#maybe some parts of his limbs can retract a bit under the pressure which will leave the weight on springs? there would be some buffer zone

[go-hux-yourself]

Tethercord

I saw this fanart by @ellalba​ and I just had to write something!! Many thanks for the inspiration, just *chef’s kiss* that’s good shit.

This labeled as Tethercord. Also on my ao3 here :) My masterlist archive of bullshit i write can be found linked at the top of the blog or here.

--

He should have thought this through just a bit more, but there simply wasn’t enough time.

Shoot me in the arm, he’d told him, right after refusing to go with them.

It was a wound that wouldn’t be too serious; one he could still walk away from without impeding his own ability to protect himself. One that would provide him alibi for helping the three escape.

Hux had been shot in the leg instead, the suddenness and surprise dropping him to the floor as much as the pain itself. He was outraged in the first second, then considered the next that this would surely play better in solidifying his innocence as part of his cover.

That’s when he realized the wound was bleeding. Profusely.

They’d taken him with them for that fact, a trail of blood in their wake as he could do little to defy the pilot’s arm around his waist with the pain of the wound in his thigh.

Was this technically a kidnapping? Did it even matter? If he kept bleeding the way he was, it would no longer be a problem.

He was half in Poe Dameron’s lap on the floor of the cockpit, the man putting pressure on the wound with his hands over Hux’s own. They’d made the jump to lightspeed already, but they’d taken far too long to see to Hux’s injury. The blood-loss was severe, even with the paltry supplies from the ship’s med-kit staunching the wound.

The white bandaging and trauma-kit was really only a quick-fix, but Hux needed real medical attention.

“Rey, we gotta hurry! He’s lost too much blood!”

“We’ll be there soon.”

Hux had his eyes shut against the pain, grimacing as Dameron’s hand pressed harder into his leg. It woke him up a bit, but he was dizzy; disoriented. The way he was sort of propped up sideways in the man’s lap only made him spin more, not to mention the indignity.

He leaned back hard until he could feel durasteel behind him. It didn’t help with his sense of orientation. Confusion mixed with the surreality of his situation as the world spun around him, and Hux made a noise of pain.

The pain was real at least. Solid. It jolted through his consciousness and grounded him at the point where the other man’s hand pressed into the wound. He was cold-- or at least he was shaking- and so much was going on it was becoming harder and harder to focus. He wished he could block out the sound like he could his vision.

“Are they tracking us?”

“I don’t think so. We got out of there quick enough.”

He wished they wouldn’t talk so much. If he had to die here, he wanted it to be quiet. At least the arm around his back steadying him was warm. That was some small modicum of comfort to the reality of bleeding out on an old freighter in the enemy’s arms.

Was he the enemy still, though? Hux wasn’t sure. He was a traitor, probably. He was becoming less sure with every beat of his heart. Blood loss, his brain supplied again. Kriff.

“...I didn’t mean to hit an artery.”

The wookie growled something Hux was certain was rude. He didn’t care. At least the traitor’s voice had sounded slightly regretful of his actions. It made morbid satisfaction rise in Hux; that he’d be affected by Hux’s death in some way. Maybe Hux’s actions had helped them even more than he’d assumed.

His smile came out a grimace.

“I know.” The arm at Hux’s back shifted, and the fingers on his leg adjusted. “Shit he’s pale.” He winced and hissed as more pressure was applied to his thigh. “You hang in there, Hugs.”

Hugs. Yeah, that’s who was holding him. The pilot who’d once humiliated him, but that he was fairly sure had been his contact this whole time.

Dying on the floor with Poe Dameron’s hands on him, what a fate. That was a better death than he expected from this life, if he were being entirely honest with himself. The nickname, though, he was still prickled by, and alive enough to voice his opinion on such matters.

Hux opened his eyes with a feeling of annoyance that was quickly replaced with a sudden acute awareness of the man holding him.

He couldn’t remember anyone being this close to him that wasn’t somehow threatening in nature. The care in his body language alone was loud and obvious. Striking. And he could see Dameron’s stubble; lines at the corners of his eyes from smiling; the way the man’s brows were knit together as he concentrated on keeping Hux’s hand sealed under his own, fingers flexing.

The expression on Dameron’s face was one of genuine, open concern, which was also distracting to Hux’s nearly-drunken state of mind. It was getting harder to think. He couldn’t remember what he was annoyed about. If the damn room would stop spinning, he might be able to. The longer he looked at the other man’s face, though, the longer it didn’t matter.

Poe’s eyes locked on Hux’s, the dazed look there worrying as Hux retracted one of his hands from beneath Poe’s own. Still strong enough to move his limbs. That was minorly reassuring. Maybe he wouldn’t die. Poe gave his hand a squeeze. They were both still sticky with his blood. “You still with me buddy?” BB-8 beeped a warning about Hux’s blood-pressure. He nodded to the droid before looking from Hux to the cockpit. “I know. Rey, how far are we?”

“Ten minutes out. How are you doing back there?”

Hux’s hand began to rise of its own volition as he stared up at the other man holding him. He’d never had this, had he? Someone touching him kindly with genuine concern for his well-being. A firm hand over one of his own, skin-to-skin and warm and real.

Was it real? Was he already hallucinating?

He wasn’t so far gone that his logic was, though. It was more likely that he’d been left to bleed out in the hall, and this was all some hopeful fantasy before his brain starved of oxygen and he died. He’d definitely rejected Dameron’s offer to come with them-- the way the man’s face had fallen, that had been the source of this hallucination in a cockpit, surely- and he’d been shot in the leg instead of the arm like he’d asked. Probably some petty revenge for rejecting the offer. Only it had gone wrong.

And now he was bleeding to death, left in that corridor as they made their escape, but thinking he was in the arms of a man who’d once mocked him, being spirited to safety.

That sounded much more plausible, his brain supplied. This was war. These things happened. And if he was hallucinating this badly, then he’d probably be dead before long.

It didn’t matter if this was real or not, then, his brain also reasoned.

“...Dameron?” Hux spoke softly, looking at the pilot’s face and wondering how his stubble might feel. Would it feel real for the hallucination? Like the hand on his or the thigh at his back? His vision kept getting splotchy, questioning his own coherence and grip on reality.

The pilot was looking at him now, at least. And that opened up a whole new world of things for Hux to be distracted by.

“What is it?” Poe wasn’t going to ask if he was okay-- he obviously was not- but he was encouraged that Hux still had a voice. It was breathy, but if the general was still coherent and awake-- and knew who he was- then he was still okay. His eyes were glassy and his face was pale, but he only had to hang on a bit longer. Poe had Hux’s attention, anyways. The man’s gaze was locked on his own in focus. “Speak to me, Hugs.”

Hux’s fingers made contact with his jaw first, and Poe realized as the other man’s palm bloomed on his cheek, that he was being touched. Caressed. Poe was confused only a moment before realization took him, and he felt heat enter his cheeks at the craziness of it all.

This was hardly the time to get excited over anything, let alone the delirious touches of a man dying in his arms. Yet here the general of the First Order was-- their spy; a man Poe had secretly been fantasizing about for over a year since he’d had his suspicions on that- actually caressing his cheek.

Hux dragged the pad of his thumb over Poe’s jaw to his chin, feeling it with a sort of unrepentant grin as the pilot’s brows raised. His glassy gaze was locked with Poe’s own. “...You have beautiful eyes.”

Poe’s mouth hung open just a bit. That was certainly unexpected, and this was absolutely not the time to be super flattered by that, even if he could feel his face heating with a little more than concern. From what they knew about the general, and Poe’s own interactions and guesses, this was the last thing he expected. Being called scum by the man was normal. This?

This was… exactly out of some of his dirty fantasies where he got to play the hero and save the day. Poe was trying to save his life, doing his best to that end, but-- General fucking Hux? in his lap and stroking his cheek and saying he was beautiful?

“Shit he’s dying!”

Hux let his arm drop back to his lap, dizzy for the loudness and proximity of Dameron’s alarmed voice and how the man changed his hold on him. Hux was annoyed again, and it was hard to keep track of things. He was pretty certain that he was going to black out with the way his vision kept tunneling, and he was entirely dependent upon Dameron keeping him upright at that. The only thing he was able to focus on was keeping his hand on his thigh which was still soaked in blood.

The man above him was exchanging worried tones with the others as Hux fought to keep his consciousness. The droid beeped shrilly, and Dameron’s hands both squeezed his arm as he spoke some kind encouragement that was hard for Hux to follow in this state.

He thoroughly wished they’d all be quiet and let him die in peace.

--

my kofi | ao3 main

[dvp95]

whispers trail and linger

pairing: dan howell/phil lester rating: mature tags: hallucinations, unsettling, psychological horror, imaginary friend, mention of suicidal thoughts in the past word count: 2.2k  summary: Dan had an imaginary friend when he was young. It doesn't seem to have gotten the memo that he's grown up. Bingo squares: hallucinations + wingfic + midnight swim + destruction

also, used a dialogue prompt from @throwing-roses-into-the-abyss! i’m sure you would have preferred something fluffier, dear, i’m just getting into the spooky spirit of things.

read on ao3 or here!

"The diamond in your engagement ring is fake."

Dan freezes. After a long beat, his muscles slowly untense, one by one, and he inhales deeply. Maybe if he doesn't look up from his laptop, the voice will go away.

It doesn't. Dan should really know better than that by now.

"You know that, right? It's, like, zircon."

"It's cubic zirconia," Dan says, and then he scowls at himself. He hadn't meant to respond, doesn't want to go down this rabbit hole again. He keeps his eyes trained on the blinking cursor on his screen, even though his fingers have stopped typing.

"Sounds like the same thing to me. Point is, it's not a diamond. Why isn't it a diamond?"

"I didn't want a diamond," says Dan.

"Why not?"

"Because. Most diamond mining is irresponsible, and I don't want a reminder of deforestation and soil erosion on my finger."

"Huh. Can I touch it?"

Dan inhales again, through his nose this time. He could say no. He should say no.

Still, he's spent a good chunk of his time in therapy talking about this, and he knows that it isn't real. It won't actually hurt him. So, reluctantly, Dan holds his left hand out, over the abyss that is the space between his sofa and the end table.

It isn't real, he knows it isn't real, but the shock of cool fingers touching his own makes him shiver anyway.

The logical part of Dan's brain - which is the majority of it, really - always feels so muddled when this happens. It doesn't seem to matter that he's spent years and years working through the trauma that he expects is the cause of this, it still feels so fucking real in the moment. He can feel the cold, gentle weight of fingertips tracing over his ring before they skitter away.

"Feels weird. I like diamonds better."

"It doesn't feel like anything," Dan says flatly. "It's a rock in some metal."

"Such a nice way to talk about a gift, Danny."

"Don't call me that," Dan snaps, and his gaze jerks away from his laptop automatically. He regrets it, wishes he'd held back the instinct.

It - not 'him', never 'him', because it isn't real - stands in Dan's lounge like it belongs there, all long limbs and eerily pale skin. It looks human, or near enough, unless Dan looks closely.

He doesn't want to look closely. He turns back to his screen and stares at the cursor again.

"Dan, then," it says. Its tone is amused, a little condescending. Dan prickles, but he doesn't rise to the bait. After a long, quiet moment where Dan clenches his jaw and does not, in any way, acknowledge its presence, the voice comes again, light and conversational. "And here you said you'd marry me. It's very like you to break a promise, isn't it?"

That's too far. Dan can't hold back his angry, "I was seven, it wouldn't count as a real promise even if you did exist."

It laughs. The hairs on the back of Dan's neck stand up.

"You know that I exist."

"No," Dan says, and he wishes he could sound more certain. The fact is, he struggles with the concept of existence in general, and it becomes somewhat of an existential thing. Does it exist, even though it only exists in Dan's mind? He can't be sure of the answer.

"I suppose you're right," it says thoughtfully, acting like Dan hasn't spoken. "We were way too young to make a promise so big."

"Plus, you're a figment of my diseased imagination," Dan deadpans. His heartrate picks up a bit, the way it always does when he vocalizes this thing. "So I'm guessing the ceremony would be a bit fucking weird, as well."

"Am I?" It sounds delighted. "Wouldn't that be something."

Dan takes another deep breath. It won't get a rise out of him, not this time. It's been an expert at poking and prodding sore spots for far too long.

Maybe if he just keeps working and refuses to talk to it, it'll get bored. It gets bored very easily. Dan brings both his hands back to his laptop keyboard and, as if he's moving through sludge, starts typing again. He's not sure if any of it makes sense, too hyperaware that he isn't alone right now to pay much attention to the words he's typing.

He doesn't hear it move, but he supposes he doesn't have to. The only indication that it isn't standing to his left anymore is the brush of a light, unfortunately familiar weight over his shoulders.

Dan's muscles tense up again. He knows it's leaning over the back of the couch now, looking at his screen, and honestly, that would make him uncomfortable even if it was another human doing it.

"Music, yeah? You always liked music. Glad you're writing about something you like instead of trying to force yourself into what they want."

No matter how old Dan gets, he still can't figure out who 'they' are. It references a 'them' a lot, and Dan used to think it was talking about his parents. Then he thought it was talking about the shitty bullies at school. Now, he has no idea who or what his fucked up subconscious is trying to warn him against.

"What did they want?" Dan asks. He's got no willpower at all, has he.

"Oh, you know," it says, its breath ghosting over the back of Dan's neck. Dan feels goosebumps start to rise over his arms, even under his thick hoodie.

"I don't know," Dan says, irritated. "I've never known."

"Don't you?"

"Am I always this annoying to talk to?" Dan wonders out loud. If this is what a small part of his psyche sounds like, then he feels bad for his friends and fiancé for dealing with him all the time.

It laughs, low and uninhibited. Out of the corner of his eye, Dan sees the shape of something dark stretching out.

He won't look. He doesn't look. Not that it really matters. Dan knows what the shape is, has known it his entire life. The sight of it comforted him, once upon a time.

"No, you're much worse," it jokes, and the shape retracts back. Dan hates that he almost misses the peripheral view, hates that he keeps talking to his own delusion like it's going to do him any fucking good at all.

"If you're just here to be vague and insult me, you can fuck off," says Dan. "Gabe will be over soon, I don't need you hovering when he is."

"Does it matter that I'm here if I'm in your head?" it asks. Something brushes against Dan's upper arm, and Dan flinches. "You're jumpy today, aren't you? It's just me, Dan, jeez."

That's kind of the problem. It doesn't give Dan a chance to say so. "I didn't think you liked it when I said it out loud, but fine. You know what they want, it's what they've always wanted. They want you dead, Danny."

Dan's not sure what he expected, but it wasn't that. He feels cold all through his body very suddenly, a wave of nausea overtaking him.

"What?" he bleats, his vision going a bit blurry and his voice sounding so, so small.

Then, there's a firmer pressure on Dan's shoulders, across his chest. Encircling him. It's giving him an embrace, probably one that's meant to be comforting. Not with its cold, human-ish arms, but with the smooth, soft weight of its wings.

Dan's therapists have blamed his semi-religious upbringing for the wings. They think that he started having delusions of some kind of guardian angel when he was young, and that's why it looks the way it does.

Honestly, Dan doesn't know if that's true or not. Maybe it is. He doesn't remember the first time he saw it, after all, it's just always been there, growing at the same pace as him like another child would.

The hold should be making him panic more, because he's essentially being trapped against the couch by its wings, but Dan actually starts to feel calmer. Maybe that isn't so surprising, really. This used to make him feel so safe when he was a child, curling up with his imaginary friend and feeling its soft wings around him like a weighted blanket.

But then Dan learned that it wasn't real, that it was all in his head, that his family would watch him with wide, uncertain eyes if he kept talking about it, and its embrace stopped being a refuge.

"I won't let them hurt you," it says, with so much sincerity that Dan finds himself believing it despite all logic.

Heat prickles at Dan's eyes, and he leans further back into the couch cushion, its nose brushing his ear and its wings tightening across his chest.

"I know," he whispers, because he does. He does know that.

He remembers the way the freezing cold water had felt against his skin that night, the last time he saw it. The moon had been little more than a sliver of light in the sky, reflecting off the gentle waves around him. He remembers feeling peaceful, for just a moment, before his reality came crashing down around his shoulders again. He remembers wanting to put his head under until everything went away again.

The only thing that had made him leave the water that night had been his imaginary friend, who had stopped showing up as frequently now that Dan was in the midst of a turbulent adolescence, and who had cheerfully waved at him from the shoreline.

So he'd ended up talking instead, about nothing in particular, until dawn started to break over the horizon. It always looked stranger in sunlight, so pale it was practically translucent, but Dan had felt so comforted by its reappearance at that particular time in his life, when it felt like he had nothing and nobody to help with the unending noise in his head.

Dan doesn't know if he would have really done anything, can't be certain, but he has a gut feeling that its presence kept him alive.

He exhales.

"You okay?" it asks, soft.

"Yeah," says Dan. "Yeah, okay. They want me dead and you won't let them."

"That's right." The wings release him, and Dan almost sobs at the loss. He doesn't need to worry, though, because he blinks and it is beside him on the couch now, reaching out with its hands. Dan allows it to take his right hand between both of its own. "I've missed you, Danny."

It isn't real. But when Dan looks up and sees the warmth in its tri-coloured eyes and the smile that seems to have too many teeth to be quite convincingly human, he feels the logical part of his mind go numb again.

"I've missed you too, Phil," Dan whispers, watching its wings twitch happily at the admission. Its smile widens, showing off the sharp edges of its unsettling teeth.

"Stop trying to get rid of me, then," Phil says, teasingly, like it's a joke, but its grip on Dan's hand tightens to the point of pain.

Dan isn't too young to make promises anymore, and his muddled brain doesn't acknowledging the alarm signals that he's sure are going off somewhere in there. He simply nods, feeling a little more dazed the longer he looks at Phil.

It's been around as long as Dan can remember, after all, always appearing when Dan needed comfort or guidance, always keeping him safe, even from himself, always appearing as, more or less, the same age as Dan. Who is he to get rid of it? Nobody has to know if he just keeps his mouth shut this time.

These thoughts don't feel like Dan's own, but his mind is working so, so slow right now. Phil's eyes are the colour of the sea that he'd stood shoulder-deep in all those years ago, and it feels just as much like he's on the precipice of making a dangerous decision as it had then.

"Okay," says Dan. "I'll stop. You can stay."

[chuffyfan87]

Hiding. Part 63e (NSFW)

"You had every right to be mad at me though. I was starting to take the piss a bit if I'm honest."

“But I could’ve avoided what happened to you.” He sighed sadly. “I can’t forgive myself for that.”

"If it makes you feel any better I would have yelled at me in your shoes."

He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

"We've both yelled at people in the past and then lived to regret it."

“I never thought I’d have to talk about it after all these years.”

"But you feel better now you have?" She asked as she pulled off the main road and into a side street.

He nodded, “I feel different, not weighed down by so much shit I can’t change.”

"That's good." She smiled as she parked the car down a quiet street.

“That’s why I want you to go.” He smiled.

"Hmm." Duffy sighed as she turned off the engine and sat back in her seat, not making any effort to get out of the car.

“I know you’re not keen on the idea but I really do believe it might help.”

"Maybe. Maybe not." She paused for a few moments. "You not planning to ask why we've stopped here?" She enquired.

“Why are we here?”

"Do you recognise this place?" Her smile had faded, replaced by an anxious twitch.

“It rings a bell. Did we have our first kiss here?”

"No, that pub was a lot nearer the hospital. Though the significance of the place I'm thinking of is from the same year." She sighed, maybe this wasn't such a good idea afterall...

“1986?”

"Yeh." She swallowed. "You wanted me to face it."

“It happened here? You were raped near here, weren’t you?”

She nodded.

“Would you like to get out of the car?” He asked as he gently touched and squeezed her knee.

"That was the plan when I parked. But my urge to be brave is quickly evaporating."

“You and me, we’ll do this together. If you want too?”

She mulled his suggestion over for a moment before nodding.

“You are a lot braver than you realise.” He smiled, “What made you come here?”

"I'm not sure. I guess it was on my mind."

“I’m sorry if I put you under any pressure.”

"You did but its something I need to do."

“Ready?”

"As I'll ever be."

He got out of the car.

She contemplated staying where she was but after taking a deep breath she opened the door.

He stood in front of the car and held his hand out for her.

Her hand was shaking as she took hold of it.

He squeezed her hand. Silently letting her know he was there.

"Its up there." She whispered, gesturing with her free hand to an area further down the road.

“Would you like to go up there?”

"Not really but..." She shrugged.

“What’s holding you back?” He asked.

"I've not been back there since. I came close once..."

“But you couldn’t do it?”

"Do you remember a few years ago when I had a paramedic ride along with Josh? The time I developed a calf strain that mysteriously vanished after an hour?"

“I remember.”

"Three guesses where the shout I missed was..."

“Here?”

She nodded. "A old lady had slipped down the steps."

He squeezed her hand again, “You can do this. Because I’m here. And we’re a team. We do things together.”

Slowly she edged along the road, her grip on Charlie's hand so tight that her knuckles were white.

He didn’t say or do anything, just allowed her to take control.

She wasn't sure how long it took but eventually they stopped at the entrance to an alleyway.

“You didn’t do anything wrong that night.” He whispered.

"I stopped to help. Which is exactly what he was banking on."

“Your instinct was to help. Anyone would’ve done the same.” He reassured.

"He must have seen my uniform."

“He was a bastard who had a thing for female nurses. You still didn’t do anything wrong.”

"A lot of men seem to have a thing about the uniform. Luckily they're not all rapists." She sighed.

“He was a bastard who got lucky that night. That wasn’t your fault.”

She turned to look down the alleyway. "It looks so different in the daylight."

“I’ve never been here since either...”

She went to take a step into the alleyway but froze.

“You don’t have to go down there. Not yet.”

"I thought I'd be OK. Now I'm here and..."

He moved to stand in front of her, “Can I touch you?”

She chewed at her lip before nodding.

He placed his hand against her cheek, “We don’t have to do this today. You are here. That’s an amazing achievement in itself to even come back here after all these years.”

She moved to rest her head in the crook of his shoulder, turning away from the alleyway.

“Would you like to go home?” He whispered.

"Yeh." She whispered. "Can you drive?"

“Of course I can.” He kissed her head. “I love you darling.”

The walk back to the car was quicker but equally silent, both of them lost in their own thoughts.

They reached the car and drove quietly home.

As soon as Charlie parked the car Duffy got out and headed into the house without a word.

He locked the car and took a few minutes outside. His hands in his pockets.

She headed straight upstairs and into the bathroom.

Charlie came into the house eventually. “Duffy?” He called.

The only reply was the sound of running water.

He went upstairs and knocked on the bathroom door. “Darling?”

Now he was closer he could hear the sound of her sobbing intermingled with the shower. He opened the door.

She had her back to him as she sat in the bath, the room full of steam.

He closed the door and sat by the bath. “Talk to me?” He whispered.

She didn't reply, she was too focused on scrubbing herself clean. Her skin was red and some areas had started to bleed.

Realising what she was doing, he got in the bath with her still fully clothed. And placed his hands over hers to stop her.

She let out a scream, she hadn't heard him enter the room.

“Ssh, honey, it’s me. It’s Charlie.”

"I'm sorry." She cried.

“It’s ok.”

She couldn't stop shaking.

He wrapped his arms around her and cuddled her. “I’m so sorry.”

After a few minutes she finally stopped crying.

He just held her, in silence.

She was exhausted, her limbs ached and felt so heavy.

His fingertips were running against her lower back. “Do you want a sleep?” He whispered.

She lifted her head, her face was red and puffy, her eyes barely open.

He smiled sadly and got out of the bath. He picked her up and carried her through to the bedroom.

She started to shake again as he laid her down on the bed.

“Are you cold?” He whispered. Standing at the side of the bed and removing his jeans and his shirt because they were wet.

She curled up in a ball, the blood from her wounds smearing on the sheets.

He changed into some dry clothes and lay behind her. “I’m here darling.” He touched her arm gently and retracted his touch soon after.

It was a couple of hours later when she woke up disorientated.

Charlie was still in the same position as earlier.

She hissed in pain as she moved her limbs.

“Baby?”

"Hmm?" She groaned.

“How are you feeling? Sore no doubt.”

"Mmm." She ran her fingers over the dried blood on the inside of her thighs.

“I tried to put some cream on your wounds as you slept but there was a few I missed.”

"Its not as bad as the last time." She admitted. She ran a finger along an old scar on the inside of her left thigh. "You've never asked how I got this."

He followed the scar with his fingertip. “What happened?”

"I couldn't stop scrubbing it. Most of it healed eventually but that bit got infected and scarred."

He lent down and placed a gentle kiss against the scar.

She sighed and reached for the duvet.

“Would you like me to leave you alone for a little while?” Charlie asked.

She shook her head. "Don't want to be alone. Nightmares." She explained.

“You’re experiencing your trauma again?”

She nodded. "Stay with me while I sleep?"

“I’m not going anywhere.” He reassured.

She snuggled into his arms and wrapped the duvet around them. "Thank you for everything." She whispered.

“You don’t need to thank me.”

"That's as maybe but I appreciate everything you do."

“I try and push you but... for good reasons.” He whispered.

"I know." She placed her finger against his lips. "Sleep now." She told him.

He smiled sadly and nodded, kissing her finger.

[vergils-daughter]

V and spider-demon/”Spider whispers”/English version

So I finally get english translation of one of my stories! I hope you enjoy it, because I reeeeally need motivation to write second part.

They say the number of demon species that inhabit the Spheres is infinite. It is impossible to know them all, even for someone who spent eons in their wicked kingdoms. Some may seem similar to others, but yet differ in one important way or another. One can never feel entirely secure around them, even if one considers oneself a demonologist.

Especially if you think you can control them.

 Like now.

See how the black haired man watches the fight from the balcony above, leaning against the railings. Underneath him lies a vast nave of the cathedral, one wall completely collapsed, with glass from the stained windows shattered over the floor. But the altar remains intact. Soft afternoon light drops in from a single hole in the ceiling, perfectly illuminating the battle between insect-like demons and three equally unusual characters.

A large bird with sky-blue wings and hooked beak hovers over the battlefield, spreading lightning bolts and swearwords in seemingly equal intervals. Each lightning is aimed with perfect precision. A black panther jumps around, then suddenly morphs into whirling blades, cutting through demons' chitin armors with nasty, crunching sounds.

There is also that woman - an agile warrior, wielding two flaming sabers. She is surrounded by a blue-hued aura, which seems unpierceable to demons' claws. She whirls around them with her hair loose - they must have unbound during the fight. She laughs at the demons' pathetic attempts to harm her.

Her laughter, the bird's swearing, screeching sound made by the demons, occasional roar - all those sounds enhanced by the echo of the ruined cathedral are somewhat overwhelming. The man above watches, ever vigilant, ready to intervene if needed. But he smiles, seeing that they can make it on their own.

However, through the noise he fails to hear the silent sounds behind him. He suddenly feels his hair rise on the back of this neck and he turns abruptly, rising his cane in defense. SHE is very close now. His eyes widen in surprise, and perhaps fear, as she looms over him. She looks like a large, shining spider, with a bare woman's torso growing from where the spider's head should be. She is grey, wet and has dark, black hair covering her face.

She knocks the cane from his hand and entangles him with her long, nimble limbs. She draws him away from the railing and presses him against the ground with her full weight, causing the air to escape his lungs. Instead of a scream he releases a silent grunt. Her limbs press against his sides, making him incapable of movement. He can't wrestle out, he feels something breaking in his chest under all that pressure. He tries to reach for her face, to claw out the eyes that surely are hidden behind the curtain of black hair, but her head is beyond his reach.

A horrific smile shows her sharp teeth and long, black tongue wriggling between them. The spider woman grabs his wrists with her cold hands. She holds them above his head and leans toward his face. He feels her cold, earthly scent. Her tongue presses on his mouth. Even if he could scream and alert his companions, he would not want to part his lips.

But she knows how to make him. She thrusts one of her long claws into the man's side, causing him to moan in pain and then in one, long kiss her long, black tongue reaches into him like a tentacle, far towards the throat and beyond.

The man begins to choke and wheeze, a shudder runs through his body. His eyes run upward and turn black. The spider woman makes an impatient, barking sound and pushes harder. Suddenly, her body collapses - thin limbs retract telescopically, hands droop and turn into thin membrane, which then - just as the rest of the human part of the body - dissolves. The hind, spider section crumbles and turns to black dust. The face, which was pressed so hard against the man's face collapses gruesomely and seems to be sucked into the man's mouth, leaving but a black smear on his cheek. The long, black threads that surrounded her head so thickly now fall all around the man's face, disappear among his own hair. A moment later, there is no trace of her.

Just the man, lying motionless on the ground. All becomes silent.

From down below, someone calls. It is that woman, who just killed the last demon. She and the other two are probably wondering where their companion is.

The man blinks and slowly rises. He looks at his hands, as if he saw them for the first time. He looks at the black tattoos, that cover his whole arms and even reach his fingertips in thin lines. He adjusts his black, sleeveless coat. Another call from down below. This time its the bird, with his screechy voice.

"V, where are you for fuck's sake! You missed all the fun!"

The man walks towards the staircase leading down. He looks around the battlefield, the demon carcasses dragged around the floor, turned over sculptures, broken benches and - among it all - the three creatures, so satisfied with their doings. The woman glances at him with amusement while she cleans her blades and slides them into the scabbards. The bird sits on one of the collapsed columns. The panther stretches lazily.

The man makes a short gesture with one hand and two beasts disappear. The warrior lady raises her eyebrows.

"You did not even thank them. They performed splendidly."

"And yet it was nothing to how you fought" - V replies silently, approaching her. The woman smiles shyly and shrugs. V continues, "You were like a goddess, so natural, beautiful, strong and fearless. Watching you fight was a purest form of pleasure, one I could not resist".

The woman freezes, her cheeks slowly turning crimson. She shakes her head, partly hiding her face behind her long hair. She is not used to open compliments. V reaches out with his hand and pushes the stray hair away from her face. The woman is smaller than him, so to look her straight into eyes he needs to lean a bit.

"V, what are you..."

He does not let her finish the sentence. He presses his lips against hers, and when her mouth parts, releasing a short moan, he deepens the kiss. Her body tenses, as if she wanted to push him away, but he grabs her tight by her waist with one hand, and the second by her neck. His tongue finds its way between her teeth, touches against her tongue. This suddenly works like a switch: her body relaxes, her arms finally embrace him. V takes a few steps ahead, pushing her backwards, until her buttocks press against the altar.

He lifts her with one hand, putting her on the cold stone. She breaks her lips away from his, draws a hoarse breath. She looks deep in his shiny green eyes and is surprised by emptiness she finds, and the lack of focus. This is so unlike V, unlike what she thought it would be - and yes, she did fantasize about HIM and HER like THIS, as they spent so much time together recently - but she believed he would be gentle, slow, that he would want to taste every inch of her body.

"Why hurry, mage? Perhaps first we should..."

But he does not seem to listen. He kisses her again, hard and passionately. Hastily, he undoes the buckle of her heavy belt and lets it land heavily on the ground, together with the sabres. He puts his hand between her breasts and pushes her, forcing her to lie on her back. His hips are between her thighs and she feels his arousal through his pants, the hardness pressed against her crotch. V leans over her, reaching for the buttons of her shirt with one hand...

And then, a change happens, as if someone took off a veil. Consciousness returns to his eyes, pupils shrink in a sudden blow of fear. He takes a quick draw of air through his teeth and jumps away, like if he was burned.

"Run. Away." - He says, through his teeth clenched tightly. The woman, equally scared by his sudden reaction and confused, pulls away from the altar and tries to approach him.

"V, calm down, you were, maybe, a little rash, but I think..."

"No!" - he shouts, backing away from her. "Don't come any closer! I am not myself!"

Sudden convulsion pass through his body, black liquid drips from his nostrils, too dark to be blood. V moans and hides his face in his hands.

"For gods' sake, tell me what is going on with you" - she puts her hand on his shoulder, and to her surprise she sees him calm down immediately. As if through her touch she put a spell on him.

"Let's get away from here" - she says. "On our way you will tell me what happened."

She looks around and finds her belt and weapons by the altar. She bends over to pick it up and as her hand closes around it, suddenly she feels something is wrong. V is behaving odd, like if he was sick, but something does not fit more than anything else. Something is missing, something extremely important.

Where is his cane? He never, never goes anywhere without it.

She feels a shiver run up her spine. A frightening certainty grows in her, that the... thing... behind her is alien, dangerous and scary. She puts her hand on the scabbard.

 But it is too late.

[cloudbattrolls]

Are My Edges Sharp (Am I A Pest To Feed?)

You stand in front of the scanner as it analyzes your makeup to ensure you’re not hiding anything in your body. The blue light sweeps over you - your face, your torso, your legs - and beeps as the robotic voice declares you don’t contain any unapproved objects or substances.

Sorry, “the construct” doesn’t contain any of those things.

For all most of the company members use your name to your face, it’s a reminder of how they really see you.

Good thing, too, you muse as the automatic glass door slides open and you step into the waiting room where your boss will eventually come to meet you. They’re at least somewhat honest. You respect that in a troll.

There’s a few other trolls here, scattered among the cheap folding chairs. You wave to them.

Two get up and move away, looks of fear mingled with disgust on their faces, and the third...stares. It’s kind of creepy, but you guess you should be used to it by now. They’ve done it every time you’ve met them. 

You take out the shirt they asked you to mend, and work on it, but eventually the pressure of their gaze becomes too much. 

“Do I have something in my hair?” You ask politely. “Or do I remind you of someone?”

“What’s going to happen to you on the new world?”

You stare back.

“Uh. You really threw me a curveball here, give me a minute, lemontree.”

“My name’s Tierel.” They say, voice low and raspy. Accusing. 

“Well, Tierel, I don’t think I’ll be going! I’m here for cavern expertise and other services. Whenever you all go cruising off into the cosmos, I’ll stay here and find something else to do, how’s that?”

They look you up and down, fiddling with a small metal symbol. Distantly you hear some shouting, probably office squabbles; Rivali’s complained at times how the young trolls shout at each other. Tierel hardly talks to anyone, at least that you’ve seen; maybe that’s why they chat with you of all people. 

“That’s lazy.”

You tilt your head, well and truly confused now as you sew the patch on. Tie is short and skinny, but they have to be at least fifteen sweeps old. Signs of age line their face, nicks mark their ears and gray is already starting to dust their hair. There’s wear on their clothing, scuffed and frayed edges and shoelaces that are possibly older than the shoes. 

While it’s odd they sought you out, it’s no wonder they asked you to mend this shirt; you should offer to fix their other clothing as well, though there’s only so much you can do for some of it. 

“I can’t think what I’d do there, le - Tierel. Miss Tulais isn’t bringing a mother grub along, is she? I’ve heard she plans to mix slurry in a different way. You won’t need a cavern.”

As if you haven’t worked on those plans with her personally - well, as personal as it gets when you’ve never physically been allowed near her. Until tonight, when she’s called you in, and you doubt it’s to pat you on the back. Good news doesn’t suit your existence. 

Their eyes narrow and they actually get up and step toward you. You hear shouts again, closer this time. Either someone’s pitchflirting, or something serious is going down. The other two trolls are tapping at their phones, but you see their ears flick in irritation. You put your sewing away in your sylladex.

“You’re stronger and faster than some highbloods. You can sniff out mutants, can’t you? And criminals? You could protect us from the empire instead of patching shirts.”

“No one can protect you from the empire, Tierel. Living undetected by them is the only way. And I prefer to mend instead of mangle; fighting isn’t my place.”

They look past you, as if seeing something else.

“That’s stupid.” They state, flatly. “You’re an honest to empress rainbowdrinker, you could make a difference in this fight that most of us can’t. But it’s ‘not your place’. I think you’re just lazy, or a coward.”

You blink several times.

“You don’t want to see me fight, Tierel.” You say, low. “It’s ugly.”

“So’s life as a lowblood. What’s your point?”

You’re about to retort that you doubt they’ve ever seen your brand of ugly, but as your mouth opens the glass door shatters and shards of glass go flying. 

Lunging, you tackle yellow is on the ground, managing to protect them from the worst of it. Hurts like hell, but you’ve had worse; carefully you get off Tierel without piercing them with the debris now scattering your body as they swear and you look toward the door.

A troll steps through the now gaping hole, and there’s no more yelling from behind him.

Only silence, and the familiar and tempting scent of blood.

Wait a second.

“Jarron, is that really you?”

“...Tuuya? The fuck are you doing here?”

The big cerulean in black kevlar body armor, a mass of muscle with a shaved head and scars all over, is lowering his gun just enough for you to see his familiar face.

“You first.”

“Look, ain’t really the - sweet Empress’s tits, what the fuck is coming out of you?”

You don’t look down at the gleam of white worms no doubt showing; a mistake in a standoff, even if the other person is an old drinking buddy. A mercenary you sometimes hired for odd jobs, you’d always been fond of his bluntness and terrible puns; doing him favors in exchange, information he could sell or telling him about bars you knew he’d like. 

He shoots the other two trolls who were readying their weapons faster than you can object to, and his gun is blueblood-issue; enough concussive force to tear gaping holes in their bodies with bullets, the sound ringing in your ears. One is olive, the other bronze; they’re goners. 

Tierel has the sense to stay still. You wonder if they have any psi.

Some of the glass pierced through enough to make small holes in your back, where Jarron can’t see. Just big enough for your needs.

“I gotta get that Tulais girl.” He says. “Stand down, you don’t need to get hurt. Seriously, what on Condesce’s good Alternia is in you?”

“Medical technology.” You answer, promptly and accurately, and manage to keep your eyes on face so that he doesn’t look at the floor around his combat boots.

His face clears. “Them nanobyte things, right.” 

He looks at Tierel, who’s curled into a ball. From the mumbled words under their breath, it sounds like they’re praying. 

“Nope.” You say lightly.

“No witnesses, Tuu. C’mon, scram, I won’t say it again. I’ll cull you, I’m already being way too damn nice.”

“You’re right.” You comment, as the hundreds of small white worms you released from your wounds swarm up his body, pressing his legs and arms together, spreading across his mouth as his gun clatters to the floor. “You’re too nice for your own good.”

With at least a third of your force restraining him, your skin caves in a bit and you feel a bit weak, but Tierel’s still breathing. They stopped talking, though, which worries you.

You walk over to him, clicking your tongue as if chiding a wayward pupa, and put his gun in your sylladex.

He struggles, but you command the swarm to bite, and he stops as dull blue blood runs down his body and his clothes, oozing from a thousand tiny deep cuts, ones that will flow freely for minutes at a time. 

His eyes are full of fear and hate as you take out your phone to call miss Tulais.

Before you can press a button she runs in from the other door, her own laser gun out and pointed right at him, several security trolls at her heels.

Several of them swear and you think you hear one vomit, but you don’t take your eyes off Jarron.

Tierel sits up, a faint look of pride on their face despite their hunched body language and obvious shock, holding an open phone in one hand.

You look at the tealblood who’s just come in.

“Search him first, make sure he doesn’t have any other weapons or tricks. Actually, let’s put him in front of the scanner.”

Miss Tulais nods, then orders two of her guards to go over and cuff and gag him. Both look like they’d rather swim in lava, but do it anyway, and you retract your worms as they place the metal restraints around his limbs and mouth, the stream of tiny creatures retreating into your wounds. Now that the adrenaline’s worn off, you’re really starting to feel those, and you carefully begin pulling the glass shards out. 

Some worms die as you do, writhing and then falling still. They fall out of you, or the others consume them. You don’t have to look to know it’s happening. 

They - you - want all of Jarron’s blood, want to suck up the incredibly tempting drops scattered across the gray floor. Some don’t come back willingly, but you force them, imposing your will as host. Reminding them they’re part of the whole.

You still look over at him as they carry him out to the scanner. He probably doesn’t taste half bad.

--

After Jarron’s been stripped, searched, and not found to have any bombs implanted in him or on his person, he’s thrown in the closest thing the office has to a cell under heavy guard while your boss sits across from you and Tierel at her desk.

Karina Tulais sits with her fingertips touching, elbows out, as those silly surgically altered black eyes of hers remain unreadable as ever, their slitted teal pupils unmoving. Her long hair falls around her shoulders, and her luminescent flower tattoos glow softly in the office’s low light. 

“Do you know who might have hired Jarron Gallow?” She asks, after your explanation of what happened. 

The yellowblood beside you is silent, perhaps from shock. They’re still fiddling with that metal symbol, which you see now is one of the many a troll can be assigned at hatching.

“Not a clue. We haven’t actually spoken in about four sweeps, and he was never gossipy. Didn’t go into detail about his merc contracts with me, he knew better. I could ask around, but I doubt I’d get far. I’m not fleet; my contacts don’t tell me a lot of sensitive info.”

“Yet they still got you into Nott when you shouldn’t have been there unauthorized, mix Vannyn.”

“I know this is really about me threatening the good doctor, so let’s drop the pretenses.”

She examines her teal-painted nails, then shakes her head. Your eyebrows raise.

“QPIN could be a problem eventually, but your little trip matters now because we didn’t know about it. You’re not a rogue anymore; your life isn’t the only one at stake now when you’re careless.”

As if Tulais wouldn’t cull you or sell you out the moment it suited her. It’s not as if you have any right to be bitter, but it’s a fact.

“If I had asked, you’d still have said no, for the same reason you don’t let me out on-planet.”

A bit of anger leaks into your voice and you curse yourself, ears pinning back. Why are you even angry? You know trolls cannot trust you, shouldn’t trust you if they have any sense. You have no right to be mad at the people who took you in and gave you work when almost no one else would.

“I didn’t let you out on planet mostly because you were actively wanted.” she says, amusement in her voice as she leans back in her seat. “Is it so hard to wait a while, Vannyn? You were imprisoned before.”

“I thought you might be different than the caverns.” You say, and the bitterness does show this time, heavy in your mouth even as you wish you could turn the feeling off. She’s right, and you hate her for it.

Then she leans over and plucks a worm out of one of your wounds. 

You go rigid as it squirms in her hand, trying to bite her with its tiny teeth, but she has it trapped around the neck and lower body. 

It goes limp with a thought from you. No matter how easy it would be to drink her, you won’t ruin this. 

“I see opportunity where they tremble like fearful pupas. I’m better than them, and smarter. Tierel, are you afraid of mix Vannyn?”

They hold up their symbol, and your pumper sinks as you can’t pretend ignorance anymore. Microscopium. A rare symbol in the vast alphabet assigned to trolls by the caverns, exclusive to a few lines only. 

Yours is one of them.

“We’re signmates.” They rasp. “They saved my life. They should keep saving lives.”

Tierel snaps their fingers, and a few white sparks flare before dying. A classic sign of near-total psionic burnout; no wonder they called for help when Jarron came. 

It’s no use to say you don’t want to put yourself in the path of bloodbaths to a troll who sees you as everything they can’t be. 

Karina hands you your worm, and you put it back.

“You proved you can control yourself as a drinker. So you’ll get some privileges as a troll, as long as you act like one.” She adds dryly.

“So, no dead bodies arranged to form words?” You quip, tired of the whole situation.

“If it can be avoided.” She deadpans back.

Her phone chimes and she reads the text, lips thinning into disapproval.

“Jarron concussed himself on a guard’s gun, hard enough to dent a cerulean skull. He’s determined we won’t get anything from him, even with our psychics.”

You nod. The most talented mind reader can’t parse a damaged thinkpan if the thoughts aren’t coherent enough.

“So...since he isn’t useful, do you want him?”

“I already have one awful roommate.”

“To eat.”

“Is this some sort of annoying test, because that’s just mean.”

She rolls her eyes.

“He cost me two trolls tonight, I think he deserves to die horribly.”

“It didn’t occur to you that I might not want to eat him because I knew him? Did that just not cross your mind?”

She looks startled.

You laugh.

“I’m kidding. Of course I’ll eat him, he’s a bastard.”

--

As uncomfortable as Tierel makes you, you won’t deny they’re handy for helping you store the excess blood from Jarron for later. Their hands have splatters of blood and gore on them, yet it doesn’t seem to bother them at all that they’re helping a drinker feed, which is just weird.

“Why are you so calm about all this? And why didn’t you tell me we were signmates before?”

“Would you have avoided me if I had?”

“Uh.”

“Be honest. You have power. Act like it.”

“You make me uncomfortable. Me of all trolls. How can you just go with this, signmates or no? 

They pause.

“A drinker’s just a lesser kind of parasite.” They state flatly. “Highbloods are worse. Drones are worse. You’re easy; give you blood, you’re satisfied. You think you’re the worst thing out there? One monster is nothing to the way lowbloods get robbed and killed and raped every night.”

What kind of life does a troll have to lead to see you as their potential savior?

You guess you know now.

Did Tulais have this planned all along, in her own sort of waiting game? Does she feel the same way?

“Well.” You say softly, screwing the lid on the last container, and standing up.

“That’s one way to put it.”

END