#reminds me of the first time i dropped acid and after plunging down to the ~innermost depths of my very being~ was pleasantly surprised to

[macklesufficient]

a nice thing i’ve learned about myself lately is that i’m less cool than i thought i was and nicer than i thought i was and most of all im kinda corny

[yam-writes]

mine forever  Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Strade x Reader Additional Tags: Sadism, Knifeplay, Blood, Blood and Injury, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Blood and Torture, Torture, Oral Fixation, Biting, Bruises, Unhealthy Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Masochism, Stockholm Syndrome, Canon-Typical Violence, Violence here you go :) it’s a little shorter and i wrote it after i got my wisdom teeth out, but i hope you like it anyway! :) you can read it on ao3 or under the cut :)

You didn’t know how long you had been down there, tied to that pole. It was pretty easy to keep track of the days at first, but as the amount of times he came down increased, and the amount of sleep you were getting decreased, the days all blurred together and you didn’t know how long you were out versus how long you were awake. Not that it mattered, anyway. What little sleep you did get wasn’t any better than the horrors of being awake, your dreams poisoned by him along with reality. It seemed like no matter what you did he was always there, stuck in your head, a perfect picture of him carved into your brain.

So your mind was a little fucked. Keeping track of the time wasn’t at the top of your priorities list, but if you had to guess you would’ve said it was a few weeks. But, really, you weren’t even paying much attention. You were far too worried about the grumbling of your stomach, the dryness in your throat, the stickiness of your skin, the smell that you were pretty sure was coming from you, and the pain that crept over every inch of your body. You didn’t know how long it had been, but you hoped that it had been long enough for him to just kill you.

Of course you could never get that lucky, though. “Looks like you belong to me now.” That’s what he had said, and that’s what he kept reminding you every time he fucked you, make you fuck him, came on your face, down your throat, on your back, on your stomach, inside you. Every time he dug his knife into your skin, opened a new wound, reopened old ones. Every time he shoved his fingers in your blood and made you taste it, every time he tasted it himself. “Mine, mine, mine.” That’s all you ever fucking heard.

You thought being kept would be a good thing. That meant you weren’t going to die. But was it really worth it? If you were going to be stuck down in his basement for the rest of your life, no, it wasn’t worth it, but what else were you supposed to do? Just deny yourself any pleasure you might receive because of who was giving it to you? He was already depriving you of everything, why should you do it to yourself? It wasn’t worth it, no, but it was all you had.

You found yourself clinging onto him. When he would untie your wrists and pull you close, you dug your fingers into the back of his shirt and buried your face into the crook of his neck. You stared up at him in wonder, watching him grab tools from shelves, unbutton his belt, clean up your blood from the floor. Your body ached when he was gone, and part of that was for him. It was fucked up how much you had come to want him, to need him. You hated yourself for it, but he was all you had. What else were you supposed to do? Maybe you really were his.

You even found yourself calling out his name. Sometimes it would be in your sleep, but other times you’d be fully awake and calling out for him. It was hard sitting down there, in the dark, for God knows how long, just waiting for him to come back. You longed for any touch, his touch, to feel his fingers on your skin, the warmness of his body pressed against yours. So you called out for him. And he would come.

It was one of those times, sleepiness and blood loss making your head foggy, that you called out for him. You didn’t know how he heard you, considering that you figured the basement was sound proof. It had to be, with the things that went on down there. But you heard thumping come from upstairs anyway as you called out his name again. After a few minutes, the basement door swung open and the light from upstairs flooded in. You flinched, preparing yourself for the bright lights that would turn on next, but they never came. The room was plunged into darkness as the door shut again. You heard fumbling around for a few more seconds, and then a wall light came on, trading the harshness of the white overhead lights for a nice, warm, orange glow.

You looked at the light and then to Strade, who was leaning against a counter, his arms crossed. He was staring at you, a smile on his face, but it wasn’t his usual big, toothy smile. No, this one was more contained. He had a- you leaned in closer, trying to get a better look. You squinted your eyes and, no, yeah, he definitely did have a lollipop stuck between his teeth. He raised his arm and grabbed the stick, pulling the lollipop out of his mouth.

“You called?” he asked, amusement dripping from his voice like acid. He waved the lollipop around.

You swallowed and nodded, trying to tear your eyes away from the lollipop. The only thing you had to eat those past few days were granola bars and some jerky. Your mouth was practically watering at the candy. It wasn’t anything with any sustenance, but at least it was something different.

“Do you need something?” he asked, slowing down each word.

“I just-” you heard your voice say. “I just missed you.”

Strade let out a loud laugh. “You missed me?” he asked. He stepped forward and leaned down beside you. “Then we should spend some time together, yeah?”

You stared up at him, your mouth hanging open. His proposition hung in your head and your brain was yelling at you for willingly calling him down there, for participating in his game. You knew you were only egging him on.

“Okay,” you squeaked.

Strade hummed. He stared at you for another moment before pushing himself up. He shoved the lollipop in his mouth again. You saw the stick move as he swirled it around. He walked around until he was standing in front of you.

“So what do you want to do?” he asked, pulling the lollipop out of his mouth again.

You swallowed. Your eyes were still on the lollipop. You were really craving it. “Can I-” you started. You shifted. moving your arms in the ropes slightly. “Do you have another one?” you asked, gesturing your head towards his hand.

Strade’s eyebrows raised and his eyes shifted to the candy in his hand. “Do you want one?” he asked.

You nodded, licking your lips.

Strade let out a laugh and said, “Okay!” He stepped towards you and bent down. “You can have this one!” He reached out and grabbed your chin, pulling your mouth open. He shoved the lollipop in your mouth and you felt the sweetness on your tongue. He pushed your chin up, closing your mouth.

You coughed, the sudden entrance of something in your mouth causing you to choke. You pushed the lollipop to the side of your mouth with your tongue, feeling your saliva and Strade’s covering your mouth. Your hand instinctively raised to move the stick, but you were stopped by the ropes. The pole vibrated, which caused Strade to let out a loud laugh.

“You like it?” he asked.

You moved the lollipop around in your mouth, pushing it to the other side. You looked up at him and nodded. “Thank you,” you said around the lollipop.

Strade smiled. He reached his hand up and cupped your cheek. You leaned into the touch.

“My pet is always so polite,” Strade said. He scooted forward and placed his forehead on yours. “Didn’t even need much training.” He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes, seemingly in thought. Then, his eyes opened and he smiled. “I think you deserve a reward!”

You looked at him through your lashes. “A reward?” you asked. You could feel drool drip from your lip from the lack of free movement the lollipop had.

Strade hummed and stood up. He stared down hard at you, and you felt your body flush at his gaze. You watched his eyes move as you shifted the lollipop. Then, he moved his feet, walking around until he was behind you. You heard shuffling, and then a thump onto the ground. You saw Strade’s legs appear on either side of you and his body pressed against yours and the pole as he scooted closer. He reached his hand out and ran a finger from your knee to your thigh, making you wince as he scraped over wounds. His finger ran all the way up, rubbing over your hip and your tummy. He went through the middle of your chest and up your neck. The light touch made you shudder, and you let your head fall back against the pole. You shifted the lollipop again as his finger reached under your chin, hooking around until it was running over your lips.

“Is this my reward?” you asked, feeling even more drool dropping out of your mouth.

Strade let out a small laugh as he ran his finger through your spit. He moved his hand away from you and even though you couldn’t see what he was doing, the muffled hum he let out told you that he had shoved his finger in his mouth. You heard a wet pop noise and then Strade’s voice.

“You’re antsy tonight,” he said. He leaned forward and you felt his lips brush against your ear. “You’ll get your reward soon enough.” You felt his hands on your again, slowly gliding down. He rested his chin on your shoulder, in the crook of your neck. You took in a sharp breath as his right hand rested around your neck and his left kept going down.

You bit your lip as his fingers found your clit. He rubbed circles, slowly, drawing out any pleasure you could receive from this. His other hand squeezed lightly against your neck, his thumb rubbing under your jaw. He continued to run circles around your clit, speeding up his pace so that you wouldn't notice his hand traveling up your neck.

When his finger slipped down and plunged inside of you roughly, you completely forgot about the lollipop. Your mouth flew open, the lollipop hanging on by your lip. But Strade’s hand had made its way up, and his fingers grabbed the stick. You didn’t even know what he was doing until you couldn’t breathe.

You leaned forward, letting out a loud cough, candy coated spit dripping from your mouth. You could feel the lollipop down your throat, the stick pressed against the roof of your mouth. Strade let out a loud laugh as you continued to cough, trying to get the lollipop out. His hands left your body and he stood up. You turned your head and watched him walk around until he was standing in front of you. You clenched your throat, feeling the lollipop lodged in there. You leaned forward, letting the spit fall onto the floor.

“What’s the matter?” Strade asked, bending down in front of you. He grabbed your chin and made you look at him. You stared up at him, your eyes wide at the lack of oxygen. The blood rushing in your ears made it hard to hear anything, but you could just barely catch the sounds of your own wheezing. “You wanted the lollipop, didn’t you?”

You felt tears slide down your face and you thought for sure this was how you were going to die. You gagged around the candy, your arms jerking involuntarily to get the lollipop out of your mouth. You could hear the vague sound of Strade’s laughter as your vision started to go blurry. You went still, not having enough energy to keep trying to cough up the lollipop.

That’s when Strade’s hand found your mouth, pulling it open wide. His fingers dug inside wrapping around the stick. He pulled it out and you gasped, pulling in a raggedy breath of air. You coughed more, finally able to breathe again. You spit, candy and blood hitting the floor. You looked up at Strade, feeling the scratchiness on your throat. You watched him toss the lollipop to the floor, breaking in half and shattering.

“I couldn’t help myself,” he said with a small shrug. “You look cute when you’re choking.”

You continued to cough, the tears falling freely. You jerked against the ropes as you rocked your body, trying to find your breath again. You felt the rope burning your wrists, but honestly that pain helped to bring you down as your breaths calmed and got steadier. After a few minutes, you were leaning your head back against the pole and panting at the ceiling.

Strade took a deep breath in and then walked towards the counter. You watched him pull a drawer open and you heard some clanging inside.

“You did so good,” he said. He reached into the drawer and grabbed something. He turned around with a huge smile on his face and held up a knife. “Just one more thing and then you can get your reward!”

You gulped as he stepped towards you. You pulled your legs up, but he bent down and gripped your ankle, pulling your leg back down. He pulled the other one down, too, and then reached his hand out. He ran his fingers across your stomach, causing you to suck in a breath of air. He let out a small noise and then stood back up, walking around behind you. You felt his hands on yours and he tugged up roughly.

“Stand up,” he said.

You pulled your legs up and pushed yourself onto your feet, feeling the sting of the rope on your wrists as they slid up the pole. Strade walked back in front of you and stepped close, pressing as much of himself against you as he could while still having enough room to move the knife around. His right arm leaned against the pole above your head. He looked down and pressed the flat side of the cold blade against your stomach. You took a sharp breath in.

He looked up at you as he twisted the blade and said, “Spell it out for me, okay?”

You didn’t know what you were supposed to be spelling out, but you didn’t have much time to think about it because immediately after you felt a small slash down your stomach, followed by another one and then another one. You let a loud hiss, and felt the tears brimming at your eyes. You turned your head away, trying somehow to get away from the pain.

“S,” Strade said, smiling big at you.

You didn’t say anything, completely forgetting about what he had told you to do only a moment before. You squeezed your eyes shut, but then you felt a sharp pain hit your cheek as Strade slapped you, blood splattering inside your mouth.

“I said spell it out,” he growled, pushing his face into yours.

“S!” you repeated, pushing the letter out through your teeth.

Strade smiled and gave your cheek two pats, then looked back down at your tummy. He moved the knife again, two slashes, one up and one across.

“T,” he said.

“T!” you choked out.

He didn’t waste any time moving his hand slightly and getting started on the next letter. You felt the blood from the other slashes slide down your body, and your vision was starting to get hazy. The tears fell down your face as the next slashes started, four in total, right above your belly button.

“R,” Strade said, his voice getting slower and his breathing getting heavier.

“R,” you said weakly, the dots connecting in your head. You knew what he was spelling. Of course you knew.

He moved his hand and you winced as the knife pushed into your skin and dragged down, then moved slightly, connecting to the top of the cut and dragging down the other side. Then one more slice across the middle.

“A,” you gulped, not even giving him time to speak.

Strade looked up, a huge smile spreading across his face. “Hey!” he said, sounding the happiest you had heard him in a while. “You got it!”

He looked back down and pulled the knife across your stomach again. You squeezed your eyes shut and let the tears fall freely. Your stomach jerked inward with every slash, but Strade’s right hand had moved from above your head and had gripped your waist.

“D,” you said. You could feel your body getting weaker, begging to just be able to sit down again.

Strade cut into you more, slashing once down and then three times across. You cried out, attempting to kick your legs and move away, but his fingers dug into your side, holding you still.

“E,” you sobbed.

Strade breathed in and dropped the knife to the floor. His right hand dropped and he groped himself through his pants, his other hand reached out and touched the “s” gliding over the letter lightly.

“And what’s that spell?” he asked, looking up at you, smiling.

“Strade!” you choked out. “Strade.” The second time came out more raggedy.

“Right!” he praised. His fingers moved from the “S” and traced over every letter, your body jerking and wincing with every motion. He let his fingers push into the wounds, his fingertips violating you in the worst way. He smeared your blood all over your body and his hand. When he was finished tracing the letter, he raised his hand up and shoved a finger in his mouth. He let out a small groan and then pulled it out. He let out another sigh as he looked at you, a fond smile on his face. “There! Now you really are mine forever.”

You let out a choked sob as the knowledge of what he had just said seeped into your brain. He had carved his name into your stomach, there was nothing you could do. Even if you somehow did manage to get away, he would always be on your body, always be stuck on you. No matter what you did, you were always going to be his.

Strade was on you in an instant, pressing his body against you. The friction from the fabric on his shirt rubbing against your fresh cuts stung, and you whimpered as you felt his face press into your neck. He parted his lips and stuck his tongue out, dragging the flat of it all the way up to your ear. At the same time, his fingers had found their way to his pants, his knuckles intentionally grazing against the wounds as he undid his pants. When he had pushed his pants down slightly, he moved his hand and grabbed your thigh, pulling your leg up around his waist.

His cock pressed against your entrance for only a moment before he was pushing himself inside. You let out a small cry at the rough entrance, feeling him stretch you open as he thrust all the way inside. His weight pushed you back, the pole pressing into your spine. He pulled out and then shoved back inside, the force enough to push you up the pole.

You jerked your hands, trying to reach out to grab him, touch him, push him away, pull him closer, just do anything, but the ropes stopped any major movement. He still had his face buried in your neck, and with one particularly hard thrust he bit down, causing you to clench around him. He let out a sharp hiss, sucking in the breath between his teeth at the feeling.

Strade’s fingers dug into your thigh, the tips pushing into wounds from days ago, reopening the barely healed cuts. He continued to fuck into you, his cock going deep enough to reach a spot that rarely ever got touched. The pressure was pain mixed with pleasure, your tummy feeling like it was just punched with every thrust. The bundles inside you were screaming that you should be crying out in pain, but the tears coming from your eyes were because of how good it felt despite the pain hazing out your brain. You pressed your hands into fists, digging your nails into your palms.

Strade was grunting and breathing hard, his slobber getting all over your neck. He pushed inside you again, gripping your thigh harder.

“You’re so,” he said against your neck, pausing and raising his head slightly, searching for the right word, “addicting,” he said into your ear.

You let out a small, defeated whine.

“I really am so glad I found you,” he continued, raising his head even more. He smiled down at you, getting rougher with every word, reveling in the way your face twisted. He pressed his forehead against yours, both of your sweat mixing together. “How lucky I am that someone was made to fit me perfectly.”

With that sentence, he pulled all the way out and thrust all the way back inside in one quick motion. You let out a loud cry and threw your head back. You could vaguely hear him laughing, your brain too focused on the pressure building up in your tummy, the way he was filling you up, making it seem like he was the only thing inside of you, the way his fingers were digging into your skin, and the irritation to the fresh cuts on your stomach. You clenched around Strade again, squeezing your leg around his waist tighter, feeling the inevitable about to come.

But then you were empty. Your eyes shot open and you looked at Strade. His eyebrows were pulled together, but he wasn’t looking back at you. He was pumping his dick in his hand, and then a few seconds later you felt the tip press against your stomach. Then a warmness hit your body as he came on you, along with the fresh cuts.

Strade’s fingers unwrapped from around your thigh and your leg dropped. You slumped slightly against the pole, the dizziness making it hard to stand. You fluttered your eyes and watched Strade put himself away, pulling up and buttoning his pants again. He hopped slightly and then straightened out his shirt. His eyes were on you again, your eyes heavy-lidded and your face ruined with tears and sweat and snot and some blood that had somehow made its way up there.

“We should probably clean this before it gets infected,” Strade said, reaching his hand out to run his fingers across your tummy, mixing the blood and cum together. You winced, but your body was too spent to react too much.

“Okay,” you mumbled out. You slid to the floor, rejoicing in the fact that you could finally sit again.

You let your head flop to the side as you watched Strade walk over to a nearby cabinet and pull out a small medical kit. He came back and you let him wipe you down, cleaning the area. When he was finished he put the kit up and then came back over to you. He circled around and you felt his fingers press against your wrists, untying the ropes. Your arms flopped to your sides, finally free. He circled back around.

Strade towered over you. “Time for your reward!” he boomed.

You stared up at him, fear washing over your face. But then he reached his hand out.

“Want to go upstairs?” he asked, his voice softening ever so slightly.

You looked up at him, swallowing. Your eyes flashed to the stairs and then back to his hand. Your eyebrows pulled down, your face shifting to confusion. He was going to let you go upstairs? He had to be joking. This had to be some kind of sick joke.

“What’s that face for?” Strade asked, letting out a loud laugh. “Don’t you trust me?”

You swallowed. You looked towards the stairs again and then your eyes landed back on him. You looked up at him, staring at his outstretched hand. He had to be planning something. He just had to. There was no way that he was going to let you go upstairs. He was going to get to the top and then push you back down, laughing as your crumbled body laid on the floor. He was going to let you stand up and then attack you when your back is to him. He wasn’t being genuine.

But, for some reason, you reached your hand out anyway, taking a hold of his and letting him pull you up. Whatever he was going to do couldn’t be any worse than what he had already done. Besides, you were his now, anyway. You had to do what he said.

[soulmate-game]

This is an alternate ending for my Bio!dad Joker / Bio!mom Harley AU. Or really, the timeline itself will be entirely different starting from the moment that Marinette’s plane lands in Gotham. If you haven’t read the original, you can do so here.

—*—*—*—*—*

“He’s going to find out, Mom.”

“No he won’t, don’t be silly! I’ve been very careful about hiding you from him, Nettie-pie.”

“Mom… I just have a bad feeling. I don’t think we can hide who I am from him. If he sees me, I think he’ll know.”

The phone went silent.

“If he hurts you, I’ll kill him. If I was crazy about him, Sugar, then I’m head over heels for you. Not even he can stop me from caving his skull in if he tries his usual tricks with you.”

“... My plane leaves soon, I’ll talk to you when I land. And mom?”

“Yeah, honeycake?”

“I love you.”

—*—*—*—*—*

Marinette often hated how accurate her intuition tended to be. She had barely even stepped out of the airport before she had felt the prick of a needle in her neck and the sensation of being shoved into a small, dark space before her vision cut out.

Looks like her mom wasn’t able to hide her existence away as well as they thought.

And unfortunately for Marinette, her darling asshole of a father had apparently had ample time to plan his first meeting with her. If he had just used the much easier to acquire Chloroform on her, then Marinette likely would have woken up early enough to come up with a plan. Chloroform was unreliable and wore off fairly easily. But no, he had actually had the time to steal hospital grade anesthetic.

Which meant that Marinette woke up with her wrists zip-tied to heavy links of chain above her head, and her ankles connected to the chain below her with what felt like ten layers of duct tape.

Lovely.

“Ah, there she is! Good morning, sleepyhead!” Those were the high-pitched, dramatic words she heard when she came back to consciousness. She didn’t even need to open her eyes to know who the speaker was— she had watched enough videos online and not-so-legally obtained Asylum and Prison footage to immediately recognize the speech patterns and tone that was echoing around her.

Apparently keeping her eyes closed was not allowed, because it was only a few seconds later that Marinette felt a harsh slap sting her cheek and whip her face to the side. Oh, that would become a bruise without a doubt. Her teeth betrayed her, cutting into the inside of her mouth with the force of the hit. So, when Marinette opened her eyes to glare at the sperm donor responsible for half of her DNA, she aimed her bloody spit right at him. It landed on his shoe, which only a few seconds later slammed into her gut.

Marinette gasped for air even as the chain she was on swung violently, making her dizzy and upsetting her stomach. Too bad she didn’t have anything in there to throw up on him, she thought angrily. The chain links rattled loudly, ringing in her head alongside the electric pain of both of her newly forming bruises.

“Honestly, is that any way to treat your dear ol’ Daddy?” Joker cooed with false offense, one hand over his heart. Marinette glared at him as best as she could as she continued to sway in the open air, the chain she was tied to being the only thing keeping her from plunging straight down into a vat of sickly green, bubbling liquid.

Marinette didn’t need to be told what that liquid was. And joker knew that, the moment he saw her look down at that vat and saw the realization almost immediately cross her face. So instead of explaining, he laughed. Loud, high, and deranged.

“Good, good! That idiot Harley kept you educated, at least,” he said between psychotic chuckles. “Ah yes, and she somehow managed to choose the perfect name,” he glided over to her, as if he was some ethereal demon of chaos instead of a human. His paper-white hand reached out, grabbing her chin in a crushing grip and turning her face this way and that. Inspecting her as if she was a piece of china and not a living being. “So easy to adjust. Right now, you’re Marinette. Just like how, all those years ago, your mother stood here as Harleen. But just as she was dunked into acid and became my harlequin,” he stepped back and grabbed Marinette’s shoulders. He spun her like a top, making the metal chain creak and clink as it wound into a few weak coils and then released back out, trying to go straight again. It sent Marinette twirling through the air in a horrid half-spin, one-eighty degrees one way before sharply spinning to the other side. Joker laughed.

“Just like that, you’re gonna go from boring old Marinette,” he stuck out his tongue like a child, as if the mere taste of her name was bitter. “And you’ll be reborn as my new little Marionette. Aren’t you excited?!”

“Fuck you,” Marinette spat, even as she tried to blink and return her vision to normal. She was far too disoriented to even come up with a plan— but she was still coherent enough to register that the sky was dark outside the high windows of the factory she was apparently in. She had been missing for a few hours then, which meant that her mom and Momma Ivy would have called for help a long time ago. Maybe if she just stalled long enough, it would get there in time. “I’m not a puppet. Not for you, not for anybody!” She snarled.

Joker rolled his eyes, but his smile still widened. “Oh, that’s what they all say. In fact, your mother put up a good resistance there for a while, but her inner chaos couldn’t resist me. You’ll bend even easier, I have no doubt,” her ran his hand along her cheek in a motion that was so gentle that it felt foreign, wrong, to her coming from him. She knew what he was doing. He was trying to whiplash her, take all her hope away before dangling the option he wanted her to choose in front of her like a carrot on a stick.

Too bad he didn’t know her at all. She cringed away from his gentle touch, revolted by the mere feel of his skin on her’s.

“And your accent is a nice touch,” he cooed as if her reaction didn’t bother him at all. It probably didn’t. “Exotic. Just the thing I need to freshen up my usual act a bit, the Boston twang my old Harlequins had is just… stale by now, don’t you agree?”

Marinette clenched her jaw at the reminder that he had tried to pass off a cheap look-alike as her mom when she disappeared, back when she was pregnant with Marinette, to hide her baby from Joker. How he had discarded that woman like trash when Harley went back to him, only to replace her again when her mom left him for good.

No matter how badly Joker spoke of her mom, Marinette knew that Harley had been the only Harlequin of his to actually last. The only one he kept around, and there was a reason for that. Now, he was looking for another replacement. One that was more than a cheap knockoff, and he was hoping that a teenager with not only Harley’s genetics, but also his own, would be the exact kind of right-hand prop he wanted. An obedient little puppet of chaos, just for him.

But Marinette was nobody's toy. She had been used and taken advantage of enough back in Paris, she had spent her whole life struggling to escape the side effects of her parentage. To deal with the things she inherited.

The obsessiveness, the way she was so quick to get attached. She knew she inherited that from her mom. But there was also the rage, the anger that Marinette constantly had to stuff down. Hide below the surface before it hurt someone. Keep under a tight reign and hide away in the back of her mind, her own dirty little secret.

The constant reminder of just who her biological father was. Because that anger, that viciousness, could only have come from him.

She had spent her whole life trying to carve herself her own identity, to create beauty with the chaotic elements she got from her blood. And she couldn’t blame her mother, not really. Her mother at least did her best to help, and always leant an empathetic ear when Marinette needed it. But Joker?

Oh, she could, and would, blame him even long after he was dead and gone. Because he was the one who hurt her mother, he was the one who twisted her and drove her to feel unfit to be a parent. And sometimes, Marinette thought it would be better if Joker never existed. Sure, that meant she never would have been born. But wouldn’t that have been easier, too? To not ever have to experience the struggle that came with being his daughter, a title she never consented to?

But she couldn’t change the past. She was alive, and she would use her life to spite everything that the Joker stood for. That would be her revenge. He wanted a toy?

Joker had been monologuing, but Marinette drowned it all out as she kept her periphery vision on the windows above her. Shadows moved out there, with familiar bright yellows and shadowy blacks. The bats were there. She just needed to stall.

She opened her mouth. Joker pulled a lever.

Marinette dropped.

Wire whizzed through the air, knocking the breath out of Marinette as it wound around her torso. She was barely able to piece together what was happening; one of the bats shot a human-safe grapple to try and pull her away from the acid.

But the chain and her restraints were stronger, heavier, and just dragged the grapple down with her body.

The impact sent a large wave of sickly green liquid surging over the side of the vat, and Marinette was dragged from view underneath the surface.

It burned.

She distantly felt the tape around her ankles peel itself away from her skin, the combination of acid and wetness rendering it useless. She felt the chemicals burning at her, sending painful tingles across every last inch of her skin. It got in her mouth, she didn’t have any breath in her to hold and ended up swallowing some. It seared her throat and created a river of lava inside her. It hurt.

It hurt so bad, she just wanted out. Out. Out. Out!

Someone pull her out now!

The zip tie around her wrist loosened enough for her to pull herself free, right as something heavy slammed into the heavy metal bowl. The entire container sloshed, slamming to fall onto its side. Marinette’s body was pulled alongside the rush of liquid as it flowed out, and she was able to breathe air again. Sweet, cooling air.

And then she hacked up acid, spitting and spewing it in an attempt to purge every last drop she had accidentally ingested. Like a cat choking on a hairball, she coughed and hacked and her chest convulsed and contracted to try and help her. Her ribs ached, she figured that the grapple that had tried to save her had ended up fracturing or breaking a rib or two. But all she cared about was breathing and getting rid of the chemicals she had inhaled. She needed it out. All of it. Out. Out. Out of her!

“Try to take a deep breath,” a gruff voice commanded, soft but solid. Something stable for her to cling to. So she did as it asked, forcing herself to stop hacking and instead focus on inhaling. As slowly as she could. It was difficult, the first few breaths cut themselves off with more involuntary coughing, but the owner of the gruff voice stayed nearby. Repeated it’s request. “Deep breath. Steady, now. In. Out. Good.”

Marinette was just starting to calm down, just starting to claw herself out of the haze of panic and adrenaline, when that wretched laugh cut through the air again.

“There you are! Heheheheh! My cute little Marionette!”

Marinette froze. She could barely think, barely understand her own emotions. But she knew she was different now. She knew there was no way back, he had taken it from her. He had taken her normality, he had taken all of her years of hard work and burned them right in front of her.

He had won. The bats hadn’t been fast enough. But, if her foggy mind was correct, Batman was the one trying to bring her back to lucidity. Batman was the one trying to help her get air back in her lungs.

Not her so-called father.

If he wanted a toy, she’d be a haunted doll. She’d harass him, haunt him, until he wanted nothing to do with her. She’d come back, like a possessed porcelain doll refusing to be thrown away. She would make him regret ever awakening the monster that she had spent so long forcing down. Because she was her father’s daughter, yes. But she was also her mother’s daughter.

And most importantly, she was Marinette Quinzel-Isley. Her own damned person. The Chosen wielder of the Creation miraculous. And she would never bow down and be used by anyone, ever again.

Tikki’s words from so long ago echoed in her mind. Resounded even louder than Joker’s laughter;

“That’s all order really is, Marinette. The decision to take all the chaos and madness around us, and make it make sense. Make it do something good.”

And wasn’t that everything Marinette had ever done? It was a part of her now. Like a tattoo she had inked into her very soul.

She took the chaos she was given, and turned it into something beautiful. And right now? Right now, the most beautiful thing she could think of was Joker’s face when she slammed her fist into it.

“Easy,” Batman repeated, but for a different reason now. Marinette’s lungs still stuttered a little, but her breathing was mostly under control. Now, he was saying it because Marinette was forcing herself to her feet. Her legs trembled under her, threatening to lay her out on the floor again. But she was every bit as stubborn as Joker, which made for a terrifying combination with her all-consuming fury. The acid had broken the mental chains Marinette had been using to hold it back, and now it burned fierce and bright in her eyes.

So Marinette kept herself up right, cognizant of Batman’s hand on her shoulder but ignoring it. She grit her teeth against the burning light of the room, everything suddenly too bright and colorful. Too vibrant. But it did little to distract her. She realized that one of her hands still gripped the heavy chain that had sent her drowning in the acid, and sent a snarl at her darling, jackass of a father as she whipped it out right towards him.

“Marinette!” Batman yelled, his grip tightening on her shoulder. But he didn’t pull her back, which spoke louder than any words he could have said to her right then. He wouldn’t save Joker from his daughter, he knew the man deserved at least this much pain. And sure enough, the metal links slammed right into Joker’s side, winding around him like a crushing whip.

But that was all Marinette had the strength to do. As soon as she saw Joker’s body hit the floor, writhing in agony and painfully loud cackles, her hand let go of the chain and her body tumbled down. Batman caught her.

“Red Hood, Nightwing, get Joker back to Arkham,” Batman’s order faded in and out of focus. Now that her most pressing desire was taken care of, the effects of the acid reared their ugly heads with renewed ferocity. Everything was too bright, too loud, and her thoughts echoed in her head like voices wrestling for supremacy. “Robin, Black Bat, stay on alert. Harley said that she’s incredibly trained,” he warned his partners. Marinette didn’t begrudge him, the only other two people who had survived being dunked into those chemicals hadn’t exactly treated him with kindness and pacifism. But she could barely focus on them anyway, too distracted by trying to reign in the chaos in her mind.

But Joker would never stay silent, even as he was dragged away in chains.

“Hehehahahahaha! Paper white, paper white!” He jeered cheerfully. “That’s my girl! Violent just like Papa!” Red hood knocked him out with a harsh punch to the side of his neck before he could say another word. But it was enough— enough for Marinette to gasp in realization.

Her skin. It was paper white, just like his. Not even Harley’s skin had been bleached like the Joker’s after her dip in the acid. That had always been makeup. Her mom had a healthy, peachy complexion like anyone else. A complexion Marinette had shared— until now. Now, she was unhealthily pale. Just like him.

A painful screech tore itself from her already raw throat, and Marinette’s fingernails immediately began to tear at her own skin. Red. Red was better than white— she didn’t want to look like him. She couldn’t. White was bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.

“Marinette! Stop!” Strong hands clamped around her wrists, pulling her hands away from herself even as she wriggled and tried to keep clawing at herself.

“No! No no no!” Marinette howled. “I don’t wanna look like him! I don’t wanna be like him!” She managed to get one hand free and immediately tried to tear away at her face. Batman was able to wrestle her arm away before she could do any damage besides a few angry red lines. “I refuse! I refuse! I refuse!” She shook her head, not feeling as tears flung themselves off her cheeks.

“Okay,” Batman’s voice was solid again, soft and grumbly and stable. She grabbed at it again, drawn to anything that might help bring her stability. She needed his unflappable attitude right then, and he probably didn’t even realize how badly. “That’s good. But you don’t need to rip your skin off to do that, you know that right?”

Marinette hiccuped, finally sinking down to sob as the weight of everything she had lost pressed down over the chaos of deafening light and blinding sound that continued to jumble around inside her head. “He changed me,” she choked out. Batman nodded even though she wasn’t looking at him.

“He did.”

“Th-that f-fucking bastard,” Marinette managed a sad chuckle before devolving right back into sobs. “I wo-worked so h-hard. N-never hurt any-anybody. Never… never yelled. Ne-never hit… Not people who didn’t attack f-first.”

“I know. Your mom told me,” he confirmed calmly. Solid, tethering. Marinette swallowed another gulp of air, trying to calm down. But everything was too much.

“Mom!” She suddenly realized out loud, turning and grabbing at Batman’s chest, clinging to his uniform. She didn’t even care that she almost sliced herself on a batarang, she clung to him desperately with wide, crazed eyes. “G-get Mom and… and Ivy! They… they can help. They know—“ Marinette paused to breathe, then resumed. “Momma Ivy— she gave me—gave me a diluted… th-thingy, years ago, I can’t remember—“ Marinette’s eyebrows furrowed as she tried to get her mind to calm down. To work.

“The serum she gave Harley?” He asked. “The one that made her immune to poisons, and gave her increased physical abilities?”

“That!” Marinette agreed frantically, nodding. “I was too— too little, to give the real thing, so she diluted it,” she swallowed her spit and winced when it burned her throat. “It… I think it’s helping with the—the—the—“

“The chemical’s effects?” Batman suddenly sounded like he was paying much more attention than before, his shoulders a little straighter at her explanation. “You think it’s slowing down or numbing what it did to your mom and Joker?” Marinette couldn’t talk anymore, it hurt too much. Everything hurt too much, so she just nodded. “Good. That’s good, Marinette. Robin! Get Harley and Ivy down here, now!”

That was when the voices started. Sometime during the ten minutes it took to get her Mom and Ivy to her, they had apparently been waiting nearby anxiously incase the Bats had needed backup, the voices had built from ominous whispers to devious shouts, ordering her to do things like slam her elbow into Batman’s throat or see what happened if she splashed Robin with some of the acid that was still on the ground.

Her body didn’t move. She kept herself carefully still, focusing on ignoring her impulse to listen to one of the voices. She was still lucid enough to know that she would regret it if she did any of that. That the Bats were more on her side than any of the voices or the Joker were. But it was growing painful, and Harley and Ivy walked in to Batman trying to keep Marinette from hitting her own head. She had devolved to trying to knock herself out to get the voices to be quiet.

“Shut up,” she hissed, her voice hoarse and gravelly. “Shut up, shut up, shut. Up!” She was clearly talking to herself, her eyes screwed shut as she continued to try and hit her head. Harley gasped, hands flying to her mouth and eyes watering at the sight. This was something she had hoped she would never see.

“Harls,” Ivy spoke softly, putting a gentle arm around her wife’s back in support. It hurt Ivy to see Marinette in so much agony, but she knew it pained Harley even more. And much more personally. “Come on. We can help.”

“Y-you’re right,” Harley agreed shakily, taking a deep breath to try and compose herself before they both approached their daughter. Batman didn’t let go of Marinette, but did lean out of the way to give them access to her.

“Honeycake?” Harley called out softly, a little unsure how the chemicals were affecting her baby’s personality right then. The first few days were going to be the worst, and she knew that. The Dunk never took it easy on it’s victims. Marinette gasped, stopping her muttering and raising her head to look at Harley with wide eyes.

“Momma?”

Harley had to swallow heavily to shove back the sob that wanted to bubble up out of her. She had to be strong for her baby. She couldn’t break yet. But Marinette hadn’t called her Momma since she was little, now she called Pamela ‘Momma Ivy’ and her just ‘Mom’.

“It’s me, sugarplum,” she assured her daughter, kneeling down and cupping one of Marinette’s cheeks in her palm. And that was when she noticed it, and couldn’t help but widen her eyes in shock. But Marinette’s senses were so sensitive that she noticed it right away, and stiffened.

“Wh-what is it?” She grew frantic when Harley didn’t immediately respond, only winced in sympathy. Marinette knew that wasn’t good. “Mom? What is it? What did he do? What else did he do to me?”

“Darling,” Harley started, licking her lips nervously. “My sweet baby girl, your right eye… it’s green now, sugar.”

Marinette’s world froze. She tried to smile, but it came out lopsided and disbelieving. “No,” she somehow managed to breathe. “No, mom, I have your eyes. Your blue eyes. I love your eyes,” Her voice steadily got more and more panicked as she went on, not wanting to accept what her mother was clearly seeing. She watched as Harley’s face broke a little, a few tears escaping before the older woman could stop them. Marinette shook her head again, slipping her tiny wrist out of Batman’s hold and raising it to her eye. “No. It’s one of his tricks. He—he must have slipped a contact in my eye when I was passed out, that’s— that’s— that’s all—“ but her fingertip met her normal eye. No contact to be felt. Marinette’s hand fell into her lap limply. The room was absolutely silent as everyone gave her a few seconds to process just how much she had been changed, entirely against her will. She opened and closed her mouth, not sure whether she wanted to yell or curse or cry. Instead, her voice just came out in a very tiny, broken:

“...fuck.”

—*—*—*—*—*

Marinette had gone mostly mute. She would say a word here or there, but for the most part she was doing a good impression of a vegetable. She stayed silent, as still as possible, and just stared at the ceiling of her hospital room.

She had been like that for the past two weeks they had been monitoring her in the Acid’s aftermath. Her ribs, which had turned out to only be bruised thankfully enough, had healed. Her cheek and torso were healed up too, only the barest hint of sickly yellow to show as a reminder of Joker’s hits on her. Sometimes the cameras would catch her talking to seemingly empty air, only for a nurse to rush in and see that Marinette had gone silent yet again.

Tikki was doing her best to help. She had been separated from Marinette, but Pamela had found Marinette’s purse and returned it— and subsequently Tikki— when they had gotten her to the hospital. She was the only person Marinette regularly spoke to, because Marinette knew Tikki understood. Tikki had been around since the Big Bang, she had seen worse things than a little insanity. Tikki had always been there to help her feel at ease with her mind and body. She shared a piece of Tikki’s soul, even, according to the tiny god.

But talking to anyone else was too hard. Too scary. She still had those damned voices at war in her mind, trying to convince her to do things that made her lock her joints and keep her body absolutely still before she acted on any of the coaxes. Possibilities she had never considered before came startlingly easy to her mind now— like how it would only take two seconds to tear her IV out and stab it into her nurse’s eye. How she could use her blanket to strangle Momma Ivy, or how she could fake jumping out the window and Harley wouldn’t waste a second trying to save her.

They were horrible thoughts. Intrusive, ugly, and far too loud. She didn’t want to act on any of them, but sometimes she found her fingers twitching only a second before she could follow through on one.

She spent a lot of time meditating, because of it. Which is why most people thought she was ignoring them. She didn’t mean to, she just needed to meditate. It was like her brain was a giant room filled with filing cabinets that held her thoughts and emotions. Her whole life, Marinette had carefully kept this room alphabetized, organized, and neat. Every file in its correct drawer. Until Joker had come along, and ripped the entire place apart. Tore certain files in half, broke her cabinets, ruined her filing system. And now she had to put the room back together, one drawer and piece of paper at a time.

That’s what the meditation was doing. She was getting reacquainted with herself. Learning what had changed in her mind and trying to adjust. She couldn’t be the old Marinette anymore, but she’d be damned if she let the Joker turn her into someone ugly like him.

So she needed time.

One day, towards the end of those two weeks, she got a visitor slipping through her window. Considering her room was on the tenth floor, she had it pretty narrowed down as to who it could be. Batman had visited her every night, a silent shadow in the corner, but he had already left for the day so it couldn’t be him. None of the other bats had dropped by after the second day.

She turned her head to see that that was now changed; Red Hood sat on her windowsill with one leg inside the room and the other bent on the sill itself. He looked the very picture of comfort despite being a stiff wind (or quick shove— no, bad brain) away from falling to his death. And then Hood took off his helmet, which was ugly enough to inspire some of the more violent suggestions in her brain and make them seem appealing.

“Ya know. Red Hood used to be what Joker called himself,” were the first words out of the vigilante’s mouth. Marinette’s eyebrows pulled down, and it was clear she was confused (and a little angry) at what he told her. He grinned, his eyes still hidden by the domino mask on his face. “Eh. The bastard killed me, ya know. I was the second Robin, a lifetime ago.”

Marinette’s eyes widened at that, and the violent voices dimmed and seemed to grow muffled. Marinette couldn’t quite understand what they were trying to tell her anymore, which made her figure that she had better pay attention to what Hood had to say. She licked her dry lips, and spoke softly. Her throat was still damaged from the acid, so she couldn’t speak very loudly yet.

“Then how are you… you know, here?”

The man chuckled. “Another group of assholes happens to have a magic pit in their basement. It’s a glowing green lake, ten different types of bad news. But it brings people back to life, and they dunked me in it without even caring for a second if I even wanted to come back.”

Marinette’s shoulders relaxed all on their own. It seemed to sink into her brain all at once, a simple:

Oh. He gets it.

“I guess the water doesn’t take it easy on your brain, either?” She hazarded an educated guess. He laughed, shaking his head.

“Not at all. I went off the deep end for a while, and killed a lotta people. They deserved it at least, but I don’t like how violent I was back then. Before I learned how to cope. Attacked people who were innocent. Red Robin almost died when I attacked him, back then, when he was just Robin.”

“Then why’d you keep calling yourself Red Hood?” She asked, tilting her head. He finally turned his head to look straight at her instead of just staring out the window. His grin widened, but it was lopsided. The grin of someone who was healed from some serious shit, but knew that it would always ache. A bittersweet expression.

“Cuz he doesn’t own that name. I made it into something that stands for at least a little good. Something that scares the assholes who don’t care about killing or abusing innocent people. Hell, some people take comfort in the name Red Hood now. And you know what that means?”

Marinette shook her head, and his grin widened into a shark-like smile.

“It means I stole it from him. The name Red Hood. He’ll never use it again, and now it stands for the opposite of anything he’d agree with. You can do that too, you know. Find something to steal from him, or use something he gave you, and make it your own.”

“Turn the chaos into something good,” Marinette said dreamily, clearly quoting someone. Red Hood nodded.

“Exactly. It’s not gonna be easy, but you got the choice here. You ain’t going back to who you used to be, but you can take the victory away from him.”

“... make him regret ever dunking me in that stupid vat,” she agreed, narrowing her eyes as they filled with determination for the first time since her body hit the acid. “He wants a puppet, an obedient little doll, I’ll give him Annabel.”

“There ya go,” The vigilante slid off the windowsill and approached her bed, holding out his hand for a shake. “I can help you get to that. What do ya say?”

Marinette was silent for a long minute, staring straight into his masked eyes. And then, a slow smile spread over her lips. “I got one question, Red Hood.”

“Shoot.”

“How do you feel about black cats?”

—*—*—*—*—*

This took four hours, holy hell. I’m actually happy with how this turned out. What do you guys think? I even got to max length on Tumblr 😂

[smol-and-trashy]

Sylvix Vore Fic (FE3H)

A/N: This is probably mega OOC, but I fell in love with both Sylvain and Felix during my first playthrough of FE3H and been itching for a vore fic featuring them. It’s probably more accurate to read this as platonic due to my inability to write anything remotely romantic... This was also inspired by @sinfromlokislair‘s Sylvix fic, theirs is a lot better tbh haha.. Vomit warning, so if that makes you squeemish, please leave now! Enjoy :) 

_____________________

Felix growled as he shoves off the giant finger, wishing this oaf wasn’t the first person who offered help. While Sylvain would disagree, it wasn’t entirely his fault that he was in this position. The blast of magic was directed towards their professor and Felix, standing behind her, found himself foolishly taking the hit. He expected a lot of things to happen, well aware of the effects of taking a direct hit to dark magic, but being reduced to the size of a field mouse was not one of them. Now, he has to pay the price of the curse. 

Felix pinched the bridge of his nose, he expected something like this happening to Sylvain, the reckless skirt-chaser, but himself? He was usually more collect in battle. He sighs, regret still weighing heavily over him, but he had more pressing matters to tend to, specifically regarding the man before him. He looks up: Sylvain Jose Gautier loomed over Felix in all his self-proclaimed glory, Felix swallows. Goddess, he was gargantuan, his chest taking up most of Felix’s line of view and he has to crank his neck far back just to peer up in his friend’s eyes and feel like an equal in conversation. Bubbles of fear and humiliation rose up inside the smaller, but he represses those feelings, swiftly replacing them with indignation. “For the last time, Sylvain, quit poking me.” “Sorry, sorry, it’s just that you’re so tiny and cute! I really can’t help myself.” Sylvain laughs a little, folding both hands behind his head. “Insatiable, as always,” Felix mutters under his breath. If Sylvain heard, he gave no indication, instead, grabbing Felix without a single warning. As the tree-sized fingers close around his waist, Felix soon finds himself face-to-face with his ginormous friend; bemused, Sylvain simply watches as the smaller struggles in his grip. “Let me go, Sylvain!” he squawks, trying to pry those fingers off him. Really, the man had no concept of personal space. “Mm, I could, but,” Sylvain leans forward with his elbow still on the table, drawing closer to Felix. Fruitlessly trying to maneuver his legs and kick at Sylvain’s too-close face, he stops; scowling as he notices his own reflection in those amber eyes, and at last, Sylvain pulls back. “This is all too much fun!” he winks. “Hilarious, now let me down, you oaf.” Felix says flatly, “I would rather dual the boar than being stuck here with you.” “Really? Because most ladies would love to be in your shoes, Fe.” Felix squirmed a little in the redhead’s grip, not fancying himself so high. “Let them. At least you would finally leave me alone.” Sylvain leans on his arm, a cocky grin adorning his lips, “Ouch, don’t be like that! Least now, you can’t refuse to get dinner with me.” The raven-head rolls his eyes at the reminder of Sylvain’s countless dinner invitations, most of which he had turned down in favor of training. “Forcing me to eat with you, would you stoop so low?” Sylvain says nothing, only flashing a sly smirk and hoists Felix a few inches higher, just above his nose. Felix unwittingly tenses up, he's much too high and Sylvain was taking this joke further than he'd like. He curses while digging his nails into his friend's skin, trying to force himself to be lowered. Yet, the other refuses to budge. He can't tell if Sylvain thought of this as one big joke or if he was really this careless. "You incorrigible---" "Aw, c'mon Fe, you’re just cute enough to eat!” Sylvain interrupts smugly, dangling Felix over his wide-open mouth; He wasn’t seriously going to drop him, but it was all too easy to get a rise out of him. Felix’s heart pounds furiously against his chest as he’s forced to peer into Sylvain’s awaiting maw. Sharp white teeth that could easily bite him in half taunt him while that wet tongue twitches and Felix doesn’t even want to think what is beyond that dark, pulsing throat. It was repulsive, everything. Despite himself, Felix couldn’t stop staring. Is this what prey feel when they’re about to be eaten? Strangely enamored? He frowns, choosing not to dwell on it, and instead, averting his eyes to the door, he was no damsel, but a piece of him wishes for Ingrid or even the boar to pay Sylvain an unexpected visit. Relief sweeps through him as those lips close, “Tell me, do you have a death wish, Sylvain?” he growls, but the older man’s lips quirk upwards, evidently amused. As Sylvain opens his mouth to make a quip—- “Sylvain!” Ingrid barges into the room, and in an instant, he loses his grip on Felix, barely able to make out the tiny man’s objections as he falls straight towards the gaping throat. Sylvain’s jaws snap shut, and the obtrusion at the back of his throat causes him to swallow, purely out of reflex. Fuck. All traces of coy playfulness disappear instantly as he feels the tiny body make its way down his throat. He sits there, in cold shock, as Felix drops into his stomach. The heavy, humid air hits him, and Felix lies absolutely still, paralyzed with disbelief. This can’t be real. That half-wit did not just swallow me. Felix’s heart pounds in his ears as he wipes the slime off his face. The chamber wasn’t as dark as he anticipated, in fact, he could see the wrinkled pinkish walls fairly well. His own stomach turns as thick chyme splashes on him, and before he’s able to gain some semblance of footing, he’s thrown at the opposing wall. More liquid soaks him, and Felix thrashes aimlessly, the only coherent thought going through his mind is ‘I need to get out of here.’ He rushes to the nearest wall, cursing at Sylvain for taking his swords beforehand, and punches at the wall. No reaction. Not a wince, not a protest to stop, nothing. The chamber groans and convulses, but there’s no direct response from Sylvain. Felix clenches his fist, and despite the heat, he feels an icy chill plunge into his veins; no, he must persist. He’s trained on hours end, he can make Sylvain notice him. As Felix is about to inflict another punch to the walls, he hears a familiar voice around him, pushing down the squicked feeling of hearing his childhood friend in such a ubiquitous manner, he pauses to listen. Sylvain stands up and freezes, a nervous chuckle arises from his throat, “I-Ingrid! To what do I owe the pleasure of—“ “You know how many messes of yours I had to clean up for the past week?” He blanches as Ingrid wastes no time in berating him for his less than reputable behavior, “You promised that you would cease your philandering ways, but I heard from Ashe, of all people, that you were—-“ she pauses, Sylvain was almost hunched over, sickly pale with his arms twisted around his stomach, “Are you okay? You look unwell.” At that, Sylvain straightens up, “Ah, yeah, yeah, just ate something bad earlier,” he winces as he earns a nasty kick from Felix, “nothing some rest can’t fix!” Ingrid’s concerned expression only deepens, she purses her lips, but Sylvain, armed with a charming smile, puts a hand on her shoulder, “Honestly, Ingrid, I’m fine. But it’s cute of you to get all worked up over me! Y’know, maybe a kiss on the cheek would help?” The blonde shoves his hand off, rolling her eyes, “I’m not…Take care of yourself, Sylvain,” she sighs, turning around and finally shutting the door behind her. Alone in his room, Sylvain gingerly presses a hand on his belly, earning sharp kick in retaliation. His mouth suddenly feels like it was filled with cotton, and finding himself at a rare loss of words, Sylvain racks his brain for the right thing to say, for something to say. “You alright in there?” he mentally slaps himself after the words come out of his mouth. How utterly stupid he must sound. “Am I alright in here?” Felix repeats incredulously, blood boiling with every ticking second, “Did you really just ask the man who’s stewing away in your filthy guts if he’s ‘alright in there?’ What the hell do you think?” Sylvain swallows and finally sits down on his bed, trying to control an incoming rush of vertigo. He runs a hand through his hair, slicking the ruddy strands back into place, and sighs. “You’re right, I-I’m sorry, Felix. You’re not… melting in there, are you?” His heart-rate begins to pick up, thumping wildly in his chest like a caged bird. “Oh Goddess, you need to let me know if anything is happening!” “As you should be,” Felix says while checking out his arm. His once white sleeves are stained from the juices, but he’s feeling no burning effects. Not to say the acids wouldn’t be activated when Sylvain eats something—-other than himself. “It looks like I’m fine, for now.” “Good, let’s get you out of there.” He’s met with an affirmative hum, and Sylvain plants himself on the floor, firmly pressing both hands on his stomach. Tiny fingers tap on the bottom of his belly and now wholly aware of it. The feeling is entirely alien, almost ticklish; he automatically heaves, offhandedly noting the room getting warmer as sweat gathers on his forehand. Bile creeps at the bottom of his throat, and Sylvain dry heaves once again, “C’mon…” he murmurs. His stomach groans louder, noisily protesting the shrunken being inside, and his fingers slam on the hardwood, curling instantly. As his guts twist and turn in itself, he grimaces, wishing for a drink to aid him in this uncomfortable process. Sylvain’s eyes widen as he gags, only able to retch out strands of saliva. There is a distinct lack of a certain sharp-tongued mercenary.   “No…Why didn’t it work?” he whispers, clutching at his middle. “Sylvain…” Felix’s voice is dangerously low, and Sylvain was sure that if he hadn’t removed the former’s weapons, his insides would have been lacerated mercilessly. Even though they’d been friends since childhood, even though they made a promise, there was no way Felix would let himself die such a humiliating death. Felix glares up at the tight sphincter from above, it’s much too high to force open, but maybe if Sylvain was lying down… He pauses, out of nowhere, acids begin to bubble and churn. The stomach gurgles louder, and suddenly, he’s thrown from wall-to-wall, hardly getting a chance to catch his breath. A god-awful groan resonates around him, and his head gets submerged under the liquid; everything flies by too quickly; this was it, this was how he was going to go down. He can’t breathe; one moment his lungs are filled with acids, and the next, he finds himself splayed on a squishy surface. Felix coughs and gasps for air, for a split second, he really thought he was done for. Arm slung over his head, he almost doesn’t notice the shadow looming over him or the fast pulse below, rivaling his own. He needs a good minute to recoup himself as he breathes slowly to even his heart-rate. Finally removing his arm, he looks above. Felix’s breath hitches as the thundering vibrations of Sylvain saying something reverberates through his body; nearly admonishing himself for such a pathetic reaction, he realizes the words aren’t registering. “—-about this, yeah?” Felix catches the tail-end of whatever the redhead was trying to say. “Alright.” and for the first time since this ordeal, there’s no bite behind his words, only thinly veiled exhaustion as he finds himself slumped against Sylvain’s index finger. He just wants to return to normal and forget this day ever happened.

[rancoeur-the-unfortunate]

Pills (Chapter 17)

(1970 words 😉)

Having nothing better to do and Zim insisted on getting a better view of their surroundings. Dib had found himself on some sort of nature walk with Zim.

The alien in question was focusing on a small pink device in his hands.

When asked to watch the device was Dib got the typical Zim response.

"None of your filthy business."

Dib rolled his eyes and continued walking. In the distance, Dib could hear the sound of the waterfall he had found before. He smirked to himself and continued walking. Zim seemed pretty engrossed in his device thing and Dib doubted he knew what a waterfall sounded like.

When the two boys arrived they stood by the river and over the cliff edge. Dib elbowed Zim to get his attention.

"What is it Dib-pi- AHHHH!" Zim jumped back in fear.

"DibhumanwhatonIrkisthatthingwhyistheresomuchwaterwhereisitgoingwhyisitfallingwhyarewehere------"

It was almost impossible to hear him in the rushing waves.

Dib put his hand to his ear to hear Zim.

"What?"

"I said WHY ARE WE HERE?!" Zim screamed his antennae now pressed to his head either in fear or anger Dib didn't know.

Dib stumbled back close to the river covering his ears.

"Damn Zim you don't have to be so loud."

Suddenly the rocks under Dib's feet slid out from under him causing him to fall into the river below. Dib screamed when he suddenly fell into the freezing cold river now heading at rapid speed toward a raging waterfall. He gasped for air and tried his best to find something to latch on to but found no such luck.

"Dib!" 

Zim ran after Dib though kept on the grass. There was no way he could jump in after him that would be like a human jumping into boiling acid and that wouldn't help anybody. Up ahead Zim could see the cascade's overhang. The alien ran ahead and tried to think of anything he could do and then rushed forward with an idea. He extended one of his PAC legs and reached for Dib.

"Dib grab onto Zim!"

From where he was he could tell Dib wouldn't be able to reach him, he actually had to LEAN forward for else Dib would be squashed under the waterfall's plunge pool.

While leaning with all his might and even getting splashed and burned a bit he was able to reach Dib.

Dib grabbed onto the alien mechanical leg and clung on for dear life as Zim yanked him out of the river and away from his certain peril.

The two landed in the grass next to each other. 

"Zim... you saved me..."

"Uh yeah, I guess I did...b-but ONLY BECAUSE I WANT TO BE THE ONE THAT KILLS YOU NOT SOME DUMB WATER THING!"

Dib who was panting and soaking wet couldn't help but let out a giggle and soon that giggled turned into laughter.

"What's so funny human?"

Dib giggled but eventually came down from his high.

"Oh.. it's nothing it's that weren't you literally trying to kill me like two weeks ago? Now we're here and you literally just saved my life."

"Well yes, I suppose the irony is rather amusing."

Zim felt himself letting out a string of giggles at the twist too and soon when joined by Dib the two were laying in the grass and laughing. Dib was the first to calm down as he rubbing his forehead in disbelief it was a miracle that the river didn't take his glasses. Dib sighed looked up at the sky above them. It was a beautiful day out the sun was shining, a view clouds just drifting overhead, and the sound of rushing water despite having almost killed him was surprisingly soothing. Yet for some reason, Dib's eyes trailed to the chartreuse alien next to him. Zim had sense relaxed and was looking at the sky. His features were soft and serene and Dib couldn't get that image of sleeping Zim out of his mind. The Outsider was usually so tense and angry all the time and never really took the time to relax or at least from what Dib knew and Dib knew a lot about this extraterrestrial. But to see him so calm it was almost extraordinary the way Zim's soft amphibian-like skin released all the tension he usually kept. Dib wondered if old Zim was the same way or was he just as pent up as new Zim was.

"What are you looking at?"

Dib was snapped out of his thoughts and looked back to Zim. He had the look he usually held when he saw Dib do something stupid. That face that said 'I don't know what you're trying to do but stop it!' Dib smirked at that thought.

"Oh, nothing."

Dib went back to looking at the clouds.

"You know that one looks like your house."

"What does?"

"That cloud." Dib pointed to the sky at a particular cloud.

"Oh yeah? Well... that one looks like your enormous head!"

Zim pointed to a lump of cloud.

"It's got the sheer size right too."

Zim shrill giggles hit the air again and Dib couldn't help but giggle too.

"Come on my head's not that big."

"Oh yes, it is!"

"Whatever... hey that one looks just like your weird alien spaceship."

"The Voot cruiser Dib, and yeah I suppose it does if my Voot was a cloud."

The two sat like that for a while, just laying the grass watching clouds. It seemed so domestic and yet it felt kinda nice even if it was Zim. Just the fact that the two could have such a great time together made Dib feel all weird on the inside like when he found out Zim was an alien in the first place.

Eventually, it was time to head back to the camp. The two stood up Dib, by now was dry and grabbed his backpack. Zim pulled out his device from before from his PAC.

"Can you finally tell me what that thing is for?"

"It's a tracker, Dib," Zim answered while powering it on.

The small dev=vice reminded Dib of a Gameboy, but instead of a pixelated screen, the device had one screen that displayed a green arrowed that Zim started following.

"Hey, wait where are we going?"

"To the camp duh."

"Well, how does your tracker know where the camp is?"

"I placed sonar beacon down there," Zim replied nonchalantly.

"Oh."

The two walked in relative silence to the camp.

Once back to Homebase the two sat by the fireplace while Dib got the fire started. Zim sat on his rock while Dib sat on his log. The human reached into his bag and pulled out a pack of sausages and a long fork. He pierced the sausages with the fork and hung them over the fire. 

Zim sat still and looked up from the fire and into the sky. The sun was setting and Zim new the stars would be out soon, and immediately his first thought was more fireflies. ZIm stood up and crawled inside the tent and grabbed his jar of fireflies and sat back down.

"What are you going to do with them." He gestured to the lightning bugs.

"I'm going to let them go."

Dib looked up from his food in surprise, his jaw almost dropped when he noticed how he handled the bugs with care.

"I'll wait till the other fireflies come out and let them free. After all, you said they looked like me and I wouldn't want to be trapped in a jar."

If Dib's jaw hadn't hit the floor yet it certainly did now. Had Zim just expressed empathy?! The idea was insane and yet here they were. Zim looked up at the suddenly silent human.

"Dib?"

 Dib shook his head.

"Uh yeah, sounds like a great idea Zim just let me eat my dinner."

Zim nodded and reached into his PAC and grabbed some rations.

Once Dib was done eating it was dark out. The two stood and headed for the clearing from before, and just like before fireflies were everywhere. Zim opened his jar and the fireflies once realizing they were free, flew out and joined the other lightning bugs.

Zim found himself smiling at the sight and sat down in the grass with DIb and just starred at the show. The way the bioluminescent bodies just floated around searching for another bug to love them, breed, lay eggs, and die. Despite how primal it was Zim couldn't stop himself from enjoying it. Zim had never felt such emotion before at least not all on the same day. Speaking on which today had been a whirlwind of new things and new feelings. Like the surge of emotion, he felt when he saved Dib's life earlier or now just staring at the beauty of Earth's nature. It felt like something foreign, weird but not wrong. Like this was how he was supposed to be and yet Zim had no Idea exactly what that meant. Was he meant to care? About Dib? About others?

Did glanced towards Zim and smiled. Zim really was a sight to behold. Even if Dib had spent the last couple of years of his life convincing himself that Zim was, in fact, a hideous space monster, he couldn't deny the truth. Zim was marvelous and beautiful and Dib found himself more than once just staring at the those bug-like, magenta eyes. Gently and sneakily Dib moved his hand to cover Zim's claw. If Zim noticed, he didn't react and Dib had to count his blessing for that.

Like this, they sat hand in claw just watching the fireflies.

When they returned to the camp Dib made smores and shared with Zimas they both sat on Dib's log and starred up at the stars.

"Hey, Zim where your home planet?"

"Right there past that star there. Though I doubt you'd be able to see it."

Zim pointed to the Big Dipper's last star on the ladle.

Though Dib was surprised Zim even told him at home.

"One second."

Zim reached into his PAC and pulled out something that looked like a helmet with alien binoculars.

"Try these."

Dib donned the helmet and looked to where Dib had pointed and Dib could see it, right past Alkaid though much farther away was a strange purple planet. The planet was at a 30-degree tilt and three sets of rings. One ran vertically, another horizontally, and last diagonally. The rings were pink and the planet was surrounded by ships and fleets protecting it. Well if you're an alien race hellbent on taking over every living being in the universe I guess it would be best to protect your home.

"Wow."

"Yeah, that's Irk. My home."

Dib paused that was the single strangest thing he had ever heard the alien say and THAT was saying something. Throughout his time of knowing ZIm, DIb had never ever heard Zim refer to Irk as 'home'. Dib removed the helmet and looked to Zim who was gazing up tiredly at the stars.

"Do you miss it?"

"There's not a day that I don't." Zim barely hesitated in responding.

"Then why leave?"

To that Zim had no answer and sat there in silence.

Why did he leave? To prove to the Tallest hew was worthy of their respect? Why would he want their respect? They were idiots who only rule because of their height!

Wait what was he saying?! The Tallest were all and mighty he shouldn't think such things again.

"I'm going to sleep human."

With that Zim clambered into the tent and into his sleeping bag.

Dib sat in the grass Zim's binoculars still in his hands. He tucked them into his backpack and crawled into his sleeping bag.

[bisexualstokes-archive]

Atrophy (3/?)

Chapter (3/?): Connect the Dots Rating: Teen+ (For: Language, Graphics Depictions of Violence) Summary: Nick's hope of getting out of this continues to drain, as Greg's anxiety isn't eased at all. Chapter Notes: Aaaand this chapter is the reason "Scared of the Dark" is on my playlist for this fic, which I plan on sharing once the fic is complete! (and I might make a moodboard, too) @letswaitforme, @deltajackdalton, @impossiblepluto, @mutatedsilverunicorn, @12percentplan,@telltaleclerk…idk, who else wants to be tagged in updates of this fic?? lemme know ;)

Previous Chapter | Read on ao3

“Is that a pickle in your pocket, or this is all getting a little too exciting for you?”

Nick was only vaguely aware as Veronica pulled his vibrating phone from his pocket. She held it up to her ear, her lips curling upward as she listened to a voicemail that Nick was unaware he had.

“Aw, your poor friend’s wondering where you are...don’t worry, I won’t keep him in suspense,” Veronica cooed, and typed a message on Nick’s phone.

Frozen in shock, Nick didn’t hear a word Veronica said to him. His eyes were transfixed on the space of the trunk, his breathing was increasing in pace and depth. Long, blood curdling screams rang through one ear and out the other. Screams that both were, and weren’t his.

Veronica closed his phone and tucked it back into his pocket. One final buzz taunted him, somehow, it was louder than the rest.

“We might need that again later. It’s time to go home.”

She pushed the shovel forward, his check rubbed against the wood of the handle. Some of the wood was chipped, it would leave marks on his cheek. She had to turn the shovel slightly, to fit the shovel awkwardly against Nick’s motionless body.

Motionless, except for his eyes, which betrayed the emotions he was desperately trying to mask.

“Oh, you poor thing, don’t cry,” Her voice was sickeningly sweet, mocking him. “What’s the matter, are you scared of the dark?”

A string of giggles intertwined into the screams, and he was plunged into darkness once more.

A jolt sputtered the trunk into a gentle vibration, the purr of the engine, smothered music didn’t quite get past the screaming in his ears. His body hiccuped as they hit a few bumps on his journey, but he paid no attention to that.

He was trapped, but not just in the trunk. Crushed under the weight of guilt, that he was chosen for Veronica’s...well, whatever she intended for him, while Officer Marsh was sentenced to the cruelest death.

A death, Nick could only hope was fast and painless, but knew otherwise.

Fast, sure. The pressure of the earth would have crushed Marsh’s chest. Dirt would have filled his lungs. Death by asphyxiation. But painless? Not so much.

He was suffocated, but not from the limited space nor awkward position of his body—his cheek was smashed against the handle of tool that sealed Marsh’s face.

Instead, questions bombarded him, he could hardly breathe, let alone answer them. Why didn’t Marsh just go outside? What was this psychopath’s deal? Who was this person? Where were they going?

Why didn’t Nick call for help?

He could have, before the paralysis set in. He should have.

Instead of cowboying up, drawing his weapon and running head first into danger, he should have called for help.

He should have gone to the back instead of Officer Clark.

He should be the one that’s dead and buried.

He was diminished. It was clear that Veronica saw him nothing more than a plaything, instead of a human being. It stung him to his core, if she wanted him dead he’d be dead by now. She definitely had something else in store for him, something beyond death.

And that scared him more than the dark ever could.

Scared him so much, that it seemed to trigger a reaction in him. His body began to convulse, a fire seized his entire body, twisting and elevating him. His hyperventilating worsened. Something rose up his throat, it felt like hot acid.

This was it, maybe his luck changed after all. He was going down the same path that Officer Marsh went through. Maybe Veronica would think he was dead, bury him. He survived once, he could survive it again.

Vomit spilled out of his mouth, onto his shirt and onto the trunk floor, but he didn’t drift off like Marsh did. He even closed his eyes in an attempt to do so, but was cursed with consciousness.

The car came to a halt, Nick heard a car door open and slam. Silence followed for a few minutes, until he heard soft knocks above him, a flood of light followed. Still daylight. In his dread-filled train of thought, he didn’t bother keeping track of how long the drive was.

“Hmm, guess you really are scared of the dark,” mock concern laced in her voice. Her eyes narrowed, staring at his trembling hands, the mess on his shirt. “Or...something else?”

He was unsure if he was successful in throwing daggers at her through his eyes.

“Now, let’s go clean up this mess you’ve made.”

A smile curled up her lips, she grabbed at his arms, pulling him out of the trunk. She began to drag him, her arms lifting him under his armpits. He was able to see the street, it seemed like a suburban area. No cars in the street, nor in the driveways across from them.

Hope shot through his veins, as a jogger slowed down in front of the house. His body was nearly dropped as Veronica removed one arm to wave at the jogger.

Help!

He tried to say something, but his vocal chords still wouldn’t work. A few gurgles, raspy breaths was all that escaped his lips.

“Too much to drink last night!” Veronica called out, her voice booming over everything. To Nick’s dismay, the jogger smiled and nodded sympathetically.

No...Help!

The jogger resumed their pace, and left Nick’s field of view. Veronica continued to move towards the house, into the garage.

Before they entered the house, Nick got his wish, he got to see another bird… it was motionless, sprawled out on the pavement of the driveway. Dead.

The house was dark, void of light save for the natural light of a few open windows. Nick was dragged through the narrow hallway, there seemed to be three doors on each side of the hallway, no stairways apparent. An odd layout for a house, but fitting for what he presumed was more of a torture dungeon than a house, anyway.

She brought him into a room that appeared to be some sort of living room, a few bookcases, a fireplace, a coffee table and a couch. There was a television above the fireplace, and also a small stereo to the right of the fireplace. To the left was one single window, with the blinds nearly shut--there was only enough light for him to identify objects in the room, but he couldn’t see any fine details.

She dropped him at the foot of the couch, moved the coffee table out of her way. Nick’s breathing had not yet steadied itself, he could see his body twitch, and wondered if he was heading towards another seizure.

Veronica picked him up and placed him on the couch, his head leaning backward against the top, his arms laid out at his sides.

“You stay right there, I’m going to get something to wash that pretty face,” Veronica purred.

She left the room, and Nick tried and failed to will his body into movement. He wondered how many hours it had been since he was first dosed, the longer it was, the more chance of surviving the toxin he had. At some point, the drug had to wear off, if it didn’t kill him first.

Veronica entered the room silently, sending Nick’s body though another startled state as she popped back in front of him, a washcloth in hand, and camera in other.

“Almost forgot…”

Click. Flash.

Without saying another word, she smeared the washcloth over Nick’s mouth. She held it in place for a few seconds, a dangerous look in her eyes, waiting for signs of a struggle for breath, before she moved it down his chin...and his neck.

“There, now let’s get that shirt off…”

She took Nick’s knife out of his vest, held it in front of his eyes. She touched it to his chin, drawing a thin line down his neck, before applying more pressure to cut through the fabric of his shirt. She cut it in half, stopped right before his pants. She removed the shirt completely, her eyes seemed to widen in some gleeful joy, as if she were unwrapping a Christmas present.

“What’s this?”

She enunciated her words by pointing the tip of her knife into the two scars he received from the restaurant shooting.

“My, my, what happened here, Nicky?”

She licked her lips, moved her body closer. She dug the tip of the knife into one scar, and drew the knife across his skin to the other.

“In connecting the dots, I figure...you’ve been shot?”

At the awkward angle his head was positioned, he could just see the blood trickle down from his two scars, and from the line she cut between them. But he couldn’t feel it.

Yet.

Click. Flash.

She tossed the knife aside, moved her fingers towards his chest, smearing the blood all over. Her other hand removed the camera from around her neck, she started to take off the vest.

You have a washcloth right there, you stupid bitch. He bitterly thought, though he had a feeling she was well aware of that fact.

Another buzz from his pocket distracted Veronica from...whatever the hell she was doing to him. She removed the phone from his pocket, checking the message. She cocked her head at him.

“Oh dear, a gal named Sara is getting worried now, too. Don’t tell me that’s your girlfriend, do I need to be jealous?”

She leaned in closer, towards his ear.

“Because you’re mine.”

Nick gulped as she giggled, leaning back away from him and texting something on his phone in response. She threw the phone onto the couch, near the knife. If he could use his arm, it was just within arm’s reach

“What else do you have in these pockets?” She wondered out loud. She dug through his other pockets, removing his wallet and keys. She took the money from his wallet, just because she could. She jangled the keys in front of his face.

“That reminds me...I have a few more errands to run, so I’m afraid I have to cut playtime short for now.”

Veronica stood up, tall over Nick, who was still slumped on the couch, still unable to move. She walked around the couch, Nick thought she had left the room, but she soon appeared again, upside down, in front of his face.

“Don’t move,” she told him in a suddenly serious, commanding tone.

She poked his nose playfully, and left the room.

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

Something wasn’t right.

After receiving the text that “something came up,” Greg had replied back with “is everything okay?”

He never got a response.

Nick wasn’t one to not at least reply with an “I’ll explain later” or something to indicate that everything was in fact, okay. And if it wasn’t, he would have heard about it by now, right?

He didn’t want to freak anyone out yet, more than he was already freaking out at the possibility that something terrible had happened to Nick, again. So he texted Sara.

Hey, have you heard from Nick?

Her response wasn’t a help at all.

No, why?

In that moment, he realized that he should have texted Catherine instead. She was the supervisor, after all, so if Nick had to step out for a family emergency or something, she’d be the first to know.

Maybe it was because they all shared an office together, the three of them. Maybe it was because Nick was being more open with them, about what was going on in not just his work, but his personal life. It had shocked Greg the most, for Nick to become so...open with them, even after all their years together, Nick had always tried to maintain some distance between his work and personal life.

A flashback to nine years ago, when Nick had taken Greg by the shoulder, telling him to stop invading his privacy, told Greg that he should just leave it. Maybe Nick had a bad day, a bad case, and felt like he wasn’t good company. Wouldn’t be the first time--he bailed on Greg on his own birthday two years back, after working a case that drove him to tears.

Then again, that hadn’t stopped Greg from making an effort to extend his hand anyway.

I’m sure it’s nothing, he just bailed on breakfast this morning. It happens.

He sighed, hoping that would appease Sara’s mind though something still didn’t sit right with his. He tossed his phone aside, closed his eyes, an effort to fall asleep.

He was just starting to drift off into a dream of being back in the lab, of a tearful Nick walking away, echoing previous words that had been said to him, when he heard his phone ring. He barely had time to register the caller ID before he answered immediately.

“Nick?"

[youremarvelous]

hi , katy! Before anything else, I just wanna say that your writing is just amazing. I just discovered your blog a week ago and it's an absolute gem. anyhoo, if you're still taking prompts, I see you often write sickfics in which Yuuri's the one who's sick, so here's a bit of a challenge if you'll allow it: A sick vitya. Fluff is a given, but some angst would be awesome (i.e. "I AM PERFECTLY FINE, YUURI")(hint: he's not.)

Yuuri stares out the darkened plane window, relief rinsing down his spine when the reflection of his husband leaned against his shoulder is suffused with the familiar orange and white constellations of home.

“Vitya,” he whispers when the pilot announces their impending landing and the interior lights flood back, hollowing out his tired eyes with harsh yellow light. Viktor doesn’t stir, and Yuuri tries very hard not to be bothered by that fact. They’re both exhausted—wrung out from press appearances and competing and probably too much celebratory alcohol—and then there’s the cold Viktor’s been fighting since the previous evening.

“Just allergies,” he had waved off Yuuri’s concerns after the first sneezing fit. Yuuri had maintained that it was a cold at best, a point Viktor had been forced to concede when he woke up the next morning to snowfall and a nasty dry cough.

“Vitya,” Yuuri tries again, brushing Viktor’s hair from his forehead. He tries not to let his fingers linger there, to obsess over the amount of damp heat radiating off Viktor’s skin and whether or not it’s normal. Yuuri’s spent the majority of the flight dipping into anxiety mind and desperately clawing himself out again.

‘Is Viktor’s flush normal? It looks dark but it could be the lighting. Isn’t it too dry in the cabin? The recirculated air can’t be good for him. What if he catches something else on top of this? Did he ever get his flu shot? I know I told him to get it but did he? Oh god, what if he ends up with pneumonia? What if—’

Then headphones, music, closing his eyes, mentally performing his routines on loop until he’s almost able to convince himself that he’s forgotten about the sorry state of his husband, currently dampening his shoulder with mucus.

Viktor finally stirs when the wheels touch down. He leans away from Yuuri, towards the window, and crackles a loud, dry cough into the crook of his arm. “Good morning, lovely,” Viktor smiles when he’s caught his breath, as though he hadn’t been hacking up a lung seconds earlier.

“Morning,” Yuuri says instead of, ‘how are you feeling?’ “You slept through the flight,” he says instead of threatening to drag Viktor to the doctor like he really wants to.

Viktor nods and stretches his arms over his head before crumpling and coughing again into his hands.

“You sound worse,” Yuuri observes, shaking his foot like he always does when his nervous energy has nowhere to go.

Viktor unbuckles his seatbelt, pats Yuuri’s knee to stop him rattling their chairs. “It always gets worse before it gets better,” he reasons.

Yuuri moves into the aisle and slings Viktor’s carry on over his shoulder before reaching for his own. “Let’s stop off at the pharmacy.”

“We’ve got stuff at home,” Viktor waves him off. He scoots into the aisle seat, tries to take his bag from Yuuri but gives up when Yuuri moves it to his opposite shoulder. Viktor can’t see Yuuri’s eyes through the striplight gleaming off his glasses, but he can imagine his look to be somewhere in the vicinity of ‘don’t even think about it.’

“All we have are expired cough drops and tea.” Yuuri steps back to let Viktor in front of him when the crowd starts shifting forward.

“Sweetheart—” Viktor links his arm with Yuuri’s when they’re finally free from the packed fuselage and able to stand shoulder to shoulder without casualty. “it’s late. I’m tired. Let’s go home and worry about it in the morning, hm?”

“We don’t even have tissues.” Yuuri steers them to the baggage claim, unblinking.

Viktor’s mouth tips into a half smile. “Who needs tissues when I have a perfectly good husband to wipe my nose on?” He asks, nuzzling his nose into Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Vitya,” Yuuri whines but doesn’t pull away. Viktor tries to laugh, but it gets bunched up in his lungs, tumbling from his throat in a series of shoulder-rocking coughs.

“Swallowed wrong,” he croaks with what Yuuri thinks is meant to be a self-deprecating smile but looks more like a grimace.

Yuuri doesn’t fight him, mostly because he doesn’t want him to wreck his voice further by talking. He does insist on driving when they exit the airport and the frigid evening air settles like a stone in Viktor’s chest—folding him in half with sharp, gasping coughs.

“Dry out tonight,” Viktor says on the way home after his fifth coughing fit. His breathing is shallow and painful-sounding, catching on the constricted border of his lungs, burning fire in his irritated throat.

Yuuri holds the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip and doesn’t comment.

When they get home, Yuuri sets about tearing their house apart for the humidifier while Viktor stretches out on the bed fully clothed, calling for Yuuri to leave it, to come cuddle him and Makkachin to sleep.

Yuuri follows Viktor to the bedroom a half hour later with the humidifier under his arm, a steaming mug of tea in his hand. “Tea,” he says, handing the cup to Viktor—his bottom lip stuck between his teeth.

“Bed,” Viktor rebuts but takes it, anyway.

“Just a minute,” Yuuri says. He sets up the humidifier with practiced ease, then plants himself at the foot of the bed and starts untying Viktor’s shoes, slipping them from his feet along with his socks.

Viktor sips on his tea and watches silently. For once, lets himself be fully immersed in the comfort of being taken care of so thoroughly, and so tenderly. He dozes off at some point, lulled to sleep by the wet whirring of the humidifier and the feeling of Yuuri’s deft fingers, kneading up his calves.

It takes a few long moments to orient himself when he wakes. He’s dressed in pajama pants, propped up against something warm and soft with a wet cloth on his forehead and the smell of menthol burning his nostrils. He tips his head back, surprised to find Yuuri staring down at him.

“What time is it?” He tries to say, but the words grate molten hot on his tonsils, plunging him into a wheezing coughing fit.

Yuuri traces the outline of Viktor’s spine with his fingertips till he’s able to catch his breath again, red-cheeked and exhausted, swallowing convulsively around the urge to cough. Yuuri picks up the washcloth—fallen in Viktor’s lap during the fit—and rewets it in the bowl next to the bed. He smooths it over Viktor’s forehead, rubs his other hand into Viktor’s chest. “We’re going to the doctor in the morning,” he says, “no arguments.”

Viktor closes his eyes and leans his forehead into Yuuri’s neck. He’s miserable and feverish but also safe and loved. He doesn’t have the ability to voice it to Yuuri at the moment, so he presses a kiss to his collarbone, enjoys the grounding reminder of Yuuri’s heartbeat against his shoulder.

He’s never been one to give in to sickness, usually content to power through it—deny it until he can’t. But for the first time, despite the concrete in his chest, the acid lining his tonsils, he can’t help but think, ‘maybe this isn’t so bad, after all.’

                    send me a prompt  |  my yoi drabbles  |  kofi ♡

[kootenaygoon]

So,

It was way past midnight, and I didn’t want to be awake anymore.

A crowd of us had migrated from the Hume Hotel to a dank, freezing cold foyer inside the vacant Chinese Medicine School. A block down from the courthouse, it was built at the precipice of a hill and featured a wrap-around balcony that looked out at Elephant Mountain. It had Eastern-themed trappings and some nice stonework, but it was looking increasingly more derelict every day. I’d never actually been inside it before, but some dude in Aladdin pants told us he owned it. Living in Nelson I repeatedly found myself in idiosyncratic situations like this, witnessing scenes I couldn’t imagine going down anywhere else. There were at least three distinct bands in the room, and musicians know how to party properly.

Snow was gusting down outside, and there was no heating system, so you could see everyone’s breath as they milled around gossiping. At the centre of the room two women were playing a game of Strip Ping Pong. One was down to her bra and panties, while the other was still in a hoodie and jeans. I could see the pink goose pimples on the near-nude one’s stomach, and wondered for a moment how she was coping with the cold, and then I remembered: everyone’s on drugs. 

Really, I was just waiting for Paisley to come home with me. We’d been partying an unusual amount for the past few weeks and I was getting disillusioned with the whole scene. When I first arrived in the Kootenays I adopted a “When in Rome” mindset on the topic of dabbling with new things, but really I was satisfied with cannabis and a nice comfy home life. That being said, I seemed to be incapable of saying no in the moment and I’d developed a reputation as a black hole for drugs. Certain ones just didn’t seem to have an effect on me, or at least not an obvious one. I could shovel back coke, MDMA, mushrooms and acid, then still maintain a coherent conversation. People were baffled by it, but I found it annoying. It was like I couldn’t self-destruct, no matter how hard I tried.

As I pondered this, Ryan Tapp sunk into the chair beside me and threw his arm around my shoulder. He was wearing a feather boa.

“You’re being anti-social again. Why are you sitting here freezing your ass off when you could be talking to somebody? Do you see Paisley moping around?”

“I’ve already accomplished everything I wanted to socially tonight.”

He snickered, then echoed the words back at me. “You don’t even know half of these people. You spend too much time in your head, man. Especially when you’re high.”

“I don’t think I’m that high.”

“Sometimes I think you’re the most self-aware person in the world, and sometimes I think you’re dense as a stone. Come on, man. You’re talking to a dead person.”

“You keep reminding me.”

Despite all my debauchery, over the previous few months I’d somehow motivated myself to make a number of power moves in town. Having decided that I had my reporter gig mastered, I decided to expand into new arenas — I’d been appointed to a sub-committee of city council focused on culture and the arts, been named to an advisory board for the creative writing program at Selkirk College, and gotten myself cast in the chorus of the upcoming musical Rock of Ages. My feud with the Carpenters was at a low simmer, and I was determined to escalate my public profile as much as possible to keep them in check. I figured that was my best defence, because who wants to fire the fun-loving reporter everybody saw singing 80s tunes on stage? They were already villains in town, and their image couldn’t take much more damage. I was like a loaded shotgun, waiting for somebody to pick me up.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about Andrew Stevenson lately,” I told Ryan, tipping back my beer and taking a deep swallow. “If you read the Star story my co-worker Ed wrote, it says all those fucking robberies were all fuelled by his addiction.”

“Oxycontin ain’t cheap.”

I shook my head. “The guy was in pain, arthritis or something. And desperate. I mean, what would you do in that situation? He had a bunch of kids to feed, at our age. What would you do?”

“Yeah, but he still had the power to choose. And he made the wrong choice.”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

Ryan took a deep breath, then began to preach. “Everyone’s talking about harm reduction these days, like drug abuse is this perennial inevitability, but the fact is everyone still has a choice. We all have agency in this life, power over our own decision-making.”

“But it’s more complicated than that. A lot of people are dealing with childhood trauma, issues we couldn’t even imagine.”

“Okay, but really? Who doesn’t have some sort of trauma?”

It was right around then I realized that I didn’t know where Paisley was. She’d disappeared from the circle of friends she’d been standing with a moment before, and she was nowhere in the room. Did she go outside to smoke a joint? Ryan evaporated as I struggled into a standing position. The floor beneath me rippled, like I was standing on the surface of the ocean, and that energy moved up through my body and beamed out my eyes. Like Cyclops from the X-men. I gave my head a shake.

“You seen Paisley?” I asked my friend Josh. “Did you see where she went?”

“I thought she was with Caelynn, man.”

“She might be in that back bathroom over there,” Josh’s wife Julie said, pointing. “I think I saw some people going in there.”

Paisley didn’t typically need to be babysat, but lately she’d been starting to worry me. Like me, she’d been making some uncharacteristic choices. Nelson just seemed to have that effect on people — it made you explore outside your comfort zone, which was good, but sometimes you can travel a little too far. Without a baseline of normalcy, how are you supposed to ascertain if you’re being strange or scary? Compared to who? I pushed through some bodies, maybe a little too roughly, as I made my way past the ping pong table and through a doorway to a dimly lit hallway with a tile floor. Was the bathroom Julie mentioned back here somewhere? Or was it somewhere else? Frustrated, I turned in a circle and blinked at my feet. Then I heard voices.

The bathroom was just to my left, and the door wasn’t locked. I turned the handle and swung it open, hitting somebody in the elbow, then squeezed through the gap. There were at least eight people inside, though it only had one urinal and a small stall for a toilet. On the opposite wall were two sinks, and when I glanced over I saw Paisley sitting on one. She wasn’t wearing her shirt, her eyes were closed, and some guy was looming Gollum-like over her. For a moment he looked like a legit vampire, like he was plunging his fangs into her neck, and before that could happen I yanked back hard on his T-shirt and slammed him against the stall. 

I palmed his throat, my nostrils flaring. “I don’t want to see you again, understand? You get the fuck out of here and don’t come back.”

He nodded feebly, his hands up in surrender. “I’m gone, man.”

Once the guy disappeared I found Paisley’s shirt balled up on the ground and helped her put it on. Her eyes were closed and she murmured incoherently. Around me the other bathroom-dwellers returned to their pot smoking. Inside the stall at least two people were having sex. I took Paisley’s clammy face in my hands and tried to get her eyes open.

“Paisley, baby. We gotta go home, okay? Can you wake up?”

Eventually I hauled her to her feet, and she murmured into my neck as we dragged ourselves back through the main room. A few people turned to stare at me, but I ignored them. Everyone seemed to be putting on their coats and getting ready to go. Julie and Kate came over to see if Paisley was okay, and I asked if anyone had seen where she left her jacket. A few friends quickly searched, but it was nowhere to be found.

“We’re going to a hot tub party out at Six Mile,” Julie said. “If you guys want to come.”

“I’ve got to get her home to bed,” I said. “I don’t know what she took, but she’s completely out of it.”

“Well, take care of her.”

Eventually I decided to wrap my winter coat around Paisley, sitting her down so I could zip it up. I had a warm plaid on, and it was only three blocks back to our house. Somehow the whole building had emptied over the course of five minutes, everyone tromping off in the snow, and suddenly I found myself alone with Paisley in the dark. Streetlights illuminated the flurries in the distance as flakes melted down my face and collected in my beard. There was no way taxis were out in this weather, and my phone was dead anyways. I was going to have to hike. I pulled Paisley’s arms over my shoulders and leaned forward, pulling her into an uncomfortable piggy back position. 

After two blocks I stopped, sinking to my knees in the snow. Paisley slipped off my back and rolled to the sidewalk. I couldn’t tell if it was real tears streaming down my face, but either way I was heaving like a post-race marathon runner. I had to admit it, we were in real danger. People died like this.

“Everything is fake,” Paisley muttered. “You can’t even stop it.”

Paisley looked like a painting. Her Betty Boop eyelashes were collecting tiny drops of moisture, and her exposed skin was the colour of 2% milk. We’d been together for over four years, but her beauty could still routinely surprise me. She’d told me once, half-joking, that she liked me best when I was sleeping. The truth was that I felt the same way. Seeing her laying vulnerable and lost on the sidewalk I knew two things at once: I was hopelessly in love with her, and there was no way this was going to work out long term. I reached out and touched her face, pressed my lips against hers.

“Baby,” I said. “I don’t think we’re going to make it.”

The Kootenay Goon 

[dotshiiki]

CoL, Chpt 9

IX: WILL

They fell for an eternity.

The blackness enveloped him, numbing all his senses. Though he knew they'd taken the leap together, holding hands, Will couldn't shake the terrifying sensation of falling alone, abandoned and isolated. He closed his eyes—not that it made any difference in the inky darkness—and focused on his hands.

There it was: the faintest brush of skin against his palms.

He imagined Nico falling through the same abyss without even this tiny ounce of comfort. Whatever terror was creeping through Will now, it had to be barely a fraction of what Nico had gone through before.

Not this time, Will promised. I will change his experience.

Carefully, he laced his fingers through Nico's and gave his hand a firm, hard squeeze.

He counted his heartbeats—one, ba-boom, two, ba-boom, three, ba-boom—before slowly, but firmly, Nico squeezed right back.

The cold wind whistling past his ears took on a scalding quality. Will couldn't be sure if the air had actually turned red-hot or if the cold had just intensified to the point that his nerves were burning all the same. His body still felt chilled from the inside, but there was a stickiness to the air that seemed more compatible with heat.

Will opened his eyes. The darkness had given way to a red-tinged haze. The others slowly began to come into view: the skull ring on Nico's finger, the glint of Thalia's silver circlet, the outlines of their bodies. A landscape of jagged black peaks unfolded beneath them as they shot through a rusty sky.

The scarlet clouds stank of blood and rotten eggs. Will was reminded suddenly of a study he'd once read about mice put into a state of suspended animation by hydrogen sulphide gas. What if the smell of Tartarus froze all their cells and made them stop moving entirely?

Stop it, he told himself, shaking his head fiercely to clear his imagination.

'What?' Thalia's voice seemed to come from a hundred feet away instead of right next to him. He realised Annabeth was trying to yell something, too, but though her mouth was moving frantically, her words were lost to the wind.

Annabeth raised her voice. 'Aim—river—last time—!'

'What the hell? How?' Percy sounded panicked.

Without warning, they were sucked back into shadow, hurtling through a different sort of darkness. It was just the tiniest bit softer, a smothering blanket instead of choking fumes. Will thought their direction of travel might have changed, too—more of a horizontal than a straight drop. Then his feet hit ground in a painful thud that jarred his knees as the shadow spat them out onto a gritty surface.

The others materialised next to him, looking equally shaken by the abrupt landing. Will wasn't sure how they'd all managed to stick this landing without breaking anything until Nico appeared and collapsed immediately into an unconscious heap.

'Nico!' Percy gripped his shoulders. 'What did he do? What's wrong with him?'

Will fell to his knees and rifled through his pack. The Gatorade had to be right at the bottom, of course. He tilted the bottle to Nico's lips.

'Come on, you stubborn moron,' he muttered.

Nico's body twitched feebly. His breath came out shallow and ragged. Even when Will had emptied the whole bottle down his throat, he remained unresponsive.

Annabeth touched Will's shoulder. 'Give me the bottle.'

She came back with it a moment later, her arms scalded as if she'd plunged them into boiling water, and held it out to him. 'Make him drink this.'

The liquid inside looked like blood and smelt of burning coals. Will stared at Annabeth in disbelief. 'What—?'

'Trust me.'

Her tone broached no argument. Will tipped the bottle against Nico's lips. As soon as the first drop touched them, Nico spluttered and coughed. The colour flooded back into his ashen face.

'The Phlegethon,' Annabeth said. Her voice was raspy and hoarse. To his alarm, Will noticed that the stinging redness on her bare arms was the least of her problems; her face was puffy and covered with welts, her lips cracked and blistered. The others didn't look much better. From the way his own skin stung, Will guessed that he, too, looked like a radiation victim.

Never mind the smell; the very air of Tartarus was poison.

Annabeth pointed to the fiery river where she'd filled the bottle. It splashed down from a waterfall several hundred feet away and stretched across a broad delta, carving dark red branches throughout the plain. 'It's how we—' She swallowed hard. 'If we drink from it, it'll keep us alive.'

'You want us to drink from the River of Fire?' Thalia said dubiously. 'Isn't it supposed to be a punishment for the wicked?'

'She's right.' Nico had finally come to. He sat up and wiped his mouth, wincing. 'It keeps them alive so that they can continue suffering.'

Will's chest lightened, buoyed up by relief. 'You idiot! I told you shadow-travelling all of us would be too much for you!'

'Would you rather we all died as splats on the rocks of Tartarus?' Nico countered.

Will scowled. It was hard to argue with that. Still, he wanted to punch Nico for giving him such a scare. He settled for saying, 'Don't do it again.'

'So, um,' Percy interjected, 'you were saying we need to drink fire?'

Annabeth and Nico both nodded.

'At least we have the bottles,' Annabeth said. 'It's better than scooping the water with our hands. Do you have more? It'd be good if we can carry some with us.'

Will hesitated. All his bottles were filled with healing supplies.

'Nectar won't do us much good down here, Will.'

Reluctantly, he handed her his pack. He had to look away as Annabeth emptied out the bottles, unnerved by the idea that his trusty medical standbys might be ineffective here where they needed them most. She started to approach the Phlegethon, but Percy put a hand on her arm.

'Let me,' he said.

'Percy…'

He indicated the raw, red skin of her arm. 'It hurt you, didn't it?' he said. 'Let me take a turn.'

Percy didn't complain when he plunged his hands into the River of Fire, but Will could tell from his face that it was no refreshing dip. Sparks danced on the water's surface like fiery embers spitting from a log fire. When Percy finished, he looked like he'd been washing his hands in acid.

'Cheers,' Thalia said, raising her bottle.

Drinking the Phlegethon was like getting a blast of pepper spray straight down his throat. If he'd shot gas into his mouth and then lit a match, it would probably have hurt less. The blisters on his skin swelled and burst. Will found himself on his knees, retching uncontrollably, except nothing came up: the fire consumed everything in his belly, leaving it hollow and empty. When he finally got control of his shaking body, Nico was by his side, patting his back soothingly.

'Gods,' Thalia said weakly. She was also on all fours, recovering from her own convulsions.

Nico and Annabeth were right, though. Horrible as it was, Will could feel the strength returning to his limbs. His healing senses were coming back as well; he became aware of the vitality settling over the others like a protective cloak over their bodies.

It felt so wrong that something that hurt so bad could be healing.

'Where to, then?' Thalia asked.

Percy pulled out his compass. It spun a full circle in his palm and pointed downriver, where the Phlegethon chugged towards an ominous fog that was so many layers of grey stacked on top of one another, it might as well be a wall of tar.

They trudged along the sparse plain. Although the landscape stretched out wide and open on their right, the oppressive heat, coupled with the threatening shadow of the forbidding mountain range on their left, gave Will the feeling of being enclosed in a baking furnace. Along the way, lumps of yellowish-green liquid bubbled up from the ground: pus-filled boils on the skin of the earth. To Will's horror, when he took a closer look, there were shadowy shapes inside. Some were vaguely humanoid, others like beasts.

'Monsters,' Annabeth confirmed.

Percy looked ready to hurl. 'I had a dream about this. I was—well, I was inside one of those things.'

'You were probably seeing what the empousa saw,' Annabeth said. 'That means she's here.'

There was a sharp zip as Thalia sent an arrow straight through the bubble. It burst like a popped pimple, showering the ground in pus-like liquid. The monster inside disintegrated.

'Maybe we'll get lucky,' she commented. 'Maybe she'll still be in one of those bubbles.'

'Preferably before we get to the Dark Lands,' Annabeth muttered, glaring at the black fog in the distance.

After they had been walking for what seemed like hours—or possibly days; what did time mean in Tartarus, anyway?—they came upon the most bizarre sight Will could imagine in the pits of hell: a stone circle that made a respectful ring around a stone altar. Like everything else in Tartarus, the stones were black, but they were definitely marble, and there was an air of sacredness about the circle that didn't fit with the rest of this godforsaken place.

'The shrine of Hermes.' Annabeth's voice was full of relief. 'Come on.' She scaled the ridge overlooking the circle and ran straight up to the altar. The others followed her.

When they passed between the marble columns, the air seemed to become kinder. At any rate, it no longer stung Will's nostrils when he inhaled. He tried to imagine how a sanctuary like this could have formed in the middle of the world's most dangerous pit, but came up blank.

He decided not to question it. On the altar, a welcome sight awaited them: laid out like a banquet was a heap of mortal food—fruit, cheese, chicken legs, even large slices of good old cheesy New York pizza. Although no fire had been lit, a cloud of fragrant smoke hung over the stone. Every so often, more food would materialise in it, joining the substantial pile on the stone table. It smelt exactly like the offerings he'd burnt for his dad every meal at Camp Half-Blood. Will's stomach began rumbling in earnest.

'Is this real?' he asked, hardly daring to believe his eyes.

'Yeah, it is,' Annabeth said. 'I called Chiron before we left and asked him to help. Thank Olympus—the Hermes cabin must have been burning sacrifices all night!'

Her words jogged something in Will's memory. 'That's how you sent us a message from Tartarus during the war!'

Annabeth nodded. 'I don't know how it works, exactly, but the shrines are connected.'

'Never mind how.' Thalia reached for a thick slice of pizza. 'As long as it works.'

They sat in a circle around the altar and helped themselves to the bounty before them. For a while, they just ate in silence. All the food looked charred around the edges, but it tasted as good as if it had been freshly served at the dining pavilion of Camp Half-Blood.

Will was the first to notice when Nico stopped eating. He'd plucked a pomegranate off the altar and was turning it slowly in his hands, staring at it with hollow eyes.

Will bumped his shoulder gently. 'You okay?'

Nico put the pomegranate down. 'I don't recognise any of this,' he said. His voice sounded as thin and sharp as his Stygian blade. 'It's almost as if—as if Tartarus can have something good in it.'

'What did you see when you were here?'

It was a risky question. Will didn't know if Nico would just shutter down like he usually did when the subject came up. Yet something told him it was right to offer him an opening to share it, now that Tartarus wasn't just the private shell of Nico's previous trauma but an experience they were all sharing.

'Darkness,' Nico said after a long pause. 'I think it was caves.'

Annabeth looked towards the hulking shadows of the volcanic mountains on their left. If she had something to say about the way they stretched beneath the turbid storm front, she didn't voice it.

'There was no…' Nico looked at the pomegranate in front of him, then to the altar, still piled with food, and finally around their little circle. 'Hope.'

'Hope,' Annabeth repeated. Her eyes were misty and sad. Her next words were a surprise. 'When we were here, we had a guide. A Titan. His name was Bob.'

'I know.' Nico's voice was barely a sigh.

Thalia's eyes widened. 'Bob?' she said. 'I remember him—he was the Titan Percy dragged into the Lethe. It wiped his memory completely!'

Percy looked up sharply from his pizza. 'I—what?'

'It's okay, he was trying to kill us.'

'But you said he helped—he was a guide…?' Percy looked between Annabeth and Thalia, his face a furrow of confusion.

'He was a janitor,' Nico said. 'After he lost his memories. We called him Bob, and he cleaned my father's palace. He became a friend. And he helped you.'

But not me. The unspoken accusation simmered beneath his mild tone, unnoticed by anyone but Will. Maybe it was because he'd learned over the years how to tune into Nico's emotions—always so carefully controlled, it took even Will a combination of experience and his natural healer's senses to detect.

Percy was still struggling with the conundrum of Bob.

'He came down here to help me?'

'He jumped into Tartarus,' Annabeth confirmed. She took a deep breath and related how Bob had brought them to this very shrine, showed them a way to the heart of Tartarus, and convinced a giant, Damasen, to help them, too. As they listened, Will sensed the bitterness Nico had buried for so long clawing to the surface. Although Nico's face remained impassive, his silent scream thundered in Will's ears: I was alone. No one helped me!

Will put his hand on Nico's, but Nico twitched away from him.

'They gave us hope,' Annabeth finished. 'That even here, good exists.'

Maybe it was the savoury smoke from the burnt offerings on the altar, or the comfort of good food in Will's belly. The story didn't exactly make the bleak despair of Tartarus melt away, but it softened it somewhat.

He reached for Nico's hand again and this time his boyfriend didn't pull away.

'What happened to them? Bob and Damasen?'

Annabeth's eyes flicked nervously towards Percy. The latter was so still, he could have been a statue next to the altar.

'They stayed behind,' she said quietly. 'They gave their lives so that we could escape.'

Will's heart dropped to his stomach. So much for hope.

Annabeth drew idle patterns in the ashen ground, her eyes sad and her movements slow. 'But we—I promised I'd never forget. As long as we never let their memories fade, there's the possibility that they'll return someday.'

'Did he ever remember who he was?'

'Bob got his memory back in Tartarus,' Annabeth said. 'Don't give up hope, Percy.'

Percy nodded slowly, but Will got the feeling that it wasn't actually the memory loss he was concerned about.

Thalia cleared her throat. 'Anyway, what's our next step?'

'We still have to find the empousa,' Nico said. He turned the pomegranate over again, as if it were the secret anguish he'd unlocked and he didn't know what to do with it.

Percy's compass pointed out of the shrine, directing them mercilessly towards the incessant black fog. It was extremely close now, no more than a hundred feet away. Will's heart sank even further. He didn't know what was in there, but he didn't think it was a health spa.

They decided to rest at the shrine of Hermes for the night—or whatever passed for night here; it wasn't like Will could tell the difference under that ceaseless red sky. Maybe the empousa would move and the compass would point away from that ominous storm front.

But in the morning, the direction hadn't changed. There was nothing for it. They forged on.

Inside the fog, they had to hold hands to stay together. The visibility was better than the blackness they'd fallen through to get to Tartarus, but only just. The others were like shadowy outlines moving along with him. Their only source of light was Thalia's silver tiara, which glowed valiantly against the encroaching darkness, and the bronze compass that continued to point them further into the dark.

The air here was no longer scorching, but cool and damp, with a chill that seeped right into the pores of Will's skin. The temperature change was so drastic, it was like they'd stepped off the face of one world into another.

Like we dropped from a monster's chest down to its toes.

Will shivered, and it wasn't just from the cold.

Stop it, he told himself. He had to stop using body analogies. He really didn't want to think of this place as alive.

After a while, he noticed tree-like shapes sprouting from the ground around them. The trunks were long and smooth, ending in round knobs that formed a thick canopy over their heads. It reminded Will of the fossil forest near his home in Schoharie. He remembered visiting it with his mom years ago, before he'd gone to camp: the way the upright stumps jutted out like long bones sticking out of the ground. This forest had the same unnatural spookiness to it—another place that existed out of time.

Annabeth stopped moving, yanking Will to a sudden stop as well.

'What's wrong?' Thalia whispered.

'I recognise this,' she said. 'This forest. It was where we met—'

As if roused by her voice, the trees started to quiver. Will flashed back to the memory of a giant bat flying out from the fossil trees in Gilboa Forest—the first monster he'd ever encountered.

If there were creatures in these trees, he'd bet on Apollo's lyre that they'd make the bat look like a cute, fuzzy pet.

Nico and Thalia both drew their weapons. Will reached for his bow.

The canopy came alive with glowing red dots as a dozen eyes awakened in the trees. The first creature landed on the ground mere feet away. Her wings, jagged and bat-like, poked out of the tattered black dress she wore. She had leathery skin so wrinkled and folded she made an elephant look like a cosmetics model.

'Furies,' Nico breathed. 'But it can't be!'

'No,' said Annabeth. 'They're—'

The arai! The voice seemed to emanate from the air, reverberating off the bony tree trunks. Bringers of curses, destroyers of souls!

Another of the bat-women dropped from the trees, so close that Will could feel the whoosh of her wings.

'Thalia, no!' Annabeth cried just as Thalia let her arrow fly. It pierced the nearest arai, which dissolved immediately.

The master voice hovering over them chortled, as though the monster's death was something to be gleeful about. Yesss…a curse on you, Thalia Grace! Oh, which shall we pick?

'What in Hades?' Thalia demanded.

And then she stumbled backwards into Will. Her hands flew to her chest and came away stained red.

Blood, Will thought, staring at the sticky wetness. It oozed from her back as well, as if the arrow she had loosed had struck her straight through.

Vengeance! hissed the unified voice of the arai, as more of them dropped out of the trees. We deliver the final curses of the slain, the bitter wishes of the defeated. How many monsters have you pierced with your silvery arrows, Huntress? How many deaths are on your head?

'They're curse spirits!' Nico snarled. He swept his sword in a threatening arc. 'Stay back!'

Usually, monsters backed away at the sight of the Stygian blade. The arai, however, kept closing in, spreading themselves into a ring around them.

'How do we fight them off?' Percy yelled. He had drawn his own sword, too, but the celestial bronze was no more effective than Stygian iron in threatening the arai. Will grabbed Thalia, supporting her arm around his shoulder. If they had to run, she was going to need help.

'We can't!' Annabeth put Thalia's other arm around her own shoulder. 'If we kill them, we only reap curses on ourselves.'

'Well, run, then!' Thalia gasped.

They bolted through the gap in the circle of arai and dashed through the forest, Will and Annabeth supporting Thalia between them like they were running a bizarre four-legged race blindfolded. It was all they could do to dodge the bony trees. Percy and Nico slashed through the trees as they ran, clearing a path. Several black trunks thudded behind them, followed by loud crunches that Will hoped was the sound of squashed arai.

Unfortunately, he also heard clawed feet scrabbling over the fallen trees and the beat of leathery wings taking to the air. Sweet Apollo, how could he have forgotten that those things could fly?

The quality of the darkness changed abruptly, like they'd emerged into a clearing. The air was thinner, as though bereft of the moisture of foliage.

'Stop!' Nico yelled.

Will, Annabeth, and Thalia skidded to a halt. His foot dislodged a pile of gravel, which flew off in a whoosh—right over the edge of a cliff.

The arai emerged from the forest to form a curved wall of demons backing them up against the cliff edge. They laughed as they tightened the semi-circle.

So many curses to choose from…what shall it be?

One of them leapt at Percy with her razor-sharp claws aimed at his face. Percy's sword came up to meet her.

Before you could say the word 'curse', Annabeth had launched herself between Percy and the attacking arai, drawing her sword at the same time. It plunged straight into the arai.

Annabeth collapsed in Percy's arms. A ring of scarlet blossomed from her back.

'What did you do to her?' Percy cried.

A gift from Bella the empousa! howled the arai. Repayment for how you stabbed her in the back. Choose, demigods—a curse for each one of us you kill!

Percy staggered back as though he had been cursed as well. 'You—'

But he didn't get to finish his sentence. The demons closed in on them, claws extended.

Nico surged forward to defend them, cutting through the entire front line of arai with his Stygian iron sword. Maybe he thought his Underworld blade might offer some protection. Or maybe he knew there just wasn't any other choice.

The arai shrieked with laughter as Nico's clothes erupted into flames.

You burn, Nico di Angelo, just as the Roman legionnaire Octavian did when he was launched to his fiery death!

Will dropped to his knees, beating at the flames with his pack. 'That wasn't his fault!' he shouted.

Or will you choose another curse, son of Hades? The final moments of Bryce Lawrence, perhaps, when you unleashed the power of death on him?

The fire went out abruptly. Will had a brief glimpse of Nico's raw, blistered skin before his boyfriend's body began to fade. Beneath Will's fingers, Nico's form turned as insubstantial as black smoke, like he was crumbling away.

It was Will's worst nightmare—his greatest fear for Nico, that he would ultimately dissolve into shadow if he overreached and struck the limit of his powers.

'No, Nico, hold on!' he begged. He focused as hard as he could, channelling all the healing power he had into Nico. It helped just a little. The fading stopped. He could feel the contours of Nico's skin again, although it was still dangerously smoky around the edges.

'Bryce…' gasped Nico. 'Ghostified—him—deserve—'

'No,' Will said. Whatever curse Nico had unleashed, Will was certain he did not deserve to suffer from it.

Around them, the others had stepped forward to take on the attacking arai, and they hadn't fared much better. Thalia's body was pierced as though someone had shot an entire volley of arrows into her. Annabeth had been flung fifty feet away, where she lay bleeding from her gut, weeping and trying to crawl back towards them.

Only Percy was still standing, his celestial bronze blade glowing as it vanquished the malevolent curse spirits, none of whom seemed able to find a suitable curse to bestow.

Cursed son of Poseidon, wailed the arai. You bear the Curse of Lethe. We cannot inflict any more on top of that.

'The curse of…' Percy's voice faltered over the words.

The Lethe! The River of Forgetfulness! Your companions have doused you with its waters and it runs through your blood! They wiped your mind and soul clean!

'Wait, my—they—' Percy looked at Will and the others in bewilderment. 'They're lying, right?'

Will didn't know how to answer him. The demonic eyes of the arai seemed to glow even brighter, like blinding red laser pointers boring straight into Will's pupils.

Will you curse them, too? Curse them for what they have done to you!

'Tell me!' Percy insisted. Maybe the arai couldn't curse him, but Will was certain they'd done something to trigger that dark, crazed look in his eyes. 'Did you wipe my memory?'

'We—yes, but—'

The arai shrieked with glee. Curse them, son of Poseidon! Add to our repertoire!

Percy fell to his knees, his head in his hands. Will felt like doing the same. The arai's mad laughter was a cacophony in his ears. His head was about to explode with the sound.

But there were only the two of them left. And if Percy couldn’t be cursed, he was their only hope.

Will ran to him. 'Percy, get up!' he urged. 'You need to fight them—'

Percy gave him an anguished look. 'My memory—you guys…I don't even know what's real and what's not. And if you guys lied to me—if we're all just reaping what we sowed—'

'No, we didn't!' Will promised. 'We didn't tell you everything, but it was because we were afraid we would make things worse. I can explain, but first we need to get past these demons. Come on.'

He hauled Percy back to his feet. Percy looked at him uncertainly. He seemed to be fighting an internal battle. Will took a deep breath and shot an arrow. He didn't know what would happen when he hit the arai; he couldn't think off-hand what curses he might have acquired throughout his life. Unlike Percy, he didn't have the Lethe's protection. But what else could he do?

The arrow flew straight and true, dissolving an arai, but to Will's surprise, there was no accompanying pain.

Where are your curses? shrieked the arai. Why have your enemies not cursed you?

Will's heart leapt hopefully in his chest. He had no curses!

'I'm a medic,' he snarled at the arai. 'My job is to heal, not to harm. But I definitely make an exception for demons who are hurting my friends.'

With a nod to Percy, he notched another arrow.

There had been many times before that Will had wished for greater skill in battle, to have inherited a more useful gift from his father in defeating the enemies that besieged Camp Half-Blood. He now saw the huge advantage to being a healer. When you were trying to heal people on the battlefield, they didn't tend to curse you with their dying breaths. Of course, now that he was cutting down arai, maybe that would change. Could the spirits of curses curse you, too? He guessed he was about to find out.

Percy's expression cleared and he leapt back into action, slicing through the demon spirits. Will shot an entire volley of arrows into them. Soon, they had made it through the entire pack.

But the curses the arai had already delivered didn't vanish with them. Around them, Will's friends were still dying.

Percy ran to Annabeth and dragged her back to the group. 'You're good at healing,' he said to Will. 'Can you…?'

Will had never tried anything of this level before. His magic was good for small things—cleaning wounds, repairing breaks, helping one person at a time. But he summoned all the strength he could, recalling the way he had channelled his energy into Nico earlier. He put his hands out and concentrated.

In his mind, he pictured Annabeth leading the blue team during capture the flag, the glow of sunset lighting up her confident, capable face. He pictured Thalia grinning impishly as she and her Hunters challenged the Apollo cabin at archery practice. And Nico—oh, Nico. He imagined walking hand-in-hand with Nico down the Via Praetoria while his boyfriend told him about the actual Rome, across the ocean; the way Nico's face lit up only for him, like Will was his own private sun, illuminating his shadowy features; the slow, shy smile that transformed Nico's brooding expression the first time their lips touched.

More images flooded his mind. Thoughts of Chiron and his ever-steady advice—'There is art to medicine as well as science, child'; 'Your father has gifted you; trust in your abilities'; 'Your talents are essential.' Memories of himself sitting on the front porch with his mom as she strummed the banjo and sang to him. 'Your dad could do the most amazing things with music. One day you'll learn how, too, sweet sun.'

Will drew on all this, reaching deep into his soul. He felt the healing magic surge through him and flow out through his palms, bathing them all in a gentle, golden glow. A lilting song whispered through the trees, driving out the echoes of the arai's cackling. Dimly, he realised that it was his own voice singing an ancient hymn to Apollo.

Thalia and Annabeth's wounds closed up. Nico's skin lost its charred, smoky tinge.

It's working, Will thought in relief.

Then his vision blurred. The trees tilted alarmingly, like the entire fossil forest was turning sideways. The ground rose up to meet him.

Will collapsed next to Nico. The last thing he felt was his boyfriend's arm, warm and solid and whole again.

A/N: As I’ve mentioned before, I owe a great deal to my betas for this fic, and I wanted to give @supernaturally-percyjackson an extra shout-out in this chapter for her excellent suggestions for the Hermes shrine scene. She made it infinitely better so if you enjoyed it, leave a kudos for her too!

Also, I’m not kidding about the mice.

Continue to chapter 10 | Back to content page

[shannaraisles]

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 37 Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M Warnings: Canon-typical violence and threat Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

Dread

"How did you manage to cut your sword hand with your own sword?"

The young recruit fidgeted sheepishly. "Showing off, mistress."

Rory felt herself smile at his embarrassed honesty. "I'd suggest not doing that again," she recommended, gently uncurling his fingers to take a closer look at his palm now the bleeding had stopped.

The cut was mercifully shallow, and Elgor's quick thinking to put snow into the boy's fist had both cleaned the wound and dramatically reduced the bleeding. Rory reached for the pouches on her belt, glad she'd refilled them before leaving the clinic to visit the training ground. Her real purpose here was to eavesdrop on Cullen's interactions with the newly-arrived mages, but providence had given her a reason to linger in the form of this bleeding recruit.

The mages had arrived two days ago - not all of them, but a vanguard of thirty experienced magic users, hand-picked for the assault on the Breach. As far as she could tell, the hundreds of mages, novices, and Tranquil still on the road from Redcliffe were being escorted by a large contingent of Inquisition soldiers and agents, more for their own protection than anything. By the sound of things, Cullen had the vanguard well enough in hand ... or would have done, had Vivienne not decided to play her hand. The trouble wasn't anything to do with mages and templars; it all seemed to revolve around just who was in charge.

"My dear Fiona, aren't you a little old to be trying to lead an army?" the First Enchanter of Montsimmard was saying with deceptive concern. "You're not the leader of the mage rebellion any longer. You are simply a mage of the Inquisition, one of many."

"And I suppose you believe yourself to be our leader now?" Grand Enchanter Fiona replied with some heat. "A politician, whose voice was in the minority when we voted to leave the Circle?"

"I am an ally of the Inquisition," Vivienne pointed out. "As you might have been, had you not foolishly thrown in your lot with a Tevinter magister."

"What choice did we have?" Fiona demanded. "The templars would have destroyed us all!"

"You could have swallowed your pride and come back to the Circle," Vivienne reminded her coolly. "You could have asked the Ferelden king to aid you, given his leaning toward assistance in the first place. Instead, you invited a magister to take control of hundreds of our people, without even consulting them. A strange decision for a woman who would not leave the Circle without a democratic vote."

As much as she hated to admit it, Rory found herself agreeing with Vivienne. Alexius' presence in Redcliffe was a means to an end for Bioware, but here in the living world of Thedas, Fiona's actions were almost impossible to understand. Was she really arrogant enough to think that the hundreds who had followed her out of the Circle would blindly accept it when she sold them all to a Tevinter magister? Having met some of them, Rory knew that at least some would rather have returned to the Circle than risk corruption at the hands of the Imperium.

"And you consider yourself more fit to lead those who disagree with you, Madame De Fer?" Fiona asked in an acid tone. "This separation of my people, the templars set to watch them - all your doing?"

"Actually, Grand Enchanter, these safeguards are in place at my order," Cullen interjected with surprising calm. "Your people are at much greater risk of possession this close to the Breach. You may not like the decisions made, but they have been made for your protection."

"Protection?" Fiona scoffed scornfully. "And what does the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall know of protecting mages?"

Rory felt herself bristle on Cullen's behalf, raising her eyes from her bandaging to scowl over at the Grand Enchanter. Cullen's jaw was set angrily as the elven mage derided him, but he offered no argument to her accusation. It wasn't all his fault! How are you lay all those abuses entirely at his feet! But she couldn't intervene. She was, after all, just a healer.

"As a man who has seen with his own eyes the worst of mages and templars, it would appear he knows more of protection than a woman who sold herself and those who trusted her into indentured servitude," Vivienne countered Fiona's derision, one perfect brow raised. "You have hardly proven yourself a paragon of virtue in that respect."

"I will not hand my people over to you," Fiona flared angrily.

"No, Grand Enchanter, you will not."

Rory felt herself relax again at the sound of Leliana's voice. The Left Hand of the Divine might not agree with the conscription of the mages, but she could be relied upon to keep order here in Haven, regardless of whose toes she had to step on.

"Your actions do not mark you as the best choice to lead the mages," Leliana was saying sternly. "You are their senior voice, that is all. The rebel mages are now a part of the Inquisition, and will obey orders like every other worker, soldier, and agent. You have been given your orders."

There was silence from Fiona - shocked silence, undoubtedly - and a moment later, she brushed past Rory, marching away in steaming resentment. Well, that went well, Rory thought to herself, tying off the bandage in her hands. I guess some mages really do feel as entitled as some templars think they do. She offered the recruit an encouraging smile as Leliana went on.

"Madame De Fer, you are, as you state, an ally of the Inquisition," the spymaster said in a firm tone. "You have no authority over members of the Inquisition, such as the conscripted mages."

"I merely thought to offer my assistance to the commander," Vivienne answered smoothly.

"Yet the commander had no need of assistance until you chose to involve yourself," Leliana informed her. "Kindly do not do so again."

"As you wish, my dear."

As Vivienne sashayed away, leaving Cullen and Leliana to talk over that near-disaster in the making, Rory raised her eyes to the worried expression of the boy in front of her.

"Well, I can safely say you're not going to lose the hand," she assured him with a smile. "I want you to come by the clinic tomorrow, and someone will check that wound for you. You can chew elfroot leaves for the pain."

"What about fighting, mistress?" he asked, eager to get back to his training.

She raised a brow as she considered this. "I'd take the opportunity to find out if you can be as good with your left hand," she suggested, feeling her smile widen into a grin at his enthusiastic nod. "But if you cut that one, too, you've only got yourself to blame."

"Oh, I won't," he promised fervently. "Thank you, mistress."

She watched him walk off, proudly displaying his bandaged hand as though it were a real war wound, feeling her smile fade. Kaaras was due back any day; the mages were here. The assault on the Breach, the attack on Haven ... they might only be days away. That boy might well be dead by the end of the week. Her stomach twisted at the thought. This place that had become home would be burned and buried all too soon. Would she even survive the fall of Haven?

A gentle hand at her back roused her from those thoughts. She drew in a sharp breath, glancing up to find Cullen looking down at her with a worried frown.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly.

Rory shook her head, forcing a weary smile onto her face. "Dark thoughts," she told him as honestly as she could.

"Such as?"

She let go of her breath in a rush, wishing she could warn him about what was coming. But that was a one-way-ticket to a painful death; she'd seen enough of this world to know that by now. "What real wounds that boy is going to take," she admitted morbidly. "I know - it's not guaranteed that he'll ever get hurt with a sword again. It's my imagination going dark on me."

"Everyone has moments like that," he tried to reassure her, unaware that she knew closing the Breach would not be something to celebrate. "You're sure you're staying at the clinic tonight?"

"I can't ask Evy to do it," she told him apologetically. "I need to stay, at least tonight. I don't even know what's wrong with them."

"It's not contagious?" he asked in concern, relieved when she shook her head.

"No," she said in a troubled tone. "If it was, we'd all be showing symptoms by now. They've been in Haven at least a month, and it's only in the last few days this has moved beyond our control. I don't ... I don't know what to do."

His hands moved to her shoulders, his head dipping until she met his eyes. "You'll give them the best care, as you give everyone," he told her, his absolute confidence in her ability drawing a reluctant smile to her face. "If it is their time, they will go to the Maker with dignity. Because of you, and your people."

"It is what I do," she conceded, tilting her head to look at him properly. "How are you?"

"I'll live." He straightened, taking his hands from her shoulders. Despite all of Haven, and most of the Inquisition, knowing how things stood between them, Cullen was still leery of being openly seen to care for her.

"Cullen ..." She wasn't fooled. "I'll let you in on a little secret. When you have a headache, the vein in your right temple throbs. So how bad is it?"

He winced faintly, raising a hand to touch his temple ... a hand that she noticed was shaking just a little. "Worse than usual, but not as bad as it could be," he confessed quietly.

"Did you take anything?"

He shook his head. Rory sighed, her exasperation tempered with loving fondness. Stubborn man. How am I supposed to help when you don't tell me you're in pain? She opened the third pouch to the left of her belt buckle, extracting a small vial.

"Where's your cup?" she asked, taking it when he scooped it up from his makeshift desk. She filled the vessel from the communal drinking water supply - boiled clean every morning, thanks to her persistence - and let a single drop from the vial fall into his cup. "I want you to drink all of this, please."

"What is it?" Cullen asked suspiciously, eyeing the water as he took his cup back from her hand.

"Comfrey and prophet's laurel," she told him. Among other things. "And if you still have a headache in an hour, take a dose of the elfroot potion."

"This tastes revolting, you know," he commented, obediently draining the cup with a grimace.

"It's medicine," she pointed out wryly. "If it tasted good, everyone would want to be sick."

He snorted in amusement, his smile once more only visible in his eyes. "You certainly have a unique perspective."

"Hadn't you worked that out by now?" She chuckled affectionately. "See you at dinner?"

Cullen nodded, setting the empty cup down. "I'll come to the clinic for you," he promised. If they weren't spending the night together, they could at least share meals together. "Try not to worry yourself too much."

"I won't if you don't," she challenged, getting a roll of his eyes for her trouble as she walked away, offering a grin and a wave to Krem and the Iron Bull before taking the steps to enter Haven.

The door to the clinic was standing open when she reached it, a sign that no one was being seen in the outer room just now. Evy was checking stock, something she'd picked up from Rory when things were quiet. There was always something to do, even if it didn't seem like it. Seeing her do it now, however, reminded Rory to check on the overflow stores in the Chantry. If she'd guessed right, they'd be able to take a lot of that with them during the evacuation.

"How are things?" she asked in a quiet voice, hanging her cloak and coat up by the door.

The younger woman met her eyes with a defeated gaze. "No change,” she said with an unhappy sigh. "They still can't keep anything down but water."

Rory knew that look; that sense of helplessness in the face of something beyond their aid. "It's no one's fault, Evy," she told her friend, squeezing her shoulder gently. "Sometimes there's nothing we can do but try to keep them comfortable."

"It doesn't seem fair," Evy protested softly.

"It never is," Rory agreed in a sad voice. "Why don't you go to the Chantry? Ask Mother Giselle to send someone over. The Chant might give them a little peace we can't."

Evy nodded, glancing at her work. "I'll just finish this first."

"All right."

Rory wished she could help her friend, but there was very little she could do in that regard. It was one thing to lose a patient in the chaos of battle, when blood and pain was swiftly there and gone, and it was easy to see death as the healer's friend. It was quite another when your patient lingered for days, betrayed by their own body, unable to help themselves. To watch someone die by inches was never easy, but it was a fact of life for anyone that worked in care. This was Evy's first brush with that fact, and Rory knew it would stay with her for the rest of her life. It never got any easier, but you found ways to cope. Evy would, too.

Wiping the sadness from her face, Rory let herself into the ward, her expression betraying none of the shock she always felt on seeing these patients under her nurses' care. Just a few days ago, they had been healthy, robust brothers, seemingly destined for good careers in Cullen's army. Now they were barely shadows of what they had been; fat and muscle wasting away before her eyes, their bodies hardly more than flesh-covered skeletons. She didn't know what was wrong, or how to treat it, but until they could no longer even swallow water, there was hope.

Or there would be, if Corypheus were not about to attack. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing a swift death on the men under her care, if only to spare her the decision she would have to make as Haven burned. Did she really have it in her to make that kind of choice for them? If they lingered, they would all find out together.

[radioactivedelorean]

Human Sample

 Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

Chapter 2: Stargazing

Stanford retched violently, the force of his stomach emptying itself causing him to physically move forward each time. His throat burned and his stomach ached. His eyes were watering. Ford’s shoulders were trembling violently. It felt like someone was holding his stomach in their hands and squeezing it hard, pulling it around and digging their fingers into his internal organs. It was horrible. The acidic bile stung his throat, only making the whole ordeal infinitely worse. He absolutely detested the sensation of being sick. He was fairly sure nobody actually liked it, but still. It was pitch-black in the shed, the keepers having provided no form of artificial light to keep the shed lit up during the night. His eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness, but his eyesight was already poor, even in good lighting.

When he felt his stomach stop lurching, Ford wiped his mouth on some toilet paper, pushed the handle down and sat back. Lifting his left hand to his face, he noticed how badly he was shaking. He was pale, too, and dripping with sweat, making him shiver. He got up and stumbled over towards where he had left his jacket, atop the pile of straw in the corner of the small shack. He pulled it around himself and sat down. Ford frowned and put the back of his hand to his forehead. He felt warm.

Great, he mused. I’ve got a fever. Perfect.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d contracted food poisoning in the first place if he was honest. He hadn’t detected a change in the food the keepers had been giving him. Sure, a lump of raw meat (he had no idea what animal it was from, but it was oddly maroon-coloured and smelled like lavender and vanilla) and a load of some kind of salad wasn’t exactly what he would call a ‘balanced diet’, but he’d been eating it for a month at least by now and hadn’t had any symptoms of illness from it. At first, he’d been stubborn and the keepers had had a hard time getting him to eat, but after the first ten days, his hunger got the better of him and he’d eaten it. It tasted surprisingly more pleasant than what he had been expecting (like somewhere between duck and beef), but it wasn’t very nice, by any means. Ford had never really cared for raw meats. He liked his steak almost charred - unlike his brother, whose steak was practically still alive - and the sensation of eating meat that wasn’t cooked was rather disgusting. He didn’t have a choice, though. If he wanted to stay alive, he had to eat. The last ‘meal’ he’d had had been at least ten days before he’d been captured, so that meant he’d gone two whole weeks without eating. He was still considerably more underweight than he had been when he’d first been knocked through the portal, despite having actually eaten on a regular basis for the last few days. It wasn’t much, though, which explained his current weight. He was probably eating less than nine hundred calories a day, only 40% of what a male his age should be eating. He wasn’t inactive - he’d regularly be doing exercise around his enclosure, he couldn’t afford to let himself go - and nine hundred calories a day was enough to make him lose two or three pounds a week.

Ford took a deep breath, running his hands over his face. He still felt terribly nauseous, despite his stomach being empty. He looked over to the water dish in the corner of the shed and picked it up, tipping the bowl up and taking small sips of water. It had been barely thirty seconds since he’d swallowed before he was once again knelt over the toilet bowl heaving up all of the water he’d just swallowed. He coughed and spluttered, his eyes watering furiously again. Once again, he wiped his mouth off and flushed the vomit away. The shack now had a faint but foul odour of acidic bile and rotting food. Ford gagged again, for once not due to the nausea. He got up and crawled through the door to leave.

The fresh air outside was a welcome relief to his pounding head. Ford ran his six-fingered hands through his hair, gently tugging out the knots and tangles. By doing so, he let the cool air circulate around his scalp. This helped his headache further. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Ford lay down in the grass with his hands behind his head, gazing up at the night sky through the net hanging above his enclosure. The sky on this planet was fascinating - a swirling mixture of pale blues and greens in the daytime, before plunging into violets and cobalts at night. There were two suns visible from his position on the planet - a large, almost silver one, accompanied by a smaller pale pink one at the 5 o’clock position. At night, Ford had counted a total of seven moons, each a different size and colour and each appearing at different times of the night, and at different intervals in the week. The largest one, a pale duck-egg blue one with small navy blue specks, he’d nicknamed Edison. He’d named them all, actually, and if one were to stand outside his enclosure at night (though none of the creatures on this planet could understand him), he could sometimes be heard having conversations with them. The deep red one was called Filbrick, since it reminded him of the colour his father’s face would turn when he was angry (which was often). Always next to Filbrick, the smaller, paler red one was called Chloe, after his mother. The pure white one was called Einstein, the grey one Tesla and the pale lilac one called Nightingale. That just left…

Stanley, Ford sighed to himself. The third largest one and the one that was visible for the longest period of time, a pale peach moon with red specks, was named after his twin brother. That was the one he talked to the most. At first, the one-way conversations had involved Ford demanding to know why Stanley shoved him, why Stanley broke his science project, why Stanley hadn’t tried to grab his brother as he’d been pulled into the portal, why Stanley tried to burn the journal. As time went on, however, the tone of the conversations had changed. Over the last week, Ford hadn’t mentioned the broken science project once. Instead, he’d been apologising over and over again to his brother for giving up on him. For turning his back on him when Stan needed him the most. For ignoring him for ten years and not even bothering to contact him. For finally contacting him, only to tell Stan to stay as far away from Gravity Falls as possible. For pushing Stanley into the burning symbol on the side of the desk and causing Stan to get burnt. For… for being a terrible brother.

At the moment, Stanley was the only moon Ford could see. He found his mind wandering back to the childhood he had shared with his twin. All the times Stanley had been hurt due to Ford’s own weakness. Ford had never been as physically strong as his brother, nor as good at fighting, and Ford hated himself for it. Sure, now, maybe things were a little different, but back then, Ford had never been able to throw a punch even a tenth as good as his brother could. Stanley had achieved second place in the New Jersey Youth Boxing championships when he was in the ninth grade, after all, and Ford could barely cause a bruise when he hit people. He’d fought with words instead, something which was much more his forte but something the other kids certainly didn’t like. Who the hell was this little six-fingered freak to tell them what to do? As a result of his quick wit, Ford found himself frequently in trouble. Stanley, nine times out of ten, was there to haul his brother’s ass out of it, but on the one-in-ten occasions where Ford was alone, he’d been beaten senseless.

Ford lifted his left hand up to look at it. He counted his fingers. One, two, three, four, five, six. There had always been six, no matter how many times he counted, no matter how many times he dreamt of having normal hands. No matter what time of the day, the year, he always had six fingers on each hand. Looking at his hand closely, Ford examined the thin scar running across the knuckle of his sixth finger and just grazing his ring finger. Back in high school, when he was fifteen, he’d tried to remove his finger. He’d locked himself in the bathroom and sliced at it again and again with a small vegetable knife. He’d tried so hard to cut his extra finger off. When he’d hit bone, he pressed down hard with the blade, but nothing had happened. Stan had heard his sobs from their bedroom and had broken down the door, only to find Ford standing at the ding with blood dripping down his forearm and falling to the floor. Ford had looked like a deer in the headlights, absolutely mortified. Stan had knocked the knife from his brother’s hand and embraced him in a tight but brief hug. He’d dragged Ford down the stairs and forced him to go to the hospital. They’d managed to get Ford fixed up without their parents finding out. Ford had simply worn gloves until his hand had healed.

Ford sighed and put his hand down, staring up at the night sky. Stan had moved about twenty degrees to the left and now Filbrick and Chloe were visible. His parents…

“Mom, Dad… I’m sorry,” Ford mumbled. “I just don’t know how I’m going to get out of this. I’ve tried, and I think they’re gonna neuter me if I try again. I don’t know what to do.”

Filbrick simply gazed down at Ford, while deep purple clouds drifted over, completely obscuring Chloe from view. Ford choked on a sob. He was being pathetic. He was a forty-year-old man, talking to huge inanimate objects thousands of miles away and pretending that they were his family. Before he knew it, the clouds had moved over and Filbrick had disappeared too. Spots of moisture started hitting Ford’s face. They were ice cold. The clouds above him emptied themselves, dropping buckets of freezing rain down onto the world below. Ford quickly pushed himself up and trudged back over to the shed, crawling inside. He’d learned the hard way that the rain on this planet was slightly acidic. Once, he’d found it overwhelmingly warm in his enclosure and had removed his shirt before stepping out into the rain, thinking it would cool him down. It did, for a moment, before the acidic water started reacting with his skin and leaving nasty burns on his shoulders and back. They had itched terribly as they healed.

Ford plonked himself down inside, laying down in the straw. He didn’t know what to do. He reckoned that if he had his brother with him, they’d have some sort of plan. Ford could do the thinking while Stan could try and get out by force. The man shook the thoughts off. He couldn’t wish that his brother was here. Sure, his brother had been a nuisance, but he wouldn’t wish this kind of thing on anybody. The keepers were breaking practically every Earth human rights act by treating him like this. He didn’t have any proper shelter, any decent facilities, no good food, barely any clean water and he was being held here against his will. This was similar to the horror stories in the news of people being kidnapped and forced to live in horrible conditions by some sick maniac. Except, on this planet, this was all perfectly legal. What was worse was that people were making money out of him being here. Just yesterday, Ford had seen a small child wandering around holding a small stuffed toy that looked like a human. It had the same messy brown hairstyle as Ford and the same glasses. Ford had a sneaking suspicion that it had six fingers, too.

He couldn’t help but laugh to himself in, the darkness. He was a joke. He was nothing more. There was no doubt that in the gift shop, one could buy a mug or a notebook with a picture of Ford on it, the same way you could buy a notebook with a lion or an elephant on it in an Earth zoo. It was absolutely disgusting, and at that moment, Ford made a pact with himself to never set foot in another zoo ever again. He didn’t know if he’d even be able to, now that he knew what it was like to be one of the animals held against their will in a small enclosure, being forced to live off food that was barely sufficient and having to sleep in a pile of straw every night.

Sighing, the man closed his eyes. The straw pricked his back uncomfortably, making it feel as though he was sleeping on coarse sandpaper. He’d tried to sleep outside before, but the nights on this planet were simply far too cold. He’d woken up one morning to find that dew had settled in his hair and had actually frozen, despite his own body head. His night outside had led to a nasty cold, which he was still feeling the after-effects of. Since then, he’d figured he had no choice but to sleep on the sorry excuse for a ‘bed’ inside the shack. Shifting slightly, he tried to get comfortable, adjusting his jacket to try and protect his back from the sharp points of the straw. Eventually, Ford managed to drift off to sleep.

Almost immediately, his dreams were plagued by images of Bill once again. He was running, faster than he had ever ran before. At first, he didn’t know whether he was awake or asleep, since the Nightmare Realm was exactly as he remembered it. Swirling red and purple skies, dark red and black asteroids, and of course, Bill and his henchmaniacs. He truly thought he was back there again, until he managed to jump an impossible distance and deflect an electricity beam from Bill with only his bare hands. That was when Ford realized he was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming, yet he kept running. Back on Earth, in his home dimension, if Ford had been hurt in a dream, he would instantly wake up. He was always spared from whatever sort of horrors his mind had concocted a split second before he was shot, or eaten, or scratched, or stabbed, or whatever it may be. More often than not, he had been faced with a dream version of his childhood bullies. He was asleep to hear the insults, shouts, swears and threats but always woke up just before the first kick or punch. Here, however, he didn’t know if the same rules applied. Before he’d realized BIll had tricked him, he would frequently drift off to sleep and wake up with mysterious bruises or scratches, which Bill would insist he had no knowledge of.

That had been a lie, of course, since Ford later figured out that Bill was hurting his body while in possession of it. Ford didn’t know if Bill could possess his body from where he was right now, but he doubted it. It was likely Bill was unable to pass through the Dreamscape to get to him from where he was, but he wasn’t going to risk it. Ford hated himself for the deal he had made, allowing Bill to pass in and out of his mind freely. He couldn’t break the deal without killing himself and he wasn’t prepared to do that. He had to stay alive long enough to be able to gather enough information on Bill to be able to defeat him and save the multiverse from any more of Bill’s chaos.

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to continue his efforts just yet. At least in this enclosure, he was safe from any predators and/or bounty hunters who were hunting him down for either food or money. An Earth year ago (Ford still used Earth time, no matter which dimension he was in), he’d had a rather nasty run-in with a wild-haired alcoholic scientist who had now put a bounty on his head. It turned out the guy had a lot of connections with bounty hunters, and plenty of money to boot. Apparently the guy himself (Ford remembered his surname was Sanchez, but didn’t know any more than that) was an outlaw and wanted by some government called the ‘Galactic Federation’ for every crime under the sun. Ford had done some research on the Galactic Federation. Apparently, in over three thousand dimensions, they were the Earth equivalent of the government. Earth wasn’t one of the planets that was part of it, however. Well, at least Ford’s dimension’s Earth wasn’t. No, Ford had to get out of this place before he could do anything. He’d come this far and he wasn’t prepared to just throw in the towel.

An explosion of rock to his left snapped him out of his reverie. Right, he was still running from Dream Bill. By this time, he was breathing heavily and his legs felt like they were melting, yet he couldn’t feel them aching. Sprinting round the corner of a large chunk of the meteorite he was running on, Ford smacked head-first into a solid wall and fell backwards. That hurt. Right, he could still be hurt by his own stupidity. He scrambled to his feet and had just put his foot up on a small ledge fifteen inches off the ground when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The hand pulled him backwards and next thing he knew, Ford was face to face with Bill Cipher himself. Before he could so much as put his hands up to shield himself, Bill had struck him with a beam.

Ford sat bolt upright in the shack, drenched in sweat and panting. The good news was that he still woke up before he could be hurt, but the bad news was that Bill could still torment him as he slept. The man put a six-fingered hand to his forehead and took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. He was fine. He was in the shack in his enclosure. Bill wasn’t anywhere near him. He was safe.

“Get a grip, Stanford,” he muttered to himself, trying to steady his shaking hands. He was freezing now, the cold sweat causing his body to release too much heat and making him shiver. It was still dark in the shed, but Ford got up anyway. He couldn’t hear any rain falling outside and deduced it must have stopped by now. Crawling through the small door, he stepped outside to stretch his legs. To the far east of the enclosure, Ford could see a faint sliver of light over the horizon. The glow was mostly silver, indicating that the larger of the two suns was rising first. It reminded him of the sunrise from Glass Shard Beach back in New Jersey, sitting on the swings by the ocean with his brother.

Ford felt dizzy, but at least his nausea had passed by now. His stomach still ached, which wasn’t unexpected, considering how violently he’d been sick. His forehead didn’t feel as warm, either. That was a relief. Maybe the high temperature had just been a result of the vomiting. He remembered being hot like that during his earlier childhood after catching a stomach bug from another kid at school. His mother had told him that he would feel much better after the first day or so. Her words were still true, even nearly thirty years later.

“Don’t worry, mom,” Ford said quietly to himself. He squared his shoulders. “I’ll be home soon, I promise.”

He just hoped he’d be able to keep that promise.

——— Initially I wasn’t going to continue this, but

@1thousandminus7

suggested that I did. Based off

@looloolalalol

’s

post

AO3