#i was inhaling the fumes like it's oxygen (it took some time to get used to it. But pls wear a mask and don't be like me) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

datheetjoella · 4 years

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Fantober 2020, Day 14: Emergency

Author: DatHeetJoella Fandom: Free! Pairing: MakoHaru Rating: T Part: 14/31 (read the full collection here) Word count: 1,622 Tags: Alternate Universe - Future Fish, Firefighter!Makoto, Baker!Haru, Fluff, Light Angst, Acquaintances to Lovers Read at: AO3, FFn, or right here!

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The second Makoto was about to sink his teeth into the chocolate cornet he bought at the bakery this morning, the signal went off. He dropped his lunch to the table and sped downstairs on muscle memory alongside his colleagues. They slipped on their protective suits and leapt into the truck. With blaring sirens, they rushed to the fire in the hopes of putting it out before it got out of hand.

Over the past year he spent as a firefighter, Makoto had grown accustomed to this. Although he'd been quite panicky at his first couple of fires, that quickly had to change in order to protect not just himself, but also his colleagues and their community. The reason he aspired for this profession was to keep people from harm's way, so he had developed the cool, level-headed demeanour this job required.

But this fire was different. The moment he heard where they were headed, blue eyes flashed through his mind and the anxiety crawled back with a vengeance, adrenaline levels spiking.

Every morning before work, Makoto visited Nanase's Baked Goods and Pastries, a small family bakery located on a street corner between a florist and a clothing store. The bread and sweets they sold were absolutely delicious, so he got both his breakfast and lunch there - and sometimes, an extra muffin as a treat. But now, this routine was endangered.

While the others voiced worries of the fire expanding to the stores beside it, Makoto was more concerned about the kind lady behind the register who always rang him up with a smile and the baker around his age who solely came out of the back to restock the shelves. The thought of anyone being hurt in a fire was awful, but especially if it were people he knew, or who he frequently saw but hadn't had the pleasure to get to know yet.

Makoto clenched his fists and willed himself to calm down. He needed to be ready to come to their aid if necessary. Collected and focused.

The fire truck arrived at the scene in record time, for the bakery was only a few blocks removed from the station. A large cloud of smoke wafted from the shop, but flames didn't lick out of the windows. Maybe it wasn't too late to prevent escalation.

The firefighters leapt out of the truck and, after assessing the situation, began to hose down the building. Along with one of his colleagues, Makoto went over to the small crowd of people that were gathered at a safe distance from the toxic fumes. His heart sighed in relief when he spotted Mrs. Nanase among them, but her face was contorted with fear and she clutched at her chest. That was when he realised the young baker wasn't beside her.

"Is anyone still inside?"

"My son, Haruka," Mrs. Nanase said, "He yelled at me to go and I thought he was following me out. It wasn't until I got outside that I saw he wasn't with me. I wanted to go back to get him but-"

There was no more time to waste. Makoto and his colleague put on their masks and entered the bakery. The front of the store was clear, but the door to the back was slid shut and smoke emerged from the crevices. When they opened it, they were hit with a thick wall of ash clinging to the air and could barely peer into the kitchen.

Through squinted eyes, Makoto could make out the source of the fire: one of the large ovens was engulfed in orange and yellow flames, blackening the heat-resistant metal. But he didn't see Haruka anywhere.

"Haruka! Are you here?"

A small cough broke through the crackling and Makoto's eyes scanned every corner of the room. Someone was lying on the floor next to an extinguisher, face covered with their shirt and Makoto dropped to his knees. When they cracked open an eye, Makoto confirmed it was Haruka; he'd recognise those immensely blue irises anywhere.

"I found him," Makoto said to his colleague and he scooped the baker off of the floor. "I've got you," he told Haruka, who gripped onto him for dear life and buried his face into his large coat, trying to stifle more coughs.

While his colleague confirmed there was no one else inside, Makoto took Haruka out of the danger zone, out of the claws of the smoke and blaze.

An ambulance had appeared in the meanwhile and he carried Haruka to it. The instant she spotted them, Mrs. Nanase ran over to her son, crying out his name and thanking Makoto profusely for rescuing him.

Makoto would've loved to stay and make sure Haruka was alright, but duty called. He flew back to the truck and grabbed a hold of a hose to assist his fellow firefighters in securing the perimeter.

The fire was resilient but not as powerful as initially seemed. They had responded quickly, before the fire had taken over the entire kitchen and had it under control about an hour later. When his colleagues assured him they could handle it from there, Makoto went back to the ambulance.

Haruka sat at the rear end with his legs dangling over the edge, wrapped up in a blanket and sipping on a bottle of water. A weight was lifted off Makoto's shoulders at the sight of him: he seemed to be doing okay. His mother stood by his side, but when she saw Makoto walking over to them, she approached him first.

"I never knew you were a firefighter," she said, then she bowed so deeply her long dark locks nearly swept across the floor. "Thank you so much for saving my son. I'll forever be grateful to you."

"Thank you, Nanase-san, but that's not necessary at all. I'm simply doing my job," Makoto said with a smile. This was the most rewarding part of his work: not being thanked, but knowing he made a difference.

Mrs. Nanase copied his smile and said, "I'll leave you two alone for a moment." She winked and before Makoto's blood had the chance to rush to his face, she was gone.

Makoto stepped closer to Haruka, but despite having had conversations similar to this a dozen times prior, he found himself at a loss for words. On numerous occasions, he had thought about making small talk with the handsome baker, but he never imagined that the first time they would speak to each other would be in a situation like this.

"You're the man who saved me," Haruka said, voice a bit croaky because of the smoke he inhaled. "Thanks. I suppose I owe you a lifetime's worth of pastries now."

"That's not necessary at all, I'm simply doing my job," Makoto said again, awkwardly waving his hands.

"Heroic deeds deserve rewards, don't they?"

"Knowing you're alright is enough of a reward for me."

The instant the words left his lips, Makoto wanted to tape himself up into a box and ship it to the other side of the country. Before he could begin to apologise, though, Haruka smiled. It was tiny, a slight twitch of the corners of his mouth, but it was definitely there and Makoto's chest filled with warmth. He spontaneously forgot what he was feeling embarrassed about.

"What's your name?"

"Makoto. Tachibana Makoto," he said, smiling a little too, "And yours?"

When Haruka frowned at him, he realised his mistake. "It's Haruka. Nanase Haruka," he spelled out and for a second, it was as though Makoto could read his mind. Idiot, it said. "But Haru is fine."

Makoto would've loved to chat about more nonsensical things and embarrass himself even further, but there were some important matters that needed to be addressed. "Say, Haru, what happened in there? Why didn't you follow your mom out?"

Haruka averted his eyes, fingers fumbling around his bottle. "One of the ovens suddenly malfunctioned and caught on fire. It was pretty small, so I thought I could put it out myself. I closed all the doors and windows to stop oxygen from getting to it, but when I tried to use the fire extinguisher, it didn't work. The smoke built up quickly and it was very disorienting. Before I knew it, I couldn't find the door anymore," he mumbled under his breath. "I'm sorry for the trouble I caused."

Makoto shook his head. "It was brave of you to try to put out the fire yourself, but it can be dangerous. Fire can spread really fast and inhaling a lot of smoke is bad, so for your own safety, it's better to get out of there when you can if the fire is too big to manage. I understand the bakery is very important to you, but nothing is more important than your life."

"You're right. I'll leave the extinguishing up to you professionals from now on," Haruka said, "Again, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, your intentions weren't bad," Makoto said with a slight smile, "But from now on, I'll take care of the fires if you take care of the baking. Because that is something I better stay away from for my own safety."

"Deal," Haruka said, but then he looked away again, abashed, "And maybe I can cook you dinner sometime too? To thank you for saving me."

An adorable pink blush lit up Haruka's cheeks and Makoto's stomach made a backflip of giddiness.

"I'd like that a lot," Makoto said, and he already couldn't wait.

Their dinner date took place the next weekend, and the weekend thereafter, until they ate together almost every day. Although the stove never malfunctioned, Haruka ignited a fire in Makoto's heart that was beyond extinguishing.

#i'm sorry i'm stupid #makoharu #makoharu fic #my fic #fantober2020 #colourful days with you

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scribeofmorpheus · 5 years

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Robin’s Girl [1/4]

Pairing: Robin x (OC) Clara | Steve Harrington x Reader

Sequel to: Meet Cute

Chapter Title: Cherry Bomb | Words: 2k

Note: This takes place post S3. Some spoilers maybe? Highly recommend you listen to the playlist for the aesthetic. Two stories unfold at once. One focusing on Clara x Robin and the other on Steve x MeetCute!Reader

Playlist by Ari ♥

Steve watched the clock like a hawk, his leg getting jittery at the fact the seconds weren't ticking faster. When the long hand reached half passed, he chucked his work vest off and vaulted over the counter like some terrible ninja -shelf restaking be damned.

"Keys, keys, keys!" Steve energetically snapped his fingers at Robin who was still behind the video store counter closing up the till for next shift. She struggled to get out of her own work vest, fumbling with the zip as she chucked the keys at him.

"Alright, jeez Harrington." She said slightly annoyed at his nagging. He'd been hopping around like a rabbit on cocaine all day. Suffice to say, Robin was a little exhausted by his newfound energy.

"Come on, come on, come on!" Harrington persisted in hurried words, extending his hand for her.

Robin rolled her eyes as she sat on the counter and spun around. She took his outreached hand and Steve all but pulled her off the counter, sprinting to the car park on fumbling legs.

"Slow down, dingus!" Robin shouted in protest after nearly tripping twice.

Behind them, their boss was fuming, "Hey you still have three minutes on the clock!"

Steve had already backed his shitty replacement car out of the parking lot, knocking over a cardboard video store cut-out, and sped down the road -tires screeching like nails on a chalkboard.

"I swear to god Harrington, if you kill us… I'll be the most annoying ghost you've ever seen!" Robin promised.

Steve laughed as he fished his sunglasses from the glove compartment and jammed a tape into the car radio.

***

You stood by the bus station, two large suitcases parked next to you. You had a heart-shaped lollipop tucked in your cheek. The sun was kept at bay by your pair of cheesy heart-shaped sunglasses you won at a society bash in college. Music playing through your headphones connected to your Walkman, it barely held together thanks to the many cliché stickers taped around it. You were listening to your favourite mixtape. It was a travel mix Steve gave you before you left for college.

The sound of tires screeching a few feet in front of you alerted you of the fact your favourite human was finally here. A big goofy grin swept across your slightly tanned face as you all but jumped up and ran towards him -dropping your walkman and headphones. Steve hopped out of his car and met you halfway, leaving his car door open. Unbeknownst to him, the car started to roll the instant he picked you up in a bone-crushing hug, twirling you around like you weighed nothing. The girl sat in his car panicked for a brief moment before sliding into the driver’s seat and hitting the brakes.

"God damn it, Harrington!" She shouted after him as she put the car in park.

"Hey, gorgeous..." Steve muttered into your ear ignoring the fact he had almost crashed his car without him in it.

"Hey yourself," you cooed as your noses were a hair's breadth away.

"Well," Steve tilted his head to the side causing that stubborn curl you loved to bounce about, "Are you going to kiss me or what?"

You stood on your tippy-toes and nuzzled closer to him, "Abso-freaking-lutely!"

Your lips locked for the first time in ages and by god did it feel just as nerve tingly and electric as you remember. His tongue coaxed a giddy sigh from your throat as you let the feeling of homecoming wash over you.

Robin pressed down on the horn after snatching Steve's second pair of sunglasses from the glove box, "Hey lovebirds, don't we have another stop to make before you eat each other's faces off?"

Steve’s thumb nudged his nose as he took a slight exasperated inhale, "You see what I've had to deal with while you were away?" He said softly.

You giggled, dusting off your walkman as you pulled one suitcase while Steve got the other, "It seems to me Harrington, she's the one keeping you functional." You teased.

"The apple of my eye wounds me!" He protested dramatically. When Steve shooed Robin to the back, he introduced you. "Robin this is Y/N. Y/N, Robin."

Robin rolled her eyes, "And here I thought you were smacking lips with a complete stranger." She retorted sarcastically before beaming a warm smile your way. "It's great to finally meet you. Steve has told me everything about you. None stop. All the time. It drives me crazy."

"Likewise," you winked back.

***

"Thanks for the ride," Clara hollered at the truck driver as she jumped off, duffle bag slung across her shoulder. The truck driver honked twice before re-joining the main road.

Clara looked up at the signpost welcoming her back to Hawkins. She blew a large bubble with her tutti-frutti flavoured gum and it erupted with a satisfying pop noise. "The end of nowhere… Home, sweet home."

Clara trekked along the side of the road, her Docs clomping loudly against the tarmac. The summer heat was bearing down on her in all its glory, so she shrugged off her leather jacket and stuffed it into her duffle bag before taking off her red and blue flannel shirt and tying it around the waistband of her ripped jeans.

Clara fixed the ray bans that rested on the crown of her head back onto her eyes, lowering a purple filter over the world. The blue tips of her hair flying wildly with the wind. She could just make out a shitty car driving down towards her. Her favourite song blaring out the windows as she caught sight of her best friend's head hanging out the window -hair blowing furiously. In the driver's seat, her boyfriend smiled like an idiot and seated in the back seat was another girl. She looked familiar; pretty, big eyes and wearing a mickey mouse shirt. Clara smirked at that.

The car pulled over and her best friend slid out the window, rather than open the door like a damn normal person, and nearly knocked her over in an energetic hug.

"Clara! I've missed you, you bone head!" She said in a high squeak.

"Hey, goofball! I love you from here to the moon, but you're blocking the oxygen to my brain..." Clara dramatically wheezed. "I see you've brought your security blanket with." Clara waved with one hand at Steve. He waved out his window.

"Don’t be jealous, you know you are still my favourite moody security blanket. Steve is just a better cuddler, is all." Y/N smacked her arm playfully. "Come on, let's get you out of this heat and to some frosty beverages!"

"About damn time! My mascara was about to melt off my face!" Clara joked as she walked arm linked in arm with her best friend back to the car.

Clara tossed her duffle bag in the trunk and hopped in beside the new girl.

"Clara," she offered her hand adorned with too many concert bands and cheap rings.

The girl took one look at the name on Clara's band shirt and smiled with recognition, "Robin." She said as she shook her hand.

"I know," Clara said with cheek. "We were in band together. I looked different then. I wore more denim, less leather. My hair was blonde then too."

Robin pulled her mouth to the side in thought until it finally clicked, "Your hair was longer and you always got in trouble for taking over practice with your drum solo's!" She pointed out in recognition.

"And you played the trombone!" Clara said.

"Look at that, honey. I didn't have to introduce the kids to each other!" Steve joked in a motherly tone.

"Mr Perfect Hair! I see you haven't gotten a haircut yet." Clara retorted with spunk as she smacked Steve's chest a little too hard. He let out an 'oof' sound. "So, King Steve, still scooping ice-cream?"

"Ha-ha!" He laughed sarcastically. "You keep being such a smart ass and I won’t be your designated free ride into town anymore."

Clara gave him the bird and Steve returned it. The atmosphere familiar and chipper.

"Onwards Captain, to the milkshake parlour!" Y/N ordered with childish excitement.

***

"Anyone got a quarter?" Clara asked at the booth. Her plate was wiped clean, the only remnant of food was the random splodge of ketchup and amount of salt. She sucked down on her vanilla shake while giving her friends the puppy dog eye look.

Steve removed his arm from around Y/N's shoulders and patted down his pockets then gave her a frown, "Sadly I spent my last bit of change on the photo booth with this silly goose," he chimed, tickling Y/N's sides until she turned red from giggling too much. She squirmed about like a sugar high toddler, shrinking lower into the seat to try and get away from Steve's frisky hands.

Clara and Robin both let out sighs as they rolled their eyes in unison.

Robin tossed a French fry at Steve, "Get a room you two!"

Clara winked at her with approval, stealing two fries in the process.

"Hey, that's theft buddy," Robin tutted as she whacked Clara's hand lightly. "You better be willing to pay for those."

"I'll make it up to you," Clara smirked, her tone much more sonorous than before.

Y/N flickered her eyes to her best friend, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. A wicked smile playing across her face when she noticed Clara's flirting tone. Steve finally let up with his tickle attack and Y/N's giggled died out as she took a slurp of her near finished shake.

Clara clicked her tongue with a bit of cheek, averting her eyes to play things smooth. Robin reached into her shorts and pulled out a row of quarters.

"Here," she offered Clara with reddened cheeks.

"Thanks, babe." She said without thinking twice. Clara waltzed over to the jukebox and queued *Cherry Bomb*.

As the music swelled, she bobbed her head, hair swaying around her face, doing an awkward shimmy dance. Steve bobbed his head slightly as he and Y/N started thumb wrestling.

"If I win Harrington," She said with a serious expression. "We're having a zombie movie marathon!"

"And if I win, we're spending date night holed up on my couch while I babysit Henderson and the rest of those little troopers!" Steve scoffed.

"Sounds like an excuse to make out," Robin remarked to herself as she took a swig of her cherry cola.

Clara reached her hands out by their booth, "Come on you disgustingly sweet muppets, come dance with me!"

Y/N held up one finger from her free hand, "One sec, I gotta win this!" Her tongue stuck out as she tried to focus her efforts on keeping Steve's thumb off hers.

"Killjoys!" Clara boo'd before turning to Robin and hooking two fingers. "Come on, Robin! Let's show these boring wet blankets how to have fun!"

Robin stalled for a moment and then skittishly scooched out of the booth. Clara fearlessly grabbed her hands and shook them about, they looked like two graceless gazelles learning to walk. The room filled with laughs and huffs as other people looked over to the two giddy girls letting loose.

Once the song ended they returned to the booth. Y/N was nursing a half-moon frown, evidence that she lost the thumb war.

"Don't be such a sore loser, goofball." Clara teased.

Y/N pouted even more, until Steve showered her cheek with loud kisses, making her blush all over again.

"So, Steve told me you went on tour with a band?" Robin asked with attentive eyes, her head resting on her laced fingers.

"Mm-Hmmm!" Clara hummed as she hungrily sucked down the last of her milkshake. Y/N noticed how thirsty she still was and slid her milkshake in offering. Clara nodded a thank you and turned back to Robin. "I was a roadie. Played drums on some gigs. I got my first tattoo to commemorate my first big city gig. The lead drummer got food poisoning so I stepped up."

"You got a freaking tattoo without telling me?" Y/N nearly toppled the drinks over when her knee jerked into the table with surprise. "We promised to get our first tattoos together."

Clara shrugged, "It was a heat of the moment thing. I'll still be with you when you get your first one…" she eyed her best friend knowingly. "If you ever get one."

"Let's see it?" Steve urged her.

Clara rolled up her t-shirt sleeve to reveal a tattoo of a smartly inked dandelion.

"Huh," Steve said unimpressed. "I was expecting a skull or one of those barbed wire tattoo's most of the band members’ have."

Clara let out a huff of air, "The name of the club I played in was called the Black Dandelion. It seemed sporting. And not too complicated. Besides, how did you know the band members have those exact tattoos?"

"What?" Steve sounded offended. "I read… occasionally."

"I can't wait to get out of Hawkins. After everything, seeing a big city would be a breath of fresh air," Robin mused dreamily.

"Hawkins is alright if you're like twelve or a middle-aged suburban housewife, but trust me when I tell you nothing beats playing in a big city. The energy, the colour… the music! You guys would love it!" Clara beamed.

"I know what you mean. The vibe of my campus is just so much more different than anything else around here," Y/N added. "Steve I know you'd just love the energy there, plus we could even get an apartment together, take the subway into town, see concerts--"

Steve shut her up by placing an unexpected kiss on her lips, "Easy there, tiger. You've barely been here a couple of hours. Let's leave the college application discussion for another day." He kept his finger under her chin while her lips stayed agape.

"Fine, you may have thwarted my attempts today, but we will talk about this," she promised.

Clara and Robin ignored them as they talked about their time in band and all the things they had in common.

***

Steve waited for Y/N to return from her house with a small overnight bag. Clara was drumming a tune on her exposed knee while absentmindedly listening to the radio. Robin yawned as she kept her head out the window.

When Y/N returned, she had a large grin on her face. "Okay, my parents think I'm staying over at Clara's!"

"Aren't you two a little too old to be playing the 'I'm staying at a friend’s house when I'm actually sneaking off to spend the night at my boyfriend’s empty house' routine?" Clara said with air quotes.

"No one ever outgrows mischief, Clara." Y/N lectured. "You simply perfect it."

"Let me know when you do!" Clara snorted, making Robin titter as well.

***

Once Clara had been dropped at her house, she unlocked the front door using the secret hide-away key stored under the porch frog. Her parents were out on holiday in Hawaii so she had the whole house pretty much to herself.

After putting on the tea kettle, Clara perused through the bookshelf looking for her high school yearbook. When she found it, she flipped through the pages looking for one person in particular: the beguiling and funny spirited Robin.

"Bingo!" She said in triumph when she spotted her class photo. She giggled at the innocent girl in the photograph with braces and a high ponytail. Clara hoped it wasn't her imagination playing tricks on her because she could have sworn she felt something click between her and Robin. "Robin… cute name."

***

Steve raced to keep up with his bubbly girlfriend as she burst through the front doors of his house.

"Slow down, Y/N!" He panted out after she challenged him to a race to see who could get to his house from the driveway the fasted.

"I win! You lose!" She did a little victory dance. "Now go make that popcorn while I set up the VHS!"

Steve groaned, "Fine, but we're only watching one movie. I haven't seen you in forever and I need my mandatory cuddles."

"If you behave, you'll get cuddles and a little surprise..." she teased flirtatiously.

"Popcorn! Coming up!" He ran to the kitchen with newfound energy.

***

Next Chapter Presents: Rollerskates and Cheap Dates!

If you enjoyed this story don’t be afraid to like, reblog or comment. I don’t bite. Also, taglist is open just send an ask.

Tags: @theconscientiouswriter @chims-kookies @electroma89 @thechickvic @gruffle1 @notawarriorjustyet @mochminnie

#steve harrington #robin stranger things #steve harrington x reader #robin x clara #robin x oc clara #original characters #robin imagines #steve harrington imagines #stranger things imagines #stranger things post season 3 #robins girl fic #meet cute sequel #st3 #stranger things 3 #stranger things #robin buckley #robin buckley imagine

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kookiesspacebuns · 5 years

Text

Suspirium | Prologue

Pairing | Jungkook X OC

Genre | alien, fantasy, fluff, eventual smut

|Summary|

Her mother, father and brother were gone. The only people she loved, now dead after crash-landing on a planet while trying to escape their own. Their bodies either burned to ash or somewhere in the vast Arizona desert. All that she has left is herself and her will to get back home. Until a dull-eyed stranger shows up and entangles himself in the already tumultuous emotions controlling her.

\/\/\/\/

The last thing she remembers is the weightlessness and the way her stomach felt like it was invading her throat. The gravity had malfunctioned just minutes before, making the treacherous fall more unbearable than it already was.

Her mother’s shaky voice fills her head.

I love you.

We will be okay.

I love you, Nahcai.

She gasps, gulping down the dirt and black, fume-filled air. Her lungs struggle to filter the oxygen as the composition of the gases filling them is different than that of her world.

Her hands wrap around her neck, as if the action could help her in some way breathe, but she chokes on the strange gases and the debris floating above her face. The tears that streak down and puddle in her ears, from the strength of desperately inhaling and exhaling, wash away the thin layer of orange dirt that cover her tanned skin.

Soon, the black smoke layered across her and her surroundings, lifts higher into the air, giving her lungs just enough clean air to regain strength.

She inhales like a madwoman, hyperventilating to try and fill her lungs again. But with that, her vision swells and she thinks back to the breathing techniques she was taught as a child. In case of an emergency such as this.

In. Her mouth widens to take in a long, deep breath

Out. Slow and steadily her lungs push the used gases up and out into the atmosphere.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

When her head feels clearer and she no longer feels the itching sensation to close her eyes and sleep, she rolls her head to the side. Her blurred vision dissipates slowly after numerous swipes of her eyelids over dry eyes.

What lays a few feet away has her heart pounding in her chest. The almost completely black, mass doesn’t move. A few strands, of what looks like steam, raise from the lower half and for the first time, she smells the air.

Death.

No, she thinks, using all of her mental strength to push away the daunting thoughts shrouding her mind.

They can’t be.

With all of the energy she can gather, she crunches the sore muscles in her abdomen and lifts herself until she’s sitting up. She lets out a feeble whine when she sees the brokenness that is her right leg. Half of her lower leg is bent at an abnormal angle and she can already feel the familiar tingle encompassing the split bone and muscle. It’s already started healing, but not enough for her to walk, even for a few steps.

Digging her hands into the hard earth beneath her, she flips onto her front and pulls the weight of her body forwards by her arms alone. As the distance between her and the charred body closes, her eyes water with tears threatening to spill down her cheeks again. Tears of sheer loss.

She knows, from the color of his hair and the shape of his rounded cheeks that it is her brother she’s crawling towards. She can’t contain the whimpers when she is finally able to reach out and touch his arm. It’s cold. A complete contrast to the singed mess that are his legs. She can’t bear to look at them, keeping her eyes on the face she knows better than her own. Cradling his dewy cheeks between her shaking hands, she lowers her head to his still heart.

Her eyes fall upon a scene that finally opens the door in her chest, where all of the sorrow comes tumbling out in the form of a heartbreaking scream. In what’s left of the ship she and her family had escaped their home planet on, she sees two figures still strapped to the piloting seats, amidst the lavender flames of burning fuel.

Her parents.

Gone.

Everyone is dead.

Her cries fill the space once covered in dark smoke. Despair is what she is made of. It’s all that fills her in this moment. Not the blood that usually runs through her veins. Not the oxygen that was so precious just moments ago. But the despair and sadness. Nothing else matters.

All she can think about is how completely and utterly alone she is. Stranded alone, with all that’s left of who she is burning away, soon to be ash.

Her hands tighten into fists as a horrendous thought flashes in her mind. She could easily crawl over to where her parents are and join them. Throw herself into the fire that so easily took the only three people she loves.

But then she thinks of her father, and how disappointed he would be if he knew how close she was to giving up. And how, oh so, tempting the thought is. To see his daughter in such a weakened state would have broken him.

She was the light in his life. He’d always say that to her.

‘Go,’ she swears she can hear him whispering. She shivers, suddenly chilled to the bone.

Forcing her eyes away from the wreckage, she takes in her surroundings for the first time. Directly behind the burning ship are mountains far, far off in the distance. Their forms are barely visible in the dark of the night.

Opposite the mountains and long stretch of nothing, she sees the telltale sign of life. Lights. The sky glows to her left, beyond the rows of shrubbery and oddly pointy vegetation.

Instinct tells her to be wary. Whoever occupies this planet may not be to receiving of her. Her mind tells her that she has no other choice and that if she has any hopes of getting out of here, she has to eventually move. Go, like her father’s whispered words in her head.

Looking down at her little brother has her vision blurring again and more tears fall onto his face. She wipes the moisture away from both her eyes and his face, and kisses him on both cheeks. Choking out a somber goodbye, she begins pulling herself towards the line of greenery, and to what could be her demise.

What if they are carnivorous and look like something out of a nightmare. Will they attack her or will they be afraid of her. Though she knows that she is in no way harmful to anyone in the universe, if someone from another world had ever shown up to hers, she certainly would have wondered how dangerous they were.

The thoughts do nothing but make her second guess everything and slow her down. Her leg has more feeling than it did before, so she knows its healing well. Lifting the injured leg, she flexes the muscles. The pain makes her hiss, but the fact that she can even move it is a good sign. She tests whether she can put some pressure on it to help her crawl faster and the ache is almost unbearable, but she pushes on anyway.

The bushes are getting closer and her heart beats faster.

The sound of dry, rattling branches still her advancing. A shadow grows darker as it pushes through the thick plants.

She suddenly loses all of her courage, faster than she gained it and her breathing quickens to match the pace of her heart.

What steps out of the bushes confuses her. It’s a man. A normal man.

Overwhelming relief spreads throughout her body and she takes a deep breath. They must have crashed on a different part of her own planet.

She calls out for the man to help her, but instead of rushing to her side as she expects, he hesitates. His feet shuffle in the dirt, now significantly slower than before.

She notices his feet, and the weird shoes covering them. Then her eyes scan up his frame, more confusion setting in at each article of clothing. She wonders just how far off they must have crashed, by the peculiar style of clothing he dawns. But it’s his face that really throws her off. More specifically, his eyes.

He crouches down a few feet in front of her, seeming to ponder whether he should move any closer. That’s when she can clearly see his eyes. The brown orbs are just that, Brown. The eyes of her kind are different. More iridescent around the pupil. Some, like hers, glow during moments of high emotion. But his were dull. Nothing but darkness and curiosity.

She scoots back a little, unsure of what to do next. He notices her hesitation and runs forward speaking a language that is definitely not her own.

Screaming, she covers her face as if the position will protect her.

This is it.

She is going to die after all.

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thewakingcloak · 6 years

Text

On Creative Burnout and How to Get Stuff Done Without It

Over the past week or two I’ve had a bunch of conversations with people who were burned out and having a hard time. And this is a bit lengthy, but it goes out to you guys.

I hit some pretty nasty burnout in early 2018. I couldn't create anything for months. Even just *thinking* about making something made me mentally cringe away. I'd not only used up all my fuel, but I was also up against some tough tasks that I didn't know how to tackle. AND I was stressed and frustrated because I didn't think anyone was noticing The Waking Cloak. I felt like I wouldn't be able to make it "good enough" even for what I wanted it to be. I felt guilty because I thought I was letting people down who were following along with the project... and I wasn't delivering.

Sound familiar? Let's talk.

I got past the burnout and am working in a much healthier way now, a year later. But this took a shift in how I thought about working on creative projects. I used to be constantly working on The Waking Cloak because I thought that’s what it was going to take to finish it. I couldn’t afford to stop, because what if I never picked it back up again? Now I see things differently.

Part of this came from the general internet, part of it came from years of experience writing and critiquing (and now, y’know, actually applying it to game development), and part of it came from learning project management at work.

0. Before we start...

You can do this.

You’re not alone.

If you’re burned out, it gets better.

I’m around to talk if you need it.

1. The Creative Cycle AKA PLEASE REST OR YOU'LL HAVE A BAD TIME

This is a principle I learned from @emcheeseman on Twitter with this diagram:

To quote her: “Creators feel pressure to spend every second creating, but CREATIVITY IS A CYCLE between active productivity and dormant recovery.”

So the two sides of creativity: Action and Recovery. Too much Action, you get burnout. Too much Recovery and... you’re not doing anything. These two absolutely have to be kept in balance. If you're burned out, you need to spend more time recovering. If you're procrastinating, you need to spend time building up the momentum and taking action.

(Note: it’s important also learn to recognize the difference between the two versions of procrastination: some can come from burnout, in which case you need to recover, not work more.)

This is a cycle that should take place every day. When you're in balance, you'll be working on something creatively every day, but you'll also be resting. If you neglect either, you'll be thrown off balance and have to take remedial action--especially in the case of burnout.

This is because the creative mind is like a muscle. Muscles gain strength essentially by being torn and reknit together stronger. If you continuously work out the same muscles without giving them a chance to knit back together, you won't get stronger. This is why strength workouts have alternating days between muscle groups.

You know all those articles and studies coming out about how crunch is bad? All those big name game studios that required crunch and burned out all their developers? Guess what, the same principle applies to your personal creative work too. Crunch is bad. Somewhat counter-intuitively, just doing "more work" will actually make you less productive, while taking time to recover every day makes you significantly more productive. So don’t make yourself crunch. Not even if you’re enjoying what you’re working on.

I'll talk about Action later, but how about Recovery? Well, congratulations, I have good news! Having fun is now part of your creative process. Do something passive you enjoy. Play video games. Read a book, watch a TV show or movie. Go outside for a walk. Take things in. Don't feel guilty: this is vital for your creativity. What if you always exhaled without inhaling? Would you feel guilty for breathing in oxygen?

If you are currently burned out, you need to spend a lot of extra time recovering. The more you’re burned out, the more time it’ll take. That’s the part that sucks, but trust me on this. It will get better. You'll be able to tell after time. This can be days or weeks or longer, but you need to take it until both of these conditions are satisfied:

You no longer feel yourself mentally cringing away from creating something.

The idea of not creating something is unbearable

2. Motivation: creating for yourself, not to satisfy others' expectations

It's super important to come at creative projects with the right motivation. Even if you have a pretty decent Action/Recovery balance, if you're trying to please others, if you're often jealous of others, if you're comparing your work often, you will still get burned out. Creating with these as your motivation is a bit like trying to drive on fumes. It’s not sustainable, and you will run out of gas.

This is incredibly important but difficult to put into practice. How do you shift your motivations?

Some principles:

Creating for its own sake is valuable.

Other people are not competition. They are friends.

Other creative projects are not competition either--similar projects can, and should, and do exist in harmony. You can learn from one another.

If you work primarily from a standpoint of pleasing others, you are going to be very easy to disappoint.

Make what you want to make, for yourself, for your tastes particularly if this is your hobby.

The “validation machine” is tricky. At first, you’d be over the moon to have a hundred followers and maybe ten likes. Then a thousand followers and fifty likes. And on and on, all the way up--your expectations of validation will scale up. Don’t expect to keep getting high off those likes and retweets/reblogs. Make an effort to value every one of the people who follows you, even if it’s only five people.

All games are held together by duct tape and prayers. You're not alone!

Some of these are easier said than done. Just keep an eye out for these thoughts/emotions in yourself. If you notice them, take a moment, take a few deep breaths, and remind yourself what it's all about. Do you feel yourself getting jealous? Don't take it out on yourself (or anyone else). Try encouraging that person you're jealous of instead. Tell them what they're doing well, and not in the mopey "I wish I could do this as well as you" way. Instead, the "This [specific thing] is so good! Keep it up!" way. It's hard for jealousy to exist in the same place as encouragement, even if it takes a little bit to ebb.

Another suggestion is to write down the things that excite you about creating, about the specific project you’re working on, etc. This can be broad (“I like bringing my ideas to life”) or specific (“I always love exploring caves in video games and seeing what secrets they hold”). Keep this around and remind yourself of it. For The Waking Cloak, I love working on exploration, lore, and maps!

3. How to actually work and get stuff done

This is going to be the biggest point, but it revolves around a few foundational principles:

Work INCLUDES rest. It's part of the deal. You're not allowed to skip it. (see #1)

Short term goals are more important than long term deadlines (aka Agile "sprints")

Task-tracking and manageable, bite-sized chunks

One Thing a Day/Momentum

Do it fast, THEN do it right

Most of this is stuff I learned from my day job when we got our new head-of-department and jumping onto what's broadly known as DevOps principles. DevOps involves a lot more than I'm going to talk about here, but I bring it up because these aren't things I'm just making up because they sound nice. They're tried and tested, and they work.

So first, let's talk about short term goals.

Years ago (and sadly still too often today), common practice in software development was to plan big projects spanning months at a time, build the entire thing, and then deliver it. Major problems occur with this: requirements change, the world changes, technology changes, the users wanted/needed something different and you didn't know until they got it in their hands, etc.

The core problem is that nobody knows what's going to happen in the future, not with absolute certainty. I'm not joking when I say this: it's best to focus on short term goals and skip out on long term deadlines altogether. This is commonly in the form of two-week "sprints" which are geared towards delivering some complete functionality, not the entire project/software/game/etc. Here's why these work:

You have something achievable now. Two weeks of work is so much nicer than... months? years?

You get quicker feedback and can quickly adapt to these in the next sprint

Sometimes project/features of higher priority get discovered that you couldn’t have planned for

You're consistently finishing some chunk of functionality every two week sprint or every milestone. Progress feels nice!

Two week sprints don't necessarily work for all game projects, but the principle is the same: plan short-term, time-based goals, NOT functionality-based goals. If you're getting close to the deadline, move that functionality to the next "sprint", don't crunch any more than a day.

If you don't have a long-term deadline for your game set by external factors (publisher, need food to eat, etc.), and especially if you're doing this as a hobby, my advice is to not set a final deadline until you're more or less done with the game. Know what your major functionality is and a general order that you’ll work on this functionality in, but long-term deadlines are almost always unsustainable. You don't know what's going to pop up, you don't know how long certain features will take, etc. You can't predict the future. But you can create milestones.

In normal game development, this generally includes pre-alpha, alpha, beta, and so on. But for our purposes, we’ll want to redefine this and break it down even further. An alpha could take many months. I’m more interested in defining sets of features that can conceivably take a few weeks to two months, closer to a sprint.

In The Waking Cloak, these milestones are the ProtoDungeons. Each has a set of functionality (I only know the broad strokes, not the specific functionality each will contain--that only gets planned at the beginning of the specific ProtoDungeon). There will be eight of these, one for each of the player’s items, and they will be a self-contained dungeon. This is to:

Get quick feedback on how the items feel

Get practice building dungeon maps

Build a lot of the “unknown pieces” that you don’t generally think about--doors, triggers, camera transitions, pits, z-coordinate levels, and so forth.

I’ve only completely planned out one ProtoDungeon. It included the item mechanic and all the functionality mentioned in the last bullet point, but it also included more, like enemies and a boss. But then I cut everything that's unnecessary for getting these into the hands of some testers--so that meant a lot of this extraneous stuff got bumped to ProtoDungeon 2. That way, the quicker I get this demo out, the quicker I can improve for the next ProtoDungeon. The result is that working on the game feels very light and extremely productive.

Now that we have milestones and short-term goals, that brings us to tracking tasks.

I don't really care how you do this so much as I care that you do it in the first place! Tracking tasks is extremely important. Without, it can be easy to get lost in where you’re at in development. You have to hold everything in your brain, which is extra wear and tear.

I use Trello, which is free! At work we use Microsoft's Azure DevOps/VSTS and Kanban boards. You can even just use a notepad if that's what you like (though I suggest something where it’s easier to move stuff around, even if that’s Notepad on your computer). Once you have a place to keep track of stuff, I recommend creating some sections (I use Trello columns):

Backlog - tasks you're doing this milestone

Bugs/issues - you'll find these all the time :)

Doing - this is the bug or task you're working on. Only work on 1-2 things at a time. If you're not working on it, it goes back in the backlog

Complete - just a pile of your accomplishments! :D

And then here’s how you create your tasks for your “milestone”:

List out your major functionality

Break those functionalities into chunks

Break them into smaller chunks

Smaller

Still smaller

Are they now tiny? Can you do these tasks in a day or two maximum? No? Still smaller!

Stop when you're basically at the "atomic level" of tasks. They need to be bite-sized (if they’re ridiculously small, you can include them as part of a checklist on a single task)

Take all these tasks and dump them into your backlog!

As I mentioned, plan for the current milestone only. You can have a bucket of general tasks for future milestones and even a general idea of the order you want to accomplish these tasks in, but you're only planning for the current milestone and a bit into the next one.

Prioritize your tasks. You can put a number next to each task (1 being highest, 4 being lowest is what we do at work). Or if you're using Trello like me, you can drag the highest priority tasks up to the tops of the columns to work on next. I occasionally switch these around depending on what I feel like working on next, so don't feel like you have to strictly adhere to a specific set of priorities.

If you're feeling really snazzy, "weigh" your tasks. How long is this going to take? You can do this by hours, days, a generic numbering system, etc. Enough to let you know what's going to fit into a milestone and what needs to be moved to the next one. I don't think this is strictly necessary for a hobbyist project, but it's pretty vital for our day-to-day at work.

Also, you will discover more tasks as you work. "Oops, to do this, I need to add that." That's fine. Add it as a task, prioritize/organize it, and keep going.

Like rest, planning all this stuff out is hugely important but often missed because it doesn't feel like you're getting stuff done. It's deceptive. Taking time to plan and maintain your tasks will actually make you more focused and productive.

If something isn’t necessary for the deliverable, move it to the next milestone and forget about it for now. This doesn’t mean you’re procrastinating or that you’ll never get to it. Your job is to keep things light and manageable for now.

Okay, so now you have a list of tiny, bite-sized tasks, and they're all organized. Time for the next principle: “One Thing a Day.”

I mean, with everything we’ve discussed, this is pretty easy now, right? You have a bunch of bite-sized tasks. Work on at least one thing a day! You don’t have to finish it, though the fact that you’ve got these small tasks means you’re more likely to get tasks done quickly.

Let's say you're me and you have a lunch break. Well, now I can try a task or two, or check off a few of my checkboxes on one of my tasks, or at the very least get started on something I know I can finish in a few days. Or we just got the baby down to nap and she'll be asleep for an hour and a half (probably)--I can pick up another task and work on it there.

By having small tasks, you have a constant sense of progression, which is important for your morale. And by doing at least one thing a day, you develop momentum, which is extremely pivotal in countering procrastination.

For a while I logged these on the devblog, largely for accountability, but over time I haven’t needed to do that as much.

Also, keeping the creative cycle in balance is still important. Some days I absolutely did not have time, or just felt like it would be “too much.” So I didn’t do one thing that day. Instead I’d take that time to recover.

Finally, the principle of "Do it, THEN do it right."

This has helped me on so many occasions. My procrastination often stems from a feeling of being overwhelmed. I sit there thinking about a task and how long it's going to take, and all the different things I have to make in order for it to work well.

Beat the system. Hack that sucker in there in the cheapest way you can. Hardcode values. Tack code on to an existing object instead of creating a new one. All you have to do is add notes. //TODO is helpful--it doesn’t do anything automatic in GameMaker, but you can still do a project search for it to come back to it later. Then see if it works. See how it feels to play. Only after you've got it working and feeling nice, come back and polish it up a bit. Make it less hard-coded. Put it in a script so it's easier to call from multiple places. Create those objects.

For example, I just added some "Game Over" functionality. First I just whipped up the screen (draw black rectangle, draw text) and then made it show up at the press of a button. Looking good? Nope, the text is off. Let's fix that. Okay, now let's take it off this key binding and add it to the transition manager to trigger when the player dies. Shortcut: add a key that kills the player. Still triggers? Good? Okay, now make it reset the game (well, in my case, reset the room), and test with that kill key. Does that work? Remove the kill key (that would be a nasty surprise for a player if they hit the wrong key), polish (I’m summarizing, there was a lot more of this), and voilà! The important part was taking those shortcuts to blaze the trail before I paved it over (I know that makes no sense, just go with it).

This is the same idea as the rough draft of a story. No (good) book was written the way you pull it off the shelf at your bookstore. It was much rougher when it started and only got good by drafting over and over again. The point is to get your raw materials out there, like a big ol' block of stone if you were building a statue, create the vague shape (chisel off big chunks), then work on finer and finer details.

You cannot judge your work by its first draft. You'll absolutely be disappointed. Instead, come into it with the INTENTION of doing it fast and sloppy so that you have those raw materials to work with as quickly as possible.

4. In summary

It’s going to be okay.

Burnout can be avoided by taking time to rest.

If you’re burned out, it gets better by taking time to rest.

Good motivation helps avoid burnout and procrastination.

Plan generic long-term, specific in short term chunks, and work in bite-sized tasks.

Working in bite-sized tasks helps keep up momentum and morale.

Keep action and recovery balanced every day.

It’s going to be okay. :)

#devlog #devblog #burnout #game development #planning #project management #i hope this helps

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dontknowmyname215 · 5 years

Text

Try the Pie

Prompt: allergic reaction (for @badthingshappenbingo)

Fandom: supernatural

Characters: Sam & Dean Winchester

Author’s Note: Finally filling my first square for the Bad Things Happen Bingo! You must know that I am definitely not a medical professional and I’ve never had an allergic reaction (thank goodness), so I apologize for any inaccuracies.

Summary: “This was exactly what every doctor had warned them about, exactly why Dean was always so paranoid and exactly what his worst fears were made of.”

Dean was always careful. He was careful about the diners they stopped at and the food they brought back to the motel. He was careful about what Sam touched and who touched Sam. Anyone who came close to him had to list what they had eaten that day and when they last washed their hands. He didn’t care how ridiculous he sounded or how much it annoyed Sam. From the moment Dean heard the words “peanut allergy”, he vowed to know as much as he possibly could so that they never had to use the damn epipen that was still safely hidden in the glove compartment.

He was prepared to use it, in fact he made sure anyone close to Sam was prepared, but he most definitely would do anything he could to avoid it. Sam on the other hand seemed to enjoy making Dean anxious by testing his fate. Of course Dean was usually a step ahead.

His thoughts were interrupted when the waitress returned with dessert, “One slice of our famous apple pie.” Her fingers brushed the top of Dean’s hand and she smiled.

“Everything okay, sweetie?”

“You’re sure there’s no peanuts in here, right?” He didn’t even bother looking up, even though he knew the waitress was trying her damnedest to get his attention. He was too focused on inspecting the pie in front of him, and keeping it far away from Sam until he knew for sure it was safe.

Sam kicked his shin from beneath the table and apologized to the young girl, who continued to insist that the pie was baked fresh and was absolutely nut free. Once his inspection seemed to confirm the waitress’ description, he quickly shoved the first bite into his mouth, thanking her through a mouthful of deliciousness.

“Why do you have to be so paranoid?” Sam took a sip of his coffee and watched in disgust as Dean devoured the pie.

“Hey,” Dean swallowed another bite. “It’s not my fault that one tiny peanut could kill you.”

“It’s not going to kill me!” Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s a rash for Christ sakes. You’re so dramatic.”

“And your kryptonite is a peanut.”

Dean saw that look in Sam’s eyes but for once the younger brother was quicker and before Dean could knock the fork away Sam was swallowing a bite of pie. Fear and anger boiled over and Dean slammed his fists down on the table staring right at Sam. He could feel the fury heating up his face and everyone in the diner was staring at them.

If he hadn’t been so damn angry, he would have laughed at the whole scene. Sam had startled and dropped the fork on the table, his mouth hung open and his eyes were wide. At least Dean had finally gotten through to the hardheaded son-of-a-bitch.

“You better hope the waitress was right,” Dean spoke dangerously low, “or so help me God, I will-“

“Kill me?” Sam cut Dean off with a whisper but quickly lowered his head.

“Fuck you,” He continued to glare, but couldn’t help the smile that softened his tough features when Sam looked up with a wide grin. “You know what I mean!”

Shaking his head, Dean went back to his pie, but he was still paying close attention to the younger man across from him. He noticed Sam shifting uncomfortably and he especially noticed how his brother pulled the sleeves of his jacket down a bit and lifted his collar. Serves him right.

It never took long for a reaction to start and Dean certainly knew all the signs. Sam rubbed at his legs and as the red bumps started rising up his neck he did his best to hide them even though Dean was well aware.

“How was it?” The waitress returned and reached for the empty plate, but Dean reached out for her hand, catching her off guard.

“It was delicious, but it definitely isn’t nut free.” He smiled at her but sent Sam a knowing glare, enjoying the way his brother squirmed. “My dumbass brother here decided to try it out and my guess is, the crust got him.”

“Dean,” The name came out of Sam’s mouth just the same as it has so many times before, and Dean’s attention was instantly on his brother. “Can we go please?”

Dean sighed, torn between saying ‘I told you so’ or rushing over to Sam’s side. He compromised and threw down some cash, told the waitress to keep the change then ushered Sam out of the restaurant. Something seemed different about this reaction, which made Dean very anxious since he knew everything there was to know about Sam’s reactions.

As he opened the passenger side door and carefully pushed Sam into the seat, he definitely didn’t miss the wheezing breath fighting to escape Sam’s lungs. This was bad.

Dean crouched down beside his brother and listened closely to the slightly labored breaths. Sam hadn’t said anything, but he could see the fear and confusion written across the younger man’s face. This was exactly what every doctor had warned them about, exactly why Dean was always so paranoid and exactly what his worst fears were made of.

“Sammy,” He placed a gentle hand around Sam’s neck and forced their eyes to meet. “It’s okay.”

“My…chest…”

“I know dude,” Dean let go so he could reach into the glove compartment, but his other hand squeezed Sam’s bicep. “I’ve got you though.”

“It’s…never…been…” Sam’s eyes closed as he let his head fall back against the seat and Dean’s movements became a bit frantic. “I’m…sorry”

“Stop,” He grabbed the epipen and quickly opened it, slamming it into Sam’s thigh without any warning or time for Sam to tense. “You’re fine.”

Sam sat up straight, nearly flying into the dash. He bit his lip and clenched his fists against the pain, but Dean could see the second that tight grip on Sam’s lungs started to loosen. Finally, Sam sat back in the seat and squeezed his eyes shut as he focused on breathing. When Dean was sure they had managed to stop the reaction from progressing, at least for the moment, he shut the door and rushed to the drivers side.

“You good?” Dean tried his best to pretend like all was fine and he wasn’t fucking terrified.

Sam finally nodded, his hands slowly relaxing and rubbing at his pants. He would grip the fabric each time he inhaled and then return to rubbing as he exhaled. The pattern continued throughout the whole ride, which surprisingly eased some of Dean’s nerves as well.

When they reached the hospital, Sam’s eyes went wide and he began shaking his head as Dean opened his door, gently tugging on Sam’s elbow. Despite his attempted at protesting, Dean maneuvered him out of the car and got his lanky body through the automatic doors, with little effort.

“Do you need a wheelchair, sir?” The security guard stood from his post and started to grab a chair.

“No,” Dean shook his head and waved the man off. “Thank you, but we’re good. Right, Sammy?”

“Yeah,” the younger man inhaled slowly and then continued, “good.”’

Sam was still struggling to stay coherent and Dean wasn’t sure if was from lack of oxygen or exhaustion. It could very well be both at this point. He carefully lowered Sam into a nearby chair before heading toward the counter to pick up the usual array of paperwork. Not that he was one to brag, but he’d gotten his record completion time down to eight minutes and some odd seconds. It wasn’t much of an accomplishment, but the cute blonde behind the counter seemed impressed.

When he returned to his seat beside Sam, his brother was bent forward with his elbows on his knees and his fingers curled around the back of his neck. It was a familiar sight, but Dean wasn’t sure it was the best position at the moment. He placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder and pushed back until he could just about see Sam’s eyes through the long strands of sweaty hair.

He smiled and squeezed Sam’s shoulder, “How ya feeling?”

Sam returned the smile, although his was rather weak, and ran a hand through his hair, “Like there’s a…fucking elephant…on my chest.”

“An elephant, huh?” Dean laughed. “Can’t be that heavy. You got a whole sentence out this time.”

“Well he’s gone now,” Sam rolled his eyes, but must be feeling better because he played along, “but he left an impression…that’s for sure.”

In the silence of the waiting room, Dean’s laughter echoed and he slapped Sam on the back, feeling only slightly guilty when his brother winced. This was good. This was progress.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam turned to him with tired eyes, “does this mean…I’ll react that way… all the time now?”

“I don’t know, man.”

“I hope not,” Sam took as deep of a breath as he could and then dropped his eyes to the floor. “That was scary.”

“Yeah.” More like terrifying.

They fell silent for a bit, both focusing on the other’s breathing, one to regulate his own and the other to ensure that tired lungs were still working. After living one of his recurring nightmares, Dean was running on fumes and yet he still managed to find a tiny silver lining just as Sam was being called.

Sam slowly pulled himself from the chair and nodded in Dean’s direction. They locked eyes for a moment before Sam headed toward the nurse, but Dean couldn’t help what came out of his mouth. In fact he was pleasantly surprised it took him this long.

“Maybe next time you’ll stay away from my food, bitch.”

#bad things happen bingo #hurt!sam #big brother!Dean #Sam is allergic to peanuts #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester whump #whump #my writing

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ks-caster · 5 years

Text

Get Out of Hell Free Card

Fandom(s): Supernatural, The Vampire Diaries

Characters: Dean Winchester, Katherine Pierce

Summary: Of all the terrible places to meet that special someone, hell has to be the worst. When a soul Dean encountered in the demonic sauna turns up topside in the wake of Lucifer’s escape, he’s not sure what to make of it. And Katherine, for her part, isn’t the sort to come back to life “for decorative purposes only.” She’s not out of tricks yet—and certainly isn’t out of enemies.

“Wait a damn second, I read this one on fanfic a few years ago - and then it disappeared!” You sure did, internet stranger; I posted it drunk, updated a few times, then deleted it after realizing I’d never have the time to dedicate to it. Outline and first few chapters are available under the cut if anyone would like to take it over!

I’ll be the Name You Call Out at Night

Dean was choking, choking on the overwhelming stench of sulfur and ash and blood and iron. With each passing moment, his mind weighed in differently in the ongoing decision: to breathe in the noxious fumes or to empty the filth from his lungs and suffocate. Sometimes he breathed, then coughed and rasped out labored, excruciating breaths. Sometimes he didn’t, and his head swam in a pool of rancid, molasses-ey filth until he gave in and made another attempt to get some oxygen.

The rough stone floor was familiar under his bare feet—cold and burning and covered in stones and blood and shards of who-knew-what-else; Dean had long ago gotten used to the fact that his feet would just always be bleeding, there was no getting around it. The gritty pain was a simple constant—a fact in the back of his mind, usually disregarded. All around him, the distorted echoes of screams repelled off the walls, forming a dizzying cacophony of collective agony. He inhaled again, holding the tainted breath a moment to try futilely to get used to it. His exhale was a loud, aching coughing fit.

Red light from fires and furnaces and demons’ burning eyes reflected eerily over every surface, and the deep shadows seemed to shift like living things, clinging to the walls in fear, trying not to be noticed. Chains hung from ceilings half shrouded in poison mist, filthy condensation dripping from the dark metal. There were people hanging, too, but they were undefined, just shapes of people, just a vague notion that there were human souls hanging all around him, trapped in endless suffering.

But one soul, one soul had a face.

Dean felt her before he saw her; her aura glowed against his back, and he smelled cinnamon and ozone and pinot noir.

“Dean,” she whispered, voice dry and broken and unsteady, either from disuse or constant screaming, he didn’t know.

“Dean,” she said again, almost a sob, almost a prayer, and he found he had to turn around; he couldn’t refuse her.

Her olive skin was spattered everywhere with blood and soot, riven open by wounds covering her body. Brown hair hung limply, coated in grease, shadowing her face. But her eyes… her huge, soulful brown eyes were perfectly discernable.

“Dean.” She murmured his name once more, heavily, then flicked her gaze up to look into his eyes through a haze of blood and pain and tears.

“You left me here to burn,” she sobbed, voice shattering as she caught fire. Dean stood, rooted to the spot, struggling against the paralysis of invisible bonds as every cell in his body strained to run to her, to put out the fire, to do something. But all he could do was stand there and watch as the flames consumed her, melting off her flesh and charring her bones until there was nothing left of her but a brittle, blackened skeleton, still billowing smoke.

“You left me here to burn,” her voice echoed off of the walls, that one whisper somehow loud enough to drown out every scream in hell.

“You left me here to burn.

Dean.

Dean.”

“DEAN!”

Dean awoke with a choked gasp, rocketing out of bed and almost wrapping his hands around Sam’s throat, but stopping at the last moment as he regained his senses.

“Sammy?” he asked in confusion, realizing belatedly that he was safe in his motel room, hadn’t been in hell for over a year, and had just awoken from a bad dream.

“You okay, Dean?” Sam asked in concern, sitting down on the edge of his brother’s bed as Dean let his hands drop limply to his sides and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He hadn’t had that dream in a while—he supposed, morbidly, that it was due time she turned up in his head again.

“I’m fine, Sam,” he responded reflexively, wondering how much tossing and turning he’d been doing. He glanced at the clock—it read 3:09am. The screen of Sam’s laptop glowed from its place on the table; Sam must’ve still been up, doing research or something. At least that meant he hadn’t been loud enough to wake him.

“You sure?” Sam asked, a shadow of his kicked-puppy face appearing as he stood awkwardly back up again. After their three-month separation, they’d only been back together a few days, and the amount of tension between them was escalating to new levels of horrible.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Dean sighed, rubbing his face exhaustedly.

“You left me here to burn,” she screamed in his memory, and he shuddered. He heard Sam shuffle away, but before he could add pushing his brother away to the list of things he felt unforgivably guilty for that night, Sam’s footsteps returned, and a beer bottle appeared in his field of vision. He looked up a moment, then accepted it, bending the cap off with his ring and taking a long gulp of liquid calm.

“So,” Sam asked after taking a long swig of his own beer. “Who’s Katherine?”

Dean cursed himself internally. Apparently, he’d been talking in his sleep. Who knew what else Sam might’ve picked up?

“She’s no one,” he responded quickly, and then, before Sam could call him out on his obvious lie he added, “some girl I met years ago. A hot one.” The pale imitation of his normal shit-eating grin wouldn’t have fooled a seven-year-old child, and certainly not his remarkably perceptive, pain-in-the-ass little brother. But Sam just nodded, dropping the subject, and headed off to sit back down at his computer, his wide shoulders drooping, and head hanging a little more than usual.

Dean cursed himself again, pressing the beer bottle against his heated forehead. Of course Sam wasn’t going to push it—he wasn’t pushing anything, since Dean had invited him back. He’d been running himself ragged, like he was desperately trying to prove that he could do something right. Pushing him away was the last thing Dean had been going for.

Weren’t they supposed to be trusting each other, he wondered dejectedly?

“You left me here to burn,” Katherine screamed, her voice raging against the insides of his skull like an ocean storm trapped in a bottle.

“Hell,” he said quietly.

“What?” Sam asked, looking up.

“I met her...” Dean started in a low voice, glancing up to meet his brother’s eyes. “I met Katherine in hell.”

So, What’re You in For?

“It was my first day down there,” Dean began, then took a long draught of his beer, marveling at how much he sounded like a kid talking about a new school or some other innocuous activity. The whole thing was just to messed up to talk about—one of the many, many reasons why Dean religiously avoided the subject. He glanced up, meeting his brother’s eyes as he considered how much to tell him. Sam was unconsciously wringing his beer bottle between his hands, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned in, perfectly attentive.

“I died. Then I woke up in hell, alone, chained up…” he trailed off, throat aching at the memory of screaming Sam’s name into the abyss, terror robbing him of reason as cold iron meat hooks dug into his flesh, preventing him even from struggling. He took another swig, then set the half empty bottle on the night stand.

“After a while,” he continued finally, “Alistair turned up. Introduced himself. Went to town on me.” He watched Sam flinch in empathy, and quickly continued, not wanting either of them to linger on that particular detail of the story. “When he was done for the day, he made me his offer for the first time—he’d take me off the rack if I put souls on. I told him to shove it up his ass, and he left, promising he’d be back bright and early in the morning…”

Dean went limp, the tiny spark of bravado he’d mustered in the end instantly drowned in the flood of pain from every part of his body. His breath was nothing more than a desperate sob; his wounds had wounds, and in spite of what he’d just said, he had no idea how he was going to survive another day of that torment, much less a month, much less a year, much less eternity. He couldn’t… he knew he couldn’t. But what was the alternative? He wouldn’t wish this on his worst enemy; how could he do it to others? Strangers? People who could be just like him, doing whatever they had to do to save their loved ones. So what would happen, then? Overwhelmed, he let tears fall in rivers down his face and drip down his neck to mingle with the mess of blood and sweat that was his torso.

“You should probably reconsider that,” a dry voice suggested from somewhere off to his left. Turning his head slightly—well, more like letting it fall and hang in a slightly different direction. A curtain of chains obstructed his vision, but through the links of iron and permanent gloom, he spotted the shape of a blood-drenched, lower leg; feminine in shape, with olive toned skin. Then he noticed the shortened, mangled shape of a foot, and thought he spotted some little round things scattered over the floor. He shuddered, and stopped trying to look.

“Oh yeah?” he responded, gulping hard, and was mildly pleased when his voice came out as a raspy growl instead of a tear-filled cry.

“No one gets that offer on their first day,” the voice continued. “It’s reserved for souls who show potential. You might not be lucky enough to hear it again.”

Definitely a woman’s voice, he decided, although it sounded like she’d spent a month being force-fed sand. Maybe she had—this was hell, after all.

“Yeah, maybe,” he shot back reflexively. “But I’d hate to give that bastard the satisfaction of joining his team on Day 1.”

She laughed, a short, dry, humorless bark of a laugh.

“You’re a rare beast around these parts, kid.”

“So they tell me,” he replied wondering a little about the word ‘kid.’ She couldn’t see him any more than he could see her, so either she’d been an old lady when she died, or she’d been down here a long time.

“You got a name, rare beast?” she asked after a long silence.

“Dean,” he said. “Dean Winchester.”

“Winchester like the rifle?” she checked.

“Yep,” he confirmed. “Just like the rifle. You got a name, random hell roomie?” She laughed again, a single dry huff, just like before.

“‘Hell roomie?’ Who talks like that? What are you, a sorority girl from crappy horror-college-sitcom?”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Dean groused. But the acerbic banter was like a breath of clean air amid the unendurable fumes of hell. He was starting to feel like himself again. It wasn’t much, but it was good, and there was precious little good down in the pit.

“My name by birth is Katerina Petrova,” she introduced herself. “But later in life, I went by Katherine. Katherine Pierce.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Kitty-Kat,” Dean responded. “Although under the circumstances, I guess that’s more of an insult than anything else.”

“I suppose it’s all relative,” Katherine allowed. “So, first day in the pit, huh? What year is it up there?”

“2008. May 2nd,” Dean added. Sam’s birthday… his heart twisted. What had happened to Sam? He’d left him all alone with Lilith and a hungry hellhound. What if…? He had to halt that train of thought—he couldn’t bear it.

“So,” he continued, casting around for something—anything—to say. “What’re you in for?”

“Come again?” Katherine asked, apparently confused.

“What’d you sell your soul for?” he clarified. “I brought my little brother back from the dead. Got swindled, too—I only got one year to live after the deal went down.”

“Huh,” Katherine replied. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “Understatement of the century. So, what about you, huh? Sell your soul for money, or for love?”

This time, Katherine laughed for real. It was still dry, still broken, but it was a deep, full-bellied laugh.

“Oh, Winchester,” she said once she’d gotten ahold of herself. “You really are a rare beast. Guess that explains it though—not many actual good people wind up down here.

“What am I in for?” she repeated after a pause. “I did bad things to good people.”

The Bitter Aftertaste of Home

“Sam!” Dean screamed, straining against invisible bonds as, nearly blinded by tears, he watched helplessly while Alistair slowly flayed off what must’ve been the hundredth piece of his brother’s skin. Sam’s screams had reached inhuman levels, and Dean would’ve shed his own skin inch by inch with a smile on his face, done anything, suffered anything, to make it stop.

“He’s not as pretty on the inside,” Alistair murmured as he peeled off the flesh of Sam’s index finger like a glove.

“Please,” Dean begged pathetically. “Please, you have me, hurt me, torture me, not him!”

“Now why would I do that,” Alistair purred, “when I can hurt you so much more by hurting him? It’s ironic,” he continued, moving on to Sam’s middle finger, “that you sold your soul to save him, and then you let him get dragged down here too…”

Dean was speechless with horror, but before he could respond—or vomit—the scene in front of him distorted, and someone was standing between him and the horror show. He’d never seen her before—a twenty-something woman with long brown curls and olive-toned skin

“Relax, Winchester” she said, and he knew her voice. “You’re dreaming.” Even if he’d only heard it for the first time last week, there was no mistaking the only non-demonic, non-screaming voice he’d heard in hell. As his mind started to make connections, he realized he could see right through everything around him. He blinked, and Sam and Alistair vanished.

Katherine lingered for a moment, vague and shifting, like colored smoke suggesting a human shape. He blinked again, and she was gone. He was staring at a blood-spattered stone wall, a rack of torture instruments, and a blissfully empty room. No Alistair, no Sam, no Katherine. He turned his head, glancing out the corner of his eye to the olive-skinned leg that was all of her he’d ever seen in person.

“What the hell was that?” he gasped out, voice weak from relief.

“That, Winchester, was what we call a ‘poison paradise dream,’” she explained. “When they get bored with us, or need a break, sometimes they send one down the pipes. Can’t torture someone who has nothing left to lose.” He couldn’t see her shrug, but he heard it in her voice.

‘Poison paradise…’ it was aptly named. He’d been at Bobby’s waking up from a nap on the couch, Sam had been tickling his nose with a feather duster to make him sneeze himself conscious, and as soon as he did, he’d launched himself at the bigger man. Bobby had walked in on a massive jumble of tangled limbs and plaid flannel and denim, called them both “idjits,” and then promptly dropped dead when Alistair stabbed him from behind. Needless to say, it had all gone quickly downhill from there.

“Thanks for the wakeup call,” he murmured.

“Don’t mention it,” she responded. “It was accidental.” Dean’s relief was too potent for him to care. But after a while of silence while he caught his breath, he started to get curious.

“I saw you,” he said in confusion. “How come I could see you?”

She didn’t answer for so long that he gave up and figured she just wouldn’t tell him. But eventually, she spoke up again.

“Genetically speaking, I’m a witch,” she sighed. “I come from a line of creepy mofo’s called ‘travelers.’ Also, for most of my considerably long life I was a vampire,” she added, like it was an afterthought.

“Sorry, WHAT?” Dean choked out. Of all things, ‘vampire’ was not what he’d been expecting.

“You heard me the first time,” she snapped. “Born a witch, but never practiced, spent 500-some years as a vampire, then because of a crazy fluke, I died a human. Instead of running around purgatory with the rest of the magical maniacs, I got sent down here. Joy. Anyhow, I still have some low-level ESP. Enough to take the occasional field trip into other people’s minds. Not that it does me any good—everything in hell is suffering. A change of scenery doesn’t really help.”

“Purgatory?” Dean asked in confusion, not even sure where to start with what she’d just dropped on him, so he latched onto the most unfamiliar thing and went with it.

“Like Valhalla for monsters,” she explained with a sigh. “Lots of fighting, lots of forest, all monster, all the time. No humans allowed. No hunters, though. And no dungeons… You get the idea.”

“So… if you’d died a vampire, you would’ve wound up there, ‘stead of here?”

“Yup,” she responded, popping the ‘p.’

“Monster Valhalla?” Sam repeated, finishing off his beer and setting the empty bottle down. Dean almost laughed. His brother was doing the exact same thing—latching onto the most unfamiliar thing in a heaping pile of unfamiliar, confusing things.

“Yeah, apparently,” Dean responded, returning from the refrigerator, another pair of bottles strung between his fingers. He handed one to Sam, who took it and deftly whacked it open on the edge of the table. Dean had censored some, especially about the content of his poison paradise dream, but he’d tried to at least be mostly honest.

“It took her a long time to tell me about herself—wasn’t exactly a great environment for sharing and caring. But I got the picture in bits and pieces. She was born in Bulgaria, got herself turned into a vampire when some grade-A fugly bastard tried to use her for a blood-sacrifice, spent the next five centuries or so as one of the worst fang-bangers this world has ever seen. Ate and stole and murdered her way across the world, always running from the family of creeps who wanted to kill her as a human. Then somehow she got turned back human, and one of her many enemies killed her,” he finished.

“Spent her life being the baddest of the bad… she earned herself a one-way ticket downstairs. You know… she was everything that we’ve always hated,” he sighed. “She was a monster, even among monsters. But down there… well, she wasn’t kidding about me being a ‘rare beast.’” He laughed humorlessly, and took a long drink.

“It wasn’t like we became besties, or anything,” he sighed. “Again, not exactly the environment for it. But… sometimes we’d talk. And in a world of screams, that meant something. Three more times, she broke into my head and pulled me out of a nightmare, and in a place like that…” he swallowed dryly, and took a shallow sip to wet his throat. “There wasn’t a lot of what you could call kindness floating around,” he muttered, gripping his bottle a little tighter. “So she really stood out, y’know?” he trailed off lamely.

There was no good way to explain it—not to someone who had never been to hell. And even now, Dean knew that he’d throw himself headfirst back down in the pit before ever letting Sam have the kind of experience that would let him really, truly understand what someone like Katherine had meant to him.

“I’m hardly going to judge you for your friendships, Dean,” Sam responded when the silence dragged on into awkwardness. “Especially not under the circumstances.” Dean nodded, for lack of a more intelligent response.

“After about a year or so,” he continued heavily, “Alistair figured out that having her around was a comfort for me, so he had her moved.” Not before he’d wheeled her in, and exercised every iota of his considerable sadistic creativity to destroy her, over and over, until the image of her agonized face was seared into Dean’s eyelids. And then for months afterwards, he’d try to actually carve her picture, into whatever part of Dean’s body suited his fancy the best. “Once in a while, she’d turn up in my dreams though. I was never sure how much was her doing ESP crap, and how much was just twisted hell dreams, but I saw her a few more times over the years.”

“After I… well, once I was able to walk around a little more,” he whispered, then cleared his throat and continued in a stronger voice, “I tried to find her sometimes. Couldn’t tell you why, exactly; soothe my conscience, idle curiosity… maybe it was because, even though she was basically a horrible person, she wasn’t a demon, and I just wanted someone to talk to. Someone who… someone who was as bad as me.” His throat ached, and his eyes felt threateningly moist. No matter how much time passed, no matter what he did, he knew he’d never be able to forgive himself for what he’d done in hell. Especially now that he knew that his actions had been the catalyst for the apocalypse.

Before Sam could interrupt with some kind, gentle words that he would barely be able to hear, much less accept, he cleared his throat again and pressed on.

“I never found her,” he gulped out, sounding almost steady. “I found out much later that Alistair had her sent to a deeper circle, probably closer to the cage. I’m glad I didn’t find her. After all, if I had…” he stared pensively at his open palm, wondering what they might have made him do to her—wondering if he would have done it.

“Anyway, that’s who Katherine is,” he sighed, clenching his fist and refusing to meet Sam’s compassionate gaze. “So, sometimes I… I guess I dream about her. Y’know, the subconscious does what it wants. Besides… she was hot.” He swallowed, remembering her astral-projected self; thick brown curls framing her face, thumbs stuck casually into her pants pockets as she eyed him with one perfectly manicured eyebrow arched heavenwards.

“Relax, Winchester, you’re dreaming,” her voice echoed in her head, vaguely and without the urgency of his dream, but the memory remained. The evil vampire who’d kept him sane, and the four simple words that had been his salvation when things had been at the very worst.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” he announced, bolting to his feet before Sam could ask any further questions. This had been a mistake to talk about, he was sure of it. He knew that Sam was overflowing with well-meaning compassion and brotherly love, but whenever Dean so much as thought about hell, he felt filthy, so filthy… he couldn’t accept anything that Sam was going to try and do to make him feel better, and even if he could, he was afraid that somehow he would taint him with the stain of hell. He shuddered as he almost ran into the bathroom, and struggled to turn on the shower delicately, rather than ripping the handle off the wall.

When the Sun Rises and the Dream Fades

“It’s more demonic omens than I’ve ever seen in my life,” Bobby’s voice signed from his end of the phone.

“Probably par for the course these days,” Sam murmured, remembering the situation with [those hunter assholes.]

“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Dean called, over the road noise.

“Be careful, idjits,” Bobby called back.

“You sure you’re up for this, Sammy?” Dean asked after Sam hung up the phone. Sam nodded wordlessly, knowing that he was up for anything if it meant stopping this horrible thing he’d started, and getting back into his brother’s good graces. Dean braced the steering wheel with his knee so he could check his gun one more time, then holstered it and accelerated as the highway approached the small town. According to Bobby’s intel, half the town had been possessed, leading to bloody, destructive revels and the death and maiming of many of the remaining human residents. Sam fiddled with Ruby’s knife, eyes trained on the buildings as they drew nearer, listening for anything out of the ordinary.

However, the first sound they could pick up over the growl of the Impala’s engine was a human voice, sounding like it was over a loudspeaker. Dean frowned, rolling down the window as the words of an exorcism became clearer and clearer, and as they entered the town, a great black cloud rose up from hundreds of points, swirling together before dissipating as the demons were flung back into hell.

“...I guess someone got here first?” Dean muttered, parking the Impala and getting out, watching as people ran out of the buildings, some bleeding, some with pale, drawn faced and bloody hands, embracing loved ones or apologizing profusely for acts committed while possessed.

“Where could they have broadcasted that from?” Sam asked, following him out of the car and frowning. “It had to be audible for miles.” The brothers exchanged glances, then opened the trunk to retrieve their FBI suits.

-0-

“Far as I can tell,” the exhausted city worker explained as she led them through city hall, “that weird latin prayer thing had to come from here; but I can’t imagine how they could have pulled it off. It’s not like we have a giant speaker system in this building or anything.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Ms. Ramirez,” Sam said politely. “We just need to take a quick look around, then we’ll be out of your hair.”

As they entered the elevator and the door slid shut, Dean glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eye.

“I sense a theory,” he commented. Sam nodded.

“Well, yeah. They do have a giant speaker system. Actually, every town has a giant speaker system in a central area.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, frowning.

“Storm sirens,” Sam shrugged. “I think whoever is responsible for this must’ve hooked up an exorcism to play through the weather alert system.”

“Smart, little brother,” Dean commented with a nod as the elevator played a tone to announce their arrival on the top floor.

+They look for the hunters responsible among the pandemonium, but eventually just find a laptop hooked up to the town’s storm siren system, with an exorcism that finished playing some time ago. A dude comes for his laptop, they introduce themselves, they all shake hands, he says he’s with a group called the Hellions and they’ve been basically cleaning up the recent demon messes. He says the group doesn’t really get involved with other hunters, though, and he shrugs them off and leaves.

+They follow him, but lose him a few towns over. They stop at a bar, and lo and behold, they see the dude, and a party of people drinking, and Katherine Pierce, in the flesh, drinking bourbon straight from the bottle.

+She makes eye-contact with Dean, who silently panics because seeing her means he’s asleep and about to wake up, possibly in hell since the dream is so vivid. She walks over to him and says, “Relax, Winchester. You’re completely awake this time.”

Outline:

[4] Chapter 1, I’ll be the Name You Call Out at Night: Dean has a nightmare about hell, and at the end, he sees Katherine (description only) who says “you left me here to burn.” She catches fire in front of him, and he reaches for her only to awaken with a start, safe in his motel room, Sam typing away at his computer. Set context (approximately which episode it is) and state that Dean and Sam are only recently back together, so things are awkward. But Sam tosses him a beer, knowing that he’s had a nightmare. He asks who Katherine is. (Katerina?) Dean says she’s no one—some girl he met a long time ago, a hot one… Sam drops it, but then Dean remembers that they’re supposed to be trusting each other, and he speaks up after a long silence. “Hell. I met her in hell.”

[4] Chapter 2, So, What’re You In For?: Dean describes his first day in hell. Alistair had introduced himself, and then gone to town on Dean—Dean trails off and refuses to describe that. He ends with the question Alistair asked every day, to which he replied “shove it up your ass.” Alistair left, and he went limp, exhausted and afraid of tomorrow. Then he hears a voice from a rack off to his left and a little aside, hidden by hanging chains and a rack of tools. He can see a pair of olive-skinned legs, female, covered in blood and ending in feet [with the toes cut off. Maybe he just says they seemed weirdly small until he realized… and then he doesn’t say more, or only implies it? Is that more or less graphic?] The voice says he should probably be smarter about that—no one gets that offer on their first day. It’s reserved for souls who show potential. He may not be lucky enough to hear it again. He says [something] and they converse a little. He introduces himself, and she does as well—but I haven’t decided if she’ll say Katherine or Katerina. She clarifies his last name, “Winchester, like the rifle?” and from then on calls him “Winchester.” He asks what she’s in for, and she’s confused. He says he sold his soul to bring his brother back from the dead. Katherine laughs and says that explains it. Good people are pretty rare down here. What am I in for? She laughs again. “I did bad things to good people.”

[4] Chapter 3, The Bitter Aftertaste of Home: Opens with another flashback—Dean having a Poison Paradise dream—vivid dreams to torment souls when their torturers took breaks. Dreams of home where everything’s perfect and then everything goes wrong, dreams of loved ones dying, worst memories relived, that sort of thing. He has one, and it’s horrific, until a woman he’s never seen before—and she stands out, specifically because he’s never seen her before—turns up and tells him he’s dreaming. “Relax, Winchester. You’re dreaming.” He wakes up, she explains how those work, and when he asks how the hell she got into his head, she says she used to be a vampire, and had a hereditary witch gene, and still retains some low-level ESP (not that it does me much good down here). He can’t for the life of him figure out how he feels about that. Cut to the present, have Dean summarize the rest of their relationship. They would speak in the evenings—if one could call them evenings—when they weren’t both completely exhausted. Once in a while, she’d appear in his dreams. It wasn’t like they’d become BFFs or anything—but in a situation like that, anything good really stands out. After the first year, Alistair figures out that having Katherine nearby is somehow a comfort for Dean, so he has her moved. Once every few years, though, she’d turn up in his dreams. One time she even completely restructured one of them so that they were basically out on a date instead of whatever was happening before. But he’s so far gone that he wonders if that was even her, or if hell’s just finding a new way to mess with his head. During his time as a torturer, he’d look for her once in a while, he doesn’t know why—to assuage his conscience, maybe? To have someone who was also—by her own admission—a completely horrible person, but who wasn’t a demon, who wasn’t all the way gone, to talk to? He’s not sure. But he never found her. He found out later that Alistair had her transferred to a deeper circle, closer to the cage. He says he dreams about her sometimes now that he’s out. He tries to brush it off as nothing, but thinking about her and thinking about hell has shaken him pretty badly. He goes to the bathroom to take a shower, and tries his damndest not to punch a hole in the wall.

[4] Chapter 4, When the Sun Rises and the Dream Fades: Dean and Sam hear about a bunch of people who were possessed in a town, and they head over, only to find out that there was a mass exorcism already. They look for the hunters responsible among the pandemonium, but eventually just find a laptop hooked up to the town’s storm siren system, with an exorcism that finished playing some time ago. A dude comes for his laptop, they introduce themselves, they all shake hands, he says he’s with a group called [name] and they’ve been basically cleaning up the recent demon messes. He says the group doesn’t really get involved with other hunters, though, and he shrugs them off and leaves. They follow him, but lose him a few towns over. They stop at a bar, and lo and behold, they see the dude, and a party of people drinking, and Katherine Pierce, in the flesh, drinking bourbon straight from the bottle. She makes eye-contact with Dean, who silently panics because seeing her means he’s asleep and about to wake up, possibly in hell since the dream is so vivid. She walks over to him and says, “Relax, Winchester. You’re completely awake this time.”

[1/4.5] Chapter 5, Out of the Frying Pan: Flashback to Katherine in hell, thinking about Dean Winchester and his ridiculous, depressing, pathetic, beautiful, impossible, self-sacrificing love for his brother. She spent half a millennium trying to find that kind of a love, but now it occurs to her, what might happen if she could love people the way he did? What if she could disregard herself and just do what she needed to do to protect the people she cared about? Not a sappy, weepy love like Elena Gilbert, but an iron-strong, undefeatable love, like Dean. What might she be like? Not that she has much opportunity for love in hell. When she hears the demons whispering, however, she figures out that Dean broke the first seal. When Castiel breaks in to rescue Dean, there’s pandemonium, and Katherine almost escapes. She winds up transferred even lower—to the inner circle. But she realizes that if the first seal is broken, once the rest go, the cage right next to her will pop open and all hell will break loose—literally. That would be fantastic cover for an escape. She starts telling every soul she meets. If all of them try to break out, then the disoriented and distracted demons can only deal with so many of them—some, at least, will escape. Finally, after over a century of planning and spreading the word, it happens, and thousands of souls break out. A few hundred actually make it, including Katherine. Part-way through communicating the plan, though, she’d started telling people to meet up once they were out. She meets with her comrades and tells them that they’re out of the frying pan, but headed right back into the fire if no one stops Lucifer. Clearly, they’re not the nicest bunch of people in the world, but since they happen to LIVE there, and don’t really relish the thought of hell on earth, they need to come up with a plan. Self-preservation is a great motivator. Flash forward to Katherine talking to the boys, explaining the seals. They’re carving seals in sets of two at 666 strategic points around the world. The first set is to re-seal the devil. The second set is a nuclear option. It’ll wipe out all magic and turn every magical creature within range human. But it’s a one-off, and any demons and angels still in heaven or hell won’t be affected. Now they just need a way to get the devil back into the cage long enough to close the door on his ass. She says if the boys have any ideas about that, they should give her a call. Sam feels relief because at least he did one slightly good thing in releasing these people who were theoretically going to help save the world. Still, he’s moody and broody, and goes back to the motel after a while. Dean and Katherine catch up, and wind up having sex in the woods. For a casual screw against a tree, Dean finds it to be pretty spectacular.

[5.5] Chapter 6, Please Don’t Raise the Bar: After Paris Hilton tries to murder the boys and Dean gets better about trusting Sam, they run into Katherine again, setting up the seals in a nearby town. She hangs out with them at a bar and while Dean goes off to take a call, she gets Sam talking. Sam admits how incredibly guilty he feels about all the shit that happened. “Okay, Sammy, I’m gonna stop you right there.” “It’s Sam.” “Whatever. You need to stop running your mouth about how all this apocalypse bullshit is ‘your fault.’ Thousands of angels, demons and humans contributed to this. You did not do this; you were just the patsy. Somehow you are simultaneously showing more hubris than any human I’ve ever met AND setting an unrealistic standard for ACTUAL bad people. And as a proud villain of 500-odd years, I refuse to try and live up to you and your ridiculously oversized conscience. Seriously, your morals match your height.” Katherine goes on to tell him that if he wants to do what he can to try and rectify this situation that thousands of people made and that cannot be fixed by one person alone, then by all means, he should do so, but that if he doesn’t, if he wants to walk away, it isn’t even actually his problem—there are people working on it. He should assume he’s required to stay to “clean up his mess;” that’s actually him running away from figuring out what he actually wants/should do. And she would know all about running away. After some further thought and conversation, Sam admits that he just wants to keep his brother safe, no matter what. Katherine gives him shit about how ridiculously pure he is, but says she kinda’ gets it. “The world must’ve been a shitty place for the four months that Dean Winchester wasn’t in it.” Sam says, choked up, that it was, it really was. Dean comes back from the call and Sam says that he needs some air, so he’s going to walk back to the motel. Dean offers to give Katherine a ride back to where her people are staying. He says that Sam seemed… lighter, somehow. She responds that she just told him the honest truth. He thanks her, they talk a little, then wind up having sex in the Impala. (This is where she gets pregnant. It’s September 14th 2009.)

[7.5] Chapter 7, Title: After Dean returns to his proper age, he straight up wants to have hot sex and remind himself that he’s young again—but instead of hitting on either of the perky bartenders, he finds himself thinking specifically of Katherine. He booty calls her, and Sam stays at Bobby’s while Dean drives across two states to meet her. They get a room this time, at the Doubletree Hotel. (Cut away to Sam and Bobby or something, because there’s another scene with them after the sex scene that I’m not showing.) After their lovemaking, they’re laying in bed, talking, kissing and cuddling—maybe she’s giving him a sexy massage? And he notices a little empty vial on the end-table. He asks what it is, and she says it’s vampire blood—a gift from a friend. She explains that she’s been taking a vial every day in case of emergencies. She says she’s not in a hurry to return to hell. Although normally Dean would have been horrified that she’s planning on going back to being a vampire, his perspective has changed, both from hell and because he realizes that, for some perverse reason, he trusts her. In the morning when Dean wakes up, Cas and Sam are there—Cas grabbed Sam and appeared in Dean’s hotel room with no preamble. Katherine wraps herself up in Dean’s discarded shirt and goes to take a shower while the men talk. Cas is there to talk about a new cult of people who broke out of hell and the way they threatened to make all magical creatures mortal, and even showed off their power in a small segment of the world to prove they were serious. He’s all worried about it, especially their leader, who he says is a legend for all the terrible things she did while she was alive, and how all the other magical creatures hate her. Sam starts to look uncomfortable, and Dean realizes that they’re talking about Katherine, and that Sam hasn’t said anything about who Katherine is. Katherine herself comes out of the shower, but fails to tell Castiel who she is.

[8] Chapter 8, Title: Katherine is with the boys when they seek out the Trickster (Gabriel) for help and whatnot—so she goes to TV land with them.

[9] Chapter 9, Title: While the boys are rushing to Chuck’s aid, only to discover that Becky called them to a Supernatural convention, Katherine gets into some pretty hot water on her own, and someone shoots her in the head. Luckily she has vampire blood in her system, as per her plan, so she wakes up in transition. However, some hunters (either Walt and Roy, who eventually shoot Sam and Dean in episode 16, or Tim and Reggie, who tried to get Sam to drink Demon blood in episode 3) find her as she’s waking up, and she doesn’t want to get killed immediately, so, knowing that she has 24 hours to get human blood in her system, she plays along as the frightened trauma survivor, waiting for a chance to slip away. However, they suspect her, and things get complicated. She barely escapes, and is stumbling around trying to find her way to the hospital to raid a blood bank—she’s been a lot more moral since coming back from the dead—but a guy tries to sexually assault her, and she thanks him (basically for being such an irredeemable bastard) before stabbing him in the throat and sucking on the cut. (Alternatively, she calls Dean, telling him she’s gonna transition and wants to tell him what he means to her while he’ll still listen to her, while she’s still human. He asks her how long she can wait, and then hangs up and drives to meet her. He lets her drink his blood.)

[9.5] Chapter 10, Title: Katherine realizes later that she has no idea how to tell Dean she’s a vampire again. She expected to be happy being a vampire again—she hated being mortal—but then she realizes that she’ll probably lose Dean over this; she remembers how uncomfortable he seemed when she admitted she’d been drinking vampire blood. She didn’t think she’d be this afraid to lose him, since they’ve only hooked up a few times, and it’s not like they’re actually in a relationship, but he means more to her than just some guy, than a boyfriend… she doesn’t know what he is to her. He’s her inspiration, he’s the person who changed her life. He’s the first soul that really touched hers. He calls her after the Supernatural convention, wanting to kind of rant about the con, and people having memorized their life story in detail, but also not sure how he feels about the fact that he’s an inspiration to so many. She gets unexpectedly choked up, and he’s trying to ask her what’s wrong, but she hangs up, can’t bring herself to tell him. (This one only if option 1 for the previous chapter.)

[10] Chapter 11, Title: x The Hell-Raisers (what is her cult called?!?!) have a presence in the “kill Lucifer” episode. Dean finds out that Katherine is a vampire again. Also, she starts noticing that her tastes have changed radically—they’re all messed up and she’s craving everything under the sun. She chalks it up to vampirism, a second time around. Possibly she confronts Lucifer, and he actually tells her she should be more careful with her life.

[x] Chapter x, Title: x

Katherine discovers that as a pregnant vampire, she can feel the dreams of her babies.

Also something happens to make it questionable whether or not the global spell will work, although the seals should still be functioning.

[x] Chapter x, Title: x

[17.5] Chapter x, Title: After the Whore of Babylon and Dean decides he’s going to give himself up to save the world and also make sure Sammy doesn’t, it’s Katherine he goes to see for his farewell tour. In a previous conversation, she’d said, “what are the chances we both survive this? What happens to our kids?” He tells Katherine he’s going to surrender, and tells her to get somewhere safe. She says that she acquired a spell to psychically link the twins so that no matter what happens, no matter who they lose, they’ll never be alone. On the one hand, Dean thinks this is weird, but on the other, he’s getting used to the fact that his little family, whether it’s his brother or himself or his girlfriend or his kids and their nebulously magical heritage, IS pretty weird. He gives her a vial of his blood for the spell. After he leaves, intending to surrender, Katherine becomes increasingly frustrated because it was supposed to be her taking the bullet this time—but she also needs to protect her kids, so she can’t keep them safe and also martyr herself to save the world—besides which, it’s now a 50-50 shot with the humanization spell.

For the purposes of this fic, Katherine died in 2002, because Dean died May 2nd, 2008. For every month of death, 10 years pass in hell, so she’s been down there for over 700 years.

#Beth's New Year's Cleaning Queue #free to a good home #Any and all parts available for general use with credit #fanfic #fanfiction #supernatural #the vampire diaries #spn #tvd #writing #writing ideas #tw hell #tw torture

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noxus-the-venomous-blog · 6 years

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Part 2 Problems and Solutions

“Welcome to Broadsiders, the evilest bar on earth. Can I start you off with a beer?”

Noxious tilted his head. “I feel like that makes this place sound more cheesy than evil. Also i'll take two beers.” He rests on the barstool and pulls out his wallet. The table he leaned over was surprisingly clean despite the aesthetic around him. Multiple shades of wood panels made up the walls around him as if this was where Theseus’ ship was stranded. The setting also seem to oppose itself; along with pirate themed paraphernalia and expected things such as oars and anchors, robotic heads and lit up circuitry boards could be seen dotting the walls.

The bartender shrugged. “Yeah but the managers stress that we say it every time, especially to people in costume. Domestic or imported?” she asked while approaching the tap. Her appearance, like the rest of the bar, was a contradiction. She looked as though a cyborg was wearing a Halloween pirate costume. A cheap tri-corner hat sat atop over braided hair, while a corset and Naval jacket only slightly covered a body tattooed with cogs and machinery.

“Domestic… No imported.”

“Too late, already pouring.” she spoke snidely holding the glass with a glove meant to look like a futuristic prosthetic

“Blasts… Wait what do you mean costume?! This isn't a costume!” he insisted while running a gloved finger over the rubber of his mask, “this is a required safety tool in my profession. I mix chemicals that can undo the world and warp your mind into a brainless-”

She cut him off. “Where are they?”

“What?”

“Did you bring these chemicals with you? Are they here now?”

“No…”

“Then you don't need the mask and wear it anyway. That’s a costume. Besides, a good a trenchcoat and an old gas mask ain’t exactly modern science apparel,” she said smugly while handing him a beer, “don’t be offended, if it weren't for people into dress up this place would close down.”

Noxious looked around the shabby bar to see all manner of obscure personas. People with fake halos, fursuits, anime cosplay and facial adornments. “This place is like a comic book convention… But without the oxygen, optimism and joy...”

“Yeah we were going for that. I think the owner got rich off of collecting comic books. It's a nerd watering hole,” she explained pushing the drinks forward.

Noxious gazed down at them grimly. I’m not a nerd...

The woman walked away to serve other customers. Noxious pulled out a small black tube he had rolled and banded in his coat and began straightening it out. He attached it to the rubber port on his mask, let the other end fall into the beer and slowly took a sip.

He crinkled his nose up at it. “Too cold..”

Noxious then removed the tube and placed it on a napkin in front of him. He stared impatiently at the condensation forming on the glass as a rather bulky man took the bar stool next to him.

“Both those beers for you?” the large man said, leaning forward and resting his elbows across the dusty wooden bar. He was shirtless and dotted with scars. As Noxious stared at him from the corner of the plexiglass goggles, he couldn't help but wonder if the man had been sweating or was just naturally shiny. Noxious decided he didn’t like either of those explanations.

“Yes...” Noxious uttered, degloving his hand to feel the temperature on the side of his glass.

The big guy chuckled. “I like that tube thing. You look like an anteater when you use it” He gestured the bartender over to them.

Behind his mask, Noxious rolled his eyes and continued to feel the glasses.

“Beer ain’t gonna bite you kid,” the larger man said with a smile, “at least the first two won't. Name’s B P, pleasure to meet you.”

The goggles on nox’s mask fogged for a moment as he felt a tingle on his neck. “Your voice. Your size. I know you, your that guy who beat up all those security guards at that bank… Crap I shouldn't have said that so loud!” he stammered, wondering if he just made an enemy.

“Heh, don't worry about it. The people here… Well excuse my french but they dont give a yiff about what you say. Everyone here is either roleplaying, or playing a role if you get my meaning.”

“Yeah...” noxious agreed, although he in fact didn’t get what the other man meant.

“Anywho I think I know who you are too. You’re that blurry guy on all those security cameras whenevers there's a science related break in... Toxic?”

“Noxious.”

“You still should consider the ant eater,” BP suggested as the bartender finally returned. “Hey let me get two beers just like my friend here.”

She began to pour from the same tap. “Also me and him are big time villains so we shouldn't have to pay”

A now embarrassed face hid behind the rubber mask. Noxious began to imagine if it was possible to lean back far enough to vanish inside the mask like some sort of phantom turtle.

The bartender rolled her eyes. “Yeah yeah I'm sure. Table fifteen says they work for lord vader himself, Table four is a vampire and the guy in the lounge says he can travel through wires and live inside computers. But here in the real world drinks aren't free. And we don't take coins or magic currency either.”

Noxious let out a sigh of relief. Now he understood why this bar was recommended to him. He leaned over and felt his beer, realized it was the right temperature and quickly re-assembled his straw. He downed each glass as fast as he could, pulled that straw out and tried to catch his breath.

BP seeing this growled, “CHALLENGE ACCEPTED,” and began inhaling each of his beers.

Noxious just blinked. “You can't drink slow with a straw. If it’s too cold it would have hurt my head but another few moments and it wouldn't have been cold enough.”

“You know what you like, I'm all for that! So what's your angle? Poison the world?” asked the heft villain while gesturing for more drinks.

“...I feel as though the world needs to be medicated and im trying to invent the perfect plan on how to do it.”

“Crap that sounds nobel.” BP stated as the bartender slid them four more drinks. He stroked his spiky beard curiously and asked, “then if you’re pro chemicals why wear a mask that blocks chemicals?”

“This mask is modified… In the chamber is a small atomizer giving me a slow release of my own toxins. It makes me build a tolerance to the fumes I have to work around,” noxious explained, proudly, he had always wanted someone to ask him that.

“I thought you were gonna say because it looks cool, which I would have accepted, but your answer is way better. So how are you not high as a kite during that process?” he leaned back in his chair, eying Noxious curiously.

“Unavoidable. On my way over here I could see sounds...” Noxious trailed off staring up at the ceiling. “But it will all be worth it.”

“Damn right it will be. Believe in the road you pick or spend your whole life feeling lost.” BP stood up and downed one of the beers. “When I was a kid I was always a problem. Parents couldn't take me anywhere. Never did good in school. When I got work, everyone figured if things went wrong I would be the problem. If matters required delicacy I would be a problem. My whole life I've been called the problem of any situation i find myself in. So I decided own it. Wear it like a badge.” He beat his chest with one hand proudly. “I AM WHO I AM AND THAT WILL ALWAYS BE A BIG PROBLEM PROBLEM TO SOMEONE!” He paused. “...But I don't have to make that a problem for me.”

“You seem like good people BP… Wait… BP… “ Noxious recoiled.

“Yeah. BP stands for big problem”

“I knew that.” noxious grumbled, although he did in fact not know that until now.

#Noxus

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vampyr-boyfriend · 6 years

Text

RED ICE - Ch 6

Characters: Connor x Reader, Gavin, Hank, Fowler

Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of Sex

Words: 3,322

RED ICE Masterlist

Once he was gone, Viselli buried his head in his hands and swore softly to himself. You were alive and well, and now you likely knew that Viselli was after you and your partner personally. Not only that, but your partner was in the hospital instead of in Viselli’s hands, which meant that Viselli had no leverage to use against you. This was all going horribly wrong. As long as his contact within the DPD remained loyal, however, Viselli was confident that he wouldn’t be caught and you’d be taken out of the picture. Yes… everything would work out just fine.

Chapter Six - Bittersweet Memories

Thursday January 20, 2039 // 6:00am

After waking up a mess of tangled limbs and mussed hair, you and Connor crawled from bed and he made you a healthy breakfast while you showered. After that, he insisted he drive you to work.

“I’m fully capable of driving myself, Connor,” you insisted, but he just smiled.

“I like driving,” he said simply. You shook your head with a chuckle and agreed.

Now, in the parking lot of the DPD, he helped you from your seat, opening your door and taking your hand like a gentleman. Your shoes crunched in the snow as you made your way to the front doors. You passed the receptionist, the terminal on the security gate scanned your badges, and you made for the elevator.

The doors opened to the Homicide division with a soft ding. You exited the lift side by side and barely made your way around the corner and toward Connor’s desk when Fowler’s head poked out of his office.

“(L/N)!” he called and your shoulders slumped with a sigh.

You offered Connor the worst reassuring smile he had ever seen as he took his seat and you started toward Fowler’s office. The captain’s glass door closed behind you as he sat on his desk, regarding you in silence.

Connor listened in as you summarized the previous night’s events. He picked up a tablet and got to work going through case files - Hank would be in to work soon.

After a few minutes of browsing, his LED spun yellow just as he heard you say, “Wait, what?” He set the tablet down and looked into Fowler’s glass office to see you, eyes wide, mouth agape, standing before him with slumped shoulders.

“What the hell do you mean ‘mandatory paid leave’?” you growled, fingers curling into fists.

The Captain put a hand up. “All right, all right, calm down. You’re getting upset over nothing. Just think of this as a paid vacation. Your lid is on too tight and you’re on the verge of erupting, (Y/N). Take some time for yourself. Cool off. You can come back to work in a few weeks.”

“You’re kidding me,” you said flatly, voice cutting through the air like the sharp edge of an icy blade. “You are actually kidding me. This is some sort of stupid joke.” Connor could see your jaw clenching. “You better tell me this is some sort of stupid joke,” you hissed through gritted teeth.

Fowler shook his head. “It’s not. You’re too close to the Viselli case and taking it away from you has made you… I don’t know. Nothing good.”

You took a step forward. “Then give me the fucking case back!” you shouted.

Connor was taken aback. He’d never seen you outwardly angry or aggressive until last night, when you’d rushed him and he thought you were going to smack him. Maybe Fowler was right. You were like mentos just about to be dropped into a diet Coke bottle - so close to exploding. The events of the last few days had left you frayed and you were on the verge of breaking.

“You know I won’t do that,” Fowler answered.

“Why the hell not?” you asked. “That case is soaked in my blood and sweat! Why did you even take it away from me in the first place? Because Connor crashed the party and you hate him so much that you’d hurt me just to hurt him?”

Fowler shook his head. “You’re not thinking straight, (Y/N). This is what I’m talking about. This is why you need to take a break.”

“I’ll take a fucking break when Viselli is either dead or behind bars and my brother is free!” You froze, face paling. Connor didn’t know much about your brother, though he did know that you have one. He also knew that you didn’t like to talk about him. It was a sore subject.

Fowler ran a hand down his face. “Mandatory paid leave,” he said simply, staring you down. “And I’m assigning you a police escort. You’ll have four officers with you or around you at all times.” He rose to his feet and swept around his desk to sit in his chair.

“Absolutely not,” was your answer.

Connor didn’t get to hear the rest of the conversation, as Hank walked in, urgency in his step.

“What is it?” Connor asked as the Lieutenant stopped before his desk.

The door to Fowler’s office slammed, drawing both Connor and Hank’s attention. You skipped the steps entirely, instead hopping over the railing and landing lightly on the floor. You were fuming as you stormed over to Connor and his partner.

“Reed’s awake,” Hank said, eyeing you cautiously.

Connor was also observing you. Grinding teeth, furrowed brow, fingers curled into fists on crossed arms. Where was the cool, collected (Y/N) that he knew and loved? Was there a crack in your facade and he was finally seeing the real you? He hoped not. He hoped that it was just the stress of the job getting to you and that this mandatory leave would help you cool down.

“You all right, kid?” Hank asked quietly, leaning ever so slightly away from you.

You were breathing heavy, unable to compose yourself long enough to speak.

“She, um…” Connor cleared his throat as he looked from you to Hank. “She’s on a mandatory paid leave,” the android explained and Hank sneered.

“Fowler, that bastard,” he swore. “I’d talk to him, but it’s not like he’ll listen to a damn thing I have to say.”

The Captain’s door opened once more then and he stuck his head out. “(L/N). Your orders from before still apply. Stay away from the android.”

You spun around so quickly that Connor nearly got whiplash. “Stick your orders up your fucking ass, dickhead,” you answered and then quickly spun around again. You grabbed Connor’s hand and pulled him behind you as you made for the elevators, Fowler screaming at you to, “Come back right this instant!”.

The android was afraid the elevator would fill up with metaphorical steam with how much was coming out of your ears as you stood, livid, beside him.

A hug had worked at Hank’s house last night, perhaps it could help you here as well.

He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into his side. You didn’t move, but he could feel you shaking, every muscle in your body tense. He gently rubbed your arm and you swallowed hard. It was only then that an unwelcome tear escaped to run down your cheek. You screwed your eyes shut, causing another to fall.

“It’s not fair,” you whispered and Connor turned you toward him to pull you into a full-on bear hug. You held him tightly around the waist, burying your face in the crook of his neck. The warmth of your breath on his skin was absent as you held it in, trying hard not to cry.

“We should get you a punching bag,” he suggested quietly as the elevator doors opened once more, this time to the DPD’s entrance floor.

You pulled away and wiped at your eyes, chuckling despite yourself.

“I’m serious,” Connor said, tone light and airy in an attempt to cheer you up. “If we’re not careful, you’re going to start taking your anger out on me, and there are only so many RK800’s that we can take parts from at CyberLife.

You laughed with a smile that reached your eyes as you followed Connor out into the snow. “I might take my anger out on you, but it won’t be in the form of aggression,” you stated simply, stepping ahead of him to open your driver-side door.

The android’s LED spun yellow as he stopped to process your words, trying to find their hidden meaning. “Oh,” he said, brows furrowed. And then it clicked. “Oh.” His face flushed blue as he stood there in the snow, a tight feeling in his stomach.

“Well?” you asked, poking your head out of your window. You’d already started the engine and were waiting on Connor.

“Coming,” was all he said as he rushed to get in beside you, nearly slipping on the ice.

Wednesday, January 20, 2039 // 6:36am

The door swung open to reveal a square hospital room - Gavin’s bed on the wall opposite, flanked by two curtained windows with plush chairs on the walls either side of the bed. Two of the four chairs were currently occupied by officers of the law; there were two more officers standing guard outside his room. The detective himself was propped up into a sitting position, using his fork to play in a plate of scrambled eggs setting on a wheely tray before him. There were no flowers on the stand to his right, no cards, no balloons, no stuffed bears. And, although the pastel yellow curtains made an attempt to liven up the overall dullness of the room, the rhythmic beeping of Gavin’s heart monitor and puff of oxygen every time he inhaled through his nose were a stark reminder of where he rested.

You went ahead of Connor, as per your instruction, but he entered into the room close behind, closing the door softly in his wake.

Gavin caught sight of him and scoffed, dropping his fork on the plate with a deafening clang. “Well there goes my fucking appetite,” he growled. “Your plastic toy’s face isn’t one of the first things I wanted to see when I woke up, Sweetheart,” he addressed you.

Connor stood at the end of the bed. A quick scan showed his heart beating normally, breathing even and steady, brain functioning properly. His oxygen levels were a touch low, hence the cord leading from his nose to an oxygen tank, but other than that, the detective was fine.

“I’m glad you’re doing well, Detective,” Connor offered. Gavin sneered at him.

You pulled one of the empty chairs - thankfully they had wheels - over next to Reed’s bed and sat in it. “You should be thanking Connor,” you informed him sternly. “Had he not found you and called an ambulance, you’d likely be dead.”

Reed’s eyes darted from you to Connor and then back. He said nothing, but picked up his fork once more to resume playing with his food, pushing his eggs around the plate.

After a moment of silence, Gavin mumbled, “The plastic was just doing his job.”

You tilted your head to the side. “He stayed with you to make sure you kept breathing until you were safely in the ambulance and they took you away,” you continued. “He went above and beyond to make sure you lived, Reed. He saved your life. Show some gratitude.” Your voice was soft and understanding, with just a hint of warning behind it.

Reed nodded, seemingly enthralled by the food before him, as he wouldn’t look up to make eye contact with you.

“Can I, uh-” He cleared his throat. “Can I talk to (Y/N) alone, please?” he asked.

No one moved for a moment until Connor bowed his head and took a step back, then headed out the door, followed reluctantly by the two other officers on “keep Reed alive” duty.

“What is it?” you asked quietly as Gavin set his fork down once more.

He shook his head, brows furrowed. “That android clings to you like a lost puppy,” he said quietly, disdain evident in his voice. “If I was you, I’d’a told him to fuck off already.”

You hummed. “But I’m not you, am I?”

He chuckled dryly. “No, you’re not me. You’re better than me. He’s better than me. That’s why you and I didn’t work out.”

Your brow furrowed as you regarded your partner. “Wait, are- What do you mean he’s better than you? Do you mean Connor? And what does that have to do with you and I? You and I were over before Connor showed up. There wasn’t even a ‘you and I’,”.

“No?” Reed asked, brows raised. “So those times we slept together were nothing, then?” He voice began to rise. “Those nights that I pounded into you and you moaned my name as you came were nothing?” He was practically yelling now. “The nail marks down my back the next day, the way your legs ached so bad you couldn’t walk, that was all nothing? Did I ever mean anything to you (Y/N)?” The beeping of his heart monitor increased with his anger.

“You were my best friend,” you stated simply, flatly. “It was made very clear that what we had was just a ‘friends with benefits’ situation. You knew that going in.”

Reed’s jaw clenched and he turned his head away from you. You took the tray and wheeled it over to the side, out of the way so that it wouldn’t be thrown should your partner become aggressive.

“Friends with Benefits,” he whispered, unwelcome tears pooling and threatening to spill over.

“What does any of that have to do with what’s going on right now?” you asked.

He scoffed, turning back toward you. “It has everything to do with everything. That fucking android… You and I were tight until that piece of plastic came along. You and I had something, whether you want to admit it or not, and then suddenly Connor shows up and he’s your new pal. Left me in the dust.”

You dropped your gaze to the patterned fabric of his bedding as you nodded, but you remained silent.

“What’s it got that I don’t?” Reed asked, voice trembling. “Why’d you chose it over me?” The last question wavered and you looked up just in time to see a tear escape and roll down his cheek. It didn’t get far before he reached up to brush it angrily away.

You swallowed hard. You knew Reed was in pain; he wasn’t always an asshole. You just didn’t realize that you were the reason. You should have known. The best detective in Detroit should have been observant enough to see that Reed changed when Connor showed up. He went from happy, jovial Gavin to cold, angry, aggressive Detective Reed.

“I didn’t realize…” you whispered, trying to piece everything together. “I just wanted Connor to feel welcome… like how you and Miller and Collins made me feel welcome.” You continued after shaking your head, brows furrowed. “I knew that Hank wouldn’t be happy to be partnered with an android and would likely give Connor a hard time, so I made it my mission to be his friend, even when no one else would.”

You looked up at Gavin and your heart split upon seeing all of the different emotions twisting his features. Anger, regret, sorrow, grief, frustration…

He sighed deeply and you were pleased to hear that his heart rate had returned to more normal levels, as indicated by the beeping of the monitor.

“It’s just a machine, (Y/N),” he said, voice low, but pleading.

You shook your head, more feverishly this time. “No. Why do you refuse to accept that he’s alive?” you asked. “After everything that’s happened, why can’t you see that he’s a living being with a heart that loves and a brain capable of original thought? We may not be made of the same materials, but we’re all the same, Gavin. We’re all people… people, just trying to make it in this stupid, fucked up world.”

Gavin’s gaze was downcast, studying his hands in his lap. “So why do you love him and hate me, then?” he whispered, so quiet that you almost missed it.

You felt tears pricking behind your eyes and had to take in a deep, steadying breath to compose yourself before you could speak. “I do love Connor,” you began. “But I don’t hate you.”

“Everything went downhill when that plastic prick showed up.” Gavin’s fingers curled into fists, but his heart rate stayed steady.

“See,” you said, leaning slightly forward. “That’s the problem. You’re an asshole, Gavin. I know you know it, and I’m sure you do it on purpose. You hate Connor for no reason. You decided the second he stepped into the DPD that he was your new punching bag… and I couldn’t stand for that. He didn’t deserve it; he still doesn’t.” A cool breeze ruffled the curtains as it whispered through the room. “Connor doesn’t deserve your hatred, and despite everything you’ve thrown at him, he still saved your life last night,” you whispered. “Think about that.” You rose from the chair and returned it to its place against the wall, then moved to exit the room.

Gavin’s soft voice stopped you. “(Y/N)?”

You turned back around, fingers ghosting over the door handle.

“You know I care about you, right? Even if you don’t…” he paused and cleared his throat and you could see how hard he was fighting against the tears that threatened to fall. “Even if you don’t feel the same,” he managed to finish. “I care about you and your safety… and I want you to be happy.” His voice cracked on the last word.

You offered a soft smile that failed to reach your sad eyes. “Thank you. And I do care about you, Gavin. You’re my partner, and I still consider you a very good friend, despite your attitude lately.”

He nodded and tried to find a reassuring smile to give you, but was unable. You pulled the door open and stepped out into the hall. The two policemen returned to their places at Gavin’s side and you stopped in front of Connor.

His LED shone light blue as he regarded you, a deep crease between his brow. “I, um…” he cleared his throat. Should he even be saying what was on his mind? Your searching eyes found his, ever understanding, giving him the courage he needed to ask what needed to be asked. “I didn’t know that you and Detective Reed had… sexual relations,” he said, lowering his voice so as not to be overheard.

You simply nodded, gaze falling from his to look anywhere but at him.

“If my arrival at the DPD caused a fallout between the two of you, I want you to know that I am very sorry. It was not my intention to cause discord within the department.”

You shook your head. “What Gavin and I had was just a fling. We both needed someone, but I wasn’t looking for a relationship. I didn’t realize that Gavin wanted more than just sex. It’s my fault for being so damn blind.”

“While listening, I couldn’t help but realize…” he took your hand in his and you looked up at him. “You said you loved me, on the rooftop the day that we kissed. I never said it back.” He took your other hand.

“You don’t have to say it,” you tried to reassure him.

“I need to,” he said. “You need to hear me say it so that you know for sure. And I need to say it for the same reason.”

His cool breath ghosted over your face, lips brushing lightly over yours before he pressed them together and kissed you softly. It was only when you broke away to breathe that he whispered in the air between you, “I love you, (Y/N).”.

“That’s so adorable, I think I’m gonna puke.” You broke away from one another and Connor spun around to see Hank standing behind him. The older man looked tired and worn. “Bad news, partner,” he said, addressing Connor.

The android tilted his head to the side.

“The girl that attacked Reed… She’s here in this hospital.”

Connor nodded. “I know. I’m going to interrogate her once she awakens.”

Hank shook his head with a sigh. “‘Fraid that’s not gonna happen.”

“Why not?” the android asked, LED spinning yellow.

Hank hesitated. “Because she’s dead.”

@ghistwrite @rk800downloading @deviantconnorarmy @glitch-girl318 @chichiguitarist123 @into-the-stratosphere @fandomblitch @chocolattaee @projectcherry12 @urban-eagle @padme4000 @datweirdname @josmottt @ipostcoolthingssometimes @ecnelovelamm @assonanceambiance @derpydanandphil @thecrazybluefangirl @pickelope @pokengirl2 @berjhawn @0-why-do-i-exist-0 @fandoms4everyone @cool-haleychapman @trashytwenties @piemeadows @haikyuu-imagines-and-others @layinglonely @peter-maximoff-trash @i-resent-this-hellsite @poodlegods @astridstark13 @havanbcby @hello-i-make-bad-decisions @qtmeryr

#detroit become human #dbh #detroit become human fanfiction #dbh fanfiction #dbh connor x female reader #detroit become human connor x female reader

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mzargentum · 6 years

Text

The Stormsender’s Daughter | Chapter XV | Hellion

Chapter XIV | Chapter XV | Chapter XVI

Word Count: 4,047

Warnings: Physical violence, abusive sexual situations, murder, gore.

A/N: The italics indicate the flashbacks to events in the last two previous chapters.

The birds.

They chirped with sweet joy as the sun had taken its place in the blue skies above.

Not a care in the world.

No worries, or fears.

Dion couldn’t hear them in his office, but that is what he imagined.

After all, that’s what birds would normally do on a day like today.

All he heard was the screech of his chair from under his desk upon the wooden floors.

“Now then...”.

Mammon rose his gaze toward Ulldor as he took his seat in the chair.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

Dion’s gaze lowered back toward the floor before they darted to the empty spot on the couch next to him.

The ash from his ravishing redhead’s cigarette still in the ashtray on the end table from the night before.

The beginning of the end.

12:15 am.

Twisting the lock to Dion’s office door, Birdie stood facing the mahogany in silence.

Her hand lazily placed atop the handle.

She didn’t want to turn toward the man behind her.

The man that nearly blew her brains to out of her skull all over the fine plush sofa she was just sitting upon.

This wasn't the first time he ever pulled his gun on her.

Hey...it was part of the business.

But this time...

This time...it actually hurt.

To be apart of this world...to have this profession...you had to be on top of your game. You were either the user or the used.

Birdie was not the user...she was the bottom. Daddy’s safe net.

Keep him whole, keep his organization afloat, keep him on top.

And Dion loved her for that...but he couldn’t love her too much...or let her forget that the bottom was still his bitch.

Birdie hadn’t forgotten.

But it wasn't uncommon for a bottom bitch to want more.

Birdie’s ticket to more was Dion committing to his love, but seeing his greed get in the way...nothing hurt the bottom bitch more than to be thrown back to the slums.

And that’s what he wanted now...because of that silver headed brat.

“How would Alcercapt be the footnote”, Birdie started as she continued to face the door, “if the Pythoness is that Chancellor’s prize?”

“We can work around that, my dear”.

Removing his tie, he turned toward his redhead maiden, basking in the view of her fine physique in her green corset, and the perfect circumference of her rear.

“Have you any doubt?”, the man asked, his voice taking a light sensual tone.

“No”, the woman answered sternly merely trying not to anger him, to which Dion seemed very well aware, but didn’t really mind in this particular moment.

“You sound like you’re just saying that...did I upset my beautiful bird?”, Dion’s voice full of lust and false remorse.

Birdie didn’t respond. She could hear the soles of his dress shoes against the wooden floors as he approached her, followed by the unbuckling of his belt.

Birdie still remained firm. Never even turning to view the aroused man behind her.

Dion had known for years how to get around Birdie’s defenses. She wasn’t as susceptible to following his direct orders all the time, but her general devotion to him helped him look past that...though he still would end up getting what he wanted either way.

“I asked you a question, my pet”, the man rose the woman’s dress gripping onto her bare ass with enough force to cause Birdie’s muscles to tense.

“Y’know I don’t like when you point that thing at me...”, Birdie softly spoke.

“I know, my dear...”, the man sighed. Biting his lip as he rubbed himself upon the redhead’s rear end. “But my beautiful bird has to understand one thing”.

Clasping his hand over her mouth quickly before her wail could escape her lungs, Dion hissed into Birdie’s ear. “I’m in charge...”.

2:57 am.

Birdie was far too dazed to care about the puddle of saliva that was collecting at her bare knees.

The lack of oxygen making her eyes nearly burst from her skull.

Every solitary fiber of her throat ravaged to Dion’s sadistic pleasure. Every tear from her eye only increasing his urgency and his pace prolonging her dizziness and pain.

His groans of delight as his grip upon her beautiful strawberry peach locks tightened accelerating Birdie’s distress...but that’s how he liked it.

That was his favorite view of her.

On her knees, at his mercy, like the bitch she was.

Yes...Birdie was his bitch. Like Muerlin was going to be his bitch.

Birdie was his love. Muerlin was his power.

Love was submissive to power.

The thought of Muerlin...in his grasp like this...making the Chancellor green with envy...watching his come undone as he unfolded his precious prize before him like the bitch he would soon make her...

...filled Birdies tender throat to maximum capacity before shoving her the floor to take in the view of his damsel in distress.

He adored seeing her at her worst.

Naked. Bruised. Vulnerable. Her disheveled hair. Her bloodshot eyes. The tears drenching her bright pink freckled cheeks, her lips dripping with his excess essence she wasn’t able to keep down. Her bosom bouncing as she gasped heavily for air.....the fear in her eyes...knowing that he could do it again.

It drove him mad.

But once was enough for his bird of paradise.

He looked toward the clock on his mantle.

3:10 am.

“You may go now. Hurry before the girls see you like this”, he instructed coldly, returning to his desk lightning a cigarette.

A few moments passed before the exasperated Birdie stood from the floor, her entire body aching. Every hole burning viciously with soreness.

Refusing to look at her ravager, Birdie follows her instruction, picking up her clothes before slowly leaving the room.

Leaving Dion staring at the crackling fire, anxiously awaiting his soon rise to power.

“Hmph”, Ulldor lightly chuckled at Dion’s story.

“Sounds like you had a good night”.

Mammon didn’t respond.

“It’s such a shame she had to suddenly leave us...she sounded like a pleasant ‘bird’”, Ulldor teased much to Dion’s dismay.

Noticing Dion’s fist beginning to tense...

“Now, now...you cannot be angry at me for this”.

“Dion’s gaze retuned to the empty cushion next to the ashtray.

“I did not tell you to kill her”.

6:23 am.

“I see”.

Dion still firmly planted in his chair responded over his telephone. The fire still providing the only sound within the room.

“I can assure the Chancellor he has nothing less than my undying devotion and loyalty”.

He takes a sip of his drink, his grasp upon the cup tightening.

“Of course, this is just a mere hiccup. Some roach trying to smear my good name into the mud”.

His stare intense toward the fire.

“Yes, it will be dealt with”.

A twitch of his brow.

“...understood. Well, I shall see you soon, then...au revoir”.

Dion placed the phone back to it’s rightful position, taking a final slow, graceful swig of his drink before abruptly hurling his glass into the flames before him.

Inhaling deeply to regain his calm, he picked up the phone once more placing it upon his ear, pushing one single button that read “Line 1″.

After a pause...

“Birdie...my love, good morning”, his sweet, gentlemanly tone floating through the line. “I don’t suppose you would be so kind as to drop by my office in 10? I would love to have a word with that beautiful face of yours”.

A small smile stretched against his face.

“Thank you, my dear”.

After 10 minutes, on the dot, a now freshly pressed and radiant Birdie waltzed in to a Dion now fully dressed, bathed and fragranced. His usual dapper rapport. Perched on the edge of his desk, his arms folded.

Birdie, still lightly fumed from her session with him merely some hours before, offered a kind smile nonetheless only to be greeted by a cold stare.

“Mornin’, baby”, Birdie chirped in the most lighthearted tone. “What can I do for you?”

“Shut the door, please”, he firmly commanded. Though a light anxiousness rose into the woman’s core, she obeyed.

Once she returned her gaze toward the man, he was gesturing her to come closer with his finger. She obeyed.

The anxiety rising in her gut was only slightly halted once he lifted a new glass toward her face. “Make daddy a drink, will you sweets?”

The woman merely answered with a light nod before taking the glass in hand and pouring the rich brown liquid, enough for about a shot.

“Somethin’ the matter, baby?”, the woman asking, deep concern in her voice as she handed him the glass.

To which Dion immediately proceeded to down his shot before shattering the glass against the woman’s head, slicing her flesh and she tumbled to the floor.

A light shrill echoed throughout the room.

Birdie left crawling on the floor in shock from this sudden attack, begins to uncontrollably weep as her attacker approaches her, as calm and collective as ever, slowly removing his belt.

“You tell me, my little bird?”, he sighed as his stood above her.

Birdie still left attempting to crawl away as she noticed the man wrapping his belt around his fist.

“Dion...baby...please”, Birdie whimpered as he continued to approach her.

“General Caligo Ulldor just called me”, Mammon began to explain. “Apparently...he had been fed intel of the Pythoness being here”.

Birdie began to turn her gaze to view him.

“As well...as my plans to make her my bitch!”, Dion shouted before slamming his leather belt down on Birdie’s thigh.

A pained shriek escaping her lungs.

“Now...”, Dion continued, “...as I recall...the only two people in this world that knew of this were you...and I. So question is...”.

Mammon flips Birdie on her back with his foot.

“...how did Ulldor find out...?”

“Baby, I swear I didn’-”.

“Take off your clothes”, Dion cut the woman off, his tone forceful and harsh.

“Baby, please, I wouldn’t-”.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, love”, Dion’s light tone frightening the woman before she obeyed.

Not leaving her spot on the floor, she stripped herself down in front of her attacker, his eyes only fixated on her body. Not once on her eyes.

“You know...one thing he actually informed me off during our little talk was...that whomever tipped him off sent him a tape...”, Dion continued explaining. “And somehow...they were stupid enough to leave their initials on the tape”, Mammon chuckled lightly.

Birdie remained silent. Her fear racing through her entire body.

“S.R.”, Dion shook his head. “Oh...Strelitzia Reginae....”.

Birdie’s eyes widened.

“...My Bird of Paradise”.

“Dion, baby, pleas-AUGH!!!”, her screamed echoed through the walls as Dion furiously wailed on the tormented woman with his belt.

Leaving welts upon bruises he left mere hours before.

Not giving any attention to how loud the crashes upon her flesh were mixed with her pained wails as he viciously scolds her.

“I GIVE YOU FOOD!!!”

The girls in the other rooms crying in sadness and fear as they listened to their beloved Birdie’s shrieks.

“I GIVE YOU A ROOF OVER YOUR HEAD!!!”

Blood began to spill from her bruises as Mammon continued his assault.

“I GIVE YOU MY LOVE!!!”

His rage boiling his very core.

“AND THIS HOW YOU REPAY ME!!!”

The cracks of the belt sharp against Birdie’s tender flesh.

“WITH BETRAYAL!!!! LIES!!! DISLOYALTY!!!!”

Finally, he ceased his attack...his arm growing tired. He panted heavily as he took in the view of his exhausted redhead.

Naked, beaten and bruised...bloodied...afraid...

He bit his lip as his pants began to tighten against his growing erection.

“Y’know...”, Dion’s calm demeanor returning, “it’s so inconvenient...when during a punishment...you become the most beautiful”.

Birdie didn’t speak. Merely sobbed in fear.

“Turn over”, the man instructed softly.

Knowing she was far too weak to do so herself, Mammon planted a solid kick to her ribcage coaxing her to do so.

His steel toed shoe sending a heavy cry from her lungs as it cracked her bones.

Once on her stomach, Dion made quick work of his zipper before straddling her to where the base of her ass rested against his clothed thighs.

Her bitter sobs filling Mammon with adrenaline as he vigorously slapped the woman’s bare tender rear with his solid member.

If Dion had proven anything this day, it was his complete disregard for the intense pain coursing through Birdie’s body as he intruding into her ass with such fervor, her bloodcurdling screams merely sent him into an unholy sadistic delight.

The slapping flesh and tormented howls of their beloved Birdie burrowed into the girls’ fragile hearts.

Knowing there was nothing they could do that wouldn’t result in them receiving punishment themselves other than sitting silently and hope that Dion would show sympathy toward his personal favorite and not hurt her too badly.

As unlikely as that seemed.

20 minutes of this made it certain.

Dion was enjoying this far too much to decide to go easy now.

This was not love. This was power.

He basked in his dominance over his bottom bitch as he tore her insides apart.

Ripping pure flesh like it meant nothing.

For in this moment, she meant nothing.

She was nothing.

Nothing but his tool to use as he saw fit.

This is what it felt like to be the man that owned the Pythoness.

All were beneath him. Even his love.

As the power consumed him, mixed with the collection of tears upon the floor and the screams erupting from those rose red lips, Dion beamed in his euphoria pulling away to watch his essence seep from Birdie’s swollen rectum.

As he returned to his stance, marveling in his masterpiece, he became perplexed. Unnerved.

Her porcelain body coated in black, blue and red. Trembling in fear and pain. Each movement intensifying the pain. Unable to move. Paralyzed.

Broken.

He wanted to ruin her. Ruin his view of her. His girls’ view of her. Turn her into a worthless bitch unworthy of fucking.

But after all of that...he realized...

....this was the Birdie he loved most.

He wanted to hate her, but hating her into oblivion only made him desire her more...he couldn’t shake it...

...and it infuriated him.

“You fuckin’ whore...”, he hissed to the broken woman on his floor. “YOU FUCKIN’ WHORE!!!”, he shouted as he clutched onto a wad of her silky strawberry locks.

A sharp shriek filling the room.

“This is the price you will pay...”, Mammon growled into her ear before he proceeded to drag her out of his office.

The slam of the door against the wall startling the girls as they began pouring into the hallway to witness their beloved Birdie.

Naked, bloodied and clawing at Dion’s hand and wrist as he dragged her about the manor.

Pleading for her life while protesting her innocence knowing deep down there was not a thing her girls could and would do to aid her without possibly suffering the same fate.

Her screams sending the girls into sobbing messes as they helplessly watched the once ravishing redhead be dragged down the south hall.

It didn’t take long for Birdie realize where they were as they made their way through the corridors.

She had never came to this side of the manor.

She only ever instructed Galahd to come this way when she needed some Imperial trash taken out.

There were no doors down this hall. Merely steel plates for walls and a single row of lights.

The plush color palette of the rest of the manor slowly becoming further and further away.

The closer they got to their destination, Birdie could hear the hisses, snarls and growls.

Once they passed the hatch where Galahd would dump the trash, Birdie’s panic reached 100%. Her screams and clawing more desperate.

The sounds growing louder and louder to the point that Birdie knew they were just in front of the door.

“WAIT, please!”, Birdie cried so heavily, “you don’t have to do this....I swear it wasn’t me! I’m not S.R.!!”

For the first time, Dion actually decided to listen.

“Who is it then?”, his voice monotoned, yet clearly hoping she would give him an answer.

“I don’t know”, she admitted in shame.

With a light sigh, Dion released the battered woman. Gently lifting her to her feet in front of him.

Carefully caressing her bare body as he stared deeply into her sweet eyes.

“My Birdie...my beam of light”.

In this moment...Birdie, for the first time in all their years, felt Dion’s love as he placed a tender kiss upon her crimson lips.

There was no intrusion of his tongue...just affection.

Placing his forehead against hers and his palm against her heart, Birdie could see the tears wielding in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, my love...”, the man whispered.

“I forgive y-”.

A solid push against Birdie’s chest released a gasp from her lungs as she tripped backward into a black abyss.

“No, WAIT!”, Birdie screamed reaching toward the man before her, but with one swift slide of the door and twist of the lock, she was trapped.

Her screams and pounding against the titanium door were futile as Dion placed the hand he pushed her with upon the cold metal.

“Goodbye, my beautiful bird...”, he whispered against the blockade savoring his final moments with the love of his life. “You will live on in the Pythoness”.

In the abyss, a sudden hiss sliced through Birdie’s pounding and screaming followed by a low growl.

Her eyes soon adjusted to the dark as she slowly turned to see what lurked behind her, trembling in terror as she noticed an endless horde of bright yellow eyes and razor sharp teeth.

It didn’t take any time at all for the bloodcurdling shrieks to erupt from behind the door as well as the sound of tearing flesh and crushing bones as the swarm of albinogins feasted on their helpless prey.

But as quickly as the screaming started, was just about how long it took for them to cease only leaving the sound of the feast.

And with the ceased screams, were Dion’s tears as he fixed his attire and hair before turning his heel toward the opposite direction of the hallway.

Burying his precious bird...and his memory of their love.

Or so he thought...

8:31 am.

Dion continued to stare at the cushion next to him.

He thought he could forget her...thought he could toss her to the wolves and feel nothing, but the pain he felt was far greater than anything he felt...

...and Ulldor was enjoying this far more than he could bare.

“Honestly, Mammon”, Ulldor scoffed. “This barbaric profession of yours...you cannot hope to truly find love. Let alone keep it”, he chuckled at Dion’s despair. “Why, a man of your standing falling for a simple whore, did you believe to ride into the sunset on a white pony and build a life together? Pathetic...”.

As Dion began to reach for his pistol growing fed up with Ulldor’s cross words...

“Now, now”, a charmingly slimy voice sliced through the tension. Upon viewing the source actually increased the tension.

“That will be more than enough bloodshed for today”, Ardyn let himself in.

“C..Chancellor Izunia”, Dion’s voice shook as he removed his hand from his pistol.

“General Ulldor, would you mind not rattling Mr. Mammon? He has just suffered a terrible loss”, Ardyn asked with false remorse that almost sounded like teasing.

“Hmph”, Ulldor stands from the desk making his way out the door leaving the Chancellor with the somber Dion on the couch.

“My, my...”, Ardyn chuckles before casually taking his spot upon the front of Dion’s desk. “What a day you’ve had”.

“Yes...it’s been...eventful”, Dion attempted to recollect his normal gentlemanly demeanor.

“First, you were accused of stealing my Muerlin from under my nose by an anonymous tipper, then your prize whore is fed to the pets. Of course, you did the last thing on your own accord”, the man smirked.

“Yes...Birdie was...my dearest love, but such ridiculous accusations cannot go unaddressed”, Dion spot lightheartedly. “It had to be done, I’m afraid”.

“That is true”, Ardyn seemingly agreed.

“Unless...”, his tone lowering to a low growl, “...you do have my Muerlin”, the Chancellor’s glare locked upon the timid man on the couch. “For which I am not fully convinced that S.R. lied of your intent”.

The finely pressed man began to sweat over his thin mustache.

“I assure you, Chancellor Izunia”, the man fibbed, “what Birdie told you...it was all lies”.

“I’m honestly not so sure that your precious bird was even the culprit here, Mr. Mammon”, Ardyn stood from his seat heading toward the door.

Dion confused by his comment.

“You see...I know how these establishments work, Mr. Mammon”, the Chancellor chuckled. “The loyalty of these simple whores is...juvenile, to say the least. But the bond between a man and his prime...that...is not a loyalty easily shaken”.

“Well...I did always say that Birdie wasn’t like any other whore”, Dion sighed.

“Maybe so...but I cannot imagine someone of her standing could make such an amateur mistake at ratting herself out”, Ardyn continued. “Especially, having to have known the consequences. A prime whore has to be mindful of these thing”.

“What’re you insinuating?”, Dion curiously asked the Chancellor.

“That someone intelligent enough to keep an unholy place like this afloat, wouldn’t test such an idiotic stunt for mere fortune...I believe you were made by someone much more clever...someone that knew you would be so confident in their trust...or fear of you that you would never suspect”, the slimy Chancellor grinned at the befuddled man. “...yet someone so vengeful...that they would go that extra mile...just to see you hurt”.

Dion had nothing to say. He couldn’t think of anyone that could’ve possibly wanted Birdie dead that badly...he felt vulnerable at the mere thought of his mind being warped by such manipulation.

It made him sick.

“Also...if I may ask, what time did you and Birdie start last night?”

“Not long after midnight...until a little after 3”, Dion answered suspiciously.

“Interesting...how impressive for a mere bottom whore to have recorded and delivered such an elaborate message at 1:30 am. While being played with by her master...”, Ardyn lightly hissed.

Dion’s eyes now saucers.

“...where is my Muerlin, Mr. Mammon?”

9:02 am.

Dion escorted the Chancellor to the room he assigned to her on the second floor.

After knocking upon the door and receiving no answer, Dion noticed the door was already unlocked.

Shoving the door open, Dion was paralyzed by the sight before him.

The room was bare.

Completely.

The bed was made, everything was in its rightful spot.

As if not a single soul had been in here.

“GALAHD!!!”, Dion called out to his servant whom he assigned to watch her.

No answer.

“GALAHD!!!”, he called once more, exiting the room and looking down the halls.

Still no answer.

Knowing how sneaky she was, Dion turned back into the room to see if she had slipped past him somehow.

No one.

“...no...”, Dion mumbled under his shaky breath. “...this can’t be...that little bitch...”.

“Pardon me, Mr. Mammon...”, Ardyn calmly interrupted his panic, only to make it worse as his eyes glowed a bright yellow. “...but who is Galahd...?”

The next morning...

“Alright...”, Muerlin’s voice echoed throughout the cavern.

“The Empire will be here in 30 minutes and I only need about 10 to get out of here before they show”.

Muerlin’s back toward the caverns exit.

“So you’re going to spend the next 20 telling me who you really are...”, Muerlin instructs are she slowly lifts her hand, sparks twinkling between her fingers, “...before I tear you in half”.

The girl before her only releasing a light sigh in light vexation of her defeat, her milky grey gaze rising to Muerlin’s teal orbs.

“Fair enough”.

____________________________________________________

Tagging: @digitalkanvas @insomniasix @glacian-apocalypse @aquathemermaidstripper @a-new-recipehhh @prettyprompto @dizzymoogle

If you would like to be tagged, don’t be afraid to let me know!

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #final fantasy xv fanfiction #final fantasy xv oc #muerlinian zephyr #muerlin zephyr #The Pythoness #sibyl ramses #dionysus mammon #bird of paradise #birdie #caligo ulldor #ardyn izunia #niflheim #galahd #albinogin

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sherlockholmesandhisinability · 7 years

Text

Sherlock Holmes and His Inability to Go Trick-or-Treating. (One Part Halloween Special)

"Rosie, come here, honey,"

"Yes Daddy-" she grinned as she toddled over to me, "What's wrong, Daddy?"

"Oh, nothing, honey- I just think you look like the prettiest witch I've ever laid eyes on, that's all."

I pulled her close and she squirmed and giggled in the breadth of my goliath Frankenstein costume.

"Careful, Daddy, don't elec- don't eltrec- ezzec-"

"Electrocute." Corrected Sherlock. "Say it phonetically Rosamund: ee-lec-tro-cute. Go on."

"Ee-ee-eelectrocoo?"

"Not quite there, my dear Watson."

Sherlock twirled around magnificently, his cape flouncing decadantly in the sweet exilhiration of youth, scooped Rosie up with two outstretched arms and held her from underneath her arms.

"Electrocuted. A difficult word to say. Especially for a two-and-three-quarters year-old child." He teased, "Now, don't you look magnificent!"

He gasped sharply in mock awe and cried, "But doesn't Daddy over there look terrifying?!"

"Scary Daddy!" She laughed.

He gently put her down, went to walk away, but was stopped in his tracks by a little witch's broomstick being jabbed in his shins.

"Hubble, bubble, toil and rubble!"

"Trouble, Rosie, trouble is the word."

"You're teaching her Shakespeare now?" I huffed in a disgruntled moan, "Come on Sherlock, she's only three for Christ sake."

"Wrong. She is not yet three. For a Frankenstein, your brain is very slow. You'd think your creator would have plucked a better one from the earth. Of all graves, he picked John Watson's. He could have taken your arm," he pulled my arm upwards, "Your leg", he kicked my leg to the side, "Your fantastic, incredible pelvis", he slid his hand from the bolts on my neck, down my tingling spine, to my lower back and gently pulled it forward- ever closer to his frontage.

"Perhaps your neck?" He leaned down to my painted countenance and stroked my cheek with his bladed face, fangs and all touching my jaw seductively.

He grazed my shaven face with his deathly pale undead smirk and looked into my eyes. My heart raced.

"Your lips..." I drew in my breath as he came nearer to my unquivering mouth.

"But no!" He spouted, causing me to be plucked from my dreamlike trance and thrust into grim reality. Or Grimm's reality. I wasn't really sure. All I new was that Count Dracula was staring me in the face, holding me tight, and that I had nowhere to run.

"He neglected all of your wonderful physical features and took your ordinary brain."

"Is that an insult or dirty talk?!" I chuckled, "You're not too good at these things, you know!"

"Oh, but I am. You see- you hadn't allowed me to speak of your fantastic optimism. The benevolence and passion which resides in that relatively ordinary mind of yours."

"Relatively?"

"Mmm. Yes indeed. For a mind such as yours is commonplace and ignored in the nonchalance of the social majority. The public. But here, in my vampire lair," he joked, "It is a trophy. A gift. And I want to spend every single day with it in my keep. In my keep. In... my... keep. Rosie, that's your cue!"

"Sorry Daddy!" She bounced across the floor and clicked a button on the millennium era stereo which I'd never bothered to upgrade. Upon which, a beautiful serenade began to play and the flat was filled with the pungent shrillness of a violin masterfully played.

Still in possession of my faculties, Sherlock raised my arms and lurched my hips deep into the depth of his. He lead and I followed his sensitive sway. We were dancing.

I embedded myself into his shoulder and inhaled the intoxicating fumes of the world's only Consulting Detective. He smelt clean and sharp. The world's only. One of a kind. I was locked into his posture and our two movements became one singular structure of motion.

As I sunk further into his breast, I felt my shoulders be pushed back, then my chest, my front and then my...

"Erm, Sherlock, you're awfully close to my-"

"No words."

He kept lowering himself down the straight of my body. Slowly, methodically, studying my every dimension, before slumping at the floor and unfurling from his leathery shawl.

He pulled something from the plumage of his collar.

"Sherlock..."

"No words!" He scolded. "Ah, erm, where was I?" He composed himself and took a full set of lungs. So full of oxygen, I thought he might combust.

"John Hamish Watson. We have known eachother for some time now. Throughout thick and thin, life and death, you have stood by me. You- ha, you- ahaha, you-"

He convulsed into a fenzy of uncontrollable laughter. Shaking with humour, he tried to stand, but then failed disgracefully. At this moment, I siezed with guffaws and clutched my stomach.

"Sherlock, you're not meant to be laughing right now!" I giggled.

I helped him up and we leaned together, each stance entirely depending on the other's.

I looked up and smiled- now at his dislodged fang- "I never thought I'd say 'yes' to Count Dracula himself."

His grin dissolved and his brows closed together. His nostrils flared like a beast and his lips were pursed and bitten.

"You're... saying... yes?"

I smiled at the idiot trying to propose to me and took the ring from his sweaty palm and placed it firmly on my finger.

"There, look- now we're engaged."

"We're... engaged. We're engaged!" He pulled me back in and spun me around innumerable times before planting me back on the floor and staring at my misty eyes with glee.

"We're engaged!" He gasped, "We are engaged."

"Yay! Daddy and Dad are en... enga... enrag?"

"Engaged, honey," I corrected, "Daddy and Dad are engaged."

"So... can we go trick-or-treating now?!" She bounded up and down with pure excitement.

"Yes!" Sherlock and I chanted in unison.

We marched downstairs, hand-in-hand, clad in our monstrous battlesuits and opened the door of 221b and stepped into London as an engaged couple.

There, to my suprise, stood a greeting party!

Fairy Molly Hooper! Werewolf Lestrade! Poorly-wrapped-toilet-roll-mummy Mrs Hudson, and last but not least... er... Mycroft?

He wasn't dressed up.

He whipped his umbrella from behind him and put it up.

"I'm Mary Poppins." He mocked.

"HAPPY ENGAGEMENT!" Roared our friends.

"You told them?!"

"Oh, deary, you couldn't possibly think Sherlock Holmes could have made that beautiful proposal without consulting actual humans, do you?" Spoke a teary Mrs Hudson. "I'm just glad you finally realised-"

"I'm not gay!" I yelled,

"Oh, yes dear, we know. You're... bi-sex-ual." She stammered, marvelling at this newfangled concept.

"I just meant that we're glad you finally realised that you two were simply meant to be, that's all." She whimpered, before she and Molly hugged a very tearful embrace.

"Congratulations, boys. I do really hope you two will be happy together." Said Mycroft with just a tinge of genuine happiness on his face.

"Lads!" Cried Lestrade as he rushed us with a brutush cuddle, "Lads I gotta tell ya, I am so happy for you. So happy!" He reiterated with a second hug.

"But," questioned Molly, "Where are the balloons?"

"Balloons?" All but Sherlock queried in chorus-

"Yeah," nodded Greg, "Or the race cars?"

"Race cars?!"

"Or the fireworks?" Asked Mrs Hudson.

We all turned to Sherlock.

"Although those ideas were... marvellous, I felt that I was really obligated to manifest my own proposal. I do hope you all understand."

The group nodded sheepishly.

"However, I hope you are all ready for a fast paced, helium filled, dazzlingly bright wedding!"

We all rejoiced together. Our wedding was to be a ridiculous, high-octane, childish and extremely loud family affair. Mummy Holmes wasn't going to be happy!

Rosie interjected; "Sweeties!"

"All right love, let's go." I said. Rosie slipped her hand into mine and Sherlock was hesitant, but did the same with her little talons.

"I want sugar!" She ran off and laughed with the girls. The lads hung at the back of the ghoulish procession,

"Tell her not to worry, John. Her father will be getting enough sugar for the both of them tonight, eh brother mine?" Taunted Mycroft.

"You bet." He turned to me.

"I'm thinking we stay in costume?" He whispered to me sensually, "In character even? After all, vampires have incredible sucking powers don't they?"

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lurkernolonger · 7 years

Text

Siren (3/4)

Hey friends. Here is the penultimate chapter. I started off so excited for this AU and now, half way in, the struggle has been real. I think I jumped the gun and ran with it without any real planning and, wow, was that stupid. That being said, it's been getting a lot of support from the emus (though that is nothing new; you guys are too lovely) so thank you! This was my favourite chapter, but after reading it about 238 times I’m not so sure anymore. Sorry if it’s shit. x

Trigger warning: Descriptions of fire.

It's their fourth date in three weeks. If it was up to Finn there wouldn't have been a day without seeing her, but his work schedule keeps conflicting with hers. He loves his job but it doesn't exactly afford him enough personal time. In fact after tonight will be a four day stretch of 12 hour shifts, all of which will keep him away from Rae. Finn hates that. They've only just gotten into a groove with one another; to a point where she doesn't hesitate to touch him and he's stopped profusely perspiring around her. Finn worries the time apart will make them lose momentum from the direction they're hurtling. And he means hurtling. Finn's never wanted to move this fast with anyone before. He can't get enough of her, doesn't think he ever will. It's absurd that even when she's right there, hand in his, he's thinking of ways to get closer, and closer still. They haven't talked about labels or exclusivity, but to him there's no one else and he hopes to whatever higher power there is that it's the same for her.

They're walking to Rae's from dinner after a lazy afternoon of browsing through the record shop and stealing kisses behind album covers. In all his brooding about being away from her, Finn hasn't realized he's been silently frowning at the ground.

“You alright?” Rae shakes their joined hands a little to get his attention.

“Yeah, soz.” Finn gives her a smile before dropping her hand to tuck her right into his side. “Just thinking how shit it's gonna be not seeing you for a while.”

“It's only a week.”

They've reached her building and Finn spins her so she's angled on the stone wall, hands moving under her jacket to cup her waist. “S'too long,” he mumbles against her skin as he nuzzles into her neck. “Mmm. Maybe you'll just have to set fire to something to get me to come rescue you.” He peppers tiny kisses along her jawline and when he feels her hands thread through his hair he circles his arms around her to pull her tight against him.

Rae moves both hands to his neck and uses her hold to push his head away so she can look at him. He's sure she must feel how his blood is rushing through his jugular. “Are you asking me to commit arson, Finnley?!” she asks with dramatized indignation.

“Mmhm. I'd visit you in jail and everything. Think of the conjugal visits.” Finn waggles his brows at her and she throws her head back in mirth, affording him another chance to assault her throat. He feels her laughter rumble through his chest and he's certain he's never been this happy.

“You're awful.” Rae giggles, before playfully biting the apple of his cheek.

Finn wrinkles his nose and pulls her even closer. Always closer. “Awful...ly cute? Fit? Handsome?”

Rae shakes her head, lips caught between her teeth to keep the grinning at bay. “Nope, just awful.” Finn pouts and Rae presses her thumb to his bottom lip before leaning forward to capture it between her own. It's meant to be chaste, but then Finn's tongue snakes it's way into her mouth and it's anything but quick. Rae's the one to pull away, taking a steadying breath with her. Finn touches his forehead to hers as she plays with the lapel of his coat. “Do you want to come up for a bit?”

He's never been inside her flat before, and he finds that all he can imagine about it is the various pieces of furniture he could lay her down on. It makes him nervous to think about her chairs, her sofa, her bed. Finn's never thought twice about sleeping with a woman he's been dating before, never worried about the first time being just right, but this is different. Rae is different. She's not some first meet fuck; far from it. Their first kiss after their first date had made him rue the fact that he needed oxygen. He was certain had he not had to breathe he would have happily stayed attached to her for hours. It was worth a thousand embarrassments, and he had gained another when she gently chuckled at his awestruck wordless staring after he'd regretfully pulled away. He knew then that Rae was the last of his firsts: dates, kisses, loves.

“Finn?” Rae's voice is quiet now, hesitant even, and he realizes he hasn't answered. “It's alright if you don't want -”

“I do! Fuck, yes. I really really do,” he rushes out, words tripping over reassurance. Smooth, Finn. He pecks the tip of her nose, a physical full stop to his declaration, then moves to kiss her on the mouth so her eyes will close and maybe she won't see how flustered he feels. Rae kisses him back in kind, and Finn wonders if he's imagining the tiny tremble of her lips.

Rae leads him upstairs with a quick hello to her elderly neighbour from the floor below, Mrs. Dewhurst, who shoots Finn a warning glare before shuffling down the corridor. Once they're behind her door Finn's nerves go into overdrive. He knew she was brilliant, but being in her space proves that Rae is his actual soul mate. The place is so her and it's uncanny how much of her is just like him. They have the same posters, the same vinyls in the same crates, the same brand of beer, the same issues of the same magazines stacked on coffee tables from the same shop. The idea that someone who fits him so perfectly has existed this whole time is ridiculous, and he finds he's irrationally frustrated with the universe for not meeting her sooner.

They talk and laugh until the evening turns to stars but Finn doesn't spend the night. As much as he wants to stay, he won't let their first time be followed by him rushing out for work. He tells himself it's for her sake, but he knows between them she is the stronger one and he couldn't – wouldn't – leave her come morning. He does, however, reach for her hips and dips and lips but his hands are hungry for much more than that. Finn figures maybe if he holds her tight enough his volition will press into her skin like his fingers do and she'll feel what he does. So he allows his mouth to do the convincing; kissing her into her chairs, her sofa, her bed and eventually, reluctantly, the front door.

“That was the side, and you fucking know it!”

“Are you blind, mate? That was the corner!”

“I reckon it was the edge.”

“Well does the edge count as the surface or the side?”

Finn shakes his head and chuckles at Chop and the other lads who have been arguing over a game of table tennis for the entire duration of Champagne Supernova playing through his headphones. He saw the rally and knows Chop deserves the point but decides to let them squabble, returning to the notebook in front of him. It's the second round of his 12 hour shifts and he's spent his down time compiling a track list for a mixtape. Finn tells himself it's just another one targeted for a certain mood, but can't deny the only mood he's been feeling is head in the fucking clouds happy. He defends himself internally over the fact that more than half the songs are about a woman, but when one of the others passes too close he snaps the notebook shut anyway. He doesn't need the ribbing. Chop had given him enough of that when bloody Archie had told him about Finn's night with Rae. Apparently they had that bet (or in the case, lack there of) going as well. Wankers.

The alarm blares overhead and all games and lists are abandoned for coats and helmets. They pile into the truck and it's warning sound peals loudly as they veer out of the garage. Finn inhales deep and focuses on staying calm.

When he first signed up for service at 18 it was just a job. He wasn't interested in uni and his GCSEs made the requirements. The physical test had been a breeze and he was always good with tools. His dad had been thrilled that he was helping the community, and his nan would boast to all her friends that her grandson was saving lives. It was all well and good until the first fire.

It was a tiny home on the outskirts of town. An elderly man living alone had forgotten to shut off the hob and a grease fire broke. They had managed to save most of the house, but the man had passed in hospital from smoke inhalation. Finn had nightmares for weeks; the images of fumes and flames and blackened skin haunting him. It was a reality kick in the bollocks, but instead of quitting Finn had buckled down, trained harder, learned more, determined to do whatever it took to never have that outcome again.

Now, years later, his death count is still at one and it isn't just a job anymore, it's a duty. One that requires him to remember that anything could be waiting at the other end of the siren.

"Quick ride this time, boys," Chop announces from the driver's seat.

Finn glances out the window and notices familiar surroundings. His stomach twists uncomfortably as they pass the cafe and head up the road. "Where?" Finn asks. The others exchange worried glances at the shake in his voice. "Chop, where?"

Chop rattles off an address and Finn's chest starts to heave. "Who called it in?!" he demands.

Chop gives him a concerned look through the rear view mirror before glancing down. “According to dispatch it was a tenant named Rachel Earl."

No. NO. Nonononono... Whether he's voicing it out loud or it's just screaming in his head Finn's not sure. From the looks of the others it's both. His mind is swirling with possibilities as he recalls all of his stupid jokes about eulogies and fake fires and he might actually vomit at the thought that it could be real. Finn senses panic rise like bile in his throat and he feels like the fire is right there, inside the truck, because his lungs are burning and he can't breathe. Wide eyes are cast to him all around and he sees creased brows and moving mouths but all he hears is his pounding heart and the deafening cry of the siren. Chop has pulled over and Finn pushes his way out. He feels tears prick his eyes as he looks up at Rae's building, the air is blurred with smog and an angry orange glow illuminates the windows of her floor. Finn feels hands grabbing for his arms but all protocol is out the window as he pushes them off and runs towards the building. People are yelling and crying and running all around him but it's only one face he's looking for.

"Rae! Rae! RAE!!" His voice sounds foreign to his own ears, jarring and desperate, and reflects the frenzy he feels. He doesn't see her anywhere and his frantic eyes only catch a glimpse of a livid Chop coming towards him. He can't stop now though. Not until he finds her. Not until she's safe. Not until he knows she won't be number two.

Finn darts for the entrance, only pausing to hold it open for a woman and her child who come running out. He's taking the stairs two, three at a time searching every corner for anything, anyone. The higher he climbs the hotter it gets. The air is so thick with heat that he's practically choking but he can't tell if it's on smoke or fear. When he reaches her floor he nearly topples back down the stairs from the sight. Aggressive flames lick the length of the hall as fumes curl tightly in the air. The flats have their doors wide open and he takes it as a good sign; they'd left, escaped. He knows he should turn around, get back to the crew, back to safety, back to cleaner air and cooler temperatures, but then he sees one shut door and the need for reassurance wins out as he stumbles towards it. Rae's door. The same door he'd kissed her against but two days ago. Finn tests the handle and finds it hot but not unbearable and he kicks at the lock until it gives. His eyes sting as he takes in the room. The atmosphere is acrid with melted plastic and for a nanosecond he mourns the loss of the vinyl but his next thought is that he would gladly destroy his entire collection to know Rae was safe.

“RAE?! RAE?!” If his voice was different before, it's unrecognizable now. It's rough and raspy and claws at the dense air demanding an answer. Finn moves where he can, watching all the things that were so her, and by extension him, catch and crumble in the flaming waves. He's coughing now, dizzy; the room and his lungs deprived of oxygen. Suddenly he hears his name, loud and almost as desperate. Finn turns to find the source only to see a support beam come crashing from the ceiling blocking his exit. He hears his name one more time, closer now, before his vision goes black and his body succumbs to the pulsing heat.

As usual, please let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

@bitchesbecrazy89 @crystalgiddings1993 @emmatationsforall @eveerez @fyeahsharonrooney @hey1tskat1e @i-dream-of-emus @isthistherightwayround @karinskyme @kingbeeyonce @kj0504 @kneekeyta @likeashootingstarfades @lilaviolet @l88cym @mallyallyandra @milllott @milymargot @mmfdfanfic @nutinanutshell @protectfinnnelson @raeonashadowcaster @rockinthebeastmode @tinakegg @2muchtosee2littletime

#mmfd #mmfdfanfic #mmfd fanfiction #mmfd fan fiction #mmfd fanfic #Rinn #siren #My Mad Fat Fandom #my mad fat diary #i wrote this

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noikracs · 5 years

Text

Summary: Part 2 of when Reiji is in the hospital, when Sugai and Tajima decide to read his file

After the whole thing went down and Reiji was checked on by one of the doctor’s, he fell back to sleep in Tajima’s arms while Sugai had his arms wrapped around the boy.

“The nurse said we should probably look at the file...” Tajima mumbled.

Sugai already tried, he just couldn’t do it anymore. But he didn’t want to tell Tajima he went on without him, so he simply nodded, grabbing the file.

Taking a deep breath, Sugai asked nervously, “Are— are you sure you want to do this?”

“We need to know what’s wrong so we can help him,” said Tajima, putting on the bravest face he could manage.

Sugai slowly nodded once again before opening it, and giving enough room for Tajima to read also.

Patient Information:

Name: Reiji Sunada

Age: 15 Years

Date of Birth: 21 April 2004

Abilities/Notable Factors: Tendrils come out of the back that can shock when wet

Alias: ‘Eel’

Reason for access to Med Bay: Deathly injuries

Tajima paused, pressed a kiss to Reiji’s forehead and took a third breath before delving into the actual part of the report which was most difficult to read.

List of Injuries and/or Health Conditions by Assumed Date of Occurrence:

Mild taser burns on sides of abdomen and neck

Lip split and bitten into

Bruising on right eye, left cheekbone, ribs, stomach and neck

Bullet wound – entry through back, lodged next to left shoulder blade and scarring from bullet extraction surgery

Additional bruising to right side of face, cheekbone and temple

Eighty cuts and lacerations increasing in depth and severity covering back and hips

Evidence of drowning and subsequent health complications including the following:

Water Inhalation – Pulmonary Edema – Hypoxia – Respiratory Failure – Patient was most likely held underwater without air for extended periods of time before unconsciousness occurred *

Sugai and Tajima both stared at the Asterix and followed to the next page over where there was another section of writing. They were suddenly very glad that the people they hired were thorough because someone had printed information and research on something called secondary drowning, which Reiji had apparently experienced.

* ‘Inhaled water leads to a condition given the name ‘secondary drowning,’ which is when water gets into the lungs where it can irritate the lungs’ lining and fluid can build up, causing a condition called Pulmonary Edema. Pulmonary Edema (Symptoms: Extreme shortness of breath or difficulty breathing (dyspnea) that worsens with activity or when lying down, a feeling of suffocating or drowning that worsens when lying down, wheezing or gasping for breath, cold or clammy skin, anxiety, restlessness or a sense of apprehension, a cough that produces frothy sputum that may be tinged with blood, blue-tinged lips, a rapid or irregular heartbeat (palpitations)) causes respiratory failure due to hypoxia  hypoxia is a deficiency in the amount of oxygen reaching the tissues (symptoms: change in skin colour, increased or decreased heart rate, rapid breathing, shortness of breath, sweating, wheezing).

Sugai flipped back to the other page, determined to push through and finish reading the list of injuries.

Open bone biopsy on hip, knee and shoulder – Patient not administered anaesthetics and was likely forced to walk immediately after surgery

Patient appears to have been kept in early stages of hypothermia for extended durations of time

Patient appears to have undergone some form of sensory attack and deprivation due to increased sensitivity to light and sound

Severe ankle breakage – likely caused through weight dropped onto limb and continuous disruption and aggravation to the broken bone after breakage

Severe Asphyxiation – likely caused by strangulation

Additional bruising to jaw and mouth area causing second split lip

Severe bruising across entire face

Three broken ribs, two fractures

Trauma to eye socket likely caused by multiple blows

Bloody nose due to assumed assault

Dislocated shoulder

Injuries consistent to those of beaten and/or assaulted patients

Thoracentesis surgery without anaesthetic – needle inserted into pleural space between lung and chest walls, likely to remove excess fluids (pleural effusion) from the pleural space to improve ability to breathe

Shattered hyoid bone and evidence of poorly-executed bone reconstruction surgery

Severe Epiglottitis – condition which occurs when tissue protecting windpipe becomes inflamed

Please note that the patient was administered a fibreoptic intubation procedure without anaesthetics or ventilator to assist breathing

Extreme fever caused by infections *

* ‘Infections in both lungs’ air sacs causing them to swell – Caused Pneumonia

Respiratory tract infection in upper and lower respiratory tracts

Pharyngitis – caused by severe swelling in pharynx and larynx

Severe Sepsis throughout body (condition arises when body’s response to infection causes injury to tissues and organs)

Multiple opportunistic infections (infections caused by patients weakened immune system and deteriorating physical health)’

Evidence of more water inhalation and an increase in the severity of multiple infections

Evidence that the patient underwent severe and final stages of hypothermia

All external wounds were re-opened for reasons unknown

Severe electrical burns on points of contact (both temples, toes, fingers) and contusions/abrasions from suspected metal clamps and plates used to administer high amount of electrical currents

Severe injures from restraints on ankles, wrists, all joints, chest, collarbone, hips, temples and neck

Severe electrocution

Severe hypovolemic shock caused by amount of blood loss

Major concussion

Throat inflammation caused by screaming

Multitude of severe contusions and abrasions

Evidence of multiple seizures and spasms

Extreme starvation

Extreme dehydration

Extreme sleep deprivation

Interesting/Unexplained Features:

Gasoline residue found on clothing and skin – inhalation of these subsequent fumes caused high risk carbon monoxide poisoning which is the likely cause of the seizures and heart arrhythmias

Surgery guidelines over skull and spine despite no evidence of any surgical procedures

Finger-shaped bruises in unusual places such as hips, thighs, lower back and shoulder blades

Wound on chest had been carved into the patient in order to cause emotional and psychological damage

Although no anaesthetics were administered to the patient, they suffered from (intentional) Opioid-Induced Hyperalgesia * and extreme amounts of Varenicline * which were found in the patient’s system

* ‘Opioid-Induced Hyperalgesia is a state of nociceptive sensitization caused by exposure to opioids. The rare condition is characterised by a paradoxical response in which a patient receiving medication (specifically opioids) for the treatment of pain actually becomes more sensitive to certain painful stimuli. In this patients’ case: (Reiji Sunada) the specific synthesis of drugs he was unwillingly supplied with were used to intentionally increase the amount of pain felt during and following most experiments and attacks.’

* ‘Varenicline goes by the brand name ‘Chantix’ and has been highly scrutinised for causing severe neuropsychiatric adverse events including abnormal dreams, nightmares, night terrors, aggression, anxiety, heavy fatigue, insomnia, irritability, somnolence (sleepwalking) and other various sleep disorders.’

Tajima choked back a sob. “Baby— my baby—” he buried his nose in Reiji’s hair, crying.

The slightly older man wiped a few tears. “I can’t— I can’t comprehend how he could’ve went through all that...”

“Dad’s?” a small voice called, Reiji looking worried.

Sugai gave the best smile he could manage. “Hey, love. How are you feeling?”

With a shrug, Reiji mumbled, “My back hurts a bit but I’m fine. Why are you crying? Are you reading my file?” he asked quietly.

“We’re sorry, sweetheart, we just needed to make sure y—”

“No, it’s f—fine. I understand.”

Tajima asked nervously, “Are you hungry now, bambino?” He was just worried Reiji would end up starving at his own will.

And not to his surprise, Reiji shook his head. “No. I’m good.”

“Are you sure?” asked Sugai, his larger, calloused hands cupping the boy’s cheeks gently.

Reiji nodded. “Yeah. I can’t tell if it’s a habit or the fact I j—just am not used to eating really.”

Even though part of him was afraid to ask, Tajima did ask, “When could you eat, sweetheart?”

“Every four days,” he responded, trying to seem nonchalant about it, but he wanted to sob.

Sugai inhaled sharply. “What— what could you eat?”

The boy looked like he was thinking for a moment before mumbling, “Bread was the usual. Though sometimes I’d have oatmeal.” Again, he wanted to sob but he kept it in.

“B—baby, you know you can cry, right? It’s okay, you are safe,” reassured Tajima, rubbing small circles into his cheek.

Reiji sniffled. “I—I know, it’s just a habit, I—I guess.”

There was a pause before Sugai said lovingly, “Take your time, sweetheart. We c—can be patient.” Though his voice was quivering, Reiji nodded.

“Can I go back to sleep?” asked the boy quietly.

Tajima and Sugai instantly nodded as Reiji’s eyes slowly drifted shut.

Everything’s going to be okay.

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