#just had to write something fast about the scar and how triggering it must be to see that shit in the mirror every day

[jasonsbruce]

jason stares into the cracked mirror, breathing raggedly. the light in the shitty bathroom is a yellow dim, occasionally flickering. his reflection stares back at him; a face he hates and barely recognizes. reconstructed by endless beatings, broken bones that were never allowed time to heal completely before they were cracked again. he only has one mirror in his apartment, one he normally goes out of his way to avoid looking at. his fingers tremble as they trace the jagged "J" burnt into his cheek. he doesn't know if it's anger or sadness. maybe both. the brand never fades, no matter how much time passes. it's always there, mocking him, reminding him of that fucking clown and what he did to him.

what he took from him.

he grabs the knife from the sink, its edge is sharp and polished. with a sneer, he pushes the tip against his cheek, right over the scar. jason hesitates for a split second, before he plunges the knife into his skin, across the letter.

blood wells up and spills down his jawline, dripping down from his cheek. his other hand grips the edge of the sink so tightly his knuckles go white.

the pain is sharp, it's right there and it feels good because it overpowers the constant, aching pain he constantly feels. the one that sits in his bones, the one that follows him like a constant shadow.

he continues until it feels like he erased the scar with the tip of his knife, until his entire body is shaking. the knife clatters to the floor, his hands feel slick with blood. he stares at the mess in the mirror, his reflection distorted by the growing tears clouding his eyes.

he sinks to the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up as he buries his face in his bloodstained hands. the tears choke him, raw sobs tears from his throat.

the tears mix with his blood. he can't stop crying. doesn't even know why he is. maybe because he knows he'll never get closure or get to move on like normal people. maybe because he knows that no matter how deep he cuts, no matter how hard the tries to carve himself into a different, stronger person—that fucking scar is still there. inside him. forever.

the real mark isn't on his skin—it's in his mind.

it's in the way he flinches at certain sounds, the way he can't stand looking at himself, in the way he hear his voice sometimes. it's in the way he fights, the way he can't let anyone close, in the way he hates bruce. it's in the way he wakes up screaming, drenched in sweat, the way he can't sleep at times, in the way he wants to kill bruce. he might have escaped the asylum, but whenever he closes his eyes, he's still there, terrified and alone.

[thatanimeramenchick]

I just thought of somethin(I’m sorry if I’m spamming or anything. I’ve got ADHD so my brain is constantly making ideas that I have to share. I do not wish to overwhelm you)

What about a Yandere Lucifer(Hazbin) with a immortal human reader? They were cursed from a young age with immortality because of a mistake there mother made. They can die but don’t really stay dead. Every time they die they get a scar so there covered with them both large and small. They go to university but was supposed to be sacrificed by a cult to Lucifer but obviously survived but now there stuck with Lucifer always being around?

Yandere Lucifer x Human Sacrifice Reader Pt. 1

You’re fine! Definitely not spamming. I just might take some time before I get to writing it. Lucifer has me in a choke hold, but so does Vox. I also wanted to do this idea justice, as it actually has a lot of potential, so it took me a little while before I finally felt like it sounded kind of decent. Also it was getting long, so going to be a two parter.

Part Two

Trigger Warning: Graphic Violence

Word Count: 2,431

---

You first realized something was wrong when you were twelve.

It was a warm August afternoon, perfect for a day on the lake. Only a week left before school, your extended family was having a last little hurrah camping trip. Water brushed against your shoulders as you waded through the water, looking for small fish and crawdads. Your cousins were on the shore, half asleep as they rested from swimming.

“Kids! It’s time for lunch!” you heard your Aunt’s voice fill the air.

Eager for food, like any other over-exhausted child, you turn quickly on the slick rocks, ready to run inside.

“Wait for me!” you cry out, taking no care in how fast you were moving.

And down you went. Your slipped right out from under you and sent you crashing beneath the waves. A roar filled your ears as your body ripped through the water and sent your head against the stone ground. Along with the cold water, you felt a hot liquid bubbling from the crown of your head.

Whether from shock or pain, you were unable to swim. You thrashed and attempted to scream, only letting more water into your throat. Surely someone had heard you falling and would come to save you, right? There was no way they hadn’t heard you.

Yet as seconds passed, you started to think that maybe no one had heard you. Every passing moment felt like an eternity as you were unable to hold your breath and water choked down your throat.

You swore that you felt your lungs literally ripping apart, splitting at the seams in a pain that was so intense you felt like you would black out. You suddenly knew what it was like to be the balloons you and your cousins had blown up with a little too much air and watched pop into a million pieces.

The oxygen must finally have evaporated from the combination of fluid filling your lungs and blood leaving your body. This was it.

You were going into the arms of the angels.

---

To this day, beneath your hair, was the large scar from “the incident” as your family referred to it.

Well, when they referred to it at all, which was almost never.

All you had remember was awakening in the hospital, gasps, tears, and even a scream filling the air as you sat up.

“I-impossible!” your aunt had said, gazing in shock at you, “She was… She had to be….”

“I told you, the doctors had made a mistake,” your mother had said calmly. She had been sitting beside you, squeezing your hand. Though her words were soft and controlled, there were tears on the edges of her eyes.

Your cousins started crying as well, coming forward, looking just as stunned. The only one who had seemed unsurprised was your mother, who held your hand in a death grip.

That day lived in infamy in your mind. Though nothing had ever been explained, small snippets from conversations you hadn’t been meant to overhear had formed an image of what had happened.

Finally, it had been noticed that you were not there, and your eldest cousin had been the horrified witness to your body in the lake, water red from the massive loss of blood. Though they had called the ambulance, it was clear to everyone that you had died before they had even got there.

Or so they had thought.

You had been laid in the hospital, check on, with no pulse or breath in you. Your family had been in the room crowding around you, all saying final goodbyes. All except your mother, who had simply grabbed onto your hand and insisted that you weren’t dead. The doctor had made a mistake, you would be fine. Naturally, your Aunt and Uncle thought that your mother was simply confused after the traumatic experience.

But you had woken up. Suddenly, something had changed. The machines detected life, and you had taken a gasping breath before groggily opening your eyes.

The nurses and doctors had seem just as spooked as your extended family, but once it was determined that somehow you had survived and your lungs were intact, they let you go. Someone must have made some kind of mistake at some point.

There had been no explanation, logical or otherwise for your salvation. Your mother said that you must be under divine protection, and you had accepted the answer, as much as you weren’t really convinced of it. Convinced or not, you were alive, and you supposed that was what mattered.

That had been nine years ago. It was something you rarely thought about anymore, though recently, you had been wondering about it. The whole thing was weird, and your studies in medical school only made it weirder.

You didn’t have time to think about it these days though. You were short on two things, money and time. Which is why you were now looking at the posters hung in the cafeteria for an opportunity to make some quick cash.

You had some cash flow from your repeated donations of plasma and blood cells, as well as the occasional babysitting gig in between studies. You needed more though, and the flier you were looking at was promising a lot of pay if you went to this interview and were accepted as a participant for an experiment that some seniors were doing. So many of you had participated in a couple of experiments for professors and students to earn a buck here and there. You could do it again. You ignored the vague wording, thinking that it was probably some experimentation that involved the subjects being in the dark.

So now, you were sitting on a park bench with the interviewer for the program, being drilled harder than if you had stayed out all night as a teenager.

“Do drugs, smoke, alcohol?” the interviewer asked.

“No,” you said.

“All right,” she said, "And... we'll need to know you're relationship history as well. Any boyfriends, girlfriends?”

“I had one boyfriend in high school,” you said, "Been too busy last few years though.”

“Just one boyfriend... Ok, and any hookups?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Like, you know, bar or party hookups. Casual sex.”

“I-I- Uh... No,” you said.

“So you're a virgin?” she asked.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t see how this is relevant,” you said, feeling uncomfortable.

“It’s necessary information for dividing the groups in our experiment,” she said, “Your personal name isn’t going to be connected to any of this. But we need to know as much personal information as possible if you want us to consider you for this. We need to know our subjects on a deep level.”

You sigh in irritation, “Fine, whatever. Yes, I am.”

“Ok,” she said, scribbling something down.

After a few more minutes of interrogation, she stood up.

“All right then, I think I have everything I need to know. We will be in touch if you pass all right? If you do, you'll be contacted on the meeting place for the experimentation,” she said.

---

A week later, you had gotten a call back from the same interviewer, saying you had passed initial testing. They assigned a day for you to show up at the lab. After you had arrived on the appointed day and signed some wavers, they took you aside and gave you some medication, saying they were conducting a test on REM sleep in three sessions. The first two had gone typically, and you had awoken, mind numb and fuzzy after the sessions. But something was different when you woke up the third time. You weren't in the lab.

You awoke, foggy eyed, your mind still grainy. The room was freezing, even more so than the normally cool temperature it was kept at. In a few seconds, you realized you weren't in the lab at all or likely the university. Your surroundings were totally alien as you realized where you were and who you were with.

You were looking up at a circle of men and women in black and red cloaks. A sickening smell of incense fills the air, and you feel something right digging into your wrists and ankles. In moments, you realize you have been tied down to a stone altar, somewhere dark and damp, like a cave or temple. Directly over you stands a middle aged man, holding a knife.

“She’s perfect,” he said, “A beautiful young virgin. Not tainted in any way, in good health. The ideal sacrificial lamb.”

The day of the incident was swarming back into your mind as you now struggled against the rope tying you own, as futile as you had felt slapping against the water. You couldn’t even attempt to scream, a cloth was shoved so far down your throat, the scent of whatever chemical they had dipped in it making it burn. Part of you wondered if you would vomit and repeatedly suffocate before he could even stab you.

“Oh Lucifer, we call upon you to accept this sacrifice,” the man called out, raising the knife, “May you be pleased with this offering, and in exchange bless our work. May we be more prosperous and rich than any others! We bow down to you!”

With his final words, he sliced the knife into your chest, so fast and swift that you didn’t feel it at first. It was as subtle as a breeze rushing past your cheek or hearing a whisper in the hallway. Small as it was though, you couldn’t deny that it was there. Within a split second, as he ripped the knife out, you felt some of that pain materializing. A muffled scream is silenced, and you feel the cloth sink deeper into your throat, choking you. Even if your mouth can not let out a sound, the surrounding flesh is painful enough that it feels like it is screaming in silent agony.

He continues to stab at you. The pain worsens as he tries to push the knife deep into your heart, but manages to instead stab into your ribs multiple times. Each removal of the knife releases a fountain of blood. Warm, fast, sleek streams bathe your skin and clothes as he drives the knife through you over and over again, without mercy. Penetrating, forceful, as if you were being violated in the worst possible way. The physical pain of the experience is nothing compared to the mental anguish of helplessness and terror you feel.

Finally, mercifully a few cuts sink between you ribs and pierce your heart. Within minutes, your world begins fading to black.

This is it. Finally.

At least that was what you hoped. No more pain, only peace.

---

Hell was real.

You hadn’t died, but you didn’t need to for you to experience a pure torment worse than death. Some twisted miracle, curse, whatever the hell it was, had saved you. You awoke who knows how long after the attack, alone and still strapped to the stone altar. You couldn’t lift your head, it roared with pain. The pure torture of regenerating, something you hadn’t felt in years. Your body burned and itched as it restitched itself back together, slowly. The process of regeneration was in some ways more gruesome than the actual attack had been. Every inch of your chest felt like it was on fire.

The cloth was still stuck deep in your throat, making it impossible to call for help, but part of you knew that even if you could have it probably wouldn’t attract attention from anyone you would want. Your only fear was that it would remain stuck in your throat for ages. The image of it resting there until your spit somehow dissolved it and allowed for you to breathe normally haunted you, as well as the image that you might die from an infection or suffocation like this a couple of times before that happens.

Your mind was so focused on this that you didn’t notice the glowing light walking around you. Sight fuzzy, you winced as the light fully entered your focus and before you stood a man, radiating light from his crimson and white body. Wings on display, emanating from his back. No further details could be caught though, as you were in too much pain to really pay attention. Despite this though, you had no doubt who this was.

Lucifer.

You were surprised. Always, your imagination had painted the devil as a creature of darkness. Even if he wasn’t a red horned creature, you had expected a creature that radiated evil and smoke. Yet Lucifer stood before you with an almost ethereal glow about him. While there was a certain flame about him, it burned with a cool, almost glorious light.

Well, you had heard someone once say that the devil portrayed himself as a creature of light. Perhaps the brightness of his form should not surprise you. A mask of goodness over his true evil intent. He leans over you, gazing at your half-alive form.

Finally, the devil reaches over to your face, gazing at you with a look that you decide must be curiosity. There is no way that it contains the pity that your mind at first thinks it glimpses. If this is the devil that the group worshiped, then there was no way any sympathy could be found in his eyes. He lowered his hand to your face, causing you to flinch, the pain exploding at your brief movement. Instead of the expected violence though, he caresses your cheek with tenderness.

“Poor little thing. Humans are such fools,” he murmurs, “The way they treat their own is downright atrocious.”

While you would push his touch away if you could, you find it impossible. The pain is too great to bother defying him. It is nothing compared to the torture your body goes through though when he lifts you into his arms. Chipped bones feel as if they are shifting through your sliced muscle and ripped flesh. You feel more blood flowing out of your body, like the lake sand would flow between the cracks in your fingers as a child. Even though you are unable to scream, you must have at least attempted to make some kind of noise as the demon holding you makes an effort to soothe you.

“Sh… It’s all right now,” you heard, “You’re going to be just fine. There’s no need to be afraid.”

It was the last thing you heard before pain consumed your mind and took you from consciousness.

[hotchfiles]

Since you liked my last fanfic idea I have another one for ya. (Also, feel free to use/take inspo from if you want. I like sharinfmg, not so much writing) This is a Foyet lives AU.

Foyet kills Haley and manages to find Jack, BUT he doesn't kill him. Instead, Foyet gives Jack a cut that would lead to permanent scaring across his face, from cheekbone to cheekbone going over the nose bridge. A scar meant to be a reminder for Hotch of his failure.

Foyet is then arrested and sent to jail, as the team manages to arrive at the same time as Hotch, stopping him from murdering Foyet. He is given life in prison because the death penalty would have been to kind for a man like him.

Fast forward a decade, and Jack is now 16 when the Scratch case takes place. Part of his school's soccer team and art club, and despite everything in his life, a normal teenager. Fully trying to be as normal as possible before his life is flipped on its head once again.

Unfortunately, it gets flipped on its head when a massive prison break happens, and Mr. Scratch and Foyet escape prison. His dad shoves himself into work full forces, and instead of spending one or two nights at the office, it turns into full weeks. One day while on the trail of Mr. Scratch, Hotch overexerts himself and falls into Peter Lewis hands.

The team manages to rescue him, but not before Hotch is put into a drug induced coma. When Jack gets the news he is upset but used to it at this point. Not accepting and hugs or pity, he follows the normal routine for when his dad is injured, he goes home and packs his stuff to stay with JJ. Unfortunately for him, he wasn't the only person in his house.

Foyet had heard that Peter Lewis had put Hotch in a coma, and not wanting to be upstaged by a knock-off scarecrow, Foyet was going to do Hotch a little favor and kill Peter for him. But as smart as Foyet was, he was no G-man and with him out of commission he went for the only logical next option, junior g-man Jack.

So Foyet kidnaps Jack, threatens him with the whole "If you don't listen to me, I will kill you and everyone around you" speech and the two head off on a road trip. Solving Peter Lewis's crime and essentially becoming a weird Uncle-Nephew version of Hannibal and Will.

During this murder road trip, Jack does manage to have a great time. His dad was an extreme helicopter parent despite never actually being around, so actually going to a mall by himself or honestly anywhere that wasn't groceries or school is an experience. Foyet even let's him interact with people more than once without doing a background check into their entire families. Sure, he murdered his mother, but his dad had been killing his social life and mental health for years sooooo.....

It will end with Peter Lewis getting shot in the head, but who truly pulled the trigger is still a mystery. The BAU all believed that it was Foyet, but somewhere deep down, they all acknowledge the idea that it could have been Jack.

Featuring fun lines such as:

Foyet: "Kid, I have been in your mother."

Jack: "Don't you mean your knife has?"

Foyet: "We don't do semantics here."

Foyet: "Just call me your Uncle George."

Jack: "Pass, I already have an Uncle that has been to jail."

Foyet: "Agent Reid doesn't count."

Jack: "I was talking about my dad's brother."

Foyet: "Shit, forgot about him. Huh, must not be important."

Jack: "I am not going to resuscitate you if you die on the floor."

Foyet: *coughing up his lungs* "If I die, who is going to pay for Waffle House tomorrow?"

Jack: "Crap, you're right. What will I do if I am not getting my waffles paid for by a serial killer? Oh noooo"

Foyet: *wheeze laughing on the floor* "You clearly got your humor from me, kid."

YOU ARE INSANE KAMAJAJSJAKJA HOW MANY SCENARIOS OF JACK BEING KIDNAPPED AND BONDING WITH SERIAL KILLERS DO YOU HAVEEEEEE

no because why did i get out of breath laughing at WE DONT DO SEMANTICS HERE 💀💀💀 the way foyet WOULD say something like that he was such a sassy unsub

[under-sedationnn]

the arcana: main six reacting to injured! reader

anonymous: Could u do m6 reacting to mc coming home injured? I want some hurt/comfort >:))

Warnings: talk of being injured, blood. if that bothers you or tiggers you in anyway, please scroll away! i want this to be a safe place, only :)

thanks for the request anon!! i hope you enjoy!! <3 requests for the kissing prompts and physical affection prompts are STILL OPEN. please send them in with the character of your choice (which could be any character from any series i write for) and i will create an imagine!! thanks and happy reading!!

- tries his very very best to stay calm

- you can see panic bubbling under the surface

- faust is on high alert

- slithers around your shoulders and squeezes you for a hug

- "friend! hurt!"

- doesn't immediately ask what happened, just gets you to a comfortable place to be cleaned up

- then, and only then, will he brave to ask what happened to you

- or who did this to you

- wipes the blood from your skin with very gentle swipes

- winces when you wince, and apologizes profoundly

- "Y/n, how did this happen? i thought you were just taking a quick trip to the market."

- "i fell in the market, tripped over a stone"

- "and nobody helped you?"

- in this case he's disappointed with the bystanders, but does not become angry

- in a situation where someone hurt you?

- oh god

- "Y/n, how did this happen? i thought you were just taking a quick trip to the market."

- "yeah, well, somebody had their eye on the same apple i picked up. somehow, though, they managed to push me to the ground and steal it from my hands."

- i don't even think he would know what to say

- and asra is not really the type to march out into the streets of vesuvia and seek to challenge the one who hurt you

- but he would certainly hold a grudge against whoever it was if he did find out

- and would feel absolutely awful about letting you get hurt

- his mind would race about the possibility of losing you again

- because he simply can't handle it

- and what if that person had been particularly violent or malicious? what if you had been taken??

- you'd have to comfort the hell out of him to make sure he knows that you're okay

- "asra, hey, i'm fine! i can handle myself, you know that"

- "you're right, and i know you're right. it's just hard"

- "it's still hard for me, too. the market still makes me a little nervous and i got caught a little off guard, is all"

- that would make him feel better

- would finish patching up your wounds and would make sure to bring you to julian the next day if they were too bad for him to fix or needed stitches

- would also create a special brew to help with the pain and ease you to sleep

- "why don't i go down to the market tomorrow?"

- "why? so when you pick a fight over apples, i can pay you back for all of this high quality medical treatment?"

- "well of course, surely you didn't expect all this tender love and care to be free" *wink*

- panicked doctor mode enabled

- immediately begins checking you over, asking questions

- something tells me it would be a head injury of some sort

- "oh darling, what happe- you're bleeding!"

- "julian, i'm okay! it's just a little scratch"

- "no no no you might need stitches, come sit down. i'll go get my kit!"

- there's really no use in arguing

- he has cold ass hands, so he tries to warm them up before he begins suturing the wound

- tries to be gentle, and his expert hands move quickly without any snagging

- "so, how did this happen?"

- his voice is literally trembling

- "well, i was in the clinic grabbing the list of ingredients we need for our next grocery trip and there was a puddle of... something on the floor. i slipped and hit my head on the corner of your desk"

- immediately thinks it's his fault

- like "oh shit i should have cleaned better that could have killed y/n and then what would i have done-"

- doesn't necessarily voice this, but you can tell by the silence that follows that he's feeling really guilty

- would kneel for you, head on your knees

- "y/n, i am so sorry"

- "juli, it's really okay, i should have watched where i was going"

- "i'll make sure to clean better from now on, okay?"

- would guard you throughout the night in case of concussion

- nurse juli <3

- but let's say someone had put their hands on you

- would patch you up the same way, and apologize profusely for not being there with you

- tuck you into bed and fetch mazelinka to keep an eye on you throughout the night incase of a concussion

- would most definitely be self destructive and seek that mf out

- maybe not successfully, but would try his hardest

- "i'll be back in the morning, get some rest"

- "I can find them myself if I want to, you know"

- embarrassed blush

- because he KNOWS you can take care of yourself

- "of course, but right now you're hurt. as your partner, i will do what must be done on your behalf darling"

- probably shows up the following morning with battle scars of his own

- the guards found you in the garden, passed out in the maze

- blood trickled down your arm, a large gash marking your bicep

- ran you up to the palace and immediately to the medical wing

- them]n nadia gets word

- the calm, collected queen act disappears

- abandons anything she's doing, anybody she's talking to

- "we will finish this at a different time, i have more important matters to attend to"

- she is so worried and it's honestly adorable

- very much giving "where tf are they?" energy

- god i love her so much

- anyways um

- asks the nurses over and over what happened, if you're okay, etc.

- watches the physicians and nurses like a hawk as they clean the wound and suture the cut

- and they're so intimidated lmao they never come face to face with her literally ever

- brushes your hair back from your face as they do so

- holds your hands

- would demand that you be brought to her sleeping chamber

- so that's where you wake up! how cute

- she's laying beside you, her brows furrowed

- maybe even her eyes are a little hazy

- "y/n, sweetheart, do you remember what happened?"

- patiently waits for your answer, you're still a little groggy

- you were either attacked by an animal and passed out from the fright

- or you were attacked by an armed person and was knocked out

- either way, the guards are on it

- nadia isn't letting whoever or whatever did this get away without a fight

- the palace is meant to be a safe haven for you

- for the both of you

- "well, don't you worry, we'll take care of that"

- you try to sit up but she won't let you

- "oh no, you must stay down, y/n. you are possibly concussed from the fall"

- "oh okay, sorry"

- "is there anything i can get you?"

- the countess of vesuvia, serving you in your time of need

- "just some water would be nice"

- "of course, i'll have some brought up right away"

- i literally feel like he would just start crying straight up

- cause like he has some problems anyway

- he big sad boi

- and you coming home to the hut bleeding from a gash in the arch of your foot is not helping

- picks you and carries you to the bed without a word

- just starts examining the cut

- inanna is also very concerned

- she licks the blood from the cut, she's trying to be helpful

- meanwhile muriel is stumbling around the hut looking for anything to stop the bleeding, disinfect it, bandage it, anything

- but he's not the best about keeping that stuff in stock

- keeps looking back at you with worry in his eyes

- he doesn't know what to do

- "muriel, let me see if i can contact asra. maybe he or julian can bring me a salve. i'm pretty sure i'm gonna need stitches"

- low-key makes him feel worse

- cause he feels like he's unable to care for you and keep your safe

- even tho this was just an accident

- he's breathing really fast, his anxiety creeping

- agrees anyway, but goes to get them himself

- "i'll be back soon, just keep this piece of cloth pressed against it"

- cause you're bleeding like a lot

- inanna stays behind

- he returns very quickly with julian in tow, though he doesn't look happy about it

- leaves the hut without another word

- julian gets to work immediately

- "so, you cut your foot i see"

- smartass.

- "yeah, muriel always tells me to put on shoes when i walk in the woods but i love to feel the grass beneath my feet"

- julian chuckled at this

- "and i'm assuming you, what, stepped on a rock?"

- "...yeah, sliced it right open"

- after julian is done cleaning up the cut, he tells you to just stay off of it for a while and make sure it doesn't get infected

- once he's gone, muriel trudges back into the hut

- "muriel, baby, it was just a cut it's not a big deal"

- but his eyes look hurt, and you beckon him toward the bed

- "hey," your hands on his cheeks, "i'm okay, really"

- "sorry, i just got scared. blood is still a trigger for me and since you got hurt in my woods, i felt like it was my fault"

- "muriel, of course it wasn't your fault"

- he really needed a hug

- after this instance, he made sure to keep medical supplies in the hut and you promised to try and wear shoes in the woods more often than not

- "i'll try my best to be more careful. deal?"

- sweet lil smile

- "deal."

- "oh my god, y/n, what the hell happened??"

- you were tending the garden

- without her supervision

- and the garden sheers might have sliced into the palm of your hand

- deep

- brings you over to the sink and runs water over the cut, covering it with a towel when the dripping blood had been washed away

- girl is on the move

- cause she knows what to do! love that

- low-key a main reason why julian managed to live as long as he has

- pepi is curiously perched atop one of the counters, peering down

- finds her personal first aid kit she had stashed in the bathroom

- guides you over to sit on the counter while she tries to figure out what to do

- "damn, you really cut yourself, y/n"

- "sorry! i think i just got a little carried away"

- she giggles at that, though she is still worried about the fact that it won't stop bleeding

- gently wraps the cut in gauze and adheres it together

- places a kiss to your fingertips

- "all done! no more gardening for you!"

- "hey, why not?"

- "well you don't want that cut to open back up again and again, do you?"

- "no"

- "alright then," she smiled, moving to put away the first aid kit again, "and we're going up to the palace medical wing first thing tomorrow morning to make sure it's not infected"

- eye roll

- "yes ma'am" you mocked

- even though you know it's just because she loves you

- "but since you got hurt, you want me to bake you some cookies?"

- "only if you let me eat the dough!"

- good god do i love this man

- but he is so self-absorbed it's actually insane

- and I feel like he wouldn't even notice at first

- cause he's too focused on himself

- gazing into the mirror without a care in the world when you walked in

- "y/n, thank goodness you're home, how do you feel about these pants?"

- you just hobbled to the nearest seat, hand resting over the gash on your knee

- mercedes and melchior were lazing across a rug at the base of his mirror, their attention set on you

- "u-um, yeah, they look good"

- literally just trying not to bleed out, over here

- "good? oh really, now, y/n don't they look amazing?"

- "yes, they look ama- ow, damnit"

- then he turned around

- immediate shock and worry! oh no oh no y/n is hurt!

- mercedes and melchior walked over first, whining as they took in the cut, brushing around the edges

- lucio raced over, squatting down in front of you, and began examining the cut

- "hey, hey, what happened?"

- "i accidentally tripped on my walk in the garden and scraped my knee on the cobblestone"

- he was lightly touching around the cut, gauging how sensitive it was

- when you flinched he stopped, looking into your eyes with a soft "sorry"

- "i think i need to go to the palace infirmary"

- "oh there's no need, i can take care of you!"

- you were not convinced he could take care of you, at least not well

- "uh, lucio, are you sure?"

- he looked slightly offended, at that

- "you know, y/n, i did fight in battles at one point. i have not only tended to my own wounds, but the wounds of others, as well"

- you giggled at the thought

- "much to your protest, though, i'm sure"

- he moved to the small cabinet of medical supplies in the ensuite to your bedroom, returning to your side with it in hand

- "at points, but i don't mind helping you in the slightest"

- for all of his antics, his soft side was enough to make you fall in love all over again

- and although i know he would take care of you in literally any situation, i can't say for certainty that he would stick around and place nurse lucio for long if a person had hurt you

- attacked you

- much like nadia, the guards would be sent out without a second thought, lucio leading the pack in the search for you aggressor

[shinygoldstar]

Midnight Snack

DannyMay Day 11: Midnight

(Also DannyMay Shadow, Scars, Power, Nature, Seasons, Teeth can you find them all?)

Word Count: 2271 (not beta’d. experimental writing)

Warning: mentions of ghost cannibalism, nothing explicit

@floralflowerpower ​ – for that ghost cannibalism post

(it’s 1 am so i’m gonna sleep now. might post on AO3 later)

Edit: AO3 Added!

.

It was mid-October. The leaves are starting to turn yellow heralding the approaching autumn. Danny was happy because that meant the unusually hot weather is almost over. It wasn’t that he’s melting from the heat- quite the opposite, he’s probably the only person in Amity that isn’t sweltering under the sun with his cold core. But due to this exact same reason, his cooler body temperature also drew in water vapor which condenses on his skin, pooling into beads of water dripping down his shirt, making him appear extra sweaty. He can’t wait for the temperature to be cool enough to not change clothes every few hours. Good thing his clothes are purchased by the dozen; no one really noticed him wearing new sets of clothes throughout the day.

.

It was the contaminated fridge foods that disappeared first. No one missed them. At least until they can’t find the mutated turkeys for their annual Thanksgiving hunting event.

.

Danny yawned as he and his friends entered Fenton Works. Autumn is comfy. Just the right temperature where he can wear loose clothing and not be stared at for being underdressed for the weather. No ‘sweating’ either. His mouth closed with a click, a bit too fast on his new fangs. Danny winced. The fangs seemed to have grown longer overnight again. At this rate Danny won’t be able to pass them off as normal pointy canine teeth for much longer. It didn’t hurt but the itch is annoying. Danny took a detour to the fridge, grabbing an ice cube from the freezer and popped it into his mouth, absentmindedly chewing on the cubes to take the edge off the itch as they walked down to the basement lab. His parents are at a paranormal convention at a nearby city and won’t be back until tomorrow. Danny and his friends gladly took the opportunity to do their ‘Danny’s quarterly fitness test’.

Danny flipped on the light switch and walked to the center of the lab, transforming into his ghost form. “Okay I’m ready. What’s first on the list?”

Tucker dropped his bag and took out a piece of notebook paper, “Okay, first we gotta do the baseline measurements. Height, weight, temperature, and the ecto reading.” Sam dug through her sports bag, pulling out the measurement tape. She held it against Danny, eyes scanning the tape measurement numbers. “Still the same height.”

Tucker nodded, noting down the measurement in Danny’s health notebook. “Next, weight.” Danny stood over the scale. “Yup, still the same weight too.”  

.

Then it was the ecto-samples that Jack misplaced in the kitchen fridge. Jack warned everyone a few days later (everyone knows to avoid glowing food on normal basis so the delayed warning is mostly just courtesy), but no one could find where it went and assumed it grew legs to join the other tiny ecto-samples lurking as their equivalent of household pests. (No matter how often Maddie tried to patch up the mouse hole it keeps reappearing in the same shape but in a different part of the house as if the original mouse hole got transplanted from its original location)

.

“Lunch Lady’s right. You need to eat more. You’re still as skinny as ever.” Sam remarked as Danny took the thermometer out of his mouth. “76 F. The ghosts keep attacking me all day and night. You’d think my parents would notice when a ghost sneaks pass them while they work in the lab but I triggered all their ghost alarms just by being in the house so they deactivated the system when I’m around. They must’ve kept it turned off during the day too.”

“Tough luck dude. Ecto scan next.” Tucker passed the scanner to Sam while Danny stood still for her to scan. The machine beeped, “Wow 6.8, that’s quite a jump from last quarter’s 5.1”

“Maybe it was from all the ghost fighting I did over the summer?”

.

As the leaves began to fall from the branches, ghost attacks lessened in frequency. Not looking the gift horse in the mouth Danny happily enjoyed the lack of ghost attacks to focus more on his studies. If he did well enough, he might even get Bs for his efforts. He also managed to avoid getting detention for the entire week much to the relief of everyone involved.

.

Two days before Thanksgiving, the Fentons finally remembered their turkeys. But by then it was gone. In a rush, they quickly purchased a pre-made turkey instead. While Danny enjoyed the fact that they’re having a normal family dinner for once, he can’t help but feel like there’s something off about the chicken. As if it’s missing a particular tangy or zingy flavor that would’ve made it richer in flavor. ‘Must’ve been because it’s overcooked.’

.

"Honey? Have you seen the new ecto-samples I placed in the basement lab fridge?" “Again Jack? This is the third time this month. Have you checked the upstairs fridge?” “I-ah was pretty sure I placed them in the correct fridge this time. Must be some no-good thievin’ ghost.” “I’ll set up the ecto-anti-theft, that’ll get ‘em good! No ghost can escape Jack Fenton for long!”

.

*Intruder Alert* *Intruder Alert*

Red lights peppered with robotic voice and alarm noises lurched Maddie into full alert mode. She quickly took stock of her surroundings and tried to wake Jack up. But Jack had his earplugs on and continued to snore blissfully. A loud knock on the door caught her attention. “What’s going on mom?” Jazz’s voice floated through the door. Maddie quickly rose to open the bedroom door, swiftly pulled Jazz in and locked the door. “Jazz dear, try to wake your dad up. I’ll go check on the intruder.” Maddie strode quietly to the door then paused, “Have you checked on Danny?” Jazz bit her lips and looked away for a moment “-ah yeah! Danny’s snoring so loud he can’t hear the alarm.” Maddie twisted the doorknob but paused, hesitating. “He’s fine mom.” Jazz reassures her. “If Danny wakes up, he’ll come here first. I’ll let him know what’s going on.”

The alarm rang loudly in her ears as she walked down the stairs to the basement lab, its loud ringing noise effectively covering up the sound of her footsteps. Reaching the basement floor, Maddie quickly crept over to hide behind the shelf on her left, eyes scanning the lab for the intruder.

The glass jars clinked as a shadow moved about the fridge. A very familiar shadow. That didn’t glow. Maddie turned on the lab lights. “Danny?” she started, carefully walking over to face him, her eyes still scanning him to check if he’s really her Danny. The faint, barely noticeable scar on his eyebrow from his attempt to fly off the tree when he was five is there confirming his identity.

“What are you doing down here-?” Maddie noticed the glowing jar in his hand, “and what exactly are you doing?” Danny hazily stared at her; eyes half-lidded. Maddie snapped her fingers to get his attention. Danny didn’t blink. “He's still not awake, Danny come on wake up!”, she shook his shoulders. “Huh? Wuzzat?” Danny groggily woke up. He blinked in confusion.

Finally aware of his surroundings, Danny looked down at his right hand that still held the glowing sample. “Aah!” Danny yelped dropping the sample, then realizing he dropped the sample, tries to catch the jar, fumbling clumsily. Maddie would’ve laughed if it was anywhere else but in this situation. “Danny, do you remember what you were doing?”

“I was doing my homework and was craving for a good cheeseburger?”

---

“And the half-opened jar of ectoplasm?”

“Pickles?”

---

“Dude are you for real? That was priceless!” Tucker crowed with laughter. Sam leaned away from Tucker to avoid the meat spittle, “Urgh! Gross Tucker! Swallow it before you speak!”

Danny grumbled into his glass of milkshake, “’s not funny Tuck. you didn't see her face. She was about ready to scan me for signs of ecto-possession. Good thing my lie about craving cheeseburger and opening the wrong fridge worked. Otherwise I’d be in big trouble if she scanned me now with my latest ecto-reading. Anyways I'm banned from the lab now.” Danny bit into his burger.

“So what really happened there dude? Did you seriously sleepwalk into the basement lab?”

“I think so? I don’t really remember anything before Mom found me in the lab. Only that I was feeling a bit hungry.”

.

The ghosts stopped coming. Everyone in Amity held their breath when there were no ghost attacks for two weeks straight, then a month. Then two months, three. No ghosts. They let out their collective breath. It might be too soon to hope but for now they will enjoy their ghost-free, perfectly ordinary life. It feels a bit strange to not have ghost related interruptions as part of their daily routine but they didn’t miss the ghost-related reconstruction expenses. The local insurance company employees received a nice bonus for the ghost-free month.

.

By the time March rolled in, Danny is restless. “Guys, there's definitely something big going on.”, he waved his hands for emphasis. “The Fenton portal is still open yet no ghost came through? Not even Boxy since the North District warehouse thing last month. There’s definitely something big going on. I've been taking the ghost-free break for granted for a while now and it helped save my grades but this is too big to ignore.”

“Dude, maybe it’s because you’re much more powerful now? Your latest reading last week is 8.2. None of the ghosts we’ve met so far is above 6 except for Vlad and the Ghost King.” Tucker suggested.

“You might have a point there, Tucker. We haven’t seen any of the ghosts bothering Vlad so far and he’s definitely higher than 6.” Sam added.

Danny frowned, “Maybe you’re right but I just have this nagging feeling that that’s not quite it.”

.

Danny entered the Zone with little fanfare. The area around the Fenton portal looked normal enough, the usual rocks and clouds of debris are still floating around in their usual areas. Danny aimlessly passed through the nooks and crannies, ducking under the endless spiral staircase, not entirely sure of what to look for. The Zone felt a bit quiet today but Danny haven’t been to the Zone that frequently to be certain about it.

.

The Ghost Zone, while still filled with random bits of odds and ends felt empty somehow. It wasn't until he sighted Skulker that he realized he hasn't seen any of the tiny blog ghosts nor the occasional passerby ghosts through his trip.

.

Luckily or unluckily, Danny quickly spotted someone he knew in the distance. As if called, Skulker turned his head towards Danny, then veered sharply to the left and flew fast in Danny's opposite direction, a first for the self-proclaimed hunter to not hunt his favorite prey. ‘Something's not right and Skulker definitely knows something.’ Danny thought.

Danny quickly chased after him; Skulker could never beat Danny at speed chase even at his best, and he won't be winning today's unplanned race either. “Hey Skulker! What’s going on?” Danny yelled over the gap between them but Skulker gave no reply, diving down deep into the reddish forest ravines of the island below. Not to be deterred, Danny did a quick aerial flip, adjusting his flight angle to follow down Skulker’s path. Danny soon caught up to Skulker and launched him into a nearby rock with sticky ectoplasm to hold him still long enough to talk. Skulker ejected from his metal suit but Danny was faster and caught the real ghost before he can escape.

.

(Why is Skulker fleeing?)

.

"Hey Skulker, not hunting me for once?" Danny asked teasingly.

Skulker paled (Danny never knew ghosts can turn pale) and squirmed even more. Danny's smile dropped.

"What’s going on Skulker?" he asked worriedly. “None of the ghosts have appeared in the human world and the Zone looks empty somehow”

Skulker squirmed a bit more but realizing he’s stuck finally said, “Ghost Child, haven’t you ever wondered why the Infinite Realms is never overcrowded?”

Danny frowned, puzzled as to where this leads to. “How is this related to this situation?” Skulker stared at Danny stunned.

“What?” Danny asked, suddenly self-conscious, “-was there something I was supposed to know about?”

Skulker sighed, unconsciously loosening a bit of his tension, “You’re so young. So very young. We Ghosts don’t fade as fast as Newcomers arrive from your world. In the Realms, there's a natural system that keeps the population under control. An ecosystem. There's predator and there's prey. And then there's the Apex Predator. There's a reason why Dark was feared. It wasn't just for his harsh rule. It was because he was the Apex Predator.”

Danny struck at the odd wording, "’Was’? Was that because he got sealed?” Danny paused, “But wait- if he's sealed, he would still be the Apex predator. So how-? Wait. Did I?"

Skulker nodded, "Good you're catching on fast. By defeating Pariah Dark, you have proven to the Realms that you're the best candidate for the Apex Predator. And with the new status comes sets of conducts, one your body instincts know well. You've been culling down the uncontrolled excess from Pariah Dark's sleep quite fast. Your hunger would settle down soon of course once balance has been re-established in the Realms."

“But- How- Wait- What-?” Danny looked down at his hand “Hey Skulker--!” but his hand is bare.

.

Danny’s lips tasted oddly tangy, energized.  

.

.

.

-----

(Skulker might've slipped out of Danny's slack hand while Danny is in shock. Danny might've bit his lips hard enough to bleed. It's not that hard with his new fangs. But this is just speculation...)

[cryinginthebackseat]

you’ve got more poison than sugar - part i

AO3    part ii

Fandom: Call Of Duty 

Pairing: Russell Adler x Bell

Words: 4.009

Summary: Russell Adler should have known better that it wouldn’t take an entire nation or continent to bring him to his knees.

Warnings: just swearings, sexual tension, blood, mentions of past abuse and brainwashing. adler being that manipulative asswipe like usual. 

Author’s note: i don't know what i'm doing. one moment, i was watching the walkthrough of the new call of duty game, found myself curious, acutely curious by that guy with the scars and shades on- a younger, shadier (no pun intended) Robert Redford in Spy Game and oh my... fast forward to 2 weeks later, here we are.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A house somewhere on foreign soil,

Where ageless lovers call,

Is this your goal, your final needs,

Where dogs and vultures eat,

Committed still I turn to go.

I put my trust in you.

A Means To An End - Joy Division (1980)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It's mystifying how little she talks. Or when she does, it's always in fragments. Like a crossword puzzle in your local newspaper, but several letters are missing. He initially thought maybe MK-Ultra fucked her head or worse, if it hasn't worked at all, but the more he watches her, the more he realizes it's just the way she is. And it's ironic because he named her Bell. He expected her to chime like a goddamn goldfinch yet here they are. 

But he won't be fazed. Russell Adler is a man who's stopped at nothing in getting what he wanted before, he sure as hell won't stop now for a close-mouthed science project.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“We've got a job to do, Bell."

It intrigues him, every time, the way the words trigger something deep within her psyche, the way her eyes change, her body stands a little straighter, like a machine ready to function at his disposal. It reminds Adler of one of those cartoons he watched when he was a kid about wizards and magic words, except there are no musical dance numbers playing in the background or a talking cricket perching on his shoulder. This is his power over her, over the USSR, over Perseus. That monstrous filth. It really does take a beast to tame another. 

Although he surmises calling Bell one would be superfluous. 

She barely looks like one, but Adler knows too well than to underestimate her. Just because Bell hasn’t shown her set of claws, that doesn’t mean she’s harmless, delicate, like a miniature China Doll in his breast pocket.

Bell never offered him her reply before, but now, now, she nods, head almost bows, obedient pretty thing, and says:

“Yes, Adler.”

So it goes.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It takes West Berlin for Adler to realize she’s left-handed. 

She wears her watch on her right hand, smokes with that same said hand only when she’s writing or moving her pieces for an impromptu late-night game of chess against Lazar. And she always wears her gloves all the time- leather, black, lined with silk and pretty, small buttons on the cuffs, covering those striking red nails underneath. Whether it is for the theatrics or an old habit of hers, he can't really tell.

He doesn’t know why he begins to take notice of these mundane details about Bell, but rationalizes because he’s never been in the same room with this version of her, post-brainwash Bell, for more than 10 minutes. And for all intents and purposes, there’s still a lot of question marks surrounding her character; who is she? Where did she come from? What is her connection to Perseus? 

Are they in a possession of a walking, breathing bomb about to destroy them all or the West’s only salvation?

He supposes he’ll find out soon enough.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Adler hears Bell from his table, typing busy on the computer- barely blinking- all soaked up in that caffeine-infused energy at 1 am. She's always like that, he learns, when it comes to working, always with that steel determination, pulling out all the stops as long as it gets the job done- that Soviet discipline at it's finest.

Reminds him a little of himself when he's young.

Adler walks up to her. 

“You done for the night?” A shake of her head is her only response. He sighs. “You should go home, Bell.” 

“You go. I’ll lock up behind you,” Bell replies, low and monotone; that youthful stubborn.

If she was any other person, he would probably commend her for such fierce willpower, but she is Bell, the walking conundrum, his ace in the hole. Call him paranoid, but the idea of her having the safehouse for herself does nothing but raises every alarm in his head.

“No, we’re going home,” he says instead, tone brooking no argument and she frowns at the screen, her fingers stop moving then looks up at him with those goddamn empty eyes. "Come on, it's late anyway."

She doesn't say anything. Adler wishes he could read her mind- or crack that lovely skull on the back of her head, dissect her brain, learn its secrets and answers. 

Adler has his gun with him. It wouldn’t take long. A quick, true shot to the heart to keep the brain intact. He’d have Hudson contact one of his people inside BND and he'd deliver the brain himself if he has to. They could do it. He heard they’ve been studying inmates' brains for decades now, anyway. 

Before he has a chance to entertain the idea further, though, Bell nods once and rises up from her seat. 

Bell walks past him. Her scent, like honeysuckle on ice, hits him like an uppercut in the face. Adler inhales, as if against his will. 

He thinks he could get drunk on it.

“Hop in. I’ll drive you back to the hotel,” he says once they’re outside, regretting the decision the moment the words left his lips, but he knows he can’t just leave her on her own at this late hour.

The irony isn’t lost on him, though, considering he just thought about unspooling her brain a few minutes ago.

Bell complies without a protest. Getting inside the passenger seat, wordless still, fingers toying with the radio. An angry, krautrock music comes blaring all over his car. Adler winces, but at least the riot is loud enough to muffle the one's brewing in his head. 

"How's your memory these days?" 

Bell shrugs. "Nihil novi sub sole." There's nothing new under the sun.

Good, he muses. The least she knows about herself the better.

Though that doesn't mean he's out of the woods yet.

"Listen, from now on, I want you to keep me informed if there's any new progress about your memory or if you've developed any new symptoms. I want to know everything." He steals a sidelong glance at her, making sure she is listening (she always does, but Adler needs an excuse)

(An excuse for what?)

"Alright, Bell?"

"Of course," replies the woman in question.

"Good." Adler shifts his attention back to the road. "Good." Taking a long drag, he considers trying to appeal to her sentimental side. It's not something you'd improvise last minute- at least not with someone you brainwashed to believe you are her mentor/confidant for the past decade, but he's itching to know where he stands with her.

"You know, I'm just tryin' to look out for you, kid."

Her lips twitch but the rest of her visage remains impassive and faraway, more like a flick knife than a woman. The correlation is uncanny.

That's when she inches closer. The space between them bridged. He freezes. Hyper-aware of just how dangerous this is, but can’t bring himself to pull back, to look the other way. Not when her hand reaches out to pluck the cigarette from his mouth, eyes still glued to his, and curls her lips around the filter. One heavy pull, and then she rolls down the window and tosses it out on the side of the road.

"Thought I'd reciprocate the sentiment."

And with that, she leans back in her seat before Adler could even process what has just transpired.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Welcome back to the land of the living, kid,” Adler greeted her, about a month ago. 

Park had insisted that he had to be there for her when she woke up (naturally, Adler had balked at the idea, but at the English woman’s fact-of-the-matter explanation, also because it had somewhat dawned on him last minute the logic behind her machinations- “both of you are supposed to have known each other for years now. If she doesn't see you by her side, she’s going to wonder why”- thus, here he was)

“How are you feeling?” 

Bell blinked owlishly and stared at the older man with those bottomless, cat-like eyes that had haunted him since January.

Her gaze eventually softened as recognition flickered across her face.

“Like someone just hit me in the chest with a bulldozer,” she said hoarsely. “Where are we?”

“St. Dismas’ hospital, Pittsburgh.” Adler got up and fetched her a glass of water from the table. “Although not a bulldozer, but bullets did. That, and you hit your head really hard on your way down. Thought we’d lost you there, Bell.”

Bell drank in silence. She’s still watching him, thinking. This was the first time he realized that he couldn’t exactly read her expression and somehow that threw him off.

“What happened?” she asked, one hand mid-air, like she was deciding which to touch first, hesitating and abandoned the idea. 

“You don’t remember?” She shook her head. Adler pretended to look remotely distressed about it. “The doctors warned me about this. It must have been because of the fall- heck, I could even still hear that sickening crunch from here.” He dragged his chair closer towards her bed.

“We were in Amsterdam. Remember Fohler?” she shook her head again. “Well, we’d been tracking this son of a bitch for months, but we were chasing him in Amsterdam. He was running away and climbed up some scaffolding. You were about to go up after him,” he recited the fabricated story he, Park and Hudson had crafted. “He shot you and you fell and hit your head against the pavement.”

Bell looked away first, silent. Her hand gingerly touched the back of her head and winced, albeit only slightly. 

Adler was almost impressed, if not, disarmed by how calm and composed her reaction was to all of this. But then again, after having had witnessed first-hand how the woman barely flinched under any kind of interrogation technique they threw at her- a personality built for wrestling tigers- he really shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Bell, what is the last thing you remember?”

Bell frowned. “Not much. I remember ‘Nam, but-”

“Vietnam? Kid, that was thirteen years ago.” Adler watched the way her throat bopped, like she was swallowing her own blood and the color drained from her face, just like the first time he’d seen her, and proceeded to drop the bomb:

“Bell, the year is 1981.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"Bell dear, would you mind taking a look at this?" 

Park's voice sails from across the room. She says it like it's a compound word: Bell-dear. Like the two words belong together. Bell-dear. 2 syllables, 1 word, 9 characters and that just might be the weirdest thing he hears this year and he heard many things.

"Bell dear?" Adler asks much later, his gravel-and-smoke voice reduced to a whisper, when she delivers a document to his table.

Park shrugs as if that explains everything. "What? I like her." 

He's tempted to say you really can't put a term of endearment and someone you brainwashed into submission in the same sentence, but what else is new?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

They wind up in a bar. It’s called Die Stube and the place’s brimmed with artists and all sorts of leather-clad, Bowie-esque dramatic, chromatic blue eyelids young people chattering over a dirty cloud of smoke.

The two of them colonize a lone booth in the back. It’s dark and the quietest. She orders a beer and he, a scotch and they drink in silence. There are moments where her head would twist to the side, as subtle as a needle and survey the phantasmagorical scene before them, like studying something from a petri dish. 

While he’s watching her.

Only to tear his gaze away to the nearest object he can find.

It lands on his watch.

"It’s almost ten. Hudson's contact should be here soon," he announces, if anything to distract himself. She nods mutely in reply, as always, and runs a finger around the rim of her glass.

"The place ain't much of your scene?" 

She shrugs, like it's self-evident. "I didn't know this was a scene, though."

"Well, that’s West Berlin for you. A worry-free playground for the hedonists, hipsters and proto-electro NDW enthusiasts with drugs on tap," Adler says, sipping his drink in practiced nonchalance. "Always makes my head spin."

"I guess I remember it differently," Bell replies, tinged with something akin to begrudging. 

That warrants his full attention. "What do you remember?”

Bell shrugs again and lights a cigarette instead, menthol, one of those long, skinny cigarettes they only market for women; biding her time, making him wait. She lets the smoke flares from her nostrils so her eyes are veiled.

"It’s hard to explain, but I suppose it’s grittier?” she gesticulates, searching for the right word like she’s skim reading the entire Oxford dictionary in her head. “Bizarrely, infinitely grittier and dimmer? Like being in an underground tunnel and there's not much to see."

Interesting. Maybe she’s recalling one of her ops for Perseus or her mind is confusing her with the world on the other side of the wall.

“Maybe you’re remembering one of our clandestine ops here. It was a few years after Vietnam,” Adler supplies, passing over the tale like bait.

She falls for it, hook, line and sinker.

“Ah, I guess that also explains my fluency in German.”

“I taught you that.” It’s only logical, he decides, that she learned from him. She’s supposed to be his protégé after all. 

An elegant brow quirk. "You did?"

"Yeah, though you were already fluent in Latin, Russian, Vietnamese and Portuguese when we first met anyway. You have quite a natural ear, kid.”

She gives him a look. He really can’t categorize it, but it makes it a whole lot harder to fight against her stare.

 “What else did you teach me?” 

If they were anyone else, the lines could have a potential to entice, to seduce, that winsome, catty-eyelashes coquette, but they aren't anyone else and Bell does not voice it like that. Yet the implication behind the question stirs something in the pit of Adler’s stomach anyway, that tight knot of confusion as it is buried with something else and he finds himself, once again, uncharacteristically speechless.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

That particular question of her stays, even hours later, unbidden. Interspersed with her scent and face. 

His emotions are a minefield whenever she’s near now. It evokes that newfound rush of terror within him, like walking on a tightrope or being thrown into the pit to face hundreds of hungry lions, bare hands. It makes Adler questions his every decision, and he can’t have that in his line of work. 

Adler lights his sixth cigarette, contemplating everything, nothing. Anything to distract him from her. It's 4 am and he’s exhausted, but his mind won’t stop whirring. This isn’t like him at all- like he's lost somewhere in a Dali-style labyrinth that is his head and he wonders if this is a byproduct of his fear or fascination or confusion for the young woman.

He fears it is all of them.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(They're only 10 minutes away from East Berlin when he senses it, something akin to burning on his peripheral vision, pulling him like weight.

Bell is staring at him from across the seat.

He cocks his head slightly to the side.

Adler catches the quick, telling quirk of her lips, like she's about to smile but lights a cigarette instead.)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Did you hear that?”

Krauss has just crossed the wall and their soles are slippery from the rain. She's panting. Her breath is white like a fog. Adler muses it must be from the running, until his iris trails down to where her hand is clutching his jacket sleeve, the leather creasing like a modulation signal.

“What is it?” Adler asks, hushed. There are no Stasis here, but even one can't be too careful.

“The TV.” She’s gaping at the broken TV next to them. Adler looks at the said object, frowning, then back to her. “Y-you didn’t hear it?”

"Heard what? Bell, the thing's dead."

Bell withdraws from him. Stepping back until her back meets the walls, her eyes seeing and unseeing, like a lens finding focus in the dark, then she closes them, as if trying to regulate her breathing. Adler has never seen her scared shitless of anything before. The sight confuses as it intrigues him. 

"Bell, what's going on?" Adler steps closer, but he dares not to touch her. 

She shakes her head, dismissive. In just a span of seconds, Bell dons that mask she likes to wear again; deadpan and frustratingly distant. A spike of annoyance drives through him. Just when he thinks he can get through her, there she goes again, retreating behind her palisades.

"Nothing." Bell turns away abruptly and she’s walking again."Let's just go. The others are waiting for us."

He doesn't pry about whatever she heard on the TV- Adler knows better than to beat a dead horse, thank you very much- not even after they save her from Volkov's clutches, after she bashes his head against the steel door and reeks his blood all the way home, it seems superficial at the time.

Until two days later.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The day starts, as it mostly does for the team, with a briefing. 

Fifteen minutes in and something like a gasp pulls his attention to her. 

That’s when he notices it; her hands are shaking, coffee spilling out of the mug over her hand. A shatter follows. Her mug smashes to smithereens at her feet. She’s swaying, near collapse, like a house of cards about to fall, a hand on her nose.

Adler catches her before she tumbles to the floor.

“Bell!” His arm around her waist tightens, trying to keep her steady. Lazar rushes to their side in a flash and helps him move her to a nearby chair. 

"Jesus Christ," he curses, more to himself than to her as he watches blood, a bead of angry red, trickling down her nose. "Sims, get me a washcloth from the bathroom."

He kneels before her once Sims returns with a damp cloth. Nicotine-stained gloved fingers tentatively grasp her chin, holding her still. 

“Kid, you alright?” Adler asks, worry bleeds into his voice without him realizing it. He firmly presses the cloth under her nose, his other thumb touches the pulse at her throat- it's almost sickly affectionate. “Bell, talk to me."

Bell looks at him, discombobulated, like he's a figment of her imagination, then blinks. Again and again until she heaves a deep breath.

"I-" she hisses. One hand flies up to her head. "Fuck. My head.”

Adler’s eyes immediately search for Park’s. A knowing look passes over her face and he knows without saying that she's thinking the same thing, like they're attached to the same brain-wire:

MK-Ultra.

There’s a fraction of pause, then Lazar asks, "Should we give her something?” 

Before Park can voice her answer, Bell beats her to it. "I already took an anticonvulsant this morning. It should have helped.”

“Wait, this has happened before?” Adler asks.

Bell looks away, a hesitating look shadowing her face. He fears the worst.

“Bell…” he tries again, a slight warning to his tone.

She sighs loudly, as if mentally preparing herself before walking into a storm. 

“Yes. Two days ago."

His mind instantly refers to East Berlin, the TV. Trying to connect the dots in his head. It seems far fetched, but now he wonders if she saw something that triggers this. Although he's never read about this on other subjects before, the correlation is just impossible to ignore.

Fuck. He heaves a breath, willing himself to calm down, to think. They can't afford complications at times like these. Not when there's so much at stake right now.

Adler snaps his attention back to Bell when she tries to scramble awkwardly to her feet, swatting his hand away. The hand on her neck immediately reaches for her waist again and pushes her back down onto the chair. His grip's tight enough to leave marks on her skin, but he doesn't care.

"Bell, for fuck's sake, stay still or so help me," he says, exasperated, not letting go of her waist. 

"I feel better now." Stubborn little shit.

He is tempted to scream at her face and grab both of her shoulders and shake. “The hell you’re not. Stop fighting it. You’ll only make things worse.”

Her face sours, if only for a millisecond before it morphs into guilt. “I’m sorry.”

Adler watches her for a long moment. It’s only now that he realizes that he’s still holding her waist and the cloth on her face. 

He backs away from her like he’s been burnt. 

“You should have told me. I thought I made it clear the other night to keep me informed regarding this,” he scolds. 

“I’m sorry,” she utters again and she looks so pliable like this, a blank canvas perfumed with obedience and lethal mind. It makes him almost feel sorry for what he has in plan for her once the shit show is over.

“Look, just go back to the hotel and take a day off.” Her mouth cracks open. He raises a silencing hand. “That’s an order, Bell.” But she merely scowls, looking more like jagged ice than a person. Hudson may have just met his match, after all.

“I told you I’m fine.”

“That’s not how it looks to me.”

“It is. It’s my body and I know what I’m feeling, and I’m telling you, I. Feel. Fine.”

His jaw clenches. “Are you disobeying a direct order, agent?”

Bell doesn’t answer, but her whole face remains challenging and hard. Undeterred.

Adler holds his breath. He feels the whole room collectively does the same. It’s like staring down the barrel of a gun and there’s an awful sort of danger to be found in that. 

Just when he thinks an imaginary bullet would dig itself into his skin, however, Bell utters, “Of course not.”

And so the woman resumes to her normal, docile self at a drop of a hat. Even when Park steps in and whisks her out of her seat, drives her back to her hotel with Lazar on shotgun. 

It doesn’t assuage his worry, though. He’s still restless throughout the day, like a roaring ocean inside a bell jar. She’s never done this before, openly rebels against him. Now, the situation is just bad. Not casually bad or almost-got-shot bad, this is the-entire-Europe-could-turn-into-a-nuclear-wasteland bad, an-armageddon-waiting-to-happen bad. 

What if this is the beginning of her old self trying to scratch her way out of the surface? Adler’s blood goes cold at the thought. He is going to have to keep a close eye on this development.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

West Berlin - 1 am, local time.

“How is she?”

“Stable. I’ve administered another dose of Propranolol before I left the hotel. She should be fit as a fiddle in the morning.”

“Tell me, what do you think happened to her?”

“My theory? Traumatic brain injury. A cumulative product of torture, trauma-based mind control and chronic stress. I've read reports about cases like these before in MI6. None of them is still alive to recount the tale, unfortunately."

Adler grips the phone. 

“How long do you think we have?”

“Theoretically, 2-3 weeks tops.”

“But?”

He hears Park sighs on the other line. “But then again, none of the subjects I’ve encountered before were like her. So, I suppose it’s still a little too premature to determine at this point."

Adler kneads his temple, feeling the start of that familiar Bell-induced headache forms in his head. Can things just be fucking simple for once? 

“We don’t have that much time anyway, Park. And if Hudson gets a wind of this, he’ll want her gone by morning. I can’t let that happen. Not…” he pauses. “Not when we are this close.”

"What are we going to do about her, then?" 

Adler sighs.

"Raise the dosages of her drugs,” he says. “And keep an extra eye on her. I think we may be heading into uncharted waters now.”

Tagging: @mvalentine cause you said to tag you with everything i write so  👁👄👁

[theres-an-impulstor-among-us]

I know you wrote a drabble where Scott is almost sacrificed at Dogwarts and wanted to ask if you could write a version of that where he actually is sacrificed.

okay so this one is an alternate ending to this one, so it’ll start off the same and branch out into a different ending. read it first/save it for after if you want a happier version lol

author’s note: due to my severe discomfort surrounding decapitation, i’ve altered the method of killing slightly

lives at the start of this fic: Jimmy - red, Scott - green, Ren - red, Etho - yellow, Martyn - green

cw: blood, strangulation

just a reminder: please do not tag as shipping :)

…

Scott is starting to regret letting the Dogwarts trio take him and Jimmy back to their base, but he can’t exactly back out now. It’s his own fault, really, for asking if there’s anything else he can do to support Dogwarts from a distance, rather than putting up their banner.

He shoots a sideways glance at Jimmy, who seems even more nervous than him. Scott resists the urge to reach out and take his hand.

Finally, they arrive at Dogwarts. Scott is more than worried to see that a new platform with torches surrounding it on all four corners has sprung up in the middle of the carrot field. It looks innocent enough but something about it gives it an ominous vibe.

Unfortunately, this is exactly where Ren leads Scott.

“What is this?” Scott asks warily, putting one foot on the step up.

“This is the Altar of the Black Heart,” responds Ren ominously. “For Dogwarts to truly achieve full power, it requires a sacrifice. The blood of an outsider.”

Scott’s eyes widen as he realises what this means. “Whoa, whoa, hold on a second!”

He backs away a few steps but bumps into Etho, who takes hold of him in a surprisingly strong grip.

Jimmy starts forward with a gasp but Martyn grabs him and pushes him down, holding him in place. “Scott!” Jimmy cries uselessly.

Ren stands on the hill just above the altar as Etho drags Scott into place and tries to hold him down. Scott struggles against Etho’s grip, causing Etho to backhand him across the face.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” Jimmy screams. “SCOOOOOOTT!”

Blood trickling out the corner of his mouth, Scott coughs and tries to fend Etho off again.

“I’d stop resisting if I were you, Scott,” comes Martyn’s cold voice.

Scott glances over at him. His heart freezes as he finds Martyn holding a sword to Jimmy’s neck. “No!” he gasps. “Don’t!”

“Then hold still.”

After a moment, Scott squeezes his eyes shut and falls still, letting Etho push him to his hands and knees in the centre of the altar.

“Scott…!” croaks Jimmy. “No…!”

Scott forces himself to meet Jimmy’s terrified gaze. “It’ll be okay, Jimmy,” he whispers, just loud enough for Jimmy to hear. “Just stay strong for me, okay? Stay strong.”

“A sacrifice must be made!” announces Ren, spreading his arms to the skies. “Do the honours, Etho.”

Etho nods and raises his axe.

Jimmy looks away, starting to hyperventilate. He can’t watch this.

Scott closes his eyes.

The axe comes down hard and buries itself in the small of Scott’s back, the tip piercing his heart and killing him instantly.

Smajor1995 was slain by Etho

Jimmy starts to scream and doesn’t stop. His eyes are fixed on the spot his husband just was seconds before, tears streaming down his face. Tears of terror, of grief, of anger.

Something snaps inside him.

“Take Solidarity to the dungeon,” Ren orders. “We’ll deal with him later.”

But as Martyn starts to move, Jimmy reacts lightning fast and kicks him in the stomach with unbelievable strength. Martyn staggers back in shock and pain, allowing Jimmy to snatch his sword and slice cut after cut in his former friend’s body, not stopping despite the screams. His lust for blood has finally been awakened and he WILL avenge his husband.

InTheLittleWood was slain by SolidarityGaming

He spins round to find Etho charging at him with the axe that had killed Scott. Seeing his husband’s blood still dripping down the blade sends Jimmy completely over the edge.

His swing has so much force behind it that it knocks the axe cleanly out of Etho’s hand. Before Etho can recover, Jimmy shoves him to the ground and kneels on his chest, his hands wrapped around Etho’s throat. His eyes are so flaming red that they’re practically glowing, teeth bared in an animal-like snarl.

THIS is the person who killed his husband. Jimmy will make him pay.

Someone is trying to pull him off Etho but the bloodlust increases a red lifer’s strength and stamina, and they can’t budge him. The smell of blood is making Jimmy dizzy and disoriented, but all he knows is that he wants to kill. No, he NEEDS to kill. His desire to maim and murder is so strong that it’s all-consuming, growing inside him like lava escaping a volcano, rising up until it’s about to explode outwards and destroy everything in its path.

“STOP!” Ren’s voice yells desperately.

Jimmy doesn’t. He can sense that Etho is almost dead, and every instinct in his body is driving him forward to finish the job.

“Jimmy!”

This voice causes Jimmy to freeze and slowly release Etho, blinking against his red vision as he looks around wildly for its owner.

A hand touches his shoulder, then hugs him from behind. The cool, smooth arms… the scent of strawberries… the gentle heartbeat…

“S-Scott?” Jimmy croaks.

“It’s me, Jimmy,” whispers Scott. “I’m here.”

Jimmy slowly turns around and finds Scott’s face looking back at him. It… It really is him.

He pulls Scott into a tight hug, clutching him like his life depends on it. All the pain and anger and terror melts away, leaving only love.

Still holding Jimmy tightly, Scott carefully moves him away from Ren and a freshly-yellow Martyn as they dash to the semi-conscious Etho’s side.

“We’re even,” he says firmly. “A life for a life. There’s no need for further bloodshed.”

Ren glares back at him, but his expression softens slightly as he registers what Scott’s saying. “Really? You’d be satisfied leaving it like this?”

“Well, of course we’d still be enemies,” responds Scott. “But I want to call a temporary truce. I don’t want anyone else to die, not even any of you.”

After a moment, Ren glances over at his right hand man. “It’s your call, Martyn. You’re the one who died.”

Martyn considers Scott’s words on his own for a moment, before glancing up and happening to make eye contact with Jimmy. All traces of the bloodlust in Jimmy’s gaze are gone, replaced only with the eyes of the person Martyn used to be close friends with all those years ago.

“I accept your olive branch,” he says.

Ren nods and addresses Scott and Jimmy: “Then you two may leave this place in peace.”

“Come, Jimmy,” Scott murmurs. “Let’s go, quickly. Before they change their mind.”

Jimmy dithers as Scott takes hold of his hand and starts pulling him towards the exit. “S-Sorry, Etho,” he says awkwardly. “Sorry, Martyn.”

“Come on.”

Scott practically drags Jimmy to the gate and out of Dogwarts, only slowing down once their walls start to appear in front of them. Jimmy stays silent, letting his husband lead him.

Finally, they get into their base, which is where Jimmy takes the lead and pulls Scott into the former’s house, shutting the door for privacy.

“Jimmy, what-,” Scott starts.

“Let me see the scar,” says Jimmy seriously. “Please.”

After a moment, Scott turns around and lifts up the back of his shirt. A clean, straight mark running down his back shows Jimmy exactly where the axe entered his body. He gently traces the line with the tips of his fingers.

“I told you this would happen,” he says hoarsely. “I said they’d do this to you but you didn’t listen!”

Scott huffily pulls down his shirt and takes a few steps away. “I know, Jimmy. TRUST ME, I know! You’re just lucky they decided to go for the green lifer, not the red.”

“LUCKY?!” cries Jimmy. “Did you SEE me back there?! I murdered Martyn and nearly choked the life out of Etho!”

“Yeah, I did! I set my spawn right outside the walls before we went in and it’s lucky I did or you might’ve kept going and gotten yourself killed in the process! I can’t believe fear for your own life is what finally triggered your bloodlust.”

“What?!” Jimmy stares at him with wide eyes. “You think THAT’s what happened?”

Scott frowns at Jimmy’s reaction. “Well… I DID, but…”

“There’s a reason I’ve stayed back and tried not to get involved in any of your stupid conflicts, you know! I NEVER wanted to kill. EVER. But when they sacrificed you right in front of me, I felt the desire to rip Martyn and Etho apart like a predator with its prey. THAT’s what triggered my bloodlust, Scott! They killed you and I wanted them to suffer like they made you suffer!” Jimmy’s voice breaks and he dissolves into tears. “My bloodlust was triggered by the need to avenge you. And to make sure they never hurt you again.”

His heart breaking, Scott pulls Jimmy into another hug, letting him cry into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. “I never considered how traumatic that whole thing must’ve been for you. How are you holding up?”

Jimmy coughs, trying to clear his throat. “B-Better now. Please promise me we won’t ever go there again, though.”

Scott rubs Jimmy’s back soothingly, feeling Jimmy’s heart still pounding in his chest.

“I promise.”

[insomniamamma]

Rain: Ezra X F!Reader w/Cee

A/N: Prickle ‘verse. Takes place after Prickle but before Clean Dirt. Can be read as a one shot. Reader is established crew with Ezra and Cee. This was written for @autumnleaves1991-blog​ ‘s Writer Wednesday. I am woefully behind. I legit don’t understand how some of you write fics so fast!

Warnings: Mentions of war, a little bit of angst, but mostly gentle fluff. Feelings.

            "Hey, Ez," Ezra is engrossed in grading the latest haul, testing for clarity and hardness.  The surface of CJ's World is cut through with oxbow rivers, fantastic hoodoos of striated sandstone slashed with valleys deeper than any found in Sol system. You're digging for fossils. These rusty carved out plateaus were once the bed of an ancient ocean. Through some trickery of mineralization and chemistry the fossils of CJ's world shine like the fire opals of Old Terra. Big or small, they all have value.           "Ezra," says Cee, "She's doing it again."           "Doing what, birdie?" Ezra takes off the loupe and rubs at his eyes. Rain pelts on the tent, even sheltered the humidity soaks through.           "Look." Ezra draws open the tent flap and sees you, standing in the rain, your head tilted up, no gentle shower this, rain that pelts down hard, turns the view across the sharp-cut canyons to silver curtains. Your clothes are plastered to you like a second skin. The rain actually aids your cause, washing away loose sediment, making the fossils easier to get to. You bow your head and let the stinging rain hit the back of your neck, let it fall on your closed eyes, your outspread arms. You laugh at the sky.

           "What do you know about Falnost?" Cee's eyes go distant for a beat. She has a memory to rival Central computers.

           "Hmmm..about two thirds standard grav, class C5, would've rated lower if not for it's primary. Dustball."             "Mmm-hmm."             "She's not used to real weather," says Cee.             "Observant as ever," says Ezra. The rain is not gentle. It is chilly and hits your skin like handfuls of flung sand, but is so different from anything you've known, so new that you can't help but stand there with a huge, dumb grin plastered on your face, even as your teeth chatter with the cold. Ezra comes and gets you.             "C'mon, Artichoke, while the rain does feel slinky and delicious it is not worth hypothermia."             "Sorry, Ez," you say and allow him to take your hand and lead you back to shelter. This has become something of a habit. Many worlds in the fringe are dustballs like the one you fled, algae and fungus growing on every bit of pipe that condensation beads on. On Falnost they had a deal with the ice-miners, discounted accommodations on world or on station in exchange for chunks of ice from your primary's lush rings de-orbited, burning and evaporating as they fell. The idea was that, eventually, there would be moisture enough in the atmosphere to trigger rains. Someday Falnost will have an ocean, but you won't be there for it, half your life spent harvesting rills of water from sail-traps, careful irrigation channels covered over with plastic sheeting, calorie vs water consumption ratios discussed every planting season. How many credits do we net vs wha† we have to spend? You got fucking sick of dreaming of an ocean your great grandchildren might paddle in. You skimmed enough to buy your way off world and since then you have seen things that you never would have believed as a child.            The first time you heard thunder was on a world called Ingwy. Your first  thought was artillery. Ingwy was a contested world, Karoclan and Lussia Collective skirmishing over land rights, while small stakes droppers like you and Ez and Cee swooped in to reap the spoils while the big corps and clans fought each other.  It was the middle of the night and you were on your feet instantly, railgun in hand, screaming that there was incoming, to take cover. Someone had flicked on a utility light hanging from a cord that swung, illuminating the inside of the tent in sickening arcs, and there's another explosion, this one so loud you feel the pressure change in your ears, hear your own voice crying out in tandem, white hot light even through the thick weave of the tent.           "It's just thunder," Ezra yells over the sound of rain slamming against the tent.           "That was an explosion!" He presses gently on your arm until you lower the rails.           "It's just loud," says Ezra, "It can't hurt us. We're safe here. Put the gun down." You set on the edge of your cot and put your face in your hands.           "Kevva. You must think I'm the dumbest dirt-farmer this side of the Great Arm." The cot dips as Ezra sits beside you.           "Not at all," he says, squeezes your shoulder, "I come from a backwater as well. First time I ever saw a proper ocean I nearly lost my breakfast right there on the beach."  Thunder peals again and you flinch, shrink against him slightly.            "Static electricity," says Ezra, "That's all it is. Builds up in the clouds and discharges into the ground." He keeps his hand on you as he speaks, fingers gently squeezing the juncture of your neck and shoulder, "The sound you hear is the air in the path of the lightning instantly heating and expanding. It makes a sonic shock wave, like any explosion."            "Like the boom when ships lift," you say.            "Just like that, Artichoke," he says, "Storm's already moving off, see?" The rain pelting the tent has settled into a steady drone. Thunder grumbles, a low, almost soft sound, not the air-rending explosion that shocked you out of sleep.            "We should try to rest," says Ezra, gives your shoulder one more firm squeeze and a little shake, and when you look up, he's smiling, dimple just beginning to sink into his cheek.             "Yeah," you say, "Okay." He kills the utility light and settles into his cot. You can hear the music from Cee's headphones, the tinny, fast pop she favors, threaded through the white noise of the falling rain. She slept through the whole thing.

            The ancient life of CJ's world favored heptagonal symmetry, long-dead mollusks like seven-sided shields shine out of the rusty ground, the smallest the size of a fingernail, the largest the size of dinner plates. This is a good deposit. The small ones are fashioned into jewelry and buttons.            "They take these great big ones and slice them micron thin," says Ezra, "Use them for window-glass in the temples of the Ephrate. They say it is like standing inside Kevva's very beating heart."           "I can see why," says Cee, and so do you. The minerals that limn the shells shine translucent red with brilliant streaks of orange, yellow and even thin threads of green and blue.           "They say that Kevva's first heart-beat ignited the explosion that became the universe," says Ezra.           "You really believe that?" Asks Cee.           "I don't know if believe is the right word," says Ezra, "We all grew up with these stories, why my grandmother..." You smile and tune him out. The back and forth banter between Cee and Ezra is a pulse that underlies every harvest. Cee has grown more talkative with each drop. Their relationship has a growing ease to it. You don't know exactly what happened between them before you joined up, but Cee's initial skittishness and Ezra's new healed scars tell a story you can guess the shape of. You let their conversation fade into the background, focus on the work of your hands, the meticulous scrape of soft sediment away from the hard glitter of the fossil, working around the seven sided edge, loosen enough up to get your fingers under the shell and you can pry it out, focus on the sounds of the world around you, no birds on CJ's world, but there is a range of bug-music, hidden in crevasses in the midday heat, all metallic clicks and creaks. Your rail-gun rests within easy reach, as always. You worm your fingers under the edge of the shell, wiggling it like a loose tooth, pops out of the sediment suddenly and you plop on your ass in the sandy dirt.           "You all right there, Artichoke?" Ezra grins at you.           "I'll recover." You dust yourself off and take your prize over to the tub that sits in the shadow of the pod. Further cleaning and grading can be done after dark. Nights  are long at this latitude. You stretch in the sunlight. This job is a milk-run compared to other drops, but hunkering in the dirt still hurts your knees and you feel every bit of it when you stand. There's a familiar sound, like a rumbling stomach, thunder, you think and glance up.          "Ezra!" Your voice is urgent and sharp and he's scrabbling up in a heartbeat, hand on the thrower at his hip, but when he stands there is only you pointing out across the vast expanse of sharp-carved valleys and hoodoos, lined in sharply delineated shadows and rusted cliffs where the light catches. The rainbow swoops skyward into grey cloud-bellies, a luminous curtain against the grey clouds, distant rain falling across the canyons.

        "Ezra, look!" Ezra exhales, tension leaching out of his shoulders. His hand drops away from the thrower.          "Oh, hey, a rainbow," says Cee. You lower your arm and just stare, transfixed at the glowing phantasm, brightening and dimming with the movement of clouds between it and the sun.           "It's beautiful," says Ezra. But he's not looking at the rainbow. He's looking at you. Your eyes are wide, lit up with wonder, an unconscious smile creeping across your face, crinkling the corners of your eyes. The stiff professionalism that you wear as close as your body armor momentarily set down, forgotten. Ezra's heart squeezes. There you are, he thinks. He can count on his one hand the number of times he's seen you smile like this, open and carefree, rare and precious as the gems the three of you pull from the ground. Part of him wants to kiss you, but he suspects he would end up on his back in the dust with the barrel of your railgun jammed beneath his sternum, so instead he brushes his hand against yours and your fingers find his and squeeze hard.            "I've never seen one before," you say, barely aware of Ezra's hand linked with yours, "I mean, I know what a rainbow is, but I've never seen one. Not in the real, just in vids."            "They don't have rainbows on Falnost?" Says Cee.            "They don't have rain on Falnost," you say, "Get's a little hazy sometimes after the ice-haulers make a drop, but that's about it." You shake your head as if just waking, the rainbow still shimmers, a bit duller now, and you are suddenly aware of Ezra's hand clasped with yours, the gentle pressure of his grasp.             "Sorry," you drop your eyes, "I got distracted. We got work to do." Ezra gives your hand a squeeze and then lets you go.             "Not to worry, Artichoke, rainbows are fleeting things. You look your fill while you can." And so you do. So does he.

[deniigi]

To carry on the MCU Peter anon: would you ever write a multiverse / blend where your Peter meets a more MCU Peter (actual MCU Peter not the fanon created one)? And/or initimable Peter meeting another version you’ve created?

Also, would you ever write a MJ (my beloved) POV fic?

Hey boo

So Question 1: I did a little piece with a MCU/Inimitable crossover here

It’s not quite the same, since it’s from the pov of MCU Peter.

The idea of young Inimitable Peter meeting someone who he could have so easily been if he’d not gotten involved with Team Red and had instead stuck closer to Stark would be an interesting thought, I must say. Not so interesting that I’d write it, but I’d def have half a drink and then a muse on the idea and how it would unfold.

For MJ, I have written some stuff from her POV! ( See just roll with it from the Dumpster Fires Verse)

I also wrote a terrifying piece a long ass time about about some non-NYC vigilantes trying to step in and overthrow the vigilante/Superpeople order of things by trying to goad Peter, Matt, Wade, etc into a fight. MJ narrates it and it’s sort of dark so I’m putting it under the cut here.

trigger warnings for violence (like Netflix DD and Punisher levels), violence against minors at school, and some pretty heavy injuries.

-------

“Michelle?” a voice she’d never heard in her life rasped into the classroom door. The smell of iron and smoke and god, blood—that was blood she was smelling—it was all suffocating.

“Michelle, honey, c’mon, sweetheart. We ain’t got time for being scared right now,” the voice said.

She’d never thought that she’d have to consider the fact that those were boots coming towards her, not sneakers, not shoes.

The butt of a rifle swung down into her view. Joined the boots right in front of her. Bones popped as the Punisher knelt down.

She knew him by the skull on his vest.

She knew him as a monster. Not a hero.

He held out a hand to her.

“I got you, baby girl,” he promised, “Ain’t no one gonna touch you.”

His hands were smeared in some kind of grease. Gun oil? Soot? It didn’t matter. He stayed crouching low. He didn’t wear a mask.

His nose was kind of crooked. And his eyes were deep set.

They were brown.

He said nothing, just held out his big, greasy hand.

She took it.

 --

 The Punisher’s grip was calloused and firm and he kept her behind him at all times. He was even bigger than she’d ever imagined; bigger than Mr. Murdock. Bigger than her dad. Maybe the around the same size and build as Wade.

He didn’t explain things; he used his hands to talk.

Stay behind me, said the press of his rough palm. Don’t let go, stay behind me.

Out front, the fingers said later, now curled over the tops of her own. Walk, walk fast. Out front.

Stay behind.

Out font.

Down.

He made her kneel with him and peeled off his vest. He didn’t give her a choice.

It was heavy. So heavy. He strapped it onto her as tight as it would go.

“Home stretch, darlin’,” he finally said with words, the noise of bullets and panic around them seemed quieter with him talking. She found that she didn’t want to leave him. “You go when I say, alright? You go when I say and you don’t look back, alright?”

No.

No, he would die if she left. He needed to wear the vest.

“Look at me, Michelle.” She did, through the tears. “You don’t look back.”

She nodded.

 --

 He said go.

She didn’t look back.

Not until Mr. Murdock was pulling her away, shouting at the top of his voice for an ambulance. She’d never heard that gravel in his tone before.

“Michelle, look at me,” Mr. Murdock told her, grabbing her cheeks and pulling her gaze away from the classroom where the Punisher was dying.

“Look at me, honey, look.”

There wasn’t much to look at, she couldn’t see his eyes through his mask.

“Are you hurt? Where are you hurt? Show me where you’re hurt.”

It didn’t matter, she couldn’t feel it anymore. The Punisher was dying in there, he needed his vest.

“Frank’s fine,” Mr. Murdock told her. He pulled her head back to face him, but he wasn’t looking at her at all. It was like he was looking down at the space between them. One of her hands felt warm on top, cold at the fingers. It didn’t want to cooperate as she pulled at the vest. “He’s fine, he’s gonna be fine. Fuck. Fuck. Put your arms around my neck, honey, c’mon. There you go, good girl. Alright, up you go. No, one more time. There you go, I got you. It’s okay, I got you.”

Mr. Murdock was stronger than he looked and he didn’t seem to mind that the vest was digging into his chest. His voice didn’t seem as loud, even though her head was right next to his throat.

She couldn’t tell if he was talking to her anymore.

 --

 She woke up.

There was white and blue and gray everywhere.

Her mom was burgundy. Her sweater was. Then she was tears, tears pouring out of her eyes, down over her lips. Her eyes weren’t burgundy, they were neon. Neon pink.

 --

 Her mom held her hand while the doctors explained to her that she’d have a lot of scarring, but she would be okay. She’d need some physical therapy to make the wrist do what it was supposed to again, but the bullet hadn’t caused irreparable damage.

The same for the wound in her ankle.

She’d be okay.

So why did she want to cry so bad?

 --

 She remembered why.

 --

 Peter was okay. He was in the room one over, attached to a lot of machines, but he was okay. His face wasn’t as clean as hers, the doctors and nurses hadn’t had the same kind of time to wash him down, they’d been busy trying to save his life.

His aunt had stepped out to go get things to wash his face for him. She was still wearing her scrubs. She worked in the ICU upstairs.

 --

 Ned was okay, he had a row of stitches from the bump in his wrist to his elbow. He told her tiredly that once he turned eighteen, he’d get a tattoo to cover the mark. Maybe laces, like sneaker, he told her.

Maybe stitches again, to remind himself what he’d almost lost.

 --

 Flash was okay. Abe was okay. Melanie and Gabriella were okay.

They were all okay.

Including the Punisher.

 --

 He came to see her in the hospital, he’d swiped a staff ID to do it. She thought that that was maybe overkill, but this was the man who’d offered his life for hers.

He was startled and went wide-eyed and stiff when she threw her arms around his broad chest and started crying. But he loosened up and told her that she shouldn’t be putting weight on her ankle. He let her hug him sitting on the bed instead.

He didn’t say things were okay like the others did. He grabbed her chin and shook it a little and said, “You’re fucking brave, girl. You’re so fucking brave.”

She didn’t believe him.

She’d just gone and hadn’t looked back.

“Sweetheart, there are times when you think, and times when you move. And both of them are different kinds of bravery,” he told her.

Different kinds of bravery.

“Do you mean courage?” she asked him.

He cocked his head. He had stitches of his own at the top of his cheekbone. Bruises from his temple to his chin.

“No, courage, that’s something else,” he said, “I’m talking about bravery.”

She didn’t understand. He said that he didn’t have a better way of explaining it. He smoothed her hair back and said that he was glad that she was alive and that she was going to get better.

He’d been the one who’d carried Peter out. He’d had to send her out first because he couldn’t carry both of them.

Mr. Murdock’s voice was raw and hoarse because he’d come running from the fire in the classroom next door and he’d been trying to find Peter. He was the only one who could hear Frank Castle through the fire and the bullets and the creak of the burning building. And Mr. Castle had told him that he couldn’t take both Peter and Michelle.

She remembered now.

Mr. Castle had been talking to himself the whole time they’d been running and hiding through that building. He’d been talking to himself, but he’d really been talking to Mr. Murdock who was trying to find a way in and a way out that wouldn’t get him killed.

There hadn’t been one, there were too many guns. The second she’d started running, Frank Castle had whistled, hard and loud and piercing and all the guns had turned on him.

She didn’t look back.

She thought that he hadn’t either.

“Thank you for saving us,” she told him.

He shook his head.

“Red’s your man, he called me screaming. Man never calls nobody in that tone of voice. You’d have thought y’all were his babies dying in there.”

Okay.

Okay, so was Mr. Murdock okay?

“Nah, girl. I don’t think he is. But I think he’ll get there.”

 --

 Mr. Murdock pretended like he was okay, but the way he wrapped his arms around both Michelle and Peter when they came to his office said that he was very much not. It wasn’t an awkward hug, even though there were two of them.

It was firm.

It was tight.

And Peter started crying and it was hard, really really hard not to join him.

Mr. Murdock let them go and pressed his forehead to Peter’s and said nothing. He just held Peter’s shoulder with one hand and smoothed a hand through his hair with the other. Peter wasn’t making words so much as he was making distressed sounds, but Matt understood him.

“He’s alright, Pete,” he said. “He’s alright.”

Who?

 --

 Wade was fine, somehow. There wasn’t a bullet hole in him. There wasn’t a scratch on him, he claimed, trying to smile and make Peter stop sobbing his heart out.

Matt told him that he wasn’t fucking helping and to just be fucking honest for once in his goddamn life.

Matt’s hands shook a little at his sides. His cuticles were still stained gray from the soot.

Wade looked from him to Peter a little helplessly and then at Michelle and he sobered. He held out an arm for her to come closer.

He was big, too. His ribs felt different from Mr. Castle’s.

“Where’s Ned?” he asked, pressing a hand on the back of Peter’s head to encourage him to direct his upset into his chest.

Ned was at home. Ned’s mom and dad were too upset to let him out of their sight for now.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Wade said. He didn’t hug her as tight as Matt had, he more laid a heavy arm across her shoulders and pulled a bit.

 --

 They weren’t allowed to go back to school. The whole campus was closed, there’d been significant damage to the south side and there were too many photos and crime scenes that needed to be documented.

Peter’s wounds were already mostly healed, while hers ached and burned with every movement.

He apologized for not getting to the room she’d been in faster.

That was some dumbass shit, that was.

“Who did it?” she asked him.

Peter set his jaw.

“We don’t know. Wade and Mr. Castle said they’re finding out. They aren’t letting me or Matt in on it.”

What did that mean?

“I think it means that it’s something bigger than us.”

And what did that mean?

“Uh, maybe bigger isn’t the right word. Lower.”

Lower. Like?

“Someone underground. Deeper in than me and Double D. We’re—we’re mostly surface level. Wade and Mr. Castle, they’re deep under there.”

“Were they trying to kill you, Peter?” she asked him.

He took a long shaky breath.

“I really hope not.”

 ---

 They weren’t trying to kill Peter, Mr. Murdock eventually told them, having had them come to his home for this news. He had them sit on his faux leather couch as he said this.

He was trying to say something without words, Michelle thought.

She thought she was reading it right.

It was personal. This was personal.

“Were they trying to kill you, Matt?” she asked. He shook his head.

No.

They weren’t trying to kill anyone, they’d been trying to draw them out. As many of them as possible.

“They’re taking stock of us,” Matt said to his fists. His knuckles never seemed to heal. “Making lists. They knew a school would bring everyone out and we fell for it like fucking chumps.”

What did that mean?

“Means there’s something big brewing, and I want nothing to do with it.”

That’s not what his knuckles said.

“Peter,” Matt said, “Whoever they are, they’re going to target you. You’re young, that makes you an easy mark. Do not engage, do you understand?”

Peter understood.

 ---

 Peter was hurt. He was hurt every day over the next few weeks. He had bullet wounds and knife wounds and it got to the point where, even after school reopened, he didn’t come back. It wasn’t suspicious, a lot of kids didn’t. Their parents were still terrified, maybe looking into other academies.

Peter was just sleeping. He had to sleep to heal and he had to heal because the second he set foot out the door there was someone there waiting for him and he couldn’t engage. He just had to take it. Suit or no suit.

MJ would have hit back by now, she was amazed that he hadn’t.

“The second I hit back, they’ll take that as permission,” Peter told her quietly at his desk in his room. May had bandaged his arm for him. She wasn’t concerned about school, she didn’t want Peter to even leave the house.

“Permission to do what?” she asked.

“To engage,” Peter said.

What did that mean, though?

“They’ll kill me.”

He couldn’t know that. He couldn’t—

“They don’t care who I am. It’ll be a message. As soon as I hit back, that makes whatever happens next fair game, so I can’t do anything.”

“Can’t Stark help you?” she asked. He sighed and looked at his bandaged wrist.

“If it gets any worse, he and May said I’ll stay with him for a while. But they’ll just move onto the next guy, and then the next guy, until someone engages. We can’t avoid them forever.”

‘We,’ Peter said. That meant that this was beyond him. This was everyone on that list those guys had shot her, stabbed Ned, scared everyone to make. The list that had set their school on fire.

 ---

It got worse.

Peter didn’t come to school.

He couldn’t breathe very well. He slept even more, but not at home. He slept at Stark Tower, where Tony Stark could guard him, because no one else could at the minute.

 ---

 It got worse because they started picking on Matt.

Matt as Mr. Murdock most certainly would not have engaged, but Matt as Matt was struggling. He was very obviously struggling.

Just sit back and take it, was what he had to do. Unlike Peter, who slept and had somewhere to go when things got too bad, Matt didn’t heal and Matt didn’t have anyone to lean on.

He stopped showing up to work.

Neither Foggy or Karen said anything about it. They carried on with the cases and the work and the filing as if nothing was wrong, as if nothing happened. As if they weren’t both suffocating, trying to carry their friend’s pain with their own.

Michelle went to see him and Foggy told her to be as quiet as she could be.

He slept with a broken arm laid up on his chest. He shivered in his sleep. His knuckles weren’t bruised, but his neck was and he didn’t acknowledge anyone who spoke to him.

There was a woman there with him, she was his sister, MJ remembered her. Elektra was watching him with silent, stoic fury in her eyes. It showed nowhere else on her.

“She’s protecting him,” Foggy explained as he made them all tea. “Well, maybe not protecting, but guarding him so he feels like he can sleep.”

There wasn’t anything to say to that, not when Spiderman and Daredevil could only rest in unconsciousness.

“Why are they doing this?” she asked him. Foggy sighed and set the kettle down.

“Because they’re cruel and they’re jealous and they think that this will get them respect,” he said.

Respect.

Psh.

All it did was make her mad.

“If you show them that you’re angry, Michelle, that’s as good as engaging. We can’t let them know that they’re getting to any of us.”

This was bullshit.

 ---

 Bullshit because Matt went to get groceries and didn’t come home and Wade had to go find him. They wouldn’t let Michelle see him, but she heard his sister screaming. She screamed at anyone who touched him, swore that she’d put the lights out of the next person who tried.

Foggy didn’t stop her.

Matt didn’t say anything.

He didn’t come to work and Foggy kept his office door closed.

Karen told Michelle that Elektra had taken Matt somewhere with her, where he would be safe. He wasn’t in Hell’s Kitchen. Elektra wouldn’t say where they’d gone, but she’d sent Foggy pictures so that he knew Matt was safe.

 ---

 It was bullshit because they were too scared to fuck with Wade or Castle, so instead they attacked Hawkeye the younger and Michelle heard through Wade that Hawkguy had nearly exploded in his anger. He couldn’t do anything, of course he couldn’t, that was how this game worked.

But he’d swapped his easy-going persona for the one he used when he worked with the Black Widow.

Wade said it was eerie to see him so quiet and focused. Locked onto his target.

The people trying to pick a fight, well, they were scared of Hawkeye.

 ---

 Not for long. They went in on both of Hawkeyes at the same time and soon Hawkeye the elder reached breaking point and called in the Widow so that he and his partner could get two minutes of peace. Just two.

 ---

 It was interesting how the second the Widow got involved, everything went topsy turvy.

Michelle had passed by the place where Wade had told her the Widow was standing guard and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Then she realized that whoever these guys were, they were really, really scared of the Widow.

Not so high and mighty now, huh, boys?

They abandoned the Hawkeyes and went after Jessica Jones.

 ---

 It went on and on like this for two, three, maybe even four weeks. People took as much as they could. They picked themselves up. Some limped into the offices of Nelson, Murdock and Page. Some limped, watched carefully by people, in the street.

They were stopped at all hours by guys in plain clothes who struck out without warning. Threw fists. Feet. Spat on people. And instead of fighting back, local bodies threw them off and ran away. Avoided confrontation. Put walls and doors and fences between themselves and the others as much as they could.

It was, in a way, amazing.

The level of restraint was super human.

 ---

 Then the new kids got cocky and shoved the Winter Soldier.

They were in for a lesson.

Michelle saw the conflict on the news. Five guys throwing themselves at Bucky Barnes, who was trying to buy a bottle of whiskey in peace.

He ignored them, counted out exact change.

He walked right through their group on the way out the door and they parted around him, then followed him out of the convenience store.

Camera phone footage showed him walking home, being heckled by these creeps. A few blocks, presumably, from his home he stopped walking and the gang of people drew in close around him.

And then they all leapt back.

The Winter Soldier wasn’t taking their shit, he’d apparently decided. Loud enough to be heard from the cameraman’s place across the street, he shouted, “Y’all have one more chance to get the fuck out of my way.”

Let no one say he didn’t warn them.

They went down hard and they went down fast and they all went down within a minute of each other.

Bucky Barnes held a guy by his throat and told them to call their motherfucking leader, he wanted to have a chat.

It was the beginning of the end.

 ---

 Do not engage went right out the window and MJ woke up to her phone sending her six thousand alerts not to take such-and-such road or to approach such-and-such area.

The news showed her Peter slamming his fist into a man’s face like he was born to do it.

The Man in the Mask was out in broad daylight, stalking towards those people who were suddenly trying to escape him. He picked them up and dropped them without so much as breaking the rhythm of his pace.

Ironman beat the shit out of twelve people in the company courtyard.

Hawkeye had switched his bow for a rifle.

The general advice from all city personnel was to stay the fuck inside.

This was war.

 ---

 And then it was over.

And everything was cleaned up and bodies were carted off if they were found.

Peter arrived to school.

Matt reappeared in his office.

They carried on like nothing had happened. But there was something about the aftermath of silence that made the day of brutality so much more violent.

Neither of them were smiling. They were cold, thawing slowly.

Michelle thought of all the things they weren’t saying.

She thought she heard their combined bodies whisper, this is my city. This is our city. Get with it or go the fuck home.

She didn’t know if it made her feel better, but it certainly made her feel safe.

 --------

[wkemeup]

James

inbox request: “Hii, I was thinking that you could write for the By Any Other Name one shots about (all) the times she still called him ‘James’?“ and “...reader ever gets triggered back to any traumatic situations that happed when she was with brock...” by anonymous ❤️ pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 3.5k warnings: PTSD symptoms, dissociation, nightmares, attempted sexual assault a/n: for the anon who requested her calling him James, I swear I didn’t intentionally start out to make this angsty, but it felt right. Also doesn’t surprise me that the angstiest one shot so far is definitely the longest lol. oops.  🌹series masterlist 🌹

“Don’t get cocky just because you survived your first assignment,” Bucky warned, rolling his eyes as Sam sprawled out on the chair in Bucky’s office. Wide toothed grin and the lipstick of an agent on his cheek welcoming him back to HQ after four months under in a biker gang outside of Albuquerque, Sam’s ego had nearly tripled.

“I can and I will,” Sam replied with a snort, sinking further into the chair and kicking up feet up to rest on the desk.

Before Bucky could retort, a short vibration from his cell buzzed against his pocket. He didn’t have a chance to speak as he put the phone to his ear before the voice of a woman came through, firm and calm, though there was a slight edge in her tone. A bated breath. And then -- 

“Is this Bucky Barnes?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, throwing a look at Sam that quickly faded the playful smile from his face as he straightened in the chair. 

“Yes. Who’s this?” 

“My name’s Maria. I work with Y/n at the university,” she explained, a little rushed. “Somethings happened... a fire in the break room and... well... she keeps asking for James.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

It was rare when you called him by that name. In the beginning, it had slipped out on occasion; little moments here and there when you were absorbed in your book or focused in the kitchen and the unconscious habit spilled through the cracks. It was always followed up with dozens of sweet apologies because you knew how much it meant to him when you called him by his name – his real name -- even though he told you as many times that he didn’t mind.

But lately, he only heard that name through your screams in the middle of the night, under the faint glow of moonlight seeping in through the curtains and sweat beaded on your forehead, through stammering heartbeats and tears streaming down your cheeks. When you couldn’t quite remember where you were or the last year since your husband had died and you’d been freed from under his reign. It disoriented you, threw you back into the midst of Hydra and James Karpov and sometimes it took longer than Bucky could bare before you came back to him.

Maria sighed. “I don’t know who James is, but I thought you might be the next best bet.”

“Y-yeah,” Bucky chocked out, snapping himself from the strange sense of shock. “I’m on my way.”

He lunged for his keys, gave Sam a short grimace to which he nodded in understanding, and rushed out the door.

“What happened? Is she hurt?” Bucky questioned as he sprinted through the halls, pushing past agents and shoving aside interns carrying dozens of files in their hands.

“I couldn’t find any new burns,” Maria confirmed, though there was a trembling ache in her voice she was clearly trying to push aside. “She seems alright physically. I don’t think she got too close to the fire, but… I’ve never seen her like this before. She won’t say a word to anyone without James. Do you know who she’s talking about?”

Bucky gritted his teeth as he flung open the car door, slid inside, and threw it into reverse. “Yeah, I do.”

Sam must have called in for a police escort it seemed, because they met him at the gate with flashing lights and sirens at the ready. Bucky told them through the windows he needed to get to Columbia as fast as possible, and they nodded without question, even though his voice was wavering in every syllable.

By the time he got there, as he burst through the front doors and raced through the halls, it felt like he was drudging through sand, through mud up to his waist, with anvils tied to his ankles and weights shackles on his shoulders. He didn’t stop to pay attention to the students as they stared at him as he ran past.

He found Maria standing at the edge of the hallway next to a fireman and a yellow tape blocking off the area. She softened as he saw him sprinting towards her. Maybe she noticed the sweat on his shirt or the panic in his eyes, but she stepped aside quickly and gestured for the fireman beside her to do the same.

“She’s down by the break room,” Maria told him. “I couldn’t get her to move. EMTs are with her but I’m not sure if she let them examine her yet.”

Bucky nodded, muttering out a short ‘thank you’ before he pushed down into the hallway.

Sure enough, there you were. Sitting on the floor, knees tucked up to your chest, staring straight ahead at the lockers opposite you. There was a vacant look in your eye as you ran your right hand across the scars on your left; discoloration and raised edged that extended around your wrists where the wires had once dug through your skin and the scorch of a fire burned.

An EMT was standing beside you, trying to grab your attention, but you wouldn’t even look at him. He exchanged a look with his buddy as they noticed Bucky approaching. He gave them a quick flash of the badge tucked into his pocket and they stepped back.

Slowly, Bucky knelt down at your side. He could see the faded burn marks on your forearms, nearly seamless to the color of your skin, but still raised and distorted, though they were clearly from the fire over a year earlier. There didn’t appear to be any new marks; no burns on your clothing or red patches upon your skin save for the imprints of your nails upon your hands and you dug them in for relief.

“Y/n?” he called gently, though you didn’t turn in his direction, almost as if his voice were miles away. 

He’d only seen you like this once before; the night Rumlow had roped Peter into the underworld of Hydra’s crimes. You’d been so still, so petrified, that you practically looked right through him. It took a while for you to come back to your surroundings, to recognize where you were. He thought about what your friend Maria had said and who you were asking for. 

“Sweetheart, it’s me. It’s James. I’m here,” Bucky eased, soothing a hand along your shoulder. You blinked a few times, recognizing his voice, his name, and you turned to him.

“James?” you whispered, relief quickly sweeping through you. You threw yourself into his arms, causing him to stumble back against the wall, but he held you steady.

“Yeah, honey. I’ve got you.”

He could feel the tear marks on his skin where you pressed your face to the crook of his neck. He tried not to stiffen his body, to prevent the muscles from turning to stone and his hands from curling to fists. He couldn’t stand that Rumlow still had this power over you.

It made his blood boil and rage churned like fire in his chest, but he held onto you with the tenderness you needed. He nodded as you called him James, as you stroked your fingers through the short wisps of hair at the nape of his neck.

It took a few minutes, but eventually, you pulled back. You seemed to recognize what happened, remembered the fire as your turned back to look at the break room and the firemen exiting the building. Realization clicked and you glanced up at him; eyes red with tears.

“Bucky?”

Instant relief. 

He offered you a gentle smile, prepared, because he knew the wave of apologies that would follow. He’d hold you in his arms, whisper over and over again that it wasn’t your fault, that he didn’t mind you called him James, that he understood. You didn’t always believe him, but he tried.

***

That name quickly became a warning. You’d loved James Karpov, but you loved Bucky Barnes, too. It mattered to you that you called him by his name, no matter how many times he told you otherwise. So, when you used that name, when you called him James, he knew something was wrong.

“Agent Barnes?”

Bucky glanced up at the intern standing in the door frame; nervous grimace on his face and a tie hung a little loose around his neck.

“You have a visitor, sir.”

Bucky shook his head. The sun had already gone down hours ago and he’d been up for days trying to find a connection in the financial records of a white-collar businessman to an underground trafficking ring for Sam and the rest of his former team. It meant another all-nighter at the office, but he knew Steve wouldn’t have asked if they didn’t need the help.

“It’s late, Miles,” Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “See if they’ll reschedule for tomorrow. I’ve got a lot of work to do on this case.”

“Sir, I really think you should see this one.”

Miles stepped aside, moving back to his desk sitting outside Bucky’s office, and leaving the entrance open. Then, almost as if he were imagining it, Bucky heard a muffled meow just beyond the door.

“James?”

Bucky dropped the file in his hands as you approached the edge of his office. Dressed in leggings and a sweatshirt two sizes too big for your frame, dark circles under your eyes, and Cheddar held tight in your arms amongst a pile of blankets inside his carrier, you looked as though you hadn’t slept in days.

“Y/n?” Bucky walked around the side of his desk, making his way to you and gently pulling the carrier from your hands and setting it upon the floor. “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” you replied with a shrug. 

It had been two days since he was home. It happened sometimes, not often, but enough that you knew what it meant; that the team needed him. You understood, you always said as much, and Bucky called when he could, had takeout delivered to the apartment for you and promised to make it up to you when he got home.

But something was different this time.

“I, um,” you started, glancing around the office nervously. “I keep thinking I’m seeing things. In the dark. In the shadows.” You cleared your throat as Bucky furrowed his brow, a sort of embarrassment seeping through. “I keep seeing Brock.”

Bucky didn’t know what to say. He led you to the couch in the corner of the room and as he eased you down, he turned to find Miles closing his office door with a sad smile. Bucky leaned down and opened Cheddar’s carrier, letting the cat roam freely around the office, though he decided rather quickly to jump up onto the couch beside you and curl up against your thigh.

“I know it’s crazy,” you said, running your fingers along Cheddar’s spine as he began to purr, “but I… I keep wondering… what if he’s out there? They never found a body, right? I mean… it’s possible he escaped and—”

“It’s not,” Bucky interjected as gently as he could. He remembered the vacant look in Rumlow’s eyes, how he dropped to the ground in a mess of his own blood. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind. As you looked at him again, there were tears in your eyes. “I promise you, sweetheart. He’s dead. He can’t hurt you.”

“I want to believe that,” you whispered, stare dropping down to the floor.

Bucky could see the tension in your jaw, in your shoulders, and how your eyes flashed over to the windows. He pressed a short kiss to your temple and let the silence take over. It was comforting, just listening to the crickets outside and the typing of Mile’s keyboard outside the office door.

“James?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Can I stay here?” you asked, voice as small as a child’s. “With you?”

You looked at him with a strange kind of hesitation in your eye, like you might be afraid he’d turn you away. It broke his heart, but he tried not to let it show and pushed out a smile instead.

“Of course, love. I’ll see if we can find some blankets for you, alright?”

You nodded, relief quickly spreading through you as you pulled Cheddar into your arms, hugging him tight to your chest. Bucky quickly got up and opened the door a crack to find Miles sitting at his desk, typing away.

“Hey, kid,” Bucky started, “can you track down some—”

“Already got them, sir.” Miles grabbed a stack of blankets from under his desk and a cushion he must have stolen from the lounge and handed them to Bucky.

Bucky nodded, taking them into his arms. Miles was a smart kid. He overhead a lot more than he should, but he never asked questions, never pried, never so much as considered gossiping to the other interns about the personal details of Bucky’s life. Bucky made a note to write him a hell of a recommendation letter.

“Go home, Miles. I’m good for tonight.”

“You sure?”

Bucky smiled. “Yeah.”

Miles jumped up, gave him a quick nod, and practically jogged his way to the elevator.

As Bucky made his way back into the office, he turned to find you already asleep on the couch. He paused, watching as Cheddar tucked himself against your chest as you laid on your side. Your hand was still rested on Cheddar’s back. The cat looked up at Bucky as he approached, his purring loud enough to overshadow the crickets outside.

“You take good care of her, huh?” Bucky whispered to Cheddar, scratching behind his ears. He purred a little louder in response.

Then, Bucky draped a blanket over your legs, letting it fall by your waist. He leaned down and brushed the hair from your eyes, pressed a kiss to your temple, and slowly made his way back to his desk. He had a lot of work to do, but a few glances over at your sleeping form and the ease with which you slept were enough to keep him going through dawn.

***

“That smells incredible,” you gasped as you walked past a bakery in Queens. 

You dragged Bucky by the hand to the window where you could see dozens of rows of cookies lined up inside; gooey and warm and wafting through the air enough to make your stomach growl. You turned to him with that pleading look in your eye, teeth biting down on your lower lip.

“Alright, alright,” Bucky chuckled. “I’ll be right back.”

You grinned, clapping your hands together as you waited for him outside. It was a small shop, with barely enough room to walk around inside without knocking into the tables filled with sweets, so you opted to wait by the edge of the bakery. 

The sun was setting into a beautiful orange and pink in the distance, and the street lamps barely illuminated the alleys beyond the shop. Across the street, you watched as a young man walked by with two dogs, whistling to himself with every bounce in his step. You smiled.

“Ah, what do we have here?” a voice growled from behind you.

You jolted, heart skipping a beat as you whipped around to face the man standing behind you. Tall, burley, with a long-jagged scar along his jawline, you recognized him only as Markovich; one of the men who worked at the docks under your husband. Ex-husband. Dead husband.

“It’s good to see you, Mrs. Rumlow,” Markovich sneered and suddenly, a hand snacked around your forearm, digging razor sharp into your skin and you felt the violent tug as he dragged you into the alley. 

You couldn’t speak, could hardly move, you wanted to scream but you couldn’t find your voice. It all happened so fast. You couldn’t have prepared for it.

Your back slammed to bricks, head pounding in the effort as Markovich pinned you to the wall. 

“I’ve been looking for you for a while. The pretty little bitch that put Hydra in chains...”

Markovich drew a line down your cheek to your jaw with his finger. You struggled to stretch out from his reach, but he held you firm.

“But I slipped through the cracks, didn’t I?” he continued, sinister grin upon his thinned lips. His hand slid lower, daring to touch over your neck, your collar bone, over the rapid rise and fall of your chest and the thunderous pounding of your heart. “Now, I’m going to take what’s mine, take what’s been owed to me now that you’ve destroyed Hydra. Stay quiet for me, Mrs. Rumlow.”

You screamed.

“James!”

A hand slammed down over your mouth, dirty and suffocating. You desperately looked up to the streets, but they were empty, filled only with the dark overcast of the sunset and faded flickering of the street lamps.

“Karpov’s dead,” Markovich spat. “He can’t help you now.”

You whimpered, tears burning in your eyes. Your whole body felt numb, shaken, frail, and as Markovich put a hand on your thigh, sliding up your skin and seeking under the hem of your dress, a surge of rage came over you.

You raised your knee with as much force as you could swing between his legs and suddenly, Markovich doubled over in pain. He released you in favor of clutching his crotch, and you stumbled back towards the streets.

“James!” you screamed, voice breaking in the effort. “James!”

Bucky swerved around the corner in a panic, paper bag dropped to the concrete as he saw you rushing towards him. You slammed into his arms, shaking terribly, and Bucky only had seconds to react when he sat Markovich stumbling back to his feet. Bucky quickly pried you from his arms though it killed him to do so.

“Sweetheart, I need you to call Steve.” Bucky kept his eyes on Markovich.

You shook your head. “James, I… I….”

“Do it now,” he ordered, firmer than he ever wanted to be with you, but as he watched Markovich crack his knuckles, baring his teeth, Bucky knew he didn’t have much time. He kept a hand on your shoulder, stilling you at the edge of the street, before he made his way into the dark shadows of the alley.

“You’re supposed to be dead, Karpov,” Markovich growled.

“Yeah, well, you’re supposed to be in jail, aren’t you?” Bucky shot back. “We’ve had outstanding warrant for your arrest for over a year.”

“Should have figured you were a narc.” Markovich spat, sizing Bucky up as he stepped forward. “Always so soft with the boss’s wife. Heard you were fucking her too. Tell me... was it good?”

Bucky clenched his jaw. Over his shoulder, he could hear your voice quietly on the phone with Steve. It wouldn’t take long. Maybe a few minutes before backup arrived. He didn’t like to carry his firearm when he was off duty, especially around you because you’d be subject to enough violence in your life and you didn’t need the constant reminder that Bucky had perpetrated it himself, too. But now, as he stared down the rather large figure of a man with an intent to kill, he seconded guessed his choice to leave it at home.

Markovich rushed forward, lunging straight for Bucky’s neck, which he was able to side step easily. He had more agility than Markovich and he’d use it to his advantage. He got in a few hits before Markovich landed a punch, but when he did, it nearly sent Bucky spiraling to the ground.

“James!” your voice yelped out from behind him. He didn’t dare turn around.

It took until the both of them were panting and Markovich has a steady stream of blood down his nose and Bucky was limping on his left ankle before the cops arrived. 

They rushed into the alley, separated Markovich to the wall and cuffed him. Bucky didn’t say a word as Markovich shouted at him through the window of the cop car, threatening him, threatening you.

Hydra didn’t have resources anymore. Markovich couldn’t hurt either of you the way Rumlow had once threatened. Steve would find a way to make sure Markovich stayed silent. It might mean a reduced sentence or privileges behind bars, but he’d keep the two of you safe. Bucky didn’t doubt that for a second.

“Oh, thank god, James,” you rushed towards him, throwing yourself into his arms. It was nearly suffocating how tight you were holding him, but he didn’t mind. You needed this, needed to remember that he was real and safe, and maybe he needed that too.

“I’m alright,” he exhaled, wiping the blood from his cheek. He pulled you back just enough to see your face. “Are you okay? I shouldn’t have left you out here alone. I didn’t think— I should have come faster— I—”

“I’m okay,” you confirmed, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. “But I guess ‘okay’ is relative.”

He chuckled at that, nodding as he pulled you back to his chest. “I’ve got cookie dough in the freezer and that movie you’ve been wanting to watch on rent. You up for that?”

He could feel your smile against his chest.

“Yeah, I’m up for it.”

Bucky gave a short nod to the officers clearing the scene behind him and guided you back to the sidewalk. It was a short walk back to the apartment from where you were.

“Hey Bucky?” you asked, and he felt a wash of relief in his own name.

“Yeah, honey?”

“Thanks for keeping your promise.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What promise?”

“To always protect me,” you said simply, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

Bucky nodded, a soft kind of smile pushing at his cheeks. “Always, sweetheart. Always.”

[kirishwima]

what quirks do the mysme characters have ?? would they go pro ?

this has been sitting in my inbox for so long and ive been wanting to answer it cuz i LOVE the crossover of bnha x mysme!!! so after long deliberation, here’s my lengthy, ranty answer-and if you wanna talk more about quirks or bnha p l e a s e hit me up im always happy to talk about this ;u;

YOOSUNG:

- I think what'd really fit him and be adorable af is if he could talk to animals, kind of like Koda!!

-He manifested his quirk earlier than most-at about 2-3 years old, and his parents found out after they found him crying because their house cat called him, and I quote, 'a bag of flesh and bones ready to eat'

-At first he didn't like his quirk much-something about seeing a cute chihuahua and rather than that high-pitched funny bark hearing 'i will MESS YOU UP' can be scarring to a kid

-Eventually he came to love it though! He found out it could be so useful when interacting with injured animals

-For this reason, rather than going pro, I think he'd become a vet once again!

ZEN:

-Do not even argue with me on this one baby boy would have a Siren quirk!

-Singing certain melodies can have different effects on people-one melody can lull them to sleep, others, more dangerous ones, can make them feel fear, anger, agression etc

-It took him a while to learn what melody and pitch of voice triggers each emotion, and for a while he was afraid to sing-his parents calling him a monster over it didn't help either :(

-Yet he insisted on using this power for good. He worked hard, memorised each melody and even created more complex ones, and would only use them if he had to!

-(I feel like he might also have some mild regeneration quirk maybe passed down from one parent cuz who said we can't have dual quirks? Not the Todorokis thats for sure)

-I feel like he'd be kind of like Hawks, in the sense that he's more of a celebrity than a hero; everyone knows of Zen the knight!

JAEHEE:

-ok at first I was writing a plot for a speed quirk but THEN i had this idea, you'll have to bear with me as I ramble through it: Jaehee has a matter manipulation quirk.

-Soph, what the heck is that, you ask? Well, here's the breakdown of it

-Jaehee can manipulate particles around her on a 4m radius. That means she can manipulate anything, change its shape, position etc-and with enough effort, eventually can also manipulate time IN this radius only.

-Think like matrix-style, bullets flying, but the moment they reach Jaehee, she manipulates them to slow down and they just casually graze by her as if nothing ever happened-ITS A BADASS QUIRK OK

-It's a little OP though, so as a drawback, she gets exhausted easily while using it, so it has quite the cooldown period.

-Despite the cool quirk, I don't think she'd want to go pro. All she ever wanted was to live her life quietly. But with a quirk like that, she's bound to get into crazy situations all the time.

-Now I want a fantasy-comedy show of powerful quirk-bearing Jaehee aaaa

JUMIN:

-I think he'd have a quirk like Shinso's! The moment you address him, he can, if he wills it, manipulate the person as he sees fit.

-But, unlike Shinso, Jumin can do one more thing with his quirk-Thought manipulation/Insertion. He can think of something, or simply voice it (for a stronger effect), and convince the other that this was their thought/idea

-i.e: Jumin, sitting across a potential company partner, smirking as he thinks to himself 'I want to sign that contract'.

-The partner, eyes wide while scanning through the document 'hm..yes, I want to sign this contract. Why didn't I want to earlier?!'

-He actually keeps his quirk a top secret, since the moment it manifested; no one would ever want to work with him face to face if they knew, now would they?

-Plus he's afraid deep down, afraid of people being scared of him.

-So he doesn't go pro; he keeps this quirk a secret, and god forbid anyone tries to find out about it.

SAEYOUNG/707/LUCIEL:

-Electric quirk!!! Electric quirk!

-Sae with little zaps coming out his fingertips grinning menacingly 🥰🥰🥰 id let him electrocute me

-Similar to Denki but minus the 'go dumb if overuse' thing; you're on my blog and we love angst and gore here, so here’s the catch:

-if he overuses his quirk, he starts to become vulnerable to it too. After all, it makes some sense-we have neurons firing signals in our bodies in similar fashion that electricity is conducted. Were you to touch a wire, not only is it very dangerous, the current MUST be conducted. So with electrical injuries-there’s always en ENTRY and EXIT wound, where the current came into and exited the body.

-So overusing his quirk can cause severe damage to himself, and is a reason why he’s riddled with scars-on his arms especially, but also legs (an often exit point for currents), back e.t.c.

-He found out about his quirk whilst protecting his brother. He…didn’t mean to use it. It terrified him. But it was a means of survival, and he was ready to use it no matter what.

-I really feel like someone form LoV would try to convince him to join them-and if they were to protect his brother too…he just might’ve.

-If we’re ignoring canon and going into a full BNHA universe, then I think Saeyoung would definitely go pro! He’d want to help people, and he’d be such an amazing hero, loved by so many people <3

V/JIHYUN:

-This is soo biased given that V’s my baby, but mmm, i really feel like he’d have a healing quirk, WITH a regeneration quirk mixed-this is my absoloute favorite quirk idea, and here’s why:

-How this quirk would work, is that he’d be able to take on any injury someone may have, big or small, so long as it’s not lethal-dead is dead after all. He can also heal significantly faster than average via self-regeneration, so he’s virtually overpowering, right?

-Well, here’s the catch:

-Anytime he takes on an injury or damage, he feels all of it-every single thing, and whilst the physical injury vanishes, the pain lingers, longer than it should. It does go away eventually, but taking on massive injuries is jarring and can scar him, physically and mentally.

-If we follow canon, after his eyes are hurt-his quirk deals with it, healing the tissue fast, yet he keeps injuring it himself, hating his quirk for the very first time.

-If we go full bnha AU, then he’d try to train his quirk as much as possible, and would go pro, but as a support hero, helping the injured after fights e.t.c.

SAERAN/RAY/UNKNOWN:

-Hmm, I’ve been thinking about this, and here’s what I’m thinking: I think Sae’s quirk would be bloodbending.

-Essentially he’d be able to use it in 2 forms; one is that he can use his own blood to form weapons, support items e.t.c (think blood swords….badass)

-The other form, is that he can bend the blood of others-anything with blood is doable, human or not, so long as there’s an injury, no matter how minor, for him to drag the blood out of. He can’t bend it whilst the skin is completely unpunctured, as cool as that would be, and he can only use it on one person per time.

-I think he’d hate his quirk at first-consider it hideous, monstrous e.t.c. He’d cry about it, his brother comforting him, reassuring him the only monsters out there are people judging him for a quirk he has no control over.

-If we go with canon: Rika DEFINITELY makes him use his quirk even when he doesn’t want to. He hates himself for it, spiraling depeer into her clutch.

-If we go fanon: He’d definitely be scouted by the LoV, but he’d never accept their offer. He instead wants to become a hero, and put his quirk to good use, to protect others. So I think Sae would go pro too!

[jawritter]

Something Worth Fighting For

Request: Hi love! Your writing is amazing and I was wondering if you could do a Dean x depressed!reader? Like dean finds the reader about to jump off the roof of the bunker after reading the note she left him and sam saying goodbye. He had never suspected anything cause she hid it so well. Dean saves her and tells her his feelings for her? You can also add any details you want or anything like that! There is no rush! Thank you!

Word Count: 1865

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader 

Warnings: Warnings: Suicide attempt, Thoughts of suicide, depression, angst, self-hate, body image issues (scares), descriptions of suicidal thoughts, this one is pretty dark guys if this type of thing triggers you please read with caution! Fluffy, Protective!Dean, Language, I think that’s it.

A/N: This fic is unbeta’d! All mistakes are mine! Please do not copy my work, this one is cross-posted on Wattpad as well!! Feedback is Gold! Hope you all enjoy this one!! Remember your never alone! ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING!!!!

Want more? Check out my Masterlist!!

***MASTERLIST***

You find yourself standing in front of the long mirror in your room in nothing but your sports bra, and sensible underwear. Your fingers trace the deep scare that blemishes the skin of your stomach from a werewolf attack not even a year ago.

It's not the only scar that litters your skin, each a different size, shape, and hold a different story. A gunshot wound to your shoulder from that time you were hunting a witch down in Louisiana, and your young hunting partner, who didn't make it back from that hunt alive, missed their shot, landing you with a witch killing bullet wound to the shoulder. 

Then there were all the cuts and scratches from knife fights in bars as well as hunts. The hunting life has left its mark on you, more than one.

Those were just the marks that you could see. Deeper marks resided deep in the dark corners of your mind in the form of people you loved and lost, couldn't save, and weren't fast enough to save. They haunted you like a ghost that you couldn't salt and burn to get rid of, and there was nothing you could do about it. 

The voice that you could hear no matter how hard you tried to drown it out with heavy metal music playing from your speaker taunted you. 

"Look at you, you will never be good enough for anyone to love. No one ever loved you anyway. You will die alone. Everyone you ever loved or come in contact with will eventually die, and there will be nothing you could do to save them, nothing you can do to stop it... Your position. 

Pulling Dean's old AC/DC shirt over your head, and a pair of leggings on you take one more look into the taunting mirror that hung in silent mockery of your depression that had been dragging you down for days. 

You didn't have long to pull off your plan, the boys would be home soon, and if they caught you, they would surely stop you, and you couldn't have that. 

You were nothing but another liability, someone else that Dean had to take care of when he already had so much on his plate. You proved that when you fucked up on that Vamp hunt down in Indiana last week, and Sam nearly got turned. 

They would be better off with you gone. They would be better off with you not around to fuck up on hunts, and you would be one less person to have to watch out for when shit went sideways like it so often did.  So with that in mind, you decided to take yourself out of the picture. You were tired of all the fighting anyways.

Grabbing your favorite gun that you had gifted to Dean in your goodbye letter because you knew he always liked it, and your journal for Sam, because he always had his nose in a book of some sort, and there was a lot of past hunts and encounters written down in there, you make your way towards the war room. 

Taking one last look at the bunker you called home, you make your way towards the cast-iron stairs. Laying the things you left for the boys on the map table as you went, and never looking back. 

Your plan was to climb up to the top of the bunker, then jump off. It would be a quick end. One final fall, one final disappointment, one final let down and this would all be over. Then maybe… Just maybe… You could finally get some peace. Whatever was waiting over there had to be better than what you had waiting for you here.

You had just finished your trip to the top of the bunker when you realized you were too late, a squeaky car door slamming, and the sound of Dean’s deep voice screaming your name broke through the blinding tears that were streaming down your face, and even cut through the voices that were screaming so loud you thought for sure they’d be the last thing you ever heard. You never thought Dean would find you still alive.

Before you even had time to react Dean had scrambled his way up to the top of the bunker and was pulling you away from the edge, his strong arms wrapped around you, and you were powerless to fight against him. You were just too tired.

“Dammit Sweetheart, what the fuck were you doing?” Dean said, and you didn’t have time to answer before Sam met the two of you at the top of the roof, your note in hand, and an ashen face in fear he was too late to catch you.

The realization hit Dean like a freight train. He didn’t say anything at that moment, just picked you up in his strong arms as if you weighed nothing at all, and carried you down, and back inside the bunker with little effort. Sam stayed quiet, and only opened the door to Dean’s room where he was taking you, but didn’t intrude. 

That was Sam. He knew Dean better than anyone, and he knew Dean wanted to take care of this alone. He would be there if he was needed, and always in earshot if need be, but this is something Dean could fix, and he knew that. 

Dean laid you down on the soft memory foam covered mattress of his bed, before stripping his jacket from his well-toned body, and laying down next to you, pulling you into his arms, the steady drum of his heartbeat steading your own as you buried your head into his chest. Letting his scent surround you, comfort you. 

“Why?” Dean said, his voice thick as tears streamed down his perfect face. 

This wasn’t what you wanted, you never wanted to hurt Dean, you wanted to take the hurt away from Dean, not add to it. You never knew he’d care if you were gone? Why was he so upset now? 

“Why were you going to do it, Y/N?”

Your mind was reeling, and everything was overwhelming, but Dean deserved an answer, so you took a deep, shaky breath, and tried to swallow past the lump of nothing that seemed to be blocking your throat. 

“Because I’m nothing but another problem for you Dean, another fuck up, another mouth to feed, and another person you have to take care of. You would be better off if I wasn’t here anymore.” 

Dean lifted your chin so that you were looking up at him, his piercing green eyes wet, and sad as he stared down at you. Hurt set deep in his God-like features that hunted your dreams from the moment you laid eyes on him.

“No, no Y/N, you’re so fucking wrong, you are NOT a liability to me, your not just another mouth to feed, your not someone else I have to take care of, your everything thing to me. Do you not see that? I know I suck at words baby girl, but I’m crazy about you, and you leaving me that way is not something I can live through. I’m in love with you, Y/N. I can’t live in a world where you don’t exist.” 

You sat there with your jaw hanging open, staring back into his eye as if you blinked, you’d wake up from whatever dream this must be. Because Dean Winchester said he didn’t fall in love, Dean Winchester said that he didn’t do relationships because he was poison, Dean Winchester would never be able to love someone as broken and fucked up as you were. This had to be a mistake, a dream.

“Dean.. I…” 

Dean pressed his lips to yours with enough force to knock you breathless, throwing all the emotions he had in them, and it didn’t take you long to respond to him. Your lips move with his as he kissed you drunk, and when he finally pulled away your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it.

“How long have you been feeling this way?” he asked you, keeping his arms wrapped tightly around you. 

“Since Sam’s almost accident, that was totally my fault,” you said, looking down at your hands that were now linked together. Your mind still reeling over his little confession that had slipped past his lips, and you were sure that he hadn’t even realized that he said them, which made you think he was just in the moment and didn’t mean them at all.

“Y/N, accidents happen, this line of work that we do, baby it comes with risk.” Reaching down and brushing his hands through your hair. “You can’t blame yourself for a mistake that any one of us could have made. That doesn’t make you a liability. Hell, I fucked that werewolf hunt, and you got hurt, and I walked and kicked my own ass for a day! I didn’t decide to check out early! Baby when you're feeling this way you can’t shut us out, you have to tell me!” 

You could see it in his eyes, the hurt that you almost caused him, the trembling that was in his hands as he held you close to him. Maybe he did mean it, maybe he did really love you.

“Promise me something, sweetheart, I know you probably don’t feel the way I feel about you, but please promise me that you will come to me next time you're feeling this way! Don’t try and leave me!”

It clicked then. This wasn’t the way to fix things. To check out early may have removed the pain from you, but it placed it on someone else. Someone who already had too much on his shoulders, and someone who had lost so much. Someone that really did love you. Deep down that’s something you had always wanted, but thought you could never have. Someone to love you.

Your mind raced back with things that Dean had done since you moved into the bunker, and God if you didn't feel like an idiot for not seeing it. He really did care, he was trying to tell you all along. 

The late-night movie nights, bringing you food and coffee to your room every morning, taking care of you when you got sick, he never left your side when that werewolf almost gutted you, he set up all night long with you when you had a nightmare about the night your parents died. He was always there, putting you before himself or anyone else. He really did love you and was trying to show you the whole time.

In a fit of boldness, you had no idea where it came from, you brought your hand up to the side of his face, his stubble rough against your hand. You promised yourself then and there that no matter how bad it got in your head that you would never leave him again.

“Dean I promise you, I’ll never try and check out early again, I love you too much to leave you like this.” 

And you did, and you always would, because now that you knew you weren’t alone, you had a reason to fight!

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

Tag List: @lyarr24​ @amandamdiehl​ @love-jackles-37-blog​ @miraclesoflove​ @deanwanddamons​ @imabitch4jensen​ @rvgrsbrns​ @bi-danvers0​ @onethirstyunicorn​ @i-love-superhero​ @akshi8278​ @lyss-dw79​ @magssteenkamp​ @lemondropirwin​ @squirrelnotsam​ @hobby27​ @spnbaby-67​ @mrsjenniferwinchester​ @defenderrosetyler​ @screechingartisancashbailiff​ @thecreatiivecorner​  @aflamboyanceofgays @vicmc624​ @busy-bee-angel-misska​ @justanotherwinchester​ @brilovesdeanwinchester​ @idksupernatural​

[bewaretheidesofmarchyall]

Soulmate Shenanigans

So, lucky me, I found this list of prompts!

Unlucky me, it was for a September event. Surprise, surprise, this is not September

That isn’t going to stop me from doing this, though!

So, without further ado, prompt number one!

Your Soulmate’s name is written on your wrist or palm

Warnings for death mentions galore and drowning, as well as something that isn’t drug use, but if drug use is a triggering topic for you I wouldn’t recommend you read

Not as angsty as these warnings would suggest, but there is still Angst

I don’t know how it got angsty I just work here

World building

The first recorded instance of a palm mark was when Lady Natalia of Venice nearly drowned in a canal

She’d been on her way home from a party alongside her fiance when she “tripped” (the word “tripped” here means “Was pushed by her fiance for financial reasons”) into the river. Her husband-to-be quickly exited the scene, leaving her to be weighed down by her skirts and die.

Angela (forger of swords and mixer of poisons, just happened to be in the neighborhood when she heard a scream and a splash) had other plans. She dove into the water, saving Natalia and cutting her hand in the process.

The two women spent a good deal of time together after that, the scientific Natalia claiming that she only wanted to know why her name was on Angela’s hand.

Some historians claim that the two were platonic soulmates. While this is possible, and platonic soulmates have a long and wonderful history, no one with common sense believes this to be the case

They exchanged love letters that were quite clear that the attraction was a romantic one.

Some historians also claim that there isn’t enough evidence to suggest that they killed the fiance.

Those historians are wrong.

Anyway, in modern days 97% of the population has a palm mark with the name of their soulmate

The tattoo industry has never had so many illegal opportunities

When your soulmate dies, the name doesn’t scar. It doesn’t blister, burn, or black out. All that happens is a thin, impersonal line crossing their name out. Some people don’t notice who they lost for days.

There’s a process to remove palm marks. However, it’s illegal and possibly fatal for the soulmate being removed.

Our Characters

Roman: Roman was confused by the name of his soulmate.

Who names their kid “Janus”?

Am I soulmates with a roman deity? The heck?? SO MANY QUESTIONS AND SO LITTLE ANSWERS

Roman was so excited to have a soulmate. He kept entire journals filled with things he wanted to tell Janus, part diary, part scrapbook, and part love letter. He would doodle hearts around his palm mark.

One night, in April, Roman went to sleep. In the morning, there was a line across his palm.

His soulmate had died, and he hadn’t even seen the line drawn. He broke a little.

Enough said.

Roman took the passion that he’d had for his Janus and channeled it into his acting. If he couldn’t get love, he’d get a fucking Tony Award.

Remus: Remus had been annoyed by his brother’s complaining.

“Oh, boo-hoo, my soulmate has a rare name. That means that as soon as I meet him, I’ll know exactly who he is! Roman, DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE NAMED LOGAN”

Remus was annoyed that his soulmate had the audacity to have a common name. In theory, he could date all of the 18,000 Logans in the country, but does he really have the time?

He and his brother bicker about this for a solid seven years, until the argument abruptly ends. Ever since then, he’s been on his brother’s side in everything he can.

Logan: It made total sense for Logan to not have a soulmate.

His soulmate would have been unlucky, being stuck with a know-it-all like him, at least according to most of the people he knew.

This was a simple solution to the puzzle.

It wasn’t helpful to waste time wishing for a different one.

Janus: Janus had a whole plan for when he met his soulmate.

He wrote it down in 10th grade

Step 1: Wear gloves

Step 2: Find Roman

Step 3: Say something witty

Step 4: Remove gloves, revealing palm

Step 5: This little mystery is over and done with, and hopefully my soulmate isn’t boring

This was how a lot of Janus’s plans would work. Solid ideas, but missing bits and important pieces. This includes his heist plan he scribbled out on a napkin on an April day.

Step 1: Find local con-artists

Step 2: Pretend to be a person with money (which I obviously do not have)

Step 3: Scam them

Step 4: Don’t get murdered on the way out

Step 5: Profit

He pulled off steps 1-3 with ease, but step 4 proved to be a sticking point.

As he escaped via the river, with money in his hands and a “so long, suckers!” on his lips for drama, he thought nothing could go wrong

Fun fact: It’s rather common for con artists to fatally give away their positions by yelling “so long, suckers!”. Just ask Odysseus as he sailed away from the Cyclops.

The con artists shot wildly at his boat, blowing it to pieces. As he went down with the ship, he barely had enough time to think this can’t be happening, and fuck this and I’m going to die at the same age as Philip fucking Hamilton and I really don’t want to go to hell before his lungs filled with water and his heart stopped.

And Janus died.

For a solid two minutes.

Technically, death is when your heart ceases to beat. Even though people have been revived after their hearts have stopped, it is death, and enough to draw a line across a sleeping Roman’s hand.

Janus, however, was saved by an old man, who dragged him out of the river and forced the water out of his lungs. The old man took one look at the teenager and decided that he needed better role models, which is how Patton took Janus under his wing and saved his life in more ways than one.

The Actual Plot

Roman is in a city production of Hamlet. His brother is in the audience, his friend is fixing the lighting, and he’s ready to go.

It’s a pretty good performance, by all accounts, but especially according to Janus.

He’d already been watching the main actor intently, smiling from the mezzanine, but he was even more intrigued when he read the playbill and realized his name was Roman. He could barely pay attention to act five as he planned out the lies he’d tell to get backstage.

Somehow, he didn’t get caught sneaking around, and managed to catch a glimpse of Roman’s hand in a mirror. Janus. He really is his soulmate!

Janus walks over to Roman, says something that isn’t as witty as he would have liked (but not as bad as it could have been), and removes his glove.

Now, he expected his soulmate could have a variety of reactions. He didn’t expect Roman to yell “Not today, ghost!”, throw a prop skull at him, and sprint out of the theater. Janus caught a glimpse of the line through his name.

He was reasonably sure that he wasn’t dead? He could see his reflection in mirrors, he could consume salt, people tended to notice his existence!

Jan didn’t have much time to mull over this, as he was about to be forcibly removed from the greenroom. Logan just wanted to fix the lighting and live his life, but when strangers break into the backstage and upset Roman...

Jan skedaddles as Logan chases him out of the building. The nerd has almost caught the intruder when he runs directly into a man in a green jacket holding a coffee cup full of ketchup

Why did he have a coffee cup full of ketchup?

Remus and Logan bicker as Janus escapes. When Remus realizes Logan’s name, he asks a few questions, but Logan quickly shows his two blank palms, and the matter is settled.

Everything seems over and done with.

Meanwhile, Roman is freaking out. His mind is essentially in a loop of The fuck? The fuck? The actual fuck? He’s completely unsure of what to do. Is he seeing ghosts? Does he only believe he’s seeing ghosts? Is he sane or not?

Remus checks up on his brother at around 3 am, only to find him, exhausted, and writing in his old soulmate journal. Roman tries to explain what just happened, but the narrative told isn’t exactly coherent. All Remus can gather is that

1. His brother thinks that his dead soulmate is alive

2. This is because some guy snuck backstage and told him that he was the dead soulmate in question

3. This was probably the guy Logan was chasing

Remus convinced Roman to go to sleep, and walked out of the apartment with blood on his mind. He was sure that his brother was being manipulated.

This guy might not be dead now, but he would be soon.

Meanwhile, Janus proves that he can, in fact, cross a salt circle, so he must be alive! Right?? He also can’t get a certain actor out of his head, and wonders what his next move should be.

Remus recruits Logan to help him do some investigation in case Shady Liar Dude shows up. They go on several stakeouts together, in equally improbable locations. Maybe the two of them got too far into the secret agent aesthetic. Logan had always wanted to be a detective as a kid.

They fall for each other, and fast

Roman is spiraling, and a chat with Remus has him convinced that he was wrong, and Janus really is dead. He curses himself for believing in the pretty fairy-tale. Yes, because love wins in the end and they all live happily ever after. He has a performance tomorrow.

And it’s really time he got rid of the old scar.

You don’t hang around Remus without knowing where the black market locations are. It’s relatively easy to find the cure for palm marks.

He paces around backstage, holding a journal in one hand and a small bottle in the other. The warning that destroying the palm mark destroys the soulmate causes terror to rise in his throat, even though he knows that Janus is dead and can never read his love letters no matter how many stars he wishes on.

He finally makes his choice when Remus and Logan visit him before the performance. They give him looks of pity. He doesn’t want to be pitied.

According to the label, effects should take place over the next several hours. So, he waits for Janus’s name to disappear from his hand.

Janus managed to hustle someone with orchestra seats for their tickets. Despite not getting off on the right foot with his soulmate, he isn’t going to let him go that easily. And Roman’s brilliant performance that night just reinforces that. If he was good weeks ago, he was a star now. Janus was transfixed.

When the curtain call came, Janus was the first on his feet for a standing ovation. Remus and Logan noticed him, and pushed their way through the applauding audience. Both of them almost hoped that he’d get away again so they could continue spending time together.

Roman notices him. They lock eyes. Janus waves as though to say Hi, I’m here, apologies for the awkwardness of our meet-cute, but coffee? Roman gives him a look of disdain, as if to say I can’t believe I thought you were my soulmate, you con artist. He intends to look away and bask in the applause, but before he can do that, Janus collapeses.

Roman is confused at first, and then it clicks. That’s his soulmate. That’s his Janus.

And he killed him.

Pandemonium breaks out. Roman leaps off the stage, Remus freezes in panicked comprehension, the crowd scatters, and several people try to reach the dying man.

Logan gets there first. His mind scans memories of hours spent in libraries, researching everything there is to know about palm marks. Why didn’t some people have them? How did you lose them? How could you get them back?

He instructs Remus and Roman to help carry Janus to the greenroom.

They race him there, everyone in a state of panic (including Logan, but more importantly he has a job to do). Logan tells Remus to run and get a few basic ingredients, and they wait. Time moves much too fast and much too slow, until he comes back.

Logan works chemical wonders, piecing together Roman’s hand until everything is stabilized.

A vicious scar, the type you’d except if your soulmate was really gone, forms on Roman’s palm, and it will stay there for the rest of his days.

Janus comes back from death’s door for the second time.

After The Drama

Logan and Remus eventually move past the “but I don’t have a soulmate” “and yet I still am in love with you” dithering and go on a date that isn’t for the purpose of stalking a supposed stalker.

They go to the aquarium.

Meanwhile, there’s a lot to work out between Roman and Janus. From “wow, you’re not dead” to “wow, I nearly murdered you”, we don’t have time to unpack all that.

But they do get coffee. And they talk.

Soulmate stuff! I really like soulmate aus, despite not liking to write straight up romance

It’s weird

Anyway, hope you enjoyed!

[whumpflumpthump]

MacGyver Fic

Continuation of this.

I’m back!! So, I guess this is my first writing in the new year.  That’s weird to think about... Anyways, here is a continuation of my first MacGyver fic.  I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy!!

Warnings: This contains graphic depictions of violence, with a lot of torture.  If this triggers you, please be safe.

...

“After all, a lot can happen in an hour.”

Mac shuddered, and a look of fear flitted across his features, but was quickly replaced by hatred and defiance.  He would not let Murdoc see how terrified he was, he couldn’t.  He didn’t need to give Murdoc anything else to use against him.

If he had noticed Mac’s fear, Murdoc didn’t remark on it.  He stood in front of Mac for a few seconds, seemingly contemplating something, and then turned and walked behind him, out of view.  

“I’ll be right back Boy Scout, I just need to grab something, and then we can get started.”

Well that can’t be good.

Due to the strap across Mac’s chest, he wasn’t able to turn his head to look, so he was forced to wait while Murdoc was doing whatever the heck he was doing.  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he here’s footsteps coming up from behind him.

As Murdoc rounded his chair, Mac braced himself to see what he was holding.  Mac had no doubt that whatever was in his hands would be used to torture him, Murdoc wouldn’t just sit and stare at him forever.  Mac’s suspicions were proved correct when he saw what Murdoc was holding, a relatively small knife, about the size of the blade in his Swiss Army Knife.  

“That’s it?” Mac asked, “I have to say, I thought you would come up with something more, I don’t know...creative.”

Mac was just stalling for time.  He knew Murdoc could come up with many creative ways to use that knife.  Desperately, he hoped for his team to come and rescue him.  

You know they’re not going to get here in time.

They probably don’t even know you’re gone yet.

Mac knew his mind was probably correct, Murdoc had taken him on his way home from Phoenix, there was no reason to believe anything had happened to him for at least another hour, like Murdoc had said, when he was supposed to meet Jack for dinner.  And, based on the restraints Murdoc had used, and his constant staring, there was very little hope that he would escape by himself.

“Oh Boy Scout, you and I both know I don’t need anything more than this knife to hurt you,” Murdoc said, snapping Mac out of his thoughts, “and I do intend to hurt you, MacGyver,” he added, his eyes darkening.

With that, he started to walk towards Mac, flipping the knife between his fingers absentmindedly as he did so.  Mac instinctively started struggling against his bonds, but to no avail, they held fast. Murdoc crouched down so he was on the same level as MacGyver, and then brought the knife up to trace along the skin underneath his eyes, not quite touching.

Mac kept his head as still as possible, but this time couldn’t contain the fear that came with Murdoc’s action.

Murdoc laughed darkly and pulled the knife away, leaving it to hover over Mac’s leg. “Don’t worry Angus, I would never harm that pretty face of yours, and I want to be able to see that delicious fear in your eyes.”

Well, that’s reassuring.

Before Mac could even register what was happening, Murdoc had moved the knife from above his leg to his exposed right forearm, where his sleeve was rolled up.  He sliced a thin line across Mac’s skin, drawing a line of blood and eliciting a small hiss of pain from Mac, who tried to jerk away, again not getting anywhere.

“Now now Boy Scout, we’ve barely even started,” Murdoc tutted, patting Mac’s face.

Murdoc moved again, this time bringing the knife to Mac’s collarbone.  He sliced a little deeper this time, driving the knife from the top of the bone to almost the hollow of his throat. Mac held in his gasp this time, managing to only glare at Murdoc as the madman smiled, almost gleefully.

“Let’s see how long that glare can last for, hm? After all, we still have about,” he paused, thinking, “forty-five minutes, give or take a few.”

Mac tried not to let the disappointment show on his face.

It’s only been fifteen minutes?

It’s going to be a long hour.

Mac was again pulled out of his thoughts, this time by Murdoc cutting through the fabric of his henley, exposing his chest.  When Murdoc was done, the fabric of his shirt was hanging open from his shoulders.  This gave him a clear view of all of Mac’s many scars that littered his chest.

“Wow MacGyver, I expected some, they come with the job, but this, this is a lot.  I am more than happy to add a few of my own though, I am a bit jealous though.  Well, that’s no problem, we can remedy that right now,” he paused, “Only I should leave scars on you.”

Mac tried to move to cover up his chest, his cheeks reddening.  Murdoc was approaching again.  This time he first put a hand on Mac’s chest, holding him still.

“Hold still Boy Scout, I can’t have you wiggling so much, wouldn’t want to hit anything vital, now do we?”

“Go to hell, Murdoc,” Mac growled, still struggling against Murdoc, and the strap across his chest.

This seemed to set Murdoc off, something in him seemed to snap. He moved his hand from Mac’s chest, and a second later, he was behind Mac, his hand in his hair.  He pulled Mac’s head back, which caused Mac to yelp in surprise, and placed the blade of the knife at the base of his throat. Mac stilled instantly.

“I wouldn’t test me MacGyver.  I may not want to kill you yet, but I will.  As much as I enjoy this game we play, I would still love to plunge this knife into your chest and watch as you bleed out,” he moved the knife so it was hovering teasingly over his heart, “As you gasp for breath as your lungs stop working, and then as your heart stops beating and the light leaves your eyes,” he stopped, then, keeping his grip on Mac’s hair, removed the knife from above Mac’s heart, and placed it back at his side, “Don’t give me a reason to do that.  You have made my life interesting MacGyver, I would hate to end our relationship so soon.”

Murdoc released his hold on Mac’s hair, and shoved his head back forwards as he walked back to stand in front of him.  He had his knife back out, and his face was back to its usual mask, his moment of rage gone.  Without even speaking, he brought the knife up to Mac’s chest and cut into it, deeper than the others.  This time, Mac could barely contain the moan that threatened to escape his lips.  Barely giving him any respite, Murdoc sliced his chest again, going even deeper, but still not enough to kill him, just leave scars.

Scars. That’s exactly what he wanted.

After that cut, Murdoc stopped. He raised the knife up to the light, causing the blood on it to glisten.  He chuckled darkly as he lowered the knife back down. 

Mac glared at he brought the knife up and set it on Mac’s knee, just out of reach of his restrained hands.  He glared at Murdoc, causing the man to feign sadness.

“No need to look so angry Angus, soon enough that perfect face of yours will be filled with agony.  Let’s do a little experiment, for science.  Tell me, Boy Scout, how long do you think it will be before you start screaming?”

Without further warning, Murdoc continued his rapid slicing, some cuts going deep, causing streams of blood to run down his chest, and some barely breaking the skin, just enough to sting.  After about a minute, tears were running down his cheeks, and after two minutes, Mac could no longer hold back the screams. They just seemed to encourage Murdoc, and he continued for five more minutes like that.  

When Murdoc finally stopped, Mac was gasping as he sagged in his restraints.  His whole chest was covered in blood, and it was dripping onto the floor around him.

“That was a great performance, MacGyver, truly.  It was everything I hoped it would be.”

“Go to-,” Mac started, gritting his teeth as he spoke, but before he could finish, Murdoc had placed the tip of the knife once again under Mac’s chin, effectively silencing him.

“Ah, ah, ah, Angus.  What did I say about testing me?”

Mac stayed silent, and that seemed to be a good enough answer for Murdoc, as he lowered the knife, this time placing it near his shoulder, running the tip down his arm.

“I think it’s time we move on, don’t you think?  How about your hands?” he said, drawing the knife along Mac’s forearm, down to rest between his index and middle finger.  “It would be a lot harder to build your little, contraptions, if you couldn’t use your hands.”

Mac’s tear-stained eyes widened as Murdoc continued to move the knife around his hand, and he tried to jerk it away, but with no luck.

“After all, what is Angus MacGyver, without his hands?”

Mac continued to try and jerk away, but all he accomplished was rubbing his already raw wrists even more.  He was starting to panic.  Not his hands.  Anything but his hands.

Murdoc dug in slightly in the next cut, causing a thin line of blood to form, bubbling up from the cut.  He repositioned the knife, and was getting ready to cut in again when Mac spoke up.

“Please, don’t,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry, what did you say, I didn’t seem to catch that.”

“I said,” Mac continued, louder, “please, don’t.  Anything but my hands, I need them, I don’t know what I’d do...” he trailed off, new tears forming in his eyes.  His injuries were quickly catching up to him, his vision was getting blurry, and not from the tears, as he spoke.

Murdoc put down his knife.  “You really thought I would permanently injure the architects of your genius.  You must think I’m a monster.  No, where would be the fun in that, you’ll keep your hands.  But, oh Angus, you’re so lovely when you’re begging.  That could be addicting, you’ll have to do that more often.”

Murdoc stepped forward again, and placed the knife on his arm once more.  Mac’s body was so taxed, that he almost didn’t feel it when Murdoc sliced another cut into his arm, from the elbow to his shoulder.  Murdoc continued like this, whistling as he went, until the sleeve of his shirt was in shreds.  Mac stopped trying to hold in the screams as he moved to the other arm, and then his legs.  There was blood everywhere, but Murdoc was careful.  He never vut deep enough to kill, and always missed vital organs and blood vessels.

Mac almost wished Murdoc would just kill him.  His whole body felt like it was on fire.  The original aching in his head had completely vanished behind the searing pain of the many cuts strewn across his body. 

Eventually, when Mac was barely conscious, Murdoc stopped. 

“Well, it seems our hour is almost up, my dear Angus.  It has been fun, but I really must be going before your guard dog and the rest of your goons show up.  But, before I go, I must give you are parting present.”

Before Mac’s pain-dimmed mind could make sense of what Murdoc had said, he cried out as he felt the knife tear through his skin as Murdoc stabbed it through his thigh.

“Be seeing you, MacGyver,” was the last thing Mac heard before the darkness overtook him. 

...

I’ll probably add a rescue and comfort scene at some point, I just really need sleep :p.  Anyways, I hope you enjoyed!!  Oh, and Happy New Year!!!

[concussed-to-pieces]

To Tell You The Truth Part One

Fandom: Prospect [2018]

Pairing: Eventual Ezra/Prospector!Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Hello everyone, and welcome! I present a new indulgence, as I am a simple man subject to the whim of my hyperfixations. I hope that you all will enjoy this tale, though I warn it will be a tad less carefree. Darker subject matter will be tread in this series. But! My indulgences will shine through regardless, and my trigger warnings will be at the beginning of each installment. If you're interested in reading more of my attempted writing involving a space Pedro, I will direct you to Stay Safe, my completed Mandalorian fic. Enjoy!

Tag List: @huliabitch @renegademustelid @wrestlingfae @zombiexbody @sporadic-fics @rzrcrst

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains allusions to previous abuse. Stay safe!]

You ran.

The thrower knocked against your leg as you fled, almost tripping you numerous times. You couldn't bring yourself to fix it, though.

You didn't stop, even when your ribs started to ache and your vision went patchy. The pod is just in the next clearing, you kept telling yourself, the next clearing for certain. Once you were inside it, you could…

It had no lock. Damon hadn't deemed it necessary. Maybe...maybe that other man just wouldn't find you. The one that Damon had shot and tried to thieve everything from. How could he have believed that his greed would go unchecked?! Those two men had clearly been slaving in the Bakhroma Green for ages. Months at a bare minimum. Now one of them was dead, and the other had been wounded by Damon before your oh-so-illustrious companion had succumbed to the injuries inflicted by that railgun. 

You had been involved in dig disputes before, of course, but you were hard-pressed to think of a time where one had been settled with such...messy finality. 

You entered the pod with a gasp of relief, jerking your helmet off to breathe the comfortingly stale air. You dropped the thrower by the door, unable to bring yourself to even think about using it. 

Damon was dead. 

You pressed your hands to your temples and sank to the floor. The man who had bullied, browbeat and press-ganged you into this remote locale, was dead. And you…

You had no idea how to urge this pod back up past the thick canopy. You were a digger. Digging was what you were good at. It was what you knew. You were not a pilot.

Despair took hold then, as you realized you were truly trapped. Precious seconds ticked by while you laid there on the floor, a curled-up ball of miserable floater. There were three cycles left before there would be no escape, before the freighter slingback would be entirely inaccessible.

You dragged yourself out of your funk eventually, doing your best to wipe your face clean of all your tears. You could figure this out. All Damon had been good for was flying, right? You would inventory the supplies and see how many days you could eke out. Maybe you could reach someone on the long range. 

...

The sorting and cataloging work kept you busy. Which was good. You liked busy. Busy limited headspace. Busy kept people alive on digs. 

It was a little warm inside the pod once the sunlight started beating down on it. You wiped your sweat off with your forearm for the millionth time, flipping through your notes. If you were cautious about certain resources and supplements, you might be able to last two months down on the Green moon. But that was only if your filters continued to hold recharges. Uncharitably, you wished you had taken Damon's before you bolted. 

There was nothing for it. You would just have to make it back to the freighter in time. Two stands of miserable living would do you no good if you were still on this moon. Judging from the thickness of the pollen in the air, the plant life would be noxious. You wouldn't survive without your filters.

You leafed through the radio manual, flipping the power switch and grimacing at the burst of static that greeted your ears through the Arcsoko long range headset. "To anyone listening, this is Dasha Landcraft Rental, parcel-class, pod number-" you paused, fumbling through to the back of the manual for the number scrawled there by the company. "Number...eight-eight-three-nine-seven-five dash-zero-zero--" you stopped to inhale, "-two-seven-four-two. We have landed off course. I repeat, we are off target in the Green. Pilot lost." Your voice started to shake. "P-Pilot lost. If a-anyone is within range, please respond."

You flipped the switch on the signal amp and then pushed the looper, setting the message to repeat broadcasting for an hour. It would be a varying amount of expenditure on your chit for every additional hour you wanted to keep your transmission on the air, and you didn't exactly have money to throw around, so all you could hope was that someone would hear your distress message within the first free hour. 

You kept the headset on, rocking back and forth in your chair as the minutes ticked down. A few times there were bursts of static that sounded like someone was about to come on air, but they peaked as fast as they arrived. 

Hope faded the longer you sat there, sorting and stacking the brightly-colored Calori-pouches of Pastors Henry slurry. You staunchly ignored the way your lower lip was quivering. Damon hated it when you cried.

Within the last few precious minutes of your free broadcast, a noise outside sent your heart into your throat. You yanked off the headphones, scrambling for the nav console. The wall of bulky, jutting screens was the first thing you could seriously consider cover, but it was only once you'd tucked yourself beneath it that you remembered you had left the thrower by the door. 

You started forward to grab it, but ended up just lowering your body closer to the floor as the noises advanced, footsteps you realized. So he had found you. He would certainly kill you if only for what your partner had done. It had been careless of you to start your broadcast so soon after returning to the pod. You had essentially beamed out a homing signal to your exact location. 

For an hour.

This was it. Cowering in a rented pod, weapon feet away, clutching an itemized list of all the things to eat and drink. A fitting end, for a timid dust-scratcher like yourself.

I will not cry or beg, you told yourself sternly. It would do no good here. It was better to face your demise with some shred of dignity, and Damon had just gotten more angry when you cried. 

The hatch hissed loudly and you somehow made yourself even smaller while that man, the talkative one, lurched up into the pod. He stumbled, fighting with the latches on his helmet for a good ten seconds before finally managing to get the thing off, thus affording you a clear view at his face.

He didn't look particularly cruel, or Brism-busted like Damon had. Mainly, he just looked tired and dirty. He had a head of shaggy brown hair, olive skin and deep-set brown eyes. His nose was hawklike, prominent even alongside that heavy brow and the square jut of his scruffy jaw. When he turned his head, you spotted a curious chunk of blond hair that grew determinedly out at a different angle from the right side of his hairline, Mallen streak, your brain supplied oh-so-helpfully. An old scar, silver with age, meandered along his left cheekbone, and a halfway-maintained mustache shielded his upper lip.

His eyes roamed the pod curiously for a moment, taking in all the notes you had tacked to the walls in your inventory sweep. He absolutely noticed the thrower abandoned by the door. 

"This is a vexsome position that your friend Damon has put you into, I'm afraid." He drawled, his pistol loose at his side while he slowly rotated. "I will not apologize for my hand in his death, as he wounded myself, razed my associate and was planning to abscond with several stands worth of my hard work. His greed outplayed his hand."

Dark eyes landed on you, curled up against the wall beneath the console screens, and the smile that bloomed under his mustache was decidedly predatory. 

"I'm...I have food." You began to bargain shakily. 

"You certainly do, don't you?" He crooned in a patronizing tone, the thrower pistol humming as he primed it. 

"I'm a good digger. Th-That's the only reason Damon dragged me here." You cringed when he took a step towards you. "P-Please, I didn't-"

"I have no doubt that whatever it was, you surely didn't. You could have picked me off easily out there had you wanted to, plenty of range on that thrower. What is a gentle soul like you doing with a character that had such a predisposition for marauderous pilferin', I wonder?" The man mused, his expression cheery to an unsettling degree. The grip he had on the pistol didn't waver an inch.

"He promised I-I would be able to finally quit with the points this planet would make." Why bother lying? This man would just kill you anyway. "B-But the pod, it...something happened during the landing. A malfunction, I'm not sure."

"Ah, so your friend Damon was the Ahab of this vessel as well. No surprise there, that steadfast moral compass of his must have seen you two just flawlessly across the vacuous expanse." 

Your lower lip began to quiver again and you dug around in your suit pockets for the lone gem that you had uncovered on your trek earlier. "I don't...I don't have anything to offer aside from the supplies and this. But...p-please, I just…" 

Your sketchbook tumbled out of your pocket as you removed the gem. The barrel of his gun grazed the side of your head in obvious response to the action and you froze in terror. "You keep those hands where I can see them, gentle soul. I am not in a gaming mood at the mo…" His words trailed off when he caught sight of the massive pearl cradled in your palms. "Well well, it seems you've got a bit of bargaining power yet." 

"I don't need much food, I p-promise." You had told yourself you wouldn't beg, but this seemed...very close to begging. "J-Just water and a pilot." You extended the aurelac, knowing full well that you were surrendering your ability to go home. That miserable rock would have paid for the lease on the pod and passage back to the Pug at the bare minimum. Which you had pointed out to Damon, but he insisted on trekking further. You found yourself agreeing wholeheartedly with this other man's earlier observation, his greed outplayed his hand.

"I am not overly inclined to rid this world of you, gentle soul. If I am reading the situation correct, you are not here because you wish to be." The man said after several breathless moments. He didn't seem concerned about taking the gem from you at the moment. "However, we are at a bit of a stalemate when it comes to locomotion." 

His gun dropped from the side of your head and you flinched again when he stretched out his hand towards you. "H-Here, here! Just p-please, don't-" You shoved the rock against his fingers, your eyes shut tight with anticipation. Why couldn't he just shoot you and get it over with?!

"I'm offering you a hand up, gentle soul. Squirrel away your bargaining chip for the time being." The man said, gently easing the gem aside. "I am not an unreasonable man. Let's get you up off that floor and we shall discuss terms as civilized folk do." 

"You...you're not going to kill me?" You asked weakly, daring to open your eyes.

"At this juncture? No." The man tilted his head. "Are you planning on doin' anything nefarious that may encourage my own expedient shuffle off of my mortal coil?"

You had to take a minute just to try and figure out what he'd actually said. It had been ages since you'd interacted with anyone aside from Damon, and your late 'partner' hadn't had the most expansive vocabulary. "I've never killed anyone before." You replied, your voice a whisper.

"A prudent answer, to be certain, for one never knows what the tides of fate have in store for them." He pondered for a breath, his eyes almost impossibly dark. "I'll take your word all the same, face value. You seem an honest sort, gentle soul. Makes me inclined to wonder how you got tangled up in this sorry soirée, though." His boot bumped against your sketchbook and he toed it a little closer to you, obligingly keeping his distance.

"That's not...it's not important right now." You snatched the book up and crammed it back into your pocket. Then, you floundered into one of the flight chairs, sitting sideways so you were able to maintain the barest pretense of eye contact. You clasped your trembling hands in front of you, trying to remember to keep them where he could see them.

"The terms will be as follows: we work together to get this craft airworthy once again. By my late partner's calculations, Kevva rest his soul, we've only got a few turns of twenty-four left until we're well and truly cut adrift on this forsaken Nessus." The way that he was using the term 'we' had your chest strangely tight. "I am loathe to be restricted here for the rest of my days, especially with a royal's ransom stashed in my trophy case. I doubt you wish to suffer that same perdition." 

He leaned forward and you shifted back on reflex, quickly dropping your gaze from the scar on his cheek to the floor. "I understand." You said softly. "What do you want me to do? I'm not...I don't know anything about the nav systems or engines or-"

"Gentle soul, how long had you wandered this world with that disreputable thief?" 

To your horror, you couldn't actually remember how long it had been. It was a haze of silent travel, punctuated by violent outbursts as you tried to make yourself seem even smaller than you already were-

"I did not mean to wound you, gentle soul. I offer my most sincere reparations." He apologized quietly.

"What?"

He gestured with his hand, a little slower now. "You are weepin'."

"Oh! Oh, I'm sorry." You fumbled to wipe your face off on your sleeve. "I'm alright, I'm fine." You assured him with a watery smile.

He studied you for what felt like a lifetime, those brown eyes boring into your own. "I am Ezra, gentle soul. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." 

Ezra. That's right, he had introduced himself as such to Damon before everything had gone so incredibly wrong. "I'm sorry about what happened to your friend." You said thickly. "I didn't...I didn't want anyone to get hurt."

He waved off your words, scoffing a bit. "Number Two was a utility, not a friend. I am none too aggrieved by his loss, and I implore you not to trouble yourself with such dour ruminations on his behalf." Ezra stretched, then swiveled his head around. "What does our supply situation look like? I can see your scrawlings, naturally, but I would prefer it from the merchant's mouth."

You leafed through your notebook pages. "If we're careful, we should have enough to last one month." Split between the two of you rations were a bit harder to calculate, so you went with the safe route of halving the time evenly. "I don't know your appetite. Damon would go days without food sometimes, because of the sleep meds."

"I am ravenous at any and all opportunities, I must confess." Ezra admitted. "Been surviving off bits bars for the last four stands. Calori-paste is my damn marrow at this point in time."

"W-We still have some powdered things, tea, if...I mean can I offer you...um, some coffee?" You warily turned your back to him and started rummaging in one of the many side compartments, pulling out a tiny sealed bag of dehydrated coffee mix.

"I would be…" He paused, sounding like he was fighting for breath. It was so dramatic that you actually looked at him, a touch alarmed. "I would be forever in your debt if you would grace me with so much as a watered-down teaspoon of that heavenly beverage." He settled on one of the side benches, his pistol holstered for the time being. "We will not need rations to last the month, gentle soul, so our best option in the event of calamitous mechanical difficulties may be to take any excess off to the Saders to trade for goods."

"Saders?"

"They are a group of people that inhabit the Green. Religious settlers, tedious scavengers."

Your brow furrowed. You were no religious expert. "Like Kevvaites?" You tried.

"No no, not so much with the monotheism. They believe in the Tides of the universe. The Currents, a certain...ebb and flow of life." Ezra waved a hand to illustrate. "All very poetic, giveth and taketh kinda' sort. Not bad folk to deal with, all things considered, but voraciously against conventional arms and armaments."

You wracked your brain for any other useful items you may have stowed away from Damon, lest he pawn them to pay for his drugs of choice. After you set the hydro to churn the precious dust into coffee, you knelt and shuffled your small personal storage compartment open. "I don't have a lot to offer, I'm afraid." You murmured, tugging out a few duct tape sealed bags. "Almost all the basic hygiene items, my emergency filters...anything he could get his hands on, really. He would just trade it for more drops or Brism." You continued apologetically. 

"That man was a junkie." Ezra said bluntly. "Now, I have my own vices and I am not above reproach, but I always assured that my consumption was never at the cost of someone else's comfort." 

Your throat felt tight and you ducked your head down, avoiding eye contact. "I...I'm sorry." 

"Whyever for, gentle soul?" He asked curiously. 

"I-I shouldn't have-" You had no idea what you were apologizing for, your words dying in your throat. After so much time with Damon, you did it automatically. The hydro beeped, offering you the opportunity to bolt. Which you took immediately. "Coffee!" You announced brightly, the flimsy cardboard container that it dispensed into almost scorching your hand. You passed it off to him, warning, "Be careful, it's-" 

Ezra slugged half the scalding contents in one go, his Adam's apple bobbing convulsively. 

"-h-hot." You finished weakly.

"Kevva above, it sure is." He grunted, shuddering. "God damn, I have missed that acrid nightmare of flavor burnin' my esophagus like Satan himself. Absence truly does make the heart grow fonder." He pawed idly at his wounded arm after a moment, grimacing. "I don't suppose that Damon kept any of the usual med supplies? A field kit, maybe?" The older man queried hopefully.

You hesitated, gnawing on your lower lip. "He...didn't." You answered carefully.

Ezra looked momentarily distraught before he seemed to catch himself, his expression smoothing into something closer to weary resignation. "Well, can't say I'm surprised. They're worth good currency in a trade. Bodes poorly for the survival of my arm, however." He said glibly, the wince that followed contrasting dramatically with his unphased tone.

"Y...Your-?"

"Once the dust gets in, it don't take too long for the fester to permeate." Ezra explained. The wound on his arm oozed a sickly, yellowish fluid down the sleeve of his exosuit when he pressed his hand over it. "It wasn't originally just myself and Number Two, you understand. We had a full crawling party before the muti--" He jerked to a stop, shooting you a wary glance. "Now, gentle soul, I don't want you thinkin' that you have anythin' to fear from me. The mutiny was...a misunderstanding. You saw today what depths desperate men stoop to over a bit of aurelac."

You nodded, your throat gone dry. 

"There were...concerns voiced about equal shares, it was a Kevva-forsaken mess. I don't know how many times I've told folk to draw up their union contracts before they get boots on the ground. Nobody listens, though. It's always 'mutiny once we're planetside' this and 'we can take everything' that." He griped. "Words and metal flew and, regrettably, myself and a few others were marooned on this damnable moon." Ezra drew his hand away from his arm, that yellowed fluid clinging to his fingers in thick, pitchy strands, "We quickly found that these climes are fiendishly inhospitable to floaters in damaged suits."

Your lip felt like it was about to drop off your face from how hard you were worrying it. "I...D-Do you promise not to hurt me?" You finally asked.

Ezra gave you a look of confusion, brown eyes narrowing slightly. "Gentle soul, I thought I had made it abundantly clear that-"

"Just-! Just say yes or no." 

"Yes, dammit, but I fail to see what that's got to-"

"I h-have a kit. A f-field kit." You stammered out. His eyebrows drew together in a thunderous frown and you saw his jaw working. "Wait! Wait, just let me f-f-finish." You extended your hands in a placative gesture, your heart hammering wildly in your chest. "I...trade. I'll trade you. Nobody does anything for free, right? I'll help you, and in exchange, I want you to promise me you won't hurt me."

"What would you do if I did hurt you, gentle soul?" Ezra inquired softly. Your breath hitched. "Indeed, what would you be able to do? Especially now that I'm aware you've got a kit hidden somewhere." The man got to his feet and you immediately flinched. "Your powers of persuasion need some...refinin', but I am not immune to civility. Gentle soul, if you give me that kit not only am I willin' to work with you to get us off this moon, I'll throw a chunk of my haul your way as a show of good faith." He offered, dark eyes watching you closely. "And, I will give you my word as an individual with the slightest, infantessible modicum of moral standing, that I won't lay a finger on you fueled by dubious or malicious intent." 

You stared up at him, your mind entirely blank from panic. His strange words certainly weren't helping your comprehension. "I..." No, no, this was wrong. He was putting far too much up for his end of the bargain! He must be planning something, some sort of trick.

Ezra cocked his head. "You still with me, gentle soul?" He asked cautiously. "Don't tell me you're strokin' out, it'd be a shame to lose such pleasant company."

Your laugh was a jagged hiccup in your chest. Ezra huffed out a breath after a moment, obviously uncomfortable. He probably thought you had gone moony, entirely lunar. "I'm...I'm sorry, I...that's a good, um, deal, b-but I can't accept it." You struggled to get your words out. "Y-You…that is, I don't...I don't want…" to be like Damon. 

"Perhaps your persuasion isn't nearly as uncalibrated as I originally surmised. Very well, gentle soul. How much is my dominant arm worth to you?" Ezra queried dryly, misunderstanding your hesitation. "Because to me, as a workin' man, it's worth its weight in aurelac sixteen times over." 

You hadn't thought of it like that. You felt a bit foolish now. "Oh. Oh, I'm sorry. I...I'm sorry." 

"Kevva above, you are a tender thing. I don't mean to be so grim, but that's the harsh reality that I've been livin' with since I found myself marooned. It's a miracle I've managed this long with the meager supplies allotted to us." He said, sounding rueful. "I mourn my stomach every morning as I eat those crunchy bastard bits bars and I pray for my sufferin' to end."

You didn't mean to snort, but his colorful terminology caught you off-guard. His smile was less predatory this time, as if he hadn't expected your mirth. You knelt, burrowing even deeper into your compartment until you hit the false bottom. There, underneath several sheets of whitewashed cardboard, resided your precious field kit. You had traded the entirety of your meager share from an equally-meager haul for it stands ago, once you realized how deeply entrenched Damon was in his addiction. You had always clung to the faint hope (albeit perhaps in vain) that you might be able to escape from Damon and, if you struck out on your own, you knew you would at the very least need a good field kit as a failsafe for emergencies.

You hesitated before you tugged the box free, your fingers stroking the smooth plastic. You felt silly for the melancholic sensation that rose in your chest, it was just a field kit. You could always get another one. But it had seemed like so much more than a porta-surge. Until today, it had represented your dreams of getting out from beneath Damon's thumb. 

"Not to-" You had been so lost in thought that the unexpected sound of his voice caught you by surprise. You bolted to your feet in a rush and the top of your head met the bottom of his jaw with a bone-jarring impact. Your vision faded momentarily from the force of the blow, black dots exploding and fading out. 

The older man grunted, staggering back a step. He proceeded to sit down heavily on one of the bench seats as you held your aching head in pain. The porta-surgery box laid abandoned on the floor. You could only imagine what level of punishment you were in for now. 

"Martyr's malfeasance, gentle soul, if you try to ring my bell like that again you may do me in." He groaned hoarsely, working his jaw and tonguing the inside of his cheek. "What the fuck is your cranium comprised of?"

You didn't answer, sniffling a little bit and blinking back your tears as you scooped the field kit off the ground. You held the box out to him, your eyes focused on your boots while you struggled to keep your hiccups to a minimum; Damon hated when you would cry.

You cringed when a gloved hand rested gently on the top of your head, clumsy fingers parting your hair. What was he…? "You are goin' to have a fine bruise, gentle soul. Mercifully you didn't break skin. Guess my jawline isn't as sharp as I've been claimin'." 

Was he...was he joking with you? You dared to glance up at him and you were startled by how concerned he looked. Oh, I'm still holding the kit. You gracelessly pushed the field kit against his stomach, trying to use it to give yourself some breathing room. 

Ezra seemed to get the hint and he shifted a step back, taking the kit as he went. "Kevva, this is one of the portable surgicals. Sequestering it was the intelligent choice, gentle soul." He muttered, almost like he was speaking to himself. "I am loathe to willfully use your resources, so I shall do my best to be prudent." You could feel him looking at you again. "This is all that you have, isn't it?" He asked abruptly. "The kit, those few possessions you've already dug out of that compartment."

You just cleared your throat and avoided his searching gaze with studious intent. "You're wasting time." You whispered.

"True enough." Ezra agreed. He flopped back down on the bench and rummaged around in the box, tugging loose the tiny orange sepsis kit and the patch gun with a grimace. "Hello, old friend." He then raised his voice to address you once more, "I will be makin' a copious amount of noise presently, gentle soul."

You nodded jerkily, covering your ears and turning your head away.

Part Two

[ihopethisendswell]

My Computer Is Terrible So I'm Stating My Story Ideas Here Part 10: The Part 2 of the other Part

So so so

Part 2 of the other part which is part 9 and this is part 10 so it's a sequel part

Okay okay okay

Here we go!

Going full ramble again! You have been warned!

So right now Leon, Sonia and Raihan aren't on the best terms after their Big Fight™

So except some back handed insults now and again.

And soon they get to the point where they're just tearing at each other

But not yet

That's for later :)

But they still have to co-op to together if they want to save their kingdom

So yeah they're pretty sour at the moment

They eventually reach the sea side where the ordered(?) a ship to reach to Eternatus. Cause it's on a isolated island

And the ship captain is none other than Nessa, the most feared captain of them all.

She takes after her cousin Archie

Yes I'm making them cousins in this Au fight me

She is often called The Siren given her beauty and deadliness

So why would she be the one to help a royal like Leon

Well she was the only one willing to go and Leon had to pay a lot to get her to cooperate so-

Yeah

But you'll never guess who else is one the ship

Hop and co!

The only reason they're even on I'd because Piers is friends with Nessa

They go way back

So it's like a favour or something

Now Hop didn't know that Leon was going on this specific ship

So you could imagine the reunion

Leon isn't happy btw

Bede is being smug about it like " I told you so" but Marnie shuts him up

Piers tries to defend Hop which honestly cause Leon to relent

So now not only Sonia is with them, but now three teenagers and a thief( I decided to make Piers the head of a big thieves guild....and possibly former duke?)

Which is just so many casualties

This is the part where we really drive home that Leon has this unhealthy way of thinking that he has to take care of everything as king.

This as always been a thing, since his parents died and Rose ( unintentional or not) telling him that everything is on him, and only him.

He didn't even want Raihan to come since he feared how would get hurt or worse

But Raihan is a strong fighter, the best in the kingdom so he can count on him

But Sonia? Sonia quitted becoming a knight a long time ago. She may know the basics but she can't really hold her own

At least that what he thinks

And now his precious little brother is one the same ship with him plus Roses mentor and two thieves( though they do seem chill)

He can't risk them getting hurt. He can't

But we don't have time to unpack all of that!

Cause ya wanna know who else is on the ship? Alexis and co! Boom!

But they actually snuck on because they heard this ship was going where they needed to go to save Naomi and honesty they rather not pay so-

Sneaking it is! Though it's hard cause N is very tall and green hair is quite noticable

But they manage

Until Alexis hears Hop trying to explain why he's on the ship in the first place

And he mentions word of a girl named Naomi

Who is his cousin( I should mention that in Alexis' and Elliot's dream Naomi tells them her name for reference)

Tis triggers something in Alexis and causes his powers to go haywire

Causing him to expose himself and the other two

And everyone is about to attack him cause he's an intruder

And Elliot gets defensive cause " that's my brother you fuckers!"

And N is trying to calm the situation down ( as a means to not get anyone hurt and to atone for his actions as a former prince)

Then Leon is like " wait your the guy from the market!" And before Alexis can respond his powers end up sparking a lot which causes him to double over in pain

And by this point Elliot is panicking cause her brother could possibly die

N is trying to heal him but him alone isn't enough

Then Bede says he could help!

And it's revealed that the boy is half fae!!! Since his hair covered up his ears most of the time!!!

He was told to repress his fae side by Rose in fear of getting hurt( and that having a fae would cause some chaos that he can't control and Rose must have control over thingd to make sure things are good)

So Bede and N heal him, Bede being half fae REALLY helps

So much so that it seems that whenever Alexis uses his powers they don't hurt him as much as it did before

Which is cool and all but he can't really in a child forever that would be wrong

So for now it's a temporary solution

Now everyone is a bit calm now, minus the million questions that Hop and Sonia is asking Alexis

Eventually the two parties( Alexis and Hop) spill they're story and when Alexis confirms that Naomi is very much real Hop is overjoyed and is like " See!!! I told you!! I told you she was real!!!" And everyone rightfully apologizes to Hop

Honestly the revelation that Naomi is in fact real made is already terrible mental state worse cause that means he's been discouraging his little brother for so long and he starts going through what Alexis went through in game canon as " What if I was a better brother,"

And Nessa is over here a bit annoyed that there's a bunch more people than expected but Leon reassures her that they'll pay more and Sonia suggest that they'll work on the ship as well and Nessa ain't complaining to that!( Especially because one of them is a cute red head)

So now bonding time!

Leon, Raihan and Sonia still aren't on the best terms

In fact they've been avoiding each other a lot

They're all stubborn

Though they do miss each other a lot

Hop and Sonia bombard Alexis with questions that he honestly doesn't know the answer to

Elliot is a bit of flirt, flirting with both Nessa and Sonia

She managed to get Nessa flustered at some point and will never live it down

But then she notices that the two of them have a connection and she's like " oh I see" and she's not even mad about cause that just means she has more victims to tease endlessly

Which also somehow worked into them getting together but that's for later

Marnie forces to Bede and Hop to talk out they're issues cause she's grown tired of it, and they do and reach a better understanding of each other

Hop the tells them about Naomi and about his dreams

They take it the wrong way, because of course they do, but he assures them that he only see's her as a friend.

Marnie is shown to be the most curious about who Naomi is.

Raihan and Piers start to bond

Piers was a former duke of a failing/dying nation(? Idk what to call it) and had to resort to thievery the keep things a float. Hence meeting Nessa

He doesn't hate Leon by any means but is always ready to point out his privileged lifestyle before bonding with Leon himself as older brothers

He also bonds with Alexis and Elliot for their mutual love for music

This is where the shipping starts

Alexis and Leon haven't properly interacted before this point. It's mostly small talk

But! Leon has always been fascinated by Alexis, given his tendency to keep to himself and his curse

So one night on deck Leon wakes up( woke up from a nightmare of loosing everyone. Y'know. The usual) and was about to go back to bed when he hears singing

At first he thought it was Piers,as he's known to sing and they've all heard him sing before BUT!

When he listens closely he realizes that it's not Piers

So he goes out to investigate

And it's revealed to be Alexis!!!

And his voice is so beautiful!!!

It's a contrast to his speaking voice , while still quite, his singing voice is more softer and smooth.

His singing voice is much more sadder than his usual stoic monotone voice

And Leon is completely enamored.

Not to mention that Alexis isn't wearing his cloak that covers the majority his body, so this is the first time Leon has gotten a clear view of him and

The man is , mm, I would say infatuated. A small crush begins to form

Alexis' song is a sad one

He sings about the pain he's going through and how he wishes he didn't involve those he cares about

Which really spoke to Leon. Like a lot

Because parelles babeyyyy

But when Alexis notices Leon's snooping he calls him out, pretty embarrassed

Cause the only person he ever sang in front of is Elliot, Cheren, Bianca and his parents

So having Leon there, a stranger,is embarrassing

Not to mention that he's not very proud of his appearance via the curse

He's been called a monster by someone on the ship prior and while Nessa was quick to snap at that person it still took a blow to his already low self-confidence

Leon begs to differ but he doesn't know that, and even if he did it's more of a him thing that he needs to get over .

After a quick back and forth they end up talking and just....spilling everything

Alexis talks about his time as a chosen one, his battle with Ghetsis, his scar his curse, and especially his want to do this alone to protect others

While Leon talks about his fight with Raihan and Sonia, the disconnect between the three, how he feels like an awful older brother to Hop, the pressure if being a king after his parents, the guilt he feels for dragging everyone into this mess

Both of them don't know why they're saying this. They're both pretty secretive about how they truly feel, but it's incredibly late, and the two are in a vulnerable spot so it kinda just comes out

After a while they both go to bed with a strange but welcomed friendship!

I just wanna say, if I ever do write this, it's not gonna be entirely romance focused.

The ships will be there, but like, the amount of character set-up I did prior demands a lot more attention soooooo

Especially with Sonia, Raihan and Leon's whole conflict!

I hope I didn't misrepresent their characters here!

But yeah

This got very long very fast so part 3 is in order!

TDLR: Leon and Alexis needs a hug, and I feel like this is going to be a series within a series