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the-kr8tor · 1 year ago

Text

Knee Socks

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 4.5k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparingly, no specific physical description of the reader, bullying, blood, violence, food mentions, fluff.

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CHAPTER 3 >>> CHAPTER 4

Hobie converses with his friends, casually leaning on the playground's chain link fence, he's only eleven, that awkward stage where he thinks he's too old to use the slide, but still too young to be taken seriously by the older kids. He's too tall to be just eleven, almost a foot taller than his classmates, always mistaken for someone older, he takes it in stride, becoming his year's resident protector from would be bullies. His sheer height alone makes them stop in their tracks, not to mention his perseverance when the bully decides to fight Hobie, even if they're taller or bigger than him, he doesn't back down despite his lanky form and sometimes nerdy personality, wiping at his bleeding nose, he stands up, knuckles at the ready.

This alone makes Hobie an absolute legend in the playground. He doesn't care about that though, he just does what he thinks is right, and that's protecting those who cannot defend themselves.

The children playing stops in their tracks when a loud shriek rings out, ears perking at the difference of the sound from a happy playing yell. This one sounded like they were in pain, Hobie stomps towards the sound, the crowd parting for him.

He sees a bigger kid holding a smaller one by his ear, he recognizes the bully from his year, the smaller one seems like a year younger than him. The crowd around them gets bigger, some kids would be hollering for a fight, some could only watch. Before Hobie could run up to them, a flash of something pink hits the bully right on his forehead, causing him to let go, crouching and holding the bleeding cut it left behind.

You fearlessly strut up to him, screaming your tiny head off, "fuck off, Terrence!" You pick up the pink sketchbook from the ground, threatening to throw it again.

Hobie's eyes widened at your choice of word, not used to hearing it in the playground, he smirks at your bravery, especially that you're five times smaller than the bully. He watches as you shield the smaller kid from Terrence, book at the ready.

You look over your shoulder to look back at the younger kid on the ground, clutching at the shell of his ear, tears falling on his rosy cheeks. "You okay, Danny?"

With you distracted, Terrence finds the opportunity to grab you by the ankle, losing your balance and swiftly falling on your back, you let out a small pained sound. Hobie had enough of being a bystander, he runs up to the bully, punching him square in his face. Terrence doesn't back down, tackling Hobie, they both fall on the harsh gravel, Hobie shields his face from the oncoming punches while Terrence keeps aiming at his face.

You stand up, no time to dust yourself off, you yell a battle cry, flinging yourself on the bully's back, trying to get him off Hobie. Your small fists thump helplessly on the bigger kid's back. Suddenly the crowd parts, a couple of winded teachers arrive, one yanks you off Terrence, while the other stops him from punching Hobie. They hold you both back, like a couple of kittens trying to claw and scratch at each other.

"Enough!" One of the teachers yells out, Hobie sits up, a cut on his lip. Eyes watching as you don't let up from trying to kick Terrence's ass.

—

You sit on one of the school clinic's cot, an ice pack on your head, the condensation slides over your face, landing on the paper of your mangled sketchbook.

"Little shit" you murmur out, wiping at the water on your precious notebook.

The curtains separating the beds flings open, you jump from the sound of metal.

"Y'know you could get in trouble for that" Hobie looks at you, a similar ice pack over his cheek. He sits criss crossed on the bed, blanket pooling around him.

"You would know, of course" the previous anger still lingers, your usual shyness gone from your system.

"So you've heard of me?" He raises his brow, hissing when he moves it.

"Who hasn't heard of you? Here" you toss your ice pack over to his cot, "you look like you need it more" Hobie fumbles a bit before he finally catches it. He looks back at you, your face scrunched up in anger, brows knitted together, you look at the pink notebook like it'll spontaneously combust right in front of you.

"You look like Gromit, when you're mad" he brings your previous ice pack to his brow, the other held up to his cheek. "Y'know when he scrunches his face" you look at him angrily "like that!" He points out.

"Hey! You want a piece of me too?" It sounded much braver in your head, but with the fading adrenaline and anger, your shyness peeks back in, making your sentence sound meek.

Hobie holds up his hands, dropping the ice packs on the bed "nah, I can't fight you"

"Why? Just because I'm a girl?"

"Nope, I saw what you did to big Terry, thought you gave him brain damage" he pokes his temples. "I don't want that notebook flying at me, especially with that aim of yours"

"Fucker already has brain damage" you say softly, your shyness definitely creeping in, but you're still angry enough to swear.

"Where'd you learn to curse like that? You don't look like someone who swears"

"The telly" you shrug.

"That shit ain't good for you"

"You sound like an adult," you scrunch your nose "they always tell me I swear a lot when I'm mad. You swear too, y'know"

"I'm allowed" Hobie leans back, grinning.

"How are you allowed?" you ask, genuinely curious. Why is he allowed and you're not?

"I'm older" he says matter-of-fact.

"You're only a year older than me" you scoff, wincing when a sharp pain hits the back of your head.

Hobie hops down from the bed, quickly grabbing the ice packs. He moves towards you, sitting down, your sketchbook in the middle between you. He hands you the ice pack back, you give him a small thanks, hissing when the cold hits your skin.

"You alright? D'you want me to get the nurse?" He asks you as if he wasn't injured himself, looking worse than you.

"I'm fine, you look worse than me though"

"You draw?" Hobie doesn't acknowledge your last comment. He tries to take a peek at the pages, you clamp the book shut with lightning speed.

"I'm not showing you my sketchbook"

"Why not?"

"It's private! And I don't know you"

"Well, name's Hobie Brown" he extends his hand towards you "and you areee? Then you tell me your name, That's how this usually goes"

You narrow your eyes, "I know who you are" slapping his hand away but you tell him your name anyway, trying to be the polite one "Y/N, it's Y/N Y/L/N"

"Now we know each other, now can I?" His hand hovers over your notebook. "Damn, this looks like it's been trampled"

"Fucking Terrence" you seethe, sliding the book over to him. "Here"

"Fucking Terrence" Hobie smiles as he flips through your sketches.

—

Your mind goes back to the present when your familiar mug lands on your messy table, the content sloshes a bit to the sides.

"Careful!" You hold the mug, stopping its motion.

"Shit, sorry. You looked like Gromit there for a second" he chuckles, sitting down on your bed, a piece of biscuit in his mouth, the springs squeaking under his weight.

"Augh, you trying to bring back that nickname?" You take a sip, the warmth of the tea relaxes the aching muscles of your hand.

"It's always been there, Gromit" he lays down, swallowing the cookie, his chucks still on his feet.

You stand up immediately, cringing when his soles graze your bedsheets, grabbing his shoes off your bed "shoes off!" You struggle as Hobie watches on with a smirk "fuckin' take it off!"

"You're mad mad" he sits up, unlacing his shoes.

You put your hands on your hips, socked feet tapping impatiently. Hobie flings his shoes off, looking smugly at your annoyed face. He lays down, arms behind his head.

You narrow your eyes at him "awwe, are you tired?" You asked sarcastically.

"Yes, talking to you the entire day is tiring"

"You're not the one designing this thing" you gesture towards your table that's littered with crumpled papers, various designs pinned on your corkboard. Your hand cramps at the thought of drawing another line.

"Giving my opinion is tiring, why don't you rest for a bit, you're obviously knackered" he taps the space beside him. It wouldn't be the first time you've shared a bed, it's impossible that you haven't, being that you've been best friends for ten years. But you're still unsure, knowing that when you lie down (especially next to him) you won't get back to work again. But it doesn't mean that your heart doesn't skip a beat whenever you do share a bed, it practically stops in your chest until you two wake up.

Hobie sees your dilemma, knowing you wouldn't be able to work on your designs if you lie down next to him. "Come sit down at least" he finds a middle ground.

You sigh, surrendering, as long as you don't rest your head on your pillow you'll be fine, right? Sitting down, Hobie's legs props you up, preventing you from laying down completely.

You hum, leaning your entire weight over his legs, you can feel the rough material of his jeans on your back, your jumper doesn't provide much barrier from his warmth.

"Don't fall asleep" Hobie pokes your arm.

"Hard to when your bony legs are stabbing my back"

He moves his legs back, you fall halfway, head almost landing on his knees. You smack his arm playfully. Hobie predicts that you'll slap his chest next, he moves his arm shield himself. Lo and behold, that's where you hit him next.

"Fuck you, Wallace" despite your swearing, you grin widely, Hobie laughs at his old nickname, he keeps dodging your attacks, Hobie parries your hand, stopping it mid air. He holds your wrists in front of him, warm fingers wrap bracelets around them.

He laughs victoriously "who you callin' Wallace? Do I look like I'm bald?"

You try to get his grip off your wrist, pulling, but his grip is too strong–it doesn't hurt, it's the opposite actually, his grip on you provides comfort and stability. A laugh escapes you "you smile like him" he says it with you, copying your voice mockingly, already knowing that you'll say those exact words.

You roll your eyes, trying and failing to take your hands back, Hobie pulls you in, making you lean over his chest, your heart immediately jumping at the close proximity of his face from yours. Hobie didn't think this through enough, now he doesn't know what to do next. You both pause on your play fighting.

He watches your reaction, your lips slightly parted, pupils blown out. You do the same, cataloging every line on his face, eyes finding the familiar color of his iris, the late afternoon sun gleaming on his lip piercing. You quickly move your eyes back to his, realizing you've been staring at his lips, you swallow down your fear. You lay on top of him, frozen.

You exhale, breath fanning his face, your pulse thumping hard against Hobie's hand. He loosens his grip on your wrists, giving you time to pull away, but you don't so he slides his hands from your wrists over to your hands, fingers stopping at your clammy palms.

Hobie raises his head slowly to meet yours, his heart uncharacteristically beating hard on his chest. He realizes that his heart only acts this way around you. He can feel the dam straining against the overflowing water.

Knock

The sound breaks you both out of your daze, pushing away from each other, you avoid Hobie's gaze. While he looks at you longingly, chest heaving at what almost transpired.

Knock

You try to act nonchalantly, clearing your throat "yeah?"

"It's almost six! Get your visitor out" the dorm's RA yells out like a warden.

"Yeah, okay!" You give her a thumbs up, as if she can see you through the door. Hobie notices your awkwardness, taking it upon himself to break the awkward feeling.

"She doesn't have x-ray vision" He stops himself from touching your arm, hand landing back to his side.

You scoff, heat slowly leaving your cheeks "c'mon time to go home" you stand up, refraining from tapping his chest.

"We're not done yet" he sits up by his elbows, eyes following you gathering his stuff like a one night stand trying to get him out of your place.

You sigh "I don't think we can finish this today, Hobs" you say defeatedly "I mean look" you take a pinned sketch, showing it to Hobie. You both act like nothing happened, used to the almosts.

He looks at your sketch of him, drawn like a runway model, your design looks good, for him at least. Already sure whatever you make for him will be amazing. But judging from your pout he guesses it's not good enough for you.

"It looks good" he reassures you, "what's wrong with it?"

You drop his shoes back on the floor, stepping over it to sit back down on the bed. You hold the paper gingerly, noting every single line you've drawn. "There's something missing, it– I don't know" you groan.

"Make me understand then, they all look good enough for me" he gestures at your designs on the corkboard "I like the one with red on it"

"They all have a touch of red" you roll your eyes, "I don't know, they just– they have more Hobie in them, than of me y'know?"

He nods "yeah, I can see it, you need more bits of you in it"

"Mm-hmm, it's supposed to be a perfect blend of us both" you cross the barrier that you've put up between him, leaning your head on his chest.

"Yeah, it's like if we had a kid and they ended up lookin' like a clone of me" he looks at you teasingly, a smirk curling on his lips.

"Again, weird analogy, Hobs" you huff out.

He chuckles "D'you wanna rest or continue this at my place?" Hobie covers the top of your head with his palm, blanketing your scalp in his warmth.

Thinking for a second, you want to rest, but on the other hand, you need to keep working, you never know when both of your schedules will clear up, this is one of those rare times.

The loud knock echoes again, "your place, then" you look at him, cheek laying on his chest, hearing how his heart beats against your ear.

Hobie smiles, more than happy to spend more time with you.

—

You stop by a convenience store on the way to his place. The harsh white lights make you squint until your eyes adjust. Hobie grabs a basket, handing it to you.

"Such a gentleman" sarcasm dripping on your lips.

He walks backwards, winking at you, hands in his jean pockets. Hobie beelines for the frozen aisle, his chucks sliding against the tiled floor.

You sigh, already knowing what he'll grab. You take a couple of crisps, Hobie's favourite and yours. You bend down to grab a packet of biscuits, hearing a tinkling sound on your left, your eyebrows knit in confusion at the peeking green sock puppet.

"Hello there" You ask, thinking there's a kid playing around. You stand up, the small basket almost full.

"Hi" the puppet's mouth moves, but Hobie's voice comes out, you laugh at how he tried to hide his voice by making it higher pitched.

"Hobie, where'd you even get that?" You say in between airy laughs. You can't see where he is, Hobie's body is hidden behind a display of oatmeal, but you can clearly see his metal bracelet peeking out from under the puppet.

"Name's not Hobie, it's y/n, and I have a passion for fashion" the puppet's mouth moves dramatically as Hobie speaks.

You giggle at his antics, grabbing the puppet by its 'throat' "ack!" Hobie acts like he's choking. He moves in your line of sight, still making choking noises. The cashier looks at you weirdly, releasing your hand from the puppet.

You keep laughing, Hobie's smiles victoriously, getting the desired reaction from you. You clutch your hand over your stomach, heaving from laughing.

"You done?" Hobie is still speaking through the puppet, his throat aching from making his voice higher.

"Yep, you can stop making that voice" you smile, playing with the little bell strapped on the puppet, it rings softly at your touch.

"Thank fuck," Hobie clears his throat, speaking in his normal deep voice "they're selling these over there" he points to his right, using the puppet to point at it.

You see the bright display of different sock puppets, the bold letters reading 'all proceeds go to the children's hospital'

"It's cute, what even is it?"

Hobie moves the puppet from side to side, little yellow spikes on its head, a long tongue lolling on the side of its mouth. "I think it's supposed to be a dinosaur"

"Looks like it, but its tongue is too long to be a dinosaur, maybe it's a lizard?" You look at Hobie questioningly.

"Don't look at me, I don't know either" he shrugs.

"Whatever it is let's take it, he's kind of adorable, in a weird looking way" you take it from his hand, putting it inside your basket.

"Just like you" Hobie quips.

"Funny" you poke his chest. "You got the frozen pizza?"

"Nah, got distracted" Hobie walks towards the freezers, you follow closely behind, he flings the door open. You peek under his raised arm resting on the freezer door, looking at your choices.

"Four cheeses? Or overload?" You ask.

"You want me to shit myself?"

You giggle "right, lactose intolerant, forgot for a sec, overload it is. Thought you have lactaid?"

Hobie takes the frozen pizza box, bringing it to your cheeks, you jump away when the cold box hits your skin. "I ran out of it"

"Ass" you scoff, wiping away the condensation.

He laughs from his belly, putting the box inside the basket. Hobie grabs the heavy basket from you, happily giving it to him. He makes his way towards the cashier, you quickly grab a couple of canned soda from the freezer, catching up to Hobie.

The cashier gives you an annoyed look, probably because of the noises you two made. You look at him apologetically as he scans the items.

—

You arrive at his place, slightly shivering from the cold air that pricked you while in the back of Hobie's motorcycle. He gets off first, helping you with a steady hand.

"Remind me to bring a proper jacket next time we ride this late. Christ alive it's bloody freezing" you rub your arms, trying to get warm, your thin jacket isn't helping much to shield you from the cold.

Hobie takes off his leather jacket despite being only a few feet away from his place, he drapes it on you since your hands are full with the plastic bag of food. He holds your hands together breathing hot air into it, your heart swells at the small act.

"Why didn't you tell me you were cold? I could've stopped for a bit and handed you my jacket, you idiot" he grumbles out, still rubbing your hands warm.

"It was a short ride, Hobs. Besides we're here already you don't need to do this"

"Inside isn't any better, radiator's fucked since yesterday" he brings your hands to his mouth, blowing more warm air into your cold hands.

"Just my luck" your breathing stutters in your throat when Hobie looks at you through his lashes, lips dangerously close to your hands. "Let's just go inside, I'm hungry" you pull your hands away, already missing his warmth. Hobie looks at you like you grew a second head.

"Oven still works, right?" You clear your throat.

Hobie takes out his keys, opening the door for you "yeah, gas still works" he sniffs, the cold finally bothering him.

Entering the small house, you can hear the loud sound of the television, bright against the darkness of the modest living room. Ned and James play couch co-op of golden eye. James sees you standing awkwardly by the doorway, not paying attention to the screen, his character dies, making Ned annoyed.

"Come on, bruv! We can't pass this level with you dying every bloody minute" Ned follows James' stare, ending with you standing stiffly in front of the door, too awkward to walk in front of the telly, not wanting to disturb them. Hobie's behind you fumbling with the lock.

"Hi, sorry to drop in" you smile shyly.

Ned slaps the back of James' head "really? You got distracted?" He whisper-shouts, James jumps slightly in his seat, Ned quickly moves his neck to look at you, "It's alright, y/n! Make yourself at home"

"Thanks" you say, smiling sweetly.

"Oi, it's rude to stare" Hobie finally locks the rusty bolt, eyes staring at James.

" 'm not," he defends himself, thick Manchester accent rearing its head. "I was lookin' at the bag, is that pizza?" He acts interested in the contents of your bag.

Hobie side eyes Ned, having a non verbal conversation with him.

"I think there's enough for us four, where's Yuri? I still haven't thanked her for her help" you say.

"She's with her friends," Ned says.

Nodding, you walk towards the kitchen, Hobie not too far behind. "Have you talked to the landlord about the broken radiator, Hobs?"

"Don't need to, we're moving out anyway" Hobie replies nonchalantly, like it's old news to you.

"What?" You drop the plastic bag a little too hard on the counter. "What do you mean you're moving out? Where are you moving?" Fear creeps up to you.

"All of us are moving, actually" James pipes up from the couch, Ned elbows for him to shut up.

Hobie grabs a flyer from the fridge door, showing it to you. "Battle of the bands, our last show before we disband"

"You're gonna disband too?!" You look at Ned sitting on the couch, watching the interaction unfold. He replies for Hobie, seeing he might need some help explaining it to you.

"Sorry y/n, it's true. James and Yuri are off to uni, and I'm moving back to Richmond"

You look at Hobie sadly, knowing he'll be left behind by one of his oldest friends. You're well aware that Hobie doesn't like sticking to one band, moving on to a different team every few years, this doesn't surprise you, but Ned has been one of the few constants in his band, always his chosen bassist, and his oldest friend next to you.

Ned and James start their game again, giving you as much privacy as the small space can provide, trying to not listen to your obvious private conversation, they wish you two could just talk it out inside Hobie's room instead. Or better yet, just kiss about it, saving you both the energy.

Looking up at Hobie, eyes slightly watering at the thought of him being left behind, you'd never even thought of doing that to him. Of course you know he can handle himself, but you can't bear imagining him alone. Or maybe it's because you can't imagine going through life without him, turning out he'll be fine on his own without you. And you're the one who's projecting your fears towards Hobie.

Your lives have been intertwined since childhood, celebrating wins together, laughing and crying at the good and bad. You've been through almost everything together, it's hard to imagine your life before you met him, more so after your lives untangle from each other.

"When's the last gig?" You try to not let your emotions get to you, but your smile doesn't reach your eyes. Hobie sees through your charade, he holds your hand subtly, thumb rubbing circles over your palm.

"It'll be fine, love" I'll be fine, he wanted to say, but he swallows it down, tossing it over to the pile of all the unsaid words he wanted to say to you. "We've been planning it for awhile, just need to find a place and I'm good to go"

"You haven't found a place yet?" completely forgetting there are other people in the room with you, melting into his touch.

"Not yet, y'know me, always putting things off" he tangles his fingers through yours. "Once we win, I'll get enough to rent a place"

"I'll help you find a place" you squeeze his hand, he squeezes back three times.

"You givin' it for free? No need for me to punch out a hole in our card?" He teases you.

You roll your eyes "Don't push it, Hobart. But yes, you don't need to use our card for it" you joke, you would've helped him anyways, card or no card.

"Good, thanks Gromit" he smiles, reluctantly untangling your fingers from his. Hobie hands you the flyer, moving towards the counter to take out the food. With that your previous conversation ends, but your sadness and anxiety for what the future holds still lingers. Everything seems to change too fast, you don't think you're ready for any of it.

You smile softly at the nickname. Reading the contents of the advert– Battle of the bands at Oscorp Museum! your eyes widening when you gloss over the date on it. "Hobie, this concert is happening the day before our show"

"And? It's not on the same day" he takes out the puppet from the plastic.

"Yeah, but won't you be too..tired?" You ask.

Hobie huffs, taking the puppet off the counter, slipping it on your hand, you raise a brow at him "say what you really mean by 'tired' use the puppet to help" he crosses his arms over his chest.

You narrow your eyes, playing along, raising your arm halfway. You speak through the puppet, trying to talk with your mouth closed "won't you be too hungover?"

"There we go!" He claps "Thank you, y/n for the honesty"

"That wasn't me, that was the puppet"

"We have a real ventriloquist here, huh" Hobie takes out the frozen pizza from the box, slipping it inside the oven, he shuts the oven door closed "There won't be any alcohol in the venue, there's nothing to fucking drink"

"Sure" you say, still speaking through the puppet, rolling its head with your hand movements.

James whispers to Ned "they were all sweet to each other a second ago, now they're fighting"

"Reminds you of your parents huh?" Ned whispers back.

"Actually yeah, good eye"

Ned looks at him confused "not a compliment, bruv"

"Huh?"

"Nothin' what's up with the creepy puppet?"

Meanwhile, you continue to bicker with Hobie, the cold not helping with your attitude "You know I'm thinking of naming him Terrence, he looks like a Terry, right?" You make the puppet look at you, making it nod.

"Fuck off, after that Terry?"

"Yeah, we can tell exactly what we mean through Terry then we can both put the blame on him" you make the puppet nervously look at both of you.

"Fuckin' Terrence" Hobie remembers the bully.

"Exactly! Fuckin' Terrence" you both laugh, you don't even remember why you were fighting in the first place.

A/N: Thank you for reading! As always likes and reblogs are appreciated ❤️

*pictures above are from pinterest*

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icybreaths · 1 month ago

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In the depths of the mystical forest, where the murmurs of the trees intertwined with the gentle caress of the breeze, a being of extraordinary elegance stepped forth from the twilight. Her fur shimmered like freshly fallen snow under the moon's embrace, radiating a soft, silvery luminescence that illuminated the verdant carpet beneath her. Her mane glowed with an otherworldly light, each strand resembling delicate threads woven from the very essence of moonbeams. Above her, the leafy canopy arched like a grand cathedral, sunlight filtering through in a whimsical ballet, casting intricate patterns of light and shadow upon her form.

Once, she had been a powerful witch, wise and revered, moving with a grace that echoed her lost humanity. Her eyes, now reflecting the depth of a nocturnal creature, carried a quiet sorrow, a poignant reminder of the life she had once known. They sparkled with ancient knowledge, hinting at the stories of countless nights and the whispered mysteries hidden within the forest's embrace.

Her hooves danced through the muck and mire of the earth, each step resonating with the pulse of the land. The woodland creatures sensed her arrival, for she was a guardian, a quiet watcher who safeguarded the realm with an unwavering gaze. They could feel her strength, even if they couldn’t perceive the delicate spells she spun to protect the innocent and lead wandering souls back to the familiar trails.

As the sun sank beneath the horizon, the forest fell into a hushed stillness, as if it were pausing to catch its breath. The air was rich with the aroma of pine and the allure of a night brimming with murmurs and mysteries. The transformation had exacted a toll on her, yet it had also bestowed upon her a deep bond with the spirits of the land. They communicated with her through the whispering leaves and the far-off call of an owl, steering her through the maze of ancient trees. Her mission was clear, though the journey was laden with danger. She sought the hero foretold by fate, a companion of great significance to join her in this endeavor. Until that moment arrived, she remained tethered to the forest, a quiet guardian of enchantment and wonder in a world that had long forgotten her essence.

|| Asks || @fallesto ||

The forest’s breath came with a chill the deeper one wandered. Like the leaves, it started as a whisper, nearly indiscernible from the wild nightlife.

Further ahead was a hum, low and sinister. Had survival instincts not kicked in, there might have been more bodies.

Few birds scatter the forest floor, a huddle of rabbits, a fox… schools of fish frozen still in the river.

Snow was brought in by a gale of numbing winds. The trees shivered under the hiss in the air.

An iced over wolf stood frozen mid step, head down and peering into the fogged brush. Cautious.

Blood painted the snow on the other side in a disastrous slop. From the ground to being frozen mid drip from the tree leaves above; it was everywhere.

It should have smelled worse but it was tempered by the cold.

Parts of a dark claw, a chewed open leg, and greasy black hair scattered the scene. Teeth— part of bony mask… crimson streaks that led to the dead hollow body, and the woman perched atop it.

She looked on, tonguing meat out of the dips in her talons. The approaching creature was a laughable juxtaposition to the horror here, but Jewel merely stared and studied it.

“What do you want?” she graveled out of her mangled mouth. “I’m busy.”

#fallesto #[ asks ]#v: harbinger of the ice age

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headspace-hotel · 2 years ago

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Hello! I've been loving your recent posts about taking an interest in, and connecting with, nature. I was wondering if you and/or your followers had any book(or any other media too tbh) recommendations?

I just started Braiding Sweetgrass, which I'm very excited for, and How Plants Work by Stephen Blackmore, which I found just by looking up the words in a frustrated attempt to, well, learn more about how plants work. Some stuff there does go over my head or needs re-reads and taking it slow, but that's ok. I'm making up for a lot of lost time and education/lived experience here.

Aside from wanting a personal/philosophical starting point, I want to learn about plants & their physiology in order to form an intuition for how to grow and tend to them, as a hobbyist? I know it also takes learning about every plant in particular when aiming for this, but I still feel lost without a... mechanistic, logical, overview/understanding? I also know that this framing itself is a bit reductive given how bonkers plants can be, but this is my best articulation of what I want to ask. I can feel my molecules vibrating as the special interest takes shape but i'm also still at the point where I would send this kind of ask.

If you've read this far, I apologize for the ask length, and thank you! You've been a joy to see on my dash. I wish you all the best!

I think I understand what you mean. I had to learn that stuff through trial and error, transplanting plants and learning about their physical needs that way. I don't know very much from books sadly.

The biggest things I learned had to do with roots. A plant's roots are their vital organs. Plants handle having the above ground parts damaged or disturbed WAY better than having their roots disturbed. When transplanting, you MUST keep the "main" taproot (if there is one) intact. However, you also need a quantity of the very thin, thread-like roots. If there are not enough fibrous roots, the plant will not survive transplanting.

Plants need stability in the conditions of their roots. I think the main reason why a too-small pot is detrimental is that it causes the temperature and moisture of the roots to flop around too much.

Plants don't need water just in the way that you need to drink water, they need water in the way that you need to moisturize your skin to keep it from drying out. I think they're a little bit amphibious. It is helpful for their soil to remain consistently slightly damp, and not soggy.

I have learned some important things about the value of weeds, also. It is true that aggressive weeds can outcompete a small plant, but having some vegetation on the ground around a plant you have planted is very beneficial. Shade for the soil stops moisture from evaporating and stops the soil from heating up. People who mow their grass really short have to water it far, far beyond the requirements of the grass itself because the water is just evaporating before it can penetrate into the compacted lawn soil.

Very few plants can thrive in unobstructed direct full sun when they are small! It will cook them! This is contrary to a lot of the stuff I read on the internet—a website tells me that most young trees need full sun to grow well. How, pray tell, do forests work then?

People think forests are places of starvation from sunlight and intense competition, but in reality, forests are stable, regulated environments that offer protection from the extreme conditions that occur in a barren place. The temperature and moisture on the forest floor is heavily buffered, allowing delicate plants to thrive.

Also, most tree species rely on the presence of other trees to shield them from storm and ice damage—only some, like strong oaks, thrive when open-grown. Every open-grown maple I see has the scars of losing many limbs over time. The poor things are too delicate to be without the protection of other trees.

Spending time in the woods really makes you notice how scruffy and mangled most yard trees are, scarred by having branches repeatedly cut or ripped off, sprouting suckers and adventitious branches from stress. People are too eager about pruning branches off trees. It seems like they cut random limbs off because that's just what you're supposed to do. But this can introduce pathogens and cause the whole tree to die eventually. At the very least it causes a lot of stress.

There are several sweetgum trees in my neighborhood, in the middle of nice lawns, that are slowly strangling themselves to death because landscape fabric and mulch was piled up around their bases and it caused the roots to start girdling the tree. Please! Leave them alone! No big mulch piles, no landscape fabric.

#trees #plants #gardening #growing

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ase-trollplays · 8 months ago

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blood for Takimi

The hemoanon ran through the woods frantically as the sound of a revving chainsaw echoed behind him. He didn't know how the black and white clad woman knew about his blood color, but his life depended on putting as much distance between her and himself as possible. His lungs burned and his legs ached from sprinting for his life for much longer than he could endure, and his stamina was hanging by a thread, but he didn't have a choice but to keep going. If he stopped, he'd never start again. At this point, adrenaline was the only thing keeping one foot in front of the other.

Four more minutes without rest passed. His legs were about to give out any moment now. He could feel it. However, over the sound of his heart in his ears, something else hit his senses. More accurately, the lack of something: He could no longer hear the chainsaw in the distance.

He lost her.

His footsteps slowed and he clumsily stumbled along until he collapsed in a clearing. Through desperate wheezes and gasps for air, he wiped the sweat from his brow and smiled tiredly at the sky. He got to live another night, and not a minute too soon. If he hadn't stopped, his heart might have given out before his legs. He'd have to do some creative backtracking to return to his hive just in case more than one troll was searching for him (Or worse, he ran into her again), but all that mattered was he survived the encounter. About three minutes passed before he pulled a phone out of his pocket to check the time.

That's when he heard it.

His blood turned to ice in his veins as what he initially thought to be the buzzing of an insect grew in volume until he realized what it was.

The approaching sound of a chainsaw.

He didn't lose her. She was still chasing him, and he was out in the open.

His heart, which had finally calmed to a steady rhythm, immediately started pounding so hard in his chest the he swore it would break through his ribcage, and his throat and mouth ran dry.

He needed to run.

He needed to run now!

The nine-sweep old fought to climb back on his feet, but his body was still exhausted. Three minutes wasn't nearly enough time to recuperate from the strain he put himself through, but he had to move. He needed his body to move.

He stumbled and attempted a sprint, but his body was too spent to run more than a few feet. None of the nearby trees were thick enough to hide behind, and the sound of the chainsaw getting closer and closer threatened to trigger a panic attack. With no other option, he forced his tired and aching body to climb. He could barely get a foothold on the tree's trunk, and the bark dug into his fingers. Small bits splintered off and trapped themselves under his nails, but he persisted the futile attempt. He just needed to climb. Just keep climbing. Just keep climbing. Don't look behind. Just keep climbing. Just kee

"Their judgement awaits you now."

The woman's tone was moderate and calm, but in his panicked state it may as well have been booming. He froze in place against the tree, violently trembling and not daring to breathe.

"Will you not be dignified in your death and look your executioner in the eyes?"

The sound of the idle chainsaw was deafening. Fear gripped him too tightly. He couldn't move.

"I see. No matter. Die."

She revved the chainsaw and only allowed him seconds to scream before the sound died in his throat as she cut down his back from shoulders to tailbone. Bright cyan blood and tissue splattered behind his, and he went limp against the tree, falling backwards onto the unforgiving grassy earth. He looked as his killer with terrified eyes, his last moments spent watching helplessly as the tip of the chainsaw was brought down onto his stomach.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Takimi, thoroughly coated and splattered with the flayed flesh, guts, and organs of her assignment, turned off her hold weapon and gazed with indifferent eyes down at the severely mangled corpse of the cyanblood. If not for the horns protruding from his broken skull, one would never guess he was once a person.

She looked over her black dress and white collar with a sigh. The dress would be easy enough to clean, she supposed, but white was always such a bother to remove bloodstains from.

“May you face the full brunt of the messiahs’ wrath as you are sent to oblivion.”

#things to read #Takimi Mahsda #stuckstucktrolls #tw death #tw gore #makes a backstory for a pic I did ages ago

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merge-conflict · 10 months ago

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when I run out of tense painfully emotional moments in beloved shows* to rewatch I like to hurt myself good by writing alternate thread-safe endings (long under the cut)

It’s an evening like any other evening, the winter sun sunk out of view and the neon of the city gleaming outside the penthouse windows. V pours herself a drink from the minibar, like she usually does, except today it’s her third. No matter what she does she can’t relax. Her leg aches but she can’t bear to sit, and if the alcohol doesn’t calm her restlessness she hopes it will at least dull the pain. She’s an optimist that way.

“Sure you’re up for this?” Rogue asks, raising her eyebrow as V paces behind the couch. She waves her hand in reply, pausing for a moment to take another gulp that burns all the way down her aching throat. “You don’t have to be here.”

“Yes, she does,” Johnny says, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Bailed her ass out after she was ready to leave, least she can do is be here for this.”

V bares her teeth at the back of his head, and Rogue purses her lips. “So long as you two can keep from having one of your slap fights.” She looks pointedly at V, who drains her drink. “Maybe you should sit this one out, Johnny.”

“I’m not the fucking problem here,” he snaps, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Only one person in this room is interested in sucking Arasaka dick.”

The glass shatters in V’s hand, scattering over the hardwood floor along with the ice. She shakes the pieces out of her metal joints and meets Johnny’s gaze for the first time since he’d pulled her out of that AV on the hotel roof. He knows better than anyone what she’s feeling, and resents her for it. Hates her for it. She looks away.

Her eyes are drawn to the center of the room, where Goro sits on one of the dining room chairs, wrists bound behind him. Bloody bandages cover the left side of his face, partially hidden by his hair, head bowed and eyes closed. His left knee is a mangled mess of cyberware, but his chest rises and falls steadily. Not badly wounded, all things considered. She steps over the pieces of glass and makes herself a new drink.

“What are you going to do if he doesn’t talk?” Kerry asks, breaking the heavy silence. “Torture him? Kill him?”

“No,” V says, the force of the word accompanied by a sharp pain. If she closes her eyes she can still feel the grip of Goro’s hand on her throat, the tunneled vision, the way he’d finally fucked her without care or consideration for anything else around them. She wants to crawl back into that moment, instead of facing everything that has come after.

“We’ll do what we gotta do,” Johnny says, and she narrowly avoids the temptation to throw her new glass at his head.

“V is the only one who knows enough about what’s going on at Arasaka to tell if he’s lying,” Rogue says. “I’d like to have him here. You on the other hand, I could do without. Try and keep your shit to a minimum.”

“But, V,” she adds, a little more gently. She’s not usually so kind. What does that mean that she is being kind? “It’d be better if he doesn’t know you’re here, at least to begin.”

V considers the request, which has been so carefully phrased. She wants to break something. She wants to scream. She needs to control her breathing or she’ll start to cry. Her throat aches and her leg aches, and her heart aches.

She sets down the glass and picks up the bottle, makes a half circle around the room, out of Goro’s field of view. That leaves her close to the hallway that leads to the bedrooms, and she puts her back to the wall and slides down, straightening out her leg.

“I was unable to retrieve much useful data from his interface,” Alt says. “His connection with the Arasaka network has been blocked, likely as a precaution for this eventuality. I doubt you will get much out of him that V does not already know. That Arasaka risked sending him here alone could mean that they are desperate for leverage, or merely that they intended him to die. If he is an agent of deception he is an unwitting one.”

“People say all sorts of things when they’re under stress,” Rogue says. “Never know what might be useful. You ready to wake him up?”

“He is already awake,” Alt says. “He simply cannot see or hear.”

What does he sense, sitting there now? Can he feel the chill of the air conditioning on his skin? Can he feel the tension in the arid air, like the quiet before a missile strike? Can he smell the sharp tang of alcohol, the curling smoke? What is he thinking, sitting here with only the blood in his mouth to comfort him?

She licks her lips and takes a swig straight from the bottle. Every sip hurts. Everything hurts.

Rogue says, “Then let there be light.”

There’s no fanfare except for the sudden twitch of Goro’s fingers behind his back, and after a few seconds he lifts his head. From this angle V can’t see his face, but she can read the set of his shoulders and the slow clench and relax of his hands. He scans the room, noting Rogue and Johnny on the couch in front of him, finding Kerry where he leans in the doorway to the kitchen, not quite committed to being in the room. His hands ball into fists as he scans again, and she knows he's looking for her.

#* you ever find yourself unable to watch new shows because you don't know what's going to happen?#it's such an interesting challenge to write a character who can't really speak

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ryusxnka · 1 year ago

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@virtuous-absolute ( For Hitsugaya )

T hese multiplicity of men, of foot soldat, attired in glaring blanche. - He perceives them positioning distantly and in assembling formations as if they were nefarious maggots, aggregating concurrently amidst this particular district, collating the carcass flesh, the impotent who had permitted themselves to perish, from an all you can eat buffet. -- Arrows confidently came his direction akin to ammunition yearning to establish an expeditious finality, one effectively reaches his shoulder blade, however, it was forthwith encapsulated in a overlay of Ice and erupted thereafter into fragmentary powder 'fore full penetration of the epidermis could eventuate. --- Adrenaline develops and proliferates throughout his entirety as if it were a dissimilar yet intermingling ichor, he grins, sneers, and chortles deliriously at the endeavors presented. A wintry tempest.

" What an unsatisfactory bore. -- Is that all you Big baddies got? "

Eyne, haunting with a scintilla of electricity, broaden as he spoke, as he propelled skyward and atop a sundry of the unfortunates, the ground protruding cutting-edged Ice upwardly, 'round his Waraji, ultimately puncturing through anatomies akin to a pin needle to thread. -- He must dispose of them as expeditiously as he can, must identify the locality of his true objective, and he'll do anything to attain it. Mangle, brutalize, all concerns of being sighted by other Shinigami wholly in tatters, he couldn't care less. The last soldat had fallen, whimpered till a foot crushes his head. Reigai was more brutish, more cold-hearted, than his original kin who lived amongst the seireitei with righteous moralities and restrictive laws which, alone, strictly forged him as pitifully weak for a commandant.- Sans misusing further time, he promptly sprints, advances in striking velocity, forward, brows furrowing in frustration. " Where are you, you bastard? You better not get yourself killed out here. I will be the one who will have your head. "

#;Starter #;Reigai #virtuousabsolute #Man #I missed this fooker #A lot

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checkonsettings · 2 years ago

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Kaeya and Diluc Angst AU (platonic/brother lore) SUB SHIFT

It was a normal day in Mondstadt. The people are having fun, the shops are running, the bars are packed and the knights need not to be in alert because... everything sounded peaceful with the tune of the winds flute.

Kaeya was in the library, spending his time looking over the documents he needs to round up as ordered by Jean. He was bored but he didnt want to wave his sword today so he rather sit and read. It was all magical and euphoric and silent in Mondstadt until Kaeya was disturbed with a loud scream coming from Jean's office.

"KLEE?!" Kaeya rushed out of the library and headed to Jean's room.

"Jean? What's wrong? " Kaeya arrived in the room to see Jean, Lisa and other knights equipped with a horrified face.

There he learned about the current hostage taking of an abyss mage. Klee was taken custody by a lunatic mage who mangled with Klee's bomb and placed a destructive timer in the bomb; worst case was Klee was tied to the bomb.

Everyone was horrified by the event. The knights were all angered and baffled by the actions of the mage, yet they head out of the office just to be greeted by the hellish view of Klee on the foot of the anemo archon's statue surrounded by scorching fire. No one can explain how an abyss mage entered Mondstadt but their focus was on getting Klee out. The knights already took care of the Mage that they had just shaken for some instructions on how to put out the bomb.

Just as the Knights were able to reach the foot of the Anemo Archon Statue, Diluc came rushing in with a puzzled look. Jean greeted him and oriented him about the situation. They have discussed how hydro can put out the fire but the bomb has a root like system that when touch may detonate it.

"The bomb is sensitive. It would be hard to get Klee out." Kaeya whispered to himself.

The nights had been debating on what to do yet the Kid is not getting out any time soon. Kaeya, being concerned offered an idea.

" We can't set the fire off and detonate the bomb at the same time but, I'll try and get Klee out. "

" But? How? " Jean asked.

" I'll try and cover my skin with ice. That should do it. Even for a second I'll be able to get Klee—" he wasn't done yet but Diluc interrupted.

"I'll do it. " Everyone looked at him.

" This is not the time for showing off, brother. "

" I'm a pyro vision. Fire will barely harm me. I'll just need to get her out, right? I see no problem in doing such simple task. "

Kaeya frowned and faced Diluc with a serious face.

" You cannot just waltz in that fire and act like you're invincible. You need to do it in a very slow and careful manner in order to avoid the bomb detonating. You will burn Diluc. " Kaeya emphasizes.

Diluc gave Kaeya one look and proceeds to the fire like he heard nothing.

"NO. BASTARD YOU'LL BURN! " Kaeya run after him and tried to seize Diluc's hand and pull him away.

" Let go. " He said and yanked Kaeya's hand.

" Are you braindead? You might have that vision but it doesn't give you immunity! You'll get your body burn! " Kaeya explains.

"ENOUGH! Klee needs to get out. "

" Master Diluc, use your brain and step aside. Let me—"

Before Kaeya utter another word, Diluc entered the pits of flame. And in that moment, Kaeya's world seemed to slow down. He was mortified. He can't hear anything but his rapid heartbeat, and in a split second, a flaming phoenix carried Klee out of the fire. Klee was saved but where is Diluc?

Everyone was shocked and even before Kaeya can move, Diluc's sword slides in front of his foot. He raised his head in horror trying to search for a pair of red eyes and there, he found it. His body unconsciously moved but right before he can even call his name, he saw Diluc's soulless eyes smile. The sight of his skin shedding blood and getting burns cut Kaeya's thread of sanity.

In sycnh with Kaeya's footstep, the bomb detonated. Kaeya's heart stopped and his eyes went bright blue. He was blinded by his emotion and he had lost control of his vision. He had failed again.

He could not protect his brother. Kaeya screamed in frustration and along with his piercing cold voice, a blizzard engulfed Mondstadt and his body. The fire extinguished due to the powerful amount of snow and ice. Diluc was saved, but Kaeya was unable to know as his heart turned ice cold and his body turned into a monument as his pledge of a long lost friendship.

-------

CREDITS:

Images: Pinterest

Song: Wolves (Selena Gomez/Marshmello) cover by Jada Facer

Note: EVERYTHING I HAVE WRITTEN IS BASED ON MY CURRENT KNOWLEDGE OF KAEYA AND DILUC'S BROTHER LORE AS WELL AS MONDSTADT'S LORE. This story is not headcanon so if you think, I mistook some details, please do ignore it and recognize the fact that this is just for entertainment only.

Part 2 soon. ^^ Reblog, and Like. Also Do not repost. This story is my own idea if you steal it, I swore to fck you at 3 am in your house ^^

#genshin impact #genshin #kaeya #diluc #genshin fanfic #genshin au #AU #genshin lore #kaeluc #genshin cryo #genshin pyro

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fatedstrands · 1 year ago

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The silence was smothering, wilting the hope in the man as he retreated in on himself once more. What a fool I was to think I'd get mercy or compassion from one I've mangled for so long. There is no hope for me. Just a tool of destruction playing at the good guy. The thoughts are dark and bitter, a sharpness to himself as fingers tighten subtly against his thin elbows, nails digging in to carved lines of his flesh, threatening to pierce the skin resting there. Then charcoal bore down on him, freezing him from his retreat, locking him in place just as ice blue had so long ago. Though the feeling was as intense within both instances, there's something inherently different about this event. When the other approached he didn't feel fear, didn't feel the crippling sickness that had his threads of power snatching the other up and locking him in place as the past had. Rather, he felt himself relax, shoulders easing the closer he got, accepting fate as it moved with a clarity he hadn't seen in those pits of blackened hue. The vicar was ready for whatever the other wished to cast upon him, be it agony or venom, he'd welcome it with far more vigor than his youthful mind had welcomed the prospect of death. "For whatever you find it's worth to be... I am sorry for how I've treated you. You never deserved any of it." his eyes cast out to the window again when the other had finally reached within arms length of the nightmare that plagued the saint. "If I could take the pain unto myself, I would."

Wolfwood listens. And as he listens, he submits to an all-too-familiar story of woe. He's tried so hard not to see his keeper as a human being. He's been quick to write Legato off as a machine or a monster; a mutant incapable of feeling anything other than hatred, but now… there's no denying that Blue has depth. There's more than malice in his voice. There's regret and restraint and longing. There's fear.

Nicholas recognizes the other's need to pace back and forth. He spies the self-soothing habits of a man alone, the caress of a face that would feel none otherwise and his heart bleeds a little. Empathy blooms where it shouldn't and makes him soft; makes him acknowledge that the story he's been given is noble, of all things. It's a story he would also be telling if placed in the same position.

It ends and he doesn't know what to say when maize eyes turn to his for acceptance. He doesn't know how to handle the glossiness they harbor or the silence that follows Legato's explanation of self. Wolfwood looks down at the carpet. He blows smoke at it and studies a stain with the toe of one boot. He's a kid at heart, timid, and often awkward when it comes to adult discussions. He feels gold prickle over his every action; waiting. Wanting something.

"It's," he tries but immediately falters. Wolfwood closes his eyes and shakes his head to toss out a handful of stupid statements. He sighs out the surprise that Blue's story has inflicted and can straighten up thereafter. Wolfwood is exceptional at recovery, both in body and mind. When his obsidian stare flashes back to Legato, it bodes unwavering certainty. They stand staring at one another for a moment before he crosses the stretch of carpet that will lead to the other's window.

#v//In The Middle Of The Night Just Call My Name I'm Yours To Tame (Wolven Devotion Legato Bluesummers)#nothinglikegod #Dirty Little Secret

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stillness-in-green · 2 years ago

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Chapter Thoughts: 363, Those Who Defend, Those Who Violate

O I love the detail that Monoma is on his feet on the first page. I went back a few chapters to see if it happened when Bakugou’s big power move rocked the arena, but no, Monoma was still seated after that. But here, just like Aizawa has one hand on his capture weapon, poised like he wants nothing more than to leap into the fray, Monoma—who can’t stand Bakugou!—jumped to his feet so violently he tipped the chair over behind him. I love Monoma, you guys.

(Continued below the cut.)

O I’m amused at the idea that some of ShigAFO’s newfound disdain for Eraserhead is tied to Eraser sending students to the field instead of coming himself. I feel like it’s one of those things that echoes threads of both Shigaraki and AFO. Dabi expresses it most clearly, the idea that adult heroes roping students into these big anti-villain pushes is in questionable taste (“tacky,” as he puts it), but it’s easy to imagine Shigaraki having similar sentiments.(1) All For One, meanwhile, has had strong opinions about the nature of the student/teacher relationship from the beginning of the series! So of course he thinks Aizawa sending his student into a fight that is only going to get said student killed is a mark against Aizawa as a teacher.

O Shigaraki’s hair is especially gorgeous this week. My god, he could have walked out of a shampoo commercial. (If the shampoo commercial was cross-marketing with Mad Max, anyway.)

O As others have noted, I’m interested to see what Best Jeanist thinks he’s doing here. Eyes down, not even looking at the oncoming opponent, shirt sleeves unraveling downwards… I saw a lot of supposition about him trying to sew up Bakugou, maybe even do something about the kid’s mangled heart, if we’re going to get real wack with what kinds of “fibers” Fiber Master is able to control. (I would like to note that if we find out Best Jeanist can control muscle fibers, I will be needing the Best Jeanist+Muscular fic yesterday, please and thanks.)(2)

O I want to comment, “Nice to see Mirko confirming once more that murdering an unconscious guy in a science lab tube was her explicit intent at Jakku,” but she’s enough like Bakugou that I wouldn’t want to take her at her literal word too unthinkingly, especially when her word in the Japanese is exactly that kind of “slaughter/beat to death” threat that Bakugou uses all the time. (Indeed, give or take some regional differences in her word usage, I think it’s the exact same.)

O Egregious boob shot is egregious. At least her snarl is intense enough that it’s showing forehead veins.

O I have no idea how exactly Dabi is mimicking a move that Shouto uses ice for, but I am indescribably glad that it’s not Phoenix Quirk Nonsense. I wonder if any of Endeavor’s sidekicks are actually going to bite it here? On the one hand, Fire Is The Worst Super Power because it scales damage relative to the opponent’s determination, as has been proven by this very series time and time again, so I have my reservations that Dabi is going to suddenly get better at K.O.ing named characters than he ever has been. On the other hand, the art of Onima and Kido being consumed by the blaze is a lot more convincing than usual.

Also, I’m not going to say they deserve it, certainly, but given how lethal the story is always insisting Dabi is, he’s long overdue for something that his opponents can’t just bounce back from after a day or two in the hospital. And the sidekicks, with their defensive rationalizations about why they’re still on the field doing Endeavor’s work after the revelations about Endeavor’s abuse of his family, are just about as narratively perfect a target as Dabi could get.

Otherwise, I’m extremely amused at how all this makes Deika look in retrospect. So Dabi is capable of just snapping out copied movies in a matter of seconds? He doesn’t even need any time to practice or work it out? And we know Dabi taught himself the flying trick after seeing Endeavor use it against High End. He would have had just about two weeks to practice it before the League showed up to pick him up for the Deika fight, wherein he had to fight a flying ice user. So if Dabi is really that good at picking up his family’s special moves, why on Earth did he let Geten keep the high ground for their entire fight?

Did he just not think of it? Forgot all about it just like he had to be reminded about the chainsaw Noumu at the training camp or that sand hero he killed? Or was he not confident in the move yet and didn’t want to risk falling on his ass and looking lame in front of the League and/or that insufferably smug ice user? Inquiring minds need to know.

O Looking forward to Iida getting to do something (anything) at this point. Or horse sidekick guy, who we know came to this field of battle but who hasn’t been seen here once. Or Stain, in an ironic reversal in who’s watching who in a sea of flames and Noumu.

O I’m always amused at how consistent Dabi is with using epithets or derogatory nicknames for people younger than him—crazy girl, lizard, Boss—while people older than him get to be called by their actual names/titles—Twice, Ujiko-san, and now Skeptic. Dabi being polite

And speaking of Skeptic.

O I am in mourning for a more colorful translation of Skeptic’s fazacon insult to Dabi.

I'm going to be pretty frank about this, so if you don't want to read several paragraphs about fetish terminology in Japan, or if the discussion of fictional incest upsets you, please do skip down to the next bullet point.

"Daddy issues" is, at least in my experience, entirely sexless in the English idiom, but it is not a sexless insult in Japanese. It’s a clear Dad-themed equivalent of siscon or brocon, lolicon or shotacon, and all of those -con words are much more loaded with connotations of obsession, possessiveness, and inappropriate affection or attachment in Japanese. They don’t have to indicate that the person being hit with the label is literally having (or wanting) incestuous sex, but there is, even in the most clinical uses, a meaning of, “You are too hung up on [X taboo target], to extremes that other people consider weird or uncomfortable.”

But that’s only the milder end of the implication! On the more explicit end, those words are also in common slang parlance as fetish terms, especially when they're shorthanded like that instead of fully written out! If you do a google image search for ファーザー・コンプレックス, "Father complex," you will get both academic or journalistic-looking results, as well as a number of what appear to be BL manga covers. But if you do the same for ファザコン, fazacon, the ratio shifts sharply towards manga covers/art, and even those start skewing dramatically more towards scantily clad anime women making bedroom eyes at the viewer.

"Daddy issues," to me, is about male characters brooding and stewing over their controlling or abusive or idolized fathers; it's reflective of angst and resentment, not the excessive and unseemly attachment Skeptic is implying with fazacon.

Now, Skeptic is hardly the final authority on Dabi’s feelings about his dad, of course. Still, he did spend a month living in a cave with Dabi harping on at every second of the goddamn day about how much he wanted to be out there making Endeavor cry more. Hard to blame the man for calling it like he sees it!

O Skeptic's! Pin-stripes!!! Watch me spin out a whole headcanon about how he’s adopted Re-Destro’s mode of dress as a parallel to also taking up Re-Destro’s dream. Skeptic always was the most proactive in RD’s inner circle about preserving Re-Destro for the cause, no matter what kinds of off-the-wall and/or psychologically abusive methods are required. Love seeing him appealing to Re-Destro’s desires here, including advancing Shigaraki Tomura’s interests, because of course that was Re-Destro’s desire as well.

This kind of begs the question of to what degree Skeptic knows or is even thinking about the real Shigaraki’s current situation—but on the other hand, it’s not like he was ever a real Shigaraki loyalist—he wasn’t even at the crater, after all. So it wouldn’t be a big surprise if he doesn’t particularly care what’s going on inside Shigaraki’s head right now, so long as it’s not obstructing Skeptic’s own goals.

O I’m delighted to get the nod that FGI did try to eject Skeptic from his position. Given how little the heroes have talked about him as an issue—he mostly seems to get lumped in with the rest of the PLF escapees, as if he didn’t hack into every TV screen in the country!—I wonder if the Feel Good Inc. corporate head honchos assured the federal investigators that Chikazoku had been ejected, locked out, no way he can do that a second time! (panic sweating)

It’s also interesting that the FGI head honchos were even able to flee the country. I tend to think the arrest nets had to be cast pretty wide, and you’d think a company one of the highest officers of the MLA was a boardmember of would fall under a lot of suspicion. I wonder if that implies, then, that it’s actually relatively clean?

I have had the thought before that someone like e.g. Curious might find it useful to have a dupe above her on the chain of command, someone that attracts all the attention for her magazine’s radical politics while she gets on with business in a less dangerous position. Easy to imagine Skeptic could be much the same, especially since FGI’s main use as an MLA asset is the infrastructure access, which doesn’t require an ideological bent in the same way that a magazine and a political party would, or that Re-Destro ran Detnerat with.

O Interestingly, it’s in this chapter that we finally see a hint of quirk supremacist leanings from Skeptic. He and Curious were always the two that talked least about it, which I’d always assumed was because their quirks had the least to do with what they actually brought to the table as warriors for Liberation. Of course, as mentioned above, Skeptic’s been living in a cave for a month, and had all his friends and comrades imprisoned or worse on top of that, so it’s easy to imagine he’s feeling a few notches more radical than he was, say, 6-8 weeks ago!

Still, I can't help but feel that his phrasing here is milder than the way Geten described the same idea, and I like that Skeptic’s wording leaves room for skillful or intelligent wielding of one's meta-ability—that, contra Geten, it doesn't have to be about the brute power of the meta.

It also stands out that Skeptic here is yelling about using one's quirk to get ahead in the world, as he....hacks into a computer system with no use of his quirk at all. Further, in a true anarchy that brings down the old order, exactly how intact and reliable does he think things like the power grid and the internet are even going to be? Is he thinking at all about how much less useful he’d be if no one was maintaining cell towers? The fact that he glosses over that completely is probably partly the cave life talking, but it’s also a good example of the kind of cult-based double-think lots of the MLA are likely prone to.

Anyway, like Skeptic and the Liberationists, I too would very much like to see the social categories of Hero and Villain abolished, so I remain highly curious(3) about whether Horikoshi’s going to actually do anything about all these radical binaries he has characters talking about, and the way those binaries encourage the dehumanization of members on both sides.

O Finally, I’ve touched on this before, but while La Brava is the heroes’ obvious solution to a villain hacker, I don’t think she really works in this situation. There’s nothing heroes can offer her that I can see them being willing to offer, so why would she accept any of their help requests? Yes, clemency for Gentle Criminal would be an incredibly easy thing to enact in their position, but that would be like *extremely American voice* making deals with terrorists, and the series has never given me the impression that heroes are willing to be less than Maximally Harsh with villains.

Also, even if heroes/police were willing to bargain with LB, they don’t seem to have done so in advance, judging by Mandalay and the rest’s blindsided response to someone trying to hack into the system. Exactly how fast would we be meant to believe that heroes could retrieve her, bargain, and get her appropriate equipment and access, all while Skeptic continues to make a nuisance of himself?

O I have a lot of questions about the circumstances that are seeing the Todoroki family just wandering around through a crowd when Endeavor is as unpopular as he is right now. Though Natsuo’s arm around Rei’s shoulder and Fuyumi’s touch to Natsuo’s hand do feel telling.

O I never had the chance to talk about this before, as I wasn’t doing chapter posts at the time, but do you guys know what’s really dumb? People in the tags back in Chapter 342 saying cruel or hateful and insulting things about this AFO spy dude:

(And his lady friend, too, of course, but he was a bit more prominent, so he seemed to get more vitriol.)

Guys. Guys. This man was introduced literally five chapters after we saw the Aoyama family weeping in despair about how helpless they felt under All For One’s thumb. People use AFO’s grooming as a handwave to excuse every negative thought Shigaraki Tomura has ever had. Yoichi openly accuses his brother of manipulating and using people. AFO comes into peoples’ lives when they’re at their most vulnerable and collects them for his nefarious purposes. He gives poisoned gifts and then never lets people go. We have seen all of this, multiple times, extremely explicitly.

And yet, somehow, people just forgot about all that the instant they saw someone new working for the guy. Yeah, Bowl Cut here seemed pretty cynical in 342, much less tearful and sad than the Aoyamas were, but gloppy tears and distraught wailing are not the only way to respond to a life like the one the Aoyamas were living. Every time this guy’s phone rings, he presumably has to worry about who’s going to be on the other end, whether his life is about to descend once more into intimidation, manipulation and the danger of being discovered and subsequently abandoned to the fury of a justice system that has no mercy for people who associate with villains.

It’s possible he’s just working for AFO in hopes of some kind of reward? His final line back in 342, delivered with his standing very close indeed to his fellow spy gal, was, “Our future is guaranteed,” which leaves some ambiguity about what sort of future he’s expecting. But living under AFO’s thumb is no kind of life at all, and it was absurd how quickly fandom forgot about that the red hot second they saw a new face following AFO’s orders, just because Horikoshi didn’t write in 60 pt. Font, “THIS MAN IS A VICTIM.”

I’m rooting for you, Bowl Cut! You and hat girl and the leopard guy and the older lady with the ponytail, all of you do your best for your future!

O I love AFO’s sense of camaraderie and identification with villains as a collective and I wish it was more genuine, or at least that we got to see more of it that isn’t openly and blatantly aimed at advancing his own ends. What I wouldn’t give to know more about how he and Skeptic interacted, such that Skeptic expresses, “I’m going to do as I please!” sentiments more in line with Shigaraki’s words to the united PLF than anything Late Series AFO has ever indicated he’s going to permit when he becomes Demon Lord of the World or whatever.

And that's a wrap on this week. Thanks for reading! More ask replies soonish.

–

1: Not that someone who accepted a high schooler and a middle schooler into the League has the moral high ground there or anything, but, as ever, villains don’t claim to hold the moral high ground like heroes do, so I consider them under less obligation to live up to it.

2: In light of 263’s spoilers, I would like to say that handing this task to Edgeshot is a waste and a crime. More thoughts on that next week.

3: Read as: concerned.

#bnha #bnha 263 #bnha skeptic #chikazoku tomoyasu #todotalk #ua spies #chapter thoughts #my writing

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apocalypticgargoyle · 4 years ago

Text

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐔𝐌 𝐈 ↟ 𝐓𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞

↠ summary: After fleeing from the regime taking over the castle, you find yourself under the protection of the renowned Blood God, Technoblade.

↠ fantasy au, slowburn romance

↠ pairing: c!Techno x fm!reader

↠ tw: blood, mentions of gore, mentions of violence

↠ wc: ~2.3k

a/n: This is actually a pretty self-indulgent thing so no characters or plotlines will really be accurate. As always, my series(es) are at the mercy of my inbox so if you have any comments/ideas/want to make a moodboard, let me know! Happy reading :)

♡ ᵍᵉⁿᵉ

The leaves crunched beneath your feet with every dragging step, your strides heavy and uneven as you clutched your side. Sticky ribbons of crimson threaded through your fingers, oozing from between your ribs as each movement sent a new flash of white, stabbing pain to echo through your body. Your toes were growing numb, and your vision was blurring at the edges.

The snow stirred pink in the steep trenches you had begun to cut into the earth. As your lungs burned with each gulping breath, you wondered how long you could make it in this state. Where had you even been going in the first place? You couldn’t remember at this point, only that you were running.

Each time you figured you could go on no longer, your body somehow managed to carry you further. The uphill incline you were now grappling with left your knees buried and the chill of hypothermia began to take effect.

Bright flairs torn open the darkness of the sky, a sign they were looking for you in the woods now. Surely, they would see the trail of struggle you had left behind and would follow you. The shrieking noise of the lights scrapped against your eardrums, adding to the intense beating of your heart already pounding against your damaged ribs.

Your ice-cold fingers reached for the trunks of the slender trees masking your identity, hoping for any signs of leverage to propel yourself forward and away from the noise of the bloodhounds and nearby circuits of soldiers and their braying steeds. The light from the flairs illuminated the scenery around you, the shadows of the trees stretching across the snow like bony limbs aching to entangle their prey.

Your teeth dug into your bottom lip as searing pain rippled through one of your legs. Tears stung your eyes as you avoided looking at the flesh now torn from your worn body as you dislodged your knee from a tree root buried in the snow. The frustration weighing on your tired body was overcoming your earlier adrenaline.

You scorned yourself as you looked down at the blood seeping from your mangled limbs and into the crystal snow. So much blood, you thought, finding it difficult to lift your head as you propelled yourself further up the hill. The dogs were nearing your location, the flairs becoming more sporadic as if they knew exactly where you were. Maybe your mind was draining as your blood further spread against your skin.

You had lost feeling in your legs, the warmth of your blood pooling in your shoes was no longer a reality check for you. Your eyelids felt as heavy as stone as your chest ached for rest, a burn of exhaustion settling in your lungs. Your knees buckled beneath you, digging into the blanket of white as your body sighed in relief at stopping. You knew you needed to move further. You needed to put more distance between you and the men, but you were so tired.

As your body began to fold in on itself, you could barely make out a figure standing before you. Animalistic eyes of panic and confusion burned into your figure. His cloak drifted against his stature in the nipping winter breeze. Neither of you moved at first, your cheeks burning from your tears and the cold. He watched you, unsure of your next move or if you even had the life force to pick yourself up enough to be a threat.

You weren’t sure how, but suddenly you found yourself staring at the night sky, your corpse cradled by the icy snowdrifts. Large flakes of translucent white flakes made it seem as if the stars were falling towards you, swirling around the tree limbs and avoiding their grasp. As the black sky began to blur your vision, your body began to feel lighter, the urge to relax becoming overwhelming as you no longer heard the dogs, only the sound of the snow hitting the ground could break through your calm as your eyelids drifted shut.

Bright light streamed into your room, burning your eyes slightly as you came to. Your mind panicked, realizing the sweet smell infiltrating your senses was completely unfamiliar to you. You hesitated to reopen your eyes, your ears picking up on a quiet scrapping noise somewhere in the room you were laying. Your body was stiff; sore even. You could feel someone else in the room. You could tell the other presence wasn’t paying you any mind, but the fact that they were there startled you. Could they be waiting to kill you? Did it matter if you were dead anyway?

You finally mustered enough courage to open your eyes, a bare wood ceiling staring back at you. You turned your head to the side, finally spotting the other person. You could tell by the broadness of his shoulders that it was the man in the woods. Images from that night flashed into your mind as you looked at him. The look of worry that had painted his features into pitted darkness was wiped clean, instead, a healthy calm settled over his face.

His feet were kicked up at the end of your bed, a book resting on his lap as he leaned back in an old chair. He held a bright green apple and a knife, lazily cutting a slice for himself as his eyes skimmed the pages like he’d read the words over and over in the past. A blush crept to your cheeks as your gaze traveled to the part of his chest peeking from beneath his open shirt. His pink hair was braided back with a hint of messiness like the escaping tendrils were planned. What wasn’t tied back hung freely around his strong shoulders.

It scorned you to think in such a way, but you figured you really were dead and some Roman god was waiting to send you to the Fields of Mourning, or, more accurately in your case, Tartarus.

As you moved to sit up, pain spiked throughout your body, joints aching with soreness and the sharpness of your wounds signaling your nerve endings. You groaned, attempting to fight through your instinct to cry. The man watched you, an eyebrow raised in your direction as his deadpanned expression surveyed your actions. He cut another piece of apple off, the blade pressing against the pad of his thumb without bother.

“You should probably hold still,” he stated, ruby irises flashing over your pathetic state. You eyed him carefully before lowering yourself back into the pillows. You reached up to touch the cut that you knew would scar from one of the men. Their blade had sliced across your cheek; a failed attempt to decapitate you. Your brows furrowed slightly as your fingers moved into your hair, finding it crudely cut near the bottom of your ears. You looked at him, mustering the panic you felt into your expression. His eyes softened in guilt. “I’m sorry. I had to hide you rather quickly after you passed out. It worked,” he mumbled the last part.

You swallowed; the dryness of your throat felt like sandpaper as you opened your mouth to speak. “Where’s my bag?” You croaked; your voice as foreign to you as the man sitting before you.

He wet his lips as he sat forward in the chair, settling his feet on the ground and his elbows on his knees. You watched his muscles flex as he moved. You could tell he was no stranger to manual labor, and by the slight dusting of sunburn painting his nose beneath his freckles, you figured he usually spent more time outside. The sunspots reminded you of your friend, Dream; a man that now helped to lead the tetrarchy dismantling the kingdom.

“I’ve hidden it. Just until I know you won’t kill me, or until you’re better,” he answered plainly. “I know what nightshade can do.” You narrowed your eyes at him slightly, your fingers curling around the soft blankets covering you. He stood, sticking the book into a spot in the array of shelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling. “I seem to be sheltering our local Locusta, huh?” He quipped.

You wet your lips. “Just because I travel with nightshade doesn’t make me an Emperor killer,” you grumbled, watching the way his shirt gave little heed to his strong frame. The curtains moved in the slight breeze swirling into the room.

The man moved toward you, dragging the chair closer to your head. “They sure went after you like you were,” he stated bluntly.

You perked an eyebrow at him. “From one point of view, it could seem like that…” you jested.

He smirked slightly, shaking his head before pulling back your covers. You almost shrieked at the sight of all the bandages twisting around your limbs. You wiggled your toes, sighing in relief that you paralyzed from the waist down. If you didn’t move, you didn’t hurt, but as soon as you angled yourself upward to lean on your elbows, your whole body protested in pain. The man skimmed his fingers along the bandages wrapping around your shin. You could practically feel the heat of his body seeping into your own.

You watched his delicate fingers smooth an edge that was ruffled from the sheets and you moving about. “This one was rather deep,” he commented, his fingers then traveling towards your side as his ruby eyes danced from yours to your bandages. Your breath hitched at his closeness, his presence commanding. “A friend of mine helped me stitch you up over here.”

“Were you the one that dressed me?” You snarked, letting your eyes travel the length of his body.

He chuckled lowly, pulling the blankets back over you and sitting back in the chair. He tucked some of his hair away from his face, kicking his feet up on the bed again. “I had to,” he answered. You chewed on your bottom lip, your eyebrows giving away your slight flirtations. You knew he was only humoring you because you were his injured little bird. “I’ve seen a naked woman before. Calm down,” he grumbled.

You smirked, tucking your arms behind your head. “Oh, you have now?” He bit into the apple he was holding, the blush creeping to his eyes not going without notice by you. “How long have I been out, oh great Asclepius?” You joshed, making him chew the inside of his cheek.

His eyes drifted towards the window in thought before slightly furrowing his brows. “Just over a week,” he replied. “Should I be concerned about your knowledge of Roman history over Greek?”

You scoffed, partially in disbelief for how much time had elapsed, partially in response to his question. “Should I be concerned of your favoring of Greek history?” The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “Perhaps we’re just destined to be emulations of each other then?”

“Maybe so,” he concurred. The stoicism of his façade seemed to crack around you. As he smiled at you, he bore small fangs, something that seemed all too familiar to you. Your mind began to race, attempting to place his features with a name or, at the very least, a legend.

Your mind clicked, Dream’s voice flashing into your mind from when the two of you were sitting in a tavern, discussing the Blood God of the western woods. Your heart began to pick up speed as reality had settled in of how vulnerable to you in front of such a beast. Your mind ran blank and cold as you looked at him, suddenly terrified that if you dare close your eyes again, he would kill you.

You had not expected him to be so… alluring. You’d heard stories of his piglin appearance, his wild tusks, and even cloven hooves. The man before you looked like a character pulled from an ancient storybook, not someone who had torn some of your acquaintances' limb from limb. Dream always mocked a prayer to the old gods each time his name was mentioned. They told stories of the man in orphanages like the ones you’d been passed between.

Now, as you sat like a wounded animal in the gaze of the Blood God, you wondered which of the pair of you would kill the other first. “Not feeling so chatty anymore, Locusta?” He teased.

You could feel the color draining from your face. “I know who you are.” You swallowed harshly. “Why did you help me?”

He sighed, chuckling to himself. “I thought you were pretty,” he teased. You folded your hands on your chest, looking up at the ceiling once again. “I no longer live up to my legacy,” he answered.

“I’m a killer.” You turned your head to look at him, receiving his indifferent expression head-on. “I could kill you.”

He wet his lips. “I could kill you,” he mirrored. “Wouldn’t it be more fun if we didn’t, though?”

You stared at him blankly. “Is this a trick?”

He scoffed. “I would have left you out in the snow if I planned on killing you. I would have given you up when the Royal Guard came knocking down my door,” he paused for a second. His eyes analyzing you as you controlled your breathing. “I would have slit your throat at the sight of the Mad King’s mark. Trust me, I have no intention of killing you.”

Your fingers reached to brush against the branded scar on your shoulder; a triquetra knot symbolizing your loyalty to the Mad King and his sons. It set you apart from the normal guard; you were an advisor and a trusted associate of the King. After the fall of the monarchy, you’d been on the run because of it. What you’d once worn as a badge of honor was now proving to be the sigil of your downfall.

Despite your mellowing fear of him, your mind searched for answers. “Who are you if not the Blood God?” You questioned, the silence between the two of you breaking hesitantly.

“Techno,” he replied, his eyes searching your face as if he were looking for your approval.

You pushed yourself to roll onto your side, gazing at him with calculating eyes, wanting to understand him completely. “I like Asclepius better,” you whispered.

#technoblade x reader #techno fanfic #techno x reader #techno x you #techno x y/n #fantasy au #tw blood #tw gore

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kiki-shortsnout · 3 years ago

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Hi! I hope you are having a great time:)

Unmm...For intimacy prompts, for frostironstrange either one of 30 or 54? I loved them both and couldn't decide so whichever makes you happy❣💛

I did number 30 first! Hopefully I'll post 54 tomorrow!

Warning: The below is Alpha/Omega, I know not everyone is comfortable with that.

***

Stephen collided into concrete, blood streaking up his throat and coating the back of his teeth. Even with the ringing in his ears, agony streaking out across his head and sinking its talons into his temples, he recognized the furious snarl oscillating through the air, the scent of biting ice filling his nostrils, clearing away the copper for a few moments.

Loki.

Ripples of blue cascaded over the enraged Alpha’s skin, flashes of green flickering in the air around him as he stood over Stephen’s wounded body on the floor. One of his arms hung limply by his side, his fingers mangled and fractured, the laceration across his forehead oozing blood into his eye, sealing it shut.

This wasn’t normal Alpha behavior, none of what they did was considered normal behavior. Yet, here they were, two Alphas bonded together, one shielding the other with no weapons other than his livid growls, willing to lay down his life to save Stephen’s. Biology dictated that they should’ve been natural adversaries, that any perceived weakness was an opening for attack, especially when an Omega was involved.

Omega.

Stephen attempted to roll onto his side, screaming out in pain. Scanning the battlefield, all he could see were bodies of their fallen opponents, pieces of jagged scrap metal from the machines their enemy controlled. Trying to get his hands under him, he frantically patted around on the floor for the Cloak.

‘Where’s…Tony?’ he managed to shout to Loki.

If they were in this state, then there was no telling how their hot-headed Omega fared. Fear wrapped around Stephen’s spine, and he scented the air, desperately trying to find any trace of Tony.

Loki’s magic failed him, sputtering into nothing as his attention diverted from what was in front of him. His good eye went wide as he swung his head around to look, a hoarse cry of Tony’s name tumbling from split, ash stained lips.

Go, find him! Stephen shoved the thought inside Loki’s head, hating himself at that moment, all his previous fears about being an unworthy Alpha, a broken one, becoming truth. This was why he’d tried to avoid their gorgeous spitfire Omega, why he hadn’t wanted to bond with either of them despite his primal urges telling him otherwise.

He couldn’t protect either of them, couldn’t save what mattered to him.

Loki’s instincts were rampant, out of control as he tried to move in a circle, struggling between guarding Stephen and protecting their Omega.

‘Cloak?’ Stephen rasped, pleading, needing to know he tried, that he did everything he could to save Tony, that he was a good mate.

That he hadn’t failed him.

The villain, Kang he called himself, took advantage of Loki’s distraction, the Alpha’s body locked in a chokehold of fear as he scoured the battleground for his Omega. A second was all it needed to send Loki sprawling beside Stephen.

‘I’m…sorry,’ Loki gasped out, a tear mixing with the blood oozing down his face, ‘Tony…Omega,’ he whispered pitifully, hand nudging against Stephen’s, useless as they tried to coordinate their fingers to clasp.

Kang took a step forward, glass crunching underfoot before he was blasted off his feet, the sound of a repulsor never sounding so sweet to Stephen.

Their Omega took a protective stance over them both, pieces of his armor crumbling away from him, his nanobots having received heavy damage.

This was their needy Omega, the one who demanded their constant attention, who flirted with others to make them jealous, who stole their clothes to weave into his bed. Their soft, doe-eyed, adoring Omega had transformed in his rage, a feral, beautiful, dangerous creature taking his place.

‘R….un,’ Stephen gasped out, screaming at his body to move, trying to force life back into his shattered bones, his frayed muscles.

Tony ignored him, his fingers clawed and dripping with oil from the machines, blending with his own blood, his lips drawn back over his teeth in a snarl, hissing at the threat to what was his.

Loki still had a bit of strength left, and he struggled to lift his hand, trying to teleport Tony out of here, his bent and snapped fingers useless as he tried to muster up his magic, screaming in anguish when it didn’t work.

Stephen had promised Tony he would protect him, not only from physical threats, but from anything that would harm him. His emotions, his insecurities, overworking, anything. He had sworn it into his skin before he gave Tony his bonding bite.

‘Not like this,’ Loki begged, rolling over, half on top of Stephen as he tried to claw his way over to the Omega.

Tony didn’t even see them, too focused on the threat at hand as he leapt into battle, giving it everything he had, repulsor cannons, his zero cannon, nanobot blades, everything he had in a last ditch attempt to defend his Alphas.

Their relationship, their bond wasn’t normal, nothing about any of them was. Omegas didn’t defend their Alphas because they didn’t need to. They were the ones who were meant to be kept safe and secure, but watching Tony fling himself at Kang, Stephen felt a surge of pride that this Omega had come to him with another Alpha in tow, had introduced him to the joys of being in a pack.

With Kang’s blood-curdling shriek of death mingling with Tony’s battle cry piercing his ears, Stephen finally succumbed to the darkness.

***

Stephen came to with a painful gasp, all his instincts writhing like snakes across his skin. They overwhelmed his mind, drugging him in a fog of instinct.

Tony.

Loki.

His leg hit something on the bed, and he managed to move his head on his pillow, breathing out a sigh of relief as he saw Loki beside him. His eye was still swollen and bruised, but his skin was overwise unblemished, his superhuman healing working its magic. He managed to lift a hand and shake the sleeping Alpha but there was no response, Loki’s body in a deep healing sleep.

‘Thank goodness, you’re awake.’ Wong’s voice drifted over to him, and Stephen turned to look at him, watching the way he halted when a low growl cracked through the air. Lifting his hands, Wong took a step back, dropping his head in a sign of submission which made Stephen sit up in alarm. No one had ever been able to intimidate Wong into submission, the Beta was a stubborn as an Alpha, but here he was, backing off.

‘How long…how long have we been like this?’ he tried to ask, holding a hand to his head as the room around him span and lurched.

‘Just over six hours. He won’t let any of us get near you two.’

The scent of Tony curled through the air, threading around Stephen, his usual scent of molten iron and sparks of embers scenting like cinder and ash, clumping on his tongue.

The Omega was scared.

Even in Loki’s comatose state, a dangerous rumble emanated from deep inside his chest, sounding more guttural than anything Stephen had been able to produce, revealing his Jotun heritage. Where Stephen had been unable to rouse him, Tony’s scent had permeated the pain and exhaustion, calling out to the instinctive part of Loki to protect his Omega mate. A green eye snapped open, blurring into the red of the Jotun, his rational mind lost to the haze of his induced sleep, trying to find his mate.

‘Loki, it’s okay, Tony isn’t harmed, he’s safe,’ Stephen murmured, reaching over to rub his wrist over Loki’s neck, scenting him, reassuring him.

Tony got up from where he’d been perched on the edge of the bed, his broken growls stuttering and failing, swaying on his feet from exhaustion. He still wore his shattered armor, with flakes of blood crusted over gaping wounds, concrete debris wedged under his skin.

‘I’ll let you calm him down. Ridiculous overprotective Omega-’

Stephen snarled at Wong’s insinuation, the slight against his mate.

‘Alright! I’m going!’ Wong shook his head, ordering the Cloak to stay put as he edged out of the door.

Careful not to crowd Loki, whose rumbles still saturated the air, Stephen got up onto his knees and used them to walk across his mattress, wincing at the way his muscles protested, his skin flexing and agitating his wounds.

‘Tony, sweetheart, it’s okay, we’re okay, you can stop now.’

Tony’s gaze flickered up to his, his nostrils flaring as he tried to scent him, lost in the myriad of his emotions, his instincts to guard his Alphas.

‘Stand down fierce Omega,’ Loki commanded, his words thick from where he was struggling to control his voice.

Loki’s voice did what Stephen’s couldn’t, and the Iron Man suit melted away and retracted back into his arc reactor, his eyelids fluttering shut as his body pitched forward. Stephen lunged for him, catching him before he hit the ground, cradling him close, furiously rubbing his cheek over the top of Tony’s head, the back of his neck, anywhere he could, smothering him in his scent.

‘You stupid, reckless man,’ Stephen managed to sob out, his shoulders shaking.

‘Brave, fearless thing,’ Loki whispered down to them both, his hand on Stephen’s shoulder encouraging him to move back. Loki managed to squeeze his way between them, mimicking Stephen’s frantic motions for a moment ago, blending their scents, the three of them together.

#frostironstrange #ask response #I loved this one #alpha omega #tony stark #stephen strange #mcu loki

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doctor-sophie-grayson · 3 years ago

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Hey it's alex from Alexandria's home for wayward wanderers...after your ask, I decided that I should share the event on how Berlin lost her leg now for context it happened during a time when I worked as a contracted guard detail for a group of Pokemon rangers and they're students we where at the time in an area of unova that's to this day still illegal for anyone, not a elite four member or a champion to enter the rangers were called in because a herd of sawsbuck in the area had been acting more spooked then usual and until it happened me and the rangers thought that they're was an illegal poaching operation happening and to this day I wish that it was...but yea I and berlyn had gone ahead of the group after hearing a pained bellow of a sawsbuck...when we entered the clearing we heard the bellow from all that there was in the clearing was the carcass of a freshly killed sawsbuck when I had went closer to check it out it seemed like something had attacked and then it happened all at once I heard a gutteral growl then felt a searing hot pain in my shoulder and her berlyns distressed fearful snarl as she jumped onto what attacked me and that's when I finally saw it as I stumbled back in shock from the pain a large hulking beast of a creature as far as I could tell at the time it was a garchomp it's body was covered in old scars it's fins long since had been torn to threads and thick layers of Ice dotted it's hide and they're was berlyn gripping for her life to this beasts back her claws digging into it hide as it tried to tear her of it the beast's teeth finally grabbed purchase grabbing onto her leging and using it to rip her off mangling her leg in the process and now you think did you call her back and escape and sadly no me and berlyn knew if we tried to leave it would follow us back to the group where most of the rangers there was just children so we battled my shoulder burning with pain and berlyn slaming this beast with any long range attack she can think of while dodging its teeth and claws....and that when IT happened our panic breath and heartbeats sinced together and her form changed thick bone plating grew from her body covering her like armor making her look like a skelatal hound sent from darkrai himself and I..thats all I remember at that point the other trainer hired by the group arrived and managed to get it to back of and leave and me and berlyn feinted I woke up two weeks later in a hospital and berlyn while I was unconscious had to have her leg amputated as the bone armor that grew on her never fell off her leg like it did for the rest of her body..and we havent been the same sometimes I feel like I can understand what a Pokemon is saying and..berlyn...well she seems smarter then most Pokemon..from what I know what ever happened to us is called a synergy event which is when a trainer and pokemon during a life or death situation sinc up both mentally and spiritually it changed both the pokemon and trainer....forever..im sorry if this is hard to read i just..still cant believe we surviveeeeeeed that you know..but after that i retired from being a trainer and ended up using the money i earned to buy the ranch i own and use as a pokemon rescue

Oh my.. That is quite the situation to go through..

#pokemon #Dr. Sophie #Sophie talks

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gentlemancrow · 3 years ago

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In the quiet haven of Daisy's safehouse, Martin notices he is regurgitating cliche romantic lines from beloved movies in place of his own words when he should be finally able to tell Jon how he's felt about him all along. He becomes convinced this means The Lonely has stolen his ability to love from him and Jon has to reassure him that that, above all else, is a thing absolutely impossible to do.

Presented in Technicolor

The first time it happened, neither of them noticed. It was so fast, so very quick, just a twitch of tracking on a well-loved VHS or a blip of a warped cellulose acetate bubble drowning in a sea of feedback and static.

There was only one bed in the safehouse. So exhausted in body, in essence, in soul, neither of them argued, neither even thought to argue, as they collapsed together and apart on either side to sink into silence. They’d held each other until then, until that moment of tense intimacy foisted upon them, on the endless soundless train ride to Scotland while Martin searched inside the hollowed-out cavern of himself for his voice and Jon held the atoms of him together to keep both of them from vanishing into the ether. But in the bed, in the hallowed safety of soft blankets and distance, they polarized. Still yanking magnetically for each other from around the insurmountable corners of themselves, but held apart by the unspeakable, unseeable force of everything still between them. They could not give it voice or life. It gave life to itself in the not speaking and not seeing, in the friction of invisible things looping around and around and shining an aurora green that burned hot and sang with a shrieking fluorescent crescendo. They lay, back-to-back, vibrating and glowing in swelling, whining incandescence before Jon finally burst in an argon bright concussion of light.

“Thank you, Martin.”

Another pop of flash powder.

“…For what?”

“For loving-“ a bruised pause, “For seeing something, anything to love about me. Before. For writing me into the pages of your heart as someone worth penning an epic about. For thinking me worthy, even in the slightest, of your tragic hero’s end. Of your sacrifice. I’m… I’m sorry.”

Afraid to move the mattress, a cotton scum of fragile ice that might shatter and tip them both into frothing white mist, Martin turned only his head, the ozone burnt agates of his eyes shining.

“What makes you think this is an ending?”

Jon’s head swiveled now, with both twisted bodies at parallel meridians and an ocean between them before their eyes could meet.

“I… I only thought. You said-?”

“I’m still… me.”

Words were still so hard, wickedly barbed on his tongue, raw and blistering as they bubbled over, but it seemed to encapsulate what he wanted to say as best he could.

“Oh…” that carved with a serrated blade from Jon’s chest, “Oh god, Martin...”

His name on his lips sounded like a prayer. Devotion of one gone from heretic to nonbeliever to basking in the glories of his own personal god of love, descended to anoint his forehead in blood and sing the forbidden gospels of passion snatched from the jaws of things that lurked and preyed. He hated how brightly he burned so that he could not look directly at him, how much the light still hurt, hated the jagged rip of yearning through his middle too wide now to suture shut. But the comforter whispered softly as Jon turned and his fingers danced over its oceanic crests toward him, for him. Martin’s fingers sailed swiftly in kind, as he too, turned and surrendered into the magnetism of this beautiful, clueless acolyte, worthier than any, who bound up his colliding hands and kissed them desperately.

“I’m so sorry it took me so long to get to you,” Jon breathed into his strong, cold fingers, “I’m so sorry.”

The warmth of those hands, those lips and breath, bled into his, turned his paperwhite skin pink again and brought the noontide sky rising in his eyes. He smiled in faint, glimmering adulation.

“It doesn’t matter. We’re here now.”

“Yes. Yes, we are.”

Martin freed one hand to cup preciously over Jon’s pockmarked cheek, over the gospel of him, to thread his fingers into the silken swatch of silvered hair behind his ear and feel out the elegant curve of his neck. Jon’s hand followed a mirror path, painting color and life into his freckled cheek in its wake and stealing the iconographic crystal tears quivering glimmeringly on darkly red lashes. They closed the distance between them forever, nuzzled foreheads piously bowed and touching. A tiny laugh of mingled breathlessness and shattered walls that portended the first smiles bloomed in defiance of endless gray seas.

“I love you.”

Martin’s throat hitched painfully as twin tears rolled down his cheeks. His chest heaved and burned, his lips and teeth clanked and ground to make the sounds he so violently wanted to make, but they were too heavy. Too burdensome, wrapped in rusted chains and sunken too deep somewhere in the hole bored out of him in white acid fog to haul up, but still there. Still there.

“Shhh. It’s okay if you can’t say it back yet. Or if you don’t want to. I understand,” Jon soothed, touching the corner of his mouth.

Martin kissed into his palm feverishly as tears streaked down his cheeks. He couldn’t say much more. He could not possibly convey the magnitude of his endless, ceaseless want, only whisper in a weak, resolute treble into the scarred piano fingers playing a sonata on lips.

“I want to. I-I would have waited… forever for you. I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you. You complete me.”

Three simple, stolen words that ultimately meant nothing at all in the wake of the kiss that followed. A solar flare of months, years, of plasmic longing dripped into the pits of their hearts effused, hands tangled into hair, hot tears mingling on cold crushed cheeks. They kissed into, through, around each other, kissed until they couldn’t breathe, kissed to atone for all the ones they had missed, for all the ones stolen from them. They kissed until they were thoroughly wound together and sleep claimed them, Martin’s head atop Jon’s chest so he could hear and feel his heartbeat all through the night.

Martin only realized late into the next morning that his words had sounded tinny and stuck like an ugly, thorny burr to the knit of his memory, sifting its way to the surface only after the floodwaters of love had receded. They awoke in a waking dream of gauzy, liminal sunlight in dancing ribbons, of unbelieving laughter and kissing and touching each other’s faces just to make sure it had all been real after all. And it had. Their words of love could be rewound and replayed, etched into magnetic tape finally untangled and wound straight and true around the stalwart barrel of a pencil eraser.

It wasn’t until they were halfway through scraping together a quiet breakfast of stale tea and long expired porridge that the scene his words really belonged to came to Martin in a whipcrack flash of sipping lukewarm beer at two something in the morning in a darkened room lit only by whatever was on the tele that could hold his attention for more than a few minutes. Those three stolen words. A line he had snorted cynically, jealously, at, even then, drunker than he wanted to be and in the solitary throes of habitual insomnia. Three stupid, hackneyed words of pop culture parody. He smoldered in wordless humiliation, but promptly forgot again when Jon interrupted him at the stove to slide his arms around his waist and press a kiss to the corner of his lips for no reason at all other than the late morning rays looked particularly beautiful spiraling in his russet gold curls.

Martin abandoned the bubbling sludge in the pot and kissed him back because didn’t matter in the slightest. Thoughtlessly plagiarizing a mediocre romantic movie with a single line eternally embedded in the zeitgeist of the era and lingering in the subconscious of all who endured it meant nothing at all, especially when they couldn’t stop kissing. Giddy with the freedom of just being together, dizzy with the new toy of kissing, of Jon’s lips, Martin’s hands, of the way they fit against each other, and the thrill of newness in radiant insolence of everything they had escaped. Of course, though, he had to come clean over plain porridge with too much cinnamon and not enough sugar, over-steeped tea, and nervous laughter, lest Jon think he was an even worse poet than he already was.

“It’s the worst thing ever, right? THAT movie. Out of all the movies…”

Jon shrugged through the fluttering bird wings of his laughter.

“I didn’t even notice, I mean, how could I? Kind of a small thing, after… everything… and it was finally just us.”

Martin’s voice came easier now, more like sweet, sugary tea just a little too hot to drink comfortably, so he could laugh and blush and splutter into his hands.

“Still. I can’t believe I could only choke out all of three sentences to you after I’d been waiting so long to tell you how I feel, and one of them was from Jerry fucking Maguire.”

“Hey, it’s a good line,” Jon chuckled, “Cheesy, sure, but good. And I don’t care where you got it, so long as I’ve got you.”

“Pfft, who’s being cheesy now?”

“Us.”

Jon took his hand across the rickety breakfast table with its faded flowered cloth and the line was written over in his mind like hitting record on the high-fidelity cassette right at the first chords of your favorite song on the radio. And none of the DJ’s chatter to boot.

The next time it happened it lingered longer, like a vapid slogan from a commercial, devoid of anything but flagrant rhyme and earworms frustratingly buoyant on the brain. It wasn’t until the next day though, when the shadows of everything caught them up and the newness of their love had dimmed just enough to cast them, mangled and black, across their joined hands. Jon had attempted to breach the unbreachable bulwark of The Plan, because they’d had a day, that was plenty, and he couldn’t not be thinking about watching his own feet and his back at the same time because he was him. They couldn’t stay there forever, after all. Though Martin was always quick with a plaintive ‘why not?’ every time Jon reminded him of that fact. He had tried valiantly, oh so valiantly, to keep pace and contribute, to hear Jon’s voice, to process the things he was saying, as horrible as they were, but everything he said clanged around in his skull like a moth trapped in a mason jar, buzzing and fluttering and indistinct in its blind, supersonic lostness. Every shred of Beholding, or Jonah Magnus, or Smirke’s fourteen, maybe fifteen, was another drop of condensation leaking down the foggy panes of him, scoring a clear, bloodless wound that only fogged over to be slashed open again.

Sometime in the haze of late afternoon, when the sun is pale and stagnant, when the second hand lingers on the twelve a little longer than it should on each revolution, Martin began to breathe just a little quicker than Jon would have liked. Even after he gave up the frantic turning of the gears in his head that was a little too loud, even for him, for softer dialog, Martin’s eyes darted just a little too frantically, pupils frosted over just a little too white and a little too small while his tongue tripped over simple words and his hand leapt shyly away from his touch. Jon knew he had tread too far. Suddenly, mid banal and desperate Band-Aid conversation about how to make a proper Scottish shortbread because he had no idea what else to ask about that wouldn’t recall beaches, loneliness, or eyes, Jon closed his mouth, took one look at the fading marigold of his love, and gently took his hand to lead him outside the back of the cottage. Neither said a word as Jon propped the ghost of Martin comfortably on the small garden bench, set his phone to a classic music station at whisper volume beside him, and kissed his temple fiercely.

“You just breathe for me out here a while, alright?” he said against his translucent skin, the words so quiet Martin could barely hear them. He heard them louder and clearer than anything all day, “Just breathe and I’ll be right inside if you need me. You’re not alone.”

Martin nodded mutely, and closed his eyes to let the sound of the wind in the overgrown hedgerows and the petals of pink primroses, of violins and chaffinches flitting in the trees wash the waxed-on layers of static away. A few hours later, when the sun had tipped to the west and the sky was flushed with peachy orange daubs of cloud, Jon peeked out of the back door of the safehouse. Martin was exactly where he had left him, but his eyes were serenely closed, his full lips were a rosy pink and curved into a gentle smile, and he glowed with the flaxen veil of near dusk settling atop their tiny haven.

Jon smiled and padded as quietly as he could to his side. He perched beside him on the bench, saying nothing, just sitting with him, watching as Martin opened his eyes like bright blue forget-me-nots blooming in a dewy April morning and threaded his warm, sunset kissed fingers into his.

“Hi, you.”

“Hi,” Jon replied breathlessly, heart thrumming, “Feeling better?”

“Much, thank you…”

“I’m glad of it. Mind if I sit with you a bit?”

“Please do.”

Unbinding their fingers for only the time it took to extricate his pack of cigarettes from his pocket, fish one out, and light it, Jon scooped Martin’s hand back into his and held it atop the cool stone of the bench as cinders glowed bright against the balmy stirrings of eventide.

“Forgive me my vices in these trying times,” he snickered facetiously, seeing the lovingly judgmental look on Martin’s face.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind,” Martin answered behind willowy wisps of smoke, “For now, anyway. I can nag you to quit again when this is all over.”

Jon didn’t reply right away, taking a long drag of the cigarette and exhaling it slowly, pensively, letting the heavy smoke curl up from his lips and through his nostrils like some ancient sentinel dragon. His warm, dark eyes reflected the tilting sky as he gazed up into its aching emptiness and quelled the bored and hungry thrashing of the thing inside him.

“Do you think it will be…? Over? That is?” he mused in that gravelly tone he only got when he was carrying something heavy.

“Of course I do. I have to believe that,” came Martin’s fervent rejoinder, “I have to believe it. For everyone. For us.”

“For love?”

Jon’s eyes flicked away finally from the crawling heaps of clouds on the horizon toward the man at his side, tethering his hand to solid rock. Martin squeezed that hand as he filled those woody, heady depths with his own gaze of boundless blue.

"People do fall in love. People do belong to each other, because that's the only chance that anyone's got for true happiness," he murmured, reaching up to touch his cheek.

Jon closed those eyes of empty galaxies and polished mahogany and tipped his cheek fully into Martin’s palm, pressing it there with his free hand. The smoldering cigarette balanced elegantly between the knobs of his first two knuckles, painting a wispy circlet of smoke around his head.

“Mmm. That is a nice thought, what’s it from?” he wondered aloud as Martin’s thumb stroked his cheek.

He snorted incredulously.

“Me…? I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Really? But it sounds so familiar… oh-!” Jon gasped in epiphany, “I got it! Breakfast at Tiffany’s!”

Martin’s brows knitted tightly on his face as his hand slipped away from Jon’s cheek.

“What? No… No, it can’t be. I-“

“Yeah, it is! You remember! The scene at the end in the cab where he throws the ring at her… tells her she’s… built herself a cage and has to live with herself in it…” Jon recollected, suddenly going darkly joking, “Are you trying to tell me something?”

It was lost in the razor-sharp film reel slithering through Martin’s subconscious, flickering and snapping mockingly in the dark.

“Oh, you’re… you’re right. Hah, dunno where that came from,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his head embarrassedly. The other hand, still entwined with Jon’s on the bench, tightened skittishly.

“I should hope you wouldn’t compare me to Holly Golightly,” Jon retorted amusedly, fingers rooting his in reply.

“Oh, there is so much to unpack there, but no. No Jon, it’s just a movie I accidentally pulled a line from because it was one of my mum’s favorites and I used to put it on for her all time,” Martin chuckled, though it was a little thin for his liking, “Don’t read too deep into it. I’ve just seen it a zillion times is all.”

A noncommittal, teasing hum rumbled from Jon’s lips as he put them back around the cigarette and pulled luxuriantly. His long, silvered chestnut waves spilled over his shoulders as he tipped his head back, catching the wavelengths of light in a way that stole Martin’s breath away.

“And anyway. She still makes the choice to put on the Cracker Jack ring and she still finds Cat and they end up kissing in the rain, remember?” he added.

Jon chuckled a husky, smoky chuckle.

“That she does…”

Martin looked down at their joined hands and felt the shuddering reverb of everything that had gone before. A sickly tide of guilt washed up over his heart. He was the reason they were sitting outside quoting Audrey Hepburn movies and idly holding hands when so much was behind them and so much ahead, wedged in the middle of tragedy gone and unknown tragedies to come.

“S-Sorry about all this…”

Jon snapped instantly to attention, sword and shield of emotional chivalry drawn and at the ready.

“For what? Needing a break from me? For chrissakes Martin, I’m not easy to deal with even before… before everything that happened to you. Not to mention I’m probably just about the worst person to learn how to be human again with, if we’re brutally honest. Since I’m… neither here nor there myself. I don’t blame you at all.”

His words struck so obtusely, so off the mark, Martin felt hurled into a vacuum, spinning helplessly in space.

“Th-That’s not it! That’s not it at all! Th-There’s no one in the world I’d rather be learning to be human again with, Jon. I want to be here with you, I just… can’t we just be us? For a little while anyway? I just want to be with you…”

His words settled for a moment, whispering in echo like dust and dry leaves tinkling after a whirlwind. The corner of Jon’s mouth curled into a puckish grin. He paused, just a moment, as if deciding the flash of an idea in his mind was genius or completely deranged, but then stabbed out his cigarette on the cobblestones at his feet. He let Martin’s hand go so he could pick up his phone, still insistently playing some obscure old string quartet composition, searched through the music app, then turned up the volume as Moon River began its first lilting notes through the speakers. Setting it down on the bench and rising primly to his feet, he swept himself up in a gentlemanly bow and offered his hand back out an invitational gesture. Martin stared at it, blinking, and peal of robust laughter rang joyously through his chest.

“…You’re not serious.”

“Deadly.”

Unable, unwanting to refuse, Martin took Jon’s hand and was lifted up into a weightless, awkward dance in the tiny unkept garden to a metallic cellphone rendition of Moon River. They spun with indulgent slowness, as the stars peeked out and the music crooned on, hand in hand and unsure who exactly was supposed to be leading this waltz, no foxtrot, no definitely tango. But they laughed each time they stepped on each other’s feet, as they melded back into congruent shapes, and everything was forgotten again in a kiss like a silver streak of comet dust across the luminous pink-purple horizon.

“Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker. Wherever you're goin', I'm goin' your way…”

The third time it happened, it was a bloody record scratch and a haunting, grainy skipping of warped vinyl. Jon had woken up after their night full of neon and technicolor splendor completely drained of it and awash in dark-eyed, ailing sallowness. Only able to insist he was fine as far as collapsing into Martin’s arms the moment he tried to get out of bed, he had been stuffed bodily back in and given a stern talking to about neglecting his needs, however unsavory they might be. And unsavory they were, Martin’s gut remembered, as he dutifully fetched the tape recorder and the meager folder of statements they’d managed to filch to tide him over until Basira could secret them some more. They felt grimy and insurmountably tainted in his trembling hands, sticky somehow and cloying with the acrid reminder of what Jon was, what they both were, and what had touched them both with filthy hands and sharp nails. He laid them on the bed beside Jon like they burned, who watched as he took two steps back and faded into the slice of sunlight spilling through the bedroom curtains.

“You… you don’t have to stay,” he told him flatly.

“Do you… do you want me to?”

“Not really?”

“Okay… Okay, then I’ll go make us some breakfast and come back when you’re through. Take your time.”

Jon nodded through the kiss Martin planted on top of his head before escaping the room like mist gliding through the black crags of a lagoon back out to sea. He cooked in choking silence, trying not to let his mind decode words from the indistinct timbre of Jon’s voice in the bedroom through the walls, but it was almost impossible. They dripped like blood rain through the leaves of a tree, fat and blistering and scattered onto the top of his head. Words like sobbed, watching, knife, burned, or devoured, scant snatches of oblique terror from people he didn’t know, would never know, people who were probably long gone and far past their reach to help. Especially now.

The eggs frying in the pan sizzled and popped distantly beside the sliced tomatoes and mushrooms obtained on the day prior’s shopping trip, and together the bright yellows and reds bled out into the cast iron until they were a vague monochromatic hue of cooked. A proper fry-up needed bacon, though, didn’t it, Martin thought, mostly to give his brain something, anything to look at while he waited for the disembodied voice to cease, yes, he should really go fetch the bacon. Staring blankly at the stove, his cloudy, foggy eyes refused to focus on any single point and his feet refused to move, detached and dangling each from a silver thread somewhere. Once he could connect enough points of radio snow to hew a coherent thought, he doubted the kindness of eating bacon, of all things, beside Jon after he’d had to read whatever unknown horror. Instead, just mounded an extra helping of beans onto his plate as he loaded up the tray with tea and toast and everything else and ferried it into the silent bedroom.

Jon was still in bed, as expected, sitting up cross-legged and chewing his thumbnail idly with no sign of the statements or the tape recorder. Martin hated how relieved he was not to see them again, but he loved how much better Jon looked, and how the distance in his eyes fled in bright starry gleams to see him through the gray filter settling over his own.

“Oh, breakfast in bed hmm? To what do I owe this honor?”

“Just one of the many perks of deciding to put up with me,” Martin replied with as much cheer as he could muster to match him.

Jon frowned a little, but said nothing as the laden tray was alighted over his lap and Martin slid carefully onto the bed to join him. Martin was an excellent cook, always had been, but both of them picked at the limp, lifeless spread with appetites long truant and senses perverted. A bit of runny yolk on slightly burnt toast was nothing to a wet crunch of bone and a scream of ire. The canned beans tasted of seawater and squelched like kelp bulbs impaled on the tongs of his fork. Martin poked at them distractedly, watching them leave gruesome red streaks of their innards on the chipped plate until the soft, slender backs of Jon’s fingers pressed worriedly into his too cool forehead.

“Are you alright? You’re the one looking a bit peaky now.”

Martin looked up and nuzzled into the warmth of his fingers needily.

“Am I?” he asked absently, “Sorry, I just… I hate this.”

The miniscule points of light in Jon’s eyes that had winked on at his return, despite everything, dimmed like an empty stage again as he looked down at his mangled plate, crestfallen. His hand shied back away to his lap where it twisted the hem of the comforter instead.

“I’m sorry, Martin…”

Martin’s chest seized. The bright red tartan comforter faded to gray.

“Oh shit- no, Jon, not like that! I-I mean I hate it for you! I hate what it does to you. I hate that the pain of other people is necessary for your continued existence in this world. I hate that it makes you… like it… That’s all. I-I just need to get used to it.”

Protest withered and died in the atmosphere the moment Jon’s lips parted to unleash it. They closed as thought flickered behind his eyes, parted, then closed again before he finally conjured the right words.

“Then… I guess I’m just sorry being with me involves learning the ah… care and feeding of an eldritch demigod…?” he offered with a wan smile and a shrug.

Martin blinked, then chuckled softly, mournfully, and leaned over to press his lips in a slow, indulgent kiss into Jon’s forehead.

“It’s alright,” he mumbled against the scarred skin, closing his eyes and letting the sandalwood scent of his shampoo waft over him in verdant waves, “I think I can manage. Everyone goes through this. Just, most people have to deal with ‘oh he’s a vegan and she hates cats.’ Ours just so happens to be ‘oh he sustains himself on being a voyeur to gut-wrenching terror and he fades from literal existence every so often.’ No better, no worse really, if you think about it.”

Jon laughed in kind, a little deeper, a little louder.

“You’re not going to tell me you hate cats next, are you?”

“Not in the least.”

“Good, because that would have been a deal breaker.”

“And now I know you’re a cat person,” Martin chuckled, reaching out and stealing Jon’s scarred right hand.

He unfolded it reverently out on the comforter, like the painted paper wings of a butterfly, and traced the old lines of it with a fingertip flushing pink again. The trails of his life and heart and fate lines were faint and obscure beneath the crumbling ramparts of healed flesh, but still there.

“But that’s the greatest part about being with someone, isn’t it…?” he continued quixotically, the glow spreading back to his cheeks as his fingers danced atop Jon’s palm, “That’s where the adventure is. Learning about them every day, learning about yourself, too, and how to be two people, but also somehow two people together? And now I can say I have the privilege, no, the honor, to have embarked on the epic journey to learn how to be with you, weird metaphysical dietary needs and all. Because the greatest thing you’ll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return. Don’t you think?”

It was Jon’s turn to snatch up Martin’s hand with a wry grin, warm again in his palms, and kiss every one of his freckled knuckles as they blazed back to life in ruddy constellations.

“Fancy me a very strange enchanted boy then, do you?” he teased.

Martin balked dubiously.

“I… I’m sorry?” he snorted, raising an eyebrow.

“You know- That song you just quoted. Nat King Cole? Nature Boy? They say he wandered very far. Very far, over land and sea. A little shy and sad of eye. But very wise was he…” Jon hummed, half-singing the lyrics in a drowsy velvet purr, “Heh, I suppose I’m a little flattered this time.”

Too much of a pool of serenaded bewitchment to ponder where he’d gotten the lyrics, Martin’s eyes went positively limpid with love as they flushed songbird blue.

“God, you have… such a gorgeous voice…” he gushed, astonished and humbled to have heard it, even if he could never convince him to do it again.

Jon rolled his eyes fondly as the tips of his ears turned a little rosy.

“Oh, shut up.”

“You know I’m never, ever letting that go now,” Martin said with ruthless affection, laughing sheepishly, “B-But yeah I know the song. I guess. I think I must have been thinking of Moulin Rouge though. Didn’t know it was a song before that…”

“Right, right, that film. Excellent use of it. If I recall correctly, didn’t David Bowie do a cover for it as well?”

Jon prattled on for a moment about David Bowie, or covers of songs most people didn’t know were actually covers, or Baz Luhrmann movies, Martin couldn’t tell. There was another sinkhole opening in him. Not one filled with frigid fog that eroded him layer by agonizing layer with the tide in a seaside cave like the first, but one more of rusted metal, jagged and eaten away by the creep of something infectious and voracious. It had started so small, just three stolen words, but now it spread and ate tiny holes in him wherever something beautiful, something his, should have lived, replaced it with a brown patina of rot and decay and overuse. His fragile armor crumbled while Jon shone, animatedly talking about cinema and devouring, with gusto, the breakfast made for him. The least Martin could do was allow his radiant light to pierce the ugly, unnamed holes in him and shine in love-wrought florals and wreaths made beautiful through him.

“You know if movies are a-a thing of yours, I wouldn’t mind… err that is to say, I like movies, too?” Jon continued on in his hopeful ramblings, desperate to catch the drooping sails of Martin once again, “I took a film class like everyone does back at uni and I found it absolutely fascinating. I mean there’s a good reason everyone does, right? There were a few in there I wouldn’t mind watching with y- Ahah, well we don’t have to watch THOSE kinds of movies, any kind will do, really. And I swear I won’t get pretentious or academic about it, or- oh u-unless you like picking apart movies like that? I probably don’t seem the type but, trust me, I am actually capable of watching something and just enjoying it without-“

“Jon,” Martin halted him adoringly, smiling as he met his timid gaze and mentally scrubbing over his rusty spots stubbornly with steel wool and vinegar, for him, for Jon, “I’d love to overanalyze movies with you.”

The anxious bowstring of Jon’s reedy body finally went slack, and he smiled radiantly.

“Oh. Oh! Good!” he breathed eagerly, “I um- I know this place doesn’t have internet for obvious reasons, but I think there’s an old VCR hooked up to the TV? We can hunt around and see if Daisy has any cassettes squirreled away somewhere. She must have.”

“Sure, after you finish your breakfast though. Don’t want you keeling over from starvation of either kind, lesson number one in ‘The Care and Feeding of Your Cryptid Boyfriend’,” Martin reprimanded lovingly.

“Hey, same goes for you, baked bean Picasso over here,” Jon shot back.

They laughed, and for a brief, halcyon moment, Martin felt the holes spackled shut. Perhaps it could be enough, Jon could be enough. Perhaps it was nothing but paranoia and the lingering fingerprints drawn in sea salt and sand on his throat. If he only forged ahead, if Jon’s godlike hands could sculpt him into something sealed and whole, perhaps the stuttering film reel could come to a raucous, flapping conclusion in the projector and fade to black. He only needed to heal. He just needed time. That’s what Jon would say. And that’s what he said, too, but the breakfast still tasted of brine and Bakelite.

The fourth time it happened was the time Martin stopped counting, and instead just let them stack up, sharp and hot, against the back of his skull. It came, a slow and lumbering sound test later that very evening sprawled on the couch in front of an old VHS from the dusty collection Daisy had indeed accrued. They had settled on Say Anything from her surprisingly romcom heavy library, which Martin had seen many times but Jon had never bothered. Horrified and aghast he had never seen the origin of the oft parodied and iconic boombox scene, and then even further scandalized Jon didn’t even know what ‘the boombox scene’ was in the first place, he put it in and figured out the tuning and setup while Jon filched a dusty old bottle of wine of indiscriminate origin and poured it recklessly into two mugs without even searching for proper glasses. Neither could decide if the wine was awful because it was just awful to begin with, or if wine just tasted weird in general out of a chintzy floral ceramic mug, but they both drank to boneless giddiness as they watched the classic tale of Diane and Lloyd by firelight.

They began ever so politely, each on their own cushion on the couch, just close enough to touch knees or hold hands or brush a thigh on the way to pour more wine. One mug in and they were happily squashed side by side between the back cushions, battling for whose head got to be on whose shoulder with encircled arms and fingers twined adamantly together. Martin sitting up to pour a second round freed Jon to slink, catlike, into a curled-up puddle on his lap, all but demanding Martin’s hands in his hair. He happily obliged, sipping mediocre red blend in one hand while the other stroked Jon languidly, starting at the crown of his long, silvered locks and laying out the waves of them in reverent oaky garlands on his thighs. The bottle only yielded a half pour for their third and final serving, which Jon downed in several hurried gulps so that he could claim the lay of the couch, wriggling his back into the cushions and opening his arms invitingly for Martin, a dopey grin on his face and his ears bright crimson with drink.

A more sober Martin would have been deeply concerned about their ability to squeeze horizontally together on the couch, but as it was all he saw was a sliver of very inviting cushion and the tantalizing glimmer of a little spoon. He crashed into those arms, resulting in no less than several minutes of laughing and yelping in pain and mashed limbs, but eventually they wormed their way to equilibrium. Jon had to tuck Martin’s mop of rusty curls under his chin to see the television, and Martin’s knees dangled precariously off the edge, but their ankles tangled together and Jon’s arm draped preciously over Martin’s chest as he folded him protectively in his embrace and kissed into the crown of his head. They glowed softly in their final performance after a tableau of love for each act of the film, watching the seminal scene in inebriated reverie. Both of them pointedly ignored the lyrics of the song that went with it.

“So… the film’s called Say Anything…” Jon mumbled into Martin’s hair as the film marched on, half sleepy, half drunk.

“Mmhmm,” Martin intoned in response, idly toying with Jon’s fingers twiddling at his chest as the room twirled merrily around his head.

“And supposedly she can say anything to her father… but then he’s the one who lied to her? And encouraged her to break up with John Cusack even though she clearly loves him?”

“That is indeed what happened, yes.”

“So it’s sort of all about honesty, then?”

“You could put it that way, yeah!” Martin replied, tilting his head up spiritedly, “That sometimes we do horrible things, we lie, to protect and care for the people who mean the most to us. But we still mean it. He’s sort of a foil to Lloyd in that way, you know? Both of them unquestionably love Diane, it’s just Lloyd is going to do it despite not being what society deems worthy, being himself, and Jim’s going to do it to make life perfect for her even though he actually can’t and has to lie his way through it. But the film doesn’t really condemn either of them for their choices though! Sorry spoiler, she forgives him at the end and she gives him the pen to remember her by instead. They all learn something about truth and what it means to love someone, familiarly, romantically…”

Jon melted around Martin, his poet, his bard, his untangler of the mysticism of art and the soul.

“But that’s why Lloyd is such a beloved protagonist, he just loves, uncomplicatedly, honestly. He just exists to exist, you know? No plan, no need for one, he just wants to live life and love her.”

“So you are good at film analysis…” Jon snickered, lips fluttering in barely a kiss behind his ear.

“Heh, well I didn’t get to take a fancy class at uni like you did, but I guess so? I dunno, I guess I always just admired him, choosing the ‘no thanks’ option when it wasn’t even an option.”

“Would you like to?”

“Hmm? Choose the no thanks option? I think the answer to that’s pretty obvious,” Martin snorted.

“No no… If you got the chance to go. To uni, I mean. Would you want to?”

“Oh… that. You know? Yeah… yeah I think I would.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… I could take that pretentious film class and get a better grade than you. Take a real poetry course for once. Study all the classics and run an on-campus podcast no one listens to except you about classical themes and motifs in modern media.”

Jon laughed, the joy fizzing in his chest for a past that never was, but a future that still could be spilling into another electric kiss, this time at the nape of his neck.

“Incredible. Then what? Business degree? Run an old arthouse cinema?” he inquired, nuzzling into Martin’s broad shoulder.

“Business degree yes, cinema no. I run a bookshop,” Martin said emphatically, “A bookshop with a café… I do all the baking and you curate all the books and run the till. We have this pompous fluffy tuxedo cat who will literally do anything for ear scratches or tuna that we take in everyday and she’s our mascot and everyone loves her.”

“Love it, keep going.”

“Heh… Dunno her name though… Maybe we just call her Cat, a homage to Holly, or no-! No, we do just call her Cat, but it’s because I finally made you read T.S Eliot and now you can’t stand the thought of naming something that already has a name even if we humans can never know it. Feels far too cruel. But we try and guess at her true name anyway and for a few weeks she’ll be called Mrs. Snickelfritz and then it changes for a while to Bumblybabs or The Princess Prisspat or something. I name a cookie after her and it’s the most popular thing on the menu. We secretly mock the people coming in to find an antique copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland just to look cool on the coffee table and we don’t even feel bad about it. Every day we go home and I fiddle about in the garden and my vegetable patch and you take up astronomy. We drink a lot of wine and watch a lot of really awful tele and fall asleep cuddling on the couch before we remember to go to bed most nights. And life’s just… just quiet.”

Jon took a moment to rearrange the twisted vocal cords in his throat, just to make sure the tone of his voice was dry and clear and unburdened with saltwater.

“And uh, what would you call the shop? Our shop…”

“Out of Sight, out of Mind Books,” Martin replied, a smug grin plastered to his flushed face.

“Pfft. A little on the nose, isn’t it?”

“Hey, be nice. It took me weeks of fantasizing at my desk when I should have been researching to come up with that name.”

“I knew it. I knew you were picking out drapes for our proverbial cottage rather than following up on leads,” Jon cackled, “You really had this all planned out huh? Our life together?”

“Well, the cat’s a new character, didn’t know you liked them before,” Martin answered gleefully, “And what can I say? So much of my life’s been a story of some kind or another, but so little of it has actually been written by me or about me. Guess I just wanted a little say over my ending.”

Silence ensued, punctuated with the subtle shuddering of Jon’s breath as it passed through the machinery of him and the pining of the wrinkles raised on Martin’s sweater as he tightened himself around him.

“God I envy you Martin, being able to see a future like that,” he finally whispered, “I can see… well, there’s no telling what I can actually see, but I still have such a hard time picturing anything beyond this… I can’t see the future even in a hypothetical sense. A-And I don’t know if it’s The Eye or-”

“Hey, hey, no. Don’t talk like that,” Martin scolded, grabbing his hand firmly as he wriggled his way inelegantly into turning about face to look up into his eyes, “It’s okay, there doesn’t have to be a whole life and retirement plan or anything. I was literally just talking about how I envied Lloyd for that! It’s just that, for me, when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”

The crescendo of proclamation hung in the air, sacred, immovable, honeyed on Martin’s smiling lips. It shattered with one strike of Jon’s crinkling eyes and tittering laughter.

“Ohh, that’s a good one. You know they weren’t actually supposed to be together in the end in the first draft of the film and that line was basically adlibbed for the new happy ending?”

Martin’s body buzzed numbly as the color drained from the television set and the dying flames in the fireplace, the pleasant buzz of alcohol immediately warping into a frigid tremor and a dull whine in his ears.

“Wh… what film?”

“When Harry Met Sally! Isn’t that what you were quoting? I actually love that one,” Jon went on, oblivious, snuggling up against the vast warmness of Martin's chest.

He laughed, still euphorically tipsy with any incorporeal green eyes just as quickly thumbed shut with coins on ashy gray lids as they were opened, as he went on about how no one ever expected him to like movies like that, but how achingly, awkwardly, and awfully human they always were. The ringing in Martin’s ears turned to the soft hiss of tracking on a blank VHS, the short dead space when the story was over and there were still a few feet of regimented magnetic tape left on the reel, as his eyes swam and danced in points of light. One time was happenstance, two a coincidence, three and four were a pattern. The Fog was still there, it had been all along, translated, parasitic, through his soul in static and tracking and monochrome and snow. His very own personal exile riveted to his bones with rusty old quotes from movies he knew forward and backward and in his sleep.

And it was still so gentle. A gentle fear of redundancy and acquaintance, of the Lonely routine of watching the same two fake people fall in fake love in exactly the same way time and time again with a safe throw rug and a coffee table’s distance between it all, severed from life and adrift on that small chunk of it. It fizzled and crackled with fuzzy unfeeling, draped a velvet mantle over his eyes and burned with just enough limelight to see the one shadowy figure emerging for curtain call on the stage. To see Jon, whose mouth was moving with no sound, whose eyes burned with crystal fires of so many worlds and so many paths that all led back to him, whose hands he could not feel on his cheeks.

Even without sound or touch or sight or feeling, he could still reach back through the nothing for him as he had before. He could still take the glossy black bindings of ancient digital tape and wind them tight through their fingers and around his heart for he who had fought through the Fog to bring him home. He could not be selfish enough to ask to be saved a second time, especially not when his heart still surged and swelled and fought with bound and ragged wings to go to him, when Jon was right there, in his arms, warm and soft and heroic and so very fragile.

“I wish I could give you that, Martin, so badly,” Jon was saying as he clicked the THX stereo back on, “Just… rewrite the script to give us a happy ending. I wish I could be The Architect of our happily ever after instead of The Archivist of our path to ruin already walked, but I can’t. I can’t promise you forever, Martin.”

“I know that,” he interjected, his voice unshakable and brimming with adoration, “So just… just promise me tonight then?”

Scenes could still be paused, still be rewound. One beautiful moment could live forever, frozen in time, watched, quoted, uplifting again and again, eternal in its splendor with so much comfort in the not changing. Just like he could rewind the first time Jon told him he loved him, just like he had so many times already when he could not say it back, he could still have this.

“…What?”

“Just promise me tonight. That we have tonight, here, us. That’s all you have to do. Then in a little while, maybe tomorrow, maybe a week from now, who knows? I’ll ask again. ‘Promise me tonight, Jon.’ And all you have to do is promise you’ll promise me that one night again, then I’ll always know I can count on at least one more promise, and that’s good enough for me. Just… a promise of a promise, no obligations attached.”

Jon mulled it over and around in his mind, the corner of his mouth tugging back up in a grin.

“Just a promise to promise, huh?”

“Yep… no grand gestures, no happily ever, no riding off into the sunset on white horses. Just right here, right now, every time, and we’ll figure it out as we go.”

“I think I can manage that.”

There were sunsets and white horses in both their eyes as they smiled at each other.

“Then promise me, Jon.”

“I promise you tonight, Martin, just this moment, just tonight.”

“That’s all I need.”

The rest of Say Anything faded into the background of their heartbeats and breathing and the kiss that the clocks stopped ticking in reverence for. They kissed each other into an exhausted stupor as the finale of the film rolled on, twisted relentlessly into one another, heedless as the ding of the fasten seatbelts sign turning on heralded the end. Everything would be okay. So long as he had the anchor of Jon to come back to, he could plumb the depths of the rusted-out holes in him and scour out the rot himself.

They lay like that for a while, half an hour, an hour, longer, Martin couldn’t say. He just reveled in the stillness and the blanket of quiet darkness settling over them, of Jon’s touch and Jon’s scent all around him and the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. Perhaps he dozed in the absolute safety of his couch haven while it evaded his protector, but after a time he stirred, snuggling up experimentally into Martin’s chest and nudging him gently, feeling out his consciousness to emerge into the emptiness of his wake.

“…Martin?”

Feigning sleep, Martin slipped back into the shadows to keep his plastic touch off the raw earnestness of the moment that was for Jon and Jon alone. Satisfied he was well beyond the reach of him and in the realm of dreams, Jon smiled as he laid a whispered offering of riotous color and bloom against his fluttering chest.

“I love you. I love you so much…”

It could have broken him. It should have broken him. It should have been a single, tiny stone hurled through a window that brought the entire house of glass crashing in on itself. How many times had he secretly, politely left flowers of ‘I love you’ at the gravestone of his love without his knowing? Instead, it was merely a clean pistol shot through a projector screen. A tiny chink in white vinyl silver screen armor stretched taut and infallible around him. He still could not dredge up those words, not knowing what else would cling to them on the way up from the darkest parts of himself. The film reel snagged and caught fire while he pretended to be asleep for a few minutes more, then feigned rousing to urge them both into bed while melted cellulose acetate pooled in the bottom of his heart. Jon pouted so adorably he almost relented to staying in a tangle on the couch, but for the sake of both of their not particularly young spines he ushered them both off to bed.

Martin fell asleep groping in the darkness for any other films his heart might filch a line from and impale upon his unwilling armor shrike-like, searched for their fetid corpses so he might purge them before rending into them for a meal of festering, gangrenous love. He woke up telling Jon that he liked him very much, just as he was, and fleeing the bedroom in a panic to brush his teeth before the line could percolate through Jon’s mind to truth, his own or Knowing. After lunch and a particularly vexing check-in with Basira at the phonebox that roused more than a few demons and stoked the embers of arguments, in the ashes of the mutual apologies he wielded the ubiquitous sentiment of love meaning never having to say you’re sorry. Jon had laughed. Martin had felt sick.

As they days dragged on the tally marks stacked up in turn. Martin caught himself talking about how love doesn’t make things nice, and how they were there to ruin themselves and love the wrong people. He could not stop his tongue as it churned and clanked out another platitude about his poetry, and how poetry, beauty, romance, love, were the things they stayed alive for. The thing in rusty white armor that had taken the place of him became a thing unhinged, carving the crumbling façade of himself with more and more dead word trophies that sagged, heavy and bloated, slowed its stride and left it sinking into greyscale silt and sand as it marched obsessively out to a colorless sea.

All it took was the tiniest one, three words, just like the first, to bring the battlements down at last. It was nothing more than scooping up empty tea mugs and asking if Jon would like a refill. When he replied that he would very much like one, Martin leaned down and kissed his cheek while the crack in the cornerstone of himself exploded into a fatal fractal.

“As you wish.”

Jon said nothing at first, but as Martin headed into the kitchen, he heard him musing innocently to himself.

“Heh, The Princess Bride. Been ages since I’ve seen it. I bet Daisy’s got a copy of that one here.”

The mugs slipped from Martin’s hands and shattered catastrophically on the tile at his feet. It was over. If he couldn’t do something as simple as fetch tea without tacking on some pilfered sentiment from technicolor pixels, he was too far gone. No one would be able to find him in the fog this time. He would be lost in the dark of a theatre forever, the lone patron applauding a blank screen long after the final credits had rolled and waiting for the same film to begin again. Martin’s thoughts were eerily calm, even as his body collapsed to its knees and slumped against the kitchen cupboards, his eyes white and wild, chest heaving as he gulped desperately for a breath that would stay in his lungs.

He never even heard Jon call his name, or the frantic beat of his footsteps as he flew to his side. He barely felt his hands on his shoulders, then his cheeks, and he could not hear the words spilling from his mouth over the high-pitched test tone in his ears. But there were tears in Jon’s eyes, and his face was twisted and wrought in an expression Martin had never seen on it before. His eyes were just a little too wide and too hollow, skin too taut and creased, lips too thin and pale, and as he finally heard his voice, clear and clarion above the rushing and ringing in his ears he realized what it was.

“Martin, Martin PLEASE. Please look at me! Please, you’ve got to breathe please!”

Jon was afraid. Afraid for him. Jon who had leapt headfirst into countless domains belonging solely to fear itself without a second thought, Jon who bore the scars of every time it had lashed out hungrily for him and survived. He was afraid for him. He was still pounding and screaming for him at the gate of his second ruin, or perhaps from the first he had been swallowed by the moment Jon had left it, hand still clinging to his buried beneath the rubble. Martin reached out to grasp it at last, looking into Jon’s earthen eyes as the tears he had not felt before burned like hellfire down his cheeks and his voice choked out tiny and terrified.

“Jon… Jon I can’t… breathe...”

“Yes, you can. You can. Just look at me, listen to my voice and breathe in while I count, okay? Just listen to my voice and breathe with me, in for one, two, three…”

Through wracking sobs that shook him through every fiber of his entire being, Jon led him through breathing in deep, holding it in his chest, and exhaling slowly, all the while never once letting go of his grip on his hand or letting their gaze break. Each breath he drew in calmed the violent sounds in his ears, each time he held it he could feel the firm, cold kitchen tile beneath his knees and the solidly wiry strength of Jon grounding him, coaxing him back from the brink until he was a wilted, weeping heap against his shoulder with enough air and enough pain to just cry.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…. I’m sorry, Jon,” he wailed repeatedly in answer to his prayer from the first night into the crook of his neck.

“Shhhh, shhh. It’s okay, you’re alright. I’m here. I’m right here. I’ve got you. What happened?” Jon breathed in reply, arms wrapped tight around him with one hand tangled comfortingly in the back of his ginger curls.

“N-Nothing…”

If he could not conjure his own words of love, he could not conjure words of pain. He could not tell him.

“It’s obviously not nothing. I mean, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, of course, but please at least let me help you. Tell me how I can help, Martin.”

“I can’t…”

“We’re safe here, you know. Peter’s gone, he’s dead, he can’t hurt you anymore. I made sure of that,” there was an edge to Jon’s voice, not unkind, protective, warriorlike, “We’re far away from the institute and Basira’s looking out for us back home, and I-“

“I KNOW,” Martin snapped through his tears, immediately regretting the venom, “Sorry… M’sorry. I know… I know all that. I-I just… I just…”

“Martin, please…” desperation now, “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“…Me,” he finally sobbed inconsolably.

Jon frowned, unsure he had even heard correctly.

“…What?”

“Me. I’m wrong. I-I came back wrong.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow. What in the hell are you talking about?”

What he once felt as an empty suit of silver screen armor around him, rusted and eaten away by cliché and prosaism and pinned with their trophies had become a leaking vessel of molten cellulose and mylar mixed in the putrid bile and puss of their rotting, full to the brim and seeping out of the lacy holes in him with only two hands to cover them up. His tongue felt hot and sticky and coated in that death shroud of plastic and mawkishness but truth spilled out of him regardless.

“Jon do you… do you have any clue how long I’ve burned for you? Do you have any scope or scale for the magnitude and depth of my feelings for you? Can you even begin to understand the hell I walked through for you?”

Biting his lower lip and stroking the back of Martin’s head soothingly, Jon weighed his words.

“I-I mean… I wouldn’t try to, I would never. That experience was yours and yours alone, I can’t even pretend to-“

“That’s not the point!”

A thin thread of frustration finally twanged and snapped.

“Then what IS the point? Talk to me! I can’t help you if you won’t tell me!”

“The point is-!” Martin snarled, sitting upright and pulling away from Jon’s tear-soaked shoulder.

He looked so lost in the terrifying shadow of his grief, in piebald splotches of the grey light filtering through Martin in reverse, the guilty polycarbonate cased words vomited out of him like magma.

“The point is… the point is I finally got what I’d always dreamed of. For years. You. You coming to save me, whisking me away, looking into my eyes and promising to fight evil, together, side by side. And not only that, but you telling me love me, wholly and completely. You didn’t waste a second telling me how you felt and kissing me absolutely senseless. D-Do you have any idea how many times I imagined how that might actually happen before it did? Or how much better it was in reality? It was every dream I’d ever had come true, and I…” the tears welled, scalding and heavy, in his eyes as he buried his face in his hands and wept again, “And I ruined them. All of them. Every time we find even a tiny shred of something delicate and beautiful between us even despite all the shit we’ve been through, I ruin it because the broken fucking record in my brain dredges up some stupid movie quote instead of what I want to say that derails and destroys our entire conversation! You were supposed to say it BACK… not first. Not first.”

Jon opened his mouth and closed it again thoughtfully, still pulling gently at the tangled mire of Martin’s sorrow to find the origin.

“O-Okay? Forgive me, I’m still trying to understand. I don’t see how that’s-“

“It’s GONE Jon. I’m gone!” Martin bellowed, red-faced and bawling as he slammed his hands into his lap, “The me that used to pen pages and pages of awful poetry about everything, anything and how wonderful and sad and amazing the world was! Gone! Burnt out of me… I once wrote a goddamn poem about how we used to hide the biscuits from each other at work, you know? But now I… The words aren’t there anymore, my words aren’t there anymore. It’s just an empty hole. Every time I’ve tried to tell you how I feel about you it’s just come from some stupid sappy romcom, not me… That part of me, the part of me that loved with my whole heart, that open, senseless, sappy idiot… It took it from me…”

“What did?” Jon asked gently, reaching out but not touching.

“Please don’t make me say it, Jon. Please,” Martin replied, head bowed and tears dripping from his chin.

“Oh… Oh.”

He rolled his lower lip between his teeth as he let Martin’s words fade to indistinct reverb, his light and color growing dim in the harsh glare of the fluorescent kitchen tubes.

“I see. I think… I understand now,” he finally began in a slow, deliberate tone.

“Do you?” Martin cut in nastily, his voice wetly sawtoothed, and was almost sick with regret even midway between words.

He slapped his hands over his mouth, more tears rolling down his cheeks, “Oh god. Sorry that was… Fuck me, I’m sorry that was so unbelievably- of course you do I-“

Jon chuckled hoarsely as he managed a sympathetic smile and reached out to gently brush the messy white gold curls away from Martin’s forehead and tuck them behind his ears.

“It’s fine, I know you didn’t mean it,” he assured him, “We can’t really ever be sure of the full effect they have on us, or how the different entities manifest their… gifts. But I do know this. There are things inside us, inside humanity, that, if not given up willingly, can never, ever be stolen from us. Inherent goodness and beauty impossible to snuff out. Of that much I am certain.”

Martin’s eyes shifted to the baseboards while he scrubbed at his face messily with his sleeve.

“Doesn’t it bother you, though? That after all that, you said it to me, that you told me you-“ he tripped on the word, swallowing hard, “H-How you felt… and I still haven’t said it back? I can’t even say it now…”

“No,” Jon answered swiftly, firmly, “No it doesn’t.”

Surprise finally drew Martin’s eyes back to him, and Jon reached out to touch his wrist, just to let him know he was there, he was real, and what he was about to say was just as real as him. Color sang a single note of a bell and washed out over his hand in rippling circlets while Jon wrapped it tight in both of his to keep them pinging brightly inside.

“Hear me out, Martin. Isn’t it possible… that, and god help me I’m about to use an idiom. But isn’t it a distinct possibility that the cobbler’s children have no shoes?” he ventured coyly.

The sheer random ridiculousness of that apparent non-sequitur strummed a short, tearful bitter laugh out of Martin as he shook his head.

“I… Sorry what…?”

“You know that stupid, asinine saying about how, basically when one is good at something, one is so busy doing it for other people they have no time left to do it for themselves or their family?”

Jon drew light little circles on Martin’s palm with the pad of his forefinger as he watched the color and light trickle thinly into his eyes in a dim wave of serious contemplation.

“Perhaps you’ve poured out so much of your love, so many of your beautiful words, for other people, for the world around you, that you never let yourself have any of them. You wrote with so much feverish, boundless love for everything there was never anything left for you. You let your words be like a… a gilded cage for your own heart, with you looking out of the bars, pretty for everyone else to look at, but keeping you like a little bird inside and thinking it would be awfully nice if someone would only just join you. You spent so long seeing beauty in the world and beauty in other people, you wrote yourself out of the story.”

Martin sniffed back his tears and pursed his lips.

“I suppose that makes some semblance of sense.”

“Of course it does,” Jon chorused without missing his cue, “And let’s be honest. You never thought you’d actually have… me. You never thought even in your wildest dreams that I would actually fall in love with you. But you were okay with that. In fact, maybe in some ways you even preferred it like that? Not because you don’t have feelings for me, just that… Well. It’s easy to make a dream look beautiful, something you can never touch, something that isn’t yours. Just like your poetry. Honoring and cherishing something from afar is easy. The real thing is different. When you have it it’s still that beautiful thing you loved so much, but it’s beautiful in a way you can’t even comprehend because it’s real. You can touch it, hold it, and it’s yours. And how could you ever fully comprehend that? How can anyone?”

The tears glittered like drops of diamond on russet lashes, rays of sunset shot out from behind the discs of cobalt in his eyes. They streaked hot, vibrant pink trails down his face and painted him in pantone heartache.

“It’s so hard, and it hurts,” Martin whispered, voice cracking painfully, “It hurts so much and I can’t tell anymore which are the good hurts and which are the bad...”

Jon held fast to his hand with one of his, while the other shot to Martin’s face, brushing the tears away from his cheek and leaving behind a masterstroke of freckles, peppery and vivacious against flushed pink.

“I know. But it gets easier. Not any easier to bear, of course, but… easier to sort out which bits are you, which bits aren’t, and which bits aren’t even really there to begin with. And once you’ve worked it out then you can fight whatever it was left inside you. Nothing is gone, Martin, least of all you. And even if it DID take something, theoretically. If it was even possible to-to burn your love out of you, as you said. Who’s to say it’s gone forever? Things heal. Worst case scenario, the movie quotes are just your heart going to physio or something, you know? Your words will come back to you once you’ve healed.”

“But you-“ Martin meekly protested to an emphatic shake of Jon’s head.

“Stop. Stop right now. We’ve both been hurt, and we’re never going to get anywhere if we keep ignoring our own in favor of the other.”

Wordlessly nodding, Martin bowed his head again to speak his timid, visceral truths to the ground where they fell just a little quieter.

“I’m just… I’m… I’m so scared…”

“So am I, Martin. So am I,” Jon echoed, scooping his chin in his hands and holding his cheeks tenderly, “But it’s alright. It’s okay to be frightened, I’m with you now. We can both be afraid together.”

Martin looked up and finally caught Jon’s gaze, really caught it, as the lacings of his armor began to fray and the boundless forest song of his eyes hummed its ancient melody through him and bid him to join.

“I’m so afraid that I’ll never… never look at a puddle in the rain and find something indulgently sad about it again. Or wax melancholy at a particularly colorful sunset. Or be charmed by a silly little bird oblivious to the world,” he said, heavy words weightless in their unburdening, “But mainly… mainly I’m so, so deeply, petrifyingly scared I’ll never be able to write a poem meant for you and you alone… all I ever wanted was to gift you my words.”

Jon’s eyes hooded with a mischievous fox’s grin as his fingers settled comfortably on the back of Martin’s neck and he tugged him close to nestle their foreheads together, whispering against his lips.

“But you already have…”

“Wh-What?”

“Don’t you see? You already have written me a beautiful love ballad over the last few days, or at least your wounded heart did the best way it knew how.”

“And how is that?” Martin snickered tearfully, a bit more levity in his voice, tip of his nose brushing up shyly against Jon’s.

“Well, let’s see. Once upon a time… you began with a quote from a movie about a man who was so wrapped up in his work he felt inhuman, who made a choice to go against what everyone else thought was right, who loses everyone around him while he struggles to live up to his own ideals. Then we have a film about two people who are both hiding something, but who are so inexorably drawn to one another they can’t help but be drawn into each other’s orbits, deep flaws and dark secrets and all, who can’t help but love each other even as they learn the truth. Next one features a love for the ages, a love pure and bright and good in the dark underbelly of Paris… but one of them belongs to someone they don’t love, but must serve for the greater good even as their heart yearns for another. And then lastly, a movie that was originally a bit of a tragedy, a movie about a romance that was doomed from the start, became one about a love that flourished in the face of everyone and everything telling them it could never be…. You were writing a story all along, Martin. Our story. Sure, for now the pieces don’t belong to us, but you’re still singing that ballad, loud and clear. You said to me that night you would have waited forever for me, so I’m returning the favor, I’m just waiting until you finish it.”

With each step of his journey recounted in glimmering fondness, the rusted and rotten silver screen white armor sloughed off chunk by chunk. The plastic effluvium that had choked him flooded out in an epiphanic tide while the misquoted rivets snapped and crumbled away, all shriveling into ash and nothing. Stripped down to an open ribcage with delicate, quivering heart throbbing in defiance, Martin shone in full, thrumming, beating technicolor life. Broken and naked, incalculably vulnerable, but divinely free. The words did not have to belong to him to be from him, to sing the gospel of his truth in reply at last, to reach out for the touch of another through bars of poetry and VHS tape further than his own trembling fingers had ever dared to go, and to bind them, once and for all, together.

“Oh my god,” Martin half breathed, half mad laughed, “Oh my god you’re right… Jon you’re right! You’re right! Jon! Jon I-!”

The wings of his heart erupted free of their film reel chains, burst out of his poetic gilded cage, and flew, carrying beginning, ending, epilogue now featherlight in three simple words.

“…I love you.”

Jon laughed euphorically through his own burst of tears, hesitated to allow the quip on his lips to escape, but set it free anyway.

“I know…”

It took a second to filter through the golden haze of joy, but once it did Martin laughed and shoved at his shoulders playfully.

“Oh, you absolute prick! Star Wars? Right now? Are you serious!?”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

They both laughed and sobbed and tussled with one another around a messy, raw kiss, repeated until lips were bruised, breath came in desperate pants, and they were a tangled, idyllic muddle of a tearstained embrace on the kitchen floor still surrounded by teacup debris.

“I love you…” Martin sighed blissfully, kissing the words firmly against Jon’s mouth, just to feel them again and make up for lost time, “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…”

“I love you, too,” Jon murmured back, kiss drunk and dizzy with love, “And you’re still Martin. Martin K. Blackwood, or MKB, or Mr. Blackwood or whatever it is these days. Whatever you want it to be.”

“Just Martin, I think. For now. I just want to be Martin. Your Martin.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Martin’s breath hitched in his chest with a familiar and all too welcome urge, an itch in his chest and a flutter of his tongue. He teased out a few words from that sensitive and bloodied heart hopping eagerly there in the open, roughhewn and salt of the earth, but undeniably his.

“My love is presented in full Cinemascope tonight. Unspooled, unwound, free from circular aluminum prisons and plastic spools that twist back inside, alight, alive in full glory, My Technicolor Muse…”

Jon pulled back, stunned by the sudden bashful kaleidoscope flash of affection.

“Oh shit, that was- I… Is that me? I’m your muse?”

“Who do you think?” Martin chastised affectionately, “You always have been.”

“A-Ah, well, I-I um…” Jon stammered shyly, grinning from ear to blushing ear, “Thanks. I-I really like that. A-And it’s a nice line regardless, better write it down before you forget.”

“I won’t. Not anymore. Never again.”

“Good.”

Jon nodded, and finally rose carefully from the floor, offering his hand out for Martin. He took it, and rose with clumsy, but effortless elegance into his arms. Together, they set about sweeping up the ruins of Daisy’s tacky mugs and putting the kettle on for a sorely needed and very late cup of tea.

“You know… I’ve never actually seen Star Wars? I only know the line because it’s so famous,” Jon announced as he brushed the last of the ceramic bits and floor dust off his hands into the bin.

“Seriously? Well, we had better remedy that tonight, who knows when we’ll have time like this again,” Martin thought aloud as Jon’s arms snaked around his waist and a kiss was planted firmly on his freckled cheek.

“Well, no matter what happens, we’ll always have the safehouse,” he purred teasingly in his ear.

“Jon, keep that bit up and I swear I will kill you…”

Martin grinned and turned his head to kiss him again while the kettle bubbled, the sun sank low in the west, and they made their tea to drink in front of Star Wars into the night. Jon spent the entirety of the first film draped on Martin’s chest, utterly enchanted and entranced, babbling on about spaghetti Westerns and Kurosawa films and all the various influences he could so clearly see, reminding Martin that beautiful things really did come from a colorful patchwork of those who came before. He knew it now, but for that night, he was content to just hold him and listen to him wax poetic about The Force, just to hear the fervor in his velvety voice. That night they could just be, he could close his eyes to the sounds of lightsabers and X-Wings and the destruction of the Death Star and the comfortable weight of Jon on his chest, to just be wholly in love with him, with any doubt left like so many scraps of 35 millimeter on the cutting room floor.

#The Magnus Archives #TMA #Magnuspod #Jonmartin #Jmart #Jonathan sims #Martin Blackwood #scottish safehouse period #fan fic #Crow Writes

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whumping-every-day · 5 years ago

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oh fuck! that’s a tasty mental image 😋 ash clumsily, painstakingly, bandaging up callum & easing his pain as much as possible cause he can’t bear to see callum suffer but fully aware that there’s gonna be Consequences for disobeying callum’s explicit fear of his teeth. whatever you do, don’t imagine ash putting the muzzle on HIMSELF so callum groggily enters cell next day & ash immediately kneels at his feet, shaking, head touching stone, hands stretched flat at callum’s boots, anxious mess 😈

hhhHHHHHHH dude. Buddy. My pal. It is not often someone gives me whumperflies with my own characters. So, congratulations!!! This idea swept in and took me for everything I had.

Warning for needles/stitches/blood/mild gore up ahead! It should also be noted, for those who haven’t followed the last few exchanges, that vampire venom in this universe (from a young vampire) doesn’t turn people, but has pain-numbing qualities!

His hands are covered in blood. There are tears in Ash’s eyes, and an itching in his gums, as he tries again to get the needle through the hunter’s skin. Callum has stopped screaming; now he’s limp, ashen pale as Ash’s clumsy fingers grip the needle.

The hunter is lying on the cot in his room, the third of four renovated cells. Golden hair sticks to Callum’s cheeks and forehead as Ash works. It’s worse like this, when the human is limp and unconscious, because at least when he was conscious and hurting he could tell Ash what to do.

“C-Callum?” Ash tries again, but there’s no answer, and the next time he blinks tears slip down his cheeks. “Callum, I’m, I’m s-sorry, I don’t - I don’t know how to do this-”

He’s never given stitches before, only seen Callum do them himself.

It’s more serious this time, Ash could tell that even without his nose informing him of just how much blood the human has lost. There’s so much of it, and with every second Ash wastes, more comes seeping out.

The panic is there, hot and tight behind his eyes. It’s like a weight, physically pressing down on him - the urge to crumple to the ground and curl up and sob. Callum has always been larger than life to him; a pillar of strength and stability. Whenever Ash is frightened, or hurting, he could come to Calluma and Callum would fix it. But this time it’s Callum on the table. This time, if Ash panics, Callum will die.

The vampire’s hands are shaking, and every inch of him is terrified. But he grips the needle tighter, and reaches down to pull the edges of torn flesh together.

The wound is a nasty one. It looks like talons, as far as Ash can tell; four long, wicked gashes with ragged edges and a messy finish. There’s a patch of flesh that’s been gouged out, hanging by a thread of sinew, and Ash retches as he carefully snips it away. He’s stitched the first of the four gashes, but the other three are considerably deeper.

Callum wakes just as Ash is pouring alcohol over the crude line of stitches. It’s not a scream he lets out so much as a roar, loud enough to rattle the tiny cell, and to have Ash habitually scrambling out of range. But the hunter slumps back against the cot a moment later, and Ash watches with his heart pounding in his ears.

Callum’s torso is already full of scars, although most of them are hidden under the new outpouring of blood. Even so, there are many; silver-white and rippled, in the shape of claws and teeth and violence. Ash presses the sopping red cloth against the last three gashes, and Callum moans, eyes moving listlessly behind half-closed lids.

“Callum?” Ash tries again, but there’s still no response. The vampire whines softly, fearfully, and it’s distinctly inhuman.

Callum’s not waking up. So Ash will have to do this.

The hunter groans when the needle goes through his skin, and Ash jumps as one of his hands comes up, gropes blindly for the source of the pain.

“G’ off… hhgn. Get offa me.” Callum’s bleary with pain and blood loss, and for the first time, Ash hesitates to obey an order.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he says it over and over as the needle goes in and through Callum’s flesh. The hunter snarls, twists on the bed, and the needle slips in Ash’s hand again. Callum is horribly pale, and the four lines of red scored against his hip look dark and dangerous in the dim light. He screams through gritted teeth when Ash does manage to hold him down, but it never lasts for long.

It’s when one of his screams ends in a whimper that Ash can’t take it anymore. Ash knows screams like this, he’s been forced to make them often enough.

Callum shouldn’t have to scream like this. Callum is kind, and good, and merciful, and Ash knows a way to stop his pain.

Even if it will lead to swift retribution when the hunter is healed.

“Callum?” It’s whispered this time, almost guilty. Ash bites his lip as he presses the cloth against the bleeding and takes one of Callum’s hands.

He knows better than this. He does. The warning rings in his mind, one of those half-remembered commands he’d been given in his early days here.

No biting. You bite me and I will put a stake in your chest. Understood?

His chin wobbles as he takes Callum’s palm, gently uncurls those calloused, work-worn fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m, I’m sorry, Callum.” He doesn’t ask the hunter not to be mad at him after. Ash knows the consequences.

He has to be careful; Ash’s thirst for blood has been largely beaten out of him, but if he proceeds without caution… Ash holds Callum’s hand with one of his own, and reaches up to his own jaw with the other. Callum had been the one to teach him this trick; the vampire finds the spot behind his ear, just under the venom gland, and presses.

His fangs drop instantly, and Ash whimpers at the feeling as venom start to pool behind them. His canines are still smaller than they should be, and Callum says that they probably won’t get much bigger. They’re like infant teeth, only instead of being young, they’d been yanked out and snapped off so many times that they refuse to grow any longer.

They still feel plenty long enough when Ash raises Callum’s palm to his lips.

He doesn’t let himself hesitate over placement; blood is still coming from Callum’s injuries, dampening the hunter’s bedsheets and spilling in rivets down his bare hip. There’s a deep-set terror in the vampire’s heart, but his resolve is set as he fits his teeth over Callum’s palm and bites.

The human’s palm is salty against his tongue, and his skin gives way under the creature’s teeth like puncturing fruit. Ash does his very best not to taste the blood as venom comes flooding into his mouth. It’s slightly bitter, thicker than saliva and chalky in his mouth. Some of it gets pumped through his fangs and into the hunter’s bloodstream, but most of it spills over, collecting behind the vampire’s teeth.

As soon it stops coming, Ash pulls away. He’s shaking from the ground up, cold terror gripping his chest from the gravity of what he’s just done. The venom is pooling in his mouth still, and it’s entirely instinctual to nuzzle into Callum’s palm, lapping gently at the bite marks. The venom can be absorbed through the skin or through blood, Callum had said - so Ash cradles the man’s wrist and runs his tongue over the marks until the pressure behind his fangs eases.

Then the hunter stirs. His eyes open just for a moment, colorless blue staring blearily into space. Then he fixates on what Ash is doing, and for a moment, it’s like the whole world holds still. Then,

“You - hhnggn. You fucking…” He’s still bleary, still weak, but Ash can see the way Callum is struggling for consciousness. The hunter wants to be awake.

Ash whimpers softly and drops his hand, and in that instant Callum lashes out and grabs his jaw.

It’s nothing like being grabbed before; it hurts, fingers digging into the creature’s jaw with strength born of panic. Callum’s eyes are somehow both alert and distant; Ash whines against his palm, the same one he’d been lapping at like a mangy dog mere seconds ago.

Somewhere in his mind, Ash knows that Callum is delirious. He’s lost so much blood, traveled for so long, dragged himself back to the lab leaking out of his side by luck and sheer stubbornness. It’s still ice down his spine when the hunter bares his teeth and says, low and dangerous,

“You fucking bit me.”

It’s like one of Ash’s nightmares has evolved and come to life.

The terror takes Ash’s knees from him, and the hunter’s hand comes with, still digging into his cheeks, the corners of his jaw.

“ ‘m sorry,” he whines past the hunter’s palm. “I’m sorry, Callum, S-Sir, please-” But Callum’s eyes are wild, unfocused. The man hisses in a breath through his teeth, glares up at the ceiling - he’s marshaling himself, it looks like, trying to get his bearings, trying to gain control of the situation.

He might have been able to, Ash thinks - if anyone could, it would be Callum. Except that the flesh of his left side is mangled like raw meat, and he’s lost so much blood his fingers are cold where they grip the vampire’s jaw.

He tries to get up anyway. Ash yelps a muffled protest as Callum tries to sit, then immediately goes grey. The hunter hangs there for a moment, feeling the gravity of his injuries, and then sinks back onto the cot with a little moan. The sheen of sweat on his skin has gotten shinier, and if he listens Ash can hear the human’s pulse; weak and quick, batting away in his chest like a caged bird.

Callum’s eyes are open, but he’s started to shiver.

It takes everything Ash has not to crumple to the floor and sob, cradling his throbbing jaw. He’s bitten Callum. Callum, the one person to ever be kind to him. Callum the hunter, who hadn’t needed to be kind, but had still taken him out of filth and despair and shown him a gentle hand.

For a moment, Ash fears that Callum will try moving again, will try to get up and grab for a weapon. Instead, Ash sees the moment his venom starts to work. Callum’s pupils are already dilated, but there’s a visible change between one moment and the next; the hunter makes a startled little sound, and his fingers loosen from their fists.

Ash’s vision is blurred with tears, and the terror that clogs his throat is both old and new. There will be repercussions from this, he knows - he doesn’t know what, doesn’t know how.

He doesn’t know what Callum will do, now that Ash has crossed this line.

He still pushes himself back to his feet and snatches up the needle. Callum’s pulse thrums in his ears as Ash douses his hands in alcohol again, then rethreads the needle. There are two gashes to stitch still, and he’s lost valuable time; the blood is coming slower now.

“Please lie down,” he whispers as he pinches skin together with shaking fingers. “Please, Callum, just h-hold still. I’m almost done, I’m n-not going to-” He can’t even say the words. Ash sniffles, blinks, feels wetness on his cheek.

His pleas are mostly unnecessary, though; at the first pass of the needle Ash winces, expects another scream. Instead Callum just grunts and frowns, as if he’s tasted something unpleasant.

The man is distant while Ash stitches up the last two slices. There’s no reaction to the pain of the needle, and no response when Ash waves a hand in front of his face. It’s like the hunter is a shell, reduced to a limp, unfeeling body.

Ash pours alcohol over all four messy lines of stitches, and all Callum does is wince.

The bandages happen on autopilot; this Ash has done before, and he’s careful while he presses down gauze and winds linen around the hunter’s middle.

Then, when he’s done, he stands there for a moment. Callum is pale, blonde hair a shock of color against his cheeks. His scar is more pronounced now, gnarled and warped down the left side of his face.

Ash lifts a hand to his own face, where an iron muzzle had once sat. His fingers dig in where Callum’s had, holds the shape of his jaw.

No biting, the man had said. It was the only thing he’d said; the first concrete command he’d been given, something Ash had clung to back in the very beginning, when obedience had meant being forgiven simply for existing.

The world blurs before the vampire’s eyes as he goes to the tool room.

Ash doesn’t like the tool room. Even now, over a year post rescue, the tool room fills him with dread. It’s not large - it’s an offshoot of the lab, about the size of a large closet, which Callum uses to store the tools of his trade.

On the walls are things of iron; arrows, lances, chains, manacles. The muzzle sits, mounted proudly on the far wall. Ash comes to a stop in front of it and folds to his knees.

He had started to believe Callum, at some point. He’d believed that the hunter wouldn’t hurt him, that he’d really let Ash stay in his home and keep him safe, even though Ash was something that shouldn’t exist in the first place. But now…

Tears spill down his cheeks as Ash retrieves the muzzle. It’s the leather one, the one with a steel bit that tasted like mercy. The smell is musty when Ash lifts it up to his face. It settles hard and cold against his cheeks, his jaw, and Ash whines as the memories surge.

He’s been bad. He’s been so bad, the creature thinks; he deserves this, he deserves to be treated like an animal if that’s what he is.

Ash makes it back to his cell (room, he thinks; Callum had made it into a room) and pulls the heavy door closed. He can’t lock it, not without the keys. But he folds down onto the cold floor, and he pulls the muzzle straps tight enough to dig into the corners of his mouth. It’s never tight enough, it doesn’t burn - in some corner of Ash’s mind, he knows that’s a good thing. But there’s a much larger part of him that is remembering, as if waking from a dream, how he deserves to be treated.

The bit sits cold and hard against its tongue. The creature curls up on the cold floor, like it can’t even see the cot, and it cries.

[END]

@wildfaewhump @pepperonyscience @robinshouseofwhump @angelsuperwholock @pennsss (both) @silver-sparrow-462 @silverinkgoldenquill @kestrelsparverius @learningtowhump @shameless-whumper @latenightcupsofcoffee @thebluejayswhump @what-huh-imconfused @lostbetweenvampiresandmusic @pink-and-purple-flowers @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow-deacti @whump-em @umniyah-s @adventuresofacreesty @scarheart @kyra-plays @lionhxartx @blue-flare10 @whumpywhumper @doityourselfbombs @pastry-case @maybeawhumpblog @httyd-chocolate @to-hurt-and-comfort @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @manip-loki @dungeons-and-dragons-and-whump @ariirenn @poetofswords86 @whumpity–whump–whump @swagjudgehandsdragon@oracle-of-maybe @cuddlycryptid @the-potato-beeper @slam-whump @sweeterthanadonut @ffaerie-dustt @whump-in-the-night @elfo8792 @kinda-bad-poet @crackedskel @deluxewhump @this-zombie-will-eat-you @a-moment-to-write @stoic-whumpee @paradigmparadoxical @burtlederp @whump-with-wren @whimperwoods @winged-ace-whump @insanitywishes

#whump #blood #injury #whumping the caretaker #needles #muzzle #delirious

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