#passed out and bleeding in space but in space nevertheless

[kidflashimpulse]

drafting up a rough outline for Barts disappearance aftermath and I have Barry scouring the planet for him from night till morning nonstop and he comes back home to Iris and Jay, exhausted collapsing and the guy is like “I searched everywhere, It’s like he’s not even on this planet.” and SIR have i got some news for u

[pluvialpoet]

bergamot

Summary: moments of quiet reflection reaffirm what you both already know to be true- he’s always going to come back, and you’re always going to be waiting with open arms

Pairing: dick grayson x fem!reader

Requested: no

Warning: idiots in love, friends to lovers, mutual pining, scarecrow's fear toxin, mentions of death and grief, slight angst, fluffy ending, loosely based off of batman: hush (2019)- but no major spoilers

Word Count: 3,930

masterlist

a/n: I know that dick has a tolerance against/is immune to scarecrow's fear toxin, but let's pretend he isn't...for the plot

Sleep is cruel in the way it continues to evade you when you crave it most. Mocking and teasing, exhaustion morphs into desperation. Even with your eyes shut dreams fail you, and nightmares taunt.

A siren wails, bellowing out into the night and echoing caution even after the initial cry has faded. Could be a police car, or an ambulance. Maybe even a fire truck. You try not to consider all of the possibilities, knowing it’ll only starve your slumber, further. With a huff, you adjust the heavy comforter, pulling it up until it bunches just under your chin.

In a few weeks, branches will be stripped of their leaves. Snow will fall, and the city will suffocate under a blanket of white. July was only yesterday, sticky and never-ending- infinite until finite. Now, January lurks around the corner- weeks away, but daunting, nevertheless.

The pillow tucked behind your back is a poor imitation of the brawn you wish feathers and fill could replicate, just as the one pressed to your chest acts as an imposter mimicking the body meant to be sleeping peacefully beside you. It’s impossible to tell feelings of loneliness apart from being alone, and deep down you know that reminiscence is merciless. Memory is wicked. But you can’t help remembering. It’s the only way you won’t forget- and even then, so much time has passed that you’ve begun to fade, and he’s begun to blur. Spiraling further and further away from reality and control, you drift towards hope, feeding each dangerous possibility until you have nothing left to give, but delusion takes and takes and takes…

Answers elude like comfort- and sleep. When, how, and why is lost upon you. He’s been gone for so long. Even so, your life has continued, evolving to accommodate the gaps he used to fill. Though, it’s about as effective as papier-mâchéing an open wound shut. Everywhere you look, everything you do, every time you shut your eyes, he finds a way to bleed into you, one way or another, and you welcome it every single time. All you really have are memories and a space in your bed which has always been his to come home to.

Outside, the wind howls. Angry and violent, the sound rattles the windowpane and you burrow deeper into the covers trying to block it out. Shadows dance across the ceiling, but none of them belong to the ghost you’ve been waiting for. Another frustrated huff fails to quell burning exhaustion, and you rub your eyes with the back of your hand before checking the clock next to you. Neon green flashes, all too pleased to report that it’s well past midnight and you haven’t gotten a wink of sleep. Already tomorrow, and you’re still mourning today.

Pushing the covers off, you shiver. There’s a chill in the air and little comfort to be found in the fact that the entire apartment feels cold and empty without him in it. At least it’s not just the bed. It’s the entire room, the hallway, and the kitchen, too. You reach for the light above the stove and begin to search the cupboards for a mug. If nothing else, at least a cup of tea will warm you up. Thanks to muscle memory, you act on autopilot, filling the ceramic with water and placing it in the microwave before picking a teabag and waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting, always waiting. Three monotone beeps call your attention back before it has another chance to wander away from you, and you retrieve the cup and place the teabag inside. Steeping time be damned.

You can’t wait any longer.

One leg curls under the other as you take a seat and bring the mug to your mouth. It burns the tip of your tongue, a small price to pay for your greed, and you swallow the too-hot liquid regardless of the consequences. The pain barely registers, anyway. With both palms pressed to the vessel, warmth finally finds you, and a barely contented huff passes your lips to blow the steam from the cup. It’s not always like this. It’s not supposed to be, but for so long, it has been. Never months, always weeks. You don’t know how to do this or how much longer you can put yourself through this torture when every sunrise twists the knots in your stomach tighter and tighter. How much longer until you snap?

You’re so tangled up in your suffering that you miss it the first time, until the hair on the back of your neck bristles. Did you imagine it? Silently, you wait, setting the steaming mug down to listen, and this time, you hear it. Faintly, but there. Real.

Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap tap tap.

I’m here. I’m safe. Can I come in?

Your feet move before the rest of your body does, and the chair scrapes loudly across the hardwood as you jump from it in shock. A cocktail of excitement, worry, disbelief, and fear bubbles and swirls through you when you spot a familiar glimpse of black and blue through the window near the fire escape.

“Dick?”

Crossing the room without any memory of doing so, you fiddle with the latch that keeps you from him, and him from you, until finally it clicks. With only one foot through the window, you reach for him, desperate to savor the illusion until mass, warmth and a heartbeat prove it to be real. Upon realizing, your breath hitches. He’s real. He’s real, and he’s here. No longer a dream. No longer a nightmare. No longer a vision only sleep can grant or mold, he stands before you. He takes a moment to properly slide the window shut behind him, returning the lock to its rightful position- keeping the rest of the world and the winter, out- before turning to face you once more. He can’t even get a word out before you’re pressed against him, wrapping your arms around him and holding yourself back from crushing him with the intensity of your longing. Overly cautious of injuries you can’t physically see- mindful of bruises, tears of flesh, and wounds that remain eclipsed by kevlar and moonlight- you embrace him with a hesitancy that severely undermines your fervor. Holding him gently- delicately, tenderly- the way you’ve dreamt about entwining with him on nights when sleep has been generous instead of cruel, you finally look up at him.

A sigh of relief dispels the hoarded tension in your neck, shoulders, and chest when you rest your head against his chest and inhale. Sweat and copper muddle his natural scent, but even when he’s covered in his victories, even when he’s drenched in his defeats, he still smells like home- warm, safe, familiar, and comforting.

He hesitates to envelop you with the same thinly veiled desperation, holding himself back.

Every muscle in his body carries the strain of battles fought and won. His head throbs with the force of his thoughts, and the inescapable dizziness that always accompanies crashing down from a high. Then again, he’s never been one to ease into things gracefully. Tiny cuts and scrapes, angry blacks and blues, and even gaping gashes that are still seeping and tender to the touch hardly register as anything other than a stinging, burning sensation. Everything is dull. Ferocity and intensity both subdued. Through the haze of everything that competes for his attention, you’re the one thing that’s clear. As always, the hold you have on him, both physical and metaphorical, brings him back to his senses, but doubt keeps him withdrawn.

Warily wrapping his arms around you, Dick returns the gesture as best as he can. Cages built of muscle, meant to keep you close, refuse to lock you in place, and he finds it increasingly difficult to resist surrendering to you entirely. Just as his nerves begin to settle they spike once more when the gravity of the past few months finally begins to sink in. As you continue to tremble in his arms, he swallows a lump in his throat and fights the urge to hold you impossibly closer. If he weren’t so afraid, he’d never let go again. But he’s not the same man he was the last time you saw him. Having seen too much, he knows that he can’t let this become something more. Fear is rotten. He’s seen the future, and if he keeps leaning on you then he’s only going to drag you down with him. Regardless of what he really wants, he won’t let this become something more, but then he looks down at you in his shirt and realizes it’s always been something more- and it terrifies him more than anything.

When pink swirls around the drain- a muted severity of soapy lather and remnants of crusted, oozing red- he rests his forehead against the cold tiles and lets out a deep sigh. He can’t remember the last time he’d had a proper shower. Under the trickling scorch, he allows his shoulders to slump forward, letting the too-hot water soothe his muscles like a balm, and it stings in a way he welcomes- a reminder that he’s done it again, he’s survived the worst and now he just has to survive the recovery.

He’s never been good with the after, always losing himself in possibilities of what comes next without taking a minute to catch his breath, but he’s trying to be better. He owes it to you. Not only you but himself, too- but mostly you. So, he tries to forget. He pushes memories too fresh to be forgotten somewhere else, banishing them to the far corners of his mind and locking them away until he’s ready to face his demons at his own pace, on his own terms, but his wicked creations fight back. Even when they’re crafted from delusions, mirroring real-life counterparts with a precision too exact to be a figmented replication, he finds himself engaged in an internal match that never crowns a victor. It’s a conflict that never ceases, even after his own surrender. Still, he’s found that the intrusions are less when copper is overpowered by citrus, and when red, inevitably swirls into pink.

Steam amplifies the smell of sweat and body odor, so pungent that the only word to describe it is bad, and he holds his breath while he reaches for your soap once more. He can’t believe you let him anywhere near you. It’s even more unfathomable that you sought an embrace, despite the remnants of battle that’ve woven themselves into his being- lingering, even long after. He’s repulsed by that which exposes him, a stench so strong that it serves as a testament to the fact that he reclaimed you as soon as he could, coming right back to this haven of sorts without any prior stops, and his stomach churns uncomfortably, the once soothing mist tainting each attempt at air, and a weight teases the aching muscles of his chest which breath does not alleviate.

Through the haze, he sees the truth- when reality remains undistorted by the tricks of his own want and longing, he recognizes fact without his own warped perceptions of fantasy- and he realizes just how careless he’s been. By allowing desire to suade better judgment, he’s put you at risk. Guilt punishes with an onslaught of emotions ranging from frustration to anger, sadness to grief, and even regret to sorrow. His own reluctance to accept how dangerous it was, and always has been, to lean on your affections as a crutch has finally caught up to him. After all that he’s seen, after everything he’s been forced to bear witness to over the past few months, coupled with a lifetime of loss, he’s no longer able to ignore the thought that’s broken free from the shackles of elsewhere. What was once dull, always there but never really forgotten, has become intense and persistent.

Every time he finds his way back to you, he invites peril into your life. He’s hazardous. Even if he’s not, being attached to him- in any way- puts you at an even greater risk of endangerment. Trying to justify something even as tame as a friendship is absurd. You’re so much more than that. Whether he meant for it to happen or not, you’ve found a place within his heart. Every beat echoes your name and carries secrets of his devotion. All that remains of the walls meant to protect both of you is rubble, and Dick stands alone in the epicenter of the aftermath, unsure and torn between chaos and order. Selfishly, he wants. Greedily, he craves. Morally, he knows that he should just walk away- but he can’t.

The scene shifts, ceramic tile falling away to reveal an eerie, yet familiar boneyard, and he shakes his head. It’s not real. It was never real- but it was so vivid. Cold fog obscures his vision, and he closes his eyes. This is a trick. This isn’t truth. He knows what comes next. Forced to indulge in his worst nightmares, the shrill, piercing sound of your terror renders him numb. He can’t move. Paralyzed, he fights limbs of lead, but he can’t act. It surrounds him, your agony, and he can’t do anything to save you. He can’t protect you. With each cry of his name, you plead, but there’s nothing he can do. When silence follows his ragged breaths, he refuses to look down. He hates this part the most, but he doesn’t have a choice. Crimson stains the black and blue weave, and he can taste metallic. He doesn’t have any control over this hallucination, born and bred from his greatest fear, and all he can do is witness the fallout of your shared torture- your blood on his hands, his body slumped against your tombstone, and the triumphant laughter of a clown, a scarecrow, a ventriloquist, and a hundred more that delight in your demise.

He can’t catch his breath. Drifting further and further away from reality, he struggles to claw his way back towards the light. When his vision begins to fade, he reaches for more soap. In for three counts, out for four. In for three counts, and out for four, again, Dick feels lightheaded. There’s no limit to how far he’d go to keep you safe, not a single rule or code he wouldn’t break to protect you from anything and everything- and that’s an entirely different threat, in and of itself. His loyalty has the potential to become his ruin, and he’d let it- for your sake- but would that be enough? Could his devotion be enough to keep you safe from the otherwise brutal fate that awaits you with, and without, his intervention?

The bite of a washrag leaves his skin raw. Lost to his thoughts, he’s been mindlessly scrubbing away at his flesh, dousing himself with bubbled distraction. Another breath fails to alleviate his unease. All he can think about is that which is out of his control, and he can’t help but wonder, is there even a chance for the two of you?

Every thought is a contradiction.

He could wax poetic to Bruce about love- how precious and fragile and conscious it is- but he can’t even bring himself to act upon his own advice. Even worse than following in a denialist’s footsteps is being a hypocrite, but there are just too many variables for him to take into account- too many what-ifs and maybe’s that enable him to cower behind words left unspoken.

In spite of this, he dares to dream of a future where you’re his and he’s yours, and nothing else matters. Lost to his delusions, a smile threatens to work muscles that’ve remained dormant for months of disuse. It hurts. Stretching, pulling, and manipulating his face to actually convey what he’s feeling instead of trying to veil it, hurts. However, the worst pain follows. As he reaches for the illusion, it slips through his fingers- so close he can almost hold it, yet just out of reach, simultaneously- and just like that, reality distorts the mirage. Pried from him, ripped away and sporting his claw marks, what could’ve been remains what could’ve been- and it’s all his fault.

Fear suppresses his love.

He’s already lost so much, he can’t lose this, too. He won’t. However glutinous, he craves more- even when he knows he can’t have it, he wants with a desire that’s almost too strong to ignore. Almost. Locking his feelings away, he throws away the key, but his ribs begin to expand with the intensity of his longing, and his chest feels tight. This isn’t like before. It seems as if his secrets have outgrown their cages, and he finds himself at a crossroads. His mind begins to drift and he wonders if this agony is why Bruce kept Selina at arm’s length…

A sigh, and a revelation- he’s not Bruce, and you’re not Selina.

Dick’s been going about this all wrong. Despite everything he’s been taught about love and loss, he’s allowed a life outside of a domino mask and kevlar. He deserves to cherish someone, to protect and devote himself to something other than his work- someone to fight for, someone to come home to- and he deserves to be beloved, too. Even if only for tonight. Even if tomorrow isn’t promised and all you have is right now, you’re here. On the other side of the frosted glass screen and plaster, you’re waiting for him. Another smile, less forced and genuine, feels like a relief instead of a burden. His skin pebbles under the frigid stream left in the wake of molten steam. With a shiver, he seeks your warmth, reaching for the faucet and stepping out of the enclosure.

A worn shirt rests atop the counter, the fabric faded from years of wear and wash, folded neatly beneath a pair of fresh boxers and socks likely left behind from the last time, or the time before that, or even the time before…truth be told, he thought he’d lost it, misplaced it, or given it away. Of course, you’ve had it in your care, all along. The corner of his mouth threatens to twitch into a smile. Slipping the towel from around his waist, he begins to dress, wondering when you managed to sneak in without him hearing you. The door used to creak, and he realizes that you must have fixed it while he was gone. It’s hard not to think about what else might’ve changed since the last time he saw you. Would you have stayed with him, if he asked you to? You always have. Six years and counting, he muses if you always will…

His hair is getting long, again. Droplets fall from the overgrown strands at the base of his neck down his back, making him shiver and reach for his towel once more. He pats his hair down, ruffling it with the towel a few times before wiping away at the mirror. Making eye contact with his reflection he’s the first to look away. He’s looked worse and supposes that's a small win in and of itself, though he can’t stand the sight of himself any longer than he has to. A deep exhale and a shake of his head diverts his attention to the countertop where a spare toothbrush has been left out for him to use. Of course, he already knows where the toothpaste is. He helps himself with a growing smile and places it in the holder right next to yours when he’s done. His chest expands with something he can’t quite name when he finds himself surrounded by gentle reminders of your care. A small cup of water and painkillers act as physical embodiments of your thoughtfulness and he revels in the knowledge that you’re letting him know you’re there for him while giving him space to come down from whatever adrenaline rush the past few months have spiked. It’s in those silent gestures of love that he hears it the loudest, echoing and amplifying all around him.

It must be killing you to act so selflessly, and he tries not to be selfish with your affections, but it’s difficult not to feel like a burden when you’ve rearranged more than just a spot on the counter, or a place for him to keep his toothbrush next to yours, for him- giving him a home without expecting anything else in return.

Down the hall, the mattress protests against his arrival, angry springs squeaking from months of disuse before welcoming his weight and warmth on the side opposite of yours- his side, from the very moment, years ago, when he found his way back to you after a night that left him bloody and beaten but not broken. Never broken- not when he’s always had you. Though most memory of the first evening spent beside you remains a blur, the ability to recall details and specifics stolen from him as his wounds wept crimson tears that stained your hands and upholstery, fondness prevails. Despite robbed recollections, tender warmth, and affection remain. Even then, he knew. Without really knowing, without certainty, he was certain- he loved you, and you loved him, and every gentle, devoted gesture has always reaffirmed the one thing he could never doubt. Every silent offering, every selfless sacrifice, and piece of yourself that you’ve surrendered to him further insists that your heart acts in favor of three words never spoken.

His arm finds your waist easily, and he’s grateful that he doesn’t have to tiptoe around his reluctance to accept what this is, anymore. Not when you’re here. Not when you’re waiting so patiently for him, and snuggle back into his hold the moment he reaches out for you. Some limbs tangle, but not yours- the two of you fit perfectly together, like you were truly meant to be, and the moment that you’re allowed to converge, you press your palm flat against his arm, holding him close to you.

Reacquainting yourself with him after is always your favorite part. Though, your heart cleaves when your fingertips ghost over a new scar- the skin still raised and angry, even if the wound has closed. With something akin to sympathy, an apology for the pain he’s suffered that you can’t take away, you gently trace the new mark in acknowledgment.

Tomorrow, or later today, when the sunlight illuminates the sky, you’ll ask him about it. Or, maybe you won’t. When the first glimpses of warm light threaten to spill over the horizon, you might get answers to the questions you’ve spent the last few months pondering. Or, perhaps everything unasked will remain unresolved. Either way, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the fact that tonight, you’ll sleep- safe and protected, at ease and engulfed by all things him- and even if it only lasts for the night, you’ll cherish whatever small moments of intimacy the moon grants before the sun, inevitably, rips them away- a fate you’ve grown to expect, time and time again.

Still, you let your eyes flutter shut, basking in the silence for only a moment before it’s interrupted.

“I love you,” Dick confesses softly, words warm and whispered against your shoulder encouraged by a fleeting moment of courage- and the tender caress of your touch- that prompt the secret to spill from his chest, an accident he fears he may have to render excuses for to salvage whatever broken pieces are left of this unspoken relationship.

“I know,” With your back towards him he misses the stretch of a smile ghosting your lips, and finds himself tensing behind you. Could you have really known? All this time? Is that why he always comes back? Is that why you let him? “I love you, too,”

“No, I mean, I really lo-“

“Tell me in the morning, yeah?” You suggest before he can get too far ahead of himself. Torn between wanting to clarify his confession and realizing that maybe he doesn’t have to, Dick relents. He can’t really argue, anyway- having kept this to himself for so many years, another few hours won’t hurt. With a breath- of acceptance, not defeat or surrender- he closes his eyes and finally relaxes into your embrace.

It’s over.

For now, Dick can rest easy knowing that when the smell of bergamot fades, this tacit love will always remain, and he finds enough comfort in the realization to let it lull him into a peaceful sleep.

a/n: I love him so much!!! this has been rotting in my brain for nearly a year and I just found it in my drafts last night lol! anyway, this started as a challenge to myself where I wanted to see if I could write something with only five lines of dialogue, and I'm curious to hear how you all think it turned out! as always, requests are open! check out my request guidelines before submitting! and if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! 

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[zeebreezin]

random generator gave me 40 so, an impulsive kiss with two guys of your choice?? >:3

Okay, so, before I get blown up for this one - I blame Viric. Nothing else to say in my defense though.

#40 - An Impulsive Kiss (Horror Mode!)

Conversation rarely fills the space anymore. Hours would pass aboard the ice-locked ship in near silence, the only sounds being the groaning of the Arctic’s pressure against her wooden hull. The crew spend their days in a mockery of routine, standing at posts half frozen to their boots. There used to be more to this, though that’s hard to remember at this point. Noises. Life. Chatter, in the early days. But the frost had torn such pleasantries away, the frigid air scrapping at throats and social convention for months at this point. Heavy boots on the wooden decks used to disperse some of the quiet. Now, one by one, even those are falling silent. .

Days and nights passed in a blur, the few thin hours of hazy sunlight long since swallowed by perpetual night this late in the season. There was a time where Lt. Grace had tried to keep track of the date. Now, though, there was only one thing that truly marked the passage of time. The ringing of the frost coated ship’s bell cut through his half-conscious pacing like a blade. A summoning of the crew. There was only one reason for those at this point.

That couldn’t be right - it hadn’t been long enough. Had it?

Nevertheless, the crew shuffled onto the deck. A sea of wild hair and blue uniforms, both in varying states of disregard. A few words were passed between them, pleasantries muttered through bleeding lips. Some muttered prayers. Others looked on the brink of tears already, though they kept their gaze low. A few stood near the back, hunger barely concealed in their eyes. Grace surveyed the crowd, doing all he could to maintain the commanding air of an officer even as his stomach churned. There were so few, now. Even if the ice melted tonight, in some grand miracle, there wouldn’t be enough hands to sail a vessel of this size anywhere near a port.

The lieutenant wanted to believe that the cold and the wild had taken most of them. That the many hammocks that now swung empty could be blamed on the wrath of nature, on illness, on winter itself - not hungry, mortal hands. He wanted to believe that, truly. But he couldn’t be sure. Not anymore.

A cold, shivering fist held the straws high. Once, there had been a bit of ceremony to the process. Not anymore. The first draws occurred without incident. Tense men shuffling forwards, breathing the smallest sighs of relief. Collapsing into the arms of the others as they stepped out of line, a thin strip of wood still held in a shaking hand.

Grace was next in line when it happened. An able bodied sailor stood in front of him, his wide eyes nearly swallowed by his ginger curls. Grace barely managed to catch a glimpse of that short, bloodied straw before the sailor screamed. It was a desperate, animalistic sound, dwarfing even the chime of the bell that marked when a man must die.

After hours of frigid stagnation, everything began to move at once.

Grace took a step back as the sailor turned away from the officer holding the straws, eyes wide with terror. A flash of steel under the fading firelight, somewhere far behind him. The sailor lunged for him, that same despairing screech still ringing in his ears as Grace tried to stumble back, losing his footing along the way and sending the two sprawling onto the ship’s deck. A cry of pain - someone stuck a blade deep into the sailor’s back on the way down, hungry eyes baring down as Grace tried to get his bearings. The sailor coughed up a spray of crimson.

Then, with a wild, tearful look in his eyes, the man who drew the short straw pressed a kiss to Grace’s lips. He was muttering something as they pulled him away, a few others of the crew staying behind to check on the lieutenant's condition. The sailor’s last words, a desperate plea to a lover he would never again see. The lieutenant’s clawing hands, a poor substitute for a last embrace. The sounds of butchery covered up anything else he may have screamed to the heavens.

Grace couldn’t hear the name that the sailor had been calling out to, through the footfalls and pain. The taste of iron lingered on his lips for far too long, after the meal that night.

[cosmically-powered-starscream]

Midnight Visit

Notes: This thing was kind of a precursor to the Chasing Stars series that ended up going in a different direction after writing Front and Center. Tempest was basically a beta version of Stormchaser - a little what could've been scenario if things worked out differently for them and Starscream during the war. Nevertheless, I think connecting it to the series would've been confusing, so I'm throwing it out here as a small stand-alone, as I still find it enjoyable on its own.

Enjoy and happy holidays! ✨

Pairing: IDW Starscream x OC (gn, sfw but a lil’ spicy)

Word count: 1.2K

[AO3 link]

* * *

“Your place’s a mess.”

In the last couple of weeks, Tempest expected a lot of things to happen. After the war ended, Cybertron was going through many changes - every day seemed to bring another turn, another major event that undoubtedly altered the course of history for the planet and its newly returned inhabitants. However, finding Starscream comfortably lounging on a couch in their habsuite in complete darkness, that certainly wasn’t one of those things.

“I don’t remember giving you the key code.”

“You didn’t,” the Seeker smiled, nonchalantly throwing one leg over the other. Primus knows how long he’s been in here, waiting. There may as well be an indent under him from the hours of sitting but then again, he always had a flare of dramatics around him. Nevertheless, Tempest found the idea amusing.

“Are you here to seduce me with that shiny new paintjob of yours or is there another reason for your visit at this hour?”

A tiniest change in his expression revealed everything they needed to know. “I have a proposition.”

There it was. “Oh, really.”

“The same proposition I made some time before. When the things were… different.”

“When you asked me to be your second in command, despite me being on the verge of joining the Autobots and you not being the leader of the Decepticons?” His ambitions were high almost to a fault. As the war dragged on, Megatron’s leadership made Tempest weary and Starscream was confident he’d bring to the table what Megatron never could. The only thing he needed to make his grand plan come to fruition was support of his loyal Seekers. However, the threshold of what Tempest - and many other faction members - were willing to endure was long overstepped.

“That’s in the past. The factions are no more. And besides, this time…” his expression turned smug, “I’m actually the leader.”

“But your attitude is all the same.” He never learned.

“I only want the best for our planet. That’s why I’m asking you to be by my side,” he stood up from the couch, aligning his wings to appear broader in his new leaner frame. Tempest scoffed internally - as if he had to make himself look imposing in front of them.

“Or because I’m one of the last few Seekers alive.” Most of the former squadron was gone. There was a handful of them left and many of those openly showed disdain for their former air commander. Tempest couldn’t blame them.

“That you are. But what I said before still stands. I saw the potential in you when you first joined the ranks, long time before the war,” he shifted his stance, gleam of light catching the glass of his cockpit, ”And over the years it only ensured me I’d made the right decision having you as one of my trusted lieutenants.”

So that’s what we’re calling it now, they thought. And just as if called by the sheer passing thought, Starscream approached slowly. His optics but a dim glow in the darkness of the habsuite, weak light bleeding through the windows from night streets. A few more steps and he was fully in their personal space.

“So? What do you say? Will you become the right hand of Lord Starscream the First?” he practically purred, close enough to their audial to keep his voice low.

“I’ll think about it,” Tempest whispered, fingertips on Starscream’s servos that in the meantime found a place on their waist. Starscream smiled and seemingly satisfied with the answer, he closed the distance between them with a kiss. Just a soft brush of the lips at first but soon, the former commander put his glossa to work, asking for further access. Feeling the gush of hot air from his vents, Tempest obliged - their palms found Starscream’s faceplate, resting gently on both his cheeks. The passion rose, Starscream still slowly advancing until Tempest’s back hit the wall, the other Seeker blocking their way.

“Is this your persuasion method of choice?” they smiled smugly at Starscream but their optics were lidded and the field slowly building up with charge.

“Maybe,” Starscream smirked, staying close, “I’m still familiarizing myself with this new frame.”

“That’s something I can help with,” Tempest’s servo ran across his new chest, smiling as they felt Starscream’s engines picking up. They weren’t going to lie, he looked stunning. “Under one condition.”

“Oh?” Starscream’s fingers slowly traveled upwards, teasing just behind the armor seams with pointed fingertips. He knew precisely where the sensitive spots were.

“You’ll stay the whole night,” the former lieutenant looked him directly into optics, “No disappearing, no empty berth in the morning.”

“Can’t promise that,” Starscream’s lips found Tempest’s neck cables, his voice reverberating against the soft metal, “You know I’m quite busy these days...”

“You want me by your side?” Tempest pushed him off their neck, giving him a determined look, “Make the right steps.”

“Ah, so this is how it is,” amusement rose up in his demeanor, as his fingers were still teasing the wiring in plating gaps, “A little tit for tat.”

“No. I’m just saying you shouldn’t neglect relationships with your… most valued assets,” they made sure they sounded as smug as they felt in that moment, making demands with the biggest schemer in the history of Cybertron, “Your words, not mine.”

“Hmm…” he took a step back but his servos were still planted at Tempest’s waist, “Manipulation’s usually my thing, don’t you think?”

“Is it manipulation if I’m just stating the facts?” Tempest had a cheeky smile on their face but when they closed the distance between the two and tangled their fingers behind Starscream’s helm, their expression softened. He stepped into their habsuite in the middle of the night, just like old times? Just like old times it shall be then.

“Come on, Star. It’s for one night.”

“Until you ask for it to be every other night… and then every night…” Starscream’s lips found the other’s jaw again, slowly making his way down, “And what will I do then?”

“My berth is big enough for both of us,” their servos traced his silhouette in the dark, caressing the edges of his wings, fingers tugging gently inbetween the blades of his vents. His body might’ve been upgraded but judging by the rising hum of his engines, they still knew all the soft spots just as well as he did.

“Well then…” he exvented deeply, hot air tickling the sensitive metal, “Shall we continue there?”

“So… is that a yes?” a single finger continued drawing small circles on the base of his wings, “Will you stay till morning?”

Tempest’s engines hitched suddenly when Starscream’s sharp teeth met the soft mesh of their main energon line. The rising temperature and faint throbbing in their lower half were slowly overtaking their processor, field cracking with static. Did they miss this? They’d lie to themselves if they said no.

“I’ll stay,” Starscream detached himself from under the jawline only to press their lips together once again. They were needy and warm to the touch against theirs. “For tonight.”

“Good decision,” Tempest whispered, mischief coming back into their expression as they ran their fingers along the seams of Starscream’s armor. Did they believe him? Probably not.

But they had a whole night to clip his wings with nothing but full attention for the new leader of Cybertronian society.

“Now, let’s have a look at that shiny new frame of yours, shall we?”

[frxshblood]

INTRO || The Comeback

(//Mun note: This is me fleshing out the roots of this blog's main headcanon, as well as a bit of a character introspection/practice. It's not obligatory to read, as it turned out the length of a small fanfic (2200+ words), but it does go into some detail about Senketsu's motivations and reasons for certain appearance choices.

There's also a picture of a tastefully naked human(-ish) Sen in there, just saying. Feel free to scroll to that without reading :D)

----------

They say that Life Fibers can always regenerate, as long as the last thread hasn't been fully severed. Evidently, that rule did not work very well on fibers burnt into literal ashes, but some had indeed remained. If he had to guess, he'd say those were the fibers most closely infused with Ryuko's DNA. Not that he had any reason to think that, he just liked to believe that of course something that came from Ryuko would be more stubborn than any fire or any destructive power.

However, without other parts of his body to regenerate or reattach, and with last of his strength spent at propelling the scissor blades back down, he remained a rather pitiful jumble of red threads floating through space.

A perplexing situation for multiple reasons. One, he didn't exactly plan on any of that. It had been easy to let go in the heat of the moment, where he had been much more concerned with keeping Ryuko safe than considering his own impending demise. And then he was supposed to be gone.

But he wasn't. He was helpless threads in space, and sometimes it really made him want to flap his now non-existent sleeves and throw a little bit of a fit. Sure, definitely, without a single doubt he was content knowing that Ryuko was (probably) safe and sound, free to wear whatever she wanted (free to not be a weapon anymore, free to finally have a family and new friends away from any danger). It just kind of stung that just as he had realized himself as a fully fledged person in his own right he got stuck alone in a boring lonely vacuum. He had stuff to learn still! Things to do and places to see, ones not destroyed and on fire! Come on! People had just started hearing him, too!

Then again, he thought after a while, when lamenting about the unfairness of it all got overdone. What if Ryuko WASN'T safe? She's Ryuko, after all. He met her bruised and bleeding, and according to her she had been that way long before her father's death.

What if something happened again? What if she happened to herself? What if there's fighting involved and she's without her kamui — that's him, she's without him — and there's no one to protect her or warn her when she's in over her head?!

Okay, he told himself, he's being ridiculous. Ryuko is a whole person, could even be a full adult by now. She could take care of herself. But she could also stubbornly skulk away to dark corners and roofs without saying anything to anyone, and they would all so graciously "give her space", and then he, of course, wouldn't, because he was literally with her all the time. But also because the second her face turned gloomy and there was a certain sour note in her blood, she would only talk to him (somewhat a surprise every time, what does he know, but an honor nevertheless). And if she wouldn't talk at all he'd find a way to rile her up — can't be sad while yelling at him for commenting on her diet again, can she? Checkmate.

But now he wasn't there, so who knew how that was going.

And then, eventually, just as he was starting to drive himself mad by switching between feeling sorry for himself and feeling worried about Ryuko (with occasional attempts at poetry in between, one must pass the time somehow), he started to notice them. Other Life Fibers, remnants of the war, way too torn up to be fully independently sentient like him. Just floating by, here and there.

So he decided, of course, to be a bold little kamui (what's left of him) and do 'something reckless', and tried to absorb one, like he and Ryuko had done many times before.

And he succeeded.

And thus was born a plan.

He didn't know how much time had passed on Earth while he was busy reforming himself thread-by-thread. Not to mention, he wasn't going for just any form, no. This time he was in charge of his own construction.

And he decided he couldn't settle at the sailor uniform. Sure, that's all he had ever been, but now he knew he was more than that, actually. Ryuko was done with sailor uniforms, too, so that's one reason. But not the main one.

The main one was a vivid memory of himself dragging unconscious Ryuko and her blade on the ground, and him being way too light and thin and floppy, and her being way too heavy for his sleeves, and the sheer desperation it'd caused him to be so useless as soon as no one — as soon as she wasn't wearing him.

Thus, a new form had to be mastered. Something solid. And with fingers. Capable of properly carrying her, if need be. Or shielding. Or, hey, bandaging and stitching! No more gawking back-alley doctors making her uncomfortable. Yes, that was definitely a good idea. He even congratulated himself on it.

After all, if Nui Harime could look like a human while being made entirely of Fibers, why couldn't he? Just watch him!

Even with his new collecting mission, cosmos left him a lot of time to think. Well, he was always good at that, while resting on a hanger or feeling Ryuko nod off at some boring lesson. And so, now resembling somewhat of a ball of yarn, he entertained himself by deciding what kind of a human he wanted to be.

Let's see, he'd tell himself. What's the best example of a human I know?

Ryuko.

Well, that's not entirely fair to humans, 'cause Ryuko was special, but more importantly it would be weird to show up looking somewhat like her.

Okay, who else? Maybe Satsuki.

Then again, everyone starting with Ryuko referred to him as "he" (when not an 'it'), and it didn't feel out of place, so perhaps he ought to consider men as his starting point.

Mr. Mankanshoku didn't strike Senketsu as much of a fighter, and neither did his son, although Mataro was resilient in his own way. He would never find enough fibers to mimic Gamagori's stature, and Inumuta's strength was in his brain, not brawl. (Senketsu supposed that his was, too, but his 'data' was telling him he'd better make up for the latter). Then there was Aikuro and. No, just. No. No DTRs for this kamui.

That left him Sanageyama and Tsumugu, both of whom proved to be quite capable (by leaving him and Ryuko in tatters at least once each), so he decided to aim somewhere in between those two in build.

He would copy Ryuko's skin tone, he decided, and leave his own eye color. Might be jarring for a human face, but he had to keep one thing about himself unchanged. That and the fangs.

Would it be creepy to still ask to drink her blood while looking like a human? He didn't want anyone, especially not her to find him creepy. Well, he could always shift into a clothing piece then. 'Cause he could definitely do that now, too. He could be, uh, a jacket like her old one, he could be a dress — does she wear dresses? — or maybe a trenchcoat, or… Damn, he hadn't seen much of clothing outside of uniforms, had he? Well, he'd just ask her what she considers cute then. (If she would still want to wear him at all.)

He thought about making his hair the same color as hers, too, but reluctantly decided against that. He's his own independent person now, right? Shouldn't just… copy his favorite one like that. So he settled on blood red — suits his name. He did still add a bright red streak to it, though. What? It's cute to be matching. Or so he heard.

It was kind of blessing that mostly Fiber beings didn't need a full intricate inner system of organs (and thank god for that, back when Ragyo got split into pieces would be a BAD time to find out if he's squeamish or not), because he certainly didn't pay that much attention in school. He was honestly pretty proud of himself for getting the basic proportions and anatomy seemingly correct, having never been worn by a man. Considered body hair, which he'd noticed some men had in more abundance than women. Well, fuzzy fabrics usually seemed to be loved, so maybe fuzzy people were, too? He settled on some moderate amount. (As he'd later find out, he completely missed the memo on facial hair, as in stubble and such. Like it's his fault that everyone around him was either a teenager or clean shaven. Or Isshin, whose beard was definitely off the table.)

The core fibers of his, the ones that held on from the very beginning, the ones that he suspected stored all the human in him, formed a heart-shaped knot in his new chest out of their own volition. He was floored when it started beating. He had a heartbeat now. He had his own sound.

As giddy as that made him, it also made him miss Ryuko's terribly.

When he was finally, finally done, he was standing above Earth again, just like him and Ryuko were before their fiery descent, and feeling so many emotions he half feared he'd start falling apart again. But he didn't. This new fabric of his held on even as he was scared (what if it's all for nothing and he burns again?), and excited (he did it! look at him he did it! he learned a whole new stage of transformation all on his own! will everyone hear him now that he has a proper mouth?! will everyone he knew and Ryuko in particular be as impressed as he is with himself?!) and all other kinds of things.

Hah, and they called him a stitched-together rag before. If they'd only seen him now, slapped together from a multitude of mismatched scraps on sheer spite, daring to take on a form that was never supposed to be his. He was in such an impatient hurry at the end that he even decided to ditch the second eye again, to save time and fibers, returning to his old incomplete look. Ragyo and the likes of her would probably choke from anger. Good.

Now all that was left was to take a step forward and learn if he could survive the fire this time.

He did. It still hurt, as Ryuko would probably put it, "like a motherfucker" (was swearing needed to pass as a human? he wasn't particularly good at it), but he survived. And then, suspended in the air, he opened his eyes and saw the land beneath, saw it clearly for the first time with no rush or panic, and thought oh. That's what they fought for.

Of course, there wasn't anyone to catch him, but thankfully he didn't exactly have any human bones to break. The impact was still jarring and it took him a second to recover from the whiplash, but as he opened his eye and saw the blue sky above him, he knew he made it.

He was lying in some prickly bushes (what was left of them after his crash), absolutely naked, sort of hungry and maybe a bit concussed, if he could even be that, but he made it. He wanted to cry, but a long time ago he'd promised to save "the waterworks" for when he and Ryuko would celebrate their victory together. And he did.

So he climbed out of the bushes and carefully stood up. Being bipedal now wasn't a challenge — he knew all the movements from when he and Ryuko (or others, for that matter) synchronized. Although it was a bit unusual without the heels. He wondered if men here even wore heels. Maybe on special occasions only? Either way, he tried very hard to imitate his wearer's confident walk as he headed for the nearest road. All things considered, he was lucky to land in some field and not crash through somebody's roof.

He probably needed to do something about his nakedness. Did that mean he had to wear clothes now? On top of himself, who's also clothes? That felt wrong. Well, maybe not so much if he considered it as layering, but still!

Then there was the topic of blood. He definitely needed to figure out something about that. Would hate nothing more than to starve himself into a frenzy — if he had to meet Ryuko as a crazed hungry creature desperate to stay awake AGAIN he'd just straight up unravel himself by his own hand. He still shivered at remembering how that went. Had he ever apologized? He could hardly recall.

Well, most importantly, he had no idea where he'd landed. It's not like he could remember Ryuko ever looking at a geography map with him on, let alone explaining what was what. No means of communication either, and so much he still didn't know of the world…

But that was alright. He did the hardest part. He came back.

After that, finding one person on just one planet with measly several billions people on it should've been a piece of cake.

[casspurrjoybell-23]

Berserkr - Chapter 8 - Part 2

*Warning Adult Content*

A Chance

For a long moment, Vali could only stare, mouth opening and closing as he attempted to wrap his fatigued mind around the scene that was unfolding before his very eyes.

But just as Valie began to come to, heart bleeding as he grieved for the anguish that shined through Kerr's hazel irises, the Omega's eyes fell upon a ghost.

The movement could have been mistaken for shifting shadows at first, exaggerated by the torch whose light rose and fell in varying intensities with every passing second.

However, as the tiny figure emerged further into the light, materializing from the space behind Kerr's massive back, silky black hair, pale skin and blue eyes painted the unmistakable picture of Valie's best friend.

Valie's 'deceased' best friend.

"No. No, no..."

Overcome by emotion, the Omega stumbled out of Einar's hold at once, shaking his head absently as he backed away, further, further and further still until his heels made contact with the very back wall of the loft.

There was so much that he wanted to say, so much that he wanted to do as the pupils of his best friend's ghost connected with his own.

But as Valie's lower eyelids welled with yet unshed tears, his throat quickly followed suit, filling to the brim with a cotton thickness that left him with no other option but to try his best not to hyperventilate.

"Valie..." the ghost whispered, his tone just as frail as Valie's own heart as he stepped past both Alphas, making his way toward the place where Valie still cowered.

"Valie... Is that... really you?"

"I– I..." the other Omega sputtered, pressing himself into the wallboards so firmly that he was sure that his back would sustain a thousand splinters.

But nevertheless, no pain in the entire world could ever compare to the twisted cruelty of being forced to endure such maleficent witchcraft.

The ghost strode even closer then, only a foot or so away from his position now,and from this close, even Valie had to admit that he looked... so real.

Almost like he could just reach out and...

The moment that Vali's fingertips made solid contact with his friend's cheek rather than passing right through as he so expected them to do, tears overflowed into a monsoon of disbelief.

"Tofa?" he cried silently, cheeks stretching up into a dubious smile as his hand stretched out, feeling for his friend's neck, trying to check a pulse, anything to confirm what he so wished to be true.

Tofa's face was just as beautiful as it always was, with its soft slopes and gentle curves and even the dirt that clung to every inch of his skin did nothing to dampen that fact.

"Tofa?"

"Yeah."

Long, black hair swaying with the movement, Tofa only nodded, the Omega's large, blue eyes welling to the brim with tears of his own.

"Yeah, Val. It's me."

And that was all that it took before long-lost friends were united again, wrapping arms tight around one another and sobbing endlessly into a crushing embrace.

"Dear Odin, I thought that you were gone," Valie wept.

"I am so sorry, Tofa, I should have never left you there all alone. Oh, you must have been so, so frightened," he apologized, knuckles going white at the force with which he clutched onto his friend's tunic.

Inhaling, the familiar scent of his friend soothed something so deep in his aching soul that the relief was nearly unbearable.

"But how... how could you possibly be here?" he asked, voice still filled with incredulity despite the proof that was right there, sobbing in his arms all the same.

Pulling back from their embrace by just a fraction, Tofa offered Valie a watery smile as he reached up, cupping his friend's cheeks as he laughed, overcome with Joy.

"Shortly after ya' left to see what was happening on the other side of the cliff, I was snatched up rough by some of the biggest Alphas I ever did see. I was so scared, Vali... I nearly passed out right then and there," he gulped, fingers quivering as he recalled such dark memories.

"They chained me up real good and made me walk what felt like a million miles until we finally got here. But then, right after they ordered for me and the others to be put into one of the slave holdings for processin'... Kerr... he saved me, Val. Made his master think I got away on my own and stashed me in the cellars until we could figure out what to do," he whispered the last part, as if he himself could barely believe such a thing had really happened.

"And he was beaten for it, Val, flogged for hours for lettin' me escape. And yet still, he showed up every day, bringing me food and drink and caring for me as best he could while I was holed up in those dark, dank cellars," Tofa paused, glancing over his shoulder at his Alpha, who was currently engaged with Einar in hushed conversation as they allowed their mates the space to reunite properly.

"Now don't get me wrong, I still have my reservations about him but..."

Vali didn't miss the flickering of deep-seated affection that Tofa's irises held as said this.

"I think ya' might've been right about Alphas after all, Val... I really might've fetched myself one of the good ones."

"Oh, by Odin, Tofa."

A small giggle of hope choked its way through Valie's tears at Tofa's optimistic words, elation at his friend's discovery of his own fated usurping any and all fears he may have previously held.

"This is such wonderful news," Valie mimicked his friend's movements, unable to keep his fingertips still as they caressed every available inch of Tofa's face, mind still not fully caught up with the truth that his best friend... the only person he ever considered family... had survived.

"We must all introduce ourselves. Come, come."

Gathering up his friend in the crook of his arm, Valie led Tofa the few feet back to where both of their Alphas still stood.

Standing tall and broad as ever, the attention of both men was drawn to their reunited Omegas in a split second, gravitating toward their respective mate in such a way that many would only describe as wholly instinctual.

Knowing that such a gruff man was Tofa's fated changed everything about how he perceived the intimidating fellow.

And as he watched Kerr float his way over to Tofa's side, a solid mass of muscle hovering just behind Tofa's petite form like a bodyguard of the highest order, Valie's initial apprehension poached itself down to none other than an airy simmer.

"Shall we sit?" Valie offered, gesturing to the array of furs when a sudden, notably domestic urge to provide a hospitable environment for their guests overcame him.

There was, after all, much to discuss.

Kerr bowed his head in acknowledgment of Valie's offering and as Tofa stepped toward the array of soft material that littered the far corner, the towering Viking trailed behind his fated like a shadow, taking a seat beside him only after pausing to allow his Omega to select a spot of his own, first.

And as Valie followed close behind, taking a seat adjacent to the pair, Einar provided an ever-present silhouette of his own as he descended in a heap, somehow slotting his monumental body between the wallboard and Valie's back in order to fit the Omega perfectly in the space between his long legs.

A small yelp of surprise chimed from the back of Valie's throat once Einar took the unexpected action a step further still, heat flaring into the apples of his cheeks when a heavy arm wrapped tight around his midsection, hauling him backward against a chest that felt as if it were a closer relative to steel than skin.

It was only then, when Einar's Omega was secure in his hold and his primitive Alpha instincts named themselves satisfied, that the prize Berserkr found it within himself to relax his muscles by a trace, bending one knee upward in order to utilize it as an armrest.

It was a precarious position, likely considered somewhat indecent if they possessed the gall to assume such a stance in a public setting.

However, as Valie swiveled his attention back to the other fated pair who sat with at least a foot-wide chiasm between themselves, the Omega momentarily caught a gleam of longing that twinkled across Kerr's hazel eyes as the Alpha glanced upon Einar and Valie entangled in such an intimate embrace.

[nyt1ba]

   The innocence of desiring a father's love had become the poison running through her veins,   it grew stronger with each rejection,   every look of disdain,   to lead her to a spiritual death before her eventual and more violent one.   She had talked of the man before,   with greater difficulty than with the tragedy of her mother,   a wound she would rather let bleed in the silence than to utter a word of her pain.   But he remains like a ghost that haunted her every waking moment,   his name always echoing in her mind,   with all the sneers of those who came to do his bidding,   like a brand searing at her skin she feels the burn sinking in,   she lashes out when it becomes unbearable and even then it clings onto her more stubbornly                    a curse never to escape from.   Though Adam wanted nothing more than to help ease her ache,   war was not an option he was willing to entertain,   he had lived his own,   all that death had worn his heart until it became a hollow muscle beating for no purpose other than to survive.   There aren't many things that can bring back his old passion,   but just like her,   the mere mention of the man had begun to spark something within,   brief,   yet true.   It isn't just revenge,   Elias' reign had brought much suffering   &.   will continue to do so for as long he lives.   He was an evil his kind had fought against until the very end,   this assumption of superiority that cared about its own preservation at the corpses of the innocent,   it had to come to an end,   Elias had to be killed.

  Her pale complexion is a stark contrast to the color of death she endowed,   a ghost appearing more distinct in the light,   cheeks tinted with a crimson hue by the blood rushing so eagerly beneath the surface.   He needn't look long enough to know,   the fire that raged within her.   It's still strange for him to be this   ...   free,   around her,   she had seen his mutation and proved time after time how accepting she was of his grotesque nature.   The Elder is different however,   no longer the human she knew,   in truth,   that is who he is now,   no matter how much he wants to deny it,   it's freeing to be   ...   himself.   His own conflicts are merely a passing thought now,   for he knows the necessity of the monster over the man,   a brutality that would grant her   &.   many others a long awaited dawn of peace.   She's pleasant as ever,   he would smile if he could but the sentiment expresses itself in the warmth of his palm,   fingers moving with uncharacteristic delicacy to overtake her hand,   hardly seen in the enormity of his own.        ❛❛   Understood.   ❜❜        he nods,   taking heed of her words.   The Elder's brute force was the key to reveal Elias' location to them,   nevertheless,   he wouldn't go charging in blindly and hope for the best,   they had planned for this long and hard.   With that same hand he brings her closer to him,   moving so that his arm wraps around her waist in a secure grasp.   He makes the jump off the deck then,   a flap of wings sends them soaring through space.

       ❛❛   Over there.   ❜❜        As expected,   the fleet comes to view just shortly after along with Meridian as distant dot among the stars.   Utilizing the speed of his flight,   a flick of an arm sends a spear like an arrow,   cutting through space in brilliant trail of light,   it tears through one of the ships,   resulting in a big enough explosion that had the entire formation scramble amongst themselves.   The barrage of canons now aimed at them,   energy blasts ultimately useless against the barrier he put forth.        ❛❛   Are you ready ?   ❜❜        he asks,   turning to look at her amidst the fire,   they need to create a bigger storm than this,   and if there's that knew of such storms,   It's her.

Through a crimson veil, viscera spattered across her frenzied face, had she seen him last. In life, she longed for Elias’ approval, his attention, his love … but death had revealed his true colors in a way that she could finally discern. It wasn’t in her nature to kill unjustly, but even in her shattered state she knew she could no longer tolerate his existence. Her father eats away at her from the inside, their shared DNA scorching her veins; a virus she can’t entirely purge. Elektra has waited a long time to exact her judgment, but she never expected to have someone by her side, aligned in her endeavors. Alone, she could likely claw her way in with a large enough distraction, but – she isn’t alone anymore. The sensation is still new, but she’s getting better at asking for help. Admittedly, killing her father wasn’t something she thought Adam would be willing or able to help with. Eyes fall upon thinly gloved fingers as they curl into a fist; this isn’t only for her sake. The people of the Meridian System need a new leader, one who isn’t so deep in the Coalition’s pockets. If her actions can help the people her mother died fighting for, she will do whatever it takes to see it through. 

Elektra is dressed in black, a stark contrast to the ashen color of her hair, the brilliance of her eyes; she is an agent of death, now and forever. Steps are light as she joins him upon the deck, fingers adjusting her hair tie. The Elder is not a common sight and yet she pays him no extra mind, no matter what form he takes … she knows him. A nod is given and she listens carefully. Tactically, this plan would give them the greatest advantage; the element of surprise grants them the upper hand. Mania swells within her chest, the frantic energy that is familiar to her when she fights without restriction – a deep breath dispels the feeling, tucking it away for later use. Talon tipped fingers invite her closer and she obliges without so much as a second thought, her palm falling into an offered hand – her own much smaller in comparison. Head tilts to look up at him, offering a gentle smile despite her violent inclinations,     “ I know I’m safe with you … just don’t drop me. ”     She chuckles, their intentions haven’t dampened her mood one bit; there is fire in her blood, and Elektra is ready to burn this armada to the ground.     “ Watch out for their ion cannons, each cruiser should have about four. ”     They’ve discussed this in length, studied schematics, prepared themselves as best they could – but despite the fact that she is the one who is small and fragile, El still worries about him. A guardian at heart, always.     “ Get me in there and it’s all over. ”

[0risha]

RECOGNITION

series m.list

PAIRING : sukuna x fem!reader

SUMMARY : when an exchange student comes to jujutsu tech, Itadori is set on finding out why the King of curses is so interested in you.

TAGS : fluff, the tiniest bit of angst, jjk anime spoilers, some curse words, reader is described as a black female

NOTES : i’ve read a couple of works where sukuna meets his reincarnated lover so I wanted to try it out too, hope you enjoy. was supposed to make progress with my wips but I was in a sukuna mood. (◕ᴗ◕✿)

Sukuna feels your presence before he sees you. It’s one of those cliché moments where time puts its hand up to signal a standstill. Yuuji can feel it too when you pass by, your long braids swishing with each step.

He’s sure that he’s never seen you before but his shared body buzzes in remembrance. All the while, his emotions are overtaken by the unbridled feeling of wanting. 

After that, Itadori never took it upon himself to ask Sukuna about the matter because the curse didn’t seem to want to.

Sukuna had become more and more suppressed, his usual pop-ups were a rare occurrence, even when Megumi was around. However, for the whole month you’d been at Jujutsu Tech, the King of curses had been intent on observing from his throne of woven carcasses, body hunched over to just watch.

You’re an exchange student, Itadori recalls Gojo’s past conversation about a new second-year that would be coming from the states. You’re strong — at first, Itadori couldn’t help but think that this revelation was the reason for Sukuna’s interest —your cursed energy being perfect sediment for close combat and dealing precise blows, all the same, Itadori could feel a grappling hook of something that seemed to be festering.

It’s dark and brooding and it stirs every time you come into contact with him. And Yuuji thinks he might go crazy because he wants to know your connection with Sukuna and it’s not like he can ask you because your aura screams — unapproachable.

His chance comes when all the first-years are assigned to a mission, you're there for extra measure. Gojo’s shaman instincts telling him that this mission was far too exceeding for him, Nobara, and Megumi.

Though just as Gojo predicted, it goes terribly wrong and Itadori keels over with an empty hollow where his heart should be.

His last thoughts are consumed with a screeching mantra of his late grandfather’s words. In the crevice of his flickering mind, they're big bold letters that drip with poisoned regret.

Before his vision goes black, the last thing he sees is a heart-broken Megumi and your face which is flooded with guilt.

When Itadori comes face to face with the King of curses, the stench of rotting death overpowering his senses, he mulls over the terms laid out by Sukuna to come back, alive.

To be reunited with his friends and become some type of savior —sukuna's words, not his— he'd give up the reigns of his body so Sukuna could talk to you whenever he chose.

For the exchange of his life, the rules weren’t bad, a part of him knows that this selfish override could cause problems for you in the future, but he still agrees.

When he wakes up to a pure white ceiling and the smell of bleach he doesn’t expect to see you towering over him. Moving up to a sitting position, his cheeks nearly bleed red because he’s naked. His eyes frantically flit over to Gojo who’s sitting in the corner of the room, watching the exchange. The white-haired sorcerer shrugs in a ridiculed manner —silently telling Itadori that it wasn’t his problem.

“You called me,” your voice filters through the bright room. His eyebrows crinkle in confusion. Sukuna must've did something.

When his eyes flit back to you, he’s met with your monotone expression, your cascade of braids framing your face. And for the third time in his life, he’s scared. 

Your cursed energy, which for your level should leave little to no residual, is flaring with onyx undertones. Its sharpened jaws nearing closer and closer to Itadori in a beckoning manner. He's not sure why it's visible in the first place.

Gojo stays silent.

Brat, let me out. Sukuna, for the first time in weeks, pops up with a wide mouth on the palm of his hand. Without a second thought, Itadori allows him. 

Whilst wading in his domain of subconsciousness, he watches the exchange. Your expression stays the same as you study Sukuna’s marked face. 

“So hostile,” Sukuna bares, his powerful aura sifting through the room. You roll your eyes and crack a smile. Seamlessly ignoring the other man in the room— who you know Sukuna has a grudge with. 

“Am I not supposed to be?” you cross your arms and ask. “Being friendly would get me in trouble.”

“You remember me?” The King of curses cuts straight to the point, the question being so unexpected that Gojo shuffles in his seat, his spine rigid with anticipation. 

You nod stiffly. "I didn’t at first, not fully at least, but after coming into contact a few times, yeah.”

“It’s a shame I don’t have control over this body,” Sukuna presses a palm to your cheek, no doubt a loving caress. His deep baritone voice causing your skin to erupt into a turnpike for goosebumps to situate. “Do you remember how we parted last?”

“A sorcerer killed me or something,” you scratch the back of your neck under his intense stare. “Right through here,” you confess, pointing to the middle of your sternum.

“And you’ve become one?” Sukuna quirks an eyebrow, shoulders stiff with anger. 

“I didn’t even know I knew you until a month ago, calm down,” you wave in dismissal. Itadori takes note in the way Sukuna visibly relaxes, your words washing him in a bucket of warmth. “Is that all? I’ve got a mission in thirty minutes.” 

“I’m coming with you.” Sukuna jumps off the steel table, his bare feet touching the cool ground. You turn your eyes away from the bottom half of his body, ears growing hot in embarrassment.

“Eh? Is that allowed?” You turn to Gojo who’s still analyzing the situation beforehand and he shrugs with complacency. “Don’t let anyone see him,” Gojo warns, his stare serious even under his blindfold. You're not exactly sure what Gojo's thinking but you grasp the opportunity.

When you leave the autopsy room with a naked Sukuna by your side, careful to avoid any areas where Sukuna’s aura might be felt, you make it to Itadori’s dorm.

“Here.” You throw him Yuuji’s formal uniform and a pair of brown boots you find in the corner of his room. “I’m not wearing this,” Sukuna interjects.

“Huh?” Your upper lip curls up in confusion. “Then you’re not coming with me.” You turn to leave but he catches your arm in a tight grip.

“Fine, since you’re so damn adamant.” He releases his grip on your arm to slip into Yuuji’s clothes, when he finishes he turns to you with a glare.

“Good boy,” you praise, patting his tattooed cheek.

Internally, Itadori’s too bewildered to tease the curse. In all of his time spent with Sukuna in his body, he’s never seen the King of curses voluntarily listen to somebody else’s demands. The murky water he stands in ripples as he sits to observe everything that’s transpiring. 

When you both reach the site you were assigned to, you sigh in annoyance. “What is it?” Sukuna asks, hands in pockets as he studies your face.

“I was hoping to have an easy day, they’re not dangerous or anything but there’s more than a dozen in there.” You point to the abandoned building, its steel beams bending with age.

“I’ll exorcise them for you.”  

This is going completely against this guy’s morals, Yuuji thinks. 

Your eyebrows fly to your forehead as you grow giddy with happiness. “Really?” You exclaim clambering up to wrap him in a hug.

“If you don’t let go, I won’t.” He grumbles, head in your neck while inhaling your sweet scent. 

“Okayyy,” you inhale, trailing off, Sukuna not too far behind. 

The exorcism is completed in fifteen seconds, tops. You stare in amazement at his lithe movements. His sharp fingers extinguishing cores with precise stabs— the same way he did his vessel. When he’s done he turns to you with an eyebrow raised, his hands wet with unspoken substance. You turn away with a humph. 

“Was it not fast enough?” He walks towards you, concern written all over his expression.

“It was too fast,” you proclaim.

“Huh?” 

“You’re a show-off,” you turn to exit the building, your braids whizzing past his face. You hear his roaring laughter behind you as you make it outside.

The smell of freshly churned earth enters your nostrils as you walk down a fenced sidewalk with bent daffodils. “Where are we going?”

“A ramen shop.” His gaze flicks over to study your face which is softened with what seems to be tranquility. His heart tides over with pride once he realizes that you feel content with him, a 1000-year-old curse.

However, he knows it’s the result of your memories that tie in with his; shared massacres and intertwined fates. Multiple restarts of what seemed to be a never-ending cycle of mingled hearts. But this time jump was different than the others. 

You being a sorcerer is not the only obstacle, at all.

“Sukuna? Hey– you’re spacing out.” You wave a hand in front of his face to grab his attention. 

“We’re here.” He looks up to see a small ramen shop, its logo old with age. As he enters the shop, he somehow finds contentment in being in a place that you like. 

—

“You know you’re probably attracting sorcerers and curses alike as we speak?” You inquire, grabbing your ramen bowl from the waiter who nervously glances at Sukuna. His tattooed face also attracting unwanted attention. 

“Mhm, I’ll just kill them if they interfere.” You whip your head to turn to the waiter who you’re relieved to see, had already left.

“I knew you’d say that,” you stuff your face with a handful of steaming noodles. 

“Sukuna?”

“Mhm?” 

“What’s gonna happen between us?” You flick your index finger back and forth. “It’s not like the other times, I’m a dedicated sorcerer.”

“So?” 

“You’re the King of curses, I’m a sorcerer.” You repeat, dropping your wooden chopsticks to place your head on your propped fist. 

“Already made a deal with the brat, I can talk to you whenever and wherever I want,” he pulls his face closer to yours. 

“Yeah? What happens when they execute Itadori?” You curl your hands into balled fists, an unfamiliar emotion welling up in your throat. Somehow, it doesn't fit. It crosses your veins in a parasitic manner and your eyes glaze over.

“I’ll just come back.” He states matter of factly, voice coated with arrogance.

“You promise?” You whisper, holding out your pinky finger. You nearly scoff at your own action.

Ignoring the finger you bare out, he presses his lips against yours. It’s the same as he can remember, centuries ago. His body elates with a hum of electricity. And it's as if his body's creating a second space of void in which he feels his every sense being sharpened; the smooth curve of your full lips and the salty taste of previous ramen.

But before the kiss can go any further, you're pulling back.

“That was uh…” You blink once, twice, trying desperately to collect your thoughts. When you look back to Sukuna, you instead are met with Itadori’s clear face.

“The hell are you doing, brat?” Sukuna bares his teeth on the right side of Itadori’s cheek. ”I- I’m sorry just got a little uh.. flustered.” 

“The fuck are you getting flustered for?” Sukuna growls. 

“I- uh..” 

“It’s okay Yuuji, you can switch again another time,” you sympathize with the boy. His cheeks are coated in red.

“It’s getting late, eat some ramen so we can go.” You chuckle. Itadori nods as his hand reaches towards a pair of chopsticks.

“Touch my ramen and I’ll kill you again, you damn brat.”

back to m.list

[sixeyesgojo]

The dead reader made me sad how about something a bit funny but dark based of a comic Tapas called Undying Happiness (it’s been dubbed on YouTube too if you wants to go see it) where the main character falls in love with a guy who’s family has the ability to be able to regenerates wounds even from a skeleton. So do you think we can the cast react to a basically immortal reader?

I like this idea! I also checked out the source material and man, that was SOOO FUNNY lmaoo

Thanks for sending this ask, anon! I think my readers deserve some calm before the storm that’s about to come lol

Summary: undead!reader messing with Team Gojo because why not ;)

Characters: Team Gojo + Sukuna x undead!Reader

Content warning: major injuries (loss of limbs?), mentions of blood

A/N: This is the post anon is talking about: leaving them behind hc

Gojo Satoru

After a while, he will start making jokes about it. You’re not exactly amused at this fool joking around while you’re bleeding out. Gojo is still a little worried (it’s a secret, don’t tell anybody) because he’s firmly convinced that this technique has to have some kind of drawback but it does not. Or at least there hasn’t been any ever since you discovered this ability.

The first time, he would be slightly taken aback but not entirely surprised. You just lost an entire arm; blasted away until only your bones remained but you didn’t even flinch? How in the world?

Truth to be told, you were already kind of used to this. Having to deal with this frequently (including all the “Aren’t you more of a curse?” questions), you already half expected something of the sort of him as well.

However, after processing what just happened, he’ll just shrug. This man has seen more in his life than any other Jujutsu sorcerer ever could, starting from as early as his baby days, thanks to the six eyes. Nothing bothers him all too much.

He’ll just treat it as if you are using Reversed Cursed Technique, just like Shoko.

“Babe, what are you doing? Losing an arm again? Oh my god, that is sooo 2017. Come up with something new to shock me with!” he snickers. “Satoru, I swear you are doing this on purpose,” you got mad while holding the space your arm once held. The bloody substance dripping right through your fingers as the lost limb slowly regenerated. 

“It’s really no wonder people constantly ask me why I haven’t exorcised the curse who is sticking to me!” he laughs. You pout, “Rude! I’m not a curse.”

Itadori Yuji

The first time, he is absolutely freaked out. He tries to frantically stop the bleeding in the most clumsy way ever; hands shaking so much it would have the opposite effect. You? You’re calm and you try to calm him down by saying “it’s just an arm” and he goes “JUST AN ARM? THAT’S A LIMB THOUGH???” even more frantically. He already has a few screws loose up there and he knows it but hearing you say that so casually makes him rethink all his decisions in life. It takes him several minutes to calm down. Even though he is a sorcerer now and has seen his fair share of shit happening, including the sopping hole in his chest when Sukuna ripped out his heart, this tops all of it.

After a while, he will be more at ease but still very very worried about you. He doesn’t like seeing you get hurt, even if it’s just a small scratch. Yuji is very relieved when he sees the flesh and skin building back, may even be a little bit fascinated but also grossed out. He will definitely ask you lots of different stuff about it.

“Does it hurt when it does that?” he looks at your regrowing limb. “What do you mean, Yuji?” you give him a quizzical look. He points at your limb, “That. Does that hurt?”

“Well, of course losing a limb hurts but I have had this ability for the longest time, so I got used to feeling the pain. If you mean regrowing this, then no. It tickles a little, I guess?”

The look on his face was priceless.

Fushiguro Megumi

After a while, he will still be frantic at first but then it finally clicks. His head goes “oh, right.” and he calms down, the tension visibly leaves his body, because by now, he knows it’s not that big of an issue anymore. That does not mean he ceased to help you take care of it though - and he does a great job at it.

The first time, he thinks you’ll die on him. The boy is so frantic, his mind goes blank. His chest will break out of his ribcage soon, he feels, but then he sees your calm face. Utter confusion descends down on him; what the hell was happening? Why weren’t you screaming in pain? Why was your facial expression so calm? Maybe it was a shock?

But no, you were calm all over and simply said, “Whoops?”

Consider him confused for his entire life now. He doesn’t understand what’s happening at all and his mind is set on helping you nevertheless.

"Ugh, I’m bleeding all over your uniform. I’m so sorry, ‘Gumi,” you mumble as he patches up what he can. “That’s fine, I can just wash it later,” he bluntly states, his eyes hyperfocused on your wound.

“I’ll wash it for you! I owe you that, it’s the least I can do,” you offer. “Just hold still for now, so I can contain the bleeding - don’t want you to bleed out on me. It’d be a hassle.”

“Hehe, sorry,” you say sheepishly.

Kugisaki Nobara

After a while, she will simply proceed to beat the shit out of whoever did this to you first. She will beat them into a pulp and then exorcise them (in case it was a curse). It’s a little comedic for you to see her get worked up over this after seeing it so many times but at the same time, it melts your heart a little.

The first time, the girl rushes to your aid immediately, telling Fushiguro to handle this curse. “Are you okay?” she asks you and her voice is trembling audibly. It was a stupid question to ask, she thinks. But she doesn’t expect to see you stupidly grin back at her, “Yeah, I’m totally fine, don’t worry about me. This will take some time to grow back but it will.”

Grow back? What? She’s confused. Are you pulling a prank on her? It has to be a prank, right?

“No, this isn’t a prank, I’m serious here,” you laughed.

"You really think you can hurt them without facing repercussions, huh? You are so dumb; I almost feel sorry for how stupid you are, thinking that, when I am right here. Now let’s get ready for a game because I can and absolutely will drag this out; learn your lesson!” Nobara yells at the curse and you only chuckle.

Ryomen Sukuna

The first time, he just clicks his tongue in annoyance, looking at whatever hurt you with fiercely glowing eyes. There would be hell to pay for them. He is annoyed at whatever hurt you but he knows he can fix you easily with his Reversed Cursed Technique. This was so inconvenient, not fun. Quickly, he eliminates the source of your pain and turns to you. He had expected you to have passed out. However, once he sees the wound slowly closing up, a strange grin forms on his face and he starts hollering loudly, “What the heck is that, pet? That’s amusing.”

After a while, he will just sit back and watch as you handle it yourself: free entertainment for his bored soul. He may or may not be generous enough to speed up your recovery with his own Reversed Cursed Technique but I’d rather not count on it because it depends on how he is feeling after you finished the battle.

“Oh? You seem to regenerate a little faster now, even without my help. You take more and more after me, did spending all that time with me turn you into a curse now?” the King of Curses sneers loudly. “Heeey, I’m not a curse! But I would feel better if you helped me out with it instead of sneering at me,” you pouted. For a moment, he seemed to think, “No. It’s amusing.”

[slippinmickeys]

Out of the Little Grove (8/?)

Scully immediately got up so that Mulder could have a look for himself. He laid down on top of the jacket he had laid out and peered through the opening. He could see a dirt covered rocky ground with the rise of mountains in the distance and blue sky above that. But that was the extent of it. Just a narrow frame, like looking at a photogram or a painting. A window into another world.

The implications of what he was seeing were astounding. He’d read of the multiverse theory in obscure scientific journals, but the idea that one could actually pass from one universe to another was astonishing. Without a doubt in his mind he had found where the metallic tundra rats had come from.

Mulder reached forward to touch the place where his world met the next. He heard Scully’s intake of breath when she realized what he was doing, but she said nothing. He didn’t know what he expected to feel, surely some kind of resistance, but as his fingers touched the space where his world became another, he felt nothing but the warmer air of a different clime. He leaned forward and smelled the faint breeze passing through the tear. It smelled vaguely of soggy earth with a hint of decay.

“I smell death,” Hendrick said, stepping forward so that he was standing right at Scully’s side. She reached down and ran a hand absently along the fur of his head.

“I smell it, too,” said Cass from Mulder’s other shoulder.

Feeling a profound sense of Cass’s unease, he nevertheless ran his hand up to the edge of the tear, curious beyond reason to know what the fabric between worlds felt like. When he touched it, his mind had trouble processing what he was feeling. It was both liquid and solid at the same time, as thick as the distance between the farthest reaches of space and as thin as the sharpened point of a pin. Invisible. Both pliant and unyielding. Silvery was the only word that came to mind.

He pulled his hand back, but his wrist caught on a bit of sawgrass and it sliced through the exposed skin. He gave a hiss of pain and heard Cass make a similar sound. He pulled his wrist to his chest and rolled off the jacket and onto his knees.

“What happened?” Scully asked, her voice high and anxious.

“Cut myself on the sawgrass,” he said, lowering his hand to take a look at the injury. It was a thin gash about two inches long. Cass leaned over his shoulder and gently licked the blood away, soothing the angry red skin. He looked into her eyes with thanks.

Finally he got to his feet.

“This is it,” he said with certainty. “There’s a… There’s a window between worlds. My guess is the tundra rats are coming through it.”

Frohike, Langly and Hosteen leaned forward with interest, looking at the slip of sun shining in from a different world, but Tonnels’ face had turned white and his eyes were wide and terrified. He turned on his heel and took off across the field, his rabbit daemon leaping beside and in front of him.

Hosteen turned to watch him go. “His mind is small,” he said, “He is afraid of what he doesn’t understand. This is beyond his ken.” He pointed at the sawgrass. “It is beyond mine too.”

“I’ve read of the Other Worlds theory,” Frohike said. “Experimental theologians have theorized the existence of parallel worlds, but I… by the Authority, I never thought I would live to see it so plainly.”

“You think the tundra rats are from this other world, then?” Langly asked. “That they’re passing through here? Is that all that lives there? What else can come through?”

Mulder thought of other creatures with mouths full of those nail-like teeth. Bigger creatures. He swallowed thickly and looked at his injured arm. The bleeding had stopped, but it was tender.

“I think,” Mulder said, wincing, “that the sawgrass most likely keeps other creatures out or in, or whatever you want to call it. The rats, I think,” he said, “with their metallic skin and the size of this… this window, are some of the few creatures that can pass through.”

“So how do we close it? Seal it off?” Scully asked.

Mulder saw the reason in this, but his sense of awe and curiosity was only just awakening. “Close it?” he asked, incredulity creeping into his tone. “Scully, this is a wonder!”

“If it is the source of the tundra rats, Mulder,” she said testily, “it’s also killing this village.”

Mulder didn’t, couldn’t argue with that.

Frohike had lowered himself to his knees and was peering through the sawgrass at the bit of sunlight that showed through behind it. “Remarkable,” he said. “Though I think Scully is right. We need to definitively find out if this is the source of the vermin.”

“How?” said Langly, standing with his arms crossed in front of him. “Set up a camp and wait for one to come through?”

“That would be dangerous,” Hosteen said, “even with pistols. You do not want to be out here at night.”

“We could go through,” Mulder said. “Armed, of course. Go in and look around. See if we can find other rats. Evidence of their presence.”

“Through that hole?” Scully said. “How? Do you have the ability to elongate your bones and squeeze through narrow places?”

“What if we send a daemon? Ondima could probably squeeze through.”

The arctic fox in question eased her way behind Langly’s leg, lowering herself to the ground in fear.

“I could go,” said Haseya. “It would be my honor to see a world beyond our own.”

“I think that’s a nonstarter,” said Frohike to the hawk. “How far would you be able to go with Mr. Hosteen on this side of the window?”

Scully gave Mulder a significant look and subtly shook her head. She’d thought of it before he had. Cassiana could change into something small and go through the window. And the daemon could move as far away from Mulder as necessary. Though this certainly wasn’t the time to bring it up.

“Well,” he said. “We’ll need to think of a solution. In the meantime, I think the more pressing matter is what to do about the tundra rats that are already here.”

Everyone agreed with this and they all reluctantly backed away from the wonder of the dense thicket. Mulder gazed at it with longing, and finally turned, the last to do so, to head back to Hosteen’s farm.

XxX

Hosteen had seen them back to his farmhouse and then left to talk to Tonnels. Mulder, Scully, Frohike and Langly sat around his kitchen table sipping at strong tea and trading ideas.

“I wonder,” said Scully, who had been quiet for some time, “if the hide of the tundra rats are conductive.”

Langly leaned forward. “It would stand to reason that they are,” he said, “if they’re actually made of metal.”

“Should be easy enough to test,” said Frohike, and galvanized, the four of them put on coats and trudged down the steps with their daemons into Hosteen’s basement, bringing up the dead frozen rat onto the workbench.

“So,” said Mulder, “how do we do this?”

Langly looked around Hosteen’s work area, pulling open drawers and cabinets. “I’ve got it,” he said. “Will someone pull the exterior fixture off that light, please?” He pointed at the anbaric light above the bench.

Frohike pushed the table a bit to the side and stood under the light as Annie scampered up him and onto his shoulder, reaching up to deftly remove the casing from the light with her small, human-like hands. Langly worked for a few minutes and then strung up several wires and hooked them into the rudimentary circuitry at the base of the bulb.

“Ready,” he said.

“Hold one wire to the nose and one to the tail,” instructed Scully. “See if it will complete the circuit.”

Langly did so, and the light above them dimmed and then got brighter. They could see a faint anbaric static crackle along the hide of the beast.

“That answers that,” Mulder said.

“I wonder if the animal’s circulatory system is similar to ours,” Scully pondered out loud. “If its heart functions with the same anbaric pulses as our own. If so, maybe we could shock them.”

“Every farm in the village could rig something up, if so,” Frohike said, excitedly.

“Langly,” Scully said, narrowing her eyes for a moment. “Can you touch both wires to the rat? At the same time in the same location? I’m curious what would happen.”

Langly nodded and twisted the two wires together, touching them to the tundra rat’s back. What happened next was not anything Mulder had been expecting. There was the sound of a crackling surge of power, and the body of the rat went flying a foot off the table with a momentary flash of purple sparks encasing the body. The lights in the basement grew three times as bright as one of the bulbs in the far corner exploded, and then the creature fell back to the table, its hide shrunk to half its previous size, and its limbs, frozen stiff though they had been, were pulled up into its abdomen so that it appeared to be nothing more than a desiccated metallic ball.

“Well now,” said Frohike. “That was something.”

Scully leaned forward onto the table, peering at what was left of the creature with interest, looking surprised despite herself.

“I think we figured out a way to kill ‘em,” Mulder said happily.

XxX

Hosteen’s house, though old, was well insulated and built well for the area in which it sat. When Scully walked into his room that evening, she was wearing far less than she had any other night since they arrived in Bekingland — a camisole and a night skirt — having practically overheated the night before.

Mulder sat up in the bed, just the sight of her bare shoulder setting his pulse to racing. He remembered her words as she drifted off to sleep the previous evening, how she wanted to talk. About them.

She shut the door softly and Hendrick made a beeline for Cassiana, settling in next to her without delay. Scully took more time and care entering the room, looking at Mulder with a small moue of apprehension. She sat on the bed near his hip, but didn’t lay down next to him.

He reached out a hand and ran it down her arm. “You wanted to talk,” he said quietly, and she turned to him.

“Yes,” she said.

“About us,” he had to resist the urge to lean forward and press a kiss to the skin of her shoulder. He saw her smile and look down, her hair falling to block his view of her face.

“Yes,” she said again. “But…”

“But?” A low feeling of disquiet settled in his stomach.

“First I want to…” She took a breath and appeared to steel herself. “Mulder, I know what you’re thinking. You want to send Cass through the window. You want her to change so she can go through.”

Mulder looked over at his daemon who was sitting next to Hendrick on the floor, both of them sitting like sphinxes.

“Yes,” he said simply, echoing her from the moment before.

“Mulder, please don’t. Anyone might see, and besides, we don’t know what’s on the other side of that window. There could be anything. If something happened to her… if you died…”

He could see tears forming in her eyes and he sat forward, wrapping an arm around her.

“We’ll be careful,” he said, “we won’t do it when anyone else is around. She can be a bird, high up in the air, above any danger.”

Scully sniffed once. “Suppose they have cliff ghasts in that world too,” she said. “Or something worse.”

“Scully,” he said, his voice one of confident wonder. “It’s another world. Another world . If Cass can experience that for us… And we have to be sure about the rats. We promised Albert Hosteen our help and protection.” He reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “You and I never do anything half-assed.”

“Mulder, if something happened… I can’t lose you.”

“Why not?” His voice was a rasp, emotion pulling his throat tight.

The tears that were in her eyes pooled even bigger under the bright blue of her irises, but refused to fall. “Because I love you,” she said, and an emotion surged up from inside of him so big that it propelled him forward and before he knew quite what he was doing, his lips were on hers in a searing kiss. She kissed him back, desperately, her arms suddenly around him, pulling him to her tightly.

He kissed her like he’d always wanted to, passionately, greedily, with an ancient fire in the belly, and he only pulled back when he felt a wetness on his cheeks, the sweetness of her briny tears sweeping across his lips and into his mouth.

He took a breath, calmed himself, and used his thumbs to wipe the tear tracks from beneath her eyes.

“Mulder, there’s got to be another way,” she whispered, pleading.

He leaned forward and touched a chaste kiss to the end of her nose, holding her cheeks in both hands.

“It’ll be fine,” he whispered back, pressing his lips one last time to hers. “It’ll be fine.”

XxX

Everyone once again awoke with the dawn, eager to put their plan into action. Hosteen had called a meeting with the other villagers, who gathered in the town hall later that morning to hear the plan to eradicate the tundra rats from the village.

The creatures, who had been seen by more than one villager drinking from livestock troughs, seemed to be drawn to the water there, and so that was how they planned to get them. With the help of Frohike and Langly, the villagers would rig anbaric cabling to the troughs at every farm, turning on the power every night once livestock was safely enclosed in their stables. The closest natural water source was miles and miles away, and with any luck, they would shock and kill every tundra rat before the month was out. The villagers accepted the plan with enthusiasm.

They had a lot of work to do to put the plan into action, and hoped to be able to see if it worked that very night.

A couple of villagers had brought up the fact that they still didn’t know where the tundra rats came from, and voiced their fear that until that happened they would never feel safe. Hosteen had cautioned against announcing what they’d found after Tonnels’ reaction, and all parties involved had agreed. Once the meeting had drawn to an end, Mulder pulled Scully aside.

“We need to go in,” he said.

She sighed unhappily.

“You heard those people, Scully. We need to be sure. And once we’re through, maybe we can find a way to close the tear so that the village never has to worry again.”

“How?” she asked. “When? It’s not safe to do it in the dead of night, you heard Hosteen. And during the day – what if you’re seen?”

Mulder looked around. “We’ll go now,” he said. “Everyone will be busy preparing their farms for the anbaric defense.”

Scully sighed again, but said nothing, following him out of the village center and down the road toward Tonnels’ field. He was right in that the villagers had gathered around Hosteen, Frohike and Langly and were listening carefully to the instructions they gave on what supplies they needed to gather and what they needed to prepare to protect their homes. Mulder and Scully turned on the road that led out of the village and were utterly alone, the hum of energized voices gradually fading to silence behind them.

Mulder could hear Hendrick and Cass talking in low voices a few paces back. He hesitated for a moment and then reached out to take Scully’s hand.

“Last night,” he said, “we got a little sidetracked.”

Other than Scully’s confession, they had spent most of the time discussing the perils of what they were now on their way to do and then had turned in for the night without talking about what lay so obviously between them, emotionally and physically spent.

“I just,” he went on, “I want you to know that your feelings aren’t one-sided.”

Scully squeezed his hand and then let it go.

“Let’s do this first,” she said, her voice clipped with worry and fear.

“Okay,” he said, centering himself. “Okay.”

They both looked warily around as they approached the thicket where the window lay, but saw no one. With Cass by his side, Mulder walked around the thicket itself, studying it in space. When they went around the back of the window, it vanished. You could only see it from one side.

“How do you want to do this?” Mulder finally said, turning to his daemon.

“I think what you said before is probably the best way,” Cass said. She was nervous but was putting on a brave face. “Once I’m through, I’ll go up in the air. See if I can confirm the presence of the rats. Maybe look around a bit, for the sake of exploring.”

Mulder smiled at her. “I wish I could go with you.”

“I know,” she said, and rubbed her face into his hand.

With that, Cassiana turned to Hendrick.

“Cassiana,” the cheetah said, his low baritone betraying the trace of a nervous purr. Hendrick stepped forward and closed his eyes, giving the fossa a tender head butt before licking the fur on her head with a rough tongue. “Be careful.”

Cass, a little overwhelmed with emotion, simply nodded in a human-like way and turned back to Mulder.

“Is the coast clear?” she asked.

Mulder and Scully scanned all parts of the horizon before giving her the go ahead, and, looking around once herself, Cass changed into a moth, flitting over lightly to the sawgrass and then disappearing behind it.

Mulder could feel her excitement and fear as she slipped through the slit of space.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Hyrule does need hugs. Have healthcare Hyrule comfort <3

Hyrule didn't pray.

He never really learned how to, honestly. He'd spent the majority of his life on his own. He was taken away from his parents when he was very young, and he'd run away from the foster system that had failed him fairly quickly. But he'd see people talk about it, see churches and pass through them. The architecture was always very pretty, but he never entirely understood the meaning behind them.

So it was probably not a great sign that he stood at the entrance to the cathedral in the center of Castle Town. Sky would tell him prayer helped in difficult times, but Hyrule had never understood how that was supposed to assist him, how he was even supposed to start.

Nevertheless, after that last call, he needed help. He knew he did. But the others were insanely stressed as well - one of their own was down, Wild was dying, and Hyrule...

He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to do.

Feeling powerless was not something he liked. No healthcare provider did. They were natural problem solvers; as a paramedic Hyrule always honed his skills on figuring out what an issue was and solving it, or getting the patient to definitive care that could do the trick. Medicine was messy, and it didn't always work out, but at the end of the day, no provider wanted to be in a situation where they could do nothing.

Hyrule had done everything he could. But now his hand were tied. Wild had survived the surgery, though he'd gotten compartment syndrome from bleeding in the OR and was sent to the ICU with an open abdomen and ICP monitoring with a potential for another surgery to relieved pressure if his brain kept bleeding. At this point, his life had shifted from Hyrule's hands, to Legend and Warriors, to Malon and Time, and now to Four.

Although, really, Hyrule knew. He knew that it wasn't in any of their hands. He wasn't much of a believer in God - he figured there was one, but he didn't know much beyond that. But with all his time in healthcare, he'd learned that he wasn't one, and it wasn't within his ability to determine who lived and died.

Hyrule needed help. And he would find any help he could for his friend. He wouldn't quit until he'd exhausted every avenue.

So he walked into the church, arching ceiling carrying his footsteps and reverberating them all around, filling the space with his presence. It made him feel unbelievably small. But the gentle lighting of the candles, the cascade of colors staining the pews from the sunset in the west peering through stained glass, the faint smell of incense... it... for lack of a better word, distracted him, at least. This place felt otherworldly.

Slowly, he slid into a pew, sighing, exhausted. He looked at his hands, flexing his fingers, remembering how much he'd scrubbed his arms after the call because Wild's blood had been all over him.

Hyrule cleared his throat uncomfortably, shifting in his seat. "Um. Hi. I, uh... don't know if this is the right way to do this, but... but I need your help. Or, really, my friend does."

This had to be the wrong way to do this. He definitely was doing this wrong. But he had to get it off his chest, and his brothers in duty were all far too overwhelmed to be of any help. Also... he just didn't usually rely on others for help anyway.

But he couldn't carry this alone.

"Please," he asked, and as the word escaped his lips it made his throat tighten, as the petition moved from thought to action it started slamming into him. "Please help him get through this. I... he's my friend, and... he's in pretty rough shape, and... I don't know what else to do. I won't give up on him. But I know there's only so much we can do. So... if you could just... not kill him? That would be... uh, please just help him get better."

Hyrule stared at the altar, eyes drifting to the flickering candle above it. He wondered if this even made a difference. When a gentle breath sighed to his left, he nearly jumped out of his skin--dear heaven above what was happening had something just appeared out of nowhere what--and whirled and saw Sky standing beside him. The pilot's lips pulled in genuine amusement at Hyrule's temporary terror, before he asked, "Can I join you?"

Hyrule finally got his breathing under control, scooting further into the pew. "Y-yeah. Well. Actually. I should probably go."

"Please stay," Sky requested as he sat beside him.

The medic relaxed a little, and then shrugged. "I don't think he heard me anyway. Probably didn't do it right."

Sky's smile returned, far gentler and warmer. "He always hears you."

Hyrule blinked, looking between his friend and the candle up front. It flickered, winking at him. He sighed, and his eyes fell down to his hands once more.

"You did everything you could," Sky assured him quietly, hand warm on his shoulder.

"I know," Hyrule replied. He would never forgive himself if he hadn't. He was not giving up on Wild. That was on of the reasons he was here. He had to try everything, after all. He'd been at the hospital since the call had ended, and that was eight hours ago. The only reason he'd left was because with the news that Wild had survived the surgery, he'd finally felt enough relief to leave and be alone for a brief time, to seek other help and any avenue of assisting Wild.

Sky didn't say anything further, but he left his hand on Hyrule's shoulder. Slowly, the medic relented, leaning over to rest against his friend. Sky's arm moved to wrap around him, pulling him into a side hug. Hyrule didn't argue. The two sat in silence, staring ahead, minds buzzing with thoughts and prayers, worries shared and raised, and the world was silent.

Just took my last final so it's 12 days of SWEET GLORIOUS FREEDOM FROM ACADEMIC RESPONSIBILITIES and then the summer school grind begins for the next 3 months. The best part is that it's starting to warm up outside so that I don't have to coat a coat 24/7 anymore!

TWELVE DAYS OF FREEDOM YEEEEE

Congratulations!!! ❤️❤️❤️

You get a celebratory snippet!! Who do you want to read about?

Also good luck with summer courses, I do not miss that form of torture oof

[arofili]

elves of arda ✹ gondolindrim ✹ headcanon disclaimer ✹ @gondolinweek

          Itarillë Vanisailë was the daughter of Turukáno Ñolofinwion and Elenwë Calimiel. She was only a child when the Ñoldor marched across the Helcaraxë, a treacherous journey where she lost her mother. Her father, always a serious nér, grew even grimmer after this tragedy and kept Itarillë close to his side.           The arrival of the Noldor in Beleriand allowed for Itarillë to exercise slightly more freedom than she had been allowed on the Ice, though Turukáno still would not allow her to wander far. As she grew into adulthood, Itarillë loved and resented her father in equal measure, for he was the only parent she retained and yet denied her the agency she craved.           Itarillë went with Turukáno to Nevrast, and while she loved the sea she missed the company of those few friends who had not quailed from her father’s intimidating presence, including the young healer Meleth who charmed her to distraction. She missed also her uncle Findekáno, a gay and jovial prince who indulged her more rebellious tendencies and shielded her from Turukáno’s anxiety. Itarillë grew restless in Vinyamar, chafing against her father’s stern watch, and eventually fled secretly to visit her uncle in Dor-lómin (and Meleth, who served in his house) without Turukáno’s leave. Turukáno lost his temper dramatically when he discovered her flight, an incident that resulted in his close friend and cousin Finrod taking him away on a journey to come to terms with his fears and losses.           Turukáno was gone for a year, during which time Itarillë finally felt she could breathe and discover what kind of nís she wanted to be. Finrod arranged for her cousins Orodreth and Tyelperinquar to keep her company while Fingon, Galadriel, and Aredhel kept watch over the band of youths; the cousins engaged in many lighthearted adventures and dramatics, including teasing Orodreth over his infatuation with the Sindarin princess Amathluin, daughter of the rulers of the Mithrim Sindar. Itarillë and Meleth flirted for several months, exchanging a few kisses and love letters before they decided that they were not fated to bond, settling instead into a deep and abiding friendship that would stand the test of time.           When Finrod and Turukáno returned, the distance between father and daughter had mellowed their tempers, and they were reunited with gladness. As Itarillë, or Idril as she became known in Sindarin, came of age, Turukáno gradually relaxed his vigilance over her safety and grew to confide in her of his plans to build a city safe from the dangers of Beleriand. Idril proved an invaluable counselor as he began work on Ondolindë’s construction, and Turukáno proved his trust in her by granting her a noble House of her own once they retreated into the city’s walls.           In the safety of Tumladen, Idril reassumed her Quenya name, and was known both as the Princess of Ondolindë and the Lady of the House of the Wing. She took this symbol from the swans she had loved in Vinyamar, having learned their language from her kinswoman Galadriel, originally of the Teleri of Alqualondë. Among the folk of the Wing were Itarillë’s friend Meleth and her house-carl Hendor, a footman she had befriended during her year in Fingon’s court.           Itarillë was a skilled dancer, both as a solo performer and with her friend Meleth as a partner, and for this and her habit of walking about the streets of Ondolindë unshod, she earned the epessë Telpevontál, or Celebrindal. She was for the most part removed from the politics of her father’s court, for she held more interest in dancing and tending to the palace gardens than quarrelling with her fellow lords. Nonetheless, when she held an opinion on King Turukáno’s policies, she was certain to make her voice known, and all respected her input.           Though Itarillë was not herself a hunter, she would sometimes accompany her aunt Aredhel, Lady of the Tower of Snow, on expeditions outside the city limits. She still yearned for freedom, and though the confinement within the white stone walls of Ondolindë was less stifling for her than it was for her aunt she wished to breathe the open air and have space to herself from time to time. When Aredhel left Gondolin to visit Fingon in Dor-lómin, Itarillë half-wished to accompany her, but she knew her place was at her father’s side. Upon Aredhel’s disappearance and her later death, Itarillë was deeply grieved, for she had loved her aunt dearly.           Though Aredhel perished, her son lived, though Itarillë knew not what to make of Maeglin Lómion, the cousin she never expected to have. His apparent apathy upon the execution of his father unsettled her, and though she was naturally sympathetic to a young ellon so cruelly orphaned his oddness made her hesitate to befriend him. It helped not at all that he seemed to shy away from her, even as he grew more confident in his position as the King’s nephew and revealed a more charming and charismatic side to the people of Gondolin.           Penlod, the Lairde of both the Pillar and the Tower of Snow after Aredhel’s demise, would still at times invite Itarillë to accompany them on hunts outside of Ondolindë. On one such occasion, Penlod also extended the invitation to Maeglin, and he eagerly accepted the chance to see some of the outside world. While on this ill-fated expedition, the hunters were attacked by white wolves from the mountains, and Itarillë and Lómion were separated from the rest of the group.           Lómion suffered a great injury in defending Itarillë from the wolves, and Itarillë, who had learned some healing from Meleth, insisted on treating his wounds. When conventional methods did little to staunch the bleeding, she insisted on Singing the wound closed despite Lómion’s great reluctance. Itarillë and Lómion both were strong in ósanwë, though Itarillë’s talent lay in perceiving the minds of others and Lómion’s in shielding his mind from any who wished to peer into his thoughts; Itarillë had long been curious—and, admittedly, a little suspicious—as to what lay hidden in her cousin’s heart.           As she Sang healing into Lómion’s hröa, their fëar mingled and Itarillë was shocked to discover that Lómion’s secret was his infatuation with her despite their close kinship, now rising to the surface of his thoughts. Astonished and not a little bit horrified, Itarillë faltered, retreating from his mind and succeeding only in making his injury worse. Luckily, they were recovered by Penlod soon after, and Maeglin was tended to by more experienced healers, but the incident deeply affected both cousins. They never spoke of it again, and Itarillë distanced herself from Maeglin more than she had already, engendering further bitterness between them.           When Turukáno marched with ten thousand soldiers to fight in the Fifth Battle, he first asked Maeglin to act as regent in absence, but he insisted on accompanying the King to war. Privately, Itarillë was glad to see him gone, for she trusted her cousin less with every passing year and did not wish to leave Ondolindë in his hands. Indeed, she was offended that her father had gone to him first with this request, and offered the regency to her only after Maeglin had refused. Nevertheless, when the warriors departed, it was Itarillë who ruled the city until the King’s return.           Not long after the disaster of the Nírnaeth Arnœdiad and her father’s ascension to High King of the Noldor, a Man arrived in Gondolin with a message from Ulmo. This was Tuor, son of Huor who had dwelt a year in Ondolindë as a child, and Itarillë was fascinated by the noble bearing and easy charm about him almost as much as she was troubled by Turukáno’s refusal to heed Ulmo’s ominous warning.           Itarillë befriended Tuor, and when Turukáno—encouraged by Maeglin—dismissed her counsel again and again, she and her new companion began to work together on a secret tunnel out of the city and into the mountains. As their collaboration progressed, Itarillë found herself growing deeply fond of Tuor, and gladly accepted his advances when he requested to court her.           At first Turukáno hesitated to see their love developing, but he recalled the last words of Huor his friend: “From you and from me a new star shall arise.” Meditating on this prophecy, he at last agreed to Tuor’s proposal of marriage, giving him the green stone known as the Elessar, once a symbol of his brother’s marriage, to his future law-son as a token of approval. Tuor took the stone and commissioned the smith Enerdhil of the Hammer of Wrath to restore it to its former glory and set it into a necklace he gave as a wedding gift to Itarillë. Tuor joined his wife as the leader of her House of the Wing; in only a year’s time, their son Eärendil Ardamírë was born.           Itarillë’s suspicion of Maeglin only grew in these years, for her cousin made no secret of his distrust and jealousy of Tuor. He gifted little Eärendil a small coat made of mithril, and while she was not so foolish as to deny such a precious gift, she resolved to watch him ever more closely. In Eärendil’s sixth year, Maeglin delved deep into the mines of Anghabar for longer than he ever had before, and Itarillë guessed he was preparing for some twisted scheme.           When at last Maeglin returned to Ondolindë, he was even grimmer and harried than usual; he would often approach Itarillë in private and attempt to speak to her, but his words would die in his throat and he would flee into the darkness. Itarillë confided her worries to Tuor, and her husband thereafter made an effort to remain by her side as often as he could. Shortly before the celebration of Tarnin Austa, Maeglin for the last time caught Itarillë on her own, insisting she take as a gift a curious dagger that would glow should the Enemy come near. Deeply troubled by this veiled threat, Itarillë set aside the blade and never used it, fearing it was somehow cursed.           At last the dreadful doom for which Tuor and Itarillë had long been preparing came to pass, for on the morn of Tarnin Austa the armies of Morgoth attacked Gondolin and its great Fall began. Once more Tuor and Itarillë begged Turukáno to flee the city, but at Maeglin’s urging he instead chose to fight and attempt to hold the city. Itarillë left at once to prepare her secret way, knowing that the hidden kingdom would fall and she would need to lead its survivors to safety, while Tuor reluctantly rallied the House of the Wing to arms.           As Itarillë made her way to her tunnel with Eärendil, she was accosted by Maeglin, whose mental defenses were now tattered and torn. Seeing clearly now that he had betrayed them, Itarillë attempted to fight him off, but with a few of his folk to aid him he captured her and dragged her to the cliffside. Raving and mad, Maeglin ranted that Morgoth’s victory was inevitable and it would be a kinder fate for them all to die at his hands than be tortured by the Enemy’s servants; he seized Eärendil and would have thrown him off the walls of the city had Itarillë not resisted him. He sneered at her for forgetting the blade he gave her, and in a moment of desperation their minds touched briefly one last time.           In that moment Tuor arrived, rushing to the defense of his wife and child. Maeglin swung his blade wildly, striking little Eärendil, but his blow was in vain for the child wore the mithril coat he himself had crafted. Swiftly, Tuor broke Maeglin’s arm, recovered Eärendil, and as soon as Itarillë had the boy safely in her arms he pressed Maeglin to the edge of Caragdûr and shoved him off the edge. Thus fell Maeglin, dying the same death as his father—but Itarillë was reeling, for in their very last moment of contact Maeglin had bared his soul to her entirely, revealing that his treachery had been coerced and that he was under a spell of Morgoth, and that he had been attempting to warn her of the attack for months. It was not enough to make up for the death and destruction and doom, but Itarillë could not find it in her heart to be glad that he was dead.           Yet there was no time to process her roiling emotions, for the battle raged on. Itarillë resumed her efforts to usher the commonfolk of Ondolindë into her tunnel, and Tuor led his warriors back into the fray, leaving his friend Voronwë to guard his family. Tuor forced his way to the battle at the gate, fighting alongside Ecthelion of the Fountain, where he slew three orc-lords and five Balrogs. He was forced to retreat when the walls fell and Ecthelion was injured, and the Fountain and the Wing fell back to the Square of the King, joined by the Tree on their journey. There a bitter last stand was made, in which Ecthelion perished killing Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, and at last Turukáno saw that Gondolin was indeed fallen. He ordered Tuor to lead the retreat of those who yet lived, though despite Tuor’s pleading he refused to flee himself.           Tuor and Itarillë led the surviving exiles through their secret way, giving charge of little Eärendil to Hendor, Meleth, and Voronwë while they ensured the safety of their people. As they fled into the mountains and the city crumbled behind them, the refugees were attacked once more by a Balrog, and were saved only by the intervention of the Eagles and by the valiance of Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, who was dragged to his death by the demon he slew.           Idril and Tuor led the Gondolindrim on a long and winding journey to the Havens of Sirion, and after seeing their son married, departed out to Sea in search of Valinor where Idril had been born. There is more to their tale, and though it is filled with great sorrow it concludes in joy and family reunited against all odds, for though Arda was Marred it shall not be so forever.

[bitchassbucky]

.eps (explicit)

Word Count: 2k

Warning/s: dark!bucky x dark!reader, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, blood mention, gore and dismemberment/beheading, murder, toxic/abusive relationship dynamics, sedation/drugging/use of sedative, stockholm syndrome-ish, one very special character reveal

A/N: i told y'all there's more <3 the special character treat is for @sarge-barnes-sir mwah!

this is queued shdhhsh gonna fix the links in the mornin’

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS ABOVE, IF YOU DON'T WANT TO READ THIS VERSION, GO AND CHECK OUT THE NON-EXPLICIT VERSION.

follow the CTRL series:

i - .exe

ii - .avi

iii - .raw

iv - .png

v - .zip

CTRL playlist CTRL moodboard

Safeness, comfortability, warmth are all but a false sense of reality.

When a prey takes down its walls, the predator moves in. Camouflaged in familiar colors, in words that you’re used to hearing, in praises, in lies. Most predators use the mask of the night to move in darkness—unyielding and calculated. Come morning, there will be only one left alive, tainted with victory and bloodshed.

You and Bucky have been engaging in a dance for two—a battle of who’s willing to take the leap of faith and unleash hell upon the other.

Stifled smiles and pursed lips.

The air is filled with unsaid irritants, little things that ticked away like bombs.

There was no time for pleading, no time for mercy, no rest for the wicked.

Did you still love each other?

How far are you willing to go to keep up with his… complacency?

Bucky’s mundane life already taking a toll on you. The endless nightmares of him feeling you. The swirling vision of Bucky being with you every waking—and sleeping—moment: it grates your soul to shreds.

“We’ll be together forever, right?”

“Yes, darling.”

“What about the day after forever?”

“That too, honey.”

Where was the man you loved so deeply? The man that broke his morals just to be with you?

Was he under this hull of a Yes Man? A poor little thing that says ‘yes’ to everything like a puppy.

The man you held so dearly now slipping away, chipping his humanity, shedding the once-human.

“Would you marry me tomorrow if I asked you?”

“Of course, baby, why wouldn’t I?”

“Would you kill for me?”

“I’m meant to do the same for you.”

It’s irritating how Bucky gave up too quickly. Too fast, moving too fast. The gazelle let the lion tear its neck as it lay there, unmoving, letting the blood seep into its hide.

When you first met Bucky, it was your own fairytale unfolding before your eyes. Kismet, reality, forgiveness from above. He was soft and shy, passionate, lively.

Far from what you expected from a man his age—you blame Steve for forcing you into his narrative before. That all men are out to get you. They will hurt you. They will use you and leave you for good. But Bucky? Bucky came in like a knight. He saved you from the carcass of your past. He saved you from the sins that you prayed and knelt for.

Bucky taught you how to love.

Bucky taught you how to live for yourself.

Bucky taught you that being alone doesn’t mean you have to be lonely.

“It was an unspoken little thing, wasn’t it?”

“What thing, baby?”

“Our love.”

“Yes, honey, it was.”

He worships you.

He worships you like a fucking God and you hate it.

Suffocating, too suffocating. You dove straight for the water and now you’re drowning.

Do you still love each other? The question hangs in the air, heavy with its weight, light as a feather.

It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault.

So you stand there with a syringe half-filled with a horse sedative. It’s a concern how easy it is to waltz into a pet store and pick up a general anesthetic. You make a mental note to look at it later.

Bucky’s body slumps forward, his forehead meeting the edge of the table with a dull thud. If the overdose doesn’t kill him, the weeping crack in his head will.

Holy fuck, humans bleed a lot. And fast. Good thing you already have that clear tarp taped down. Even with the hush money stuffed down your throat, it would take a good nick to regrout the kitchen.

“What is that for, honey?”

“I’m painting the cabinets.”

“Okay, darling.”

So you let him bleed, surprised that the liquid is redder than what you thought it would be. A soft gurgling noise came from Bucky, the last of air escaping his dead body. You stood there, syringe in hand, as you thought how to dispose of a six-foot-tall man without arousing suspicion.

Not that he’ll be missed anyway: the local news and the internet already branded him as a psycho and you as a victim. You were both victims in this fairytale. They reported his case as “skipped the town like the sicko he is.” So, no—no one’s going to look for him.

The sun was high up in the sky and there was a dead body in your kitchen.

A butcher and a surgeon walks into a bar for a drink. “What do you do for a living?” Said the butcher, “I save lives! What about you?” The doctor answers. “I save animals from dying slowly. We’re basically the same. You’re just very clean.” You see, the butcher comes into the bar covered in blood, reeking of death. The surgeon, on the other hand, wears his white coat with pride even though he’s surrounded by death every passing second.

Today was the day you learned that you have the tools of a butcher and the precision of a surgeon. Unlike before.

You carefully take Bucky’s fingers off of his left hand, leaving a skin flap on the edge of the last knuckle for you to stitch close later. Four promises. Four goddamn promises and he broke all of them.

It was his fault that he’s dead. He made you do this.

Starting with his left shoulder, you jab the knife between the bone and the soft flesh of his armpit, bringing the blade downwards. The sickening smell of blood swirled along with the image of muscle and fat being sliced made you gag.

Does the brain know that it’s seeing something it shouldn’t?

A rational part of you wanted to look away but the time is ticking, it’ll be much harder once rigor mortis sets in an hour.

You swing the knife down, cracking the bone once, and then again, and again, and again until the shoulder bone splinters and dislocates itself from the rest of Bucky’s torso. You had to switch knives and blades and a fucking bone saw to get through the rest of his limbs, leaving only his chest, head, and stomach untouched. After taping up and packing the arms and the legs, you work on putting the rest of Bucky into a nondescript suitcase.

The only problem being his head getting into the way of things.

Wanting to preserve even a shred of his dignity, you left his face untouched. Well, save from the crack in his skull.

You begrudgingly take a hefty chef’s knife and start cutting through the jugular vein, only stopping when the blade hits the spinal cord by his nape. The serrated blade of the bone saw sits on your blood-soaked gloves, scrape-scrape-scraping until it snaps into two.

The human head weighs around 10 pounds, kinda like a bowling ball.

An opaque black garbage bag containing Bucky’s head looks nothing suspicious as you put it inside a backpack—into a firepit you go.

His limbs—arms and legs alike—are going deep into the ocean, forgotten and to be used as fish food.

The limbless torso will be finding its home in a deep hole in the middle of a densely wooded area, far from the city.

But you’re not quite sure what to do with the mason jar of teeth though; the clinking noises of it remind you of the seashells you used to collect when you were a kid. Maybe you’ll stash it away with the torso.

Placing the bags into the trunk of a rental, you begin your journey to the end of your fairytale.

The drive to and from the places was tiring, to say the least. The internet connection of the diners was spotty at best. Locals were overly friendly with the city folks who came passing through their towns. The roads reek of roadkill and manure from the farm animals that were left to roam for fresh grass.

At least you get to come home in a spotless apartment, alone once again.

But not lonely.

Your space is yours again. No trace of anyone anywhere. Immaculately yours.

—

Humans are social creatures.

No one can truly be alone, especially in today’s world where we’re connected to everyone—whether we liked it or not.

Leaving your wretched job behind was an easy feat to do. No one can say no to the victim of such a vile crime. That’s all they saw you: a helpless little thing. So off you went; saying half-assed goodbyes and sending emails of courage and hope and fucking resilience.

Your resignation meant that the company’s free of any dirt from you, Bucky’s disappearance quickly becoming a joke and a rumor blending in one.

They let you leave: in your bank account a fat check ensuring that you’d shut up about the scandal for months until you can’t feed yourself no more. So you packed your bags and jet off without looking back. You never liked that apartment anyway.

Nevertheless, you found yourself looking into another dead-end job in one of the towns you stopped over before. It’s a charming place like time froze in their plaza while the rest of the world went on. You found a small studio apartment in a street tuckered away from the main avenue, you settled there as days became nights and nights turned into days.

You woke up one morning craving a healthy serving of coffee and pancakes, luckily the town’s local diner wasn’t far from your new home.

The coffee was too hot, the pancakes were amazing, fluffy, and just right. You’re sitting in a sunny booth, the warmth doing its wonders.

“Hi, can I get today’s paper, please?” Your voice is sweet as you call your server, giving her a quick smile.

A pair of Raybans adorn your face, unconsciously hiding behind its darkened glasses. The waitress gives you a thick stack of newspapers, refilling your cup with black coffee.

Upon opening the paper, you ignore the town’s headlines and went straight for the job postings. The door jingled open as patrons come in and go, waving to familiar faces.

Job Vacancy Announcements

Secretary to the Town Sheriff

You skimmed over the rest of the details, only noting the address of the office. The job looks quite lucrative for someone who would only take messages and organize files for the sheriff.

Looking over the job posting again, you read over the words walk-ins only. That shouldn’t be hard enough.

The diner looked deserted save from the man sitting behind your booth. Leaning over and tapping his shoulder, you put on a polite smile, “Hi, sorry, do you know how to get to the sheriff’s office from here?”

“Hello, darling.” The man croons in an accent, he looks over to you, “join me in my booth, will ‘ya?”

You’re in no position to reject his proposal, you’re the one who needed an answer.

Taking your coffee cup, you slide into his booth, “hi.”

“Just the face I wanted to see.” Clean-shaven, a hint of mint and smoke, and something woody; a worn leather jacket and white button-up shirt hugging his soft frame. “Some folks over on the apartment complex were talkin’ about a city girl wanting to rent a studio all by herself. That happen to be you?”

You look over to him, trying to understand how that small of news spread like a wildfire, “yeah. I moved in a week ago.”

He leans over, smiling sweetly as he unabashedly lets his eyes roam your features, “What’s a city girl like you doin’ in a place like this? I hope we ain’t too boring for you, gal.”

Chatty—he’s way too chatty.

“Just wanted a change of pace, really. Away from the bustle of the city.” You rustle the paper, clearing your throat to get back on the matter on hand, “so the sheriff’s office? Is it too far from here?”

“What business are ‘ya bringing into the office?”

“A job, actually. Says here that they’re looking for a secretary.” You might as well tell him everything, he seems too chatty to be dismissed over and over again.

“Well, darlin’, today’s your lucky day. No need to drive down the old road.” He reaches down to his seat, pulling up a brown hat, “Hi, I’m Sheriff Bodecker. Now, to whom do I owe the pleasure?”

You bite back a giggle, you’ve always wanted to be involved with the law.

[giorno-plays-piano]

Yandere alien Bucky x astronaut darling

I find this request very unique! I’ve never actually thought about this before, so thank you for bringing this creative idea <3

P.S. The action takes place in the future.

The Reason

Pairing: alien!Bucky Barnes x astronaut!Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, kidnapping, death of minor characters, allusion to breeding and non-con.

Words: 2985.

_____________________

When you finally managed to open your eyes, everything was pitch black for a couple of minutes. Your body hurt so much as if someone threw you into a well, then pulled your dead body out, and threw it back in. The oxygen mask on your face felt heavy as hell.

You easily recognized the monotonous sounds of life support system since it wasn’t your first space mission. Damn, what had happened? Did you finally get that significant brain damage Dr. Strange was so concerned about? You didn’t remember blacking out so violently after your last spaceflights. This one wasn’t even your longest.

When you saw the room, you stared at the unnaturally high ceiling that you couldn’t blame on your blurry vision. It just didn’t look the same. Did they move the Adaptation Center to a new building or something? Did Dr. Strange mentioned it before? You couldn’t remember, really. You didn’t think he did.

Despite the fact that you felt weightless, moving your body seemed nearly impossible as you struggled to move your legs. Shit, and there you thought those magic drugs NASA offered you last time were way better than their usual treatments. 

Wait. You didn’t finish your mission. You weren’t returning to Earth yet as you had around 6 more months to spend in space. Had something happened? Did Dr. Str-

Oh yes. Dr. Strange was dead. You still remembered his face when Sergeant Barnes, an extraterrestrial from Theseus-17, had shot him right in front of you.

When you saved them from their greatly damaged spacecraft, it was five of them: Steve Rogers, the Captain, their leader; Tony Stark, the Pilot; Bruce Banner, the Doctor; Vision, the Pastor, and James Buchanan Barnes, the Soldier. All of them simply used human analogues of their true names, but the members of your crew didn't protest: since Theseus-17 was incredibly far even for your highly technologically advanced spaceships, you knew very little of its inhabitants. Apparently, they attempted to establish a good relationship between your races - especially since you had so much biological similarities. In fact, they might be the closest to humans among other species you had ever encountered before, you thought.

Well, it was true, but you failed to see they would use it to their advantage to the fullest.

They were a militaristic alien race with predominantly male population controlled by stratocratic government. Their planet was three times smaller than Earth, but their technological advancement was unbelievable, especially compared to human's: it allowed them to invade several other small planets and colonize them in the past. However, due to some extreme DNA mutations, their female population was declining decade after decade resulting in zero births over the last five years. The Hydrarirans, as they called themselves, were rapidly facing extinction, Steve told you while explaining the reasons why they were so far from their home.

You had a pretty long talk after Bucky had shot Dr. Strange, and Tony strangled Wong. You barely remembered what had happened next, though you could guess you ended up being drugged by Hydrarians. Fuck. Did you send a signal back to Earth? You couldn't tell. Well, you certainly remembered Dr. Strange sending a message about saving the crew of Theseus-17 spacecraft. If you went missing, it would be a clear sign of something going very wrong.

But you still were God knew where. Gradually becoming extremely nervous with each passing second, you looked at the countless wires attached to your body and started to pull, forcefully taking them out of your skin and silently crying - you didn't remember feeling so much pain since the times of your first space mission. Violently throwing away the oxygen mask, you crawled on the bed until you fell to the floor with a loud thud. Shit.

You stayed there for a couple of minutes, afraid Hydrarians would quickly discover what you were doing, but since you heard nothing, you crawled further from bed to a wide glass wall, your vision still blurry. Where were you? It didn't feel like a spacecraft. It felt like you were brought to an unknown planet, and when you saw two red suns shining in the black sky, you realized it was exactly like Steve described his planet to you.

No, no, it couldn't be. Theseus-17 was God knew how many light years away. Their ship wasn't in the condition to fly you there so fast, yours even less so, and you certainly hadn't been put in a cryostasis. However, how well did you know what technology these alien freaks possessed? What if they could be using some teleport able to cover enormous distances? It could easily be an option.

Crawling further to the window, you had finally reached it and touched its cold surface. It certainly looked and felt like a glass beneath your palm.

The black meadows you stared upon were nothing like the ones you saw from a window of the little house where you spent your childhood. This place was wicked, evil. You could feel it in the air as you inhaled that strange, sickly sweet oxygen or whatever it was. No wonder their women couldn't handle living here, and you wouldn't last here either. It was clear what you were brought here for, and even the thought of it was repulsive to you. How dare they? How barbaric were these freaks, intending to use human women as some breeding machinery? If their military experiments made them facing extinction, then let it be, you thought, horrified and disgusted at the same time.

You rubbed your droopy eyes, feeling the wetness on the back of your palm as you tried not to cry, thinking what were your options except to submit silently to your abductors. How were you going to navigate a ship back home? How were you going to steal a ship? Actually, how were you going to leave this damn room, considering that your body was almost unable to move because of the time you spent in space? Recovery would take quite some time, unless Hydrarians had advanced medical support for cosmonauts. You hoped they did, because spending months to recover while staying with these savages wasn't an option.

Huh, it was better to listen to your mom and become a doctor. Now you'd be sitting in your cabinet and listening to concerns of elderly ladies, not being locked away on a planet with no female population. You had hard times imagining what they would do to you if you end up being thrown in a crowd of mad men yearning for intimacy for years.

Rubbing your eyes again, you exhaled loudly. You were in deep, deep shit.

When the white wall beside you suddenly moved to the side, allowing a tall, menacing man in a black military suit to enter, you held your breath, watching Sergeant Barnes walking into the room. You thought of his metal hand with a red star engraved on it - he could snap your neck with one swift motion if he wanted to, though he could probably do it with his flesh hand, too. Certainly, he was both skilled in combat and cybernetically enhanced, so escaping with him guarding you would be extremely problematic. You'd prefer to meet Vision instead of the grim Soldier.

"What are you doing, woman?" Barnes asked as he saw you on the floor with your back pressed to the glass wall, your arms bleeding from violently tearing the wires of the life support system out of your body. Apparently, you didn't look as good as he expected you to.

"A woman has a name." You said sternly, watching one of your abductors marched through the room and trying your best not to tremble. If he was raised in a stratocratic society, he valued power and strong will more than anything else, probably, so you had to pull yourself together.

“I am sorry.” He suddenly said, bowing his head as he stood right in front of you. “If it pleases you, I will refer to you by your name only, Y/N.”

You blinked, your vision still unfocused and blurry - a part of you was thankful for that since you couldn’t see Soldier’s face clearly. You doubted he looked very friendly, despite talking to you with some respect.

“Don’t touch me.” You commanded as he leaned closer to take you back to bed, his shiny combat boots touching your bare leg just slightly, making you shiver involuntarily.

“We have medication to nurse you back to health, but you still need the life support system. Please, do not resist.” Sergeant Barnes once again tried to pick you up, but you grabbed him by the wrist instead, silently staring at his pale face half-covered by that black mask he wore.

The man got silent and froze on the spot, looking at you with a strange glint in his eyes. He certainly didn’t seem menacing or angry, but there was something in him you couldn’t quite put your finger on. Why wasn’t he upset by your behavior? Soldier didn’t try grabbing you forcefully, nevertheless.

Could it be your contact, then? You might be the first woman to touch him in years. Thinking of it, the very next moment you recoiled, crawling away to increase the distance between you two.

Maybe the man was disappointed, but you couldn’t see it with that blank expression he wore as he suddenly sat down on the floor close to you, and then took his mask away, showing you his rather handsome, yet gloomy face. He looked... human, and it truly scared you. 

“I know you think we are a threat to you, but we are not.” He said calmly, watching you. “I will not hurt you. I promise.”

You were ready to laugh at that. “You’ve killed my crew, people who I’d been working with for years.”

“Yes, and I am sorry for that. It was necessary.”

Necessary. What an interesting word he found to describe what he and his comrades had done.

“Don’t you understand what will happen once people from Earth learn about you and things you did?” As he cocked his head to the side, his dark uneven hair falling on his shoulder, you realized he wasn’t scared at all. “We can wipe you out of existence. Even if all of your kind are soldiers, there are billions of us, humans. You aren’t a threat.”

“We are not trying to be one.”

He extended his hand in attempt to touch you, but you recoiled and crawled away a bit further, narrowing your eyes at Sergeant. Whatever he was doing, it couldn’t be good for you.

“Please, do not be afraid. Right now you are the most precious being on our planet, and anyone trying to hurt you will be beheaded at the very least.” 

Of course, you were. If Captain told you the truth, you were the one and only young woman on Hydra. You would be treasured, but you dreaded what they would do to you. Even thinking of it made you face twist in revulsion.

“What makes you think using me like a cattle won’t hurt me?”

“A cattle?”

For a few seconds Soldier got silent, and you realized he was searching the meaning of this word - now you managed to see a strange device on his ear that looked like an old Bluetooth garniture or something. Then the man looked at you with a surprised expression on his face, and you felt an urge to bite your tongue to stop thinking how human he appeared now.

“I assure you, you will never be degraded to such an inferior being. On the contrary, we can give you anything you wish for. I know the status of women on Earth is still far from being equal to men’s, but you are godlike to us.”

Carefully lifting his hand again, Barnes had took a shiny black glove from his flesh arm and showed you his hand with five fingers, spreading them for you to see he was as human as you. For the first time you felt like you wanted to cry, and bit down on your lower lip. God, why? Why did he look just like any other man? Why was he trying to seem kind to you? It would be so much easier if he was hurting you, pressing your face into the floor and binding your arms.

“I swear to you on the name of my mother, I will do anything in my power to make you happy.” 

Apparently, it was some sacred oath, judging by the way his cold blue eyes gleamed, but you weren’t buying it. Make you happy? The one and only thing he could do was letting you go back home, to your own kind, and allow you to forget what had happened above your ship, the image of Dr. Strange with a wide hole in his chest still making you clench your fists.

“Why are you so sure we are a good substitute? If your own women weren’t able to survive here, what makes you think human females can?”

“Because our extensive research proves it. Moreover, a couple of human females have already been living here for several years.” Your face became distorted with horror at his words. “Captain’s wife was even able to give birth to two healthy children this year. They are the first children to be born on our planet in the last five years.”

“Humans will destroy your planet. They will kill all of you when they learn you’re kidnapping our women!”

“We are already in contact with your kind.” Dropping the glove to the floor, Barnes attempted to smile at you, confirming your suspicions he barely knew how to do it. “It is true, you are much greater in number than we are. But all of us are warriors with far more advanced technology and abundant resources. We will be able to damage your planet heavily before you eradicate each and every of us.”

The more he talked, the harder it was to follow - without the life support system, the lack of oxygen was making it harder for you to breathe, impossible to focus as you started breathing heavier, louder than before, but still refused to come back to bed, staring at the man in front of you with disgust and fear. God, it was better to suffocate than stay here with him.

“Do you know we possess twenty times more the amount of Vibranium you humans do?” Crawling closer to you like a spider, Soldier was watching you with both great interest and concern written all over his face. “We also have tritium and plutonium, too, as well as minerals you do not have on Earth at all. We are ready to trade them for something humans have in abundance.”

You were close to vomit, your eyes tearing up as you rubbed them furiously. You tried convincing yourself no one knew you were going to be captured by ruthless aliens. Of course, no one on Earth knew anything about that. There was no agreement between Theseus-17 and Earth to trade women for Vibranium and other resources. It would be direct violations of human rights and...

And it was very likely of humans to do, considering the lack of resources you had been facing over the last couple of decades.

When you started weeping, horrified of the things awaiting you in the nearest future, Sergeant finally reached you, wiping away your tears with his flesh hand. His touch was very subtle, gentle even, as he tenderly pressed his finger to your cheek, feeling the warmth of your skin. His hand was warm, too.

“It’s not true.” You cried, turning your face to the glass wall and leaving wet marks on it. “They’ll come for me... I won’t become s-some shared property.”

“Of course you will not,” he shushed you gently, enveloping you in what seemed like a hug, lowering your head to his shoulder. “You will be a queen to me. I will treat you right, I swear.”

“You?”

Stilling, you bit down on your tongue, feeling the metallic taste filling your mouth as you drew some blood. Concentrating when your brain was lacking oxygen wasn’t easy, but you could still breathe, inhaling deeply, trying to calm yourself. He said something about Captain’s wife, didn’t he? He said she gave him two children. He said you wouldn’t become a shared property.

Dear Lord.

“I won’t be yours.” You whispered through tears, pushing the man’s chest in desperate attempt to keep him away from you. “I’m not your possession. I won’t be yours!”

You saw him frowning at you, his expression growing darker, more impatient, enraged even as you crawled away from him, your legs too weak to hold you. Oh, he didn’t like you looking at him like that when you realized you were given to him like some prize he won in an amusement park.

But Soldier wasn’t having it. Had you ever thought what it cost him to spend years in combat to earn his privileges, his right to travel among the best of the best? Did you know how much time he travelled across multiple universes to find exactly what he was searching for? Huh, you couldn’t even imagine what he felt when the team got coordinates of your ship, when he saw you for the first time on hologram, smiling and laughing at jokes of Dr. Strange.

Grabbing you forcefully and lifting you off the floor, he raised you in the air above his head, making you silent in fear of being smashed against the floor.

“I have fought for you.” He let out a guttural growl like an animal. “I have killed for you. I have earned my privilege to have you, and no one can challenge my right. You are my woman, and you will stay here with me.”

________________________

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki @helenaeisenhower​ @villanellevi @hurricanerin @void-hoechlin @abyssaint @heeeyitskay @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @brattycherubwrites @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @soleil-dor @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @iheartsebastianstan ​ @stargazingfangirl18​ @ninefuckingoneone

[andraaste]

I am not your enemy - Lance fanfiction part 2

I am currently writting chapter 10, but for now, here is chapter 2 translated into english ;)

(Link for Chapter 3 here)

Chapter 2 : Everything is your fault

I woke up in a room that I knew all too well, especially since the last few days. The infirmary was perfectly silent and only the lapping of the water flowing in the room accompanied me. Staring into space, I put an arm over my face when a sly pain in the blank made me wince. I realized then that my clothes had been changed and that I was wearing a top that was unknown to me. Lifting it up, I realized that a red stained bandage was covering my stomach. The reason for my presence here came back to me then.

Lance...

I had started bleeding, for no reason, in Lance's presence!

Since waking up, I felt like I was losing my mind. Memory problems, dizziness, bleeding and other strange phenomena were accumulating in me and no one was able to explain it. At the same time, no one before Leiftan and I except the Oracle had lived in the crystal.

But yes, Leiftan, how was he? The latter woke up shortly after me and strangely, I had hardly ever seen him since. The aengel had refused to join the Sparkling and since then he seemed to be doing his best to escape any presence. But one thing was certain, it was that I never saw him in the infirmary, the lucky kid.

Snippets of voice slowly reached me and I listened to try to figure out who it was.

- I don't understand what she has ...

- .... had a link? ...

I narrowed my eyes, trying to decipher the conversation I overheard.

- .... don't know ... bring her back ...

Hearing muffled footsteps moving in my direction, I hurriedly closed my eyelids, pretending to be still asleep.

When they reached me, a warm and comforting hand rested on my forehead. Eweleïn's, I was beginning to know it by heart.

- She is stable and her fever has subsided, we will bring her back to her room, she will be more calm to rest. I'm counting on you to watch her.

- Very good.

My stomach contracted at the sound of that voice.

- Are you telling me she started bleeding for no reason? Are you sure you didn't hurt her, even without doing it on purpose?

A silence heavy with innuendo spread between the two interlocutors.

- I understand it's strange, but that's what happened, Eweleïn.

- Alright ... in that case, I'll let you bring her back.

When the dragon's arms encircled my body again in minute detail, I unwillingly tensed in fear and apprehension. Before lifting me up, he gently lowered the shirt over my wound, and when his fingers touched my skin as gently as a caress, I felt an electric current flow through me. Lance lifted me up without difficulty and without really knowing why, I resolutely kept my eyes closed, squeezing my eyelids a little too tight.

Without a word, he carried me like a lifeless rag doll, weak and silent, to my new room. With each of her steps, I could feel her calm, deep breaths against my neck. Why was it that I didn't come forward, exactly? I felt like I was paralyzed. He finally opened the door to my room and stepped silently into it. The pole closed behind us, cutting us off from the outside world. He suddenly stopped and began to sigh for a long time.

Lance seemed marked by fatigue and worry, which piqued my curiosity. Cautiously, I opened one eye and watched it in the wake of my lashes. His jaws, covered with a growing beard, were contracted and his expression, she, expressed the same weariness as her sigh. When he started to move again, I pretended to sleep again as he gently laid me down on the mattress. While withdrawing his hands, he crouched down very close to me and despite my resolutely closed eyelids, I felt his sad gaze pierce me. But it was the intonation of his voice, like torture, that upset me the most.

- I'm sorry, Andraste.

My hands clenched against my stoneware on the bed sheet. Keeping my eyes firmly closed, I couldn't help but answer, even lower than him.

- Everything is your fault.

- I know...

The dragon didn't seem surprised to hear me answer him. How long had he known I was awake?

Timidly, I forced myself to open my eyes. I thus discovered a Lance perfectly different from the one I had seen in the market. His gaze filled with infinite sadness, he looked at me as if I was the only person in the world able to cure his ailments.

- You're not trying to justify yourself? I asked him, intrigued not to hear his answer immediately.

- My actions are unjustifiable, I just try to live with it and redeem myself with each passing day. But you ... I dreaded for years when you were finally going to wake up. I don't know how to react in your presence when, on the contrary, I know more than anyone how much you must hate me. I won't try to redeem myself from you because I know it's impossible.

His words grabbed me. The tone of his voice, so calm and composed, totally hypnotized me. But I could not nevertheless keep my questions about him.

- So what are you doing here ?

I was sincerely curious as to why it was precisely he who had taken care of bringing me back to my room.

- Eweleïn asked me to watch you.

I raised my eyebrows in surprise, which brought a slight smile of amusement to his marble face.

- Sorry ?

- As you have surely noticed, your state is very unstable since you woke up.

- But what do you mean, she asked you to watch me ?

- Since you obviously start to bleed yourself for no reason, Eweleïn and Huang Hua have decided that you have to be watched closely. Plus, it's not yet clear how things will turn out now that people know the Oracle Chosen One is awake. The news has surely spread outside of HQ already and your safety has become a priority.

At these words, I straightened up quickly.

- You mean we could try to take it out on me?

Lance's gaze fell on mine for the first time since the start of our exchange.

- Nothing will happen to you.

- Anyway, why is ...

- Most people admire you for what you have done, but human nature being what it is, many are wary of what they do not know. You have accomplished something incredible and totally new, but like all admiration, there is always an element of mistrust that lies dormant in the unknown.

- But anyway, it's insane, nobody can decently think that I can be dangerous !

The young man was silent for a moment, letting me digest the information he had just taught me.

- Obviously, this is a simple security measure, mainly as long as your condition remains uncertain. When you get better, we will focus on teaching you how to defend yourself.

- I already know how to defend myself !

His slightly haughty raised eyebrow made my hair bristle with anger.

- Do not be offended, but from what I saw earlier, you seem to have lost a lot of energy since your stay in the crystal.

Touched . I decided to swallow my pride for now, I was too tired to argue with him again.

- So what's the plan ? I inquired.

- This is where I come in. I know you don't trust me, but strange as it sounds, I am the best person to keep you safe and your training.

A cold sneer escaped me, stretching the smile that had started to mark the dragon's face a moment earlier.

- So you're telling me that you and I have become inseparable?

- I'm sorry to tell you.

At least he had the decency to sound as thrilled with the news as I was.

I was lost. Completely. How could the Guard have thought it was a good idea to cram the two of us together? It was just insane!

I pinched the bridge of my nose, irritated by all this flood of information.

- Besides the fact that I'm not a fragile little thing, something the Guard seems to totally ignore, no one else can take on this role? Lance, it's simply impossible! I can't accept it, and you know it as well as I do!

Still squatting, one of his forearms resting on his lap, he let himself fall back against the wall behind him.

- Andraste, I'm not trying to brag about my merits, but if there's one thing I'm good at, it's fighting. I am the most qualified here to protect you in times of need and to teach you the best way to defend yourself.

Anger began to take hold of me again. Was he really serious ?

- But anyway, do you realize what you're saying ?!

- It is indisputable.

- And foolish! You tried to kill me, you used me, you manipulated me. How do you want me to accept this wisely? You're still blowing hot and cold! You apologize and then you give me orders !

- I'm only obeying those of the Sparkling.

A frank laugh escaped me this time.

- Seriously, are you saying that ?

A flash of defiance crossed his icy gaze. An ambient electricity hovered between us.

- You have to believe that I am ready to listen wisely to the orders to protect you.

He then straightened up and looked at me from his full height.

- Times have changed, you'll have to get used to it, he added. Being the chosen one of the Oracle is not going to be easy to take on, believe me. People are going to expect a lot from you, whether you feel like you can or not. Hope you are ready for this too.

Surprised, I remained silent. What shocked me the most was not this overwhelming truth that Lance had just confessed to me.

It was that he was the only one who had done it.

And that turned everything upside down. Who could I sincerely trust here? Can our enemies one day become our allies ?

He walked to the door and put a hand on the doorknob, before adding:

- Rest now. I won't be far, if you need to.

Then he rushed down the hall.

(Chapter 3)

[insomniac-dot-ink]

The Siren’s Mercy

CW: themes of death and dying

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

Her throat was dry. Every swallow hurt like fire. Her thoughts drummed along to a steady beat of: water, water, water. It was almost foolish because water surrounded her in every direction. But that water was dark as suffering and cared nothing for her ills, it would not save her.

Mal curled up in place on her cramped dingy and rested for a moment. She ached all over and her lips were cracked and bleeding again. She wondered how badly it would hurt-- to die like this. She wished for water so badly there was no space left in her for anything else.

She closed her eyes tightly and time slipped by her with no rhyme or reason. There was something about helplessness that erased things like that. It was only belatedly that she felt a tremor go through her body as the little boat hit something. She blinked her gummy eyes open and sat up.

Her eyebrows rose as her boat had run into a small sandbar with an outcropping of sharp rocks just beyond that. She considered getting out and walking her boat somewhere else, but what was the point? She swallowed and it almost broke her.

Mal was about to cover her head and return to her moping when her eyes caught on something on the rocks. She paused and her mouth fell open without permission.

A creature was positioned on the rocks with her head tilted backwards and lips pressed shut. Her hair fell in lovely red sheets and she wore a headband around it that looked like it was made of kelp and seagull feathers. She had a sheer blue shawl wrapped around her and scaly legs dipped into the water. She was nude and holding something like a small harp on her lap.

Mal continued to gape. It made no sense that a lovely young woman would be sitting placidly out there in the middle of nowhere. Nevertheless, Mal knew what she was the second the woman cocked her head to the side.

She had heard stories about this ocean. She had heard the songs and the lore and how the men of these parts watched the waters. They could appear in many shapes: mermaids with razor sharp teeth, women with bird-bodies and human heads, or lithe breathtaking almost-maidens that could slip through the water like glass.

Her eyes were too wide though. Her gaze too vacant. Her nails ended in curled claws and her proportions were just slightly uncomfortably off.

The true strangeness though was that she wasn’t singing.

Why wasn’t she singing?

Mal put her head in her hands. She took a deep breath that rattled in her chest and then looked up again. It took what was left of her strength to summon the words.

“Go on then.” She narrowed her eyes. “Get on with it.” It came out as a rasping croak and not the least bit commanding.

The siren blinked her otherworldly eyes at Mal and placed the harp down next to her. She cocked her head to the other side this time and Mal found herself close to rolling her eyes.

“You got a brain in there? A head on you? You’ve killed enough men for it.” She sighed. “And you show ‘em, right? You show them their greatest desires.”

It didn’t sound like a bad way to die. She could see her dear Agatha again. She could sit by the fire on dry land and hum her favorite drinking songs. She could be clean and well-fed-- no more knots in her hair or hunger gnawing holes in her belly.

Or else she was just going to listen to a truly terrible song about water.

The siren made her first sound, it was a little chirping noise like a songbird. It was slightly unnerving as well.

“I know you can sing!” Mal found some relief from yelling, just a bit of release after everything. “Am I not worth your time?” She stood up and rocked the boat back and forth. She shook her fist. “Am I not good enough for the songs of the great and powerful sirens? Come on you scaly bastard, I’m as good as any of the other men of these seas.”

It’d be quicker this way. It’d be almost fitting.

The siren unwound the shawl from around herself and made Mal blush for just a moment before she slipped under the water like light entering church windows. It shouldn’t have been possible. She slid through the water in the same dream-like way and then popped up right next to the boat.

She chirped.

Mal groaned and sat down. “You want something?” Of course she wasn’t just going to be eaten by a siren, she wasn’t so lucky. Like any good lady she was going to have to entertain first.

She reached into her bag and took out the few belongings they tossed after her when she was banished overboard. “Here.” She pushed a silver comb over to the creature. “Pick your teeth with it.”

The siren delicately reached out her taloned hands and took the thing. She turned it over and over as if to find some new side of it after each twist. She cooed at the light glinting off of it and her own warped reflection.

“Yes, yes,” Mal said grumpily. “Pretty object for a pretty murderess. Are you going to give me what I want now?”

She couldn’t believe she had to prove herself to the devil before she got to be taken down to meet him like a proper sailor. She supposed she could just jump overboard but the thought of letting the ocean claim her after all this time turned her stomach. Better to perish on a boat then give the damn sea the satisfaction of going willingly.

The siren perched her chin on the side of the boat and reached her hand out. “We doing this again?”

Mal couldn’t find it in herself to care. She lifted up her mother’s pearl-inlaid mirror and handed it over. It was an heirloom, as she was always reminded, but the best kind of revenge was served with a side of irony.

Let a creature with no sense of lady-ship be the lady of it.

The creature stood then and gripped the mirror firmly. She stared at herself with a type of perplexed aw as she turned her head back and forth. She watched herself very closely for close to a minute. Finally, she let a small musical note that made Mal ache in ways she wasn’t sure was possible.

The siren glanced at her one last time and then dove headfirst into the water without so much as a spare death-melody. Mal lay back in the boat and let the sun wither her to pieces. ------------------- She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she finally managed to pry her eyes open again. She had hoped the thirst would become a dull distant pain-- the hunger certainly had, but if anything it was worse.

Water, water, water the drumbeat went.

She stared up at an endless splattering of stars. The coolness kissed her cheeks and at least it was night time.

The boat rocked gently and chirps like birds sounded just outside her line of vision. She forced herself to stand up with pins and needles drilling through every muscle. There were three of them then.

The red-head, a blonde, and brunette. They all had long shiny hair, perfectly smooth unblemished skin, and bodies like portraits. It was fake of course, the stuff of dreams, but these things peddled in dreams so she heard.

They gave her one long look as they stood on the sandbar only feet from her. They blinked in time. They each put out one hand.

“You’re not even going to sing for me?” She heard herself complaining like a young girl. “Not even gonna try to tempt me overboard? You just expect me to go?”

She sniffed indignantly. She stood. She placed her bare feet in the cold, silent waters and started to walk. She dragged herself over to them and only then did they begin to sing. It wasn’t like anything she ever heard before and some part of her knew this wasn’t their usual tune.

She closed her eyes as the unearthly melody overcame her. It was the voice of crashing waves and pattering rain. It was blustery arctic winds over ice and piercing sunlight through clouds. It was gasping and choking and prayers before darkness.

It began as a slow hunger, a craving, a tugging from her very core. She had wanted to die, to be released, but the sirens never gave what you wanted. They showed it to you and then took it away.

Mal felt hands dragging themselves down her body, running themselves down her arms and legs and disrobing what was left of her ragged clothes. She was being pulled underwater and submerged in over her head. She wasn’t going to be like them though, she couldn’t be, but what were wishes without someone to grant them?

Her bones twisted. Her skin thickened. Her thoughts filled with grime and storms and purpose. She didn’t scream. The sirens claimed her in the family of things and when she opened her eyes she was shiny as the dawn and pulsing the power of gods and monsters.

She knew then she would never get that place by the fire. Never get to see Agatha one last time. Never see herself dry or clean or fed.

She grinned. She burned. A new sea witch was born in the only way they ever do: out of misplaced wishes and a song for everyone who is lost and given no way home again.