#major injury

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumptober 2023

No. 10 “You said you’d never leave.” | No. 13 “I don’t feel so good.”

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Alexandria (Saviors War)

Warnings: Illness, Descriptions of injury

It had taken you all day to get ready. The war with the Saviors was coming and you, as well as everyone else, were prepared to end it. Rick had a plan, one you knew your partner wasn’t willing to follow. Still, you had tried to reason with him. 

He wasn’t okay after what he had been through. He was lost in his lust for revenge. He wouldn’t let you be there for him, pushed you away harder than you were willing to allow. You were trying to pick up his broken pieces and cradle them until you could help him put them all back together. But he had slapped them from your grasp with venomous outbursts before cold silence. 

He was your everything. He was hurting in a way he hadn’t since he was a child, and no one could reach him. Not even you. You knew you’d be there when he was ready, but you were done begging. If the both of you lived through this, you’d catch him when he fell. There was no sense telling yourself otherwise.

Right now, though, you were angry. You were angry and you were tired. And it was time to end this and give Daryl the peace he needed to heal. You would do this for him. You would single-handedly raze your way through each and every Saviour to get your hands around Negan’s throat and rip it out. For Daryl. 

You threw your pack onto your shoulder, packed full of supplies that you never normally carried but still not as heavy as your heart. With a glance around your home, the one you had hoped to share with your archer when he was back, you were ready and you opened the door. 

Daryl was there. He was standing on the porch with his back against the support post, nervously tapping his fingers against the wood. His head immediately snapped up, your eyes locking. 

“Y/N.” It came out as an almost whimper. There was more on the tip of his tongue, his mouth moving but no sound emerging. You remained stoic as he began to approach you, a slight wobble to his gait. When his arms encircled your shoulders, your anger couldn’t withstand the tremble you felt in his embrace. 

The bag slipped from your shoulder to fall heavily to the floor just inside the doorway, your own arms weaving around his middle. When your small hands splayed open on his back, you could feel the heat radiating beneath his shirt. 

“Daryl?” You tried to pull away, just enough to look at him, but he wouldn’t allow it. If anything, he held tighter. 

“Ya said ya’d never leave.” God, he sounded tired. Resigned, even. Your heart shattered. Had you really given him that impression? With careful steps, you led him over the threshold without separating, grateful that the action hadn’t spurred him into retreating. 

Using your foot, your bag was pushed aside and the door closed. You carefully released him and gripped his forearms to encourage him to do the same for you. He let you without a fight. During the process, his expression was pained, as if you were denying him the comfort he was finally seeking. 

“I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay.” Slender fingers still loosely held his arms and guided him to sit on the couch. The coffee table became your perch. With the looming war all but forgotten, you needed to get a good look at Daryl. 

The two of you hadn’t spoken in days but you’d received reports that your friends had seen him during all hours of the day and night. He wasn’t sleeping. If the intel hadn’t confirmed that, the discolored circles under his eyes would have. There was a sickly pallid to his skin under the thin sheen of sweat. The archer continued to tremble, the damp strands of hair covering his fever-flushed face seemed to vibrate. 

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Your voice remained steady, though you felt anything but inside. 

“Yer pissed… gon’ leave me.” He was slurring, his gaze almost vacant. “Ya are, aren’tcha?” His brow furrowed, dull blue eyes searching for a moment before finally locating your worried ones. 

“Pissed? Or leaving?” You could answer both with certainty, but keeping him distracted allowed you to brush back his hair and press a palm to his forehead. Definitely feverish. 

“Gon’ kill ‘em. Me an’ Tara, we got us a plan.” The bowman carried on like you hadn’t even spoken. “Gon’ kill ‘em all.”

“We’ve talked about your plan, Daryl.” The attempts to coax his eyes back failed. There was a twisting in your gut that something more was happening. He was sick, that much was obvious, but since when did Daryl get sick. Perhaps the trauma he’d experienced had impacted his immunity? No, that wasn’t it. You could feel that there was more. “Don’t you remember?”

“I kept tha’ picture.” His tone had changed, almost void of emotion. “They made me look. Kept it so I don’ forget.”

“Daryl, baby, you’re not making any sense.” 

His head turned toward you at the pet name, eyes looking clearer than they had even mere seconds prior. You found yourself almost leaning away, lest you drown in the high tide of raw emotion in those azure pools. 

“Daryl?” 

“Y/N, I—” His brow knitted but he didn’t look away. You nodded for him to continue, watched him take a deep shuddering breath. “I don’ feel so good.” There was no time to interrogate him about his symptoms. The words had no more than slid off his tongue when his eyes rolled back and he slumped toward you. 

“Shit!” You caught him under his arms, only remaining off the floor because of the close proximity you had taken in front of him when you had sat down. “Daryl?” Your left hand moved to cradle the side of his head as you stood and guided his descent across the couch. Lifting his legs up was difficult but you managed, caring little for the effort it required. Your hands hovered over him, not sure where to begin, but the symptoms: fever, weakness, sweating, confusion. Had he… was he bit?

You grabbed his arms, lifting each to examine up to the rolled-up sleeves. You couldn’t see his biceps, so you’d have to remove the shirt. Grasping his chin, you turned his head toward you and then away, checking his neck. When you started on the buttons of his top, the corner of the gauze that covered his gunshot wound peeked out from beneath the fabric. What should have been a clean, white dressing was dirty and yellowed. 

“Oh, Daryl.” You knew before you even pulled back the taped edge. While you were relieved it wasn’t the death sentence of a walker bite, infection in these times was nothing to play with. His shirt was wrestled off and pulled  from beneath him, tossed somewhere. You’d find it later. “Jesus.” You whispered, removing the bandage completely and tossing it aside. The skin around the wound was angry, such a deep red that it appeared nearly purple. The poorly sutured wound was leaking puss, both yellow and almost green. Had he been to the infirmary at all since his escape?

“Goddamnit!” If he wasn’t in such a poor state, you would have shaken him awake just to knock him out again. You shoved yourself from the floor and began to pace. What could you do? Nearly everyone had left the walls to go fight. Shit! The war was happening without you. 

Daryl groaned behind you, bringing your steps to a quick halt. The battle was suddenly absent from your thoughts.  He didn’t wake, only turned his head back and forth before settling again. His breathing wasn’t labored. He hadn’t coughed. Maybe if you opened, cleaned and debride, and restitched the wound, you could buy some time to find antibiotics in the infirmary. Luckily, everything you needed for this was in your bathroom upstairs. 

You began the ascent to your room. “Oh my god, Daryl Dixon, I’m going to murder you when you wake up.” Oddly enough, the threat came out in more of a high pitched whimper than an actual promise of bodily harm. Items in your cabinets and drawers were meticulously organized for this very reason. You had all you needed in less than a minute and were back at his side and placing things on the coffee table. 

You could only pray he’d remain unaware. You’d given Daryl stitches before and he’d barely grunted at you. His tolerance for pain was incredible, hence the terrible mess in front of you. You just weren’t sure how a fever-ridden Daryl would handle having his skin cut open and away while it was so terribly inflamed. 

“Okay.” You situated yourself on a chair from the dining room, bringing it with you after washing your hands. Daryl was still fully unconscious but you leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek anyway. “Here goes nothing.”

Over an hour later, you had done all you could. You had cut away any tissue that appeared necrotic, cleaning out the yellow with some vodka before suturing the wound. It was significantly larger now but the stubborn asshole would just have to deal with that. At least it looked cleaner than the disaster made of it at Sanctuary. The mess had been cleaned up and the wound wrapped. A pillow had been placed beneath his head, his boots removed, and a blanket spread over him. You sat on the floor now, your back against the couch and your head in your hands. 

The streets outside were so quiet. It was unnerving. The sky was darkening and you found your thoughts wandering to the war you had missed and how many people’s deaths your absence had been responsible for. Would the Saviors come barging through the door to drag you and Daryl to Sanctuary? Maybe they would just shoot you both on the spot. Or would Rick come yell at you for ditching them before telling you of their victory?

Either way, you couldn’t have been there. There was no way you’d leave Daryl like this, even if it was the most cooperative he had been since breaking out of that hell. 

“Y/N?” His gravelly voice rasped out behind you. 

You twisted onto your hip and then onto your knees, one hand wrapping around his that lay on his chest and the other smoothing back his hair. “I’m here.” His eyes were barely open and he was still hot to the touch, but he seemed calm and lucid enough. “Just waiting for everyone to get back and we’ll get some antibiotics for you. Have you back on your bike in no time.”

“Wha’ happened?” He blinked slowly but didn’t appear to be struggling to stay with you. 

“You didn’t take care of yourself, dumbass.” You admonished gently even when you wanted to yell and throttle him for scaring you. “Your wound was infected. Had to do some fancy field surgery.”

“Oh.”

Your eye twitched at his flippant response but you sucked in a deep breath through your nose and got yourself under control. “Think you could drink some water for me?” He gave an almost imperceptible nod. Your water bottle was beside your leg, and you were much too tired to get up so sharing was caring. Cap off quickly, you wiggled a hand behind his head and pulled him up just enough to drink a few swallows. Once he was settled again, you brought his hand to your lips, kissing the too warm skin stretched across his knuckles. “You know I’m not leaving, right? Not now, not ever.”

“I didn’ know.” He admitted, his eyes slipping closed. 

“Well, now you do.” You smiled even though you had forty different emotions warring inside your head. “We have to start working through this, Daryl. Together. You have to let me in.” That pretty blue peeked out from behind his heavy eyelids again. 

“I don’ know how.” 

Your heart twisted inside your chest, an invisible vice squeezing and squeezing until there was no more room to beat. So much progress since the quarry and Negan had taken it all away. 

“You just talk and I’ll listen. I don’t understand how it feels to survive what you have but I can try. I want to try.”

“Then I’ll try too.” He lifted his left hand to your face, fingers tracing down your jaw. “M’tired.” You already knew he was losing the battle to keep his eyes open. The rest would do him a world of good. 

“Just rest.” There was cheering outside, but you couldn’t be sure who had come through the gate. Until Carol threw open your door, panting and concerned eyes wide. Her gaze flittered between you and Daryl. You jerked your chin toward the porch, sending her there until you could step out for a moment to give and receive updates as well as tell her what was needed from the infirmary. When the latch clicked, you looked back to Daryl, his eyes slipping shut once more. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

[mercurydancer]

Burning Matches Pt. 3

CONTACT

_

            It took Peni a long time before the collective Spiders could finally make actual physical contact with each other, and somehow longer to finally gain contact with Pete. As their monochromatic friend had never had any real experience with cellphones or any other object that Peni could think to make to allow them to talk to each other, Peni had decided to wait until she had a working method of jumping to alternate universes before attempting to reach him. It was a hard decision to make, Pete had been the one to spend the most time with her, and she missed him dearly, but it made sense.

            It was likely that the sight of the group of them would be a lot easier to take, and likely easier to trust, than some random device that called his name, or otherwise tried to contact him in that way. The fact that he wouldn’t know how to actually use the device helped solidify the decision, and so Peni focused on calling up the others, helping them contact each other, and then buckled down to open up their dimensions without destroying the universe, or their cells.

            It was a good thing that Peni thrived under pressure. Adapt or force the world to bend, and Peni in this instance, had decided to use force.

            Communication came first, and it started with Gwen. While it would have been easier to start with Miles as she had a baseline for what his universe felt like…a part of her had been scared to try it. They had taken out everyone aside from the Kingpin.

            They had taken out everyone aside from the one who had killed Spider-Man, and while a part of Peni really believed that Miles had adapted and knew what he was doing, another part of her was terrified. She contacted Gwen.

            Peni hadn’t spent a lot of time with Gwen, but in that time, she had discovered that Gwen was cool. Gwen was a drummer in a band, had an amazing haircut that Peni would get Grounded-For-Life for if she tried, and her poise and dexterity had been amazing. If that wasn’t a person to emulate Peni didn’t know what was. It also turned out that Gwen’s universe was also very close in structure to Miles’.

            When she finally gained contact with the other girl it was to drop a communicator in the vague shape of a watch into her lap. Naturally it was able to be charged with a USB, which had not been a small feat. Figuring out the proper current as well as the pin size and length had been a chore, but the result was something that Gwen could wear without issue and use to both text and call with. The holographic keyboard was a touch of Peni’s own universe, but also one that she thought would be appreciated.  

            Gwen was the one who pushed for Miles’ universe to be the second, and Peni accepted without any pushback. When Gwen was finally able to open the small portal and drop his own watch onto Miles’ it was a moment of celebration. It had also been a true breakthrough. Passing the watch to Gwen to run some tests, who was then able to rip her own portal through to Miles’ and give him his watch and not having any lasting consequence to either wearer or watch?

            Brilliant.

            Peni had trouble finding Peter B. More trouble than she really expected. It wasn’t because his universe was that different to theirs, but more…his universe seemed to be the norm. There tended to be a lot of Peter Parkers that acted as Spider-Man, and finding the right one was a bit like finding a needle in a haystack. Made of Peter Parkers. Which was weird. When she finally found him, it was to stumble upon the sight of Peter B kissing a very familiar red-head.

            Peni had been unable to contain her squee at the sight, Peter pulling back in shock at the sound, and then reeling at the sight of a portal hovering behind MJ. MJ, for her part, took the rip in space like a champ, and aside from stepping behind Peter as he was the most prepared to deal with the strange and unusual, she stood her ground.

            “You got back with MJ, oh, Peter, that’s so good! I’m so happy for you!” Peni cried out, her hands under her chin, and hearts in her eyes. Literally.

            “Peni!” Peter exclaimed, shock, embarrassment and awe on his face in equal measures. “How…?” he started.

            “Can’t explain, not enough time, take this! There’re instructions on the back! Miles and Gwen are connected, too!” She threw the watch at him with a slip of paper taped to the back, something he caught without trouble due to his literally sticky fingers, and the portal closed on a pair of baffled expressions.

            Peni wasn’t surprised when she gained a frenzied series of texts from Peter B, but she was too busy laughing to care that much. She texted Gwen and Miles and alerted them to the fact that Peter B was with MJ and they had contact. The texts slowed to a halt when the other two immediately started texting Peter B their own congratulations, and it didn’t take long for a very simple, but very heartfelt: “Thank you” to appear on her screen, followed by “MJ says hello, and thanks you, too.”

            Peni felt a warmth spread from the bottom of her toes to the top of her head, and a grin spread as wide as possible on her face as she gave another ferocious squee. She was rocking this.

            Peni immediately set to work contacting Peter Porker, fueled by the success and the thanks she had been given. While it was true that Porker was a bit like Pete in the way that he didn’t have access to a lot of their technology, Porker also operated by this… Porker had called it ‘cartoon-logic,’ and Peni hated it, but that didn’t change the fact that he was absurdly good at making anything given to him work. She didn’t think he would have any trouble getting the device to work, nor did she think he wouldn’t be able to make it adapt to him in the same way he forced everything else around him to change.

            She was right.

            Porker took the watch when she gave it to him and sealed the portal again, and within moments had managed to not only get it to send pictures of his own world, something that Peni hadn’t originally given it the ability to do, but also sent her flowers through it. Two of them were a bright pink, and while one she recognized as a rose, the other took her a bit to learn the name of. It was a geranium she eventually discovered, and came with a beautiful white flower that she also learned was a lily of the valley. In combination, these three flowers turned out to be, not only an expression of friendship, but a return to happiness when she looked up old flower meanings later.

          Peni put them in water and had to fight back tears.

           She finally took a moment to relax and just texted and talked to the others for what seemed like hours, listening to their voices, memorizing the sounds of their laughter and the quips that seem to never stop from everyone, herself included. It just seemed to be a Spider thing.

            MJ talked, too, and it was so nice to hear her voice, and Peter B’s voice responding to her, and to them. He sounded so much happier, and that made Peni happy, too.

            Spiders Adapt or they Force the world around them to Bend, and Peter B had managed to force his, if only with a good deal of groveling and reevaluation, and promises, promises, promises.

            The only one left was Pete.

            It was time to work on actual prolonged physical contact, because she owed everybody one hell of a hug.

            It was difficult, first because she had to isolate what made them corrode, and then because she had to find out how to fix it all. There was also the danger inherent with that stability being connected to a watch that could either be destroyed or malfunction. If she was going to make this work, she had to make sure that either that watch was going to be near-indestructible, or she had to make them adapt.

            What to do, what to do.

            Eventually, Peni decided that she was going to have to make some serious tweaks to the watches themselves. While it would probably be safer to make either a nanotech injection or something else that would make their cells physically adjust to the other universes, a field wouldn’t have as much physical adjustments, and there was no telling how everyone else would react to the nanotech. That was one thing in particular that would have to be studied later as soon as she had access to the others and they could really dive into it. As it was, a protective field would make it so their own bodies wouldn’t corrode, but would also be a hell of a lot less invasive.

            Peni worked and she worked, her Spider a constant presence handing her tools and whispering encouragement into her brain, until finally…finally.

            Peni took her first step into Gwen’s world, Spider on her shoulder, and the older girl greeted her with a loud cry of happiness, and arms that wrapped around her and spun her around. Peni had brought her tools with her, and she worked on fixing Gwen’s watch while Gwen brought them pizza, the two girls laughing and talking as they ate and Peni modified Gwen’s watch. The entire time Peni never glitched once, nor did she feel the slight wrongness that had always been at the back of her mind when inside of Miles’ universe. When they were finished, Gwen followed Peni back into her universe, so she could properly examine Gwen and see to it that the field worked the same on her, and Peni had access to better tools if it didn’t. 

            It also brought her back to the actual SP//dr mech, the one that she had been recreating at the same time as connecting to the rest of the Spiders, and also the one that had been left behind to finish its own field. The plan with the SP//dr mech was to provide another safe-zone should anyone else’s watches bust. The trickiness of making sure that it could create any field in an isolated manner had left it behind the first time, but now that she had Gwen to help test with it was done faster. 

            When it was discovered that Gwen was able to not only stay in her universe and her own feeling of wrongness wasn’t present, Gwen and Peni both made the leap to Miles’ universe, this time with the entire mech.

            Miles greeted them with all the grateful enthusiasm a new Spider that had been missing his friends could. He also formally introduced them to his roommate, Ganke Lee, who seemed a lot more accepting of them when they didn’t have a talking pig, and also when he knew what was happening. Ganke had talked to them a few times through text and over a…technically seven-way group-chat when MJ had joined the five of them, and Ganke had gotten involved. It was good to see him properly, and…not give him a mini heart-attack.

            When Peni finally managed to properly adjust Miles’ own watch, they said a very sorry goodbye to Ganke, who was not only very understanding, he was also very supportive. They were going to Peter B next, and Ganke knew not just how much Peter B meant to Miles, he knew how much Miles and the others meant to Peter B. They didn’t have enough watches to bring him, regardless, and Ganke honestly wasn’t that sure how sold he was on hopping dimensions anyway.

            Peter B greeted them with a large hug and laughter, holding them all on the side of the building they had leapt out onto as their dimension hopper locked onto him perching there. Peni had leapt out of her mech at the sight of him, Peter B instinctively catching her much like he had the watch, and then simply gathered the other two teens up in his arms and held them. They held him back, laughing, and very much near tears. He was so much happier, so much more whole. He’d even managed to lose some weight, something he was endlessly ribbed for. When Peter B invited them back to meet MJ they accepted without hesitation, and a procession of spiders swung through his New York.

            MJ, who was used to being able to get into places she otherwise wouldn’t have, was waiting on another rooftop after Peter called her to let her know what to expect.

            MJ was sweetness and warmth in equal measures, combined with an unrelenting strength that made them instantly understand why losing her had caused such a strain on Peter. It also made them understand why he loved her so much in the first place. There was a moment when the urge to tease Peter for managing to gain someone so far out of his league rose, but then they saw the way they stood together. That familiarity and closeness that only came from knowing each other, and understanding each other, and above-all struggling together.

            Peni made more heart-eyes and clasped her hands under her chin, sighing deeply.

            “I’m so glad I get to meet you all,” MJ said, and she hugged them, too, and it was… Peni didn’t have the words, but she felt like she didn’t need to. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you so much for…everything you did for Peter. For each other,” the smile she gave them was soft and they couldn’t help but beam back.

            “Thank you for taking him back, he was an absolute wreck!” Miles finally said with a pair of finger guns and a wink, and the moment was broken with a great deal of laughter and teasing. MJ had a wicked smirk and quipped with the best of the Spiders, and Peni idly hoped that she’d have someone like an MJ one day. That would be nice.

            Peter B’s watch was taken and fixed, and with one last kiss, Peter B joined them on their second-to-last dimension jump.

            Peter Porker’s universe was loud and chaotic, and felt a bit like they had stepped into a Looney Tunes episode, not just because of the way everything looked, but because of the context. Peter Porker’s position was slightly different. While Gwen had been on the side of a building, Miles in his dorm, and Peter on another building, Porker was in the middle of something else.

            Peter Porker was in the middle of a shower.

            The screaming that exploded from everyone was a mixture of truly horrified and embarrassed. The door slammed behind them as they all dove out of the room, and a moment later a (decent) pig stormed out of the bathroom with his face blushing a very bright red, but he recovered quicker than they did.

             “Ah, relax, that gag’s a staple in my universe, you wouldn’t be the first, and I doubt you’re the last.”

            The hopeless giggling that finally escaped Peni’s mouth was echoed by Gwen, and then finally the rest had fallen into a mixture of hysterical laughter. Porker made them tea, which was…an odd experience to drink. It felt there, but it didn’t feel…real, somehow. It was so surreal, but it also left them with the one watch that Peni had left. Porker finished bringing out chairs from a supply closet that looked like it couldn’t hold as much as it did, and they all gathered around the table in the kitchen as they drank their tea.

            Peni worked on this last watch that hadn’t been given to an owner yet, as well as Porker’s, tongue poking out as she fought to work out the kinks. Finally, it was finished, and the rest looked to her in anticipation as Porker put his watch on his wrist with a smile.  

            “Alright, guys,” Peni said, anticipation building up inside of her like a balloon, a smile on her face as she walked back to her robot. “Last one, are you all ready?”

            “Let’s find Mr. Tall, Dark, and Gloomy!” Porker called out with a fist-pump, and Peni sent them one last series of coordinates.

            The dimension hop was accompanied by the familiar lurch in the bottom of their stomachs as they tumbled end over end through a webbed-void, and then they lurched to a stop as they finally hit smog, black, and gloom.

            They huddled together on the roof of the building they had found themselves on, rain pouring down around them and almost immediately drenching them before Peni’s robot spun into position to protect them from the rain.

            “…Hello, Tall, Dark, and Gloomy!” Ham called out, patting the concrete of the building beneath him. There was a brief snort from Gwen, who immediately put her hand over her mouth.

            “What, it was funny?” she snipped at the rest of the Spider’s combined disbelieving looks. Porker crossed his arms, nodding proudly.

            It was then that the sound of machine-gun fire broke the silence. They immediately went into battle-stances, ready, senses straining as they fought to figure out where it came from.

            Flashes of light from a nearby building that resembled an old-timey speakeasy drew their attention in this world of gloom, and they soon realized that that was where the bullets were coming from. The flock of screaming men and women was another tip-off. They immediately leapt off the building, falling in a formation that they gravitated to without thinking. Peter B was the first to break through the door, flipping to stick to the ceiling above as Spider-Gwen landed on the railing overlooking a much bigger establishment than had been originally anticipated. Spider-Ham was on a table, Miles standing next to him with his hands ready to shoot webs at anyone who came near, while Peni rose behind them in her mech.

            They weren’t expecting the sight that they came to

            Pete was behind a kicked-over table, a tommygun and his usual pistol both held out before him, both aimed at something that a few of them instinctively recognized.

            Larger and more horrifying than they had ever seen or expected, teeth twice the length of Peter’s hand held in a mouth that couldn’t properly hold them, tongue lolling out between the gums and all held in a scaled and familiar head whose large black eyes focused and reflecting no light. Its hunched-over body loomed over the much smaller man with his weapons, tail whipcord thin and lashing behind it as its claws were bared and ready.

            At the sudden banging of the door and the leap of everyone into position paused, Pete paused in his firing to see who had appeared.

            “You guys-“

            In an idle sort of way, none of them had expected for Pete’s blood to be black. None of them had expected that their sudden appearance would be just the distraction that the Lizard had needed. None of them had expected for that very black and very unexpected blood to be painting the wall behind him as Lizard’s claws dug into his flesh, and sent his body flying limply to hit the wall with a wet-sounding smack.

            In the end, no one knew who screamed, but it was Gwen who attacked first.

[blinded-and-bloody]

That trope of amazing sharpshooters and precision fighters losing their sight and ability to defend themselves is,, amazing. Like, yess, you can hold the gun, you can hear the villain — but you’re basically completely defenseless ohmygod

[sonicexelle-junkary]

Another character idea that came to me recently. Surprisingly not tied to any au or existing story. He’s his own dude.

Wound (you choose the pronunciation) is a wolverine with an incredible fixation on hedgehogs (mobian or not) to the point where he wants to literally look inside and see how they tick. His strange interest has garnered the attention of Sonic and his friends, but he has yet to be able to do anything to them, unfortunately.

[quiescentdestiny]

thank you so much to the fics that pointed out explicitly that all of Neil's scars that he mentions are on his front, which implies very few of them were received while running and instead imply that he got them while fighting back.

I hate it here.

[akemisalem]

every time i look at this picture i start crying laughing. why in the world did they make oboro so fucking big LMFAO, he should be playing basketball instead of being a hero

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Twenty-Two

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: Minor character deaths. Major character injuries. Canon typical violence/graphic descriptions. Whoopdeedoo 9.2k words for you!

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

The lake lay flat and motionless as a mirror, like a pool of paint someone had spilled over grey stone. It extended past its dark borders, seeping into the ground beneath your feet and drenching the soil until it was thick as winter slush. You shivered just to stand in it. 

Ione stumbled on the soft, marshy ground of the southeast blindspot. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to winnowing. 

“Gods have mercy,” she swore beneath her breath, tugging at her cane from where it sank inches deep into the earth. There was a sucking sound as Ione gave another irritated pull.

Techaria allowed the woman to lean against her side, butterfly wings fluttering before turning invisible with a shiver of light. They attracted too much attention. 

You blinked up at her in surprise, forgetting the dread that had your stomach churning. Magic like that usually hailed from the Day Court, which meant your father had chosen her to accompany you. 

She shrugged noncommittally. “Helion had some say in deciding who would accompany you and Ione to the Continent. Everyone agreed I would be the best fit as someone familiar with both the Day and the Night Courts.”

You had dozens of questions you wanted to ask — how had she come to the Night Court? When did she join the ranks of the Valkyries, small in number as they were? What had possessed her to do such a thing? 

But those were questions for another day when you weren’t trying to keep your stomach contents from revolting and your racing heart in check. 

“Yes, that makes sense,” you agreed.

You gripped onto the straps of your pack, feeling the weight of two dozen siphons sitting within them. The plan was simple in nature, but would be difficult to execute — use Nesta as a distraction to lead Koschei away from the lake and give Ione enough time to unlock the power for herself. If your theory held true, the siphons would allow Ione to concentrate that power and destroy Koschei once and for all… at least that was the hope. 

Bone-pale trees stood in loose clusters all around and up to the water’s true edge, bracing themselves against one another like wounded soldiers trudging through mud. You tried to imagine they were protecting you as they’d protected Andrian. A fragile barrier against Koschei’s influence both physically and metaphorically. Thin as they were, they did what they could to cover your movements and you saw no evidence of the activities you knew were taking place across these lands. 

Some of the trees leaned out over the water with their pale, thin faces. Desperate to catch their own reflection in the inky stillness. Gray stones, round and smooth, filled the bottom of the lake, staring up like polished skulls through the brackish water. Or were they skulls after all? You couldn’t tell, although shadows appeared to look out through hollows that may have once been eyes. 

The ground rose on your left, curling out towards you like a brown wave. The trees that grew over the wave’s crest looked healthier, their skeletal branches managing to hold onto the last of their frost-bitten leaves on sturdier ground unspoiled by the water.

You breathed through your nose and gagged. The heady scent of rot and death choked the air, the stench inescapable no matter how you breathed. 

There was another sick smell creeping into the air. Something acrid, like chemicals set to flame in a flask. You tilted your head to the sky and gave a tentative sniff before frowning immediately. Whatever was causing the smell was close by. 

Techaria looked down first and swallowed a scream. Her boots, which had sunk into the soil up to her calves, were sizzling. 

Ione lifted her cane with a shaking hand and found the silver cap at its end similarly melting away. The metal smarted and popped off the wooden end, sinking into the ground and catching flame. 

The lake was alive and it was hungry. 

Techaria lunged forward, snatching the old woman around the waist and throwing her over her shoulder with a grunt. She took off towards higher ground, trusting that you would follow close behind. Not that you had much of a choice. You could either run or stand still and let your pearly white bones succumb to the lake’s magic. You rejected the latter option immediately.

You scrambled after them and with every step you felt the power of the lake seep closer and closer to your skin, begging to feast on the flesh of your bones. 

The harder you pushed, the deeper your feet sank into the ground until every step felt like a battle with the gaping maw of a fish.

All at once you understood what Bethsevah had meant when she had locked the power beneath the lake. There was something in those waters not altogether evil, but hateful nevertheless — some essence of Bethsevah’s magic that would destroy whatever it identified as its enemy. 

You were vaguely prideful and equally frustrated that your theories on magic as a biological system were proving true at every turn. You didn’t even know how you could quantify this for inclusion in your manuscript. 

Good thoughts, wrong time. You thought as you kept running. 

Techaria ran up the slope of the hill, digging her toes in before launching her body up by the strength of her back and catching onto a snarled claw of roots. For a split second, the roots threatened to snap and send both Techaria and Ione tumbling back down to the acidic mud. But Techaria made the final ascent, dropping Ione to the ground with little fanfare before she reached down for your hand. 

“Come on!” She hissed, too terrified to make more sound. 

There were ears and eyes in these woods. She could feel them blowing their foul breath against her neck. 

Something whistled in the sky as you clawed your way up the sloped ground. An unearthly glow shot across Techaria’s terrified features as she latched onto your arm and yanked you up to safety. You cried out in pain, your ankles nearly popping out of their joints as your feet came free of your shoes. 

Techaria rolled on top of you and slapped her hand over your lips hard enough to make your teeth rattle. 

“Be quiet and stay still.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. Techaria wove her magic around the three of you like a blanket, hiding you in plain sight just like she’d done with her wings.

Your breath caught in your chest when the source of the whistling came into view.  

It was Vassa.

She seemed to have doubled in size and strength — no more dreary feathers or patches of picked skin. She sailed close to the treetops, brushing her wings against the sparse foliage and setting them aflame with what could have been a screech or a laugh. 

Snapped branches, charred and crackling, rained over your head. 

“Is she gone?” Techaria asked moments later, her face still locked on your eyes as you took shuddering breaths.

You nodded stiffly and the female finally released her hold on you.

“Your shoes—”

You shook your head. You still had one sock on your left foot, but your right settled into the dirt and you felt every poke of detritus against the sensitive skin. Down below you caught glimpses of your leather boots bubbling in the soil. There was no salvaging them. 

“You can take mine.” Techaria offered, already bending down to undo the laces. 

“Don’t. They won’t fit me anyway.” They were burnt beyond recognition and hanging on by weak threads. “And from the looks of them they won’t stay intact for much longer no matter who’s wearing them.” 

But Ione was suspiciously unharmed. Her shoes were intact, as was the hemline of her cloak. The only item that seemed to have earned the lake’s ire was her cane. She waved it in the air, dispelling the smoke from its fuming end as if she were warding away evil.  

Curious. You thought. 

When you’d all caught your breath, you set out in search of safe ground closer to the water’s edge. You’d need easy access to its powers when the time came. Eventually you found your safe haven in the form of a willow hovering by a pool that bubbled out from the main lake. Its silvery sprays hung low, sparse and thin and sickly. But its roots held onto the soil well, keeping the ground firm and dry.

You pressed the palms of your hands into the ground, focusing on the subtle hum of magic that seemed to emanate from it. You dug through layers of topsoil, unspun the threads of magic like a ream of paper until you could read its contents. Every stroke of magic, its very signature, felt familiar.

It felt like Bethsevah. 

“I want to test something,” you said, gesturing to Techaria’s long, coiled hair. Without hesitation, she let you cut off a golden lock. You lowered it towards the lake’s mirrored surface and quickly snatched your hand away when the strands disintegrated with a spark. All it had taken was a touch and poof. Gone.

You repeated your test with Ione’s and… nothing. Nothing but a knotted length of gray, damp hair. Ione stared at the lake’s frozen surface, feeling something pull her closer and closer. 

She plunged her hands into the darkness.

You bit down a shout. Techaria leapt forward, grabbing a fistful of Ione’s cloak and pulling her back. You expected to see pure, white bone sticking out from the nubs of the wrist. At the very least, you expected some cracking of the universe as the ripples fluttered out and died. But once again… there was nothing.

Ione shrugged Techaria off her back before drying her hands on her cloak. “Well I think that settles any concern we had about my blood relationship to Bethsevah.” 

Techaria couldn’t believe that such boldness could come from a woman so frail and aged. 

You nodded. “Magic recognizes magic the same way blood does. It must be why you’re unaffected by the lake’s powers. It knows who you are.” 

You quickly took off your satchel, ripping off the buckles and upending its contents. Two dozen siphons spilled out, blinking like sapphires. You tried to tamp down on the wave of longing that rolled over you as you saw their familiar color but not the familiar body that came with them. 

Azriel.

Your mind whispered his name into the void as you clutched one of the blue stones. 

I’ll find you again when this is all over. I promise.

The elaborate leatherwork Ione had strapped on her hands, elbows, chest, and knees were familiar to you. Illyrian-made and designed to hold siphons capable of collecting and focusing power. 

You locked two of them into place on the backs of Ione’s hands, one at the center of her back, one at her chest, two at her elbows, and two at her knees. It was more than Azriel and Cassian wore, but Ione carried them with cold grace, as if she’d been born to carry out this task. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing, girl,” Ione said as you finished tightening the straps. 

“If you mean the armor, then yes, I do know what I’m doing.” It wasn’t the first time you’d handled Illyrian leather. You helped Azriel strip them off at the end of every day. It had become a ritual of sorts. You would unlace the armor at his elbows and knees and undo the buckles that kept his back brace secured beneath his wings. In return, Azriel would ghost his hands over your shoulders as you shrugged off your robes and undo whatever pins and knots had found their way into your hair that day. 

You shivered at the thought of him and his careful touch. At all the things you hadn’t told him. All the things you’d never gotten to do with him. You’d both been so cautious and determined to take your time as if you’d had an endless abundance of it, but you were beginning to regret it now. 

You swallowed those emotions. 

You couldn’t let them distract you. Not now. 

“If you mean everything else… I don’t.” You replied honestly. All of this was a gamble. You didn’t know if Ione would be able to handle the magic she was about to take on. And if she did survive, you didn’t know if the siphons you’d prepared would do anything to focus that power into something that could be used to kill a death god.

You slid a knife out from your thigh and Ione’s eyes flashed like two marbles caught in the sun. She too was thinking of all the ways the day could go wrong. But it was too late. She’d already committed to this next turn in her life and would see where the path took her. 

But for now… they could only wait. 

Azriel.

His head snapped up at the sound of your voice.

Every so often, when your guard was down or your emotions were heightened, thoughts and feelings would trickle across the connection that bound you too together and knock at the doors of Azriel’s soul. As if the bond knew your thoughts lay with him and wanted to give him a taste of all that could be his one day. 

Azriel. Focus. His brother’s voice snapped him from his thoughts. Shadows swarmed around him in a cloud so thick, he couldn’t see his brothers standing right next to him. They were all hidden in the same dark.

Is she safe, Rhys?

As safe as she can be with Ione and Techaria. They found the blindspot in Koschei’s magic. Y/n says some of the power in the lake belongs to Bethsevah, or at least used to, and will seek to destroy anything it doesn’t recognize. Take one step into those waters and it will burn you to a crisp.

So don’t touch the lake. Got it. I never was a fan of swimming. Cassian interjected. And I don’t believe my opinion will change after this day.

Azriel could feel the tension in his brother’s muscles the longer they were forced to stay hidden. Every twitch of his fingers as he drummed the hilt of his sword. Every rapid blink as he switched between conversations with Rhys, Nesta, and Feyre. 

Will Koschei burn too then? Azriel thought aloud. If he touches the lake before unlocking his power?

That would make our lives infinitely easier, wouldn’t it? I would bet good coin I could wrestle him into the lake. 

Something tells me Koschei isn’t the kind of man you can throw around, Cassian.

He’s not— 

The words died in Cassian’s mind, shriveling up and wasting away like flowers at the end of their season. 

He meant to tell Rhys, “He’s not a man at all.” But when Koschei emerged from the woods, languidly striding towards the lake, Cassian felt foolish for thinking anyone would need the reminder. 

Koschei was not dressed for war. 

Not a stitch of metal armor graced his skin. He wore only the unblemished flesh he’d been born in — grey as a stillborn child — and a length of pitch black fabric draped around his waist. Trails of white cord criss-crossed over his chest and wrapped around his throat like a necklace before looping down his arms.

Azriel narrowed his eyes, looking past his shadows, and shivered. It wasn’t white cord at all, but an endless chain of teeth strung together like stained pearls.

Koschei fingered them thoughtfully, counting each tooth and twisting the necklace around his neck so he could feel them drag across his skin. Molars, canines, and incisors alike were worn as decoration, testifying to the millions that had met their end beneath his feet. 

Death followed at his heels, sucking the air dry until it felt hard to breathe. Where he walked through the grass, the ground turned black. Plants lost their color and collapsed in pathetic heaps. Worms sprung from the ground, wriggling and writhing like the unfurling of a carpet in search of new rot to consume.

He carried a scythe in his hands, rust streaming down the black metal like it was weeping tears of blood. 

A scythe. How poetic,  Feyre thought with a shiver. Where farmers used the humble tool to cut down their fields, Koschei used his to cut down men. 

She gritted her teeth at the sight of something else in his hands. A metal chain tied around his wrist. One sharp tug and Ione — or rather, Nesta — stumbled out from the treeline by her neck. 

Nesta! 

I’m fine. She soothed her mate’s mind even as she followed Koschei’s beck and call, wrapping tendrils of cold flame around his boiling fury until it was at a simmer. The glare she shot into the death god’s back would have sent lesser men to their graves, but whenever he looked back at her with his alarmingly sympathetic smile, she masked that disdain, replacing it with a familiar mix of contempt and fear disguised as anger. He hasn’t hurt me.

She knew it was killing Cassian to watch as she was led to the lake like a lamb to slaughter. Every instinct of his screamed out to crush Koschei’s smooth skull beneath the heel of his boot for laying a hand on his mate. But whatever your magic had done was working. Vassa had dropped her at Koschei’s feet like a cat delivering a corpse and he had smiled so brightly, skin stretched to breaking over wide cheeks, that Nesta knew he’d been fooled. 

He’d locked that chain around her neck, caressed her cheek with care, and walked with her all the way from his cabin in the woods to this thin stretch of beach. He hadn’t spoken a single word, but he’d sung. 

Funeral songs.

Each and every one of them.  

Some she recognized, others she didn’t. Sometimes he sang in languages that had been buried in graves a long, long time ago, their tombstones scattered as dust in the wind. 

Pitch black eyes raked over the empty shores. His nostrils flared as he drank in the stench of decay and petrichor. Rain clouds huddled overhead, trembling in his presence as he smiled with a joy that didn’t reach his eyes. 

He couldn’t remember the last time his hands had been drenched with fresh blood, but he was looking forward to it. When he was finally free of this place, he would go to Prythian and revel in the violence he’d been deprived of for so long. 

He licked his lips and sighed. He could almost taste the iron on the tip of his tongue, brackish and pure. He began coiling the chain in his hands until Nesta was forced to kneel in front of him, not even a foot away from the still water. She could smell sickness on his skin, like that horrid summer in the human lands when plague bodies were left to bloat and spoil in the streets.

He gripped her face in one hand, pressing her cheeks until her lips parted. She fought the urge to bite off his fingers. 

“I know you’re disgusted by me.” He spoke in a deep, grating voice. “But you must understand, I was not meant to be like this. When I was worshiped, when I had full grasp of my being, I was a more handsome sight to look upon.” He grabbed the back of her neck, forcing her face over the lake until she could see Ione’s face staring back at her. 

“Thank you for giving that back to me, child.” 

Later on, when Nesta reflected on yet another brush with death, she would marvel at how sincere she found his words. 

He moved faster than light, a knife appearing in his hands that he aimed at Nesta’s throat.

But Cassian was faster. 

He hurled himself out of the shadows, slamming into Koschei’s side in an explosion of red light that left a crater in the earth. The death god looked almost elegant as he was thrown onto his back, drapery smooth over his chest and legs as he regarded Cassian with a frigid frown, like he was an ant who had dared to splatter and mark the bottom of his shoe. 

Cassian threw Nesta over his shoulder, sprinting off into the cover of the woods with his wings tucked tight between his shoulder blades. 

Remember, You’d told him, We need to keep Koschei away from the lake for as long as possible. The moment Ione breaks the spell, he’ll know and he’ll come racing back to destroy us all. 

He could hear Vassa screeching in the distance, the noise growing as the beat of her wings carried her back to the heart of the lake. Back to her master. 

He also heard the rustling of the leaves as the wind picked up. The steady footsteps of warriors getting ready to make their assault.

Koschei did not run after them. It was beneath him to run. He may have lost his prize, but such things were temporary. He’d waited this long. He could afford to wait a little longer. 

He took his scythe, raised the blade to his lips, and cut a vertical line down the center. Dark red blood, thick and clotted, spilled out from the wound and painted the blade. With an artful swing, he carved a circle into the sand and those things that were dead in the woods began to walk once more. 

Ione clawed at her chest the moment Koschei drew blood, some wild feeling in her spirit begging her to turn and sprint into the deep woods or to hide in the tall grasses like a bunny escaping a hound. 

“What’s going on? What’s happening?” 

You remembered she wasn’t blessed with the sight and sound of the fae. She couldn’t see what was happening on the other edges of the lake as Koschei finally began to walk after Cassian and Nesta. But she could feel it as keenly as you and Techaria that something was amiss. A malicious power was bleeding into the world and ripping souls from their rest.

It’s finally begun. 

The ground shook with silent thunder.

Techaria’s amber skin turned white, wings flickering back into the seeing world before disappearing again as she regained her focus. 

The wind whistled past you, skeletal branches beginning to rise and fall as they bowed over and over and over again in frantic prayer. The trees by the water leaned further down, kissing the lake with their lips and watching as they were burned away, leaving black craters on their faces. 

The earth trembled and bones rose from their graves, creeping up inch by inch like shiny, white pustules. Some still clung to their rotted flesh, stringy and dark and rank. Others were as smooth as pearls, picked clean by the scavengers of the earth. But all of them began clustering together, held up by magic as new tendons sprang into existence and knit the bones close.

You couldn’t believe how quickly those crooked creatures ran. Their movements were erratic yet purposeful as they weaved in between the gaps in the trees and through the rustling tall grasses, followed by distant screams and shouts and the ringing of steel and—

“Do it,” Ione commanded, holding out her wrists with a grimace. 

You clutched the knife tighter, but didn’t move. “Ione, I—”

The woman’s eyes hardened. She had not traveled all this way for fear to take over. She had not lived to this age or survived a fucking war to be afraid of death now. 

“I’m an old woman, Y/n. It’s a miracle I’ve kept my sanity this long. I can afford to lose it today. Now, if you don’t use that knife for its intended purpose, hand it over and I’ll do it myself!” She growled.

You sucked in a deep breath and without further hesitation, cut a line across the woman’s wrists. She hissed in pain before she turned and held out her hands so her blood could drip, drip, drip down, and disturb the smooth mirrored surface of the lake. 

He’s not following us, Cassian. Cassian! 

Nesta held onto him for dear life, burying her face in the folds of his wings as he sprinted through the woods like a wild horse. 

Koschei was meant to be following them. 

It wouldn’t matter that Ione could break the magic of the lake if Koschei was there to snatch it up instead.

Nesta felt a wave of power roll over the woods. Cassian held his breath, his stomach dropping towards the cradle of his hip bones.

I think you’ve spoken too soon, Nes.

Twisted creatures dropped down from the trees, pale with pitch black eyes and gaping mouths. Nesta gave a shout as one grabbed hold of her shoulder and threw her off Cassian’s back.

Two more leapt atop of Cassian, narrowly missing the curve of his throat with their teeth as he jerked back and then shot out bursts of power. 

NESTA!

She screamed, beating at the creature with her fists. Long, black strands of flesh fell from its skull, drooping over Nesta’s cheeks with a slimy touch. Just when she thought she’d need to pull from her own power, Cassian’s hands burst through its chest, tearing apart its chest in a shower of red light and bone fragments.

“Come on!”

The wind stopped howling so loudly. The temperature of the air dropped. And suddenly there was Koschei, looming just above Cassian’s shoulder with his stretched-skin smile and empty eyes.

Cassian caught sight of the death god in Nesta’s eyes, rolling out of the way of his scythe before it could take off his head. 

Nesta played the role of the old woman, scrambling away on all fours as bone-beasts gathered around like crows to a corpse. They clicked their teeth together, heads popping in and out of sockets as they closed off all avenues of escape. 

But Nesta’s attention was squarely on Cassian as he and Koschei danced through the trees. Her mate had never looked more alive than while fighting a god of death, with his sweat-slicked hair and cheeks painted red from exertion. There was a light in his eyes as he dove and twisted away from the swinging scythe and Nesta swore she could hear his wildly beating heart over the chaos.

Are you glad he followed us now, Nesta? He could still find it within himself to tease her.

Oh for fuck’s sake! 

She gritted her teeth, picking up a rotten log and beating away a creature that dared to cock its head in her direction with hunger. 

Despite the rush of blood in Cassian’s ears and the growing ache in his body, he couldn’t help but smile at the sound of Nesta’s curses in his mind. He stamped down on the scythe with his left foot and kicked it away with his right. It flew through the air, embedding itself in the trunk of a dead elm at the same time that Cassian sank his sword into Koschei’s ribs.

Koschei looked down at the blade in his side, a flicker of surprise passing through his eyes. 

His shoulders twitched… then began to shake. 

Koschei was laughing.

Cords of unnaturally defined muscle pulsed around Cassian’s sword, sucking and swallowing like a starving dog. Cassian’s stomach turned. His brain muddled and grew hot, for there was no blood to be found when he finished twisting the blade and wrenched it loose. 

Worms, wriggling, pink-grey worms, poked their heads out from the wound, writhing and coagulating before becoming flesh once more.

Koschei stopped laughing, but the smile never left him as he locked eyes with the Lord of Bloodshed.

“It’s been a long while since anyone laid a hand on me, let alone twice.” His words were heavy with condescension. “Well done.” 

Cassian reeled back, dropping his weapon as the muscles of his right arm seized with a vengeance. He ripped off his gauntlet, watching as the veins of his hand turned purple… then black. The skin followed suit, decaying before his very eyes.

He dropped to his knees, cradling the ruined limb against his chest and howling in pain.

Nesta saw red and lost her mind as Cassian’s pain erupted down the bond. 

She shrieked so loud and so powerfully that the bone-beasts vibrated before shattering into dust.

She tore away the magic you’d spent days weaving over her skin and through her blood like they were cobwebs until it wasn’t Ione standing in front of Koschei, but a Lady of Death in her own right.

Recognition flickered through Koschei as the scythe flew back into his hands. 

��Sister?” 

Then.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

And a piece of Koschei’s soul cracked open. His eyes flew open in surprise. His mouth dropped and a dozen flies swarmed out, buzzing with anticipation and hunger. 

Someone had unlocked the power in the lake. His power. 

Nesta lunged at him and landed in the dirt, damp leaves slipping and sliding beneath her hands and knees. Koschei was already gone.

Cassian moaned. His skinned burned from the inside out. Is this what his death would be? He felt like a pig slowly roasting on a split.

“Cassian, Cassian, my love.” Nesta crawled over to him, tearing buckles and leather armor off his chest and arms. “Cassian. Look at me.”

His eyes opened, bleary and unfocused.

“Nes,” he whispered, feeling cool kisses of wind pepper his burning flesh. “How bad is it?” 

Nesta went quiet. His right arm was black up to the elbow and the infection of Koschei’s touch was only spreading. Darkening veins bloomed towards his shoulder, like ink running down coarse paper. Soon it would spread to his chest and kill him. 

“Nes?” He felt her caress his mind. Felt her soothing his soul before quietly shutting him out. 

She eyed the sword abandoned on the ground, walked over, and picked it up. Cassian didn’t need to ask her what she meant to do as she stood above him and raised the blade above her head. His wife, his mate, had never been one to shy away from hard decisions.

“Damn, Nes,” he said through gritted teeth and adjusted his position so she had a clear path to his arm. “Just do it.”

“I love you, Cassian,” she said through tears.

“I know.” 

Then she brought down the sword, and severed Cassian’s arm from his shoulder.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The water turned red, swirls of color spreading out through the dark until every inch of the lake had turned as crimson as a rose.

Azriel slipped in and out of shadows, cutting down Koschei’s creatures just as quickly as they reformed. Beads of sweat gathered at his brow, painting his cheeks and neck with salty strokes. 

EVERYONE TO THE WATER! NOW! 

Feyre’s command rang in his mind and in a flash of shadow, he materialized on the beach. 

The High Lady’s silver armor shone like starlight — a beacon for warriors to flock to as they came staggering out of the trees and grasses covered in the blood of their friends.

Behind me! Rhys shouted from Feyre’s side. 

He crouched low as the bone beast sailed over his head, its crooked jaw open wide. Feyre plunged her fingers into its eye sockets, curling them around the nose bridge and holding tight as Rhys drove his sword up and into the dark flesh of its underside. His sword channeled his power, exploding the creature from the inside as it thrashed. Its jaws still snapped and twisted, screeching at a high-pitch until Feyre crushed it to dust.

Light, wind, fire, and ice exploded on the beach as High Lords and High Ladies poured out their power. Viviane threw her hands up, sending hundreds of shards of clear-cut ice towards Vassa as the firebird swooped down and bit off the head of an Autumn Court soldier. There came a scream as fire met ice and steam blanketed the ground, thick as early morning mist. 

Koschei’s creatures never stopped spilling out of the woods, piecing themselves back together in increasingly bulky, horrid formations. Even the fragments on the ground were restless, crawling over bodies like maggots, filling the eyes, and ears, and mouths of corpses until they were compelled to stand and fight with twitching limbs.

To Azriel’s right, Helion fought a wolf-man hybrid, shoving light down the creature’s throat until it lay convulsing on the ground. Somewhere to his left, the High Lord of Autumn was kneeling in the wet sand, shaking the bloodless body of one of his brothers and screaming at him to wake up. Azriel tried blinking the grit out of his eyes, shadows streaming over his arms and around his body like a shield. 

One blink and there was nothing but the misty haze before him.

Another blink and there was Koschei with his scythe in hand and a line of blood from his lips all the way down to his sternum.

Eris stopped cradling his brother’s body. The tears evaporated from his cheeks as he stood on shaking legs and pulled out his knife. He wanted to be close when he made the kill. This was personal.

Koschei tipped his head to the side as he regarded the High Lord. Then he smiled. He enjoyed it immensely when they fought back. 

The passion and hope and rage was just so delicious, like salt sprinkled over a fine meal. 

So when Eris roared, his metal armor turning pure white as he burst into flame, what else could Koschei do but slide his tongue over his lips and taste death? 

Eris clapped his hands together above his head, bringing them down in a stroke of white flame that Azriel felt blaze past his shoulder. Koschei swung his scythe and severed the flames in two, cutting a neat circle in the sand. Then he swung again and in an arc of light, the power of a High Lord of Prythian met the power of a death god. 

Lighting cracked through the air, structures of sand erupting and trapping the arc of the bolt like a snake’s tongue.

The scythe won.

Blood splatter decorated the ground as Eris’s armor was torn off him. His helm of oak branches and gold cracked in two, clattering to the ground before his body followed suit. Lucien ran forward, dragging Eris away as he gurgled and gasped for breath. 

Koschei sighed, dragging a finger down the handle of his scythe. “Oh how I’ve missed this.”

Ione felt the power call out the moment her blood hit the water. It was a thousand symphonies playing at the same time, calls from a hundred desperate lovers asking for her hand as she stared at her reflection and felt the world around her drown itself to music.

Drip… drip… drip.

“Ione… Ione… IONE!” 

Her eyes went dark and hungry, her hands curling into claws that wanted to reach out and take, and take, and take.

She shrugged off the hand you laid on her back, plunged her head into the iron-laced water, and began to drink. 

Every gulp was a breath of fresh air. An electric zing through her blood she hadn’t felt in decades as the pain of time-worn bones melted away. 

She felt untouchable. 

She felt alive. 

Like the first time she’d taken a man to her bed, his dramatic gasps rolling out from beneath her as she dug her nails into the headboard and drove her hips down. Like the day she’d run away from home with nothing but a bag of copper, the clothes on her back, and bruises blossoming on her knuckles. Like the morning she’d awoken in a strange town miles away from home and seen her endless future unfurling before her.

Yes. That’s what she was. Endless.

“IONE!” You screamed through water-logged ears. 

Ione’s skin, wrinkled and dusted with sunspots, began to clear. Light, hot and saturated as a sunset, pressed against her skin from the inside. Like a parasite ready to burst, it roiled and bubbled within her, consuming her every thought except that she needed to keep drinking until the lake was completely empty and she’d reached the depths of Koschei’s magic. 

“You need to stop! You’re taking too much! IONE!” The siphons she wore were bright as stars, cracks appearing in their surface as they tried to contain the power coursing through her system and failed. You kept replacing the ones you could reach, throwing the overcharged stones to Techaria until you ran out. 

You grabbed the leather straps criss-crossing over Ione’s back and yanked. Hard. 

Ione threw out her hand and the siphons on her body exploded. Your head burst with pain as you were thrown back with enough force to snap the trunk of a chestnut tree. The world swam before you. Colors melted like the paint water Feyre cleaned her brushes in. 

Ione drank and drank and drank, craning her neck ever forward as the water level dropped at an alarming rate. 

Techaria looped her arms around the old woman’s chest, digging her heels into the ground and heaving with all her might. But the woman didn’t budge, too drunk off power and possibility to let anyone stand in her way. Ione used her newly acquired strength to grab Techaria’s wrists and together they dove into the water and disappeared. 

Blood dripped down your temples, dampening your hair as you crawled your way to the lake’s edge. 

Techaria’s wings floated to the surface, orange crystalline membrane sizzling like steel wool.

The water dropped another three feet before Ione reemerged. If you hadn’t seen her go in, you wouldn’t have recognized her when she came out. Her grey hair was now so blonde it may as well have been moonbeam cascading down her back and over her breasts. Her skin shone, pale and perfect. Her pupils were but pinpricks in the fabric of her steel grey eyes. 

You whimpered when she looked at you, her stare flat and empty as the air around her rippled and turned white. 

For a moment she looked like she might smile. 

But then she took in a shuddering breath, lower lip trembling as her mouth filled with blood. She dragged her hands down her face, peeling away the skin as fissures broke out full of light and crackling with electricity.

“Get it out. Get it out! GET IT OUT! NOOOOOOOOO!”

Ione blew apart. 

Her blood rained over your head, drenching you so thoroughly you may as well have gotten caught in a thunderstorm.

Bethsevah hadn’t been able to control the power nestled within the lake. To possess it for even a short period of time had nearly driven her mad. You should have known Ione never stood a chance. 

If things go wrong, find me so I can protect you. And so if anything happens, we won’t be alone. I want you to promise me.

“I promise, Azriel. I promise.” 

You walked in a daze, muttering those words to yourself over and over again. You didn’t know where you were. You didn’t even register the change in the air as you stepped out of the blindspot’s safety and began walking. 

And walking. 

And walking. 

Towards where you could only hope Azriel was still fighting. 

You tripped over a body, salt-crusted braids peeking out from beneath a helm of coral and seashell. Paisley blue eyes, deep and dark and bloodshot, stared lifelessly at the sky. You staggered back to your feet, picking up the pace as you stumbled through a maze of corpses. 

You slipped when the ground turned to pure ice. It splintered outwards from two bodies like a starburst.

Viviane, armed to the teeth in blue steel and a crown of ice protruding from her white curls, rocked back and forth on her heels while cradling Kallias’s head in her hands. 

She wailed as his body turned cold. Frost clung to his long, pale lashes and where his blood pooled around his pale blue robes the ice melted and cotton grass grew in quiet, white tufts. 

Onwards you walked, until you felt a familiar tap at the edges of your mind. 

Y/n! What’s going on? Where are you? Your High Lady’s voice rang loud and clear. 

It’s over, Feyre. Ione’s dead. Techaria’s dead. 

What do you mean? What happened? TELL ME!

Ione wasn’t strong enough to hold Koschei’s power. She… she killed Techaria. She blew apart into a million pieces. I’m covered in her. 

You spit on the ground, wiping away the taste of blood on your lips. It clung to you like a second skin, seeping into your pores and burying itself there. 

Y/N!

It was a different voice calling out to you this time. You heard it on the wind, soft and faint as an echo. Or maybe you were finally losing your mind. But it didn’t matter. You would have followed Azriel’s voice anywhere. 

You started to run, or rather stumble forward, hearing the clanging of steel and shattering of bones grow louder and louder. Through the gaps in the trees you saw Koschei standing as immovable as a mountain. He had one hand splayed out — silver lines splintering out in the air like and holding back the assault of Rhysand and Helion’s power. With the other he swung outward with his scythe, the rusted blade sprayed with fresh blood. 

The High Lord of Summer beat aside the weapon, the moisture he’d plucked from the air fluctuating around him like a brilliant, blue sea creature. Feyre trapped the scythe in the sand, crossing her twin swords in an X and giving Tarquin the chance he needed to bring down his spear and shatter the weapon with a boom that exploded through the woods and sent you sprawling back on hands and knees. 

Koschei hissed and he lurched back with what remained of his weapon — a metal rod tapering to a jagged, thin end. That fleeting moment of triumph on Tarquin’s face fell away when Koschei stepped close and drove that jagged end through Tarquin’s stomach. His iridescent, pearl-encrusted armor may as well have been crafted from paper the way it crumbled and tore. 

Rhysand roared, finally breaking through Koschei’s shield as Feyre threw herself over Tarquin and raised a barrier to protect them both. He snapped his wings out to the side, leaping through the air in an arc that had you holding your breath. 

Black feathers exploded from his skin. His hands elongated, curling into claws capable of shredding through steel and iron. 

This was the High Lord of the Night Court. 

Rhysand was darkness given monstrous form.

Night triumphant.

The strongest elements of his Illyrian and high fae heritage combined.

Koschei plucked Rhysand out of the air like he was a fly. 

Grabbed hold of his wings.

And tore them off his back. 

“RHYS!” Feyre’s shriek tore through the air, forcing everyone to turn their heads and watch as the High Lord of the Night Court’s wings drifted to the ground like silk.

Rhysand didn’t cry out, too in shock at the loss of such a familiar weight from his shoulder blades. He felt Feyre’s horror and pain where he couldn’t feel anything. His body all but shut down. He landed in the dirt, sand rolling around his tongue and stealing the moisture from his mouth. Then Feyre was there, smoothing back his hair and telling him not to move. He fumbled around for her hand, feeling it clamp down and never let go. 

Koschei loomed over the High Lord and High Lady, looking down at the fire in Feyre’s grey-blue eyes with a sneer. It was a sight he was too familiar with — a foolish girl making foolish decisions in the name of love. It filled him with an indescribable hatred. 

His wall of magic built itself up again and would not bend or break, no matter how Helion threw his blows down in cascades of golden light to help his friends. 

Feyre spit on the ground as tendrils of decay scattered out from Koschei’s feet, dampening her magic until she could only drag Rhysand over her lap and press her lips to the top of his head. 

Helion gritted his teeth. His magic was fading fast, even as he kept finding new places within himself to pull strength from. Koschei’s shield was weakening, he could feel it stretching thin as he began to divide his attention towards the High Lady and High Lord of Night stretched out before him. 

Just… a little… longer. He promised himself, even as his legs shook and buckled until he was down on his knees. 

There was a flash of red at his side and Helion’s brows shot into his hairline when Lucien Vanserra slipped into his peripheral vision, palms out and pouring every ounce of energy in his body towards the weakening hole in Koschei’s shield. There was something about him that Helion recognized. Some close connection that revealed itself as the golden flame of Lucien’s power joined his own. 

Helion’s stomach bottomed out. He was in freefall. “Lucien?” He asked breathlessly.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Lucien replied through gritted teeth.

Koschei snapped out his wrist and an obsidian blade, thin as a needle, appeared in his palm. It seemed to shriek as he swung it down, screaming with a thousand voices like a choir from hell. 

Azriel slipped out from the darkness, shadows pouring out to block the attack. 

No. You breathed. No, no, no, no, no, no, no—

Azriel was cunning. You’d seen him in action and knew he was talented beyond measure and armed with a skillset that could rival the High Lords of Prythian. But even he was no match for Koschei. 

The death god stuck his hand through the assault of shadows and lifted Azriel into the air with a mere flick of his palm. 

He tore Azriel’s shadows away from him, peeling them back like a second skin until they fell limp to the ground. Had he killed them? You’d never stopped to think that such a thing was possible.

Azriel stifled the screams that rose in his throat. He had promised himself he would never cry out in pain — never beg for anything — since the day his brothers had ruined his hands. 

But then he locked eyes with you and heard you scream his name as you ran towards him barefoot and bleeding over the battlefield. And he found reason to beg. 

“NO!” He roared over the shrieking of shadows in his ears. “GET OUT OF HERE, Y/N!” 

There was only one way he’d die a good male and that was if you managed to escape. That was the only hope on his mind. The only prayer on his lips as he begged you to leave him. To leave them all. 

“Y/N! PLEASE!” He cried out in pain, thrashing in the air. 

Promise aside, you couldn’t leave him. You’d never stopped to entertain the thought that Azriel might be the one to die today. He was too good. Too strong. But if this was the end of his road, you would follow close behind. That was a promise no magic or death god would ever get in the way of.

You gasped, feeling something beneath your ribs tighten and lock. 

The bond snapped into place so powerfully you almost fell apart in the sand. 

It was a sliver of moonbeam laced with shadow that tied you to the one person in the entire world you’d felt safe with. The first person you could ever truly call home. 

Azriel’s face crumbled, tears streaming down his cheeks as the world fell away from him until you were the only bright and shining thing. A single star dropped onto a black sky. 

And Azriel… Azriel was everything to you. 

I’m only a Librarian. You thought even as you ran forward, eyes locked on your mate. You weren’t meant for war or strategy or cunning. You belonged in the stacks, huddled over ancient pages. Not on blood-soaked grounds hundreds of miles from home. 

But more than that, you belonged with Azriel. You were meant for each other. As intrinsically as gravity bound the seas to the earth, Azriel grounded you and you centered him. To lose him now would mean being untethered from the world. To float away into a nothingness that wasn’t serene or patient, but dark and lonely. 

You wouldn’t lose him. Not now. Not ever. 

You had done what no one else had been capable of doing. You’d read through Bethsevah’s history. For a moment, when you’d been close to death on the cobblestone streets of Velaris, you had felt her power fill you like a cup of wine, her memories overflowing from the pages of her book until you had become her.

If you’re reading this, my daughters, do what I could not. Take the power in the lake and destroy him. It will open for you, and only you. My power. My blood. 

You’d had a taste of that power. You knew the shapes it took beneath your hands. You knew how it felt when it was running through your veins like blood. And it was this knowledge that you clung to with reckless abandonment as you began to pull Bethsevah’s memories from the reaches of your mind, donning them like a costume.

Without thinking twice, you switched courses, desperation fuelling your legs as you sprinted towards the glossy, blood-red lake before you. Azriel was still screaming your name, begging you to stop, and you heard your father and brother’s voices join in his pleading. The bond, still so fresh and vulnerable, echoed his horror as you ran right up to the lake’s edge and leapt into the waters. 

I don’t know how to swim. You remembered as the darkness enveloped you. Lucien never taught me and I don’t know if he’ll ever get a chance to. 

You thought that by looking up you’d see a warped image of the sky, bordered by murky outlines of the trees as they swayed and bowed. Instead, you saw a reflection of yourself. You floated inches above yourself, lips closed tight as you felt the growing need for oxygen begin to bloom in your lungs. 

It was warm here, but it did not burn like it did before. You held onto the knowledge of Bethsevah’s power, feeling the texture of it beneath your fingertips and carefully undoing the threads of your own magical signature before remaking it to match. Months ago, you had shared a theory with Azriel that Clairvoyants possessed a particular ability to alter their magical signatures to match others. A form of magical mimicry and another example of your studies bleeding into the real world and shaping the fabric of the universe. 

You’d tested that theory with Nesta when you’d hid her from Koschei, but now it was time for a second experiment. 

You did not burn. Not even when you opened your lips and let the water pour in. 

It slipped down your throat like whiskey, setting your blood ablaze and sending shivers across your skin. With each gulp you felt stronger. The wounds on your body sealed shut. The bruises beneath your eyes faded. 

You reached deep into that wealth of power to find what belonged to Koschei, Thanatos, Stryga, and Bethsevah. You absorbed the knowledge embedded in their magic, and time crumbled beneath your touch as you began undoing and reweaving their magical signatures into something utterly changed. 

It was careful, pensive work. The kind of work that could only belong to a Librarian and a Clairvoyant. 

With the power of three death gods and a warrior flooding through your veins, you pulled yourself to the edge of that mirror and stared at your own reflection. Your clothes were gone and your body healed. Once, you would have cringed at the sight of your own skin. But no more.

You drank.

And drank.

And drank.

Until the lake was only an empty pit in the ground. 

All creatures, dead and alive and in-between, felt it when the powers within the lake broke a second time. 

Koschei dropped Azriel and he fell flat onto his back, raw and broken. His shadows were gone, and now matter how he called out for them, they did not return.

He grasped on to the bond, desperately tugging on it to make sure you were still breathing on the other side. 

“Y/n,” he whispered. His voice was stripped back to nothing. 

You were still there, but you felt faint, as if more distance stretched between you than a hundred meters. 

He rolled onto his stomach, digging his fingernails into the sand and dragging himself forward inch by bloody inch. But the lake drew away from him, water levels plummeting like someone had reached down and pulled the stopper from a bathtub. 

The bond roared, heat blooming in his chest with new power as you revealed yourself. First it was the smooth expanse of your back, then your head as it dipped further and further down to drink what remained of the lake’s magic until there wasn’t a single drop left. 

Koschei stood in shock, his bloodless skin growing even paler as you stood up and pinned him to the ground with your stare. You shone brighter than the sun, moon, and all the stars in the universe combined and Azriel couldn’t pull his gaze away. 

You had never looked more otherworldly — more ethereal — than in that very moment. 

You moved forward so quickly, Azriel didn’t register it until you were standing in front of Koschei, naked and perfect. 

You grabbed Koschei’s face in your hands, his jaw slack and open. He tried to move but found that his feet had been driven into the ground like tent poles. For the first time in his immortal life, Koschei felt fear. 

You shoved power into his body — down his throat, his eyes, his ears — until he was vibrating with untempered energy. His skin started to split apart, light spilling out from the fissures like lava rock and dripping down his body like blood. He felt his own power attack him, killing him from the inside out as you kept pouring more and more magic into Koschei before it could destroy you as well. He was being unwritten from this world. Every muscle fiber snapped in two. Every cell in his body swelled and burst like a grape. 

You held onto the bond, letting it act as an anchor for your sanity so you wouldn’t die like Ione did, and Azriel held on too. Gods did he hold on. He held on so tight you could feel the pressure in your ribs like he was holding your body together and not just your soul. 

You leaned close, allowing your breath to fan over Koschei’s rotten face. “No one touches my mate,” you seethed.

And Koschei blew apart into a trillion microscopic pieces.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______________

Author's Note:

Thank you for your patience as I worked to get this chapter out! And um.... sorry if it wasn't what you were hoping for.

Now let me just—

[dailyhogz]

Now give silver the off-model treatment /Non forced

340. beams him into reality

[yabusunny]

morpho butterfly

[untoldsoup]

Worked on this all day to make sure I could get this update out earlier than planned lol. Thanks for all your patience over the past 1.5 months waiting for this update!! Anyway big things coming in part two! Please read the tags for this before reading as some content can bother some people. Comments appreciated i worked so hard on this.

previous: chapter 1 and 2

next: here

This is a sequel! First comic can be found here.

[achenetype]

Hihi can you please do a Luke x reader where it’s basically an unrequited love like reader is so in love with Luke and he has no idea so she moves on and years later she’s over him and confesses to him like a oh I thought you should know and the whole time Luke had been in love with her, kinda base it off that one TikTok audio where it’s like “I’m not in love with you anymore” “I never knew you were” 🩷🩷

OHH YOURE FEEDING MY ANGST BRAIN WITH THIS ONE. buckle up lets break some hearts

edit: this ended up being WAY sadder than i originally intended. i am so sorry anon oh my god

i gave you a rare gift (but you didn't want it) — luke castellan

pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

word count: 2.8k

content: angst, major character/reader death, unrequited love, mutual pining, reader is part of kronos' army, luke and reader are doomed by the narrative, [Y/N] used (sparingly), alcohol mention, description of injury

listening to: bloodfest (from mizumono) by brian reitzell

You are twenty-two years old, sitting on the rocky beach of a lake somewhere in the forests of upstate New York. Light, gentle fog hangs in the air around you, and the only sound is the tap-tap-tap of Luke skipping rocks across the water.

Come dawn, the world will burn. The gods will be dethroned. Every demigod will either be free, or dead.

But now, at midnight, you are twenty-three and Luke turns to you. He's holding a small, squashed cupcake in one hand. "Happy birthday," he says, "to my right-hand man." He pauses. "Woman. Right-hand woman."

He holds the pastry out to you and smiles, but something behind his eyes is empty. Hollow. He hadn't been sleeping recently. As much as he tried to hide it, he couldn't stop you from seeing when he came to you every morning for a cup of coffee and to debrief for the day.

Perks of being the revolution leader's best friend, you think. His right-hand woman.

Luke's eyes flick from the cake to your face. "Do you like it?" He asks, and for a split second, you swear there's a note of hope in his voice. "I wanted to do something, y'know," he says. "Twenty-three is huge. It's a monumental age."

You nod, but stay quiet.

He pauses for a second. "You remember how you always said you wished you never had a birthday?"

When you were twelve, nearly thirteen, your mother drove you across the country to go to summer camp.

"It'll be like a road trip," she said, tossing your duffel bag into the back seat of her battered car. "And then, hey, you'll only stay at camp until the end of August, and then you can come back and go to school. See all your friends again." She squeezed your shoulder and pushed the car door closed. "How about that?"

"Sure," you said. "Super fun."

And it was; you were actually kind of excited. You'd never been to New York. It seemed a million universes away.

And it was your birthday tomorrow. Maybe this was a gift, something that your mother had put together to make up for the years of being too tired and too drunk to make a cake, or get presents, or anything.

Your mother put her hands on her hips and sighed. "You know how I feel about the attitude, yeah? Let's not do this today."

"I wasn't even trying to—" You cut off as your mother glared at you, her face tense. You knew that look: the biting-the-inside-of-her-cheek, trying-to-be-understanding, trying-to-be-a-good-mom-despite-it-all look.

You hated that look.

"Just..." She sighed. "Just get in the damn car, [Y/N]."

You did, fighting back the tears building in the corners of your eyes, and the slam of the car door closing was as loud as thunder.

Twenty silent minutes of city streets and highway merge ramps and cold, empty stretches of asphalt and concrete passed before either of you spoke.

"Mom," you said, thirty-three seconds into minute twenty-one, "I'm sorry for talking back earlier." Your voice was quiet, shaking, cupped in your throat like a scared animal.

She didn't answer, keeping her eyes fixed on the road.

"I don't like being like this, Mom," you said, looking over at her. The silhouette of her through the driver's side window, backlit by the streetlights, was shapeless. Impassive. "I don't like doing this with you all the time."

She scoffed.

You pulled your legs to your chest, tucking your head between your knees, and tried to find sleep.

You weren't sure how long you slept, but you woke up to the sound of music playing softly over the speakers. Exit signs whizzed past you at what felt like breakneck speed. You wondered, briefly, if you would break your neck if you jumped out of the car right now.

Ultimately you decided against it. You didn't want your mother's last words to you to be, get in the damn car.

That would make her feel guilty, you thought, and that guilt would make her hate me even more.

"I don't wanna fight," you tried instead, picking at a loose thread in the cuff of your jacket sleeve. "Mom, I'm sorry, okay? I don't want us to be mad at each other anymore," you said. A sob caught in your throat, heavy and wet and choking.

Your mother sighed and reached one hand from the wheel to tuck your hair behind your ear. "I know you don't, sweetie," she said. "I don't want to be mad at you either."

"Then why do you do it," you asked.

When she turned to look at you, her eyes were wet. She smiled, or tried to. "Sometimes, certain people just…can't help but fight," she said. "It's just part of who we are, I think."

"Did you fight with Dad?"

Your mother inhaled, quick and sharp through her nose, as she flicked the turn signal to right and guided the car down the exit ramp from the highway, her eyes locked ahead. "Yes," she said. "Sometimes. Sometimes I think that's where we get it."

You swallowed. "Do you ever miss him?"

She doesn't peel her gaze away from the road. "Every day."

The two of you made your way through bustling streets and across too many bridges to count. You thought you fell asleep again, for a minute or maybe a year. Maybe it was all a dream.

"Mom," you asked as she turned onto a worn dirt road, the sunrise barely stretching over the horizon, "why are you bringing me here?"

She didn't answer for a moment. Two moments, then three. Through the leaves, you saw one tree standing impossibly tall. A pine tree.

Your mother parked the car and turned to you. "Because I don't know what to do with you, [Y/N]," she said. "I don't know how I can keep you," she paused, "safe. How I could do this, on my own, in any normal way."

She got out of the car and grabbed your bag, shoving it against your chest. "Camp is just up that hill there," she said, gesturing in the direction of the large tree you'd seen earlier. "They’ve got people up there waiting for you."

"Mom," you said. "Wait, I—I wanted to talk to you—"

She shook her head. "I can't come with you, sweetie." She smiled, the curve of her mouth falling just short of her eyes. "You just remember that I love you, okay?"

At that moment, you knew: she was going to leave you here.

“No,” you said, tears rolling down your face. “No, no—Mom. Mom, please.”

“Before you go,” she said, her voice tight and sharp, “I wanted to give you this.” She reached into the back seat and pulled out a jacket, worn leather with patched elbows. “It was mine in college,” she explained, not meeting your eyes. Like she was reading from a play or book, and you were the unfortunate audience. “I figure, it doesn’t fit me anymore.” 

She pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Happy birthday, baby.”

It was the first time you had ever felt like your mother loved you. You knew she liked you, sometimes. But you were never quite sure if she loved you until that moment. 

And then she got back into the car with one final, teary nod. 

And you never saw her again.

“Yeah,” you tell Luke, shrugging. “I think I’ve got a pretty good reason, though.” Your lips curve into a smile.

He laughs and tilts his head. It’s a habit of his; he’ll say something and twist his neck just a fraction, narrow his eyes. A nervous tic that not even years of training and fighting and killing could stamp out.

You used to think about kissing his neck when he did it, but now you’re not sure whether you would know the difference between kissing and ripping his throat out. 

“True,” Luke concedes. You laugh, too, unrestrained and loud. “Gods, your sense of humor is dark.”

“You laughed first,” you remind him. He grins.

The cupcake he offers you, despite its lumps and smears of frosting, is pretty good. You split it apart with careful fingers and hand half of it back to him.

“You’re celebrating with me,” you laugh, “so you get half. That’s the rule.”

Luke simply smiles at you and takes the crumbling cake from your hand. “Whatever you say.”

You roll your eyes, grinning back. “Damn right.”

Luke’s laugh rings out again, sharp and bright against the night sky. Firelight flickers across his face, painting him in brilliant streaks of orange and gold. 

“After tomorrow,” Luke murmurs, pulling his knees up to his chest, “we can do this whenever we want.” The wind ruffles his hair almost fondly, floppy brown curls stirring and settling back against his skull.

You raise an eyebrow. “This?”

He gestures in a wide arc. “Be here, like this. Just be people, instead of demigods or heroes or revolutionaries.” Luke’s voice picks up, conviction surging into his words. “I mean, seriously—when was the last time you thought you would ever have a normal life?”

You’d never understood the demigods who joined Luke’s cause without knowing him. The plan itself seemed crazy—the only way anyone would follow it was if they knew their leader could pull it off. 

You have to know Luke to know he was capable of that, you think.

Until now. Now, you see what you think everyone else sees—a real leader, a revolutionary. A force for change with a silver tongue.

He makes it all seem so possible. You almost think he might pull it off.

Luke looks over to you. “We’re going to change everything,” he says. 

Almost.

“We’re going to change the rules,” Luke said, spreading the map over an empty cot in his cabin. “If we want to win, we need to be thinking six steps ahead of the enemy.”

A few of the campers huddled around the makeshift table shuffled and coughed awkwardly. 

“Every strategy’s been done before,” a tall girl with bubblegum-pink hair and an eyebrow piercing shouted from the back of the group. “How are we going to out-war the god of war’s kids?” 

Murmurs rushed around the table, soft and susurrant. There’s no way we’re going anywhere here. We’ve gotten our asses beat six weeks in a row. What are we even doing?

Luke smiled. “Ares is the god of war,” he said, “not strategy.” He slung his arm around one of the campers next to him and inclined his head in the direction of the map.

Quietly, almost too quiet for you to hear, he murmured into the girl’s ear. “Don’t doubt yourself, Bethy,” he whispered.

You learned three things in the ten minutes that she spent explaining your team’s new strategy—

—one, your team was going to kick some major ass—

—two, your strategist’s name was Annabeth Chase, and she was the smartest eight-year-old you have ever met—

—and three, Luke was right.

Annabeth’s plan took the rules of Capture the Flag and threw them out the window. She split the team into four subgroups, each with a delegated leader. Luke nodded along as she talked, marking the map with a stubby pencil. 

When Annabeth’s eyes, dark and piercing, searched the crowd and landed on you, you felt your heart stop.

“You,” she said, “are you good with a sword?”

You raised your eyebrow, pointing to yourself—just to confirm this genius child was speaking to you—and Annabeth nodded. 

“I guess?” You said, shrugging. “I know some basic stuff, and I’m good at disarming.”

Annabeth’s face broke into a smile. “Work with Luke on the first wave of offense.” She gestured to the map. “You two will take points B and B-one,” she explained. “My group will take the A-points. You wait for our signal to move in.”

You met Luke’s eyes across the table. Hey, you mouthed. 

His eyes flicked up and down your form. Hey, he mouthed back. You ready to win?

You smiled and nodded.

Good, Luke said, all teeth. Let’s go.

He stood and grabbed his helmet. You did the same.

“I’m [Y/N],” you said as you followed Luke through the forest. “We, uh—we met when I first got here, like, a year ago.” I was sobbing my eyes out because my mother abandoned me, you didn’t add. It was kind of pathetic. I think I threw up from crying so hard.

You suddenly hoped Luke didn’t remember meeting you, actually. That would be less embarrassing.

He turned and caught your eye. “You live in the same cabin as me. ‘Course I know you.” 

Of course he remembers.

You laughed, flushing red. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

The silence was so thick, you could have cut it with the sleek bronze of your sword.

In the end, it was Luke who broke the silence. “You wanna play a game while we wait out here?”

You shrugged. “Sure,” you said. 

“Twenty questions,” Luke replied. “So we can learn enough about each other to actually work together.” He smiled. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Low-hanging fruit,” you said, your voice just barely taking on a teasing tone. “It’s green.” 

Luke laughed, loud and full and bright. “Apologies,” he said; mirth crept into his words, staining everything with a tinge of that laughter. “I’ll go for the more gut-wrenching, intimate questions next time.”

You flushed red again. Intimate questions. What the hell does he mean by that?

“My turn,” you said instead. “What do you want to be when you get older?”

“We’ll be heroes,” Luke whispers. “Real heroes. Not figureheads propped up by the gods.”

You wish you could believe him. He’s lying on the beach next to you, his head resting in the junction between your shoulder and your neck. Over the treetops, the stars are beginning to fade from the sky.

It’s almost time.

Your throat feels like someone has sanded it down to expose your vocal cords. This is a bad idea, you want to say. We shouldn’t do this. Tell me we can still not do this. 

“Wanna play twenty questions?” You say, crackling and hoarse.

Luke turns to look at you. “Yeah,” he murmurs. 

“My turn first,” you whisper. Luke nods.

You take a deep breath, in and out. “Are we going to die doing this?”

Luke inhales sharply. “Maybe,” he says. Slowly. Deliberately. “But we’ll do everything we can to make sure we don’t.”

“I got another question,” you say. Luke raises an eyebrow. His knuckles brush yours as you sit up.

“Are you scared?”

It’s your birthday. 

You think you’re going to die. 

Luke is kneeling over you, the palm of his hand pressed against the wet opening in your stomach where someone had caught you with a spear. The shaft of it is still sticking out of you, you think. You’re afraid to look down, afraid to see it. 

“No,” Luke gasps, “no, no, no.”

You watch as the gold fades from his eye, leaving behind the honey-dark brown you remember. His hands are slick with blood—most of it’s probably yours, it has to be yours. You’re bleeding out, after all. 

You tug on Luke’s sleeve weakly. “Hey,” you breathe. “Luke. It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“No,” he says. “You’re—you’re hurt.”

“I know,” you rasp. “I know it hurts. I’m the one—” 

You break off as a cough sticks in your throat. It feels wet. Oily. Desperate to get out. You taste the blood in the back of your throat before you can even take another breath.

“—I’m the one who’s feeling it,” you finish, your voice tilting up at the end. A joke. Gods, your sense of humor is dark.

Luke laughs weakly. “Don’t talk,” he says. “You’re gonna be just fine, [Y/N], just fine.”

He meets your eyes. You see him realize it in slow motion.

Tell him. Tell him now. He’s never going to know otherwise—he could die any minute—

“Luke,” you murmur. “Luke, did you know I loved you?”

He freezes. “What?”

You cough again. Blood spills over your lips. “I loved you,” you repeat. “Since we were campers. Had the…the biggest, stupidest crush on you.”

Luke shakes his head. “No, no,” he says. “You—”

“You’re my best friend,” you continue. “Whatever feelings were there, you’re my best friend.”

Luke’s palm against your stomach is warm. It feels safe. It feels like sleeping side-by-side in the cabin, like shared meals and shared secrets. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Luke says, “why are you—why?”

You blink, just once, but it takes everything you have to open your eyes again after closing them. “Because I’m going to die,” you whisper. “And even if—even though I moved on, I wanted you to…to know.”

Luke bows over your body, pressing his forehead to yours. Tears slip from his cheeks and fall onto yours, driving little rivers through the blood smeared there.

He’s crying. Why is he—

“You idiot,” Luke says brokenly. “I loved you too. I loved you too.” He cradles your head in his lap, brushing your hair away from your face. “[Y/N], I’m so sorry.”

Your eyes slip shut.

I loved you too, Luke’s voice echoes. I loved you too.

[sonicexelle-junkary]

Aw hell fucking yeah gamers! Just remembered I had some references for Sonic and Shadow for ProjectFreedom. Planned on eventually making proper ones instead of reused official art, but that never came to be.

Now you can pretty much see what I was going for with the story with how their designs would’ve changed throughout the runtime.

[abby-howard]

You deadlift? What's your PB?

My current max is 250 pounds! Gotta catch up to Tony, he's at 300 now 😤

Also someone else asked about how deadlifting doesn't kill my back, and the answer is that weightlifting with proper form is good for back pain >:]

Strengthening your stabilizer muscles is so good for your bones and posture! It doesn't mean accidents don't happen, as we will all decay in time, but it definitely helps me draw all day and night without crumbling into dust 👌

[loulou-land]

Can’t stop thinking about a dying Tommy. He’s in Buck’s arms. Barely hanging on to consciousness. Confused about why the other man is crying and begging him to stay with him, when he knows Evan doesn’t have any feelings for him.

[ofswordsandpens]

the difference in Percy's water healing power in the show vs the movie is actually kind of interesting because while subtle, in the show the water heals his injury and then his blood is washed away, but in the movie you can actually see the water push Percy's blood back inside his body as its healing him... and I cannot believe I'm saying this but I think I like the movie's depiction of this power more because of that???

[thatoneautisticshark]

okay, so! I made sure to read your pinned post before making this ask (as I didn't want to ask for something you weren't comfortable writing), but anyways- I always had this thought in the back of my head about how poly 141 would be like after soap's death, I've tried to imagine it but idk, I just can't...so! What about a bit of angst with ghost, gaz and price? I feel like they wouldn't be the same, at least not when it comes to affection and other things, especially since I feel like if they did try to do something they would feel Incomplete without soap, or smt of that nature

Okay... so you are just trying to make me cry cool. /J

But honestly soap is the only fictional character I have ever cried continuously abouts death. I feel so bad for the babyy.

Anyways. Sooo Ghost retreats, he completely shuts everything and everyone out, staying locked in his room.

Gaz is a comfort seeker but assumes that Ghost needs to process alone, so stays pressed to Price instead.

Price is staying by Gaz, but once his shock and denial ends, he is not letting Ghost pull away. He had only seen the other pull this much away once before and it didn't end well.

And dammit he wasn't losing another partner.

Price will head into Ghosts room, won't push him to talk or touch, but just sit in there so he isn't alone, until he finally cracks sobbing into Prices chest.

They struggle bad. But it doesn't matter they are back in the field in a month, even tho they are missing a huge chunk of their team.

Nik who was kinda sorta part of the relationship is sure to be quieter, offering quiet comfort.

The boys feel overwhelming guilt after every mission, they came back alive and Soap didn't.

None of them wanted to spread his ashes, they really didn't. It felt like they'd lose some of him. But on a mission, they'd stopped at that cliff at sunrise, and Johnny had laughed saying how pretty it was, and he wanted to go here when he died.

The guys had shrugged it off, saying it wouldn't be happening for a while yet.

Ghost dread the ashes with his mask off, it felt a disservice and rude to spread his boyfriend with his mask on. Each boy brought something.

John a boonie hat, Kyle a cap, and Ghost a spare mask, and they dropped them with Johnny so he wouldn't be alone.

They didn't spread all the ashes, about a quarter. The remaining they got made into necklaces, which they kept close, holding kissing and praying on.

The other thing cost a lot, but it was worth it, because they knew Johnny would have loved it. After saving up a bit, they got a bit of his ashes put in a fire work and shot up even if the noise made them flinch, and the beauty of the fireworks didn't compare to the beauty they lost.

The urn stays decorated with flowers for the first few months. But is slowly changes as they process their grief. Would Johnny really love boring flowers around his urn? No.

They stick googly eyes on, and talk like he was still there, put a santa hat on at Christmas and scold the urn for forgetting to get them presents.

They function, despite missing a large hole, they develop more attachment issues. Strangely none of them have a major fear of death. They'd welcome it, if it wouldn't leave the others behind again. Perhaps one mission they'll die together and then they can see Johnny again.

:33