sharp bark then popped, leaving the other one alone and whining. Oh he was mad. Shit. Morpheus appeared on the path ahead of us, a black tear in the peacefulness that was Fiddler’s Green. Cloak a wispy shadow with flames blazing bright and skin so pale under his mop of black hair, I could see why even Delirium could be scared of him. He was more Nightmare King in that instance, black eyes bottomless pits and jaw sharp as he clenched his teeth together. I sighed and stepped forward a little in front of his younger sister, knowing I was going to have to steer this fast, as he bit out a sharp, “Delirium, sister, what are you doing here?” I didn’t even have to look at her to know she was cringing away, the rest of the bubble animals popping around us. Stepping a little closer, I caught his eye, lips pressed tightly together, and gave him a pointed look while trying to convey everything I couldn’t necessarily say out loud. I settled for mouthing silently, “Calm down, please.” The please was for added benefit, knowing he wouldn’t take kindly to being ordered when he was in this kind of a mood. A silent argument passed between us, the cloak whipping about in the invisible wind of his power. I could almost hear him, the command to move out the way, but I stayed firm in front of Delirium. He was angry and I wasn’t sure exactly what specific problem was pissing him off the most, but anger in general wasn’t good for me and was not good for his sister. “I was showing your little sister around Fiddler’s Green. You know, chatting,” I answered for her, keeping my voice light even as I glared at him. His jaw clenched and the twin stars sparked, searching my face and then moving to the Endless half hidden behind me. My stance, deceptively relaxed from Delirium’s view but tense from the front, was very clear. I wasn’t going to settle for him getting after her. He was mad but that anger wasn’t welcome here right now. I could see him take a deep breath and the cloak calmed a bit as he struggled to get himself under control. It wasn’t hard to see why. He’d found one of his siblings in his realm, uninvited, and with me. Meeting Hob was one thing, meeting an Endless was another, “Sister, are you well? You did not use your sigil.” Better, it was a better attempt at not seeming angry even if I could see the tension in his shoulders and feel it along my skin in the harsh skittering of his power. It was like breathing in the taste of foil, metallic and bitter. “Uh, yeah. I mean- as well as I always am,” Delirium mumbled and moved to step more alongside me, fidgeting with her bare feet in the grass, “I mean I was better then worse but then I got better! Now kinda worse, but I think getting better?” Morpheus came closer, arms crossed, “That is…good.” The word was stilted and if his jaw was clenched any tighter, his teeth would shatter, “Did you come to the Dreaming on a family matter?” She swayed back and forth, hair swirling in a cloud of red and colors, eyes catching mine and darting to the floor in any attempt to avoid meeting his gaze, “I…wanted to meet Dahlia? She’s really nice and pretty and please don’t be mad … Did you know she has a D name too?” I smiled down at her, trying to show that we were good and nothing bad had happened. He sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as if fighting off a headache, “Young sister, you cannot simply enter my realm without informing me.” Her face fell a bit, “You don’t want to see me? I didn’t mess with anything! I think…I mean the blonde girl was pretty okay when we left her…” The stars in his eyes darkened and I knew he was hitting his emotional range already, stuck between being angry and dealing with Delirium’s sadness. “Maybe you can use the gallery next time-” I interrupted him before he could open his mouth, meeting her mismatched eyes all the while feeling his slight annoyance building, “And come see us properly. I think that would be nice and you won’t have to come through other means. Right, Dream?” I watched her shuffle and Morpheus’ eyes burning into my skin. I wasn’t sure if he was mad at the suggestion, but knew he wouldn’t openly contradict me. But there was something besides anger in that stare and I swallowed hard under its intensity. Then she brightened, smiling, “Does that mean I’m invited to visit?” I replied “Yes” at the same time as Dream said “No,” the words bouncing off each other. My eyes met his, admonishing, and he narrowed his. I didn’t exactly have any say over the realm or inviting her, but it was a decent compromise between the two and I wasn’t going to let him mess that up. He sighed heavily before relenting, “Within allowance and if I am not engaged in pertinent work, then you may be permitted to visit if Dahlia is here.” Not quite a no, not quite a yes, but it seemed to do the trick all the same. Delirium was dancing on her heels, fingers intertwined and balled under her chin, “Oh wowee, okay! Oooh, you weren’t scary and I’m invited now! This is not how I thought this would go, how exciting!” The dreamlord sighed again and I knew I’d be hearing about this later, “Shall we go to the gallery so you may return to your realm?”

It was a question that he didn’t even let her reply to, quickly moving forward and grabbing my hand in his, the action abrupt but still gentle as the world shifted around us.

And in a blink, we were in the dark marble of his gallery room, the golden frames around each sigil glistening in the flickering candlelight that lit the room. Each sigil was beautiful in its own right, floating in their designated space in the darkness. Delirium was a bright spot in contrast to both my black dress and Dream’s cloak, the shadows seeming to hug us while she was a calamity of color. I realized how much it matched her sigil, the amorphous swirl of color accurate to the chaotic girl. Her steps echoed as she pranced in a circle, twirling and looking around at her surroundings as if it were new. Maybe it was, considering how often the dreamlord liked to change the palace rooms. Morpheus had opened his mouth, headed towards her sigil when another voice interrupted him for the hundredth time in the past few minutes. “Dream, I stand in my gallery and I hold your sigil! I need to talk to you, quick!” A light female voice echoed through the space, gentle but commanding, and then in a blink there was a girl standing there against the wall. Not even waiting for a reply. She was in tight black jeans and a black tank top, hair a mass of curls around her head with a silver ankh hanging from her neck. She looked kind but also worried, brow drawn tight and lips in a frown. And like Delirium, I knew this was Death, the oldest sister of the Endless. This day was getting to be a lot. A heavy sigh, most likely the fifth since I met back up with him, left Morpheus, “Sister, usually I must permit you-” “Can it,” she cut him off abruptly, “Have you seen…?” Death drifted off as her eyes found Delirium not far off near me, smiling and giving her a small wave. Relief released from her and she marched over, placing her hands on the younger girl's shoulder, “Del, there you are! You scared the crap out of me!” “Hi,” Delirium squeaked, “I was here. I was in a blonde girl earlier but then Dahlia found me and then Dream found us and I’m here. At least I think I am.” “Yeah I know,” Death admonished, “That girl died in her sleep and I thought you got stuck in between realms while still in her head because I couldn’t find you.” Morpheus pursed his lips, arms crossed again, “That is how you entered my realm? Through a human girl?” Death shushed him with a frown and then her eyes caught on me, freezing. Confusion painted her features, brow furrowing deeper as if I was a puzzle she couldn’t quite figure out. While she was warm, a kindness to her no matter her expression, there was something disconcerting about the expression on her face. “Dream?” she asked, eyes not leaving mine, his name a question. The air was tense and I felt frozen, not sure what to do with my hands or my face. This was the sister I had heard so much about, the one the dream king seemed to like the most, and she was looking at me like I had two heads. Morpheus seemed unsettled at her expression, stepping closer to my side and putting a protective hand to my back, “Dahlia, this is my elder sister, Death.” No further introduction of her to me, no elaboration. It wasn’t a warm introduction and I swallowed hard, feeling nervous. She frowned, stepping a little closer with her head quirked, “You’re Dahlia?” The question was disbelieving, eyebrows rising as she looked me over with sharp eyes. Morpheus was looking at her with dark eyes, uneasy in the way she asked the question. “Uh, yeah, hi,” I mumbled and gave her a tentative smile. All the while my brain was shutting down, anxiety cranking up on high as I wondered how awful I had to be that the nicest of the Endless siblings may not like me. Her eyes took me in and there was a shiver along my spine, her eyes darting from the necklace to her brother at my side. Finally, she smiled softly, the tension not quite dissipating but almost as if she realized she was making me uneasy, “It’s nice to finally meet you! I’ve heard…a bit about you…Uh, Dream, can I speak with you for a second?” Finally. Finally meet you. I hadn’t been wrong that the Endless had been talking about me and my own anxiety didn’t leave me. The dreamlord's fingers tightened on my back, hesitating to leave, before he nodded, stepping with her to the far side of the room. I watched them walk away, lips pressed tightly, wondering what she had seen when she looked at me. Whatever conversation the two were having did not seem to be pleasant, both their faces tense as she seemed to be getting after him. Death was mad. Had I made her mad? Why was everyone mad today? Except Delirium… “I like you, did I mention I like you?” Delirium spoke as she came beside me, “You didn’t let him yell at me.” She paced in little circles, hair practically covering her face and arms outstretched as if balancing on a tightwire. I broke my gaze from the two older siblings, knot in my throat and looked down at her, “I said I wouldn’t. He’s…a bit cranky when it comes to rules.” “Yeeeeeah, I know,” she blew a raspberry, blowing at a stray piece of hair that floated in front of her face, “But he wasn’t too bad this time. Maybe because he likes you, but even when he was with the other ladies he was also kinda mean. You’re nice though and he was nicer so that’s good!” I chewed the skin of my bottom lip, giving her a small smile but unable to fully relax again. It seemed like everywhere I turned today there were mentions of Morpheus’ exes and past and it was becoming an effort to ignore them. It was like walking through a minefield mixed in with the drama of his family. I wondered if it would always be like this, a comparison game between me and the others. It was a losing one for me. I was a human, nothing special. Not a goddess or being of light or a creature from another Endless. A boring little human who went to work and read books and didn’t have many friends. Did his siblings find me lacking, unable to understand why he was wasting his time with me? Maybe that’s what Death was mad about. Desire was certainly interested, but that couldn’t be good. Death came marching back, obviously annoyed with her brother, but gave me an exasperated smile, “Sorry for the abrupt meeting! I really had wanted to meet you in a much better way! It’s been a day.” Morpheus stayed at a distance, a hard frown on his face and brow furrowed, shadowing his eyes. I could tell he was troubled and not only because two of his siblings had barged in and now met me. I wasn’t sure what the argument had been about and the unknown made me anxious. Even if it was irrational because he had introduced me to Hob, I wondered if this was more than he had wanted. Meeting his friend a few days before and now I was meeting some of his family. My lips quirked up, a little bashful and a little sad, “Yeah, it has for me too. It was nice to meet you both, either way. He talks pretty highly of you.” I could feel Dream’s eyes on me, reading me, and I tried to pull myself together. His older sister smiled at that, face lightening a bit, and she teasingly punched his shoulder while giving me a wink, “Isn’t that sweet?” If he wasn't in a mood then he probably would have rolled his eyes. Death clapped, turning to the younger Endless at my side, “Alright, Del. Time to head back and leave Dream alone. I think he’s had about enough of us.” She nodded and then ran over, giving me a hug and a smile and I couldn’t help giving her one back. She didn’t give one to Dream. “Bye, Dahllllia,” as they vanished, Delirium’s voice swam around me like the chiming of the bells slightly off key. The instant they were gone Dream’s power swelled and he dropped the mask of not being utterly annoyed, jaw clenching. His hand raked through his hair as he came closer, obviously not happy about any of what had happened. It was almost suffocating, pressing onto my chest and skin and I had to close my eyes to be able to breathe past it. It reminded me of the storm that had flooded my nightmare with Aiden, trashing against the windows and walls and sweeping me away. It was getting too much. “Morpheus,” I whispered, heartbeat kicking up as anxiety slipped its way in. The pressure vanished instantly and the room cleared, a breeze brushing over my skin in apology. I let out a shaky breath, trying to calm myself and keep my anxiety triggers at bay, fingers picking at the fabric of my dress. The silence stretched as he stewed, staring at the sigils of the gallery with brewing eyes. I don’t think he was mad at me, but it was hard not to feel like it when he was in one of these moods. Untouchable, a steel wall firmly around him while he sulked and glowered. Slowly, I walked up to him and trailed my fingers over the sleeve of his cloak, tentatively like testing the temperature of a pool before plunging in. He didn’t move at first and then he turned over his hand and intertwined my fingers in his, pulling me into him. His cloak was still half shadow and wrapped around me feeling of the chill of dusk, flames licking up the darkness of my own dress. I pressed my cheek to his chest and relaxed a bit as his arms came up and he clutched me to him almost desperately, still silent but no longer a steel wall. My fingers tangled in the darkness of the fabric around us, not sure what to think. Even with everything I had learned earlier and even now, I wanted him. I needed to feel him against me and needed that comfort. “I know today was unexpected and chaotic, but I am glad I met them both. Delirium was sweet,” I mumbled into the dark fabric of his shirt, “Death was nice too, even if I only got to meet her for a bit.” His fingers dug a little more into my back as if I’d dissolve into sand if he didn’t hold on tight, “It appears my family has been discussing you behind my back.” So that’s what had triggered the slight possessive streak in him. Maybe not entirely why he was mad, but definitely a big point for him. “Is that what Death was talking to you about?” I looked up at him, seeing him still staring at the frames on the wall. The stars in his eyes were dark, red, the color of blood and fire. Morpheus gave the subtlest shake of his head and one hand went up to tangle in my hair, “No, it was a different matter.” The answer was abrupt and to the point and I knew that I wouldn’t be getting anything more out of him. He was fixated on brooding and even with all the progress he had made so far with discussing things with me, I knew there were limits. We were both at them, the day having turned in ways we hadn’t expected.                   Maybe we could talk about it later when it wasn’t fresh, could talk about meeting two of his sisters. Talk about us. With his mood I knew not to even go near the topic about Alianora lest Eve get in trouble for telling me, but it was going to have to be something we discuss or it would eat at me. Like a ticking clock, wondering how long I had his interest before he’d discard me. It all could wait. So I held him and he held me, both of us quiet in the flickering lights of his gallery. Slowly, his cloak became more solid and his grip not so desperate, the pads of his fingers soothing over the spots he may have dug in too hard. It seemed trivial to ask what he had gotten done while I was gone and everything I had done seemed to be landmines. So I did what I could to comfort him and myself. Tilting my head up, I kissed underneath his jaw, keeping my lips against his skin until he tilted his head down. And then my lips met his, soft and trying to convey everything I couldn’t say with words. I was here, I was okay, and I was happy with him. I was his and he was mine and it was okay. His mouth parted and both hands came to cup my face as he sank into the kiss, warm and solid against me at last with that desperation echoing there. Like he was afraid. I wasn’t sure of what. And maybe for a few minutes, a few hours, a few days, nothing could touch us and we were all that mattered to each other.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Refrain, chapter two - a Malevolent fic (The start of Surrogate, season two!)

Kayne's "season one" ended with a choice: whichever father Faroe picked, he was ready to let that slingshot fire.

She picked Arthur. Well, that was nice, wasn't it? Especially since he'd spent almost a year pulling that rubber band back, loaded.

Of course, he had no idea how well it would work. Humans are weird, and pieces of Hastur seem to respond particularly well to prolonged exposure.

It was time to deny a wicked man his prize.

Time to give a good man a second chance and see what he did with it.

Time to take the abused piece of a god and find out how it changed when given to someone else.

Part of Surrogate, a Malevolent AU. Written with @sepiabandensis.

AO3 (chapter two)

-------

“Go on, snarl away,” Larson drawled in that infuriating tone he had for when he’d made Yellow extremely upset and cared not one whit about it. “Rage all you want, little one. I’ll be here when your tantrum is over.”

How DARE you, Yellow roared. I am a GOD, you miserable insect! You will bow your head in reverence, you will honor me as I speak!

“You ain’t done a damn thing to earn that,” Larson said, and Yellow did not need a mirror to know he was smiling—that insufferable fucking smirk that he used when he thought he had the upper hand. “For a god, you ain’t got a whole lot of bite to that bark.”

I will make you fucking suffer, Yellow snarled. I will rip the skin from your body and craft a suit for you to wear of it, I will—

“Then do it,” Larson drawled.

Yellow went silent, shocked.

“You’re the big, scary god,” Larson said, and he stretched his hand out, rolling his wrist. “Go on, then. You said you had Arthur’s eyes? Take mine. Take my hand. I won’t even fight you. I just want to see if you can do it.”

Yellow roared, pouring all of his power into the effort, searching out nerves or—or blood vessels, or—

“I’m waitin’,” Larson drawled.

His power found no purchase, slipping off of Larson’s body like oil over the surface of water. Yellow went quiet.

Larson laughed, rolling his wrist again, touching each of his fingers to his thumb. “That’s what I thought.”

It doesn’t— Yellow said, voice halting. I don’t—

“Oh, I know, I know. The ‘fragmented soul of a god’ schtick.” He turned his hand over, flexing the palm. “Not much of a god, if you can’t even take a willing host, hm?”

Yellow remained silent.

“Now, let's go and experiment with that ritual you mentioned. I think a bit of blood will open up some of that power and maybe get us somewhere.”

Yellow didn’t answer. He didn’t have to: he knew Larson had won that battle.

Just one of many, many to come.

#

Watch out! Now!

Yellow wasn’t helping, but he wasn’t hurting, either, and Parker was too focused to reply. He ran.

By this time, a few coppers were up on the rooftops with him. The thugs stayed down below, occasionally shooting when they thought they got the chance.

Parker was absolutely sure Larson would pitch a fit if he knew they were doing that.

“Stop!” called some breathless copper back there, but Parker did not.

He’d been afraid that ten years dead would leave him weak, less in shape than he’d been, but no: whatever else that Outer God had done, he’d left him fucking fit, and so Parker kept running.

The snow slowed him down. He slid a lot; caught himself in the nick of time more than once on a chimney or pipe, and kept going.

Laughing.

Because this was fucking great.

The air was freezing. The ice had cut his skin all over. And he was outrunning the world.

They’d get him eventually, he knew. A lucky bullet, or a patch of ice. He’d run out of roof, or these idiots would get their act together and pincer him. But until then?

Until then, he ran like a mountain goat, and cackled like a wolf.

So far, against all odds, he’d gotten away with it.

Look out!

More shooting.

“West! He’s going west!” shouted cops.

He wasn’t going to make it, but at least he’d try. He’d already been dead, anyway. This kind of death was way more his style than how it went the first time. “Got a do-over,” he breathed, rounding a chimney.

What?

“All we need now is that ticket to Carcosa!” he laughed. “We could take the ferry!”

The tickets would cost too much! A beat. That was a joke!

“Solid fucking work!” Parker approved, braced himself, and jumped.

He barely made this one. They’d gone too far downtown, away from the tenements, from the poorer, crowded housing. He wouldn’t make the next roof. His lead was small, but it would have to do. He started trying doors. Most of these places had exits onto the roof, and he spotted three more before the next alley—before the gap he couldn’t jump. He’d try climbing to the ground, or even into a window, but the goons would shoot him. Parker tried another door. Nope.

Shouts still followed them, gasping coppers and wicked goons, closing in. He tried a door.

It opened.

Parker didn’t hesitate. He threw himself inside.

#

His breathing was loud, but there was no way around that. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out he was in here, so he tore down the stairwell, skipping steps, jumping onto landings. If he could get out a back way and get around them somehow—

Couldn’t ask for help from strangers. Not with war going.

“Chances of this working out are one in a million, buddy!” He opted to try for a second story fire escape, hoping to catch a glimpse of where things lay before making this move. “How’s our luck looking?”

We should have been caught before we even left the estate, Yellow said, voice frantic, but there was a sort of wild mania about it, like Parker’s desperate laughter had become infectious. I—I am a god! It is my will that our luck is good! And he let out a howling laugh. I decree it! I command that it bend to our will, to change!

Parker laughed. “That’s the spirit! Ought'a take you with me any time I bet on the ponies.” And he peeked.

He could hear them down there—not in this alley, but around it, too near. The voices echoed; which damn side were they on?

He decided to assume both.

It was starting to get dark now; they’d been at this for hours. He wondered if he could trick them into thinking he’d gotten further away. If he could make it to the building across the way, he could maybe get through it to the other side, unseen, and further away from this cordon. They knew he couldn’t jump that distance. Maybe, just maybe, they’d focus on this building, giving him time.

Or maybe he’d still be caught the second he stuck his nose out.

Well. That was a possibility, either way. Parker made up his mind. “We’re gonna move,” he said very quietly. “We’re gonna head toward the river. They got culverts and shit down there. Might have a chance to lose them.”

A good idea. The water could disguise our scent, lose our footprints, Yellow said.

“Oh, our scent’ll be disguised, all right. It’s gross in there—but you can really lose a guy. Been part of more than one manhunt that went wrong thanks to that kind of mess underground. It’s risky… but I figure it’ll be risky for everybody, not just us. You in?”

I’m in. Yellow rumbled softly. I feel like I remember something about the underground, here. About tunnels. Tunnels can go many places, Parker. Another pause. But I don’t remember. I’m sorry.

“Don’t need to be, pal. Feel it with me, if you can: sucks that we might die, might get caught, might get hurt, but this is a fucking great way to do it. We are alive. You get it? More than any fuck just sitting in an office somewhere. You feel me?”

Parker… His voice was hesitant, full of disquiet. You… I do not have the power to… help, if all goes south. You might die.

“Pal, I’ve been dead. I’m gonna die anyway, someday, no matter how this goes. It doesn’t scare me as much as dying with regret ‘cause I didn’t live.”

I don’t want you to die, Yellow said softly. And I especially don’t want you to die for nothing, Parker.

“It’s okay, pal. I promised I’d try, so I’m gonna. If they do get us, it won’t be because we weren’t balls to the wall trying.” He watched. He counted voices, and did his best to identify location. Some were still above, shouting to each other. They still thought he was on the roof; this was the time to go. Parker took the fire escape down, heart pounding, and raced across to peek onto the sidewalk.

Luck was with them: they had a brief moment where the search party wasn’t here, wasn’t looking, wasn’t present. He ran all-out into the building beside him and started making his way back uptown.

#

Gophers, that’s what he was thinking of, and he laughed.

What is it? said Yellow, who sounded a bit tired.

Parker was more than a bit tired. He was fucking ragged; his coat was torn, the hat was long gone (and he hoped whoever found it needed a new one), and he was damned hungry. New bruises bloomed, visible and otherwise; the one copper who’d caught him had not been a lightweight, and managed to get cuffs on one wrist before Parker took him down.

And now that he’d taken a copper down, there was definitely no going back. Damn, these bruises sang. “Just thinking of what this is like from the outside,” he said. “Gophers.” He wiped sweat from his brow. The cuff on his wrist was too tight; he held the loose end lightly so he wouldn’t catch it on anything. Stupid copper, losing the key when they struggled.

They were nearly there.

Gophers? Said Yellow, sounding offended at the word.

“Yeah. Ducking into buildings, popping out again. Try to catch a gopher, and he goes under, and pops up in another hole out of reach.”

Oh. Yellow didn’t seem to think it was as funny, but that was fine. How much farther?

“My friend, we are one fucking street away from the slope down to the river—but from here out, there’s no cover. Hanging in there? I need you with me, pal.”

I am with you. He hesitated. I struggle to believe we’ve made it this far.

“You know, me, too? But I’m loving it. Heh. They ain’t never gonna forget this little runaround.”

Nevah, repeated Yellow, who every once in a while tried on Parker’s accent for size.

“Rule of thumb: can’t stop the bad guys? At least cost ‘em so much they regret it.” He breathed deeply, slowly, preparing for this race. Shouting men still called to one another behind him, and nearby; Larson himself had yet to make an appearance, but Parker knew he was around. Just felt it. His instinct was never wrong.

(Though maybe it had been about Arthur? No… no. Shit happened to that guy. Instinct couldn’t predict that.)

A pyrrhic victory. I… I can understand this, yes.

“Ready?” said Parker. “Three.”

Three.

“Two.”

Two!

“There he is!” some guy shouted from behind, and Parker ran for his life.

They shot at him, but they were dumb enough (and he was lucky enough) that they tried shooting while running instead of just standing still, and they mostly missed. He hurled himself down the hill toward the Hudson river and pounded along the steep bank. One of those culverts was dead ahead, built into the earth, dark and scary and nasty.

It would be cold as the devil’s ass in here.

Well, always wanted to kick somebody important where the sun don’t shine, he thought, and aimed himself for it.

He was right: the water was fucking cold.

I can taste it, Yellow complained, because it was true—the fug in here was thick.

No, YOU fucking go after him echoed behind them, and Parker laughed as he plunged wildly into the dark and hoped he wouldn’t break his damn neck.

#

Some gutter provided enough light for Parker to get a look at his side. The bullet had gone through, so he was right about that; but the damn thing hadn’t stopped bleeding, which he’d assumed it would.

It was one of those annoying wounds that only started hurting when he really got his eyes on it.

Yellow gasped. Parker!

“Easy. We’re not done. This just… fuck.” Not done yet, but this needed a doctor. Parker didn’t know one in New York he could go to. In Arkham, sure. Ten years ago.

He wasn’t so sure they’d be amenable to him now. Fuck.

“Nothing for it,” he muttered, balling up the coat and pressing it against the wound (and wow, that hurt) as he continued on.

It looks bad, Yellow moaned, doing nothing to help Parker take his mind off the injury. I’m… I can’t… I’m sorry. I… Our luck will hold. His voice grew firm. I demand it. Our luck will hold. Where are they?

The water had long numbed his feet; the smells were… really not worth considering. But the important thing was the voices of their pursuers, while occasionally still popping up, had yet to catch up.

Parker, where are we?

“This point? No idea. Not far enough, though, I can tell you that.”

I concur. I will be much happier when I cannot hear them at all. But this… it’s certainly not nearly as exciting as jumping across rooftops. Are we still “living?”

“We sure are, buddy.” Parker meant it, and answered without hesitation. “We get outta this, this part here? Is gonna make the best part of our story.”

Even though it’s just wading through shit in the dark?

“Yep.” He followed the line of light from various storm drains. This meant they were under some kind of main road, but he’d lost his sense of direction almost immediately getting in here (and knew part of that was going into shock, thanks to whichever lucky son of a bitch got him), and had absolutely no idea where they were. “This is gonna make the best part of our story.”

You said that already. Are you alright?

Fuck. He had. Parker stopped, bent over, and breathed for a minute. “Focus,” he said to himself. “Come on. Just a little further.”

But we don’t know that. How can you know that?

“It’s not about knowing it. It’s about believing it so I don’t lie down and give up.” And he did neither.

#

This didn’t really seem like a New York City sewer anymore.

He couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the distant sound of crashing water, like some crazy waterfall. Maybe it was the fact that the scents had changed; it wasn’t shit anymore. It was three things, alternating: sort of a soil smell, vegetation gone bad, and a meat smell.

That smell worried him. It didn’t seem real sewery. It seemed more… jungle. Like maybe there was some meat-eating thing down here.

“There’s rumors,” he said.

What?

“Rumors of alligators in the sewers. I mean. Can’t be. It gets cold, and they’re cold-blooded. But funny, right?”

Parker. Why would you bring this up now?

“Don’t you smell that? It’s real weird.”

Meat? Yellow blurted.

“Yep. Maybe we’re near a slaughterhouse? But no, I know we’re not.”

Meat… said Yellow, thoughtful. Meat. Why would there be meat in a sewer? That doesn’t make sense. The only thing I can think of…

He suddenly went very quiet.

“Buddy?”

Parker, how do people… care for their dead, in New York City?

“Same way they do most places, I guess. Bury ‘em in the cemetery.” He thought for a moment. “I guess we got in here not too far from Trinity Church cemetery. Not sure where we are now, but… yeah. Cemeteries. Used to be lots of them here. They got paved over for buildings and shit. Why?”

I… underground, in the Dreamlands, I remember there are… creatures, sometimes. They often eat the dead. I am unsure if you also have them here, but I would recommend caution, if you smell meat. No matter how fresh.

“Eat the…” Parker took a moment to process that one and stopped walking. “Guess that’s… efficient, huh?” His brow knit. “We don’t have those here. But then, you’re here, aren’t you?”

I was brought by magic, Yellow said, almost defensively. But yes. Larson could call upon many sorts of creatures on his own. These creatures, though… there’s a memory, but I cannot grasp it. I know something. His voice surged. I know something, Parker, but I don’t know what it is! I don’t… I don’t remember.

“It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. We’ll handle it.” Lower: “Don’t suppose you remember how dangerous they might be to living people.”

They were not dangerous to me, Yellow said with a hint of a whine. But… they… They were rational! They are rational, and can be communicated with. They’re not animals, Parker. We might… There was another heavy, meaningful pause. We might be able to convince them to take on our pursuers. Or, at the very least, lead them away—if we have something to offer.

“All I got on me is a bloody shirt, a coat, and the rock I picked up in the park. But hey; I can talk. Maybe we can figure something out.” Because Parker was sure something this weird would happen, here, under New York City, with a piece of a god in his head.

Stranger things have been offered in trade, and stranger things still have been accepted, Yellow said.

“We got this. And either way, I don’t know anybody else who saw corpse-eating guys under a city, so it’s an adventure.” And he walked forward.

He wasn’t trying to be overly quiet now, though he was listening sharply. If these things could be reasoned with, he didn’t want it to seem like he was trying to sneak up.

The damn wound was still bleeding. Sluggishly, but he was pretty sure it needed to be sewn shut. “If there’s anybody here,” he said, just a pinch louder, “I’m open for trade.” Lower: “And if not, I’m gonna fucking bash your head in if you try shit.”

Right on cue there was a sound like a dog taking a sharp, deep sniff.

Fuck.

Parker saw its eyes glinting in the hollow of a branching tunnel, glowing red in the dim light like a wolf’s. It stayed in the shadows, hunched, head tilting—and it sniffed again, deep. “You smell strange. Like a human, but also like the newly-food. You are not newly-food.”

The creature took a cautious step forward on its knuckles—its face was long, mouth jutting out like a snout, pointed ears perked forward, and its lips peeled back from its pale face in a hyena-like grimace. “I can smell your blood, human. What are you doing here?”

A ghoul, Yellow said softly.

Parker thought to himself that it was a damn good thing he’d had a lot of practice keeping his expression neutral. “We’re lost, friend. Not a super-fun situation, to be honest. Could use some help, if you’re up for it. I don’t have a lot to trade, but I’m willing.”

The ghoul tilted its head, like a dog hearing an interesting sound. “Lost? But you’re found, now. I can make you less lost, perhaps.” It slunk around the edge of the light from a manhole—Parker could see it move, the shape of a man hunched over and walking on long, clawed arms and legs with ankle and knee out of proportion, and clad in what looked to be a torn and heavily altered pair of pinstriped pants.

This thing probably knew his heart rate picked up, but there was nothing he could do about that. “That sounds like a good deal. I can trade you some info for sure. Uh. Not sure what else I’ve got.” He offered a crooked grin, hoping it read human facial expressions. “I’m not exactly bargaining from the best position here, so I hope you’ve got some kindness in ya.”

It sniffed at him again. “Another smell. A strange smell. Hm.” It sat back on its haunches, the pants creaking. “But where to? Lost is relative if you have no map. Up, or down?”

Parker, Yellow said softly. I remember now. Ghouls… They’re from the Dreamlands. I told you. I think this one knows how to get there.

There was the sound of a muffled curse, echoing and faint from down the tunnel. The ghoul’s ears flicked toward it, its eyes focusing hard on the tunnel.

Or, Yellow said, his voice thin and hesitant. Or… We could… get out. Find a way out of New York.

“It is cold,” the ghoul said, eyeing Parker—or, specifically, his coat. “I take you, up or down, and you give me the coat. Yes?”

It was a choice. Like that poem Arthur always used to quote—something about two paths in a yellow wood.

Parker knew Earth, or at least New England. Chances were, he could get help here—people who knew him well enough not to think he was somehow working for the enemy.

But on the other hand… a new world. An entirely new one—and, well. He’d promised Yellow. His gut said that really mattered. “Free advice first,” he said. “Bunch of goons looking through here with guns, and they’ll shoot. So stay out of their way.” And he held up the coat. “It’s got my blood on it. That a problem?”

“Mmm… foolish. We will be gone before these goons catch us.” It snorted. “The others will keep their distance. We crave no trouble. But your trust is noted.” Very gingerly it stretched out a hand, feeling the thick wool. “Blood is blood. It matters not to me. In time its scent will fade, and be but a memory—the stain shall remind me of your kindness. I accept. Up, or down?”

Parker was sharply aware of Yellow’s silence. “Which one gets me to the Dreamlands?”

Yellow gasped.

His gut had been right: this mattered.

“Down,” the ghoul said. “Brave man. Foolish man. But… the scent did not lie.”

The voices grew louder. The ghoul’s head snapped towards the tunnel.

“We go now,” it said, turning and loping into a side tunnel. “The coat you will give in time.”

“Thanks.” Brave and foolish—yeah, that sounded about right. He was okay with those descriptors. Parker followed at once, trying to step where this thing stepped.

Parker, Yellow whispered. Are you sure? We’re going to the Dreamlands?

“Yeah,” he murmured softly. “Said I would. This guy’s our ticket.” Damn, the goons were closer than he’d thought—and they weren’t exactly quiet. He might, he thought, have bled more than he’d realized. That was going to be a problem.

A problem for this Dreamlands place. He debated asking about Carcosa. Debated if that would be giving too much away. Decided to see where this new friend chose to drop him instead.

The ghoul stopped at a t-junction, pausing to paw at the wall. Bricks began to come free, tumbling to the ground and splashing in the sluggish, dark water at the bottom of the sewers. Piece by piece, a tunnel was revealed, large enough for Parker to walk through with only the barest stoop, the edges of it roughly clawed out, but smoothed by the passage of time and bodies.

The voices sounded off again. Arguments about splitting up.

The ghoul’s ears pinned, and it let out a soft growl. “The coat, please.”

Parker handed it over at once. “I owe you more than a coat, man. Thank you. Anything I should know before going through?”

It took it, petting the fabric with its hand. “You will be in the Underworld. It is not a place for you. There are stairs. Climb them to the light, and you will be free.” And then its head snapped forward, sniffing at Parker’s side. “And find a healer. Your blood turns to poison by the minute.”

I… If we can get to the surface, I might remember. I will remember something, Parker. I’ll get you to safety.

“Yeah, running through sewers fucked up’ll do that to you.” Parker grinned wryly. “They got guns. Someone might have magic. Good luck. And thanks.” He didn’t have a hat to tip, but he could salute, and did.

Then he dove in.

Behind them he could hear bricks being shoved haphazardly back into place, cutting off the last vestiges of light.

He couldn’t see super-well, but down was hopefully enough of a warning.

#

It felt like days before the slope evened out again, and Parker suddenly stumbled into a massive chamber that echoed with every shocked step. It was dark but for a faint gray light that clung to everything like mist, the temperature cool, but not freezing—a stark change from the sewers of New York.

Yellow let out another soft gasp.

The ceiling was far above them, dark as pitch and featureless but for the faint cracks and spots of light that speckled its surface, like lonely embers of a scattered fire. In the distance, he could see what looked like mountains, lit with the foxfire glow of whatever the fuck went on in this underground area, and he could see what looked like some sort of black-stone city at the base of one of them, and…

The stairs, Parker, Yellow said. There! We can get to the surface, and find a healer. Are you ready?

Parker made one small noise. It wasn’t a laugh or a sob; it was something else, just some raw emotion, and he wiped his leaking eyes. “I’m in another world, buddy. Me. Fuckin’ Parker Yang from Boston.” Then he shook himself. “Yeah. Stairs. This’ll be fun, I’m sure.” He felt too much wonder to flip into true sarcasm. “Let’s do this.”

Pahkah Yang, from Bahston. Private Eye. Adventurer. It was almost a delirious laugh. I’m almost home. We’re almost there, Parker.

He could tell his lungs were a little less efficient from blood loss—but “healer” sounded promising. “I’ll get you there, buddy, if it takes my last breath.” And he couldn’t help saying it. “Funny, huh? All that time, all those years, all those sacrifices. and Larson could’a just asked and gotten you home like that.”

There was a deep, heavy silence.

I suppose I had to wait for someone with competence, Yellow finally said, voice soft and hesitant—like he was asking permission.

“Heh. He’s competent plenty—but I think he meant to keep you. We got this, you and me. I wanna see this shining jewel of a city you talked about.” He wiped his eyes again. “Guess I had to die to get a chance at a better life. Go figure.”

I will ensure you are rewarded, in whichever way you prefer. The Dreamlands would bend to someone of your talents—but if you want to go home, when all is done, I will see what I can do. Yellow paused for a moment. I rather like you, Parker. I will see to it I keep my promise as well.

“That’s real sweet of you, kid. Appreciate it.” Parker stumbled—not enough to fall, or tumble down, but enough that he had to kneel for a moment and catch his breath. “So, just connected to nothing, how do we find a healer? And, uh, can I do dishes or something to pay them?”

The nearest town should have one—and if we’re especially lucky they will be a Cana, and will help us regardless of our ability to pay. If not, they may have us do some tasks for them in exchange: there are many different kingdoms in the Dreamlands, and not all accept the same coin. A deep sigh. I would settle for a traveling bard, even. We’ve one hell of a story to tell, and most of them know at least some minor magics.

“We do have a hell of a story! See? It’s already paying off.” He took a moment and breathed, then resumed, this time at a slower pace, but one he could keep steady. His sweat had gone cold. He knew his body was giving out, but they were almost there. “Magic seems real handy to know. Maybe we should learn some.”

I would use magic now, if I was certain it wouldn’t kill you, Yellow said. Are you alright? You’re stumbling. Our mouth feels strange.

“I’ve been bleeding for a while, buddy. Human bodies are kinda dumb that way—they lose too much juice and they go all wacky.” His new pace seemed to be the right plan. “So magic would kill me, huh?”

Without the attunement process, chances are high. Do you need to stop and rest? There was real fear in the voice now. Larson never… He never got hurt, from what I could see. Other people took risks for him.

“Yeah, that’s rich-guy shit for you. Guys like us have to do the work ourselves.” He took a moment to answer the first question. “Don’t think it’s a good idea to stop here. Feels like we’d be… dunno. Setting ourselves up.”

You’re right. Yellow somehow took a deep breath without lungs. Magic. Let’s talk about magic, then. Humans can use it, but you have to work up to it. Too much would kill you right away—from what you described, I would have thought that’s what had happened to Arthur, though it seems as though something else entirely happened instead. But you… I don’t know. I would have to introduce you to magic slowly, to make sure it didn’t burn your blood to cinders if I tried to heal you. Do you want to learn magic, Parker?

He finally stopped walking so he could laugh, leaning on the wall. “Fucking hell, buddy… went from, ‘hey, turns out you got a soul after all, and hey, there’s gods,’ to ‘do you wanna be a wizard’ real fast, didn’t we?” He continued laughing as he resumed his climb.

Oh, you don’t wish to be the great Pahkah tha Wise? Content with being Pahkah tha Brave?

He laughed again. “Wise? Don’t know I ever got called that before. Hey, you know what? We’re in this all the way. All the way to Carcosa, and whatever happens there. Tell you what: you think I can learn magic? I could learn how to heal shit. That’d make life a hell of a lot easier.”

If I attuned you to magic, I could heal you. And yes, that would make everything much, much easier. He rumbled a bit. I think… Yes, I think you could use magic with responsibility.

Parker took a moment to breathe; it sounded thick and labored. “You won’t be pissed if I can’t do it, right?”

No, I would hardly hold it against you if you were unable to use magic. It is the get of gods, not mortals—the talent of even those most skilled mortals pales in comparison to the weakest of the true gods. If you were unable, I could still cast through you once you had been attuned. I had to, for some spells that were too big for Larson, much like the ritual he and I were conducting when you arrived.

“Sounds like you were real useful to him.” There was no censure in this. It was just a statement; and yet, like many of his recent words regarding Larson, it carried strange weight.

Just a pinch quieter, Yellow added, And will you be angry with me? If I cannot will the stars to move, or turn mortal flesh incorruptible?

Parker snorted. “Kid, I’m just happy we’re alive. You turn water to wine, or just keep some damn bread soft, it’ll be enough for me. Hey—What was that ritual for, anyway? The one that blew up and got me involved.”

There was that hesitation again. Fear tinted Yellow’s answer. The ritual we performed was meant to contact another Great Old One so we could broker a deal with them, offer sacrifices for power. Power for Larson, to handle the spells that it would require for me to ascend to something more like my other half; power for me, to bolster and feed the magic through Larson as well. He had… there were many who followed him who would slit their own throats at his command. Some of them would even do so eagerly.

“Shit. No wonder you wanted to go back. Sounds like you were halfway to your goal.” He looked up. There was an exit up there—a pinpoint, bright, still, and tiny. Parker clenched his jaw. He could do this. Slower, he kept climbing. “Those poor saps. They didn’t even get shit out of it, did they?”

For Larson, most people are merely a means to an end. To an extent, I believe he and I were this to each other, too. Though slightly less glamorous, this is a far more direct way to achieve what I want, so I am certainly glad for your interruption. Yellow noticed the point of light as well, letting out a soft gasp. We’re almost there, Parker. You are truly magnificent, did you know that?

Parker snorted. “I’m just stubborn as hell, buddy. That’s not magnificent.” His breathing was wet. “Almost wish we had run into him. Might like to see if he’s got a glass jaw.”

I’m afraid I must disagree: I would prefer to never, ever lay eyes on that miserable little man again. There’s a finality, there, shot through with relief. We’re almost at the top. Fantastic work, Parker.

“Helps having a good travel companion.” He stumbled out into weird, new sunlight, onto unfamiliar ground. The air tasted strange; it was all different, so different, but he couldn’t see so good right now. “This what country air’s like?” he said, and then he collapsed.

PARKER! It was a desperate cry as he hit the dirt. Parker, no! I didn’t realize it was so bad. Oh, gods, I’ve killed us both. I’m so sorry, Parker. I’m so, so sorry.

Parker couldn’t answer. The daylight was bright, too bright, twisting at the edges.

Yellow let out a gut-wrenching sob. You fucking did it, Parker. You brought me home. You kept your promise. I will be eternally grateful to you for that. But I wasn’t…

There was that silence again. Heavy. Looming.

But I made you a promise in turn, didn’t I? And… And if you’re not going down without a fight, neither am I. If this doesn’t work, so be it. But at least I can face you in the Dark World knowing I tried. There was a dark sound, a snarl, a sharp intake of breath. I will not go gentle into that good night. And neither will you. I am the King in Fucking Yellow, and this is my will!

Parker’s mouth moved, tongue licking his lips, and with a voice that was both his own and something completely alien, a single word like the sound of an avalanche boomed from his lips as Parker fully passed out.

(chapter three)

[revasserium]

Hi I'm that criticism anon. Okay, your writing is amazing. The detail and attention you put into your work is admirable. However, I am no writing expert, but I feel like you misuse your commas quite often. For example, when you described Sugawara's kisses, you said, "he kisses you to shut you up, because you were rambling on about something or other and it was just a little too cute, and maybe he was just a little too turned on..." The comma isn't necessary after up, and this is a run on (1/2)

... a run on sentence. As a reader, it can confuse what you're point is. I've noticed run-on sentences in other works as well. I'd say to limit the amount of comma use. I know it can be a hard habit to break, but I know you can do it. Like I said before, your writing is one of my favorites, but I can't help but notice some bad habits. Thank you and I hope I wasn't too harsh (2/2)

u are correct anon! i do indeed misuse commas QUITE often. and to varying degrees for various reasons. it is something of a bad habit haha. but i am very aware of it and most of the times, i choose to ignore it for the sake of i guess pace? i’m not negating ur critique!! i do really appreciate it :D and i do think it’s something i need to work on u__u it’s just most of the times when i write for this blog, i just write whatever comes to mind and throw it up because weLL. its a fun lil excuse to write some stuff that’s not my actual writing job u__u 

but ur absolutely right haha -- i do also use run-ons a whole ton! i like to write in stream of consciousness format a lot, so the commas usually just indicate pauses in the rhythm of the sentence -- so like that suga sentence you brought up. in my head it reads as “he kisses you to shut you up (breath) because you were rambling on about something or other and it was just a little too cute (breath) and maybe he was just a little turn on...” i mean, i think periods would probably work too, but commas are just a softer kind of break for me. hence, my habit of just TOSSING them into a paragraph like dried tomatoes in a cobb salad. 

yeah, it can be quite confusing and sometimes i’ll go back after rereading something and be like. okay idk where the fuck this sentence started so lets rephrase. 

i think if i just did what i wanted, most of the time, it would just be one MASSIVE run-on sentence with like. a fuckton of commas and NO periods. that's what my writing looks like before i parse it out into understandable little chunks lmao. but!! as i said, it’s just like. one of those things that im pretty actively lazy about >.

there’s a very strange kind of dichotomy in writing wherein like, mistakes are made either on purpose or not. and it becomes the debate of style vs objective “good”ness, which is a whole other monster all on its own. but i think for this, it’s just something that i’ve chosen to do very actively. for the most part, i try to make sure that the thought is conveyed how it needs to be, to be understood the way i’d like it to be understood, and sometimes, a bit of confusion is the end goal. bc i like it when form reinforces meaning and all that fun sparknotes jazz. 

i’m very passionate about grammar and stuff, so i can nerd out a bit about that sometimes. but rest assured that i have received ur critiques haha

i shall endeavor to pay more attention to the run-ons and commas, but! i also think it’s one of the things that i like about my own lazy writing. 

you’ve got a good eye anon!

[inkykeiji]

beautiful when the damage is done

part one | part two

characters: todoroki touya | dabi, todoroki natsuo

genre: smut laced with angst and a pinch of fluff

notes: part two of getting naughty with natsuo!! please please heed the warnings!! | title cred: sick thoughts by lewis blissett

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon/noncon, sadism, punishment via overstimulation, pseudo-incest (stepcest), vaguely implied incest, emotional manipulation, a hint of degradation, toxic relationships, poly relationship, dom/sub dynamics, a LOT of crying (dacryphilia), slight size kink/size difference, rough sex

words: 4.6k

synopsis:

And you’re both reminded of how privileged you are, being the only two who ever get to witness this side of him, the only two who are fortunate enough to see the person he might’ve been if you stripped away years upon years of trauma and abuse, the person he truly is at the core of his soul, the person he was born as before he was forced to layer himself with thick, protective walls of aggression coated in indifference—and the person who he becomes as he sheds that armor, in the middle of the night when it’s just the three of you, the whole world having fallen away outside the bedroom door.

It’s musty, air thick with the haze of sweat and sex, saturated the smell of tears and cum, so potent you swear you can almost see it in the atmosphere of Touya’s room. Uncontrollable quivers course through your entire body, never-ending chills erupting across bare, damp skin that shines every time it catches in the dim beams coming from Touya’s desk lamp.

Your scalp is still sore from where Touya yanked you off of Natsuo—back in the living room, how many hours ago? It feels as though it’s been forever since then, memory murky and swimming as you try to think—one strong hand wrapped in your hair jerking you up with such force you nearly stumbled. The pain is dull, a throbbing ache that radiates fading waves of hurt along your skull.

It’s constant, though, brewing a headache that is equal parts agony and dehydration, and you wish to rub at the spot, to place your palm over it in a futile attempt to soothe the discomfort at least a little, but you can’t.

Because it feels as if your blood has been replaced with sand, dense and heavy as it clogs your veins, weighing your arms down and keeping them firmly locked around Natsuo’s neck, steadying you in his lap.

But the ache in your scalp is nothing compared to the burn between your legs.

You can feel it, your third orgasm, churning in the depths of your stomach as it builds, a blistering warmth furling into a tight, concentrated ball of fire. It’s almost sickening, now, the heat roiling inside of you as heavy as lead, wracking destruction on your body as tender muscles, already quaking from exhaustion, begin to tense once more, to coil and wind up the way a lithe tiger does right before it strikes.

“Nat-Natsuo, I can’t,” the words wobble as they spill from between clattering teeth, you head shaking sluggishly as fresh tears sting your eyes.

“Yes, you can,” he murmurs softly to you, gentler than he’s ever been before but refusing to slow his movements as he bounces you on his cock, concerned stone eyes searching your face while his fingers flex on your hips, readjusting their grip on the slippery skin.

“You better,” Touya spits from his place on his bed, peering down at the two of you with something akin to disgust, to derision, saturating his features. And it stings, blazing sapphire searing his glare into your skin much like how he had carved his name into you, years ago.

A wet sob hitches in time with Natsuo’s rough thrusts, has you choking on it, concentrated with thick saliva that sticks in your throat and forces your breaths to escape in wheezes, hands clasping tighter behind Natsuo’s neck.

Yet, despite the pain, there are still sparks of pleasure that accompany each catch of your puffy clit on Natsuo’s slick skin, flickers of lust interspersed with those excruciating spikes that shoot through your abdomen.

It hits suddenly, that third orgasm—you’re halfway through your punishment now, Touya reminds you—has your tightly shut eyelids springing open with a gasp, entire body freezing up in Natsuo’s strong grasp, a grunt falling from his chapped lips as he drives his hips to piston into your rigid body.

He follows only a few moments later with a deep groan that rumbles in his chest, body vibrating with the force of it as his thick cock throbs, filling your little cunt with spurt after spurt of cum that feels almost cool in comparison to your scalding insides.

Touya allows half hour breaks between each orgasm—a short refraction period for you and Natsuo to regain infinitesimal amounts of strength—and not a second more, he had spit after the second orgasm, cutting off your plea for just a few more moments of rest, because this is plenty of time, more than you need, really and you should be grateful he’s so generous.

By the time you’re due for your fourth orgasm, you can barely move, and Natsuo doesn’t have the arm strength to hold you up anymore, to force your hips to keep gyrating or to bounce you on his cock, his entire upper half spent.

“Lay her on the floor, then,” Touya instructs coldly, voice firm and void of any compassion, though it’s hard to miss the sadistic glint in his eyes, hard to ignore the way the corners of his lips quirk up in an ill-concealed smile.

The look Natsuo gives him is almost heartbreaking, a puppy looking up at its owner with its tail tucked between its legs, eyebrows knitted together so tightly they crease his forehead, a deep frown—no, pout—etched into his face as he gazes at his big brother, glazed stone eyes pleading.

“Nii-san, can’t we use—”

“No,” Touya cuts him off harshly, sapphire eyes flashing, and Natsuo flinches. “You’re fucking her on the Goddamn floor for all five—it’s part of your punishment,”

Natuso doesn’t argue, but his lips twitch, and his eyes blur, and his nose sniffles, and he gives his brother a curt little nod of understanding, head bowed in submission.

The hardwood is cold against your heated skin, and you exhale a hiss through gritted teeth as Natsuo positions you as gently as he can, one large palm cradling your head, the other positioned on your back, slight tremors running through his exhausted muscles as he reclines you.

A wrecked little whine pries its way past your lips as Natsuo pushes in again, face scrunching up as sharp, needle-like pinpricks shoot through your gut, your raw, sensitive cunt stinging as Natsuo’s cock reopens previous sutures, skin split further, wounds dug deeper.

The sound your skin makes as it scrapes against the hardwood from Natsuo’s clumsy bucks has all three of you cringing, a piercing squeal that only adds to the symphony of your sobs and Natsuo’s grunts, flesh inflamed and chaffed from being repeated rubbed against the surface.

It’s getting harder and harder for you to cum, even with the generous breaks Touya allows, sparks of pleasure faded to mere cinders now, each shallow drag of Natsuo’s cock causing both of your bodies to recoil, and it’s too much, too much.

“Please, nii-chan,” you beg in a tiny whimper, teary eyes flying to Touya’s face, partially shrouded in shadows as glowing sapphire gazes down at you in scrutiny. “S’enough now,”

“We’ve learned our lesson, p-promise,” Natsuo adds, nodding frenetically.

“P-Pinky promise, nii-chan, please, stop,”

Touya scoffs. “You wanted to cum, didn’t you?” he pauses, cobalt eyes darting between your faces, an eyebrow raising in question. “Well, now I’m allowing you to. Now you have my permission; the permission you knew you needed so bad, but refused to request,”

And it’s then that it dawns on each of you that he had heard the both of you, had heard the entire fucking conversation, while he was doing his work in the kitchen.

How could either of you thought that he wouldn’t? How could either of you been so fucking stupid? Nii-san knows everything—nii-san always knows everything.

“Please, please, we’re sorry, nii-san, we’re sorry,”

“We won’t ever do it again!”

The laugh that claws its way up Touya’s throat is soaked with ridicule, and he shakes his head, a gleeful little grin present on his lips, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing, as if it’s so ludicrous it’s funny.

“Wait, wait, wait—let me get this straight…you two wanted it so bad, and now you have the balls to complain when nii-chan complies?”

His voice is painfully apathetic, almost nonchalant in a way, as if it makes no difference to him even though it so clearly does, or you and Natsuo wouldn’t be shivering messes of tangled limbs on the floor.

Excuses begin tumbling from two pairs of lips, words stuttered and choked on and sandwiched between pleads and apologies, jumbling together in a mess of garbled, wet, desperate sounds.

“Enough,” Touya growls, and both voices cut off in an instant. “I don’t want to fucking hear it anymore! Keep acting like ungrateful little brats and I’ll make this punishment longer, I swear to God,”

But you can’t halt the words bubbling up past your lips, regardless of Touya’s threat, regardless of the fact that you know he’s deadly serious. They’re compulsive, automatic, almost instinctual in nature as you seek out comfort, hunt for solace and fragments of relief in the hulking man blanketing you.

“I-I don’t wanna anymore, Natsuo,” you’re weeping into his chest, hot tears leaking from the corners of tightly shut eyes, streaming down the sides of your head and into your hair. “I don’t wanna,”

“I know, baby, I know,” Natsuo murmurs, though his bottom lip is beginning to tremble.

“Make him stop, Natsuo, make nii-chan stop,”

“I can’t,” his voice breaks on the word, facial features saturated in concern, in fear, wincing as if it physically pains him to deny you. “You know I would if I could,” he nearly whimpers, and his eyes search yours almost frantically, as if he’s begging you to understand. “But I can’t,”

But your head is shaking as you wail louder, fingers weakly curling against his skin, nails pressing into the flesh of his shoulders and clinging to him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Natsuo’s saying, the words cracking in his throat, voice hoarse. He pauses, clearing it twice, eyes closing briefly as he sighs out a slow, deep, stammering breath, gathering his strength. “One more after this, princess,” he begins as his hips start to speed up their rutting, procuring a yelp from you. “That’s it, jus’ one more after this one. C’mon, we can do it,”

“No, no, no,” you chant as pretty, gleaming tears roll down your face. And you can see it, the potent guilt swirling in his gunmetal eyes, from the way his pupils expand as they focus on the salt water sullying your cheeks, from the way his cock twitches despite it all. “I don’wanna, I don’wanna, stop, Natsuo, stop,”

His motions pause immediately, the moment the word falls from your lips, but he starts up just as quickly as Touya dictates from his spot on the mattress above.

“Stop, and I’ll add another two,” he promises, ruthless and unforgiving. Chills skitter along your glistening skin, erupting across your damp body at his tone. Both of you know he isn’t bluffing, that he’ll add as many orgasms as he wants to, and that he’ll continue to pull them from your fatigued and worn-out bodies one way or another, even if he has to do it completely by himself.

“Focus on me,” Natsuo instructs gently, though there’s a sense of urgency in his voice, a frenzied need to calm you down before Touya loses his patience completely. “I’ll take care of it, okay? Just focus on me, look at me,”

So you do, blinking the bleariness from your gaze as you direct all of your attention to him. And although there’s that ever-present guilt still swimming in his irises, in his unshed tears, there’s also love in his stare, so much love it’s nearly overflowing, overpowering the remorse and instilling a deep sense of comfort in your stammering chest.

Because at least you’re not alone in this; at least you have each other—each other to find comfort in, to cry and whine and beg with, to protect.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he’s whispering over your wails like a broken mantra, those tears that have been glazing his eyes, that have been collecting behind his lashline, finally beginning to fall.

His hips speed up, as fast as he possibly can as he gathers every last ounce of power and manages to wring another one out of you, another one out of himself, sore cunt clenching painfully around him, your fourth orgasm feeling as if it’s been punched out of you, despite the fact that Natsuo’s thrusts have been shallow.

And by the time your fifth orgasm rolls around, you’re nothing more than Jell-o in the shape of a human, though Natsuo’s not much better, barely able to move other than the uneven rutting of his hips, a crushing deadweight on top of you as his weary hips give pitiful little thrusts, pubic bone dragging across your hypersensitive clit, every tug against it ripping another ragged cry from your throat.

But you’re having trouble, both of you struggling to do anything other than feebly hump against each other, unable to secure enough strength to pump—to milk—that final orgasm out of yourselves, sniveling little protests punctuated by wrecked sobs leaking from your mouths.

Touya’s pissed—beyond pissed—sharp jaw clenching while seething insults burn his tongue and slice your skin, berating the both of you for being so fucking weak, so fucking pathetic, because he’s forced more orgasms out of the both of you before, so why is this so fucking difficult?

Touya’s too stubborn, and he refuses to end the punishment early irrespective of the fact that you’re both entirely drained, reminding you in a callous voice that you each must cum five times before it’s over while he aggressively roots through one of his desk drawers, snickering to himself when he finds what he’s looking for, hooking his index finger in it and pulling it out.

And the look on his face when he turns back to face you and Natsuo is positively petrifying, idly swinging the cockring around on his finger as his head tilts slightly, observing the both of you with that sharp smile you’ve come to know so well on his lips, eyes glittering with pure delight, features lit up with his own personal brand of sadistic excitement.

Natsuo starts to say something, voice forming around a word that sounds suspiciously similar to no, but he catches himself before it fully leaves his mouth, pressing quivering lips together tightly as he stares up at his brother with wet eyes.

Touya chuckles, raising an eyebrow with that trademark lopsided smirk, as if he’s challenging Natsuo to dispute him, to resist.

He doesn’t, of course, because he never would, but he does finally allow full shuddery sobs to escape his chest, Touya’s condescending shh’s and hush, now’s doing nothing to calm them as he slides the cockring on.

Natsuo nearly howls when Touya turns the tiny, pretty pink device on, his entire body jerking with that initial vibration.

“The faster you cum, the faster I’ll take it off,” Touya says calmly over the stifled little shrieks Natsuo’s continulously trying to swallow back down, nodding his understanding as he repositions himself between your thighs, holding his vibrating cock in one massive palm as he guides himself back into you.

And you want to tell him no!, don’t!, stop!, you want to shove him off, to kick and scream and beg and cry, but your heavy head sluggishly lolling from side to side seems to be all you can manage, words snagging in your throat, nothing more than incoherent babbling leaving your lips.

Because you can barely speak, barely think, barely breathe, vision fading in and out of focus as Natsuo rocks stuttering hips against yours, warm salt water rolling down the bridge of his nose, dripping onto your cheeks and mixing with yours. You’re both more each other, more one than two separate entities now, spit and cum and tears so interspersed you can’t tell which belongs to who anymore, limbs and fluids, thoughts and sounds, endlessly flowing into one another.

“Tell her to behave, Natsuo,” Touya barks, though there’s twisted amusement dancing in his eyes as he observes. “Tell her to finish the fucking punishment,”

And Natsuo, ever the perfectly trained pet, does as he says immediately.

“We can—We can do it,” Natsuo keens from above you, full body shudders wracking his hulking form, alabaster hair clinging to his forehead in uneven clumps, drenched in sweat as he forces words through his own bawling, hips grinding into yours. “We can do it, let’s be good for nii-san, yeah? L-Let’s make nii-san proud—c’mon, you wanna make him proud, don’t you?”

You do—of course you do. You never want anything else. But…But you’re not entirely sure you can, hiccupped sobs peppering your slurred words. Unconsciousness tugs at the edges of your hazy mind, whispers enticing promises of repose and relaxation as weighted eyelids begin to sag.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Natsuo cuts you off gently, shaky knuckles brushing against your cheek in a poor imitation of a caress. “I’ll do it, baby, I’ll do it,”

You don’t even remember cumming a fifth time, only a feeling of hot coals smoldering in the pit of your stomach, but you must have, because then Touya’s hooking his arms under Natsuo’s and dragging him off of you, propping him up against the side of the bed and kneeling as lithe fingers remove the toy from his cock.

And the sense of relief that seeps into your body and floods your veins is so intense it almost feels like a rush of adrenaline instead. You did it. You both did it. Finally, it is over.

Or so you and Natsuo thought.

—

Spikes of fear piece through his heart as Natsuo blearily watches Touya gather your limp body in his arms, hauling you up with a soft grunt.

And it’s astounding, the way you still curl into him, still seek that familiarity, that solace, in his chest, mumbled out honorific padded by hitched half-sobs as you cling to him. It’s astounding, because even after all he’s done to you, after everything he just put the two of you through, you will crawl back to him each and every time, over shards of glass on your hands and knees with his name on your lips—his name in devotion, in submission, in love—without a single question asked.

And Natsuo realizes that he would, too.

The thought inspires a bittersweet taste to settle on his tongue, like sticky toffee and black coffee, alien feelings swirling in his chest, clashes of consoling blooms of warmth and spiky shards of ice.

But Natsuo doesn’t have time to meditate on his newfound emotions, your faint pleas recapturing his attention.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Touya murmurs, large hands repositioning you.

And he really does sound sorry, even though Natsuo knows he isn’t.

“Wh-What are you…”

“It isn’t over yet,” Touya says simply, though the smile stretched taut across his face is severe, terrifying, azure eyes sparkling in merciless amusement at the horror that shows on Natsuo’s face when he realizes, eyes widening as they fill with thick tears again, bottom lip jutting out into an involuntary pout as panic surges through his veins.

His heart palpitates violently against his ribcage, tongue turned to cotton as worry signs itself in the creases of his forehead.

“Nii-san,” Natsuo begins cautiously, trying in vain to keep his voice steady. “I don’t think—I-I mean, is that really necessary?”

“Of course it is,” his big brother responds without looking at him, preoccupied with folding your lifeless limbs up, knees bent and pressed to your chest.

“Why?” the word slips out without Natsuo’s permission, grey eyes widening in shock as he swallows thickly, shaking his head a little as if to say I didn’t mean to!, though Touya doesn’t seem to mind.

“Because the overstimulation was her punishment,” Touya glances over at him, the amusement dancing in his eyes turned vicious as his smile stretches wider—so wide Natsuo’s surprised it doesn’t split his face clean in two—cruel and brutal. “This is yours,”

Natsuo isn’t quite sure he understands, brain doused in a thick fog and having difficulty grasping the concept, the knowledge of what his nii-san truly means turning to dense, ashy smoke any time he tries to grasp it, metaphorically slipping through his fingers.

But then you’re speaking again, and Natsuo’s head whips towards you, chest tightening at how completely wrecked you sound.

“No, please, no more,” the words gurgle in your throat, escaping as nothing more but jumbled, spit-soaked whines that have Touya chuckling as he shoves his cock into your aching little hole.

“You’re in no position to be making demands, princess,” he speaks through a patronizing pout, a mockery of your own expression, voice syrupy and supercilious. “If you weren’t such a needy little whore always desperate for a hard cock to grind on, this wouldn’t be happening,”

The words are spit in the same demeaning tone Touya had been using earlier, the same demeaning tone he always uses, and Natsuo’s powerless to stop the words flowing from his mouth.

“It’s not your fault, sweetheart,” he reassures you, though his voice cracks under the emotion, words wavering as his chin trembles.

“You’re right,” Touya muses, slight breathlessness the only indication that he’s railing the absolute life out of you. “It’s yours,”

And suddenly, Natsuo understands what nii-san had meant when he said this was his punishment.  

Because he’s right.

It’s got to be the harshest punishment Touya’s ever bestowed on him.

Because it’s hard to watch the way your lax, abused body is forced to just take it, Touya’s thrusts so rough they jostle you up the mattress; even harder to hear as you bawl and beg and scream, and Natsuo’s nose twitches as the threat of new tears climbs up his throat, lodging in the column as he fights against them.

He feels sick, like some sort of depraved pervert, for the weak twitches his cock gives, for the faint embers that flicker in the pit of his stomach, igniting a dull blaze as he watches, almost entranced by the grotesque situation unfolding in front of him. He feels sicker, knowing that both of those would be stronger, much stronger, had Touya not forced him to fuck his entire soul into you.

And Touya—Well, Touya’s been hard from it all—high from it all—the whole time, and Natsuo can almost see the sheer power flowing through his veins, an aura that envelopes him, that radiates off of him in intoxicating waves, that licks at his skin like flames of blue fire. Natsuo bets—no, knows— it’s better than any drug Touya’s ever taken.

Protests marinate on his tongue, bitter and acidic, pleads of stop and enough scraping against the walls of his throat as he forcefully swallows them back down, emitting pathetic little whimpers in their place.

Because he knows if he starts, Touya will only make it worse for you, so he suffers in silence, readily agreeing with Touya every time he reminds Natsuo that this is all his fault and neither of you would be in pain if Natsuo could’ve just kept it in his fucking pants for a few minutes longer.

It hurts, because it’s true, nii-san’s words sending thick, piercing stakes spearing through Natsuo’s heart, through Natsuo’s very soul, straight to the core of his body. Acrid bile climbs up his throat as Touya’s moans mingle with your sobs, so exhausted that they’re barely more than little wheezes at this point. It’s abundantly clear that Touya doesn’t feel a shred of remorse, and that makes Natsuo feel even worse—if only he had said no, if only he had waited and asked, if only he had been stronger, you wouldn’t be suffering.

The tears collecting in the column of his throat sprout talons and claw their way up, past his steadily weaking resolve, prying their way through his lips in the form of jagged sobs.  

It’s magnificent, really, the way Touya can render Natsuo a snotty, shivering mess with only a few choice words. And Natsuo—Natsuo only ever cries in front of his big brother, only ever cries for his big brother, full-on weeping that slashes through his sputtering chest, coughing around and choking on his own sobs of nii-san, I’m sorry!

But it ends eventually, finally, Touya tearing one last orgasm from you, gentle words contradicting his cruel, ruthless actions, murmurs of come on baby, just one more, one more for nii-chan. You can do this for nii-chan, can’t you? You can be a good little girl for me and cum one more time, right? lingering on his lips

And somehow, you find the strength to obey, to be his good baby, because you always do, entire body convulsing with a raspy shriek of the honorific, Touya praising you only moments later as his hips still and his cock pumps you full.

—

It’s cute, really, how fucked out the two of you are. Touya thinks you’re both so beautiful when you’re like this, with glassy eyes and tearstained cheeks, lashes clumped together with residual water and swollen faces stained with streaks of salt, all dazed and fucked and stupid for him, from him.

Natsuo’s doing better than you are, of course—Natsuo wasn’t subjected to being fucked again. But Natsuo still needs to rest, Touya softly tutting his tongue with a disapproving shake of his head as Natsuo attempts to aid him with your aftercare, movements clumsy as he stumbles to his feet, inept and awkward as he blunders towards you.

“No,” Touya’s large hands wrap around his younger brother’s shoulders, halting him, steadying him, forcing Natsuo to look at him. “You rest,” he instructs sternly, guiding Natsuo back to his previous spot and delicately depositing him onto the desk chair. “I’ll get to you in a minute, okay, Natsuo-kun?”

Natsuo hums out an affirmation, eyes closing briefly as Touya’s fingertips affectionately trace the curve of his cheek, palm patting it once.

It’s in moments such as these, nights after hours and hours of extreme punishment, that Touya automatically, perhaps unknowingly, slips into Big Brother mode, and you’re reminded of the age gap between them.

Because even though Natsuo’s bigger than Touya, taller than Touya, beefier than Touya, he looks so tiny under his older brother’s protective gaze.

You both must reek terribly, covered in drool and sweat and cum, must look like hot messes, strands of tangled hair saturated with salt and sticking to your cheeks, but your Touya-nii is still right there regardless, whispering the sweetest affirmations and the tenderest praises to the both of you as he wipes each of you down with a damp cloth infused with lavender, telling the both of you how good you did, how proud you made nii-san, how pretty both of you are.

Nimble fingers spend a decent amount of time rubbing soothing circles of moisturizing cream into each of you, your most sensitive skin rubbed raw, aching and puffy from such intense maltreatment, before Touya-nii dresses each of you in his softest, comfiest clothes, steady stream of pure, unadulterated love never stopping as it pours from his lips.

And you’re both reminded of how privileged you are, being the only two who ever get to witness this side of him, the only two who are fortunate enough to see the person he might’ve been if you stripped away years upon years of trauma and abuse, the person he truly is at the core of his soul, the person he was born as before he was forced to layer himself with thick, protective walls of aggression coated in indifference—and the person who he becomes as he sheds that armor, in the middle of the night when it’s just the three of you, the whole world having fallen away outside the bedroom door.

You’re all each other need, after all; because he loves you both more than he could ever put into words—and you each love him back just the same—and that will always be more than enough.

Touya reaches across your body, arm a pleasant, heavy weight as it rests on you, and runs slender fingers through Natsuo’s sweaty hair as you snuggle into your nii-chan’s chest, and Natsuo nearly mewls, nuzzling into his nii-san’s touch as Touya instructs the both of you to sleep, now, a film playing softly in the background as the three of you drift into unconsciousness together.

[wardowrites]

As I live and breathe.

Wardo was startled by the overwhelming surge of emotion that overtook him when he heard Maverick’s utterance. Anything could have happened in the time between him seeing the older man, and yet Mav still seemed intent on saying things that made him sound like he’d been pulled straight out of a Dick van Dyke movie. The familiarity of it all, coupled with how intense the last few weeks had been was almost enough to make Wardo burst into tears.

He didn’t, because he didn’t want Cady to come back out and call him a pussy, but he had to take a moment to collect himself and process what was happening.

Inhaling raggedly, there was no stopping the watery laugh that left him on the breath back out. He’d had no clue what he needed to bring him back to earth for the past few weeks. Drinking with Ivy or walking Capote or throwing himself into Bryce’s business and being forcibly held at arm’s length weren’t cutting it. How was he to know that the one thing that could make Wardo feel like the overconfident fifteen-year-old he had once been before he’d even heard Louis Denver’s name, was Maverick calling him a silly goose?

“Oh my god,” he said, quietly, in awe that the man who’d had such an impact on his life was now standing in front of him. And remembered him.

Not that he had ever been in danger of forgetting Mav, but he hadn’t thought it would be mutual. In Mav’s line of business, Wardo was sure he’d have seen hundreds of repressed, smart-mouthed kids who wanted to prove they knew better than the adults who ran the establishment they were locked up in. Wardo had maybe thought he was one of a kind back in the day, but the system had knocked that out of him, especially when he got into daily fights with other boys who also thought they could outsmart him, life on the streets sharpening them all to nothing more than jagged fragments of what a teenager should be.

There had always been well-meaning adults coming in to visit them with bright, fake smiles plastered onto their faces as they tried to teach them all about a job well done and how life could be so much better for them when they eventually got out. But Wardo had been able to see how frayed their nerves were from the get-go, how standing in front of an audience of tired, abused boys actually made them feel like they had been thrown into the lion’s den, unarmed and terrified. They weren’t there to help kids like Wardo, they were there to make themselves feel better, so they could go home at night and tell whatever unfortunates they’d married about the lives they’d changed that day, taking a broken kid and papering over the cracks without thinking to ask what caused them in the first place. A finished product that would look nice for long enough to soothe their conscience. When the cracks inevitably reappeared, they’d already be long gone.

Mav had been different. He hadn’t blustered into the detention center with an unwarranted air of authority, a pep in his step that suggested he was here to give them all the same lecture he’d given at the last juvie hall. He hadn’t gathered them all together to talk to them as a whole, but had talked to each boy individually. And when Wardo had been a smart-assed little shit, insulted Mav’s intelligence and stolen twenty dollars from his wallet, he’d come back the next again day with a smile on his face and a book in his hand that he’d thought Wardo would like. 

Safe to say, Wardo had never been able to forget Mav. But he’d run from the other man as soon as he’d left juvie. He’d wanted to keep in touch with him, but he’d had to survive when he was back on the streets and he knew that, in order to do that, he would have to do things that disappointed Mav. And the last thing he wanted to face was Maverick Rojas, not with the knowledge that the older man would no longer be proud of him.

Right now, he wondered if he was allowed to let Mav know him again. He could tell him that he had a job now and a best friend he’d do anything for and a dog and a sort-of little brother that he’d only been able to find room in his heart for because Mav had been the one to teach him how to carve out the space. 

He wanted to tell him all of that in one heady breath, but then suddenly Maverick was hugging him and all Wardo could do in return was throw his arms around the other man and cling to him. He knew they were still on a playground that had stragglers left over, parents eyeing them suspiciously but they disappeared from view when Wardo immediately tucked his face into Mav’s shoulder, the way he once had when he’d been an angry, lost teenager.

Eventually, Maverick stepped back and because Wardo didn’t want to be a total fucking weirdo about the whole thing, he did too. His eyes felt blurry and he blinked rapidly to get rid of the unshed tears. The last thing he wanted was to break down in front of Mav, but the man himself remedied that fear for him by instilling in him a new one: the illusion that Wardo was closely acquainted with fatherhood.

“What?” His eyebrows flew upwards in shock. He had no fucking clue who the hell Robbie Wainwright was, although he sounded like a cool fucking kid if what Mav said was anything to go by. What was more horrific, was Maverick referring to Wardo as a daddy. Thank absolute fuck Ivy wasn’t with him.

“Please stop talking, Mav. And please never say those words again literally ever,” he begged.

A flurry of movement caught his attention and suddenly Cady was back by his side, brandishing her Christmas card.

“I got it!” she declared, a little breathlessly, having evidently ran to her classroom and back. She shoved it in Wardo’s face. “Here. Put it in my backpack.”

Wardo drew her a look but took the card anyway and immediately unzipped the backpack that was still slung over his shoulder. He caught himself, realising what he was doing, and looked back at Mav.

“She’s not mine by the way,” he quickly clarified.

Cady’s eyes widened in horror.

“Ewww!” she sounded out, earning her yet another exasperated look from Wardo.

Maverick knew he’d be ribbed to high heavens for ever admitting it, but his least favourite part of the working day was pick-up. As new as it was to him, he’d settled into his first teaching position with a childlike wonder, so fascinated and enamoured by each new discovery that he made. He got a kick out of watching his students light up, eyes wide with wonder as he described the workings of their solar system with a mishmash of tennis balls and tangerines. He loved rewarding kids with gold stars when they aced their tests, and even when they didn’t. He even adored sharing cheeky, conspiratorial grins with the so-called troublemakers that the Vice Principal had asked him to keep a watchful eye over. He wasn’t sure there was much point. What was the point of being nine years old if you couldn’t get up to a little mischief?

He’d spent countless days in the staff room, lunchbox balancing on his knees, listening to other teachers whine and whimper about which students they hated the most, lamenting the afternoons ahead. (Maverick had since resorted to eating in the lunch hall, his cheeks a rosy red as he watched students chatter and laugh together, their joy infectious.) He’d seen the look of relief on each of their faces as the last of the parents had arrived to collect their child, shaken his head in bewilderment as he watched them high-tale it to their cars, coats and bangs already in hand. Miss Smith, he considered, was just about the only one of his coworkers who he thought actually liked being there, her sweet kid Dylan one of Mav’s personal favourite students - he’d once heard the six year old be referred to as a ‘delinquent’, a fact that had caused Maverick to tip his head back, spiralling into full-bellied laughter as he recalled the young lad’s proclivity for whoopee cushions.

“Mr Rojas?” A sweet voice sounded from somewhere behind him, causing Maverick to spin on the spot in search of it.

His face stretched into a warm smile as he spotted young Cady, the lilt of her accent endearing him as she sounded out his surname; his students were still young and learning, many of them speaking slow and without inflection, the J in Rojas a rare commodity to them.

“Why hello there, li’l darlin’,” he beamed down at her, eager to find out what she might need from him.

She was already breathlessly explaining to him how she’d a left a Christmas card from her classmate inside — the horror of it all! — and insisting that it was the utmost importance that she go and retrieve it. And, frankly, who was he to deny the young girl her Merry Swiftmas card in the first place?

He waved her ahead, ducking his head with a low chuckle, before turning his attention back to the tarmac ahead. All of his students, bar Cady, had vacated the area already, parents and grandparents and nannies gathering them into cars or onto busses, but he still enjoyed watching the steady stream of students leave the area, content in waiting to ensure that they were left in safe hands. Maverick knew that all that awaited him was a poorly insulated apartment, the power having been cut for the third time that month, Maverick once again struggling to make rent; he was in no rush to leave.

Colour him shocked when he lifted his head and found himself face to face — or, he supposed, face to shoulders if you discredited the craning of his neck — with none other than Wardo Martinelli.

“As I live and breathe,” he startled, his eyes wide, a warm smile brightening up his already cheerful face.

He found himself releasing a hearty chortle at the young man’s words, lifting a hand to wave them away as though they were completely and utterly beyond question. In all of Maverick’s years as a Support Worker, his stints of visiting foster homes and juvenile detention centres, there had never been a kid who hadn’t left some sort of an impression on him. All being said, Wardo Martinelli had been one kid who’d left a mark on him that he’d never dream of washing away, a permanent tattoo on his heart that he’d carry with him forever. He’d reminded Mav of himself at his age; defensive and repressed, but a little cheeky and with a penchant for slight of hand. More than once, Maverick had noticed a 20 dollar bill missing from the pocket of his jeans. He’d simply offered the teen a roll of his eyes and clapped him on the shoulder, content that it that was the only trouble he was getting himself into then it could be a whole lot worse.

“Now, kid. The Wardo that I knew was never as much of a silly goose as you sound right now,” the older man teased.

Without missing a beat, he took a step forward and wrapped his arms around Wardo’s shoulders, his heels lifting just an inch from the ground as he adjusted to the growth spurt Wardo had undergone since they’d last met.

He was all too aware of the shocked stares he was receiving from nearby parents, the whispers of his coworkers as they wondered just why he was embracing a student’s father, but he didn’t care. Seconds passed as he held Wardo before he finally gave the young man a gentle clap to the shoulder and drew back, his heels firmly back on the ground.

“‘Course I remember ya, li’l man,” Maverick grinned, playful irony dripping from his tongue as he took in all 6 foot 3 of him. “Now, which of these young firecrackers is yours? Don’t tell me — if little Robbie Wainwright’s sticky fingers are anything to judge by, I think I already know.”

He laughed again, running his hand along the scruff of his own jaw.

“Wardo Martinelli. A daddy,” he breathed, feeling outright euphoric by this discovery.

[cdroloisms]

i think that although the theories/aus of puffy's son dream and wil's brother dream are interesting to think about, especially the implications, the (probably) canon statement that he really has no family to me hits the hardest. because it's just dream, you know. his friends hate him, he has none (p relatable), but i can't really imagine,, both not having friends and not having a family. that's kind of what keeps a lot of us sane and okay ( - quill anon (same anon from the c!tubbo c!wil ask) )

ouch quill anon ,, this ask Hurt. it’s true - usually, it’s our family and friends that keep us going, that are the ones that we fight for and live for and love for. c!dream’s “family” was his reasoning behind ,, a lot of the stuff he did, good or bad, and even now you can hear his desperation in getting someone, anyone to visit sometimes, in wanting to know how people are doing outside the cell. 

at the same time, he’s a character very much defined by his solitude, by his isolation, by all of the time he has spent,, alone. by the alliances that had been broken, betrayed, forgotten. by how- at the end of the day - he sits for hours on end in an obsidian box with nothing but his thoughts to accompany him. it’s awfully ,, sad, despite everything he’s done. through it all, he’s alone. he survives the horrors of the vault (until this current arc) alone. nobody’s there to hear his thoughts. nobody knows his mindset, or feelings, or wants, or anything that really makes him human. for someone so driven by people, he spends so much time completely isolated - and it’s. honestly really, really tragic. 

anyway, this is a sad little drabble set pre-roommates arc abt c!dream in the prison, alone, bc he makes me Sad. 

tw: mentioned torture, abuse, violence, broken bones, blood, injuries, mental deterioration, isolation, panic attacks, self-deprecation, trauma, memory loss, death, contemplations of death, dark content, dark imagery

The blank book in his hand stares at him stubbornly, the stark white of the untouched pages nearly burning his eyes, used to the dark walls and floor of the cell. Dream’s hand shakes around his quill, ink splotches marring the pages from where his too-unsteady hand had let the nib brush against the paper and left freckles of black spots behind. He pulls his thumb back from the bottom left corner, hissing slightly when it leaves a dull red fingerprint behind, a smudge of half-dried blood further dirtying the paper.

He’d pulled out one of the books for some reason, probably on a whim, letting his hands run over the leather spine and along the thread of the binding absentmindedly after Quackity left for the day. He hadn’t touched them in a while - he liked to save them, at the beginning, just in case visitors came and he wanted to thank them or if he needed to communicate (though he hadn’t gone silent since Sapnap left, ‘cause Sapnap wanted him to talk and he doesn’t know why he still clings to that visit when it’s been months and he still hasn’t come back, but he promised that if Dream behaved he’d visit again and - it’s stupid to hope, but Dream can’t give up, not yet) and then he kept them because he would need them for the revive book and the Warden would confiscate them, anyway, so it was better not to get attached. Regardless, he’d stubbornly ignored the chest of books for a long time, let the remain closed and the clasp go unlatched as he wasted his days away watching the walls drip bright purple and pretend he didn’t miss his clock.

Until now.

He runs his fingers along the surface of the paper again, ignoring the red and black smudges they leave in their wakes, ruining the previously unblemished pages. The paper is smooth, bearing a very slight grain, and smells clean and woody - this book must’ve been a newer one the Warden replaced into the chest. He’d counted the pages a few times, front and back - there are fifty sheets, so a hundred pages to use as he sees fit, completely empty and untouched. The quill shakes in his hand, the tip pressed against the paper, unmoving.

What is there to write?

He’s forgotten why he pulled out the book in the first place, already - his head keeps getting fuzzier, memory impossibly fragmented and seemingly worsening with every passing day. He knows he had a reason because he’d been very determined about it, had spent what must have been hours dragging himself along the obsidian floor with a broken shinbone jutting out of his right leg and a dislocated left shoulder that he’d taken an extra few minutes to jam back in place by pressing it against the floor. Something had come into his head, probably in the middle of Quackity’s daily session, and he’d found himself desperate to write it down before he forgot despite the throbbing of his head and the pain in his chest making it impossible to take a full breath.

(He must have talked back, or acted defiant, or something - he doesn’t remember much besides the look Quackity had given him after, dark and angry and tight with rage. There had been a hand tangled in his hair, a blade jammed right up against his throat, curses and screams in his ears dying into a singular ringing echo as the blade was pushed deeper and deeper. It wasn’t until a few minutes later when Quackity realized that he’d gone too deep and that Dream was choking on his own blood - his memories shatter, and there’s nothing but more screaming, red and black and blood everywhere, warm against his skin, the sweet-sour taste of glistening melon on his tongue, a healing pot desperately stitching his skin together and bringing him back from the darkness that he’d swelled in the corners of his vision - mostly, he remembers everything going cold and numb and he’d realized, halfway into the Void, that he would never leave the Vault alive.)

His hands tighten on the book as he breathes a shallow, harsh breath through his teeth, because - oh. Oh. He looks back at the trembling white plume in his hand, at his shaking fingers clenched tightly near the end, and he swallows the thick, heavy feeling in his throat. Quackity had- and he had- and then-

Right.

He forces air into his lungs steadily, counting the seconds off in his head. He’d learned how to stave off panic attacks on his own ages ago, and the knowledge had come to full use in the Vault - the struggle to stay calm seems harder with every passing day, but he can’t exactly risk himself passing out every three seconds when he’s inevitably set off by the smell of blood or a twinge of pain or any of the million other triggers crammed into this tiny box that’s been the source of all of his torment for months. He keeps up the slow, steady breathing for another few minutes, just enough time to pull back the darkness creeping in from the edges of his vision, and looks back down at the blank paper.

It stares back at him, almost judgmental of his hesitancy. You opened me up, it seems to challenge him, why aren’t you writing? The quill still shakes in his hand. He doesn’t know if it’ll ever stop shaking again.

Dear, he begins, almost in defiance, proof that he Is Going To Write Something, thank you very much, he isn’t just going to chicken out and leave it a blank book (like you have before?) but the quill tip digs into the paper as he grinds to a sudden halt, the empty space next to the first word nearly taunting. He feels his mouth dry, heat rising behind his eyes - the book, silent and blank as ever, stays imprinted in his vision even as he squeezes them shut.

Dear, what a stupid, sentimental way to start a letter. He can’t even fool himself into thinking of it as a business venture, turn it into an elaborate plan to escape and address it to either Techno or Wilbur (who would never receive his message anyway), not without admitting his regard for the two edged past his pretense of professional interested and owed favors. He can hardly write it to Ranboo, not without compromising their already fragile alliance (if it even exists, anymore. The enderman hybrid had yet to visit for months - and sure, it was probably for the best, who knows how Quackity would react if he found out about the nature of their relationship, but that didn’t make it sting any less.)

In the back of his minds, name rise from where he’d kept them carefully buried despite his best efforts. Punz. Bad. Puffy. Sapnap. George. He shakes his head, trying to wave away them from his thoughts, but the effort is as fruitless as it has always been - he stares at the first word angrily, like it has betrayed him, and receives no response. The words are messy, shaking, his script overly looping and rounded like a child’s. He hates it, hates how cheery it looks, even on the bloodstained page - it looks like the beginning of a birthday card, or a perhaps a particularly dedicated Halloween party invite. Like he’s some sort of lovesick teen, writing letters to crushes that would never pay him a second glance. He laughed a little, without any real humor - minus the romance, that description isn’t all that far off.

Because- well. His memories might be shot to all hell, but he doubts he’ll ever forget the hatred on Sapnap’s face, a loaded crossbow pointed between his eyes, George’s expression set in disinterested apathy - “George, you can give the word.” Bad’s face, twisted in pity and resignation, voice carefully measured as he looks away and gestures at the cell, “you did do some pretty bad stuff to get put in here though, Dream,” the hidden “you deserve it” that he’d heard, just as clearly behind the words. Punz - “you should’ve paid me more” - jaw set stiffly as people poured through the portal, watching, wordless, as Dream bled out twice on that blackstone floor. Puffy, poorly hidden disgust flickering over her face as she looks away from him being dragged away in chains, sword held steady in her hands. Sapnap, that same fiercely determined expression on his face so familiar that thinking of it aches, even now, “it’s gonna be me, who takes your final life.” Months and months and months and months, alone.

Always, always, alone.

The page makes a quiet, complaining groan under his pen - he looks down to see it torn under the tip of his quill, the word completely unreadable under line after line of black ink scratched over it, each one deeper than the last. He stares blankly at it for a few minutes longer, the brief flash of anger that had seared through his body settling into numbness once more.

To whoever may find this: he scratches the words on the page slowly, keeping his print deliberately blocky and neat. The heavy feeling in his throat returns, stronger than ever, and he ignores it as he pushes on.

He pauses for a moment, wondering what more to write. Apologies? Accusations? He could detail every second that he remembers from Quackity’s visits, describe every inch of pain that had been pulled from his aching lungs, every line etched into his skin. He could apologize for every act of cruelty that had ever been caused by his hands, every bridge he’d ever torched to light the path to a better future. He could explain - everything, every tortured thought that had circled his head for hours on end and every night that had passed without any sleep and every time he’d pushed on without complaint or hesitancy because it would be worth it, even if he was the only one who saw it, it would be worth it because he’d sacrifice too much for it to be anything but. He could- he could, he could write and write until he’d filled every page of every book back and front, and would they even believe him? Would it even matter?

Goodbye, he writes at last. It feels strangely final. (He won’t be leaving this Vault alive. He knows this as surely as he knows that he will leave this world uncared for, unheard. As surely as he knows that he’ll always be alone.) With a quick snap of magic following the signing of his name, the book is preserved, shining slightly with a purple glow as he sets it back down in the chest. He looks around, the cell once again stiflingly quiet without the book to busy him, Dream once again completely alone as he’s been for - well.

(Pandas, eyebrows drawn in uncharacteristic seriousness from the usually painfully spirited eight-year-old, pinkie raised between the two of them, solemnity belied by the gap in his front teeth poking out between his lips.

“We’ll be together forever,” he whispered with the volume control you’d expect from a kid that age, which is to say that it wasn’t much of a whisper at all, but Dream, newly ten years old, remembers being particularly moved by the gesture anyway, moving to hesitantly hook his own pinkie in the other’s.

“And we’ll never be alone ever again,” he’d replied, voice faraway with a disbelieving sort of awe.”

“Never,” Pandas’ voice had been just as firm as his first statement, twisting his wrist to tighten the grip of their linked fingers further. “Best friends for ever and ever, right?”

“For ever and ever.”)

“For ever and ever,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut as he slumps down against the floor, and only the lava bubbles in reply.

[gaeilgeoirgay]

Whumptober Day Twelve

counting on a bullet 

Dick grits his teeth against the pain as Roman Sionis slams his own escrima sticks into his ribs. They’re at a high enough level to set Dick’s teeth buzzing in his skull. Everything hurts, but every bolt of metal in his body is scorching his skin from the inside out. The starburst of shrapnel in his hip, the pins replacing bone in his skull, the fragmented bullet scattered in the left side of his back- all of them react to the electricity with a vengeance.

Sionis knows it too. After all, he’s the one who put the bullet there three years ago. The mob boss turns the escrima up a notch, the high whine pounding into Dick’s already throbbing ears. There’s blood dripping from one though he hopes it’s just from a concussion. Concussions aren’t great but he doesn’t want to lose his hearing. He knows ASL of course, as do most heroes but it would make communicating with civilians difficult.

Roman smiles at Dick’s pain as if he’s watching a particularly amusing show. The psychopathic killer could probably watch someone murder a nun and laugh, Dick thinks uncharitably. Well, charitably really. He could have thought worse.

“No words left, Nightwing? It’s only been, oh, seven hours. Surely, your infamous wit hasn’t run out so…. quickly.” Roman says before delivering another strike, straight to Dick’s left floating rib. Jokes on him though, both of them are made of metal too. Dick absently wonders how much metal you have to be comprised of to be classified as a cyborg. He probably meets the requirements at this point. Security at airports is a nightmare.

Roman doesn’t think it’s as funny as he does though, because he snarls when the escrima hits solid titanium and retaliates by punching Dick directly in the face. All that is flesh, unfortunately, and now Dick’s jaw aches as well as literally everything else.

“Eh, more like I can’t be bothered to waste them on you.” Dick replies to Roman’s strikes, ensuring there isn’t any evidence of pain on his face. Roman doesn’t like that. An appropriate response of course, is to find a nerve cluster in Dick’s shoulder and place an escrima directly on it. Very rude of him.

Honestly, Dick is just going numb at this point, which definitely isn’t a good sign. Roman’s been careful not to kill him but eventually he’ll get bored of torturing Dick. Roman is infamous for his lack of patience when it comes to vigilantes, particularly him and Jason. When Dick worked for him, there had been a massive target board with the grinning face of Robin I. When Dick had felt particularly masochistic, he had put a few rounds in the target’s smile.

“No one is coming for you, Nightwing. Everyone knows that you’ve had some sort of falling-out with the Bats. None of them seem happy with you. I’d imagine they’ll be happy that the dead weight has finally been cut from the family.” Roman says casually and Dick sucks in a breath. He realises his mistake almost immediately as Roman grins. It’s one of the first genuine reactions Dick has given all night and now Roman is going to rip the weakness wide open for him to peruse.

“Oh, did I hit a nerve? You know it’s true. Wherever you were for the past year, the other Bats seemed to have gotten far closer. The Red Hood has even been seen spending time with the younger ones! That never happened when you were around. I wonder why?” Roman asks rhetorically and Dick keeps his mouth shut.

He knows his family were grieving his fake (real) death but he can’t tell Roman that. He’ll pick at that wound too, until Dick is bleeding himself all over the floor. Some things, most things really, Dick keeps to himself. He’s the eldest, the one his siblings are supposed to look up to. He can’t shatter that image and he certainly can’t tell them how exactly Bruce had convinced him to go undercover.

He can still feel Bruce’s fists sometimes, but he knows that when he’s around, Bruce doesn’t hurt the others. And he knows that it sounds suspiciously like abuse, but Dick is a grown adult and vigilante. It’s not uncommon for vigilantes to use aggression as a release. Yes, it’s usually on punching bags but that’s basically what Dick is, right?

And Bruce took him in, trained him, raised him. Dick owes him for that. He’s had worse than what Bruce gives him. So what if Dick isn’t worth the effort to love? Bruce loves the others and that’s enough for him.

Roman is still smirking but Dick isn’t paying attention. Sionis will say whatever he wants just to try and provoke a reaction- all Dick has to do is not listen. His family will notice his disappearance eventually. Nightwing patrols Bludhaven every single night, and there are avid vigilante watchers in every corner of his city. It’ll be reported if there’s no sighting of him for more than three days in a row.

And even if they don’t care about him anymore, they’ll feel obligated to rescue him because of the Robin code- no matter what they’ve done, every Robin is entitled to a rescue. That still applies to Dick, hopefully.

Midnighter would notice too and he technically owes Dick a favour for the information on Spyral that Dick had given him. He would break Dick out, because of professional courtesy if nothing else. He’ll be fine. He just needs to hold on.

Even as Black Mask keeps taunting him with the irreparable damage he’s done to his own family. Even as he brings down the escrima stick over and over again, bruises littering every inch of Dick’s skin. Dick just has to hold on.

(dick was right. it takes three days for his family to notice. jason is the one to cut him down from his restraints but dick barely reacts. it’s a nice dream, his family caring about him. dick knows he fucked up with spyral. jason hates him. there’s no way he’d be gentle with dick. maybe roman will put him out of his misery eventually. he doesn’t deserve mercy though, so dick isn’t counting on a bullet anytime soon. he’s not worth the effort.)

[meimi-haneoka]

Akiho Shinomoto - a manifesto of love

Despite becoming one of my favorite characters in the whole Cardcaptor Sakura franchise (and I would’ve never expected to love a new character this much), I realized I’ve never spent a long post for her, like the ones I did for SyaoSaku or for Tomoyo and Syaoran long time ago.

And there’s a lot to say, because Akiho Shinomoto is actually the first character who has introduced the concepts of evil and child abuse in Cardcaptor Sakura.

Something that wasn’t even remotely conceivable until (almost) 5 years ago.

Often considered boring and weak from the CCS fandom, Akiho actually harbors an immense strength inside of her, which goes mostly unnoticed to everyone, in-story friends included. Let’s see why.

Sentenced to death, for lack of magical powers

Once upon a time, a baby girl was born in a clan of powerful magicians, the most ancient of Europe. Clan members seemed happy and curious about the new entry to the family. They had great expectations about what magic she would develop, as everyone else in that family. At the ripe old age of 1 year and a half / 2 years, the baby girl was expected to show some signs of magic, but she had none. But hey, maybe she would become powerful later, let's pat her head and wait patiently. At that time, the Clan still showed some kind of "attention" for her.

But by the time the girl was around 6/7 years old, no fragment of magic appeared in her. Unacceptable. She's the daughter of two top rank magicians, in a clan of magic prodigies. Yet, she showed none of those gifts. They kept comparing her with some boy, living in a far away country, part of another famous magical clan. The girl suddenly held no more interest for her Clan. They actually started seeing her as a stain on their Clan's pride. Suddenly, the focus was all on how they could surpass the other rival clan. The girl was left all alone. A magicless member of the family is a member who doesn't even deserve being talked to. An interrogatory, at most. Who cares if the little girl wants to socialize, if she wants to play, if she's the only young person in that Clan, already without her parents who died so early on? The only thing this girl was good at was reading books, so all that's she's allowed to do. Not even playing with stuffed animals. For some reason, she's allowed to keep only ONE plushie, which is basically everything to her. But books and dolls can't fill that sinkhole she's already feeling at such young age.

Obsessed with this "anomaly", when she was about 2 years old, the Clan had the baby girl examined by a member of a Magic Association in England, known to be the den of shady magicians. A 8/9 year old bored magic genius, named “Yuna D.”, was her examiner. The boy said "She's like a blank book". The girl grew up, and the situation was still the same. The disapproving stares of her relatives cut the little girl’s heart like a sharp knife. They called her “worthless”, “useless”. They even doubted she could really be the daughter of her powerful parents. So what should they have done? Let the little girl live her life like any other regular human being, or taking literally the words of a BORED, EMOTIONALLY UNDEVELOPED CHILD who literally spat out the first thing that came to his mind?

Although the choice should’ve come easily for any normal human being with a functioning brain, they actually went in the other direction, greedy for power. And so, they decided to treat the girl like a tool, using her to store all kinds of magic for them to use. If she couldn’t be of any help to her clan with her capabilities, they would give her a purpose.

On some kind of altar, halfway between a lab rat and the sacrificing ritual of a sect, the most ancient Magicians of Europe together with the Magic Association performed a dangerous magic on her, which afterwards would take its toll even on the casters: they turned her into a magical artifact, capable of engraving in herself all the magical books she would encounter, transforming her de facto into a book herself. As if this wasn’t horrifying enough, this spell will progressively try to crush her soul and conscience, until it gets destroyed completely. So when the artifact will reach its limit, it will be the death of her, as a human being. Only a shell of her will remain. And judging by what was said later on in the story, they actually hope for her to lose her consciousness completely, so they can make use of her more easily.

Afterwards, they burned the book they took the ritual from, so the procedure would remain in their knowledge only. Greedy till the very last drop.

Once their perfect magical tool was achieved, turning a little girl into some sort of artifact, both the Clan and their accomplices couldn't stop bragging about it. The only positive words Akiho has ever received in her life by her people were after she was turned into a tool.

With a newly found purpose for that stain on their clan’s pride, they sent her away into the world to collect all the magic books she could find and write their powers into her, even though she was still just a child. For reasons still unknown, Yuna D., the boy who involuntarily caused this horrible ritual to happen and basically condemned her to death, offers himself to accompany her. The very first decision he took in his own life. That decision will change forever the course of their life, for both of them.

Rising from the ashes, towards a future of hope

Rehashing Akiho’s past is important to understand her personality and behavior fully. CLAMP, in the Clear Card manga, have portrayed the story of her past in a very peculiar way: it starts as any other fairytale, with light tones and cute designs. But as the story progresses, and the horror ensues, the tone of the tale changes, and so the drawing style too. It becomes serious, and “realistic” (ad opposed to the initial cutesy style). What started as a possible generic fairytale, turned into a real nightmare.

On top of being deprived of the love of her parents ever since she was born, because apparently they died right after, Akiho spent her early childhood in complete solitude. Those magicians who were supposed to be her remaining family were too absorbed into their own greed for power, to consider the needs of a baby girl. Not to mention that they had some kind of disgust for her, for being magicless. She was denied attention, cuddles, conversations, play activities, toys. She was denied love and care. All basic things that contribute to shape the personality and psychology of a person. Akiho grew up with the conviction that she wasn’t worth any of that, because no one gave it to her. One of the complaints I have seen the most about her in the fandom, is how she’s always so apologetic, to the point of becoming obnoxious. If you think about it, one of the most prominent characteristics of her personality is how she continuously apologizes to people, thanks them for any smallest thing, and is always, constantly seeking validation. 

But if you stop for a second to think about her past, you’ll realize with dismay that those are none other than symptoms of the abuse she suffered in the past. She was called “good for nothing” and “useless” by her clan and the Magic Association, and those words carved themselves into her heart, forever scarring it. Akiho grew up believing that she was really worthless and good for nothing just because she couldn’t meet the expectations of her clan, and it’s apparent when we see her considering herself “extremely clumsy”, even though we have afterwards seen that she’s perfectly capable of cooking, sewing, even playing sports. She only needs the dedication of someone who would teach her that.

With a disastrous psychological situation like this, one would naturally wonder how this girl didn’t commit anything extreme yet. Completely alone in the world, deemed useless. Unloved.

Books, books were her first lifeline. The fictional, magical, wonderful worlds depicted in those stories saved her sanity, making her dream about a better life, about friendship, about love. They taught her everything. They gave her the hope that those things existed out there, and maybe one day she would be blessed with them too. The fantastical characters kept her company when no one was there for her (yet). And she loves them viscerally for that, to the point of seeing herself mending damaged books in the future, as a possible occupation. Just like they mended her lacerated heart.

The second lifeline was her meeting with Kaito. Uncharacteristically to him, Kaito showed immediately a kind and interested behavior towards her. This was so shocking, so incredible that Akiho’s first reaction to his introduction was to run away. No one ever addressed her with the intention of having a conversation. No one was ever interested in what she was reading. Even just by this you can get a glimpse of how miserable her life had been till then. Full of psychological issues himself, thanks to the human connection Kaito gradually turned his attentions towards Akiho from contrieved mannerism, to genuine and sincere gestures. Akiho can feel that affection, even if her self-criticism always pushes her to believe that she’s nothing more than “job” to him. It’s something small, but what she’s experiencing with Kaito is her everything, and more than she’s ever had.

The third lifeline is Momo: Akiho doesn’t know, nor remotely imagines she’s actually a living magical creature. But she has been her constant presence ever since she was born. Her connection to her is special, and you can see it in their daily (one-sided, for now) interactions. Akiho talks to Momo, she greets her when she comes back home, she constantly carries her around, she thinks about giving her a little dress as a present. Momo is Akiho’s strength. The love this girl pours into what she believes is just a stuffed animal is incredible. It goes to show Akiho’s immense capacity to love something/someone without expecting anything in return, but actually just enjoying the simple presence and courage they give to her. If you think about it, it’s the very opposite of what she experienced with the only human interactions she’s ever had before Kaito came into the picture. Her aptitude to selfless love is also remarked between the lines in chapter 49, when Akiho is telling Sakura about her relationship with Kaito. Despite all the ugliness she went through, she’s still able to find in herself the strength to overcome all of it, and change her life for the better.

This certainly hasn’t been an easy or quick process, because in the flashbacks of her journey with Kaito we always see her with a pensive/serious look. It must have been extremely hard to start trusting others, when she had no one she could count on in her own home.

Akiho’s capacity to love and rise from the ashes of her terrible past has been so contagious, that it has started to affect Kaito too.  As Momo said in chapter 51, once you’re given the reason to change, no person can ever stay the same. This must have been true for Kaito, but certainly for Akiho too.

I’m absolutely positive that Akiho (and possibly, Kaito too) will be the symbol for one of the most important, beautiful messages in the whole Clear Card Arc: even if your life isn’t perfect, even if your past scarred you in multiple ways, there’s always hope. Hope to turn over a new leaf and change yourself for the better too, in the process. Overcome everything that had you stuck in pain and grief. Achieve what you always wished for.

[kaiparker-avengerssmut]

Their Doll 1

So It Begins 

B.Barnes x Reader, S.Rogers x Stark!Reader

series synopsis:  y/n Stark, all records of her non existent, and yet Hydra still find her. When she is kidnapped by a certain super-soldier and no one believes her, she finds herself searching for unexpected familiarity in her not-so-distant past.

Series Warnings: smut, violence, torture, swearing

Chapter summery: y/n Stark is captured by shield 

warnings: slight violence, swearing

A/n: The timeline in this has been altered, as there I things I wanted to include but I also wanted this fic to follow the storyline/timeline of Winter Soldier and Civil war.So for purposes of this fanfic, Peter Parker was discovered by Tony at a much younger age - when he was bitten - and has been an intern with him since, almost like a protégée.(For the purposes of this story Peter was bitten much younger too - more like when he was 9 or ten rather than 14/15)

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

POUNDING echoed through my mind like the sound of a stone in a gutter, painful and unwelcome. Bright lights penetrated through my eyelids, piercing through my vision as my eyes fluttered open. The dingy stone ceiling lined with a grime of green entered my vision, along with the prying eyes of scientists and surgeons that crowded my unmoving body. My fingers twitched suddenly, my wrists pulling at the metal wrapped tightly around them. Upon further experimentation, I discovered both my ankles were bound too, causing me to thrash and rattle against the constraints.

"It's done." The sound of someone talking calmed me down, making me crane my neck to see where it came from.

"Good." Another voice sounded, followed by the clunky sound of boots walking towards me. "It's good to finally meet you." The malicious grin on the man's face was unmistakable as he came into my view, the tone of his voice sending sparks of fear through me.

... "I never chose to do what I did, they fucking tortured me, the forced me." I spat, my wrists pulling at the ropes tying me to the metal chair behind my back. Steve scoffed and folded his arms over his chest, Natasha placing a hand on each chair arm and leaning down so she was face level.

"Then why were you there?" Natasha pushed, but before I could answer she was backing away again - almost as if the question had been rhetorical. She stood up with a push at the chair, running a hand through her red hair. She let out a frustrated groan before turning back around. "Who are you?!" Somehow her voice remained calm, but her actions were anything but. She slapped me across the face, my head snapping to the side with the force of it. But I stayed quiet.

"Why won't you tell us who you are, y/n? If that even is your real name?" Steve pressed, his eyebrows mittens together.

"It is! I promise!" I cried, pulling at my bindings even more. Why did they not believe me? It's not like they couldn't guess. It was so frustrating, but I wouldn't put it past HYDRA - the people who took me from my already shit life and made it worse - to make it seem like I was the bad guy. Another slap landed on my cheek, my jaw clenching with anger. "Come on!" He shouted. "Tell is who you really are!" Steve continued to shout, shaking my shoulders, his face turning red.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

I swallowed thickly, awaiting a sharp quip. This time his fist hit my face, the world around me once again going black.

... The rhythmic beeping soothed me out of my sleep, my eyes widening into the intrusively white light enveloping the room. My mid wondered, trying to link the days events to my current situation.

I had started my day with a briefing with one of the HYDRA agents, like any normal mission I had. I was to find out exactly what Captain America and Black Widow we're doing on the boat, without being seen, before reporting back to my superiors. Just like any other mission I'd been assigned to in the last three months. Spying on the Avengers - looking for weakness, strengths, secrets, weapons; anything to give them an upper hand when HYDRA finally enacted their plans to overtake SHIELD.

My fist connected harshly with the side of the man's head, knocking him cold and colliding into the wall. I shook my fist off and advanced, stealthily wandering down the now-deserted hallway - avoiding the lifeless bodies that scattered the floor. Rounding a corner I checked around, seeing two more guards stationed the other end. I slowly stepped around, catching the two men's sight almost instantly, their guns raising to shoot. In return my gun was raised too, but their actions soon halted at the melodic sound of my voice humming through the space.

As if in a daze, the guards turned to each-other, raising the guns to point at their companion's head. Terror in their eyes, they pressed down on the triggers and two small bangs emitted from the guns and the bullets propelled into their heads. Their bodies fell limp, slumping against the walls of the narrow corridor and I walked forward, the heal of my boot landing in one of the puddles of blood and leaving a sticky footprint trail behind me.

"This wasn't the mission." A male voice exclaimed.

"Maybe it wasn't yours." A female voice retorted, the clicking of key on a keyboard constant through the argument. The sudden pause of the man made me pause, and before I could see or hear anything I was ducked down, hands on my ears and head whilst debris rained down over us.

A ringing plagued my ears as I slowly stood up, my vision blurred and unfocused. The haze of chaos around me unbalanced me, the sound of voices simply a muffled white noise as I tried to find my baring. As I almost-blindly stumbled into the room, which was littered with slabs of stone an fragments of exploded technology, my consciousness slowly leaked from my being. The last thing I remembered was hearing the girl shout:

"Steve!" Before she landed in a pair of strong arms, which hoisted her up from under me knees and her armpits. The unconsciousness weighed out and black seeped through my vision, my mind shutting off finally.

HYDRA had brainwashed me, kidnapped and abused me. They set up a trigger - three words and I slipped form reality, mind linked with a superior of which I did not know until the words were repeated back or I suffered strong enough head trauma. My thoughts subsided at the sound of voices echoing in the room.

"Who is she? Why was she there?" Steve's voice sounded, followed by Natasha's.

"Is she okay?" She sounded slightly worried. An unfamiliar voice responded.

"She's fine, just a bit of a concussion and some stretches, she is..." his voice trailed off as I drifted back into sleep, my consciousness fading once again.

...

(Third person POV) "She is an agent, she works for, um..." Bruce trailed off, looking at Steve with sympathy. His jaw clenched.

"What, Bruce? Who does she work for?" He pressed, rubbing his temples with his fingers.

"She works for HYDRA." Bruce finished, wincing as Steve's fist connects with the wall beside y/n's bed. Nat instantly moved to calm him, her hand wrapping around his shoulder as she whispered soothing words in his ear.

"Maybe you should go and see Tony, tell him about y/n." Nat offered, both their eyes trained on Steve as he left the lab. When he was gone Bruce turned to Nat.

"I think we should keep her sedated, until we know who she really is and just how important she is to HYDRA. I mean what if she's another super soldier or something? She could be two things very easily - extremely dangerous and also, on a brighter side, a huge bargaining chip." Bruce suggested, met with a nod from Nat before he walked out the room.

... The thin metal handcuffed on either side of the small bed connected y/n’s wrists to it, holding her down in case the girl somehow awoke from her medically-induced coma. The steady beep of the machinery surrounding her continued - echoing through the near-soundproof glass cell, one whole wall completely clear so anyone could watch over her if need be.

Tony had refused to see the girl yet - either too engrossed in what he was working on or so genuinely not concerned about her that he didn't even this she deserved his attention.

Nat looked on longingly, pity in her eyes as she watched the poor girl laying there - motionless, seemingly unbothered.

Footsteps echoed behind her until a figure was stood beside Nat, arms crossed over his muscular chest and a small scowl on his face.

"I can watch her." Steve assures, turning to Nat and giving her a nod.

"Really?" She asked, sceptical about leaving Steve alone with y/n in fear of him acting rashly. He gave he another nod and she sighed, slowly retreating from the corridor.

[pine-lark]

Ooh trap him somewhere either very hot or very cold?? :D

Oh.

Oh.

This is a perfect excuse to write an old daydream from my childhood. Well, there's two-- Arion on a grill and Arion in a box. I chose the box for this one but I may be tempted to write the grill at some point. I haven't written The Box before now because it doesn't exactly... fit with the plot of the actual story, but I mean...

Alternate Rescue AU, coming right up, Anon. (Also sorry I'm like, infinitely late haha. School threw me into a hell pit and I've been recovering. I'm back now ((though I'm not sure for how long, things might change in a week or two... we'll see.)) For now, I'm working on a lot of Arion stuff that will hopefully pop up within a few days! Cheers!)

CW: Tiny whumpee, some blood, cold/hypothermia symptoms (duh), cages/referenced captivity, briefly implied forced nudity from said captivity, brief reference to a past fever and resulting vomiting, referenced/implied physical abuse, water/rain/storms/being submerged in/splashed with water, thoughts of dying (of the "I might die" and "Am I dead?" and wishing to be put out of misery type), crying, (thinking about) needles, short (kind of) graphic description of a bird being run over, brief religion references

-

His legs still ache from running.

Arion sits in the cardboard box he found on the side of the road, huddled in the corner, shivering in the dark. Although he tries to clamp his jaw shut and stop it, his teeth chatter and his shoulders quiver. It feels like the frozen autumn air has grasped him entirely in icy claws that shake him violently in an inescapable grip. It reminds him of being trapped in Heston’s hand, shaken, body tossed in every direction until his head pounded and his eyes watered.

It’s colder outside than it used to be in the garage. But it’s better out here. No one can hurt him here.

As long as they don’t find him.

He rubs his hands over the goosebumps on his arms, hoping to warm them up and calm down the wild pain buried deep in his skin. As he does so, blood smears along the path he touches. It’s still gently creeping out of the series of cuts etched into his forearms. With it, the image of Heston’s glinting eyes surfaces in Arion’s memory. He buries his head in his shaking knees with a wet sniff. But he’s done it, he reminds himself. He’s escaped. Finally. Chewed through rope, slipped through an unlocked door. Heston's gone. For now.

Please, please don’t come looking for me.

A dog barks somewhere in the distance. He jumps. It sets off an echo of shivers all the way down his spine as his hair stands on end.

A raindrop falls on the cardboard roof. Then another, and another. Thunder claps harshly overhead.

Arion shuts his eyes tight, bites back the frustrated tears welling up at the corners of his eyes. He curls up tighter, hugging himself, doing all he can to keep any scrap of heat he has close to his body. A storm might just do it. Might just kill him. A storm means wind. Freezing wind. And freezing rain. The last thing he needs right now is rain. It can’t rain. He presses his body closer to the cardboard wall, knowing it might not be standing there much longer if it rains.

And it does. It pours.

He sees the rain splash into the road before him. The storm swiftly grows. It’s ferocious and feral and cruel. The temperature around Arion drops. His tiny body shakes uncontrollably, as if it weren’t his own. It reminds him of the terrifying fever he had, long ago, in the confines of his red cage just weeks after being taken from his home. He’d been throwing up and twitching and having the most horrible, vivid dreams (on the occasions that both Heston and the illness let him sleep). The fits of shivering drove him mad, the endless teeth-chattering and flashes of uncomfortable warmth and sticky sweat made him feel even worse. It's like that, he thinks. Except, now, as he shivers, he’s unbearably cold.

An involuntary whine fights its way out of him. When he swallows, his throat feels stiff and achy. Snot runs profusely down his lips and no amount of wiping it away with his bleeding arms is helping it slow. Water has thoroughly and entirely drenched the cardboard, at this point. Has crept through the floor and the walls, and, gradually and persistently, has started to drip through the sagging ceiling. For a moment, Arion remembers he has toes, and that they’ve been numb for awhile now. Actually, now that he’s thinking about it, his feet haven’t felt like anything either, and when he tries to move his fingers, they only twitch. They feel heavy and prickly. He feels prickly all over. Like Heston had shoved a thousand frozen needles into a thousand different places all over his body. It hurts to breathe. There’s no way to get warmer. Nothing to hide under, not even something as decent as clothing. No way to escape, nowhere to run to, even if he had the energy left to try. He lets out a miserable sob.

And then the ceiling falls through, in a blur of collapsing cardboard and splashing waves of water that crash over his head and the rest of his body.

Arion tumbles out of the box, drenched. He coughs up water through jittery movements. For a second, he chokes on a mouthful, and he briefly he thinks he'll never breathe again, before his chest jerks and with another cough, the water falls out of his mouth. He tries to get his arms and legs under him, to stand or even crawl, but his limbs fail him and he crumbles face-first back to the harsh surface below him. The rocks mixed in the road’s tar are sharp. They cut deeply through his nose and cheek and the shoulder that followed his face in the fall. Arion winces against the fresh, sharp pain and the beads of blood that begin to form where he’s been hurt. His breaths come in ragged heaves.

He sniffs. Tears drip from his eyes. He lays helpless in the middle of the little road, in his mind begging to no one that a car doesn’t come along and crush him. Under any other circumstance, he’d love to be put out of his misery. But he’s seen a bird been run over before. Under a truck’s tire. And the memory makes his stomach churn. Flattened face, open stomach, popped like a bubble in a stream.

Briefly, Arion thinks of himself in place of the bird. He thinks of the smear of red underneath his empty, open eyes. He thinks of the way the headlights might look as they would suddenly appear right in front of him. The horrid, mind-numbing honk of a horn. The image he creates in his mind of those headlights, his last moments, is vivid. It’s so vivid that he thinks it might be real, or maybe hypothermia is setting in and beginning to ruin his mind.

It’s just his imagination, he thinks.

And then he smells exhaust from a car.

And the screech of brakes.

And for a second, whilst his body is numb and bright white light is all he can see, he thinks he might be dead.

“I swear, if I keep stopping my car for every mouse that sits in front of it, I’m never going to get anywhere.”

That voice drifts from the car stopped in front of him.

Not dead, then.

Almost, he thinks.

“Can’t help it though. What else am I supposed to do, run them over? Just vet instincts, I guess. Huh, Jasper.” There’s a meow in response. Arion’s breath hitches. The voice says, “Me-ow. I know, I know. I’ll be right back.” A car door shuts. Then there’s heavy wet footsteps. Boots clopping over puddles and asphalt. Panic floods Arion’s chest as a shadow cuts through the blinding white light from the vehicle. The outline of a human lowers, kneels in front of him. His breath stops. His mind goes blank.

“What…”

A moment passes. Something touches him. He flinches hard, but trying to run isn’t an option. His body is completely, entirely, wholly exhausted and far too numb to move more than flailing back a couple inches.

“Oh, geez, that’s-- not a mouse. Okay.” Her head turns in a way that Arion can see her face. A young woman with red hair, watching him with a warm but frantic gaze. “Okay. Okay okay. Oh, God, you’re injured pretty bad, little buddy. Your arms are all… cut up. That’s not good. Um.”

Arion stares blankly ahead. Suddenly, freezing to death isn’t something he feels like putting too much effort into avoiding.

“Okay. Here’s what we’ll do,” the girl continues. “I’m gonna bring you into my car where I can see you better, alright? Then I can help you. It’s gonna be okay. Here. I’m picking you up now, ‘kay?”

The feeling of a warm hand washes over his body. It’s both terrifying and incredibly welcome. The sting of cold seems to seep out of his skin, albeit very slowly. Quickly, though, burning prickles replace whatever comfort the touch brought him.

“Oh, you’re freezing, little guy. You must have been out here for a long time. That can be really dangerous… I’m glad I found you. I’ll get you all warmed up in the car.”

Arion whimpers against the hands that carry him to somewhere warmer, where he hears the faint, deep sound of a large beating heart. For a second, he wonders if this is God. And then the car door opens and creaks, and the girl curses under her breath, and Arion remembers he’s an atheist.

Still, as the stinging in his warming skin subsides, the warmth of her hands starts to feel… nice. If his mind were still intact (instead of shattered into vague, useless fragments as it is now), Arion would have done anything and everything to get away from any human or other predatory beast in sight. But with his head swimming, he leans into her touch, and compliantly accepts the soft feeling of some kind of cloth being wrapped all around him.

Words are spoken to him, but he can’t listen. To him they sound broken up and blurry as the insistence of sleep becomes more desperate in the back of his mind. As he gets warmer, his muscles relax, and his eyes get droopy. His vision darkens, and the girl’s voice hushes.

Just before he drifts off into a far overdue, deep and restful sleep, he thinks to himself, vaguely, that he hopes this human is different. He hopes that when he wakes back up, it won’t be in another cage.

-

Tag list because this ended up being a full drabble:

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@whumping-every-day, @deluxewhump, @sola-whumping, @haro-whumps, @inaridriscoll, @whatwasmyprevioususername, @kiretto-laorentze, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @ahorriblebimess, @whump-me-all-night-long

[felswritingfire]

April Brain Rot #5

Prompts:

4. Adapt

(Detroit Become Human AU) Jack Howl x Reader

Summery: Jack turns deviant and murders your abusive father, now you're on the run, searching for a better future (and you meet some friends along the way).

TW: Violence; Blood; Broken bones mentioned; Mentions of abuse; Death (not reader or Jack); Emotional panic; Running away; Slight angst

Word count: 1,572

A note from Fel: I went feral when my last braincells decided to rub together and come up with this tbh (my girlfriend is my witness, I love her so much ;0;). I hope you enjoy! Because I had way too much fun writing this!

He had been a protector. He was doing what he was made to do. So why? Why did he feel like his circuits were about to overload when he stared at the mess of blood and fragmented bone that covered his closed fist. His ears flicked back at the sound of your labored breathing. Jack looked over his shoulder to see you leaning on your hands and arched legs trembling, the bloody nose and black eye with the dribble of blood leaking out the corner of your lips made him want to rip this man to shreds even more so than he had just done to him. He said the one thing that came to mind: “are you alright?”

The light on the side of his head blinked a yellow as your eyes drifted up to him. He waited for you, praying (an android praying- what a funny thought. Probably a malfunction of some sort) that you wouldn’t leave him. But, instead you looked at the bloodied face that was once your father and back to him before nodding your head slowly. “Y- yeah.”

“Are you positive? Your heart rate is still incredibly high.”

You nod again. “Yeah, Jack, I’ll… I’ll be ok.”

His eyes narrowed at you before he nodded and went to you, slow in his steps and gentle in the way he reached out to you. His ears flicked back at the sight of the blood smearing on your already bloodied clothes, drawing back for a moment. “May I pick you up?”

Your gaze grows watery the longer you look at him. A part of him fighting the urge to… panic? He wasn’t sure but the sense of distress was climbing in the back of his processor. “Please?” Your voice sounds so small as you hold your arms up to him like a child.

The android nods. He hooks his hands under your knees and your back, cradling you close to his chest.

The realization of what happened and what is going to happen weighs in his mind. He’d be considered a deviant for killing a man- an abusive man, but nonetheless he was human. He may end up adding to the end of the J-192 line that was slowly building against him already. He may have been a special edition android and one of a kind- but that doesn’t change what he’s done. And worst of all: he ripped your future straight from your hands (he can feel his chest cavity tighten at the thought, maybe he really needed repairs or he was more deviant than he thought he was).

Everything you worked so hard for- to escape you father by your own devices- and he’d gone and ruined it by snapping when that man had struck you far too many times in front of him. His processor is fuzzy on the details but he remembers how his sharp ears pick up on the sounds of bones caving in on themselves and wet squelch of blood beneath his fist.

As he went deeper into Detroit's streets he caught sight of a fire hydrant that was leaking water. He stopped by it, placing you gently on your feet before running his hands under it, the water turning pink as the blood ran down with it. He cupped his hands, pooling some water in his hands before gesturing with his head to lean down. You did, wincing when you moved too fast, he whined at you. “I’m ok, big guy.”

He nodded before gently splashing the water on your face, wiping the flaking blood off of your skin. His eyes sting with a wetness that he can’t quite place as he thinks (ha- what a funny word to pair with an android): this is how he repays you. After everything you’ve done for him: watching over him when you father had bought him; sharing your hobbies with him no matter if he didn’t understand; always talking with him despite him telling you that you didn’t have to; staying by his side as he began to act… strange: feeling his chest warm when he saw you, the way his face would flush if you got too close to him. He began to feel human and you were helping him learn how to be.

“I’m sorry.” He says suddenly as he pats your face with the bottom of his shirt.

“Why?”

“I should have never asked to kiss you, then you-” he felt himself shudder- “you would have never had to experience that.”

“Jack,” you whisper, resting your hands against his face. “If you asked me- I would do it all over again.”

Jack blinked, his light flickering between a yellow and a red. “... Why?”

“Why did you do what you did?”

“I didn’t want him hurting you! I-I…” he trailed off. Why did he do what he did? He had felt an awful rage build under his skin when he had been witness to it before- but he had never disobeyed the command to stay. That wasn’t supposed to be in his programming. But he had felt something so profound- so molten hot in his chest that he had to protect you because- because- “I would die without you.”

You smile, pressing your palm against his trembling chest. “And I’d die without you.”

He pulls you into a hug, holding the back of your head as he presses his nose against your hair. He can do this. He can do this if you’re by his side.

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

It had been a long time of ducking into abandoned buildings and shoplifting food (though Jack wasn’t too thrilled about that- you had learned that he was rather firm on the laws if stealing wasn’t a necessity to you two) but you had stayed together through it all. You had even found two more deviants: Leona and Ruggie.

They had decided to join you two after they almost mugged you and you had hit Leona with a pipe that didn’t do much to the android. He laughed and laughed after that, having to hunch over at how hard he was laughing. Ruggie began to join in and now you were stuck with the two of them as you and Jack made your way out of the city. Jack was quite snippy with them at first, always glowering at the two and barring his fangs when they got too close. Ruggie had come to find this as a sort of game, throwing a casual arm over your shoulder as you talked or pressing his face against yours while explaining that he used to be a ‘nanny droid’ (as he liked to put it). Jack would press between you two, glowering down at the hyena android who just laughed his funny little laugh as he slinked away.

Leona had simply found it as a perfect opportunity to mess with the wolf as he would press his fingers against the back of your neck or would rest his chin on your head when you were busy counting your supplies. Jack would growl at him, shoving against him to take his place of standing behind you.

Though, he grew a profound respect for Leona when he let it slip that he used to be a bodyguard. “Had to watch this annoying brat. It was awful, he never let me rest.” (he might say that, but on more than one occasion, you would catch Leona fiddling with a necklace with a blue feather hanging under the silver circle that served as it’s pendant). And Ruggie simply grew on him- no one being able to resist his lazy eyes for long.

Though now, Jack was happy as he stacks the last of the bags of soil on top of each other in the corner of your store, basking in all the plants that lined the shelves in neat little rows on shelves. You had scraped the money to buy a building, get a business permit and open up a little plant shop in Toronto, Canada through some odd jobs and a collective effort from each of them.

He watched you chatter to some women, never seeing you smile so wide in the time he’s been alive. He pulls at the sides of his beanie, glancing at Ruggie through the crack in the door to the back whose tail wags gently as he tends to the budding plants, Leona sleeping (well, “sleeping”) on the hammock that you had put up for him with the flowers in the back.

He looks back to the little cacti he stood next to, a familiar warmth blooming in his gut. The orange rays of the setting sun illuminates the curve of your face as you go and walk the lady out (who happily holds her lilies and poppies in her arms) and wave to her as she leaves before closing the door and flipping the ‘open’ sign to ‘close’. You sigh before you turn to find Jack looking at you with a smile on his face as he stares at you. You walk to him and grab his hands and rest your head against his chest. “We did good.” You murmur.

He nods. “We did.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

A chorus of over exaggerated gagging brings you and Jack you of the moment and you laugh as Jack turns and yells at a grinning Ruggie and a scowling Leona to: “shut up!”.

<The Next Chosen Character>

Thank you for reading!