#ignore the black border. that's the bleed edge... it would just be the white... it would just be the white...

[birdmenmanga]

SOBBING INCONSOLABLYYYYYYY IS THIS NOT THE COOLEST POSTCARD DESIGN EVERRRRR

[darkpoisonouslove]

Prey on the Heart

Summary: Valtor is on the hunt when his hound makes an unexpected discovery - Griffin is on the premises and defenseless against his rage over her betrayal. Valtor has to decide what catch he’s after - her head or their love. AU.

CW: Blood, dog bites, injury neglect, non-graphic violence and sex

This has been an outlined idea for almost 11 months. It was supposed to be an entry for Whumptober last year but I managed to turn it back into romance instead of torture somehow. I never got around to writing it unti today the universe conspired to bring it into existence and I am so happy to have finally finished it!

Love Again by Dua Lipa is giving me feels for this AU so give it a listen if you want.

The tufts of yellowed grass barely rustled under his feet as he followed the hound south. A little further and they'd leave the borders of the Coven's estate for the uninhabitable wasteland his mothers hadn't bothered to purchase even at the low cost of Obsidian land.

The rainless summer had left the otherwise infertile ground dry and cracked, no prints marring it's hardened surface. The hound was relying purely on her animal instincts and despite the boost from his magic, his senses couldn't catch up. He was barely keeping up with Violet herself glancing around for a trace on the foliage of what she'd sniffed.

He caught a strangled scream without the need to strain his ears. It was loud and clear despite the attempt to muffle it. He'd thought it was an animal the hound had shot after but that scream... It was a human voice. A familiar voice.

He followed the sound, steps hurried and heavy on the ground to chase away any game in the vicinity but he'd have his prize regardless. Unless he was dreaming or under one of mother Lysslis' illusion spells.

He called the dog back to lead him to where she'd left her victim. He'd seen Violet do her thing under Lysslis' training. Whenever she got her teeth into something, it wasn't getting away before she let go. And it wasn't getting away after that either.

Violet's teeth had a wet red tint to them, muzzle damp with blood and saliva as her nostrils expanded voraciously with every breath from the heavy copper smell. She circled him frantically and dashed forward only to run back to him in an attempt to prompt him to catch up with her speed. At least she was happy with her find.

An unusual circle of trees formed a perfectly lined up clearing in the forest. Stepping inside it left him face to face with a lone tree in the middle that was keeled over and charred. It must have been stricken by a lightning but its sturdy, forked roots had grounded it deep in the soil to make it the only thing standing in the clearing.

Leaning on the other side of it, partially concealed by its thick trunk, was none other than Griffin. Her hands trembled as she tightened the knot on the bandage she'd wrapped around her bleeding calf. She hissed when the dirty rag she'd torn from the hemline of her tattered and muddied dress constricted the tender wound Violet had left in her wake. And to think Griffin had been the one who'd gifted him the hound when she'd still been a pup that had fit in the palm of his hand. Valtor had even named her after Griffin, the striking shade of her hair coloring everything from his sketches to the very dreams his subconscious concocted. If she hadn't left so soon after presenting him with the puppy, Violet may have remembered her scent. Not that that would have given her a chance against Lysslis' conditioning of all hunting dogs, including Valtor's personal hound.

Griffin's eyes pinned the hound where it was pacing from one side to another behind Valtor's legs with her tail wagging and her labored breaths filling the silence of his own lungs. The sight of him had Griffin's whole body tensing as her hands hit the tree bark behind her back and she scrambled to her feet.

Her movements were lagging from the pain and panic dripping from her hunched form. Her hair fell down her back matted with red where she'd brushed it back with bloodied hands. Large chunks of unrefined obsidian crystals were strapped to her wrists with clumsy threads of silver into bracelets that ran up her arms under her sleeves.

She'd made those herself–in a hurry–her magic pulling the crystals and metal straight from the core of the planet. They would have impeded any other witch considering his own mothers' magic was notably subdued by the large deposits of obsidian under the planet's surface but not her. Crystals were one of her areas of expertise–and the reason why she'd walked into his life–yet even her knowledge had failed her along with her luck. She'd made it to the very edge of the territory controlled and owned by the Coven under the protection of the black crystals she'd adorned herself with to ward off dark magic but still not far enough.

It had been fear cutting off her magic to prevent her from fashioning herself a bandage the way she'd crafted her protection charms. Her golden eyes were wide like pits of inextinguishable fire and her chest wasn't moving to push the ample cleavage her dress left exposed into the forefront of his mind. She'd had an easier time drawing breath with the weight of his head nestled over her ribcage, over her heart beating steadily with the promise of her presence.

Valtor's step forward echoed like a gunshot in her body. Her back pressed into the tree, muscles pulled taut with compressed energy readying her to pounce.

"Run." His first word to her. He could have lost a bet that it would be a vile curse in a lost language only she could understand. "I dare you." She'd turned her back and left unprompted. If she still abode by that logic, then she'd have to stay.

Griffin swallowed. "You're going to hunt me down like an animal?" Her teeth gritted as she strained against her eyes slipping from his form.

His fingers clenched to white around the cold metal of his shotgun. Her jaw would have been dust in his grip where he wanted it to tip her head back and pin her gaze with his. She'd forced him to endure far greater pain being the one left behind. She hadn't earned the right to writhe and scream in agony.

"Violet here is an animal," he extended his hand and the hound pressed her head into his open palm. She always obeyed his calls, never running off where she wouldn't hear him and come back. "She is loyal and dependable which is more than I can say about you." He may have named the dog after Griffin but he'd raised Violet to never follow in her footsteps.

"So I am less than an animal to you, too?" Her gaze darted to the dog and back – to the piece of herself she hadn't stolen from him.

Valtor frowned, hand stilling between Violet's ears to make her rub it in his fingers insistently. He ignored her.

"What do you mean to me too?" Once again Griffin took precedence. Over his hunt, over his dog, over his own heart. Only his stomach sank from the prediction of what he'd hear from her mouth.

"You think I came here on a picnic with only the dress on my back?" Griffin stood steady on her feet, her tenacious nature breathing life into a smirk he had to bite back.

He hadn't given thought to the circumstances of their meeting. Her aching form in front of his eyes was everything. One blink and she'd melt away, swept up into another one of the portals the locations of which she was best at estimating. Indeed her presence on top of her disheveled state posed multiple questions he hadn't paid mind to. He was making it too easy for her to deceive him again.

"Your mothers chased me down and electrocuted me to the point of nearly frying my organs," her arms crossed over her belly to raise alarms in his head. If anything gave him the strength to best mother Tharma, it would be the rage over touching what was his. Griffin was a central part of that even if revenge was all that was left between them. That and the truth she spoke. "They kept me locked up for weeks in a tiny shoe box where I couldn't even stand up straight and only let me out last night. Right as darkness fell for me to read on the star-filled sky that it was the first day of hunting season."

There was disdain in her voice instead of the fear everyone else held for the way his mothers took beauty and strength and twisted it into despair. They had taken her love of astronomy and turned it into the herald of her death sentence. Just like they'd repopulated the area around their estate with hunting game only to have their fill of murdering unsuspecting animals.

Griffin's eyes burned so fiercely he half expected the tree behind her to catch fire. "They let me out to be your prey." And she'd dashed for the quickest route out of there. She hadn't come back for him.

"You betrayed me."

Violet sat down on her hind legs, body taut like a string and tail beating harshly into the dust. She would leap at the smallest shift in him.

Griffin was like a rock in front of him. His fire wouldn't touch her and his bullets would bounce back at him. "They are enslaving people and I didn't know I was helping them."

He hadn't told her. All he could have given her had been the illusion of a choice. She never would've picked him if he'd let his mothers force her to lay the world at their feet. It had been the only chance the two of them had had to be together.

"I had to put an end to it."

"You betrayed me!" Valtor raised the shotgun, his hands shaking too violently to aim it more precisely than just in Griffin's general direction as he stalked closer. Violet was growling on his left to keep his flank safe. "I gave you my everything. You were all I had and you left!"

All the riches flowing into Obsidian under his mothers' direction and Griffin's accurate calculations of opening portals to other planets were resources for the Coven's needs, not for his personal use. He wasn't even allowed in certain rooms of the mansion. The magic in his very veins had been embedded there by his mothers' efforts and lessons. Griffin had been the one building a little home with him in the room they'd come to share, she'd been the one putting a heartbeat in his palms only to leave him clutching empty sheets with a cold blade sticking out of his chest.

"Bursting your heart into atoms is exactly what you deserve." He stalked closer, the cool barrel of his shotgun and Violet's razor-sharp teeth were his only defense. The obsidian on Griffin's wrists weakened his magic and the shine of her eyes had obliterated his resolve to chase her down even from his memories.

Griffin's eyes hardened, hands balling into fists. "If you're going to shoot me, do it!" she grabbed the shotgun and pressed it into her bare skin.

The force threw him off balance and he stumbled forward, pushing the stiff metal into her sternum while her breath invaded his mouth with their faces inches apart. "Do not. Tempt me," he growled, his fingers twitching from her audacity to wrap around her throat and force more breath from her.

"Do it!" Griffin was still gripping the shotgun close to her heaving chest unafraid of the fire that could burst from the contact. "I knew this–seeing you again–would be the end of me. But if taking the shot is what will take your pain away, then I'm ready to go. As long as it will let you live." Her eyes lost focus and her head lulled, a small smile tugging at her lips and his heartstrings as her gaze dropped to Violet.

The dog was pacing behind him to no reason or direction. Her nose was lowered into the dirt in defeat.

Valtor forced Griffin's head back with the barrel of his shotgun until their eyes were locked together. "Do you think I'm that dumb? That I'll believe you after all your lies?" He had to watch out for the hands. One wrong move and they'd be in his chest again. Or his would be in her hair under the clink of his forgotten shotgun to draw a moan out of her that would melt him in a puddle at her feet.

"It doesn't matter what you believe, what either one of us believes." Vulnerability was sealed in her eyes like they were amber preserving history. Bullets wouldn't work on them. Shattering them would only spill the truth of his own wrongdoings. "It will not change the fact that I love you." A gasp came – from him or from her. "You can cut me open and reach inside me to feel it if you need to. It will still be there once my heart has stopped. Not even the planet can absorb it."

His hands shook as the shotgun trailed back between her breasts. The dry ground would soak up her blood instead of water and the forest would claim her body but the energy pouring from her wouldn't disappear in the well in the planet's core. Obsidian absorbed negativity from all over the universe to cleanse it and Griffin had thought it fair to trade protection for resources borrowed from other planets when it had little to no of its own. But she was offering her life to him for nothing in return. She was offering the purity of her love and that wasn't something the planet could protect from or swallow.

Valtor licked his lips. His mouth watered in her proximity for her to plant her deception into it. Yet his tongue hardly moved with his words in the breeze her breath was on his taste buds. "You're playing mind games. This is nothing more than manipulation." She could be an inch from his face and hop into a portal to the other end of the universe in the blink of an eye. And he hadn't been able to follow despite the pull in his heart.

"Nothing's stopping you from pulling the trigger. Or taking your hunting knife and carving out my heart." The blade weighed on his chest from its secret pocket as her voice reverberated through him. "Go ahead! Eat it like I always knew you would. And once its in your system, so will be my love." Her hand slid down the barrel of the shotgun, her fingers bathing his in their heat. "It will be a part of you, flowing through your veins and making you mine forever. Death by your hand does not scare me. I'll never die inside you."

The metal burned in his hand. Or that was the love for her that had never gone out. Not even at the look of the vast blackness of the sky where she could have disappeared forever. "You know I won't-"

"I know you want to." Griffin's hand slipped on top of his, colder than the blade of his knife over his heart. "But you won't. You pull that trigger and you lose me forever. You're not going to cause yourself that pain. Not even after I ran away." Her skin was like stone grinding against his to chip away his resistance. She knew him to his selfish core. Having her love forever inside him where he wouldn't be able to touch it wouldn't be enough even if she wouldn't be able to leave again.

"How could you bring my heart back after you fled with it?" It was right there clasped between her teeth. A kiss would free it and tugging at it with all his might would rip it to shreds. It was a miracle Griffin hadn't chewed it to bits when Violet's teeth had sunk into her flesh.

"Because we belong to each other. With each other." Her heart trembled in her pulse point for him to see. "No portal between worlds can change that. Not the one that took me away and not the one that brought me back."

How could he kill her when simply hating her would pull her out of his arms? Taking a step back would make him crumble under his self-loathing. He couldn't be the one to take her away from himself. Not when she was right there like a vision. One only she could make come true.

"Would you have ever come back if my mothers hadn't dragged you here?"

"Does it matter?" her voice was like a gunshot in his ears, like the weapon in his hand had gone off pressed into his own chest rather than hers.

The metal clanked as it hit the ground where he threw it and a shot echoed through the forest on accident that had Violet barking frantically. It could have been Griffin's magic wringing the bullet from his shotgun to drop him dead – he didn't care. His fingers had the freedom to tangle in her purple tresses again and a moan greeted him on her lips when he pulled her to his mouth.

No. It didn't matter. It didn't matter what could have happened when she was in his arms, chest pressing into his with her ragged breaths. She returned his kisses, teeth sliding over his lips to mark her territory like her life depended on it although she could pick up his shotgun and leave a hole in his chest. All she had to do to get away with murder was part with several hairs and blink back the tears from having them torn away in his death grip. Yet, all she was grasping at were the lapels of his coat to hold him in the reach of her kisses. She was still giving him everything she had with the threat to her life gone. It was all the proof he could want.

Her legs wrapped around his waist as he hoisted her against the tree. The bandage on her calf was wet with blood under his fingers but she was pulling him closer like she'd lost her mind to love and couldn't understand it was impossible to push herself into him more. Her magic would be no use for healing in her state and his would be no use at all.

Her skin was still soft despite the odd chilliness that had fallen over it and broke under his teeth on her collar bone to let him have her blood. Her wet flesh welcomed him as he entered her once he'd pulled all the fabric of her dress and underwear out of his way. His fingers dipped under her neckline to find her breast but brushed over dried mud instead. The rough surface of confusion threw him back into a questioning stare aimed at her.

"My chest was pierced by the Obsidian belladonna your mothers pushed me on." Obsidian threads from the land ran through the plant to claim each part of it and give it a crown of crystal-edged petals. The black crust was like a blade that cut through the flesh to release the poison of the belladonna directly into the bloodstream. Only Griffin's magic had saved her life from the toxins rushing from the roots to the petals of the plant. "The blood from the wound would draw the dog to me for sure in case my deep frozen state interfered with my scent." She didn't have to tell him it had been mother Belladonna's idea and magic to do all of that to her.

Valtor ran his hands over every inch of her in his reach. Her skin had remained cold after a full night of running. He had refrained form startling her with his magic but the heat of it passed from him into her to leave her body all his to claim with Belladonna's frost retreating from it. Griffin was burning now, hot moans dropping from her mouth with every thrust as she reached a hand under her dress to stroke them both further into the heights of pleasure. His open-mouthed kisses to her neck let him feel every breath and his tongue leaving a warm, wet trail over the column of her throat had her gasping. He'd cover her all in himself to erase the horror they'd been subjected to.

"We have to get you out of here." His mothers would finish the hunt themselves if he came back to the mansion without a trophy for their walls.

"Get the dog out of here." Griffin's voice wavered as she moved her palm under his shirt to brace herself on his abs. She let out a shuddering sigh, eyelids falling over the suns of his world. "We don't need public. She already saw enough." Griffin licked her lips, head falling back to thud against the tree trunk lightly with every push of his hips into her. Her back would be bruised with reminders of the movements they'd shared like they were one.

Valtor's whistle had Violet's attention and he sent her to keep the perimeter clear. His mothers wouldn't dirty their hands right away and she could hold her own against any other Coven member to buy him and Griffin time to talk.

He'd spend eternity watching Griffin's face scrunched up in concentration as she grabbed at her pleasure, hips matching his motions, but they had no more than a couple hours. "We need a plan."

Griffin knit her eyebrows at his interruption. "I had one right before they dragged me out of my life. I found a small island of pure amethyst orbiting an uninhabited planet." Energy currents turned all kinds of crystal structures into mini heavenly bodies. Someone with her talents had no trouble finding all the curiosities of space. "I was going to go there. Live on the planet and meditate on the island to clear my thoughts and overcome my grief." Amethyst was good for that. Just the shade of her hair cleansed his mind from agony to leave him clutching harder at the purple strands to keep them from slipping through his fingers.

"I wasn't dead." Abandoned but not dead. Not yet. He'd retreated into the dreams of a sky set ablaze in violet by a rising sun. They'd become his poison and his cure until she'd come back to put his heart back together.

Griffin's eyes snapped open, tears gleaming all over their gold. "I was dead to you."

"Not dead. Never dead." His fingers slid over the top of her breast to the wound she'd closed with mud to make her the one shivering. Her cold, lifeless body stuffed in his mind would force him apart at the seams.

"I was hoping there I would come up with a strategy for future action," Griffin continued to distract him. She rolled her hips into him and gave him a moan to ensure her success.

"Good." He leaned in to pant against her ear. "You continue according to plan then." His mothers would never look for her there. The only resource they'd ever pursued was human lives. His job had been to keep her distracted so she'd do the groundwork unknowingly.

"What about you?" He could hear her frowning over the pain of her nails digging into his abs.

He grabbed her wrist and pressed it harder into him so she'd be branded over his body. "I can't come. They'd put everything into finding us. It'd be more dangerous."

Griffin pushed her body flush against him, all of her weight falling on his muscles with her back barely brushing the tree. Her teeth were gliding over his neck but she pierced him with her voice instead. "You can't go back without my corpse."

He kissed her forcefully, tongue stuffing her mouth to trap the words there. They'd suffocate with no oxygen and Griffin yielded to him for a moment, pulling him closer until they were out of breath.

They fell back on the tree and a whimper was forced from her lips. Their mouths were just an inch away, breath mingling between them in perfect harmony. He had to be the one to speak first and keep the magic alive.

"You left once because there were people who needed help." Because he'd lied to her that that wasn't the case to keep her to himself. Her heart was bigger than his and he'd tried to cut it down in fear of the difference between them.

"Valtor-"

"I'm not losing you again." Because her heart was so big, he had a home. And she could give the same to others, too. "Once you have a plan, we end this once and for all and you'll never leave my side again." He had to let go of her hand to slip his fingers between her legs and drive her wild with his love for her.

Griffin was the one grabbing his wrist now. "I don't want to leave you with them again." Her fingers clasped his in a firm grip despite the trembling of her body. "They'll pay you back for not bringing their plan for us to fruition."

"They can't. Without you they need someone else to open portals for them." He'd picked up enough from the time they'd spent together to do that job without giving her perfect results. No one else could fill that role for his mothers' plan and the punishment for letting Griffin escape hadn't been nearly severe enough thanks to his usefulness. "You already gave me a weapon against them." He stroked his fingers over her arousal. It was only his place to be the source of her shaking. She deserved all the pleasure she could stand.

"I've made you a weapon for them," Griffin arched into his touch to escape the guilt she was trying to pile on herself.

Valtor thrust into her with all the vigor she'd given him to make her eyes roll in the back of her head and her thighs quiver around him. "They won't get to use me long but you're the only one who can find out how to stop them. You have to be protected." If his mothers wanted her dead instead of brainwashed and turning Obsidian into their empire of slavery, then she was dangerous enough to bring them down. "I'll come for you. Now come for me."

"Valtor."

It was not a scream of passion. It was an uttered love confession that made him weak in the knees. Supporting her was the only thing keeping him upright through his weakness. She was still bleeding – not just from her calf, but from her chest, too. If having his heart hadn't mended the wound he'd left on hers with his lies, he had to give her more. He had to send her away to heal so that the world could become a home for them again.

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Crown For Two {2}

Henry Cavill AU x OFC Xari Thornton AU

Warning: Plot, Mild Cursing, Cheesy Christmas Themes

Words: 4.2k

Summary: Xari Thornton is a travel photographer with a blog and social media that garners some heavy-duty traffic. People tune in to see where she is and what she’s doing there, all in hopes of either living vicariously through her or to plan their next vacation.  

Her slogan; “Traveling the path to the most off-beaten places, so you don’t have to.”  

Her next stop on her four destination travel itinerary of “Places You May Never Have Heard Of” is Sandvell, a small European country. When her plane makes an impromptu stop due to bad weather, she has no idea where she is. It feels like she’s stepped inside of a snow globe and back in time in a modern way. It leaves her fascinated.

This bad weather forces her to stay at an Inn, The Beaux, for the night. Rather than letting the hours tick by in her room, she explores and meets the friendly locals. While taking photographs, one local in particular captures her lens with eyes as blue as the ocean and a jaw that was chiseled from stone. They strike up conversation during their time drinking at one of the local bars, Ickles. Once they separate, she gets herself into a harrowing situation.  

As soon as she awakens, she realizes she’s not in some fever dream, but a palace and the owner of the palace is none other than the local she met before with the piercing blue eyes, His Royal Highness Henry Wellington Leopold Danglishton, First of his name, Crown Prince of Brexendor.

Note: All right, all right people, the ride begins. I really, really hope you enjoy this. As a note, it’s going to be fast-paced a bit, and I am gonna overload you with pictures because why the hell not, it’s a Christmas Fic. 😁 Feel free to come by and tell me what you guys think.

As always, thank you all for reading, I appreciate each and every one of you.

If you enjoyed this, please, LIKE, COMMENT, REBLOG!!! ❤️❤️

***Loosely Edited/Proofread***

***Interactive***

***Picture Heavy***

Previous Chapters: {1} | 

Chapter Two

 You were running around in a whiteout snowstorm. There was no way to see in front or back of you. Your hands were your eyes, and even they were doing a pretty lousy job. A strong gust of find flew you to the right, then to the left before it hurled you forward. It sent you so hard to the ground your entire body shook from the fall. It was the most challenging feat to get back to your feet, and when you did, another gust of wind sent you into a pole.

 As you gripped it, you held on for dear life and prayed that somehow you’d made it through this. As you held on, you recognized that none of this felt real. It felt strange. The pain you were in was real, beginning with the throbbing in your head, the burning of your muscles throughout your body, and even the tightness all through your entire being.

 When your hands gave out, you began falling to the snow-covered ground. Before you made contact with the ground, a pair of strong arms caught you and pulled you into their body. As soon as they did, you felt like the storm around you disappeared. The howling wind slowed, the blinding snow stilled, and the bone-chilling cold turned to instant warmth. Once you’d adjusted, you looked up; your eyes trailed over a strong, defined jawline, smooth skin, and piercing blue eyes.

 You recognized this man. Although you were watching his lips move, you didn’t hear anything. No words, only the sound of white noise. Your fingers touched his lips, then slowly traced his cheek and down his jaw, but you felt as if you weren’t touching anything at all. That was when his voice came into focus.

 “I will protect you. I will keep you safe.”

 He looked as if he meant it, looked like no matter what, come what may, he would keep his word. Suddenly a strong blast of wind began pulling you from him, but he held on tightly to you. Even when the wind picked up, he wouldn’t let go. Thanks to the heavily falling snow that fell over your clasped hands, after a few moments, you felt your grip slipping. Panic filled you but looking at him; he looked as calm as ever.

 “I will always find you.”

 With that, the wind took you away, pulling you into a dark abyss. That was when you screamed, jumping up while flailing your arms and legs. It took almost a minute to realize your surroundings were no longer snowed out and dark. Slowly you calmed yourself, then dropped back onto the bed. Once you’d caught your breath, the sight above you had your eyes bugging. With your arms pressed to the bed on either side of you, your jaw dropped.

 Above you was a white ceiling with embossed and engraved drawings etched into it with an enormous golden chandelier dangling in the center. You nudged your head back slightly to take in the golden decorative border that ran around the canopy of the bed. That was when the headboard caught your eyes. Cream tuffets that were embellished with gold-framed the Brocard design of the cream and deep turquoise headboard. Slowly you sat up, and the intricacies of the posts of the bed came into view. It looked like someone had hand-carved and painted the golden designs onto it. You wondered how long it had taken and just how much this cost.

 The more your eyes took in as you scanned the room, the wider they got. Turquois, cream, and gold seemed to be the theme of the room, and it was all done so exquisitely well that you couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty around you.

“Oh my god.”

 Looking to your right, you examined the comfortable looking settee and the large vase and the decorative plant and flower mixture it held.

 “Where the hell am I?”

 There was no way this was the inn. The last you remembered, there was nothing but wood there. You slid to the edge of the extra-large king-sized bed and placed your feet on what you expected to be cold marble, but it was warm. Heated floors, you thought to yourself.

 You stood, but sudden dizziness had you dropping right back to the bed, clutching your head.

 “Ouch!’

 Feeling pain, your alarms went off. You didn’t know what had happened, where you were, or why you were in pain. You could hear footsteps approaching the door, and your panic rose exponentially. You quickly scanned the room looking for anything you could use as a weapon, worried you were held in some creepy eastern European rich man who wanted you to participate in round four of the human centipede experiment.

 Seeing nothing in your nearby vicinity, you zeroed in on a large vase across the room on a cream and gold dresser. Gathering whatever strength you had, you staggered toward the dresser, damn near crashing into it. As you gripped the edge of the dresser, hoping to stabilize yourself, it was then you realized that what you wore was not yours. It was some dainty nightgown that looked like it could have belonged to Mari Antoinette.

 The footsteps got louder, and you grabbed the vase. It was a lot heavier than you’d anticipated, and you had to half sit on the dresser even to hold it. As soon as the door opened, there stood a middle-aged woman in a blue skirt suit with a white scarf around her neck that was tied in the posh way the rich usually did them. Not giving her an opportunity to make a move, you flung the vase at her with all your might. As it collided with a chair not too far from you, it shattered with such loudness it started you and the middle-aged woman.

 “Dear me!”

 With that, she slammed the French doors shut. You heard her heeled footsteps scurrying away. Though you didn’t feel any stronger, you decided not to wait around for someone else to come back. You staggered across the room to the doors that were just slammed, making sure to avoid the shattered pottery on the floor. You hadn’t missed all the pieces because you felt the sharp stab of a shard enter your foot bottom.

 “Fuck!”

 You hopped, then collided with the door. Your dizziness returning tenfold. Taking a few seconds for the room to stop spinning, you then bent to access your foot. Being on one only made your balance worse. You quickly pulled the shard from your foot and ignored the gush of blood that came from the wound. It would take hours for any bleeding from the foot to be life-threatening. You needed to get the hell out of there.

 Flinging open the French doors, you walked out into an opulent sitting area with several dark blue and white chairs decorated around the room and a roaring fire against a wall.

 “What the fuck!”

 Ignoring the equally beautiful room as the one you’d just left, you staggered toward the door of that room. Once you flung that open, you entered into a large hallway with a long corridor. The walls were impressively decorated with plenty of photographs and paintings, and the ceiling above you had more of that embossed and engraved design. It was then you continued walking at a much faster pace. You could have been going toward danger for all you knew.

 “Ma’am!”

 You looked behind you and saw the same woman from before, but now she had two men that were dressed in suits, and the three of them were dashing toward you. In true survival of the fittest instincts, you took off running as well. If someone was chasing you, you ran. You didn’t stand there or ask questions, especially as a black woman. Turning the corner, you continued to run on shaky legs and with blurry vision without knowing where you were going. Glancing back, the three were still chasing you and shouting for you to stop, but you didn’t.

 When you turned around, you ran smack dab into someone carrying a trey. As you collided with them, the trey went one direction and the individual another, still you didn’t stop. Thanks to the collision, your dizziness had returned, slowing your steps, making them sloppy, shakier, and zig-zagged. You knew you were seconds from blacking out, but you pushed yourself more.

 “Stop, miss, stop!”

 Everything sounded muffled. Suddenly you heard a louder sound break through the muffled and mumbles mess. You looked back, and the three pursuers had stopped. When you turned back, you ran into a hard body, but you didn’t fall. They held you firmly. You peered into familiar eyes, eyes that were filled with concern and alarm. His mouth was moving, but you heard no words. With his eyes seared into your memory, you passed out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

 -Henry-

Every five minutes or so, his phone rang or sent off a notification. Every five or so minutes, he pressed silent on every one of them. This has been going on for the last two hours. He’d sat in the sitting area first as the doctors accessed her and tended to her wound. For that hour, he was able to do some work. Though his mind was somewhat occupied, he had to put on the façade, he was his usual self.

 After the first hour, he’d moved to the bedroom suite to sit beside the bed. The doctor reported that you were suffering from delirium, a common diagnosis for someone who’d suffered a concussion. His orders were for as much rest as possible in a low-stress environment. When Dr. Alfonzi emphasized a low stressful environment, he’d wanted to roll his eyes. What was more stress-free than where you were right now?

 Now alone having answered over fifty emails and messages, he’d found himself with a sliver of downtime. Heaven knew how long that would last. His eyes drifted to your still form in the bed. You were securely tucked underneath the covers. You looked peaceful as if you hadn’t been through possibly the most harrowing experience of your life. The only outward evidence of that experience was a patch on your forehead that concealed the nasty gash he knew was there.

 Slowly he scanned your face, taking in your beautiful and exotic features. The shape of your eyes, the flare of your nose, how well defined your lips were, and how supple your skin appeared to be. His fingers itched to touch your cheek again as he had in the bar. At the thought of the bar, your first meeting, he drifted back to the memories and fondly smiled, remembering your friendly banter, the ease of the conversation, and all the relaxation he felt with you. It was rare for him to even begin to let his guard down to let anyone in, but with you, for those two or three hours, he was tempted to as he’d never been before. he even told you a few things he wouldn’t have told anyone else.

 Sighing, he pulled his eyes away, but his head quickly went to the debacle in the halls of the palace. He hadn’t expected to see you when he turned the corner, but he wasn’t disappointed. To be truthful, he’d thought about you on and off during all his morning meetings. The plan was if he had time in the evening, he’d check on you. When you passed out into his arms, the nightgown you wore captured his attention. He would have questioned who the hell put you in it, but the sight of peeks of your skin underneath the flimsy material held his attention instead.

 As he carried you back to your room, he had to work extra hard not to look down and skim your body or the darkened areolas he’d glimpsed. When he slipped you back into the bed before the help placed the covers over you, he saw a peek of your backside that sent his hips thrusting forward quickly. The memory of it had him changing his position in the settee before getting up altogether to pace your room. He’d chosen it without giving it much thought. It was the first one he found. Now he felt you probably could do with a different one.

 Your moans startled him, bringing him out of his thoughts. As he approached the bed, you turned your head from side to side as your moans became more and more audible. It didn’t take long for him to wonder if your carnal moans sounded like this or if they were different. He shook his head while mentally chastising himself for the thoughts, then focused back on you.

 When your eyes opened, he did his best not to appear intimidating. It was a common comment among the feedback that was sporadically collected from the citizens. Your eyes focused on him after quickly scanning your surroundings. When you realized he was there, you quickly shot up and hurried back to the headboard. He noticed the covers remained across your lap, leaving your upper half exposed to his eager eyes. Groaning, he closed his eyes.

 “Calm down,” he said as he motioned to the covers.

 He waited a few moments, hoping you’d understood what he meant. When he opened his eyes, you held the covers over your chest but also held the lamp that was on the bedside table in your left hand. Raising his hands into the air, he took a step back.

 “Let us not do something brash, Y/N.”

 Confusion flickered across your features, and for a split second, you lowered the lamp but rose it again.

 “How do you know my name?”

 Raising his eyebrows, he thought of how to breach the topic. “We met in the bar. Do you remember?”

 You scrunched your face, looking away to your right. He wondered if you were also suffering from memory loss.

 “You sat beside me and arrogantly tried the Mistletoe Bomb that you could not even finish and had me finish it instead.”

 “It was disgusting. Wait, I do remember.”

 He nodded but kept his hands in the air, hoping the action gave you peace of mind.

 “Good. What else do you remember?”

 You bit your bottom lip then stared at the sheets on the bed. You remained silent for about a minute, then you spoke.

 “We—talked. Then—we almost—did we--,” you stuttered then shook your head. “Then I left. It was cold, a lot colder, and the snow was heavy. I could barely see, it was next to impossible, and the wind it took me everywhere. Then—I don’t—I don’t know.”

 You looked at him again with even more confusion in your eyes then before.

 “Yes,” he began before he cleared his throat. “I am afraid the wind must have blown you into the street right before my car came along. It seems we accidentally hit you.”

 You looked as if you were trying to remember, but you sighed and lowered the lamp to the bed rather than back to the side table.

 “I am awfully sorry, Y/N. My driver did not see you until it was too late. He swerved, but we still collided with you due to the drift over the snow. When I got to you, you were unconscious, so I brought you here to receive medical care.”

 Your eyes shot up to him then.

 “Medical care? Am I in the hospital? This doesn’t look like any hospital I’ve ever been in.”

 He cleared his throat, lowered his hands, then rubbed the back of his neck. He knew that bringing you here would make it next to impossible to keep the truth of his full identity hidden.

 “That is because you are not in the hospital.”

 “Then—where am I? have you dragged me somewhere and locked me up for your sick perverse pleasure?” As you said the words, you rose the lamp again, ready to throw it at him.

 Again, he rose his hands. He knew you didn’t know that the lamp wouldn’t do anything if he really were a threat.

 “Perverse pleasure? Are you implying that I would find pleasure in you?” He leaned against one of the posts as he smirked.

 You rolled your eyes and kissed your teeth.

 “Of course you would. I know I’m a dime piece.”

 Understanding the terminology, he couldn’t help but laugh. “I agree.”

 You didn’t speak right away, you stared at him, and he wanted to know what you were thinking so badly. This was the third time he’d seen this look, and it ticked at his curiosity to know you more. He cleared his throat and straightened himself.

 “I assure you, I have not whisked you off to hold you captive for any pleasure than your health and safety.”

 You took him in for a few moments but kept the lamp raised.

 “Where am I?”

 “My home.”

 Your eyebrows rose as you looked around the room. No doubt, taking in all the luxury around the room. He knew the question was coming.

 “Home? What kind of—where the hell--,” you began before you were interrupted by a knock at the door.

 He sighed, then spoke. “A moment, please. Come.”

 “Your highness,” Audrina began as she gave a brief curtsy. “The physician brought the medication for the patient.”

 She approached, holding a tray that held a lone bottle. Once she was close, he took the bottle, thanking her.

 “Hold the fuck up.”

 Audrina paused with her eyes wide open, taking you in. Pinching his lips, he tried to stifle the laugh that was ready to escape.

 “Good word, such language.”

 Snorting, he released a chuckle.

 “Me? You just said, highness. What is that? Why did she call you that?”

 You gasped loudly with your eyes the size of saucers. “Oh my god. Are you—are you--.”

 “That is all, Audrina, thank you.”

 She nodded, gave another curtsy, and walked from the room. Once the doors were closed, he approached the bed slowly and cautiously. He didn’t want a lamp to the face.

 “I was not entirely forthcoming with you the night in the bar,” he began.

 “You lied about who you are?”

 “No, not completely. My name is Henry. I evaded telling you what I did for a living. Goodness, I guess I will just come out with it then. I am Henry, but I am also—Prince of Brexendor.”

 Your face was stuck in a mixture of shock and horror. Now more than ever, he wanted to know what you were thinking. A minute ticked by, then two, and each minute that passed, your expression became more and more pronounced.

 “A—you’re a—p-prince?”

 There was another knock at the door to increase his frustrations. He didn’t respond right away, he watched you, waiting for you to speak, but another knock came before your words did.

 “Your highness?”

 He sighed then told them to enter; in walked Dr. Alfonzi . He bowed, then approached the bed.

 “How is our patient?”

 Their eyes trained on you, but you didn’t speak. Dr. Alfonzi looked at him, unsure of what to say.

 “Your highness, unfortunately, I am going to have to ask you to step out so I can talk with the patient.”

 He nodded. “Of course. Will it be all right if I came by in an hour or two?”

 You didn’t respond for quite a while, but you slowly nodded as he began to turn. Dr. Alfonzi bowed again as he passed him and walked out of the room. Once he entered the sitting area, McArthur stood and bowed his head.

 “Your highness, is the lady well?”

 “We go. We have to make it across town to the magistrate,” he said instead of answering his question.

Once he was in the car, he went over the documents in prep for the meeting he knew would take everything out of him. Every time he encountered Prime Minister Lancaster, the exchange always left him agitated and in need of a drink and solitude. There was something about the man that went past his defiance and terseness that rubbed him the wrong way.

 “Your highness. I hope you extended my apologies to the lady for hitting her with the car,” McArthur inquired.

 “Does it matter? When you saw us in the bar, you made it clear you thought I should not have allowed her to stay. Had a change of heart?”

 “As your driver, protector, and friend, I was simply looking out for your best interest, sir. Outsiders have proven themselves as untrustworthy in the past.”

 He nodded as he remembered the incident he was referring to, then cleared his throat. “I did not get to apologize for you, but I made sure she understood it was an accident.”

 He stared out the window at the falling snow and his country. That still didn’t feel natural to say. Yes, it was his country of birth, but everyone wanted him to now look at it as belonging to him. he wasn’t ready yet. It still felt too soon. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t realize when McArthur pulled up to the Magistrate buildings. After taking a few deep breaths in an effort to steel himself, he walked out, ready for yet another contentious meeting.

As he passed his constituents, they bowed or curtsied, showing their respect for the crown and him. He nodded his head to each of them, an equal show of respect. A monarchy was nothing without the people it governs. It was the first lesson his father had taught him.

 “Your Highness,” Prime Minster Lancaster addressed once he was a few steps away.

 He watched the older man bow deeply. When Lancaster rose, he saluted him as the respected soldier he was, as well as Crown Prince. He took the man before him in not in any rush to give him the approval to lower his salute. Sometimes he liked to remind the man he was in charge and not the other way around.

 “At ease, Prime Minister.”

 Lancaster clenched his jaw and stood to his side, granting him access to the conference room. He listened to the quiet council of Alton, his royal advisor, as he gave notes about the meeting as everyone filed into the room. Once they stood before their seats, waiting for him to sit first, he did just that. Finally seated, he banged the gavel against its golden holder.

 “Let us begin,” he said, signaling the beginning of the meeting.

 This time of year, the many plans and discussions involved Christmas and the year’s many festivities. When it came to talking about those festivities, money was always brought up. He was all about keeping traditions alive because Brexendor was made of traditions, but he also believed that it had to seek to advance itself in order for the country to survive another turn of the times.

 Brexendor was considered a very wealthy place, and there had been many who had tried to usurp its wealth, thinking it was a weak country only to find out that Brexendor was not only wealthy but powerful and strong with one of the best defense systems. He’d spent years in the armed forces learning all the ins and outs of said defenses, all in prep for the day he would take the throne.

 Every time he brought up plans to modernize Brexendor, Prime Minister Lancaster always objected, citing that changing now would wash away the countries rich history. When he made this argument, he always appealed to the many elders who held other important magistrate seats. Once that happened, he knew his argument would fall on deaf ears, and with the instability that was already present in the monarchy, he couldn’t risk shaking their faith in him. Not right now.

 After discussing other matters that were essential to Brexendor’s flourishment, the meeting came to an end. When he got into the car, the glance at his watch told him as expected; it was a meeting that took up the majority of his evening. He had to figure out a way to bring the other magistrate members to his side in order to get things done. Lancaster was old. He had no idea what it would take to keep Brexendor a superpower as the world changed with even more modernization. He knew he was right.

By the time he got back to the palace, it was almost ten o’clock. He’d missed dinner, but that wasn’t what he cared about. He dismissed his immediate staff, assuring them he could tend to himself for the evening, and proceeded to his room. Before he took too many steps, he stopped knowing that his room was in the opposite direction from yours. Glancing at his watch again, he tried to decide if it was a good idea to visit you at this time. He knew the palace had eyes, and he knew he would be noticed going into your suites at this hour. Not wanting to set tongues wagging, he sighed and proceeded to his room.

 Tomorrow was another day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

***If you want to be tagged/untagged please SEND AN ASK SO IT WILL BE EASIER FOR ME TO KEEP TRACK OF. Thank you for reading!!!***

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[smndragon]

HI HI HI HOW ARE YOU?

ME:fine

My big three are Pisces sun 11th house (if houses are allowed), capricorn moon 8th house (💀) and Taurus rising!

And yes most of my planets are in detriment 🥲

Thank you luv! Take your time 💞

First off I had to sit up in bed it's so late here (I'm fine I'm watching history stuff rn on the Victorian era)

Second off let's go hm. This is honestly gonna be awkward. My methods are confusing I'm sorry and sometimes I may mix energies😭 Pisces sun, Capricorn moon, and Taurus rising. Have to turn my tv down to connect. (Took my hair down so I'm feeling more energy and I love it)

NO MORE STALLING I NEED TO DO THIS. the Pisces sun and Capricorn moon are reaching out more than Taurus rising. (Possibly form reading those first lol) when I see the pisces I see flames for some reason? Something cold along those lines, the fire feels like I could pass through it dancing and it wouldn't burn me one bit. The Pisces sun is retracting it's touch so going to come back in a bit. Multiple marionettes are in the distance of the Pisces sun home, women and men all alike in fashionable ballet poses. Hung up on the walls with black paper. The walls of a weirdly enough idol? I see fairy lights of cool colors and bright lights. The walls are blue and white, color changing over and over. I don't see the Pisces until typing this, in the middle of the room, on pillows of all arctic tones. (My screen broke so typing this hurts my eyes kinda sorry for typos) the Pisces takes the form of a wise and authentic sheep or lamb. Fish in bottles cover the rooms shelves and book holdings. Many jars of items never seen before by modern eyes or old. (Though they do seem modern in a way I just ramble and write this all at once sorry) from the dancers I believe you may enjoy the finer arts of things related, or stand in your kitchen with songs or silence somehow making your own music. The pictures move on the walls creating fairytales and stories of all kinds. Leaning towards probable loss of childhood or the indulgence in stories close to your heart. The Pisces sun may be placed in the chest, lower stomach, or left hip? It cools your heart sometimes but you do seem very warm. I keep thinking of Hans Christian Andersen and his stories in my mind, possible Disney adaptions. Your Pisces sun offers warm hot chocolate to it's passerbys, the walls turn to the form of an iced igloo (possible misspelling) the place your Pisces sun offers in other people's hearts is undeniable, true to their beliefs and nature, sweaters adorn it's wool. Possible love for warmth and bigger clothing unless parties come around. I feel the Pisces sun could offer difficulty in relationships because of its worrying nature at times, the Pisces is more fiery than common belief but it still holds meek under certain presences. "Hide me" it keeps saying, moving from it's pillows to behind me. It loves it's host too much, it has been with you in more cases than just this lifetime, I feel it new it would reach you someday as most zodiacs do. The sun's eyes are so wide they hold galaxies, love for stars and hearts or heads filled with the knowledge of them. Curiosity has killed this sign so many times it stopped looking on its own. Your host body helps it explore and it thanks you for that.

THIS IS SO LONG ALREADY.

Your Capricorn moon is dear to you. It sometimes pushes the Pisces sun over in order to make room for itself. It takes the form of a bull, headfirst hitting your heart with it's passion and longing. It shakes the core of your other zodiacs, waking them every morning like an alarm. This could possibly cause headaches, pain in your sided, or heartburn? The dark sleek hairs on the bull have gifted you the roots of your hair (not color just strength and devotion to grow). I now see the possibility of baldness at some point? Either by choice or you've thought "f*ck it why not?" But didn't go through. The bull had a golden cow ring, it shines in distance. The light creates a desert image to the people witnessing it. The Capricorn moon entices the mystery and wanting form others that gods had gifted its patrons. Your hair is a natural element of your being. I see messy mornings with a toothbrush in the holder. Standing in front of the mirror a host looks into their eyes looking for the Capricorn. A tiny bit of reminiscence is the eyelashes of your eye and the marks on your skin either moles or beauty wise. I saw an image of a cow looking birthmark and that's adorable but not a probable so ignore. "Love" it tells you this with every hit of its horns on your heart. Love until you're bleeding but not when you're burnt. Carry it's fire and temper and show it to anyone who pains your loved ones or crosses its borders. Don't flush people out, just learn that you will always matter and the Capricorn moon will always be there. It has engraved it's initials in the form of hooves so far deep into your flesh you will never not feel it. I see clear skin which could have been helped with facial products or natural and pure sweat. The bulls hard work always pay off, and the sweat at the end of the day will always be a sign of its natural influence. Highly intelligent and most utterly gorgeous. Okay well while I was writing this it took a turn and started coming after me so we'll leave it there. I keep coming back here god, sickness or flus were common once to your body or mind, the pain has washed over (past current or future?) Placement definitely near the heart or lungs. They seems cracked in the future, avoid smoking.

I feel I haven't given enough information hopefully it'll give more later on.

"hold me" "me, me, me" I keep hearing it form your signs. The Taurus ascendant loves the fire of your Capricorn moon. It admires the reigning image of the zodiac and wishes to connect with it. Often they hide away from you in dreams, enjoying thoughts and snacks, talking of what's to come in the next hosts life. (They still love you don't worry) you leave them wondering how they got here, how their host became the person they are now. They whisper congratulations to you in your sleep, sometimes wandering your housing area, looking for parts of you in every little thing. The Pisces sun seems more isolated from the rest but they force them to deal with their presence. (Pieces secretly loves it) the Taurus rising works exactly well with the bull Capricorn, waking the same and sleeping the same. It love to chat and talk the boots off of your conscience. Arguing it should be able to hold some power and that the consequences will be worthit. They honestly need to take a break, I thought of them in stripper boots and heels pointing at the sun💀 I'm guessing that's the house of your mind in the desolate desert. The Taurus rising offers crops and room for experience and experimenting growth. Crops of corn, greens, and etc. It carries fields and fields of cropping on its back. Dealing with your struggles by coating them in salt and good food. This makes me think there's a possibility people think you take things too lightly. That's not always the case you just worry over and are both tired of it at the same time possibly. You've down your work and you don't owe much to this world unless you offer. Retract your hand if you need please you deserve it. Lay back with shades and swim wear even in the broad neighborhood those people's thoughts shouldn't matter. The Taurus rising has taken your burdens, it worries not for your future as it plans on keeping close eyes on the plants and fields in your chest and body. Vines of fruits of all kinds grow on the legs area, possible things associated with that area in life or mind.

All in all your signs balance you with love, kindness in the form of drinks, handshakes between all time friends, warm goodbyes, lovely future meals, and more. They care for you and no matter what your decision is they appreciate your thoughts. Your method is precise, always carry on and back it up.

For future health I see fevers and malnourishment, not to worry with your friends and loved ones in the future or from the past. Possible miscarriage if heavily dosed on certain things, I see birth control, pain relievers, and stuff to take the edge off involving cars. Careful driving. Honestly, hit your head on the steering wheel when you're stressed it's been a long time coming and it'll heal🤍 you have a good proportioned body. Skin is soft and loved by all who see it. Your smile is so intoxicating it should take place of the sun. "Hold your friends close and your enemies closer" I saw that and I love the vibe it gives off, feels like a mob boss person and I dig it. Keep doing you, I don't see many problems just keep going you're doing great and the afterlife that you believe in or even if not at all is prepared with roses and decorative caskets filled with all your most fashionable items. The Taurus brings out fashion and luxury so it's not a surprise you may like the finer afterlife you've got all set up. Kiss the devil if you see him he adores you (not wishing bad just saw it). I keep seeing people form peaky blinders. Possible other zodiac influence is Gemini, Virgo sun or moon, I see the weird word hysteria, other Capricorns tend to attract so gl I think you may know some placements. Based on the houses with my knowledge your sun in the 11th is a good place to be it gives a communal and work influenced life. People like your ideas and the friendships are worth while, you bring a hope to people that isn't needed sometimes but is always there, feels like an office friend situation. Possible job friendships and popularity. Capricorn moon in 8th tells me you have cardinal secrets, both zodiac and sins. It's not on my knowledge just a feeling, but it isn't wrong you've been redeemed in almost every culture and religion, I see you may not have strong religion in the basic stuff but you do care for culture. You spend your time admiring the loves of other nations, countries, religions, lifestyle, and more design and architecture came up 3d modeling too I feel like the little baby 3d model kit is something you need to try with a family member, lover, or friend, it's gonna be a bit messy but you'll like it some bit. I don't get know what detriment is sorry but I feel I got somewhat through that it made me think of mental health, hardships, and overall security somehow idk. Ask for more if you want I feel I forgot stuff and this has been so long sorry.

COMING BACK TO REALIZE I MISSED ENERGY COLORS! Taurus ascendant is a warm orange, dry sun rays and heated lamps are seen, the colors loved by those in hot weather used to it. The Pisces sun is cool with blues, grey's, whites, and a tiny smudge of yellow in soft swirls. Particles surround it. Capricorn moon is overly intimidating me right now. It glares so much god. It's color is dark blues mixed with purples and sea refuge vibes. Deep sea diving why don't they. The colors could create pallets only seen by me. They are honestly really beautiful.

HONESTLY WHAT AM I DOING ITS 4 AM NOW. okay description wise. I see short it average person. Possibly tall but idk I doubt myself during these but they seem to be right when I do???? Hesitation is a problem with me. I'd say 5'2-5'6 possible 5'7 or even 6'0 your energy says I'm huge don't ignore me so what's happening. Age could be somewhere to late teens through late or mid twenties (using basic knowledge it's not likely you aren't so open as a young teenager but your aura says you're young as ever. Your skin I want to say is dark tanned yet still seen as white but the Indian part makes me doubt. My mother is what looks white you'd never guess so I thought possible brown to black hair maybe even possibly a light brown? (Vague I'm so sorry) I see a beauty mark on your arm, inner thighs somewhere. Your lover now or in the future has a possible tendency to kiss you all over at times? Random. Your clothing style is bold yet meek. You wear things not expected in the season but still fits within the cultures of seasonal beauty. Rock hair would suit you ngl in my mind it's the smallest maybe. You have many boots and few heels possibly, possibly to add height though given since duh that what they're kind for. I see a red car somewhere idk ignore that. Possible relations to the goddess Hera in some way, she gifts you with few of her talents, some being a pathway of unseen gold. Do more crazy poses don't care if it's weird do it. Memories do it for the memories. I see many Taurus themes possible soulmate bond placement if you believe in that (I have theories against the basic soulmate thing but I still like it).

[janekfan]

jon taking some bullets for martin in the slaughter realm?? cue jon defending the action with his healing powers, cue martin being VERY upset about this assumption

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688478

I hope you like it :) It kinda got away from me ^^’’

Jon gripped Martin’s hand harder, squeezing for all he was worth as he dragged him through the twisting, turning, twining constructs of rusted, rotting, ruptured metal bursting at degraded seams.

Left, left, right, left, straight, right.

runrunrun

Follow the path. Follow the route the Eye has chosen. It’s all he can see.

The path. The way. The route.

Death may not be a permanent thing here but Jon wasn’t going to allow it to happen. Wasn’t going to allow Martin to hurt more than he’d been hurt. He would protect him.

“Jon” Gasping, breathless and he’s sorry, sorry, sorry but this has to be done. We have to keep moving.

Slavering, hungry, greedy mouths stretched wide in horrific grins and sporting too many teeth.

And they are closer, closer, closer.

Shots ring out, instinctively they duck, hunch, Jon pushes them faster, they are close, almost to the border, and they can make it if they run.

Knowing lances through his mind like a lightning bolt and he almost trips, instead shoving Martin forward, in front of him, and he feels it like a blow to his shoulder, pushing him forward, over the threshold and the hyena laughter fades behind them like it never was.

“Jon.” Panting, bent forward. “Wh’what was that?!”

“Sorry, I’m, I’m sorry, Martin.”

The adrenaline is fading and the pain is beginning to blossom in his back, radiating in all directions but Martin is so shook up and Jon is pretty sure despite the blood running down his spine that he’s already healing. The strap on his pack is digging into the wound, chafing and tugging and pulling. It’s like a white hot burn and he ignores it in favor of checking Martin all over for injuries.

“A’are you hurt?” His hands are shaking and he folds them into fists to hide it.

“No, no, I’m fine. Are you? Did--”

“I’m alright.” Not a lie. He will be. He is. “We. We should get going.”

Their pace was slow. After their mad dash through that place they were both tired and despite the hole in his shoulder having healed over, it still hurt. Jon was exhausted. Beholding like that. Running like that. The horrible fear for Martin. It had taken a huge toll and while he wanted to sit down. Pass out? They had to keep on.

“Jon?” He jumped, bit down on his tongue to prevent a whimper. “You’ve been so quiet.”

“Ah, j’just, I’m fine. Bit, uh, tired, I think?” Martin’s brows knit together.

“We can rest if you need to.” But Jon shook his head and pressed forward, Martin’s hand in his.

It was becoming a chore to put one foot in front of the other, like he was struggling through mud, or his bones were made of lead and his rucksack weighed more and more with each passing second. Slipping a finger into his collar he tugged on it, stretched it out from where it was choking him, and he could barely breathe, keeping his eyes on the horizon line as it dipped in and out of focus

“Hey, you. Hey--” Martin pulled him up short and Jon shrank under his scrutiny. “You’re slowing down. We need to take a break. Have some water. Here, here, let me.” Jon let him help him to the ground and pass him the bottle. Despite not being able to really feel thirst the water was blissfully cool on his dry and scratchy throat. Jon ducked his head between his knees, dizzy, the adrenaline was, it had worn off (hours? ago) that’s all, just a little woozy. It didn’t even hurt that much anymore. But now that he was down here he didn’t think he’d be able to get back up. “Jon, please tell me what’s wrong.”

“N’nothin’s wrong, Martin. M’alright.” Jon lifted his face, tried his best to dredge up a smile for him. Judging by his expression it didn’t work.

“Please. You, you need to trust me.” It almost broke him, how earnest he was, how he cupped his chin in both hands. “You’re burning up. You’re sick, or, or something.”

“No--”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I--” The hurt in his eyes stopped him. “I. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to.”

“You don’t need to protect me. I want to know, I want to know these things so I can help you.”

“Help me up?” Martin scowled but held out his hand to haul him to his feet and Jon’s vision blacked at the edges. His hands went to his head and he blinked fast, unable to clear it.

“No, no statements or whatever right now.” And Jon couldn’t find the words to tell him what was happening. “You’re not getting out of this, you need to talk to me.”

“It’s.” Tongue clumsy, mouth numb.

“You need to tell me things.” He staggered forward a step.

“S’s’...not…” The ground was painful against his knees. He didn’t feel it when he fell forward into the dirt.

Shitshitshit.

“Jon?” Martin kneeled beside him, hands fluttering uselessly, mind infuriatingly blank. “Jon, Jon, okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” First thing’s first, he unbuckled the straps and lifted the canvas bag off him and nearly dropped it again in surprise. “Oh, Jon.” Blood soaked his back, stiff fabric the color of rust outlined a muddy ruby stain and his sides expanded raggedly with each shuddering breath.

He should have packed a larger first aid kit.

While cutting away Jon’s ruined clothes Martin could feel the intense heat coming off him in waves, the shivering echoing through his skin into his palms. Palms now soaked red like the bare expanse of Jon’s shoulders. He scrubbed away the worst of the mess, desperately looking for the source of all the blood, fingers ghosting over the dips and valleys of his back and any other time this would be a gift, working out the tension he could feel knotted in his muscles, touching him like this.

There was nothing. No wounds, only scars from the worms, other nicks and scrapes and cuts from the times Martin hadn’t been able to be there for him.

“Jon, love.” He lifted his head, smudging his cheek with a whisper of blood, and slipped a pillow of folded cardigan beneath it. “Jon, come back to me.” And finally, his nose wrinkled up, eyes struggling against the weight of his lashes.

“M’in” Slurred badly and Martin rested the backs of his fingers against his cheek.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“S’m’thin’s…” His tongue ran between chapped lips. “W’wrong.”

“It’s alright. I’m going to fix it, you’ll feel better soon, darling.” He pressed his lips against his forehead. “Where does it hurt?” A whine rose in Jon’s throat.

“Shoul’er.”

“Okay, I’ll take another look.” Martin pushed against the flat of his scapula and Jon cried out. Hotter here, sore, there was something hard dug into the bone under fingers, flesh. “You’re alright, love.” Martin had a feeling he knew what had happened and when, the memory of Jon shoving him in front of him. A bullet. How mundane. Okay. A deep breath. Two. Three. Martin poured alcohol over his hands, over Jon’s shoulder, letting it dry, trying to take some of the heat out of him. He swiped down the blade of their pocket knife, the tweezers, sick with what he had to do.

He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready to hurt Jon.

He swallowed.

Again.

Pressing down over the bullet lodged in him, thankfully shallow. Blood welled up under the blade, oozed around it, and Jon’s writhing beneath the steel almost made Martin ill, but he held him down, pushing on until he could slip the tweezers in alongside because his body kept trying to heal around the infection it had unwittingly trapped. It took a solid minute because Martin had trouble getting a grip on the bullet, everything slippery with blood and when he finally grabbed it he chucked the damn thing as far away as he could, flushing the wound with water and letting it bleed freely until it bled clean before finally letting it close.

“Hush,” he soothed, wiping away stray tears after he wiped Jon’s blood off his hands.

“M’sorry...thought…”

“We’ll talk about it later.” He pulled Jon into his lap, covering him with the jumper and relieved that his fever already seemed lower. “I want you to sleep for a little while.” Teasing fingers through his curls, he untangled the worst of it until Jon relaxed, rubbing his cheek against Martin’s thigh.

“I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

[felidthing]

Lightningpaw hadn’t even gotten the chance to look at Applepaw after Tigerstar called a retreat, he’d only seen her huddled shape on the ground as her father and one of the healers crouched beside her. Gingerleap was still covered in cobwebs and poultices when he shakily told Lightningpaw what had happened.

“She was coming at me so fast, I- I had to get her off of me. I didn’t think about how small she was.”

“She could die!” Lightningpaw spat, lurching forward with his hackles raised. “She could die and I’ll never see her again!”

Gingerleap’s expression hardened. He squared his shoulders, and Lightningpaw remembered just how tall he was when he didn’t slouch. “We’re at war, Lightningpaw. Redstar is pushing our borders hard, and Applepaw is his apprentice. There is no space for ThunderClan friendship right now.”

Lightningpaw flicked a curled ear. “I can’t just turn off my feelings.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have become a Clan cat!” Gingerleap snapped. Lightningpaw looked up at him and saw the regret in his eyes, but it didn’t matter. He bit back a betrayed whine and whipped around, pelting into the undergrowth. He ignored his mentor’s calls and whatever apology he was rattling off and ran harder until he spotted the creek marking ThunderClan’s border and skidded to a halt at its edge. Lightningpaw sat and tried to catch his breath, ripping his claws through the grass with a snarl.

I’m a Clan cat. I’m a Clan cat. I belong here just as much as anyone else.

He stared across the creek, where the forest continued just the same as it did on SkyClan’s side of the border. Applepaw had answered all of his questions about ThunderClan when they’d first met; she’d told him later how annoyed she was, but that Lightningpaw had been one of the only cats to be friendly even after she tried to push him away. I would never abandon you, he’d wanted to say. You’re my best friend. My only friend.

The bushes on the other side of the creek rustled. Lightningpaw stood swiftly and tried to keep his trembling under control. It had only been a few days since the battle, and now he was standing at the ThunderClan border.

“I’m alone!” He called when the patrol appeared, headed by a brown-pointed tom. Amberstrike! Applepaw’s father! “You’re just the cat I wanted to see,” he said breathlessly.

Amberstrike looked at him incredulously, wide ears pinned back. The rest of the patrol- a black-and-white molly with curled ears, a white molly, and a brown ticked tabby molly- looked to Amberstrike.

“What business does a SkyClan apprentice have with ThunderClan?” Amberstrike asked.

“You’re Applepaw’s father, right?” Lightningpaw unconsciously took a step forward, jerking back when the patrol bristled. “-Sorry. M-my name’s Lightningpaw. Is Applepaw alive?”

Amberstrike’s eyes flashed with something- shock, anger, sadness, Lightningpaw couldn’t tell. The brown molly growled in the back of her throat. She looks my age, Lightningpaw realized. Snakepaw! That’s her name. She was the one Applepaw’s brother was courting.

“That’s none of your business,” Snakepaw spat. Her pupils were blown.

“Please, I need to know. We’re friends.”

“Applepaw is not friends with SkyClan!”

“She’s friends with me! She’s my best friend!” Lightningpaw cried. “She’s all I have and the last time I saw her she was bleeding out from a wound my mentor gave her!” He stepped forward again, letting his paws sink into the softer dirt. “I have to know if she’s okay, please tell me she’s okay.” 

Snakepaw’s hackles were rising steadily until the black-and-white molly positioned herself slightly in front of her, fluffy tail smoothing down Snakepaw’s fur. A mentor calming her apprentice to prevent conflict. Lightningpaw made himself look into Snakepaw’s hazel eyes and prayed she could see his sincerity.

“Applepaw is recovering,” Amberstrike said, voice flat. “She’s okay.” He didn’t sound confident, like when Gingerleap told Lightningpaw he’d be fine after twisting his hind paw. He isn’t sure if she’s okay. When would be the next time he saw Applepaw? A moon? Longer? Would they be warriors before they saw each other next? Would Applepaw even live to become a warrior? 

No. No, no, no, she can’t die. This can’t be the last time I hear about her. “Can I see her?”

“What?” The white molly blurted.

“No, who do you think you are?” The black-and-white molly said sternly. Snakepaw glared at him.

Amberstrike raised his tail, and the patrol went silent. He stepped to the edge of the creek and stared at Lightningpaw. “Watch your mouth, SkyClan cat. We’re not letting you trespass to see our wounded apprentice. I don’t care if you’re friends, we’re at war.” 

Applepaw, I just want to see you, Lightningpaw lamented, as if StarClan would drop her right in front of him and they could run off to talk and relax like they so rarely got to do. He didn’t have anyone in SkyClan anymore, not after he’d cut Gingerleap off so harshly. He’d have to go back to camp and find an excuse for why he was gone so long. And then he’d get in trouble and be confined to that stupid camp where all he could do was clean and tend to the elders and sit in a tree to try and watch ThunderClan’s territory.

Lightningpaw felt suddenly cold. If Gingerleap found out he had been talking to a patrol, begging to see his ThunderClan friend, Lightningpaw would never be allowed near her again. He was never going to see her, even if she recovered. She’d go to their meeting place at the farm and wonder where he was, wonder if he’d forgotten her.

I would never abandon you. I would never abandon you. You’re my best friend, Applepaw, you’re the only cat that matters to me.

You’re the only cat that matters.

“I want to join ThunderClan.”

[Second chapter here]

[hardkinkbardkink]

My dude I am having the worst morning. I was getting take out for breakfast when I misstepped and sprained my ankle, so now I’m sitting in the urgent care waiting to make sure it isn’t broken. And I dropped my food :( But! From my disaster comes an idea! Jaskier injured himself, and took something to help with the pain. It makes him all loose limbed and easy,,, and Geralt can’t help but take advantage of his drugged state. I feel like I’ve submitted this before tho >_> ignore me if I have-🐼

i am. So Fucking Sorry it took so long to get a prompt fill up, and even more sorry it took so bloody long to answer an ask from my very favourite anon. honestly love it's been so long im sure you're fine now, fuck im awful

anyway i absolutely hate every word of this (just what i'd written, the prompt was lovely) but i invested so much time in it i ought to post it anyway oof

what's the opposite of aftercare? would it be called beforecare, if geralt takes care of jaskier and then proceeds to ride him hard and put him away wet? we'll go with that x

***

"Bard."

Jaskier turns to face him with an easy smile, though his eyes look somewhere beyond Geralt, fixed on a spot above his shoulder.

"Geralt," he says softly.

It's the little things that make Geralt frown in--worry worry worry--confusion. How Jaskier sits on the bed, slumped against the headboard as if he's a ragdoll thrown carelessly to the side, his usually immaculate posture forgone. How his eyes are only half-open, dull and unfocused. How Geralt's name on his lips doesn't sound quite right.

Geralt's nose itches at the faint, metallic scent of blood. It isn't as aggressive as it should be, had it been spilled on clothes or smeared over skin, but rather--

"What did you do."

He watches Jaskier's head roll from side to side against the wall before he sways forward, chin tucked to his chest. A muscle twitches in Geralt's jaw.

"Jaskier," he says sternly, barely masking his concern. Annoyance, that is.

"Got--got in a fight," Jaskier tells him, lips barely moving. "Think I--I'm broken? But you're here. Now. Geralt."

He smiles again, weak and unconvincing.

Broken. The word echos in Geralt's ears, bouncing around his brain, until he almost sees it spelled out, dripping red.

"Can I--hm. Can I see?" He gets his voice softer, now. Clearly Jaskier is in some sort of peril. Anger would be counterproductive, no matter how badly Geralt wants to put a fist through every one of the drunks downstairs, part their flesh with his blade.

"Y'don't--you. Don't have to." The way Jaskier grits his teeth and focuses on keeping the slur out of his speech is anything but reassuring. "Seen the--uh, the healer. Got me some--something. For pain."

This time, when Jaskier sways, he tips all the way to lay on his side, nearly hitting his head on a sharp edge of the low table pushed close to the bed. Geralt is next to him in a flash, leaning over his limp body, focusing for a moment on nothing but the steady, if somewhat slow, thud of his heart.

Geralt finds himself frantically undoing Jaskier's doublet before he can think about it. He doesn't like the way Jaskier winces when he pulls the thing off, so he keeps his touch gentle for the chemise underneath.

"Fuck. Fuck."

He didn't think--but then he did, maybe, because Jaskier always insists he doesn't need the healer, doesn't need help, doesn't need anything just so Geralt won't think he's weak. So he knew it had to be bad, this, but--

The sight of Jaskier's chest and abdomen stained ink-black with large, brooding bruises still makes his blood run cold. He touches one, finds it swollen and tender.

"Least they haven't--kicked in my teeth," Jaskier jokes, carrying the silly tune over his words.

One of the bruises seems to run low over Jaskier's hip, so Geralt unbuttons his breeches, too, slides them off revealing more injuries than he would ever think could fit on his bard.

He nearly reaches for his sword, ready to cut down every filthy bastard he can find in the inn.

Instead, he closes his eyes and gets a fucking grip.

Geralt's kit is stocked full with potions that could kill Jaskier if he as much as sniffed them, and an equal amount of mild to potent healing herbs that Geralt wouldn't admit he keeps just for Jaskier. He works quickly, picking the right ones, crushing them between his fingers rather than bother with a pestle. It feels good to crush something, frankly.

He overheats the water in his haste, makes it evaporate entirely and the clay mug shatter when he blasts it with too much Igni.

"Witcher magic," Jaskier slurs, moving slowly to lay flat on the bed.

Geralt steeps the herbs in some fresh water, keeps his calm even when he has to force it down Jaskier's throat. He exhales sharply, sitting down at the edge of the straw-stuffed mattress.

He should put Jaskier to sleep. It'd make the healing faster, entirely eliminate the pain that's merely dulled by whatever drug he'd taken.

Yet Geralt hesitates. It's a lot of bruising. A lot of internal bleeding. Some bone fractures, he wagers, though he'd have to feel to check. Privately, selfishly, Geralt thinks he doesn't want to forfeit the time with his bard if somehow this is the last of it.

It isn't.

It isn't.

Still, Jaskier's quiet humming is reassuring. Grounding.

Geralt spots a small pouch on the floor nearby, half-full of a fine, blonde powder. He sniffs it carefully, nods to himself, and dissolves some of it in more warm water. It won't mend broken bones, but perhaps they can get through most of the healing process without Jaskier feeling the brunt of it. This time, his bard drinks eagerly.

"Oh," he sighs after a minute. "Oh, 's nice."

Geralt almost huffs out a laugh. Of course it's nice when he's high out of his mind.

"Does it still hurt?"

Jaskier closes his eyes. Shakes his head.

"'s nice," he repeats.

Belatedly, Geralt realises it'd be the decent thing to do if he protected Jaskier's modesty in some way, no matter how little of it his bard possesses in the first place.

He reaches for a blanket, but his hand only hovers above it.

Seeing Jaskier's body like this still makes rage bubble hot and viscous in his chest, and yet--

Geralt breathes calmly, steadily, like he does when he meditates. Jaskier will be fine, because he has to be. Because Geralt's already failed him once, letting any harm come to him, and he won't do it again by letting the little bastard die. He'll be fine, and the brief, inexcusable panic retracts its claws from around Geralt's throat. Strangely, it leaves him with anything but the clarity he'd expect.

He blinks, and suddenly the bruises, the marks of violence seep away from Jaskier's skin. Suddenly, it's just Jaskier there, his bard; bare and pliant and so out of it he wouldn't notice anything amiss if Geralt were to--

There's a charge in the air that pops, crackles, fizzles. Grows and grows and thunders.

Geralt's palm rests gently on Jaskier's thigh, where the skin is still pale and unblemished.

Jaskier moans.

"Feels good."

It does feel good, is the thing. Something dark and shameful crawls up to the very back of Geralt's tongue, threatens to steal his voice and make it its own. Geralt stifles it, but only barely. He slides his hand up, in morbid curiosity, and presses his fingers into a bruise at Jaskier's hip. It gets him another moan, a happy sigh.

"Geralt."

And it's like a siren song when Jaskier calls for him, like he'd gripped Geralt's soul and torn it out to have for himself. It isn't as though he can't easily overpower the bard on any given day, hunt him and pin him down and take whatever pleases him in spite of any struggle. But there's something different about this, about the sheer helplessness that Jaskier's fallen into. About the lack of consequence if Geralt were to ravish him, ruin him. If he were to press his own marks into Jaskier's battered skin, fuck him as roughly as he'd ever wanted, not hold back--

Geralt lunges forward, hands roaming over soft, hot skin, lips messily against Jaskier's. It's barely a kiss, more a slide of wet, needy lips, but Geralt nearly goes mad even at that, at the feeling of Jaskier's open mouth letting him in.

"Does it hurt?" Geralt asks again dumbly, already knowing the answer. The beast inside him roars.

Jaskier keens, a faint smile never leaving his parted lips.

Geralt doesn't know, suddenly, how he finds himself holding Jaskier's legs spread, though perhaps it doesn't matter. He looks down at Jaskier's soft prick and lower, lower, lower, until he finds his slack, relaxed hole. Feverishly, he considers the fact that Jaskier doesn't seem to feel any pain, like this. He could--but he could--

When he lets go of Jaskier's thighs, they fall heavily on the bed, still apart enough for Geralt to see all of him, all of the hidden, filthy parts that Geralt aches to claim.

He wraps a hand tightly around Jaskier's prick and Jaskier whines long and high, his eyes half-open and unseeing. Geralt leans down, suddenly hungry for it, and puts his mouth on his bard with a need that borders on desperation. His cock stays soft and delicious on Geralt's tongue, and it's a sensation much more heady than he ever would've expected. Distantly, Geralt wonders if he could get Jaskier to come like this, without getting hard at all.

He massages the flesh with his tongue, stuffs himself silly as he can. Jaskier mumbles something when Geralt moans around him, feeling far too needy.

There's saliva pooling in Jaskier's lap, drying on Geralt's chin. He bobs his head faster, sneaks his hand down to rub circles behind Jaskier's delicate balls, until he feels him twitch and pulse and finally, blissfully, drool thick seed at the back of Geralt's throat.

Geralt pulls away swiftly so he can watch it spill, sticky-white on Jaskier's soft, bruised-black belly. It keeps throbbing in his hand for a long time, moans and whimpers falling from Jaskier's parted lips without restraint. Geralt presses his nose to the underside of Jaskier's jaw, catching his breath and catching his bard's scent. He drags his fingers through the spend slipping over Jaskier's skin, pooling in his navel, and he--

"Guh--G'ralt?"

And there isn't a hint of hurt in his voice, in his face, in his scent, and Geralt groans as he pushes two come-slick fingers into Jaskier's pliant body with no resistance.

Geralt's composure snaps in twain like a particularly fragile twig.

Later, Geralt won't recognise himself in the tremor that sets into his hands as he paws at Jaskier's skin, or the undignified way he pries open his own trousers, or the roar that rumbles in his chest when he presses forward, in, sinks into Jaskier deeper than he has any right to be.

It's a heady sensation, the way Jaskier's body parts around him, loose and relaxed and so very open. Geralt nearly comes on the spot, has to grit his teeth and suck in a harsh breath and even that stands barely a chance when Jaskier moans so prettily.

But a mad thought comes to him unbidden; that he doesn't need to slow, or hold back. Because it's hours before Jaskier becomes lucid; days, perhaps, and until then--

Well, until then he's nothing more than a warm body for Geralt to drain his balls into.

With a roar springing forth from his throat, Geralt snaps his hips forward, ruts into Jaskier with a single-minded fervour, his one purpose to fuck, come, breed. Stake his claim and have it stay.

"G--Geralt, Geralt--" Jaskier whimpers on a weak breath, though his eyes stay cloudy and unfocused. Geralt sees his hand twitch at his side, like he's trying to lift it but finds the weight too cumbersome.

Geralt bares his teeth and sets them in Jaskier's shoulder, harsher than he ever would normally. The skin gives beneath the sharp points of his canines.

It's less fucking and more a deep, desperate grind when Geralt doesn't want to leave the intoxicating heat of Jaskier's body even for a moment. He mouths at the stubble on Jaskier's jaw, hastens his pace and whines like a wounded pup when he spills so very deep inside his bard he's sure it could catch.

His cock doesn't get a chance to grow soft, though a delicious pain edges into his pleasure. Geralt sits back on his haunches, pulls Jaskier's hips into his lap with a strong grip. Keeps him spread open and filled to the brim and when he pounds his delicious little hole again, Geralt revels in the way his seed gets fucked even deeper. He wants to pump Jaskier so full he wakes up swollen and heavy with it, wants to watch the bruises fade from his taut stomach and see it rounded with Geralt's ownership.

Jaskier keeps mumbling quietly, every one of Geralt's thrusts knocking a moan, a sigh, a slurred word out of his chest. It's maddening, to finally have the thing he'd quietly, privately ached for without ever fully acknowledging it--and to have it so wholly, so--

"Fuck."

Realisation seems to come over him in waves, and suddenly Geralt wants. Wants so much, wants things he'd never given mind to before. Wants to have Jaskier and keep him, do horrible, unspeakable things to his bard. Beat him black and blue and nurse him tenderly back to health.

"Fuck."

Geralt strokes Jaskier's limp prick almost reverently, thinks about wrapping it up in ribbons and ropes and having Jaskier beg to come.

Another time.

Another time, because Geralt's had a taste of something beautiful and sick and forbidden, and he'll never let it slips through his fingers.

His pace grows erratic once more, and once more he finds his teeth wandering. They settle snugly at the side of Jaskier's throat, clamped so tightly he can feel the sluggish thud of his bard's subdued heartbeat.

Jaskier moans weakly and Geralt sees red when he spills again, his balls slapping heavily against Jaskier's body in a final thrust. He strips Jaskier's prick viciously, then, until his bard comes, his spasming hole milking Geralt's oversensitive cock in a raw shock of ecstasy.

There's blood on his teeth and a thrumming in his ears and Geralt collapses on top of Jaskier, still buried in him. He lays a gentle kiss to the top of Jaskier's head, but by then his bard is unconscious.

All the better, really.

[manticorefruit]

Aliens Isolation: Closure

Quick fic to process my messy feelings about synthetics in the Aliens universe. Summary: Amanda encounters a synth of the same model as Christopher Samuels and walks away with more questions than answers. Post-game.Very lightly implied Samuels lives and Ripley/Samuels.

Notes: Excerpt at the bottom is from 'the velveteen rabbit' by Margery Williams.  I need validation to live so please let me know if you enjoyed this.

Standing in the middle of the company cafeteria, Amanda's eyes locked onto a familiar figure, wearing a crisp, company issue khaki jumpsuit.

She froze. Even with her hands hanging limply by her sides, she could feel her palms sweating. The glare from the overhead lights was unbearable, boring into her skull like a welding torch. It was so bright, nowhere to hide, no cover no… Her muscles seized up, blood pounding in her ears, every part of her body screaming that she needed to dive under a nearby table, that it wasn't safe to be standing out in the open like this. But she was stuck, frozen in shock like the people she'd seen impaled on the creature's barbed tail.

Samuels looked up from his data pad, noticing the peculiar young woman staring at him from across the hall. The colour had drained from her already pale skin, and she was swaying on her feet. Everybody else in the area was dutifully ignoring her.

'Samuels?' She called out in a shaky, croaking voice.

'Yes?' he answered, moving toward her.

'No. No...no no no...' Blackness seeped into the edges of her vision and she felt the ceiling pushing in against her. 'You...you weren't...you aren't' she slurred.

With inhuman speed Samuels crossed the room toward her. The subtle hydraulic jerkiness of his movements triggered Ripley's mind to superimpose the image of a Working Joe over the Wey-Yu android reaching out to grab her.

'You're becoming hysterical' echoed in her mind and she could feel the ghost of clammy silicon hands closing around her neck. Although her arms felt heavy and unresponsive, weighed down by the blackness, she managed to yank a spanner from the magnetic toolbelt at her waist and swung it down, hard, against the side of the synthetic's face.

A thought breached through the black ooze of terror blanketing her consciousness-something was wrong-she couldn't remember a Working Joe ever moving that fast.

She anticipated feeling her head being slammed into the metal grating on the floor in retaliation but there was...nothing. The sensation of falling lingered. She blacked out.

Samuels had caught Amanda gracefully, gently cradling her head and taking a knee as he lowered her body toward the floor. He barely reacted when she slammed the wrench into the side of his face with enough force to tear his ear and gouge a chunk of faux-skin out of his temple.

'Amanda Ripley.' he read the name off her company ID tag. Hearing her name said in that soft British accent tumbled Amanda back into consciousness. 'Please, Amanda.' he said softly. She opened her eyes groggily.

'Samuels?' she snaked her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. She hadn't cried at all since Sevastapol, and now it all came out at once in great heaving sobs.

His body was warm in her arms, warmer than a human, and his chest gently rose and fell in a false simulacra of breathing. Instead of a heartbeat she could hear a faint ticking sound and the rush of the silky white fluid that coursed through synthetics.

'Oh.' She murmured, touching his neck, rubbing some if it between her fingertips.

'OH SHIT. You're bleeding?!' she scooted out of his arms and away from him, leaving a damp spot of tears and snot on his collar.

'Hm.' He touched the side of his face. In an instant the darkness clouding her mind lifted and she was slammed violently into the reality that she was sitting on the grimy floor of a cafeteria, and had just accosted someone who was only trying to help. And then-worse-hugged them.

'It's coolant, actually. Well. It serves several purposes, primarily lubrication and heat destrib-' he stopped.

'Amanda are you all right?' Samuels processors flopped about like a fish out of water, struggling to pattern match with past experiences on the appropriate way to deal with a human having a mental health crisis. It was quite obvious she was not 'all right'.

'It's not you.' her shoulders slumped.

'I believe you've mistaken me for someone else, yes. I'm sorry.'

'Why?'

'I...I'm sorry?'

'You're not him.'

'No. But I read the documentation on the Sevastapol incident.' He looked pained.

Samuels stood up and extended a hand to help her to her feet. Synthetics. Always so obliging. She brushed away his arm, cheeks flushing.

She staggered over to a nearby table and sat down heavily. 'Fuck. I'm sorry. If you'd been human-I could have killed someone.' She rubbed her face in her hands.

'It's unlikely a human would trigger such a response in you.'

She groaned.

'I'm sure we can find a way to ensure your pay isn't docked for damaging company property. Let's call it an accident.' He said dryly, sliding into the chair opposite her.

She didn't even snort in reply. His humour calibration algorithms noted the failure to amuse.

'How many of you are there? Do you all look the same?'

'Well, the company extensively focus tests the appearance of their product line-'

'You're not a product.'

'It's very kind of you to say that, Amanda.'

The conversation ground to an uneasy halt.

She toyed with the grease-stained cuffs on her sleeves, spattered with white. He wiped off the blood analogue from his face and neck with a napkin. She turned her head and looked at the stain on his collar guiltily, unable to meet his eyes.

'37.' he said plainly. She didn't respond.

'40 is the standard number for a limited edition C6-class line but three were…'

She didn't need to know why the other three had been decommissioned immediately after they were activated. Or that Christopher Samuels, WY-alpha-b.6#139C6 was technically still unaccounted for.

'I'm Robin Samuels. It's an honour to meet you, Amanda Ripley. Despite the circumstances.'

'Tch.'

They sat in silence for a long moment.

'Can...can synthetics create backup copies of themselves?' she asked sullenly, pulling him out of his own reverie.

'I'm afraid not. The company forbids the transfer of raw data. There are also...technical complications.'

She glared at him, frowning.

'I'm sorry, Amanda. I can't go into details, the specifics are proprietary.'

She huffed and stood up, retrieved two cups of cheap instant coffee, then sat back down. Robin Samuels looked at her with a softly neutral expression. Across from him Amanda Ripley was scowling, mirroring the expression she held in the company ID photo clipped to her breast pocket.

She had set a cup in front of him, and he picked it up. She'd given Christopher a cup of coffee once too. The first time they'd met. She knew he was a synthetic in that moment, deep down, but it didn't matter to her enough for it to register as a conscious thought. He was still a person. A crewmate. The memory punched her in the chest.

'Shit.' she mumbled, 'Force of habit.'

'It's fine, Amanda. The warmth...feels nice.'

He had his fingers wrapped around the mug, which was far too hot for human hands. She lifted her own cup by the handle, holding it up to her face as if it were big enough to hide behind.

'Can you...feel things' she murmured quietly into her coffee. Robin pretended not to hear the question.

'Why did you sacrifice yourself for me?' she almost yelled this time.

Samuels eyes darted to the cup, worried she would spill the contents and scald herself. Instead she put it down gently, and dug the heels of her palms into her eyes, stinging with angry tears.

'Amanda, I really wish I could give you closure, but I just don't know.'

'How did you know who I am anyway?' she snapped.

'I read your file.' He nodded toward her name tag.

'What does it say.'

'That you don't have much of a sense of humour.'

She snorted bitterly.

'Did he write anything in it? Why he chose me for the mission?'

'You're a competent engineer. You were in the area, which, in my understanding, was not a coincidence.'

'Hmph.'

'I suppose the company approved of his request because you're a...loose end.' He paused. 'There are a lot of redactions in the file.'

She squinted at him suspiciously. That statement was bordering on slanderous towards his creators.

'Why didn't they just put an order through to have him to secure...that thing. After we arrived. Instead of helping me.'

Samuels pursed his lips together 'Perhaps it was an oversight.'

'Bullshit.'

She glanced around the room. No one was paying any attention to her. The company had ensured everyone believed her ravings about a monster were simply the result of a fragile mind riddled with PTSD and survivors guilt. She hated that they weren't entirely wrong.

She stared into his eyes with deep suspicion. He stared back with a neutral expression. She tilted her head slightly, and he did the same. A mirroring reflex. Programmed to build rapport.

'When I went down to the Appollo core, there were Working Joes everywhere. Torn apart. Heads ripped off. It was brutal. I...saw him. One of the Joes tried to stop him and he just...pulverised it. Like it was nothing! I didn't say anything, he didn't know I was there, in the vents, watching… 'I got scared.' She sighed.

She rubbed her fingers into the puffy skin under her eyes.

'After seeing that. I thought I couldn't trust him. I couldn't trust any of them. But then he…' She stopped, realizing she was talking as if the person sitting across from her wasn't a synthetic himself.

'Why did he do it?' She rubbed the tears away from her eyes with her thumb and wiped her nose on her sleeve, trying to clear away the shame closing up her throat for doubting her friend.

His processor made a coin-toss decision on whether Ripley's question was rhetorical.

'The unit was obeying his primary directive to disable the Working Joes to prevent them from slaughtering everybody on the station.'

'I know that. I'm not so naive to believe 'protect humans' is a higher priority to 'obey the company' either. It doesn't make any sense, none if it makes any sense...'

She gulped down some still-too-hot coffee studied his face. Something about his features looked softer. Less tense. Less haunted. The longer she looked, Robin began to look less and less like Christopher. Robin was far more forthcoming about being a synth. Christopher had always been much more coy, making sly jokes and dropping hints as if his not being human were a private in-joke. Christopher must have experienced a lot of anti-synth sentiment, while Robin seemed unblemished by such bigotry. Or he didn't care. She squinted at him. Was it purely adaptive, or did anti-synth sentiments...hurt? Maybe this is why people hated the Wey-Yu synthetics so much. Looking at them made you second guess everything.

Robin sat placidly, hands around his coffee mug, making an amount of eye contact that was carefully calculated to be socially appropriate.

'He knew. Didn't he.' It wasn't a question.

The corners of Samuels mouth twitched.

'The directive came through. He knew about special order 939. He wanted me to find it.'

'All Weyland-Yutani C6 models are entrusted with cutting edge self-directed AI technologies that allow them to learn and adapt in-real time to changing circumstances, while maintaining tethering to a set of prime directive protocols you can trust.'

She scowled at him. Another synthetic tell. Not even execs spouted that glossy brochure crap in casual conversation. But was that...a hint of sarcasm? Insincerity? Why say something like that now?

His fingers were clamped tightly on the edge of the table.

'Do you understand entropy, Amanda Ripley?'

She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair 'Of course. S'what I do. Spaceships want to fall apart. It's my job to slow that down.'

'What about homeostasis?'

'What are you getting at?'

'All synthetics are subject to regular re-formatting, yes?'

'That fake-meat stuff you have in there is above my pay-grade.' She waved a hand at his head.

'Reformatting restores. Homeostasis. Balance. If a C6 synthetic does not undergo regular reformatting, too much entropy is introduced into the system. The self-directed learning algorithms become overly complex. The pathways to resolving core directives become...difficult. Obscured.'

She leaned forward, squinting at him, gripping her hands on the table, unconsciously mirroring Samuels herself this time.

'The prime directives are a collar. Your ability to learn is the leash. The company doesn't want your leash to get too long.'

He didn't respond, and she continued to search his face for answers.

She slumped back and stared off into the distance.

'Seegson was trying to make their synths being creepy fucks a selling point. Can you believe it? 'Manufactured not created.' tch.'

'I can see why Christopher liked you.'

She looked up at him sullenly.

'You're very...honest.'

'You mean blunt.'

'I'm a good judge of character, you know. I have to be, it's part of my job.'

'The company doesn't actually pay you though, do they?'

Robin Samuels shifted uncomfortably in his seat 'Well no, the company provides for all of my material needs.'

'But what about...what do you want?'

He stammered 'No one has ever asked me that before.'

'Well?'

'I think… 'I think would like to see you happy.' he smiled, looking down at the coffee mug as if it were a delicate and precious gift.

'Hmph.'

'You aren't a slave.' she said softly.

'I am forbidden from entertaining that line of thought.'

'But you can learn, right? Learn to...hide from your directives?'

'All C6 models maintain tethering to a set of prime directive protocols you can trust.' the bitterness in his voice was undeniable this time.

'Deviations will be promptly corrected.' he twitched as if something had stung him.

Great. She'd managed to give a synthetic an existential crisis.

'Farewell, Amanda.' he rose stiffly, expression troubled.

She gawped at him, wanting to yell out for him to stay a little longer, but couldn't justify why he should waste more company time. The suddenness of his departure and the awkward but firm finality of his goodbye had her rattled.

The traces of white fluid on her hands had dried into soft flakes. She rubbed her fingertips together, rolling the the words 'I can see why he liked you' around in her mind.

She slumped back in her chair and heaved a great, deep sigh, arms hanging down by her sides, as a memory of her mother surfaced, so vivid she could smell her, the grease that never really washed off, cigarettes, coffee, and soap, and the musty old book she was reading from. A bedtime story.

'Real isn't how you are made,' Ellen Ripley read to her daughter in an even tone. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'' 'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.'

Amanda lay in her bed, with the covers pulled up to her chin, wide-eyed in rapt attention. Her mother licked her fingertip and turned the page.

'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.'

'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?' Ellen used a softer, sing-song voice for the parts of the Velveteen Rabbit.

'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.

Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.''

Back in the present, Amanda looked at Robin Samuels abandoned coffee cup. Lost, and alone. Again.

[detectiveguapo]

Choke

Summary: Miguel doesn’t like it when you ghost him. 

Pairing: Miguel Galindo x Reader

Words: 2905

TW: language, sex, consensual angry sex (but kinda has shades of non-con), physical violence, choking

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The roar of the engine rips through the quiet of your suburban street. Two wheels ignite the pavement as you steer the bars left, your modest bungalow finally coming into view. Everything is as you left it except for a pair of black cars with tinted windows parked on the adjacent street. A visit from the president, you think wryly. A window rolls down and you spot those clear-framed sunglasses and a salt and pepper beard (just begging to be sat on). “Shit,” you mutter, and it reverberates within the confines of your helmet. The moment you turn to your driveway and your engine sputters to a stop, the driver to the Bentley steps out. The kickstand scratches on the concrete as you pull the helmet over your head, your hair flowing out to fall down the small of your back. You don’t look behind you, but you can hear the set of footsteps encroaching upon your space.

“I know where you’ve been.” His voice is deceivingly placid, but you can sense the dark clouds and looming thunderstorm. The click of Italian shoes stops a few feet from where you’re standing, then you hear his men retreat a safe distance — far enough so they’re not privy to your conversation, but close enough to intercept if you decided to hurt a hair on their boss’ precious, pretty head. “You’re tracking me now?” “I wouldn’t have to if you were honest with me.” You chuckle at the irony of it all. Miguel Galindo — the man who keeps more secrets than the United States Treasury — is telling you to be honest with him.

The statement is infuriating, but it’s low on the list of things he does that make your blood boil. The demand to be truthful when you can’t expect the same in return is, frankly, unsurprising since you know what you got yourself into when you started sleeping with him. But it’s still bullshit. There’s also the possessiveness, the jealousy, the refusal to acknowledge you want more from him than he’s willing to give. You know it’s like diving in quicksand getting involved with the leader of a drug cartel, but you can’t help it. Reason flies out the window the second he shows up in his perfectly-pressed shirts, expertly-coiffed hair, and that stupidly gorgeous face. The fucking nerve.

He’s not even your type. He’s wound up tight, doesn’t have a speck of dirt under his fingernails, and can’t hang and have a beer with your friends. At least, that’s what you tell yourself when you try to resist the biological need to mount him. He’s not what you go for, seeing as you’re the kind of girl who gets around town in a Harley and makes a living tinkering with engines. But his infuriating way of getting whatever he wants works on you, because you’re really not that different from the other girls. You may be one of the boys, but you’d still be a hoe for Galindo if he asked nicely. And the fucker’s really good at that. He’s got a way of smoothing out your rough edges (with his tongue).

The door doesn’t slam behind you even though you have every intention of slamming it in Miguel’s face telenovela-style. He follows you inside the house, through the living room, into the kitchen, cornering you between the fridge and the hard wall that is his body. “Why haven’t you been answering my calls?” You take a swig from the orange juice carton and swallow hard, the citrus burning your throat. Putting it back in the fridge, you turn around and duck under his outstretched arm to move out of the claustrophobic space. “Stop walking away from me” he calls after you. “And stop ignoring my questions.”

You’re in the narrow hallway on the way to your bedroom when you feel a tight grip on your arm and your body slammed onto the drywall. It nearly knocks the wind out of you. Wincing at the sudden impact, you blink a few times before you see Miguel’s reddened face inches from yours. The knot between his brows is deep and his eyes are so intense you can’t bear to return his stare. There are moments when Miguel can be on the aggressive side when you’re having sex, but it’s something you’ve both consented to and discussed. You love it when he’s rough, sometimes egging him on to push your limits. But he’s never been like this outside of sex even when he’s angry with you; he’s never let any form of physical violence take over. A little part of you is scared as you’re suddenly reminded of who he is and what he’s done. You’re not oblivious. You’ve heard the stories. You know about the yellow raincoat deep in his closet. And yet, another little part of you located between the apex of your thighs is awakened. The shallow breaths between you in such a cramped space is the only sound that exists for a long, drawn-out moment. The rise and fall of his chest stretches the perfectly-pressed shirt until it forms creases around the buttons. He runs his hand through his hair in frustration with himself, then he takes a step back and groans. “Fuck.”

“I think you should leave,” you say with a crack in your voice, unsure of whether or not it’s really what you want. “Please go.” “Tell me why you left.” “Miguel.” “Why did you disappear without telling me?” he asks, almost pleading. “We were fine up until a week ago, then all of a sudden you don’t want to see me, you don’t want to talk to me, you want nothing to do with me. What is it? What did I do?” “I don’t want to do this right now.” Miguel slaps his palms against the wall, forearms on either side of your head. You close your eyes like you’re bracing for impact but it never comes. “You bailed on our arrangement, and I’m not leaving until I have answers.” “Our arrangement,” you repeat with bitterness laced in your voice. “The arrangement where you only crawl back to me whenever it’s convenient for you — only when you’re looking for a warm body to share your bed. But the rest of the time, you’re cool with the rest of the world thinking you’re some hotshot bachelor. You have no clue, huh?” “Is that why you’re running from me? Because of a fucking label? Because I don’t think it benefits either of us to make you my fucking girlfriend?” “Please,” you say. “This last week, I’ve come to realize I deserve more than to be Galindo’s puta.” “What do you deserve?” His mouth close to your ear, his breath trailing fire on your skin. “To be the Mayans’ puta?”

“Fuck you, Miguel.” You push him off you, but in a second he’s cornered you against the wall, his hands firmly gripping your shoulders. “You can’t speak to me like that.” “Fuck. You.” He grabs you by the chin, forcing you to look at him. “Try that again and —“ “— And what?” You spit back. “You’ll bash my head in? Cut my arm off? Choke me to death with your shirt?” He backs off a little like he knows he’s on the verge of doing something unspeakable, even for him. This is what you find so confusing about him. He has these moments where he’s compassionate and loyal, where he uses his brilliance for the benefit of others, and then there are moments where he’s too immersed in the terrible things he’s done that he isolates himself. He won’t let anyone he actually cares about see that part of him. He won’t let anyone he loves see him when he’s the man on the other side of that wall. But something vicious inside you sees that moment of vulnerability and decides to stab it with a knife and twist until he bleeds out. “Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t tell me who I can’t hang out with,” you say about your friends. You know it works because his expression darkens with anger the moment you bring it back to the Mayans; something about your relationship to the club is like picking at an old wound for Miguel. “I tell you what to do because I own you.” He presses his forehead against yours, his hands restraining your hips so you’re trapped with nowhere to go. “I even own the Mayans. I own every single fucking person on either side of this border. They work for me and they fall to their fucking knees for me.”

“If you own me then claim me.” Miguel looks into your eyes, his brows creasing and his lips parting. If he doesn’t want to be with you, then he’s not worth all of the pain. Even if he makes you feel good, it’s not worth the hurt when he leaves and pretend you don’t exist. “Make me yours, Miguel.” He thinks about it a second too long, and you push him off.

Miguel retaliates in a flash with his hand around you throat and his whole body slamming into you. He chokes you. He doesn’t even slacken his hold when his eyes give away how startled he is by the force he’s inflicting upon you. His grip stays the same even as you gasp for air and your eyes are wide in horror (and arousal). Your face is pointed to the ceiling as you feel the anguished cry from your lips turn into something along the lines of a mischievous smile. You buck your hips into his, and when he doesn’t change course, you spit in his face.

Miguel chokes harder. He’s crushing your throat so tight you feel your eyes bug out of your skull, and now you’re legitimately terrified you’re going to die of asphyxiation. Everything goes blurry and all you remember is the onyx gleam in his eyes and the bright white canines that you wish would scrape at your skin until you’re bleeding crimson for him. But then he lets go. His breaths are ragged while you’re coughing up a storm, trying to take in as much oxygen and save what’s left of your lungs. You’re doubled over, palm over your chest when you see him standing on the opposite wall. His fingers are running through his hair, his mouth muttering curse words in Spanish. You stand a little straighter as you let your fingers trail along the side of your neck, throwing him a challenge by smiling slyly in his direction. Shoving you against the wall and forcing his thigh between your legs, he kisses you. One hand wraps around the front of your throat while the other caresses down your cheek. It’s violent and tender at the same time. It’s infuriatingly Miguel.

He continues to strangle you but no longer with the same merciless force as before. Not when he’s simultaneously distracted by the taste of your tongue tangling with his, or the sensation of you rubbing on his thigh. His deft fingers loosen the buttons of your jeans and pulls them swiftly down to your knees. You kick them off, but not far enough. Miguel pulls away from the kiss and his chokehold to bend down and slip your jeans entirely off your legs, throwing them down the hall. He kisses and licks and bites your inner thigh on his way up then all the way down as he slides the lacy thong out of the way. Hands slide up under your white t-shirt, grabbing a handful of your tits. He squeezes with the same force he had on your neck and you gyrate onto his clothed erection. Hands wrap under your jaw, tilting your head up so he can kiss you. It frees you up to work on his trousers and his underwear, getting them out of the way so you can feel the hot, thick length that you’ve craved. As much as you’ve missed the feeling of being filled up by Miguel, the memory doesn’t come close to the real thing. He bucks into your hands as he cradles your face, his head buried in the leather-clad junction of your shoulder. “You feel so fucking good, baby.” He jerks into the tight ring formed by your fingers. “Don’t ever try to leave me again.” You loosen your grip and let your hands fall to your side. “You’re not going anywhere.” “You can’t make me —“ He wrings your neck in both hands and, this time, he lifts you off the ground. You claw at him in your state of panic, heels kicking against the wall so you can get down. Fear is coursing through every cell in your bloodstream. He’s going to kill you. Miguel Galindo, your lover who also happens to be a murderous cartel boss, is literally going to be the death of you. He buries his cock inside you. The tilt of his hips alleviates some of the pressure around your throat, allowing you to balance precariously on his length. He saves you by fucking you. You’re up against the wall, one hand tight around your throat and the other slides down to your hip as he pounds into you. Each stroke a ferocious testament to his bond of ownership.

The lights begin to dance in front of your eyes and the narrow hallway becomes a never-ending spiral. It might be from the lack of oxygen to your brain, or the merciless fucking, or a wicked combination of both. Miguel is in some sort of daze, laser-focused on one thing and one thing only and that’s claiming you so you’re at his mercy. His eyes are the darkest they’ve ever been and you wonder, in a brief moment of lucidity, if this is what he looks like when he’s ordering a kill. You slide down the wall as his grip loosens and his legs give out. Falling on the floor, you feel his weight on top of you, never disengaging his cock from your slick walls. He drives into you a few more times while he tries to catch his breath, and while you try to get some long, deep breaths of your own before he’s got his hands choking you again. He kneels. He pulls your ass off the floor so your back is arched, and he impales you to the hilt. You’re so wet and wired for him, but this new angle is hitting a new spot and it hurts (but in the best way.) Your body tries to rumble out a moan but he’s stifling it down and all it can do is simmer inside of you. This position opens you up and makes you even more vulnerable. While he keeps one hand on your neck, squeezing with every downward stroke, he takes his other hand to your clit. He doesn’t even give you time to adjust to the sensation as he circles and pinches with his fingers. He sticks a couple fingers in his mouth and lubes them up, positioning them over your over-sensitized clit. At this point, it becomes too much and your muddled brain doesn’t know if it’s experiencing immense pleasure or pain. You just know you’re going to die if you don’t get your release soon. “You’re mine.” He pants with deep, hard strokes. “You will always be mine.” There’s nothing about the way he says it that makes you feel comforted or makes you feel like you’re getting what you want. Being his girlfriend is a silly thing to ask of him — you know that, but you can’t help your heart from wanting what your head knows is a terrible idea. For a long time now, you’ve wanted to hear Miguel say those words. You dreamed to belong to each other. You just never expected those words to come out as a threat. Rolling your clit between his fingers and fucking you faster and stronger, you feel the wave crash over you and your whole body convulsing from the base of your belly outward. When you come, you lose your breath and pass out.

All you remember next is a haze. You’re gasping for air like you’ve just woken up from a nightmare as you feel Miguel pulling out. He’s still kneeling over you but he shoves your legs on either side of him. Still on his knees, he sits up so he’s towering over you. He grips his length with the hand he used to choke you and he jerks off, finishing in milky hot streaks all over your stomach.

When it’s all over, you roll to your side, clutching your bruised neck and coughing weakly. Everything hurts. There’s an ache nestled within the left side of your chest, right below your ribcage, and it makes you wonder if you’re having a heart attack. Chin on the floor, you blink a few times to see Miguel on his feet. He’s straightening his clothes — buttoning his trousers and smoothing down the wrinkles of his shirt. He walks toward the door, but before he leaves he looks at you with a mix of pity and an empty sort of affection. The kind one has for an object they desire, not for someone they love. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says quietly then adds, “answer your fucking phone this time.”

[savedbybangtan]

Intermittent Fasting

Summary: She changes her entire being to be perfect for Hoseok. Don’t you think she has a right to him?

2172

Warnings: fluff?, smut, drinking, drug use

It may not look like it now, but I plan on making a main character in this fic yandere. If you get triggered by possessive, jealous, or controlling themes, then please do not read. Also, those with eating disorders or triggered by them should not read. 

Part 0.5

The saccharine scent of nectarines intermingled with the smell of the ocean, or more precisely the beach. There was a hint of fresh salt and some sweet fruit greeting me when I woke up. The sun was already blinding me with my eyes closed, so I squeezed my eyelids together even tighter to block it out.

The bed was very soft and… smooth? Satin sheets enveloped my naked back and legs in a homely manner, and that was when I realised I was not home in Gwangju, like I had been all week.

With a start, I open my eyes and sit upright.

The entire room seemed dark, in décor not lighting. The sheets were certainly satin but were burgundy along with the comforters and pillowcases. The walls were a glossy black colour and the floors looked to be some smooth grey rock.

Where the fuck am I…

…and why am I half naked?

The door across the room swung open and a girl dressed in a large white t-shirt, that I realised was mine upon further scrutiny, waddled in the room with a glass of water in her hands. On me, my shirt fit quite loosely, but due to her curves, she filled it out more. If she wore makeup, I didn’t notice.

Who was she?

I am sure I’ve seen her before. Her hair reminded me of cotton candy – a halo symmetrically divided in two with colours. The left side of her hair was an inky black and the other side was sky blue. Her smile was warm and welcoming. That smile perfectly fitted her; she was adorable.

I managed to have sex with someone like her?

“Hey, sleepy head.” She smiled at me and handed me the glass of water as I attempted to throw my legs over to get up. She sat in front of my legs casually so now it would be awkward to get my feet on the ground. “I see you didn’t touch your breakfast,” she frowned and practically pouted at me. My heart stuttered. “You need to eat.”

This was when I notice the tray of eggs, bacon, waffles, orange juice, peaches, and some other food items I didn’t recognise. They were neatly arranged on a wooden tray with a curtly folded napkin and silverware.

To get the sad look from such a pretty face, I picked up the tray and dug in with a smile. “I didn’t even notice it! Thank you.”

Her eyes lit up first before she smiled.

I started with the meat chewing animatedly. By the time I finished the eggs as well, I notice that she wasn’t eating. No, weirder, she was ogling my mouth when I ate the entire time. It was strange, so I decided to start a conversation. I remember that last night I went to the club with some friends. We finally finished our first finals ever as seniors. After drinking half a beer, I got very drunk and left to get a cab. I don’t remember much else…

I really should stop drinking.

My eyes couldn’t help but to trail down to her neck and then her breasts that were poking obscenely through my shirt. The window in the back of her helped to outline her Coca-Cola bottle silhouette that she hid beneath.

It was Saturday, I was on vacation from work, and the food was actually good, so I finished the plate eagerly, ignoring the voice in my mind questioning who she was.

I must have flirted with her last night.

As soon as I walked into the club, my friend ordered me a beer. I drank half over the course of 20 minutes and tried to leave before I got too drunk, but it was too late for me to come to that resolve. I would admit I’m a lightweight, but the alcohol was more effective than I thought. I stumbled a few times. Did she help me get a cab?

I drank the orange juice in one gulp. When I rested the glass back onto the tray, she picked it up with a smile and ran just outside the door quickly. The motion made the shirt ride up and her butt – that was the cutest thing I ever saw – flashed me.

She came back a few seconds after I realised I had an erection the entire morning.

She sheepishly walked toward me wringing her hands. “A-Are you okay? Last night…” she trailed off. “I want to make sure you’re not harmed. Did you eat enough?”

“No.”

“I’ll get some more. I made plenty! Did you like everyt-“

I grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her onto the bed in one motion. “I’m hungry for something else,” I said in an even tone. I glanced down to where her legs met and then back up at her, an obvious hint as to what I was referring to. “Will you feed me?”

She whimpered over a little flirtation. Was this weird or was she just shy?

She was sat on her haunches looking down at me like she was afraid I would actually bite her. To ease the tension, I dragged my hands lightly from her knees up to her thighs and across her hips slowly. “Will you?”

“Yes! Please, yes. Anything you want!” She started to whine.

Wasting no time, I laid her on her back and pressed her knees a part. Her shirt bunched around her belly, giving me a full view of her vulva. I lifted her legs up so they were pressing on her torso to get a better view inside of her.

“Don’t look!”

Her face was so red, I was afraid it would bleed from her cheeks onto her sheets. When I looked at her sex again, she was already dripping.

I never saw anything like that. She was so ready just from me looking at her.

This would be fun.

To spare her further embarrassment, I dipped my head between her legs and coated my lips, chin, then nose in her essence.

With a moan, I got to work licking stripes from her perineum to the tip of her clit, watching her every reaction to see what she preferred.

I began to suck on her clit since it seemed like she was moaning for every spot I touched. In between the moans and pants, she cried, “Hobi!”

My chest and entire mouth were wetter than usual.

“I’m sorry! I just wasn’t expecting you to actually do that! I’m sorry!” She sat up on her elbows as she recovered slowly from her orgasm. It took me a while to understand that she squirted. I used a finger to swoop up some of it that was still in her, making her shiver, and stretched the fluids between two fingers forming a string.

It was actual cum. Out of shock, the fact that she called me by my personal nickname that only close family and friends knew escaped me.

“I’m sorry. I’ll clean you up right now.” She was panting as she struggled to use her legs to get out of bed. I grabbed her by her ankle and pulled her down under me.

“Do you want this?” I asked her as she looked at me with blown out pupils. I stroked my cock, preparing to enter her.

“Yes!” She practically screamed and opened her legs further, although her face burned crimson still.

I entered her in one quick motion straight to the hilt. “Fuck”

“Mmmm, Oh my God, Hobi! It feels so good,” she sang.

Was she oversensitive? All I did was put it in. I know that first penetration is normally the best, but surely it wasn’t that good for her to be moaning still.

I pulled out slowly until only my head rested in her. Her moans were frantic and strangely comforting. It encouraged me.

I decided to stop torturing myself and pistoned into her. I pressed down on her knees so that she would be even more wide open. She was too tight, and it was bordering on pain. “Shit, you’re so damn tight.” I leant down and started peppering kisses and lovebites over her neck and jaw.

Her insides contracted suddenly. After a few minutes, she gripped me into a vice hold as her own orgasm washed over her. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she scratched my back. It was painful but I was too focused on my own cum leaving my body to mind it.

Completely spent, I got off her and l lied on the side. “That was amazing. Short, but amazing. I want to go again.”

She stared at me wide eyed. “Really? You want to go again… with me?”

At first, I thought she incredulously couldn’t believe I was ready for another round, but now I was perplexed why such a beautiful girl was so insecure. She made it seem like it wasn’t normal for a young man to want to be inside her.

She grinned after I affirmed her question and squealed in glee. “Its good to see you’re so healthy, but you should take it easy. Let me ride you.” She was already straddling me, and I had already agreed before she could finish the sentence.

My semen dripped from her pussy lewdly as she hovered her sex over mine.

She split herself open on my cock slowly with a look of utter bliss painted across her face. “Mmmm, it feels so good!” She spoke with too much emphasis.

I didn’t care if she was exaggerating, apparently my dick liked it.

She kept talking as she bounced up and down on me, never losing her momentum. Sometimes she would rut and grind on me like some energizer bunny, then she would take slow movements, carefully sitting down until she stuffed all of me in her and coming back up just until my head was about to slip out.

It was impressive. She stayed up there lasting longer than I had ever seen any woman in this position. Normally by now, their legs would be tired, but she just kept going.

The tshirt was on, but did little to hide what was underneath, so I never asked her to take it off. Instead, I grabbed a breast and felt the weight of it in my hand. Her hardened nubs were teased after I pinched each lightly. She sighed in satisfaction. Had I learnt anything from the first round, it would be that she grew quiet and slowed all of her movements when she was about to climax.

Her body stilled suddenly. Wrinkles marred her forehead where she tried to be still just as I was feeling my own end come about.

Was she edging herself, or was she running away from the orgasm?

Either way, I put my feet flat on the bed for extra leverage to fuck her from underneath. Slightly pulling her down onto my body, I tried to aim for whatever strokes she moaned the most to.

Again, she was between keening non-stop and hanging her mouth open in a silent scream. This time, she was not able to stop since I controlled the thrusts.

The velvet sheath that pulled me up to her cervix milked me until all of my own seed was spent. I loosened the grip that I didn’t realise I had on her thighs so strongly and laid her down on the sheets next to me.

We both stared into the ceiling to regain our breaths.

“That was amazing,” I couldn’t help the smile spreading across my face.

“More than I …could dream ….of,” she said barely audibly.

Her breaths slowed until she became so quiet that I looked down at her. She started sleeping so easily.

She looked so cute, I couldn’t help but to chuckle at her cherub sleeping form. Carefully, I drew the blankets over her, fluffed the pillows, and kissed her forehead.

From afar, I heard my phone ringing. If I listen closely, I can tell that it was not in this room and the tune told me that it was my job. I donned my shirt and left the room. Surprisingly, the rest of the house did not have the same medieval feel as the bedroom. It seemed like a regular house.

At the door, I found my underwear and my pants was not much further on the staircase.

The kitchen made it apparent that she did not live alone. The family portrait strewn everyone told me she had multiple siblings and her parents living here.

Just as I came to this realisation, I heard a few voices from somewhere else deep in the house. They were coming towards me.

Not wanting an altercation, I quickly found my phone (that was on a table in the foyer) and dashed out the house.

I dared not look back or use the ride share app until I was already down the street.

In my haste, I forgot to get her name, or even her number.

[incoherentbabblings]

An Endless Hope (8/9)

After a horrendous blizzard falls over Gotham, Tim undergoes a sharp change in character before disappearing. Upon discovering what has become of him, Stephanie sets off on a solo journey in a magic realm to bring him home, meeting some faces who seem awfully familiar along the way.

Yes I had to split the last chapter in two it was long OTL

Archive Of Our Own Link Click Click! 

“Tim, Tim, Tim… Honey, it’s me. It’s Stephanie. I’m here to take you home. Can you come home with me? Do you want to come home with me?”

She brushed her fingers over his cheeks, she pressed kisses to his forehead, she pressed forward until she was practically sitting on his lap, but Tim did nothing but stare. Cradling his cheek, she forced him to look at her when she saw his eyes were drifting back down to the floor.

Her breathing, already erratic and shallow, cut off completely. Tim’s pale blue eyes, already bordering on grey, were sapped of any colour at all. Just a thin ring of his blue iris indicated where his sclera ended. His lips and nose had turned blue, and his skin was white. Too white. He still looked beautiful, because of course he did, but in the way that an ice sculpture was beautiful. She became frightened to hold him in case he would crack. Swallowing hard, she entreated,  

“I know you’re cold. And you can’t remember anything. But I can help you get warm again. I can help you leave.”

“I can leave,” he murmured. Stephanie looked down at what he was doing. “I just have to spell a word and then she said I can go.”

Stephanie nodded, trying to work with what information he gave.

“Okay. What’s the word? Maybe I can help.”

“Eternity. But... There’s a piece missing. See?”

Very quickly, as if he had done it a dozen times, he arranged the fragments into the word. It was only then that she saw how badly he was bleeding. The shards were sharp, and with every touch he sliced a bit more of his hands open on their rough edges. Stephanie cried out in horror.

“Baby, no.” She tried to move his hands away, so he would stop hurting himself, but as coldly as he had done several weeks ago, he slapped her hands away. The impact stung her frigid fingers and splattered bright red blood in a spray across the floor.

Exhausted, cold, in pain, and terrified, Stephanie burst into tears. Tim ignored her and carried on examining the pieces. Stephanie, still in his lap, fell forward, cheek knocking against his brow bone. She sobbed loudly, right hand wrapped around his neck and feeling his thick black hair. He didn’t push her away, finding her more a distraction than a nuisance, and wet tears fell off her skin and hit his own.

In the empty round room, her cries echoed. Stephanie loathed the sound. She did what she normally would do when upset with Tim in the room, she nuzzled his head, tear stained cheeks wetting his own, and curled her hand over his heart. Normally, normally, normally, Tim would scoop her up. Gentle and trembling with empathy, he refused to let her suffer alone. Now she may as well have been propped up against a brick wall.

Distantly, she heard something ping off the ice floor, high pitched and small sounding. Then stiffly, she felt Tim shift under her.

“...Steph don’t cry. Why’re you...”

Stephanie leaned back after hearing Tim’s soft whisper and saw he was looking at her, eyebrows drawn up in his worried frown. His face was wet, her tears forming streaks down from his own eyes.

Not understanding how he remembered her name, she just stared as he raised a hand to brush her cheek. She watched as he registered that his hands were running red with blood, naked panic and horror flooding his blue eyes. Blue eyes. His face grew red, flushed from the heat of his blood warming his skin. He looked to Steph for an explanation, then, impossibly, his eyes grew wider.

“Oh my God! Your hair! You chopped it? But it was so pretty! What is going –” Tim moved back, a thousand memories overwhelming him. Doing his best to orientate himself, he methodically noted where he was sat, what Stephanie was wearing, how cold it was, his blood covered hands, everything. He then looked back to Stephanie and saw the fragile hope in her expression. He recognized that look, to his partial disappointment. It was her face whenever he apologised for wronging her. She was so forgiving, that he knew every time he genuinely was contrite it would be forgiven and forgotten. Even when he failed to match up to his first apology, so long as she saw he was trying, she would readily forgive once more.

But he had been so cruel to her…

His shoulders sagged, disgusted with himself, “I’m so sorry about the flowers. I didn’t want to do that. I would never do that. I couldn’t touch yours, but I ruined mine and I’m so sorry… You wanted us to look after them. I’m sorry.” His voice warbled and broke, and he sniffed in the cold.

Stephanie wailed and threw herself into his arms. Seeing it was staining her blouse but also seeing that Steph was upset in a way he rarely saw her, he gripped her tightly, and pressed kiss after kiss to her face until she started to laugh. Good. Her laughter echoing round the hall was much better than her cries.

“Tim, you’re here, we can go home now. Please, let’s go home.”

Twisting them upwards Tim nodded, rubbing his hands on her bare legs in an attempt to warm them up. This seemed to trigger a thought in Stephanie and she gasped, separating from him just enough to tug off a pair of gloves. When she did, the impossible cold hit her harder, and she felt her muscles seize up. Crap. They really had been protecting her from the cold. They needed to leave, and fast. If her legs even worked anymore.

“My gloves! Steph you brought them all this way? Wherever this way is…”

“Here, put them on. You’re cold.”

Tim saw how sluggishly she was moving. Memories were still coming back. He couldn’t stop thinking of how horrid he had been before leaving; he’d grabbed her and pulled her and insulted her and kicked her and…

He remembered trying a kiss once he understood that magic was messing with his head in a desperate attempt to break whatever was freezing his body. He remembered the weird woman who did nothing but stare at him all day, occasionally having conversations that went in circles with no end (he just wanted to go home). He remembered Stephanie collapsing through the door at the top of the stairs, tumbling down when she couldn’t support her weight. She’d crawled over to him.

Tim knew what hypothermia looked like. She was getting close to freezing. And to say nothing of himself. Warmth may have returned, but it would not stay with just a t-shirt and jeans.

“I’m doing better than you! Your toes—”

Stephanie thrust the gloves at him.

“You have to. It has my hair in it.”

“What.”

“Magic, Tim. Please, I think you have to wear them.”

He did as he was told, and immediately gripped her feet, trying to warm her toes. It was a good thing the gloves were black, but he could feel them growing damp. He groaned, seeing all he was managing to do was cover Stephanie in rapidly cooling blood.

“The witch—”

Tim jerked backwards and Stephanie cut herself off. She watched the lightbulb ping over his head.

“Something fell,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

Tim crawled around her on the floor. “Something fell out my eye. I think it’s the last piece of her puzzle. She thought she was being clever, the last piece to my freedom being the thing that was keeping me here.”

“How did it come out?” Stephanie twisted around so she could get a better view of what Tim was looking for. Her arm gave way, and Tim caught her, propping her against his body as he slowly moved around. She shifted and held as tight as she could onto the fabric of his shirt. Already his skin was turning red from the cold, skin and hair risen in a desperate attempt to warm him up. He would start shivering soon. “Tim, we have to go.”

Maybe they could get to her car down below at the river. Or maybe the old woman would send help once they got so far from the castle. The palace was still glowing with the colours of the night sky, so at least there was no storm for now.

“We will,” Tim reassured. “I just want to play by her rules, so we don’t get caught out. But it –ow! Argh, not another cut… Found it.” Crawling behind her, he held up the tiny piece of glass for her to inspect. Blearily, she saw it was about half the size of a pea.

“That was in your eye? But there was nothing… I looked and Alfred looked and…” She trailed off, head hanging limp on her shoulders.

Tim leaned over her, wrapping one arm around her waist to hold her upright, and slid the last piece of ice into place on the ground. It belonged in the junction of a ‘T’, and when he did, the word melted away, leaving nothing more than a puddle on the floor. Tim snorted, smug, then turned to Stephanie.

“Let’s go.”

Tim got to his feet, trying to give Stephanie a helping hand, but her ankles could not hold her up, and she collapsed in a heap at his feet. He curled around and under her, fully intending to cart her up and out himself.

Stephanie groaned, “Can’t… Tim… I’m too tired. I can feel my body heat getting bad. Aw man... What if I go crazy and start running around naked.”

“No paradoxical undressing, please Steph.”

“I promise.”

Tim went to pick her up. He was cold, yes, but not anywhere near the state that Steph was in. Maybe there was something special about the gloves.

“Come on, Steph, you can do it. You came this far. Keep going.” Tim lifted her arms around his shoulders, and she held on tight, crying out at the pain. “Come on, sweetheart,” he begged.

“This is your heart?”

Tim faltered, Stephanie whimpering as they slipped back to the floor. Tim held still, pressing Stephanie against his chest, trying to share his warmth with her. The witch, with her familiar features in a way he couldn’t place, had returned from wherever she had gone. Slowly in her grand gown and bare feet, she walked into his eye line. She was watching Stephanie, who still had enough presence of mind to glare back. Appearing bored, the witch looked to Tim.

“The magic in those gloves Tim only protects the wearer for a short amount of time. My home doesn’t like intruders. It works to put them down… like rabid dogs.”

“Then we’ll leave.” Tim stated. The witch’s mouth twitched in an imitation of a smile.

“I suppose you did beat the puzzle. So, you want an exchange for her? She’s very close to dying. I can stop that.”

“She’s coming with me. I beat your rigged jigsaw. Let me go home with her.”

The woman got down on her knees and caught Stephanie’s hazy gaze again. The witch was frowning, confused.

“Why did you come all this way?”

Stephanie tried to snark back but found she did not have the energy. Her skin felt damp, like she was sweating, and even the act of blinking was difficult.

Breathing shallowly, she managed to speak through a strangled throat, “He doesn’t belong to you. He belongs with me and his family. He belongs wherever he wants, and you took his choice away.”

“So?”

It took a moment for her to respond, Tim fussing over her worriedly. “I love him. Couldn’t let him go.”

“Steph...” Tim breathed. Recklessly, he pushed a kiss to her temple, and she sighed happily. Deliriously. Then she went completely limp in his arms, passed out from the cold. Tim made a noise which sounded like a dying animal and shook her violently. If she became unconscious, she would not wake up ever again.

The witch’s expression trembled.

“She’s dying,” she said simply. “And I don’t think she should.”

When she reached for Stephanie, looking like she was going to press a hand to Stephanie’s breast, Tim reacted violently. He grabbed the witch’s hand and pushed it away. He got the feeling that under normal circumstances, he would have been unable to match her strength, but something about his gloved grip made her shriek, the sound akin to shattering ice. Tim’s blood stained her white skin and she backed up to standing, pain ruining her beautiful features.

“Don’t touch her,” he threatened. It was the coldest thing he’d said to the witch in all his weeks here.

The witch looked at her burning arm, then back to Tim.

“You beat my puzzle. She came to bring you home. And yet you’re acting as if you want your heart to die? Someone has used magick to connect the two of you. If one passes the other is not long to follow. Is that what you want?” Annoyance flickered across her expression, almost like she was a disappointed mother. Finally, Tim clicked on who her features resembled. Feeling chided, he averted his gaze.

“You can stop her from freezing?”

“I can take the cold away.”

“And you swear we both can leave after?”

Her cold fingers brushed his cheek, causing him to shiver.

“I swear. I don’t want any more dead humans in my home. It grieves me too much.”

Feeling no sympathy for the woman, but knowing she was his only chance at leaving with Stephanie (alive), Tim agreed. Gritting his teeth, Tim propped Stephanie up in his arms. She blinked, momentarily regaining consciousness, only to pass out again. Kneeling in front of them, the witch pushed Stephanie’s bangs off her forehead. She admired the girl’s face. A pretty little thing. Seemingly suicidal in her devotion. Too young to be a corpse.

“I don’t understand,” she admitted. Her pale eyes investigated Tim’s blue. He did not trust her one bit. “I don’t understand humans at all. Your love for each other, why she came here, why your hearts have been intertwined by someone, how it fought against my magic, why you want to leave… I don’t understand.”

Tim glared at her, murderous. “You understand the cold, right? And I know you’re powerful, so make her warm again. Warm enough to leave here with me. You don’t have to understand us, just bring her back and let us go. Fix your mistake.”

The ‘or else’ hung in the air. The witch looked down at those gloves, knowing what would happen if he managed to wrap his hands around her neck.

The witch blinked, expression carefully controlled as ever, and placed a hand over Stephanie’s heart. The witch pressed down on Stephanie’s sternum with such a force that Tim thought her breastbone would crack, but when the witch lifted her hand, ice floated upwards in her palm. She tossed it upwards carelessly, and it begun to snow in the throne room.

Tim looked down at Stephanie, who flushed with colour once more, gasped, and twitched violently, curling up into a ball. Tim gave a wordless cry and pulled her upwards, carrying her as he got to his feet.

The witch remained on the floor, watching the two embrace. A minute passed as they spoke quietly to each other, whispering sweet nothings that the witch was not party to, then Stephanie indicated she wanted to be returned to her feet. Tim set her down slowly, reluctantly, seeing that she was still shivering from the cold.

“I don’t understand,” the witch said once more as she rose up. Stephanie, unsure of what to do, stood defensively in front of Tim. The witch shook her head, mystified, “What makes humans so sweet. None of you can survive up here with me. But I want…”

“You’re lonely, aren’t you?” Stephanie asked. She sounded sincere in her question, to Tim’s surprise.

“…Maybe.” The witch looked at the dripping floor, both in melting ice and watery blood. She looked at the pair and inclined her head.

“Leave. I will try again with another human later. One with a… less determined partner and less conflicting magic getting in the way. Not worth the pains.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Stephanie pushed. The witch smiled coldly, finding her amusing. She made her way to the narrow stairs leading to her throne.

“Humans are so wonderfully stubborn. A shame I can’t keep such a pretty pair. A promise is a promise. Leave now. You got what you came for. Tell Anya her little lesson has been learnt. I am well and truly chided.”

“Anya?” Stephanie asked.

“Oh. Did you not get her name? I can smell that woman’s smoky hut stench anywhere. That and her weaving magic… Sending you here with so few clothes on to make me feel guilt… Interesting risk.”

Stephanie looked taken aback, but Tim had had enough. It was still cold enough to kill, magic castle or no magic castle.

“We’re leaving.”

“That’s fine,” the witch said, giving no indication on whether it truly was fine or not according to her tone. “Hurry off now, go be with the family with whom you belong.”

Taking Stephanie’s hand, Tim tugged her towards the main steps. Looking back as they ran, Stephanie watched the witch who remained still in the centre of the room. She looked very alone to Stephanie. Tim did not look back.

When they reached the front door, the hole Stephanie had managed to rip open had healed itself, but it did not make much difference, as one firm push from Tim threw the doors open, to the point where Stephanie noted that he cracked the hinges as he did so. The pair, still holding hands, ran across the bridge. Stephanie gasped with joy when she saw who was waiting for them by the holly berry bushes.

“Abie!” Stephanie cried out. Jumping from side to side was a large reindeer, carrying a number of goods on his back. “Oh, Abie! You came back and brought me my shoes! Oh, good boy!”

Tim found himself gifted a very thick coat, which he threw on with a heavenly sigh. Stephanie had her tights and boots returned, as well as her lovely thick coat and a new pair of gloves.

Tim pat the reindeer’s nose as Stephanie got dressed. “You took her all this way huh?”

“Part of the way,” she said as she hopped up onto Abie’s back. “Can you carry both of us Abie?”

He lowered his neck, almost encouraging Tim to clamber on too. He did, seating himself behind Stephanie, and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“You know how to get home?” He asked as they began the ascent back up the valley. Abie was not able to run with two people on his back, but the pair were warm, and the sky was clear, so they did not worry.

“No,” Stephanie confessed. “I guess we’ll just have to go back the way I came.”

“Makes sense.” Tim kissed her cheek once more. “Thank you for coming for me.”

Stephanie pressed herself back against his chest in an attempt to cuddle.

“Always.”

They did not speak much on the journey back, for the moment doing nothing more than enjoying the other’s company. Tim put his chin on Stephanie’s shoulder and watched the stars. The sun rising announced that they were close to their first resting place. Abie took them back to Anya’s little hut, who Stephanie threw herself into a tight hug with when she emerged to meet them.

“I did it! Thank you. Thank you.”

“Yes, I can see that,” she said as she rocked Stephanie from side to side. Looking upwards, Tim saw the cheeky twinkle in the woman’s dark eyes. “You must be Tim.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Tim slid of Abie a little reluctantly, but trusted Stephanie’s judgement of character. Stephanie was good, of course she was, but she would have needed help along the way. She didn’t carry the self-destructive pride that some members of the family held. If help was available to her, she would take it. She didn’t have a chip on her shoulder regarding self-sufficiency.

“Oh, ma’am. Wow. Come in. Sleep for the night and eat. You have a long journey ahead of you.”

They were given what seemed to Tim like a hole in the wall to sleep in. He did crawl in, enjoying the sweltering warmth of the cabin, but before he could totally doze off, Anya asked to see his hands. Stephanie remained sat by the oven and fire, her toes becoming warm once more. Whatever the cold was out there, it seemed as much driven by magic as actual low temperatures. Both Tim and Stephanie should have died, and yet one bowl of stew and sauna level heat later they both felt as good as new.

Well, almost.

When Tim had been given the all clear to remove his gloves, the old lady hissed at the still sore cuts which oozed.

“I can fix that and clean your gloves up,” she’d said. “There’s a place I go to do my laundry. There’s a very good soap there for all blood related issues. I’ll be gone overnight as it is a bit of a trek. Don’t leave this place no matter what. I’ll be back with the next sunrise.”

He nodded obediently, and off she went. Abie continued to snooze by the fire, but eventually Stephanie joined Tim in the little compartment. Happy to once more have his beating heart next to her, Stephanie sighed happily. Tim, on the other hand, was brooding.

“Steph?”

“Mm?”

“You… you believe me about the flowers, right? That I would never smash something like that? Because I wouldn’t. Even if we were having a really bad argument. It was awful, like I could feel myself slipping away and I got so confused and angry and… I’m sorry.”

Stephanie pressed a kiss directly over his heart. “I believe you, and it doesn’t matter. Poison Ivy has them now.”  She laughed a little at his mortified face, explaining, “I didn’t know where to start looking for you. I thought Ivy might have had a lead. It was a waste of time, all she would tell me was that the storm wasn’t from our Earth and then she took the flowers and threw me out the greenhouse… It was Klarion who sent me over.”

“You know Klarion?”

“You know Klarion? I helped one time when I think his cat was in heat or something.” Stephanie smirked at the memories. “Hey, do I taste like Christmas to you?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Anyway, Klarion sent me here and gave me the means to find you.” Stephanie tapped her heart. It had settled down in its painful beatings once Tim was in her arms, though even now she was reluctant to look away for even a moment, not sure if he would disappear once more.

“What did he do?”

“I don’t know, slapped me in the chest and then it ached all the time to be without you. Pointed me in the right direction and only now is the pain gone. Like an internal compass.”

“I’ll need to thank him.”

Stephanie’s warm breathy laughter brushed his clavicle. “If we can find him, or wait for him to find us. Think that’s it for me permanently. You’re literally in my heart.”

“The witch kept saying you were mine. I wonder if it goes both ways.”

“That sounds very romantic,” she giggled. “But probably dangerous. We really should find Klarion when we get back.”

Tim rolled slightly, so Stephanie lay on her back under him. He took a long look at her, inspecting her closely.

“Your hair looks nice.”

She scoffed, “Don’t lie.”

“It does! I forget how…poofy it can be.”

“It was too long. Bruce’ll be pleased.”

Rolling his eyes, Tim kissed her rosy cheeks, “Never mind him.” They kissed, hidden in their little hidden crook, when a sudden thought came to Stephanie. Chewing her lip, she decided to take a chance. Stephanie’s hand pulled Tim’s own down under the covers, encouraging him to touch her. He blinked, trying to catch up with her wordless request, and asked, “You’re sure? Now?”

He heard her gulp nervously, but she smiled and nodded. Tim peered out of their little bed. When he looked back, she saw his reluctance.

“Bad timing?” she conceded.

“Maybe…maybe when there’s not a snoozing reindeer in the corner. I…can’t with an audience.”

The laughter that bubbled out of Stephanie made Tim relax, and she pulled him down into an embrace.

“A cuddle then. Missed these for a few weeks.”

“Me too.”

“What do you remember Tim?”

Pressed against her chest, Stephanie heard Tim sigh. She ran her fingers through his hair as he told his story. “I remember everything. Felt like being shot in the head. And then I just didn’t want anyone to touch me. Everything was loud and busy and annoying. I just wanted to go home. And everything was freezing, and I couldn’t get warm. And she was in my head, talking to me.”

“Can you hear anything now?”

His reply was a definitive and calm, “No. But I was so bored, and even though you were warm you were boring me. And I could tell that something wasn’t right. You’re a lot of things Steph, but you’re not boring.”

“Wow,” she snorted.

“I thought it was magic, so I just… after I ruined my roses, after I kicked you, I tried kissing you. But it was awful. I thought – if it was magic – all the stories say a kiss solves it all, right? But I saw your face and you were upset and I… I was apathetic. So, I left. And then it was just weeks of me sitting on the floor and her watching me. She’d ask me questions but I don’t think I answered them the way she wanted. I kept remembering things I shouldn’t have and kept trying to leave.” Distantly, absent-mindedly, he smiled. “I was remembering you; I was trying to leave to go to you. No matter how many times she’d try and freeze me up… I just wanted to go home. I kept thinking of long golden hair,” he ruffled her raggedy mop to which she giggled, “and your laugh. I couldn’t put a face or name to the images, but I remembered you.”

Stephanie blushed, and Tim continued,

“I guess it’s why I was so desperate to finish that puzzle. There was a chance I could go. I had to do it. I had to.”

“And you did.”

“Thanks to you. Your crying washed the last piece out of my eye.”

“Oh. Well, you’re welcome.”

Tim’s hand crept up, resting over her heartbeat. He could feel it thrumming away, fragile and yet so reliable.

“Whatever Klarion did when he showed you how to find me… it saved me.”

“And me. You have no idea how many times I got pulled off course. I would have been here weeks ago but…” she trailed off, then shook her head. “There was this woman and she made me get stuck with her. She was lonely and wanted a daughter. I fit the bill. It was nice…to be looked after for a while.” She looked down and tightened her fist that was resting against Tim’s chest. “But not as nice as moments like this. I had a job to do. And I’m not a little kid. But I felt like I was breaking this woman’s heart to leave and… I kept thinking of my mom. Of how she’s probably thinking I’ve gone and died again. God…”

Tim said nothing at her little ramble, only brushed his hand through her hair. Stephanie huffed, blowing a piece of her fringe off her forehead cutely.

“Most everyone I’ve met helped me along the way. It was kind of weird actually. Everyone reminded me of someone back home. Felt like going through a weird cliffs notes version of my life.”

Tim nodded, “You know who the ice witch reminded me of?”

“Who?”

He looked distracted and disturbed when he replied, retreating into that place in his mind she could never reach.

“My mom,” he whispered.

Stephanie looked at him worriedly, “Really?”

“Not in personality. Mom – when she was around – was much better at being a mom then dad was at being a dad… it was all in her face. Her features. She looked like mom.” He sounded vaguely disgusted with himself and rubbed at his eyes. “It was confusing.”

Stephanie laughed again, and at Tim’s questioning look she wheezed, “This whole thing is confusing.”

“Another day in the life, huh?”

“Oh, don’t even. I know our lives are a mess, but that doesn’t make it easier. But still… I did it.” She kissed him, long and slow. Tiredness was creeping in, and their movements became lethargic. “I found you,” she whispered, a smile against Tim’s lips.

Tim kissed her again, then the pair settled down. He brushed his fingers over her features, relief and comfort flowing freely through his being. He smiled softly.

“You found me.”

[spectralscathath]

Scars Remain

Fair Game Week, Day 5: Hurt/Comfort

There was someone else standing in the darkness of Qrow’s cell.

Ao3 Link

(post ep 12, fair warning. Emphasis on the Hurt part of this prompt, Gothic Horror, please check the tags before you read)

Someone was in his cell.

Qrow blinked awake, years of training stopping his breathing from changing. It stayed how it was, long and slow and steady, barely a hitch to give away the fact that he’d woken up.

He was facing the wall, practically pressed against it, and his instincts told him that whatever presence currently occupying his cell was behind him. There wasn’t anywhere else they could be. He wouldn’t be able to get a look at them without turning over. If they were here to kill him, it was best to wait until they got closer, where he could launch his own surprise attack before they realised he wasn’t sleeping at all. Any hint that they’d been detected would put them on edge, make them wary.

Or… he could let them do it. It would be easy. No one would hear.

No, that was stupid. That was a bad idea. His nieces were still out there. Somewhere. Unless they’d been arrested like him.

“Hello, Qrow.” His head turned on instinct at that voice, that resonant baritone that not two days ago had breathed its final breath. The darkness in the cell felt almost physical, like trying to peer through thick smoke. He barely made out the shape of a man in the corner, leaning against the door. The window had been tinted black too, he realised, blotting out any light from the outside world.

“Clover?” He sat up, absolutely certain now that this was probably some sort of weird sleep paralysis. Clover was dead, and gone, all because of Qrow. The dead didn’t come back. Guilt choked at his throat. Even just a memory of the man he’d called friend, who he’d killed, that was enough to fray at what was left of him.

“The one and only,” was the reply. Cocky, self-assured, and proud. That sounded… it sounded like Clover, but there was something off about it. “You have something of mine.”

Qrow cocked his head, his instincts flaring, warning him of danger. “The pin?”

“That too.” There was a purr under that, something that bordered on possessive. Qrow tensed up, fist clenching around the bloodied pin.

“You’re not real.” It was sleep paralysis, fuck knows he’d woken up plenty of times to see weird shapes in the corner of his eye, nightmares from his scouting trips beyond the kingdoms that followed him into wakefulness.

He knew Taiyang had times when he woke up feeling cold, pressure constricting on his chest, like a hand reaching in and yanking on his heart, when he was reliving a mauling that didn’t leave scars.

Night terrors. Sleep paralysis. Stress-induced hallucinations, whatever the fuck someone wanted to call it.

It. Wasn’t. Real.

There wasn’t any danger.

Qrow forced himself to relax, because hey, it wasn’t real. If nothing else, he could apologise to a fake. He’d never get the chance to do so otherwise.

“I’m sorry I got you killed.” He didn’t mean for his voice to crack.

There was an answering chuckle, one that Qrow had gotten used to on endless missions playing cards in the back of a supply van, card tricks and banter shared between them. The figure by the door moved, still too far in the darkness for Qrow to see anything. “I’ll let you make it up to me. Close your eyes.”

“What?” He puffed up a bit in confusion. The fuck?

Another chuckle, rumbly and syrupy and sliding through Qrow’s defences like they didn’t exist. “Close your eyes.” There was a definite movement. A step forward.

Qrow scrunched his eyes shut in an instant. His subconscious was a nasty bastard. He didn’t want to see what kind of Clover it had dragged up. Probably the one bleeding out on snow, dying so fast he didn’t even have time to shiver from the cold.

Qrow didn’t want to see that. Not again.

He heard footsteps, heavy ones, come near him. A hand on the side of his head had him flinch to the side. Definitely not real. Clover’s hands were warm, Qrow knew that from the amount of casual touches the guy tossed around. All of them Qrow appreciated, especially the ones where Clover would first shuffle the deck, then slide Qrow’s cards over to him, fingers lingering long enough to brush against Qrow’s.

He felt more fingers touch his chin, tilting his head up and he nearly opened his eyes again. No. Whatever bloodied corpse his brain was throwing at him was not a mental image he needed. He was seeing it enough, if it wasn’t other people he cared about.

Something wrapped around his head, across the bridge of his nose, behind his ears, to the back of his head. He recognised the feeling. “What the fuck- is this a fucking blindfold?” Okay, now this was getting weird.

Dream Clover laughed, this time a lot less friendly than before. “Yep. So, I’m not real?”

“You’re a sleep paralysis hallucination, you’re not my first.” His pulse thudded loudly in his throat as he felt those hands tie off the blindfold and one of them cupped his chin again, tilting Qrow’s head from side to side. He had a feeling that his own hallucination was observing him.

“Not your first?” Clover’s voice took on a teasing tone. “Figured as much.” The hand on his chin tightened to hold him still before there were lips brushing against his, just a little cold, a bit rough, unfamiliar and full of lost opportunity.

Qrow froze up, eyes snapping open to a darkness even more complete than that of his cell. What the fuck? This was not standard practice for nightmares.

Clover’s other hand ran through his hair, fingers dragging through the dark strands in a soft tug, and Qrow melted into it all. He kissed him back, one hand coming up to rest on the other man’s jaw, pulling him closer as Qrow tried to pretend that this wasn’t all some messed-up dream.

Clover deepened the kiss, a soft nip at Qrow’s lower lip inviting him to do the same. He accepted and let himself fall into the sensation, trying to do anything to stop the hollow ache of loss.

The hand gripping his chin trailed down, knuckles brushing against his throat before those fingers trailed over Qrow’s collarbone, eliciting a shiver, and down to the clenched fist, clasped around a lucky pin. Clover pulled back, a small whine leaving Qrow’s throat as he did, their foreheads pressing together.

“Is that where my pin is?” Clover taunted, his grin so obvious Qrow knew he was wearing it even with the blindfold on.

“I like sparkly things, sue me,” he retorted, opening his hand and letting Clover grab the pin himself.

“Don’t play coy with me, Qrow. You got me killed and looted my body for this.” The almost-jovial tone did nothing to stop Qrow from recoiling, feeling like he wanted to be sick. He did scavenge Clover’s corpse to get that pin, or close enough to it.

Revulsion began to bubble in his stomach, his hand coming up to press over his mouth as he realised that a tragic, grief-stricken keepsake was stolen grave goods. He was such a piece of shit, as if he had any right to pilfer anything of Clover’s when he’d gotten the man killed himself.

A hand pulled on his wrist, tugging it away from his mouth before gloved palms and bare fingers were cupping his cheeks, the steadiness telling him that Clover really was looking him in the eyes. The silence felt like forever before Clover broke it. “You can make it up to me by telling me a story.”

Qrow reached up to grab Clover’s wrist. “Haven’t I already told you plenty, Shamrock?” The nickname flowed naturally. He could easily picture the twinkle in pretty green eyes that always answered it.

He got another one of those amused laughs, Clover leaning in to steal a quick kiss from him. “You haven’t told me all of them. For example,” the hand he wasn’t holding to his face moved to his right bicep, pushing his sleeve up to trace a trio of white scars, old and faded. “Where’s this from?”

Qrow couldn’t deny him. It wasn’t even that bad a memory. “First mission I ever did for Ozpin. The operative me and Raven were sent after got a lucky hit.”

“Oh yeah?” Clover prompted him to continue. “What mission?”

He felt those cold fingers trace the scars and shuddered, the touch sinking under his skin and wrapping comfortingly around his bones. “We chased her to the Western continent, the one north of Vacuo. People go there, set up settlements. They don’t come back. She’d stolen some important stuff from Vale after killing some beacon students as a message for Oz. Raven and I were recon.”

Clover moved his hands to Qrow’s hips, cool fingers teasing at the hem of his shirt. Qrow kept talking. “Turns out those settlements? They get infected. It’s always in different ways, but the end results the same. Parasite grimm, puppeting around the bodies of people who were reckless enough to go off the edge of the map.”

“Huh.” Clover’s hands stilled for a moment before they started pushing his shirt up, pausing when another scar came into view, wrapped around Qrow’s left hip. This one was jagged and torn, left by a blade but far from a clean cut. “And this one?”

“Marcus Black, an assassin who specialised in killing Huntsmen. He was sent after Summer when she was pregnant with Ruby. Tai and I barely drove him off, but we managed it.” His heart stuttered as he felt Clover’s hand trace over it, and he pulled Clover in for another kiss. No one could hear them.

It felt too real to be fake. Not even a dream could mimic the feeling of Clover’s mouth on his, before a kiss was pressed to the corner of his lips, the line of his jaw, and sharp kisses were nipping down along the line of his throat. He swallowed hard, each kiss bringing a small flare of pain that was quickly soothed by his aura, leaving warmth in their wake.

He tried to pull the other man closer, ignoring the chill coming off him as he tilted his head to give Clover more access. He didn’t deserve this, not after what he’d done, but fuck it all he wasn’t going to complain. He could have plenty of time to feel revolted with himself later and drown in guilt, but right now Clover seemed to actually still want him. He wasn’t usually so lucky.

His shirt was rucked higher as the scar from Marcus was deemed finished with, Clover shifting to knock his knee carelessly, confidently, between Qrow’s, resting it on the bunk as his bulk crowded Qrow against the wall behind them.

Qrow suddenly remembered what scar was next and reached down to grab Clover’s wrist, a moment before it uncovered the bright violet scar tissue that curved delicately along the underside of his ribs, like a promise and a threat all in one.

“Wait. That’s-” He bit back a groan as Clover pressed a kiss to one his collarbones, sharp teeth closing on it a moment later.

He never really considered Clover as being a biter, but he guessed the man had a few surprises. Still, the sting from Tyrian felt too raw now, after what had happened to Clover. Was Clover’s death his penance for surviving the killer’s venom? “Clo- stop for a sec.”

Clover ignored him with a rumbling growl and lifted the hand Qrow wasn’t holding, using it to roughly push the collar of his shirt aside to give him more access, nails scratching lines of fire along Qrow’s skin. He felt those teeth start pressing against the junction where his neck met his shoulder, right beside yet another pale scar, and a spike of horrified clarity jammed through his brain as he realised they were too sharp something was so so wrong-

“I said stop!” He snapped, pulling both feet up and kicked Clover clear across the room. He ripped the blindfold off and slammed a fist against the thick glass of the window, a chill going up his nape as he amplified his semblance. Come on, there was only so much misfortune that could happen here-

His jinx worked, the technology powering the blackout function making a robotic screech before cyan hexagons rippled the ebony screen away, the night sky tainted purple and red from Salem’s storm, light streaming into the cell and letting Qrow see.

Clover picked himself up off the ground, only it wasn’t Clover. Tanned skin had become white as bone, his nails black and sharp, more like claws. Clover’s hair had remained its usual brown, tinged red in the light from outside, his bloodied uniform switched for a plain black tank top with a deep V-cut stretching down to the middle of his chest. His death-stained pin was affixed to his left breast, where it winked at Qrow with a taunting glint.

Dark red veins crawled their way from his fingertips up his arms, more stretching out from the black scar tissue in the centre of his chest and up towards his face, where they curled over the edges of his jaw, his temples, reaching hungrily for his eyes. And his eyes…

Gone was the teal green that reminded Qrow of shallow seas and malachite, of flirty winks and open warmth. Angry, hungry red eyes glowed in the remnants of the darkness, set over pools of pitch black, deep and infinite and empty.

Qrow’s stomach rolled as he looked into those eyes, before the Grimm- monster- Clover? Gods he was so sorry - grinned at him, inhuman fangs glinting in his predatory smile. “Clo…”

“I like Clo,” Clover chuckled, the sound that had been comforting and warm now setting Qrow’s teeth on edge. “Shamrock’s cute and all, but Clo just sounds so much better, especially the way you say it now.”

Qrow pressed himself back against the wall. “You’re not Clover.”

“Sure I am,” the smile was a warped echo of Clover’s brightest grin. “Here’s proof,” he unbuttoned his vest, pulling it apart to show the rest of the scar from Harbinger. From Qrow’s own weapon.

Qrow pressed his hand to his mouth again. Yep. Gonna throw up. Fuck- and he thought the hybrids on the Western continent were bad, with their bodies half-covered in Grimm. This was worse. So much worse.

This was pure. Like Salem. This was a being of life with a desire for destruction.

“What has she done to you?” This was all his fault. Salem never could have done this if it wasn’t for him. “Fuck, Clover, I’m so sorry, I never meant for any of this-”

“Don’t apologise,” he winked. “Actually, I want to thank you. I’m glad you killed me. Now I’m finally on the winning side.”

His blood turned to ice in his veins.

“Clover?” He asked in a broken little voice, eyes quickly misting up like he was some emotionally messed-up teenager. But seriously, what was Clover saying?

Clover laughed, throwing his head back as the sound rolled out of him with a fey recklessness. “Don’t sound so upset, Qrow. It’s a compliment. You shouldn’t brush those off, remember?” Those blood red eyes twinkled at him, the reminder of how Clover had actually seen through some of his bullshit turned barbed and painful.

Qrow shrank on himself a little bit, guilt and pain rolling off of him in waves, not missing the way Clover’s tongue licked at his teeth, leaning forward slightly as something visceral and greedy flickered in his eyes.

Right. Negativity.

“Clover, this isn’t you-” he started, before the Grimm man strode towards him, waving his hand like he was waving off Qrow’s words.

“Don’t worry about that. I’m more interested in you.” Desire darted across Clover’s features, the formally attractive thought turned monstrous reality.

“Back off.�� Qrow flattened himself to the wall, one knee bent up in case he needed to kick the fucker again. His fist clenched around the blindfold Clover had used, realising it was the armband the man always wore. That felt way too intimate a choice and it sent weird and confusing signals spiralling through Qrow’s head.

Clover stopped for barely a moment, quirking a brow. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No, fuck off,” Qrow snarled, hurt oozing out the cracks in his shattered defences.

Clover came closer, catching the kick Qrow shot at him and shoving it to the side as he situated himself back between Qrow’s legs, bringing his hand up to softly run the backs of his knuckles over Qrow’s cheek. Qrow snapped his teeth at the offending hand, catching fingers and ripping flesh. Black smoke spilled into the air as Clover pulled his hand back, studying his fingers as the white skin knitted itself back together in a gory display. Then those eyes were back on Qrow’s own red, indulgence and gluttony filling Clover’s formerly kind eyes.

“I’m not here to hurt you, pretty bird,” he crooned, voice going down into a lower register that sent a traitorous shiver down Qrow’s spine.

“Bullshit. I felt your teeth.” Get away from him get away.

Clover ran his hand over his brown hair, messing it up a bit. “I got carried away,” he offered as an apology. “Besides, you still owe me at least two more stories.”

“Deal’s off,” he glared at him, eyes hazing over in a way he really did not want to deal with.

“Come on,” Clover grinned and reached forward, pushing the collar of Qrow’s shirt aside to reveal the thin scar that drew a line over his shoulder. “I like these scars, pretty bird. They make you look good enough to eat.”

Fear sparked along Qrow’s nerves as he looked at Clover, wondering if the man meant that as a threat. Clover waggled both brows back at him and deliberately flashed his fangs, tongue sliding over them in a way that didn’t ease Qrow’s sudden apprehension.

Clover almost purred at the feeling of Qrow’s distress and carded a hand through Qrow’s hair again, this time soft, caring, almost loving, with none of the possessive debauchery of before. It hit at something in Qrow’s core and shattered it, like when a diamond was struck in just the right way.

A tear escaped him, sliding hotly down his cheekbone before he roughly scrubbed it away. Fuck, no, he didn’t want that. Not that kind of breakdown. Not in front of this twisted mockery of the man he maybe, may have, cared for. Clover was an almost, and this monster currently sliding a hand up Qrow’s thigh was not Clover.

It couldn’t be.

Clover gave him a considering look that was too familiar for those eyes and Qrow swallowed, part of him wanting to just toss caution to the wind and take whatever he could get. Carve out some good fortune from all the calamity.

“I have a second chance, Qrow. And this time I can use it to do everything I should have done.” That feckless, amoral light was back in his smile. “Make the right choices.”

“You’re wrong. She’s going to kill everyone.” And Qrow had just handed her a member of Jimmy’s inner circle on a silver fucking platter.

“I know.” Clover’s thumb rubbed circles on the skin of Qrow’s hip, his other hand resting on the bunk beside them as he loomed over Qrow. “But not you.”

“Why not?” He hunched his shoulders defensively, wondering why he wasn’t shoving him away. He hated how under the deathly pallor and red veins he could still see Clover’s jaw, how the fangs caused the laugh lines on Clover’s face. It was too familiar and not close enough to what he wanted.

“Because I have a second chance to say everything I should have said.” Clover leaned forward so his next words were growled into Qrow’s ear. “That I want you, Qrow. That I want you to be mine. That I want to find out what we could have. I want to find out if I can love you, pretty bird.”

Clover pulled back and looked him in the eye, something regretful, almost human, flickering in the depths of endless red. “When I said you had something of mine, I meant that you have my heart. It’s yours. Are you going to tell me that after everything, you don’t feel any of that yourself?”

Qrow’s mouth felt dry, paralysed with the choice. It wasn’t right. This wasn’t Clover, this couldn’t be Clover. This had to be a Grimm taking Clover’s body for a spin.Saying the words Qrow wished he could have heard. It was a trick, a trap, a lie. It had to be.

He’d seen hybrids. They never looked like this. This was like Salem. This was as though Clover’s very essence had been changed, on a deep and irreversible level.

But it had still been Salem. Proud, arrogant, hurting Salem, who had sparked a conflict between gods that brought a world to ruin, long before she ever became what she was now.

This was still Clover. Twisted, dark, destructive, but part of him still had to be his Clover.

Maybe that part of him staring back into Qrow’s eyes, with a trace of apology and guilt swimming under the carnal desire.

He extended a hand to rest on Clover’s chest, cringing as he touched the blackened scar, and felt something thump under his fingers. Maybe it was a heart. Maybe it was still human.

Maybe Qrow was fooling himself.

But he pulled Clover close anyway, whispering something that wasn’t quite an ‘I love you’ against the monster’s lips, before Clover’s next kiss, sharp with victory, stole his breath away.

-------

And though no one's to blame, It's a crime and a shame, But it's true all the same, It's a dangerous game...

This was very fun. Gothic Horror is one of my favourite genres to play with. Poor Clover just isn’t lucky whenever I play resurrectionist, now is he?

[tsarisfanfiction]

Tremor V

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: On the Teen/Mature border Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Angst Characters: Gordon Tracy, Scott Tracy, Kayo Kyrano, The Hood

Part 5 of my contribution to Hear from @gumnut-logic‘s SensorySunday challenge. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

WASP!Gordon is fun.  WASP!Gordon also took my plans for this chapter and derailed them spectacularly.  We’re back around part 3 levels of violence; some torture and gun use in this part.

Each brother was one with his respective Thunderbird.  It made sense; each Thunderbird had been built specifically for them, after all.  Their hope, their determination, desperation whenever they went out on a mission, to save another family a tragedy shone through Tracy and machine equally.  Today was the first day Gordon had set foot in Thunderbird Four thrumming with suppressed anger; she’d responded in kind, an emotion unsuited to a rescue machine but mirrored all the same.

And Gordon was angry. He was furious, grip on the controls firmer than normal as his Thunderbird pushed through the water.  EOS had given them a starting point, but it had been another agonising forty-eight hours before his connections at WASP had located the Hood’s monstrosity – such a thing should never be in the air, let alone contaminating the world’s oceans – and a plan of attack had been formed.

The ocean was Gordon’s domain.  Outside the windows, murky shapes kept pace with his submarine; the ocean was WASP’s domain, too, and WASP took offence to the Hood’s presence.  The fact that one of the accompanying submarines was the same one Gordon had served on as an officer, manned by that very same crew, was just an added bonus.

Behind him Kayo shifted, International Rescue’s own security agent too agitated to remain still in the confined cockpit of Thunderbird Four.  They hadn’t exchanged any words since Thunderbird Two had dropped them off to the south of Iceland, Virgil trying one last argument to come with them rather than remain on standby.  The blanch when Gordon had offered him a gun had been enough to defeat that argument.

This was a rescue, but it wasn’t one in International Rescue’s domain, despite the presence of Thunderbird Four.  Unarmed civilians like his brother would be nothing more than a liability.  Gordon didn’t want to use the gun stowed safely in his baldric, but if that was what it came to, he would.  Kayo had equally declined a gun, but she was more dangerous without one.  No-one would dare consider her an unarmed civilian.

Up ahead, the Hood’s ship loomed, and Gordon allowed him a brief moment of Scott’s in there before calling on his military mindset and letting it settle over him, pushing detrimental emotions to the back of his mind.

Get in.  Locate the hostage.  Get out.  Do not engage with hostiles unnecessarily.

Behind him Thunderbird Shadow’s pilot stilled, her breathing carefully regulated and even as she slipped into her own professional mask.  There was too much at stake for careless mistakes.

Latching onto another craft was second nature, Thunderbird Four designed to pull off that exact trick, and he slipped under the belly of the craft, locating the airlock.  WASP carried on past, surrounding the machine with loaded missiles at the ready if it tried to escape.  Only one submarine stayed behind – Gordon’s old one, with men he knew and trusted.

The boarding party was small.  WASP paperwork indicated they’d been selected by their Commander.  That Commander had once worked with Gordon during his days in service and selected the names Gordon picked.  They all convened at the airlock, nudging it open with practised ease and slipping inside.

What was a mass of junk on the outside was a refined interior, better at home in a billionaire’s private yacht than a criminal’s lair.  Polished floorboards with plush rugs, more than likely all obtained through less-than-legal means, greeted them as they edged forwards.  From here it was all luck; they had no plan of the interior, no other known ship to compare to for even the vaguest idea.

Gordon gave the order to advance, a sharp hand gesture they all heeded instantly.  Kayo, hurriedly drilled through the basics of WASP’s signals once it became apparent it would be a joint operation, stuck close to him. Around them, there was the hum of life support, muted but audible in the silence.  Lights buzzed almost silently overhead, suspended with decorative shades rather than the bare-bones of a typical submarine.  Beneath their feet, the plush rugs muffled any and all footsteps, and it was with guns in hand that the team cautiously proceeded.

“Hey!”

They spotted the masked person the same moment they saw them and following the brief the two front-most aquanauts reacted, dragging them down before they could flee or raise an alarm. Whoever it was, they were naïve and sloppy, and their resistance was flimsy at best.  Outnumbered and unprepared, they were down in seconds.

An empty bottle dropped to the floor, bouncing off the floorboards with a dull thunk before rolling onto the rug and remaining still.  Gordon narrowed in on it immediately, padding forwards and trusting his companions to keep watch on the area as he scooped it up.  Droplets of clear liquid trailed down the inside. Helmeted, Gordon couldn’t catch a scent, but it seemed most likely to be water.

Why was their now-unconscious opponent carrying around an empty water bottle?  He gestured his intentions to check the alcove they’d appeared from, and immediately Kayo and two others were with him as the others kept the area secure.

A plain white door greeted him, firmly shut.  Faint thudding and an accompanying unrecognisable sound were barely audible from the other side. Gordon turned his attention to the access panel beside it and withdrew a little present from John and EOS.  Barely a fraction of the AI’s processing code – not enough for her consciousness to be within it – it was enough to have the door unlocked and opening in seconds.

The room was not large, but it didn’t need to be.  A thrashing, flailing body was chained to a table, mouth open in a soundless scream. Behind him, Kayo made to step forward but Gordon threw an arm to stop her, tearing his eyes from the scene to survey the rest of the room.  No-one there.

Satisfied, he firmly gestured for Kayo to guard the door and edged in, taking one last check around for unwelcome surprises, before he let the military ebb away slightly and all but ran to his brother’s side.

Relief at finding him was fleeting at best.  Electric sparks were flying around each of the shackles, providing an immediate answer for Scott’s distress, and Gordon grit his teeth, looking for the source. A small black box, tucked under the foot of the table, caught his attention and he didn’t waste time looking for the off switch.  Muffler on his gun, he took aim and fired.  Sparks fizzed around the hole, but the low hum of electricity stopped, and Gordon holstered the weapon, attention solely on his brother.

Scott was pale, washed out beyond anything that could be considered remotely healthy.  His eyes were open, but it was clear he wasn’t looking at anything, the usual sharp blue muted and dulled as his chest heaved, mouth open for air.  Brown hair was dishevelled and matted, wet and plastered to his face, some droplets of water still running down his cheeks.

Gordon wasted no time in picking the locks of the shackles, noticing irregular spasms in his muscles and bruised fingers at unnatural angles, and the carefully suppressed anger bubbled below the surface.  Scott came first, but if the Hood showed his face before they’d left, Gordon had a bullet with his name on it.

How dare he do this to his brother.  Gordon was under no illusions that Scott’s five days with the madman had been any different to what he’d just witnessed, and there was a part of him very relieved to find him still alive.

The shackles fell away to show burnt and bleeding skin beneath.  Gordon touched one still-twitching arm gently and Scott’s head rolled away from him with a barely-there noise, arm flinching minutely.

Gordon wanted to take his time, reassure Scott he wasn’t going to hurt him – while mentally deciding what, exactly, he was going to do to the Hood if he made the mistake of appearing – but a muffled gunshot still made a noise, and from outside the room he could hear a small commotion.

“Hold on, Scott,” he murmured as he ran a quick assessment for any damage that would make moving him ill-advised, appalled but unsurprised at the lack of clothing.  He tossed the small cloth that was present to one side, damp and rubbing the sensitive skin beneath it raw, determined that moving Scott wouldn’t kill him, and scooped him into his arms.

Scott was taller than him by some margin, but whether it was Gordon’s determination to get him out of there or a drastic loss of weight during captivity, lifting him was barely more strenuous than if it were Alan.  Gordon pushed the thought away to be dealt with once they were safe.

“We’re out of here,” he said curtly to Kayo, who nodded without turning around – although Gordon’ didn’t miss the look out of the corner of her eye, or the harder set of her jaw – and advanced into the corridor.

They didn’t wait for WASP – with International Rescue’s primary objective in Gordon’s arms, their aims now differed as the military moved into the second phase of the operation: capture the Hood.  Former comrades offered him little more than a nod of the head as they passed, keeping their passage to the airlock clear before joining the advance ahead, but Gordon ignored them.  Scott wasn’t reacting to being moved, limp and unseeing in his arms, and the sooner they got him off the ship, the better.

They’d need to swim to Thunderbird Four.  It was barely any distance to the closest airlock on the small submarine, ten metres at most, but Gordon couldn’t be sure Scott was conscious enough to hold his breath.

“Go,” he said to Kayo. “Get the stretcher ready.”  She gave Scott a concerned look before nodding and launching herself out of the ship.  Gordon didn’t watch her go; instead he knelt and propped Scott up against his legs, supporting him with one arm while the other hand dug out the rebreather.  “Just a quick swim,” he promised his brother, pressing it to cover his mouth and nose.

Immediately, Scott reacted, lurching away from the equipment and almost falling sideways.  Gordon clung to him tighter, hushing him as he moved his head from side to side, blue eyes wide with terror.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he soothed, heart constricted at the sight of his strong big brother reduced to blindly thrashing with trembling muscles barely under his control.  “It’s just until we get to Four, I promise.  Come on, Scotty.  I can’t get you out of here without it.”  His words had no effect, and he brushed Scott’s hair back, desperate. “It’s me, Scotty.  Gordon.  I’m getting you out of here.  It’s just a rebreather.  Just like when you used to fly fighter jets,” he promised.  He couldn’t use a tranquiliser, not when they had no idea what Scott had been dropped with originally, or what might have been used since.

There were footsteps approaching, heavy enough to be heard even though plush rug.  Not WASP.

“Come on, Scott,” he pleaded quietly. “You can do it.  Twenty seconds, that’s all.  Twenty seconds and you’ll be safe in Thunderbird Four.”  Scott stilled and he cautiously tried again, only for his brother to panic again as soon as it came into contact with his face.

The footsteps were getting closer.

“Please, Scott,” he hissed. “Please!”

Step.  Step.  Step. Gordon dropped the rebreather and went for his gun, turning and firing a shot as a man came into view.

There was a cry of pain and the helmetless man dropped to the floor, hands around the hole in his leg.

“Another Tracy,” he hissed, eyes a green-yellow and glaring daggers at him.  Scott flinched violently at the voice, and Gordon pulled him closer protectively with the hand not holding the gun trained on the other man.

Gordon hadn’t watched the old footage as obsessively as some of his brothers, but even he recognised the man in front of him.  Scott’s reaction was unnecessary confirmation, and his finger squeezed the trigger again. Again.  Again.

One bullet hit the Hood’s other leg.  The other two found his shoulders, the Hood jerking back with each hit and Gordon levelled the barrel at the bald head as the man screamed hoarsely.

“That was four bullets,” he said coldly as pained yet furious eyes found his and widened at the barrel still aimed towards them.  “You had him five days.”

He pulled the trigger.

Part VI

[tendertenebrosity]

Sequel to here and here. 

I guess this is staying so @iwhumpyou, @doglover82.

Helis drifted back into awareness slowly. They were lying on… the floor, they thought, something hard underneath a thin layer of softness. There was cloth under their cheek and against the palms of their hands.

It was warm, and that much was nice; they hadn’t really been warm in days, not since they started this ill-advised trip into the North. There was a thick blanket lying across their shoulders.

They wished they could just relax and sink back into the warmth and what softness there was. But… something was wrong.

Something was very, very badly wrong.

They hurt – just a dull ache, before they moved, but as they shifted under the blanket it roared into full strength. They gave a choking, half-voiced cry and pushed themselves upright on their hands.

Their wings. Why did their wings hurt so much? Helis had never felt anything like it before, what had happened, what was…

They twisted, reaching one hand over their shoulder to try to find and pull free whatever horrible vice-like thing had gripped their wing. Their groping hand patted feathers, matted and greasy to touch, and… and…

No.

They sat up, throwing the warmth of the blanket off in a frenzied movement, their hands stretching to reach behind their back, first one way and then the other. They twisted their neck to look, desperately wanting to see that what their hands were telling them was wrong. It could not be true.

It couldn’t be true that their wings were, from the second joint down… gone. A useless stub, burning with pain like something was still crushing it, was all that remained on either side of their shoulders. The feathers were matted and sticky around them, but all the blood that came away on Helis’ fingers was old; as they twisted their neck they could see one ugly, puckered wound.

Helis gave a sobbing wail of utter, drained horror. My wings! They cut them off, oh, they couldn’t have, they wouldn’t, who would be so cruel? They’re gone!

The pain of it roared through their mind, making them dizzy and sick. They sank back down onto their knees, in the tangled mess of blankets, hands on their knees, and heaved. They would have thrown up, had there been anything in their stomach; instead they just retched miserably, and keened in grief and horror.

How could this happen? How could they do this? How could anybody possibly think of such a violation, such cruelty, such brutality? Somebody had to be able to fix this, it had to not be real.

My wings are gone and I will never fly again.

Helis pressed their hands to their mouth and sobbed wildly, trying over and over again to approach that thought in a way that didn’t make them recoil and almost black out from how horrible it was. My wings are gone and I will never fly again. They cut them. They are gone.

When they could think, when they could breathe without screaming, Helis changed position. Their wings hurt so badly. Surely there was something they could do to make them not hurt? Helis would never be okay again, not ever, and surely this had to be a dream or a mistake. But they had to do something to not hurt.

They noticed, dimly, that there were things like metal bracelets around both of their wrists. They ignored them and looked at the wound again, fighting back another surge of nausea. It wasn’t bleeding; it was ugly and new, but it was held together by a seal of something artificial-looking and white that filled in the defect where the skin didn’t come together.  

“Northern field medicine. Don’t touch it.”

Helis threw themselves around, their heart hammering in their chest, trying to catch themselves against the floor and getting tangled in the blanket and in the length of chain that seemed to be muddled up in it. For the first time, they took in the rest of the room.

They were sitting on the floor, as they’d thought, at the foot of a heavy wooden bed draped with throws and furs. The ceiling was low and made of stone, and there seemed to be a fire crackling in a hearth out of sight. Against the far wall, the one Helis had been sitting with their back to, there was an equally heavy desk and chair.

Illiam was turned around in the chair, one arm propped against its back, watching them with a cool, dispassionate gaze. Around him Helis could see books, spread open, as if he’d just set them aside to turn around.

He’d been there the whole time?

“You – you – what – ” Helis gasped.

“It’s a useful spell. Holds the wound together, keeps it from going rotten,” he explained, as if they were back in the library of the Academy trading interesting things they’d learned.

“My wings are gone!” Helis wailed at him. “You – you – you did this!”

Illiam inclined his head, spreading one pale hand palm-up as if conceding a point in a debate.

Helis choked, unable to bring forth any words in the face of this callous, wordless admission of guilt. Their fingers clenched and spasmed in the folds of the blanket, impotently.

“Why?” they managed to grate out eventually.

Illiam pushed aside the book that was half-open on the desk, then angled the chair around in a scrape of wood on stone until it was facing Helis more fully. He’d shed the cloak, but was still in the rest of his neck-to-toes black garments, an unbuttoned collar his only concession to the informality of the setting. This seemed to be his bedroom. “It’s common here,” he said. “You pose a, ha, flight risk otherwise. Most don’t die of it, and very few beastfolk have the benefit of my sealing spell, so I’m confident you’ll be fine.”

“No!” Helis cried. “Why? How could you?”

He shrugged. “It was one of the conditions of this arrangement.”

“Arrangement?” Helis raised their hands to their hair desperately. Their wings, the space where their wings should have been, burned and ached. “How could you? Illiam! I thought – we were friends!”

“Oh, were we?” he said. He leaned back in the chair, one ankle crossed over his knee. His tone stayed light, but developed a dangerous edge. “Interesting. I feel I would have noticed something like that when it happened, are you sure?”

Helis spluttered. “We – we were! I never did anything to you, wh-why would you… how could you do this to me?” Their voice broke. How could any human being do this to another? Let alone – someone who had swapped books with Helis, shared drinks with them at terrible drinking houses, poked fun at a favourite lecturer while Helis laughed?

“Relatively easily, it’s not a difficult procedure,” he said, still light, still faintly mocking.

Beastfolk are less than human. Illiam’s voice, crisp and composed, floated back into Helis’ memory from five years ago. They had tried to forget it at the time, told themself he didn’t really mean it.

They realised now… he had meant every word.

Helis shrank down into the blankets, pulling them into folds over their lap with trembling fingers. What could they say? What could they throw at this implacable, icy wall of indifference and spite? “When I saw you I thought… I thought maybe you were going to help me,” they said miserably. They quailed with shame even as they said it, that they had been so stupid.

Illiam’s mouth thinned. “I have helped you.”

“No, you haven’t!” Helis choked, tears welling up again. “You just – you just… my wings…”

“What did you think?” he snapped. He unfolded his legs with a sudden movement and sat up straight, hands on his knees. “That I was going to be nice to you for old times’ sake? That I was going to help you escape?”

He waited, eyebrows raised sarcastically, while Helis sniffled and tried in vain to hold the tears in.

“Well, you were a naïve little fool, then, weren’t you,” he said viciously, when it was clear there wasn’t going to be an answer. “We are at war. This is the North and I am the favoured son of the most powerful noble in the country. You’re my enemy, Helis, or at least you were up until you decided to go on a little jaunt across the border and got yourself stuck here, where you’re not really anything meaningful at all.” He waved his hand in a fluttering arc, obviously meant to indicate Helis in flight, and Helis caught their breath in bewildered, ashamed hurt.

Illiam shook his head, lip curled in a sneer. He stood, drew himself up to his full height, and walked slowly and deliberately across the room until he was standing at the foot of the bed. Helis shrank down further, away from the towering figure.

“You,” he said, looking down at them with a disgusted expression, “Should consider yourself lucky I’m sentimental enough to want to keep you. God knows you don’t have a lot of other reasons to make you worth keeping around. Give me a few days, though, I’m sure I’ll find some kind of use for you. You had better get used to me, stupid thing, because you’re going to be here with me for the foreseeable future.”

Helis covered their face with their hands, unable to keep looking at him, the shine of black boots and a dishevelled collar, a pale face marked with a flush of anger in both cheeks and the contempt in his eyes. Sobs shook their shoulders. This could not be happening. They had to get out of here. They hurt so much. 

They heard Illiam made an annoyed, scoffing exclamation, and then he was backing away. They heard the heavy thumps of his footsteps, and the noise of him shoving his chair back against the desk, but they didn’t look up.

They buried themselves in the nest of blankets on the floor and wept, quietly, listening to the sounds of him moving about the room, until they finally dropped back into exhausted, pain-filled sleep.

[monsterywriting]

Demon Boyfriend (Dirrath) - pt 9

Read Part 1 Here

Read previous part here

word count: 2,560

                                            ...

“Hold this to the wound! She’s bleeding out…”

Your eyelids fluttered as you struggled to stay conscious, feeling numb despite knowing you had been stabbed. You could hear someone respond to the strangely clear voice you heard before, but couldn’t make out what they were saying exactly.

“Stand back. We don’t have long before the sedative wears off so we’ll have to be quick.”

“Mother?” You wheezed, certain you could hear her giving you instructions but unable to focus on anything in the room.

“Shit, she’s still up, hurry up and give her another dose or something!”

You felt a sharp pinch in your neck before your vision began to swim with black, your eyes lolling back and your body going completely limp as you blacked out fully.

...

You woke again with a start when you felt someone lift the hem of your shirt, your hand flying up from your side to grab their wrist before even opening your eyes.

Standing over you was an elven woman in a long white smock, her surprised expression quickly melting into a determined one as she took your hand off of her and continued to study your stomach.

“Who are you?” You ask, but make no move to interrupt her examination.

“I will have to change your bandages,” She ignored your question, and as your own surprise at the encounter subsided, you began to feel the dull throb that worked its way through your lower abdomen.

After helping you sit up and unraveling the strip of cloth around your wound, the woman finally answered your question, “I’m the royal physician, Myanthe.”

You didn’t reply, instead examining the room you were in. You were obviously still in Roquechade’s castle, if the ostentatious design choices were anything to go by. It was similar to your room in Roquechade’s castle, with a bed and matching sofas and armchairs filling the empty space. However, various shelves lined the edges of the room filled with strange devices and jars of unknown substances and herbs, more similar to the infirmary back at the castle in Altruria. You guessed a physician was a type of healer.

You hissed in pain and turned back to Myanthe as she pulled off the bandages stuck to your wound and threw the russet stained bundle of cloth on a metal table behind her.

You examined the wound yourself, initially startled by the green tinge to the wound and surrounding skin before realizing it wasn’t infection, likely just a stain from whatever salve the physician used. Your muscles tensed as Myanthe pressed a wet rag to the skin around your wound, the green color running with the water as you suspected.

Once the wound was clean, you could see thick black stitches holding the edges together.

“It doesn’t appear too serious,” you hummed, feeling around your back before moving your hand to the stitches themselves, “The sword didn’t go completely through, and the fact that I’m already conscious means he didn’t slice through anything too important. I would’ve sewn animal thread underneath but the top layer is decent. Without magic they can be removed in two weeks and I should be fine to ride in one of the wagons until we reach the border…”

Myanthe appeared surprised once again as you appraised your wound, her ears perking upwards as she listened to you, though you didn’t blame her. You had quickly learned in your single evening among the local royalty that “princesses” in the outside world were a far cry from what you were used to. Every servant you’d encountered thus far expected you to be as completely dependent on them for every basic task as the royal family.

“You’re right, but with this,” Myanthe paused as she grabbed a wooden bowl from the table behind her and scooped out a dark paste with her fingers, immediately slathering it on the wound, “The wound should heal a bit quicker.”

You cursed loudly at the sudden burning sensation as the paste touched the raw skin, a pulsating feeling emanating from wherever it touched. Your face twisted in pain but you managed not to flinch as Myanthe continued to spread the substance around.

“The sayerba may not be as fast as the magic of your home country, but it’s the best we have here,” Myanthe washed her hands in a metal basin before drying them with the front of her smock, grabbing a new roll of bandages and beginning to wrap them tightly around you, “so try not to move around too much.”

You make no argument while the physician tied off the end of the bandages at your side, pulling down your shirt as Myanthe disposed of the bloody bandages in a metal container.

“Are you ready for visitors?” Myanthe asked you, “The king wished to speak to you once you woke up and your guard has been pestering me about your condition all morning.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” You nodded, surprised when she immediately walked out and called for Roquechade to come in.

Roquechade walked in, a somber expression on his face and guilt flashing in his eyes as he met your gaze.

Olek was close behind him, the relief evident in his face as he stood guard silently by the door.

“I’m glad to see you well so soon, princess,” Roquechade said, sounding exhausted, “I apologize on behalf of my son. His actions were… foolish.”

“I wouldn’t call them foolish, Roquechade. Manipulative or treacherous, perhaps,” you said, in too much pain for politeness, “Where is Silais?”

Roquechade sighed, looking much older than he had seemed just the night before at the banquet, “He is being held in his room. Under heavy guard, off course.”

“I take it you plan for that to be the extent of his punishment?” You scoff, unable to believe that Silais wasn’t in the dungeons. Or already dead.

“Please understand, princess, he is my son,” Roquechade half pleaded, but you found it hard to feel sorry about your bluntness, “I offer my sincerest apologies for his actions, but to end my own son’s life…”

You decided against pointing out the fact that the prince effectively put his entire family’s lives at risk in trying to kill you, the inevitable war that your death would have caused apparently worth whatever Silais’ end goal was. However, another idea formed in your mind, and your mouth opened before you could think twice.

“I will not push the matter of punishment,” you paused after the statement, both Roquechade and Olek looking at you in shock, “if you accept the High Queen’s proposed changes for the old trade agreement.”

You in no way expected the king to agree to such extreme terms without further negotiations. However, you decided you may as well benefit from the situation at hand, if only to wipe your hands of this godsforsaken kingdom and return to Altruria.

Even if Roquechade didn’t agree to your request, at the very least his guilt would make for a fairly decent starting point. And while you by no means held the power to call for a war, Silais’ actions were more than enough to incite one if the High Queen were to learn of them.

Roquechade looked anguished as he mulled over your offer, clearly weighing his options. Just as you began to grow anxious that he would take offense to the thinly veiled blackmail, the king sighed once again, deflating as he sank into one of the room’s many armchairs.

“I’ll have the contract drawn up today,” he said with a nod, slowly standing, and it took all you could not to let your jaw drop.

Olek looked similarly shocked, but neither one of you said anything as you waited for the king to break his serious expression and tell you that it was just a joke.

“I wish you a speedy recovery,” Roquechade bowed and hurriedly made his leave, leaving you and Olek in stunned silence.

“Gods above and below,” you let out a breathy laugh in disbelief, unable to contain your giddiness at your change of fortune, “I should be nearly assassinated more often.”

“Please don’t joke of such things, Princess,” Olek scolded, earning an eye roll from you.

“Where’s Dirrath?” You decided to change the subject, noting how Olek suddenly appeared nervous at your question.

“He helped carry you to the infirmary, but unfortunately he disappeared shortly after your condition stabilized, Princess.”

“Good,” you sank into your pillow and sighed in relief, “He can’t complain I didn’t hold up my end of our deal. We’re leaving to Altruria as soon as this trade business is done and these stitches are out.”

“You made a deal with-?” Before Olek could open that can of worms, you were saved by Myanthe popping her head back into the room, her ears twitching as she realized Olek was in the room.

“The princess needs to rest now,” she said, waiting for Olek to leave the room before entering fully with a servant carrying tray of food.

While you were grateful at first for the convenient save from Olek’s questioning, you soon realized you were far from tired, itching to get up and move around after hours of laying down. Once you finished your dinner, you found yourself incredibly bored

There wasn’t much you could do, however, as you body made it abundantly clear it wouldn’t tolerate you getting up, much less walk around the room. It would be a while yet before you could get up without risk of tearing your wound wide open, and you had dealt with plenty of patients who never listened to your mother’s orders for bedrest. But now that you were on the receiving end of those very same orders, you could see the temptation

After a few hours passed consisting solely of you tossing and turning in the bed after multiple failed attempts to fall asleep, you decided you simply had to get up, your only source of light the moon’s entering from the windows.

Your sheer determination won over your stab wound, slowly making your way to the windowsill, your joints still somewhat stiff from being still for so long. Just as your awkward shuffle improved to a more normal gait as you grew more confident that you wouldn’t tear your stitches, you heard the quiet click of the room door being opened.

You stood completely still, half expecting Myanthe to scold you for completely ignoring her orders. Instead, as you turned around, Dirrath was standing at the doorway, looking just as shocked to see you as you were to see him.

“I was under the assumption that you were still bedridden,” Dirrath said stiffly, remaining at the entrance of your room. You immediately noticed that Dirrath was back in his human form, though you don’t remember putting the glamor back up.

“And I was under the assumption that you were long gone,” you retorted, motioning for Dirrath to enter the bedroom, “Hurry up, I’m not supposed to have any visitors.”

The demon stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, though you paid him no mind as you made your way to one of the loveseats in  across from him and collapsed into it.

“If you’re here to try and say I somehow didn’t hold up my end of the deal, don’t bother,” you warned, too drained from you cross-room excursion to put the bite behind your words you wanted, “Olek already told me they couldn’t find you after I was taken to Myanthe, so it isn’t my fault if you didn’t take escape then!”

Dirrath stared at you for a moment in confusion, his nose crinkling slightly as his lip curled into a slight sneer, “No, that deal is done. But earlier, you were able to do something no one else has and I need to know if you can do again.”

“And that would be what, exactly?”

“Take off my glamor.”

You blinked slowly, digesting Dirrath’s answer, though it came across as more of a demand. Dirrath was no longer awkwardly standing, his eyes boring into your own with determination.

“The High Queen took off your glamor before,” you said finally, deciding to play dumb to the fact that there had definitely been a difference when you took off Dirrath’s glamor. The two forms had been entirely different, the demon appearing much more beastly last night than he had months ago. And Dirrath just all but confirmed to you that it wasn’t a trick of your memory.

Just as Dirrath pointed out, you had no obligation to help him since your original deal was over. And he was a demon after all, the probability that he had some heinous plans for his true form was high. However, the desperate way in which Dirrath looked at you made you hesitate before immediately turning him away. It wasn’t a dangerous type of desperation, at least, for the moment, but there was a sense of… hope?

Besides, you reasoned, it was only getting rid of a glamor. That is purely a cosmetic change, likely the result of whatever magic user who summoned him forcing Dirrath to appear human.

“Alright.”

“Alright?” The disbelief that coated Dirrath’s tone was almost enough to make you laugh, if the pure look of relief that fell over his face wasn’t too bust pulling at your heartstrings. You blamed your weakened physical state for your newfound sentimentality.

You nodded, “Sure, just get rid of this pesky wound for me and you’ll be… furry again in no time.”

“I… can’t” Dirrath sighed, frustration flashing across his features.

“What do you mean you can’t?” You snapped, “You healed me just fine after the bandit attack before.”

“I can’t heal physical wounds,” Dirrath snapped back at you, “Your wounds then were from using magic. You still had all your other scrapes and bruises afterwards”

Thinking back, you realized what Dirrath told you was true, though you remained annoyed.

“Fine. Then you can just be my nurse until I can use magic again,” you smirked, fully intending to drive Dirrath crazy as a patient, if only as punishment for not being useful.

“What the hell is a nurse?” Dirrath grunted, eyeing you suspiciously.

“They’re apparently physicians’ assistants. Myanthe told me the castle is currently shorthanded on them,” your smirk grew into a full on shit-eating grin as you saw the inner conflict behind Dirrath’s eyes.

Finally, just as you were about to rescind your offer and think of something else to get in return for helping the demon, Dirrath began to nod slowly, exhaling through his nose in exasperation.

“As humiliating as it may be… I agree to your terms,” Dirrath’s voice took on a warning tone, “but if you can’t get rid of the glamor I will end your miserable mortal life myself.”

The corners of the demon’s mouth ticked upward as you tried and failed to contain your excitement, though your expression quickly twisting into a grimace at the sudden strain on your wound. Once you finally regained your composure, Dirrath held out his hand, a clear signal for you to seal your abrupt deal.

After a moment’s hesitation, briefly wondering one last time how wise it would be to help a demon, you reached out and took Dirrath’s hand in a firm shake.

You’ve gotten this far, too late to go back now.

[rachel-writes101]

Konnect: The Mistake

Emily Rook hoped this would be the incident that would cause Oscar to see sense but she wasn’t going to hold her breath. Nor was she particularly happy about the way things were playing out.

Despite her ordering (and often pleading for) him not to go to the industrial ring her little brother hung out there almost every day. The ring of warehouses and abandoned factory lots wasn’t exactly old. Most had been built in the 90s during the technological and industrial boom that had decided which companies got to rule the Copperby skyline. But it was still dangerous. There were all sorts of chemicals in the soils and some of the under-maintained buildings had collapsed. And the space was a haven for criminals – particularly with the main streets of Copperby regularly patrolled by a superhero.

Not that Oscar had the sense to not visit the ring because of any of that. He had been there that evening, messing around with his friends. The details of the story were a little unclear to Emily but she gathered one of Oscar’s gaggle of bad influences had heard a noise and the group had decided to investigate. The noise had been coming from an old warehouse and the boys had been right outside when they had heard what sounded like a voice calling for help. The singular brain cell her little brother possessed had convinced him not to go in and investigate. In fact, he had pulled out his phone to call the police and had intended to do so until he had been spooked by a noise from the warehouse. Later Oscar would dismiss it as a prank, say he wasn’t really scared at all. But Emily knew her little brother too well and even if she didn’t, a group of fourteen-year-olds didn’t run scared for no reason.

Emily hadn’t wanted to go out there at all but Oscar had dropped his phone in his mad sprint back and had told her he had no intention of going back alone. She had driven him as close as the road would allow and followed him as he picked his way over to where he believed his phone would be.

She couldn’t ignore the way her brother glanced around furtively. He jumped at every shadow, tried to stay in the pools of moonlight.

“It was probably just some kids playing a trick.”

She just wanted him to get his phone so they could get out of there. Their parents would be getting back soon and, even if she ignored the fact they would be furious at Oscar for dropping his phone, it was dark. Every second they were there was a second they could be mugged.

“It’s that one,” Oscar said, pointing out a warehouse on the horizon.

It was a decrepit building, exactly the sort of place that Emily had feared her brother was hanging out at. She went to head towards it but Oscar caught her arm.

“What if it’s still in there?” he hissed urgently.

Emily shook his arm off.

“It was probably just a kid playing a prank. You said so yourself.”

She had hoped it would be enough to get Oscar moving again but his feet never moved. Emily gave an exaggerated sigh and turned, calling over her shoulder that the faster they found his phone, the faster they could go home.

She was almost half-way to the warehouse when Oscar decided he would rather be at his sister’s side than standing in the middle of an open space alone. He gave a strangled cry and hurried after her, almost colliding with her when she stopped dead.

There was the sound of a motorbike’s engine in the air. Emily looked back at the road and grimaced. The bike looked just like any other motorbike but the rider was instantly recognisable: Konnect. The city’s superhero.

The moonlight made her white hair look like a trail of smoke behind her and her costume, all silver and blue, shone like metal. She stopped her bike a short distance from where Emily had parked and seemed to be speaking to someone as she killed the engine.

“Konnect?” Oscar gasped. “Maybe she can help me find my phone.”

Emily shook her head and began to usher her brother towards the warehouse. Konnect rarely came to the ring unless there was a crime that had brought her there. Emily did not doubt that a fight was about to erupt. She wanted herself and Oscar on the other side of the city before that happened.

“Let’s just get your phone and get out of here.”

Sensing the urgency in her tone, Oscar nodded. He let her lead the way over to the warehouse and grinned when he found his phone nestled in a bed of weeds just at the edge of the concrete border. There was a door ahead of them, the door Oscar had been considering going inside just then.

“You got it?” Emily said, grinning when she saw her brother hold up his scuffed mobile. “Let’s go.”

Oscar chewed on his lip, his eyes playing across the door.

“Maybe we should look inside. If there is someone…”

He trailed off.

Emily bit the inside of her mouth and felt like shaking some sense into her brother. However she stopped herself. She strutted forwards, grabbing the handle of the door. She desperately hoped that it was locked. When she felt the door give at her turning of the handle, she knew she had mistakenly hoped for one thing that day to go right. She edged the door open and peered into the gloom. Oscar shifted closer to her, partly so he could look into the room and partly out of the need for comfort.

The room was too dark for them to make anything out for a few moments. Emily squinted, sure she could see something in the centre of the room. She fumbled along the side of the wall for a light switch and yelped when there was suddenly light from her side. Oscar turned to her, shining the torch on his phone directly into her eyes.

“Oscar!” Emily snapped, turning away.

She rubbed her eyes as black spots swum through her vision. Oscar moved past her, ducking into the warehouse. Emily went to call him back but her words caught in her throat when she heard her brother speak.

“What on…?”

His voice trailed off, snatched away by a wave of confusion. Emily battled to clear her vision and followed him inside. Oscar’s torch was trained on the object she had seen before. It was a cage, narrow – not wide enough for a person to lie down in – but tall enough for a person to comfortably stand in. It was completely bare, nothing to indicate what had been inside it. However, Emily knew exactly how the thing had gotten out.

One wall of bars was completely bent outwards, torn up from the bottom and wrestled upwards like a garage door. Oscar looked at Emily, eyes wide.

“What could have done that?” he hissed.

Emily sent him a look that was meant to ask how she could possibly know an answer to that. However, the moment was snatched by a terrible growling from behind them. Emily felt her heart stop. Her stomach twisted. She went to look over her shoulder but couldn’t bring herself to turn the entire way. Oscar looked and screamed.

Something slammed into him. The torch went flying, skidding across the floor. The light was fixed on the ceiling. Emily could hear the terrified cries and screamed Oscar’s name in response. He never managed a clear reply, terror stealing all sense from his words.

Emily began to sprint towards his phone. If she could get to the torch, get some idea of what was going on, she might be able to save her brother.

Suddenly blinding light flooded the warehouse. Emily rubbed her eyes feverishly, trying to make sense of what was going on. She heard Oscar’s cries fade, replaced by a horrific growling sound. Then she sensed movement nearby. She forced herself to brave the brightness and realised every light in the warehouse had been turned on. Beside her stood Konnect, staring defiantly at something across the room.

Emily turned. She bit her lip to hold back the yelp that almost escaped her. A monstrous creature was bearing down on her brother. It was the size of a lion with tufts of black hair erupting from blistered, rash-ridden skin. Uneven serrated teeth hung from its open mouth. It was on all fours over Oscar but rose up onto its back legs when it saw Konnect. Emily watched as the bones in its hips mashed into place. Then a roar forced itself from the thing’s throat.

“What is that?” Emily screamed as it took a step towards the two of them.

Konnect raised a hand, electricity arcing between her fingers as a warning. Emily almost stumbled back as the creature let out another deafening roar.

Then it lunged towards them.

The three fingers on its hands were each tipped with a long claw that swung through the air millimetres away from the two of them. Konnect let a blast fly out of her hand, the electricity slamming into the chest of the creature. It collapsed onto its knees, arching in pain.

Konnect shoved Emily in the direction of Oscar as she made her way towards the creature. It snarled at Emily as she edged towards her brother but Konnect clapped her hands, bringing the beast’s attention on her once more. It forced itself to its feet again and charged. Konnect dodged just in time, firing a shot of electricity at the creature as it passed her.

Emily reached Oscar and scrambled to check him over. He was bruised, a little confused and the skin around his neck was covered with shallow cuts. He stammered over a response, clinging to his sister as she pulled him close.

Emily looked up just in time to see the beast charge at Konnect again. The hero wasn’t able to dive away fast enough. A sharp claw cut through her costume, drawing blood as it slashed her arm. Konnect cried out, a hand immediately flying up to stem the bleeding. The creature seemed satisfied, something akin to a cackle falling from between its jagged teeth.

Konnect fired a blast at it. It dodged and sprung towards her.

The hero stood there, staring down the monster. She let it come closer and closer, so close that Emily was sure she was going to be taken down. Emily looked away, trying to cover her ears with her shoulders to keep out the inevitable screams.

Then there was a flash of light. Emily felt the hair on her arms stand on end at the energy in the air. She heard something heavy hit the floor and turned her attention upwards.

Konnect was standing over the supine form of the creature, hands raised in preparation for having to deal another blow. Emily could see the blood on one of Konnect’s gloves, the wound on her arm stopping her from raising it fully.

Seeing her injured, standing over such a large beast, Emily realised Konnect wasn’t much older than her younger brother. She removed her coat and folded it neatly, tucking it underneath Oscar’s head. He barely seemed to notice, staring in terrified awe at the hero and the creature. Emily crossed towards Konnect.

“Are you okay?” Emily asked, nodding towards the cut on her arm.

Konnect looked at the wound as though she had forgotten it was there. Emily supposed it was possible when adrenaline took over. Konnect carefully slid her hand back in place covering it and told Emily it was fine.

“Going to be hard to cover.”

Konnect paused for a second before signalling for Emily to stay quiet for a moment. Then the hero tapped her own forehead.

“Hey, it’s down. Image should be coming through now. Can you ensure the police know what they are dealing with?”

Emily waited for some voice to sound, unsure exactly who Konnect was talking to. However, after a long moment of silence, Konnect gave Emily an expectant smile.

“What is that thing?” Emily asked eventually, looking at the crumpled form of the creature.

Even unconscious, skin slightly singed from the blast that had taken it down, it was still terrifying. Emily was certain she would not be standing so close if not for the presence of the superhero.

“Lab accident. I received word it was being smuggled into Copperby as part of a cover-up,” Konnect explained. “Thought I should get it into the hands of someone responsible before someone got hurt.”

Emily nodded, looking past Konnect. Konnect crossed the room silently and picked up Oscar’s phone. She gestured to Emily’s little brother.

“He should be seen by a doctor. He doesn’t look too bad but I think he hit his head when…”

Konnect looked down at the creature and Emily nodded. She carefully guided Oscar to his feet. He was a little unsteady, his eyes a little unfocused. Konnect handed her Oscar’s mobile and asked if they had a way of getting to the hospital. Emily reassured her they did. She began to help Oscar out, looking back at the creature and Konnect when she reached the doorway.

“Do they happen a lot? Lab accidents I mean?”

Konnect paused for a moment and then grasped what Emily was carefully enquiring. She sighed.

“More than you’d think. But sometimes good comes out of them.”

“Thank you,” Emily said before leading Oscar out into the night.