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dickfics69 · 2 years

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Emotional Motion Sickness | Part 2

AO3

Rick x Daryl

Summary: Daryl gets sick before a supply run, and denies it vehemently. He is a big tantrum baby. Rick is constantly worried and drama ensures.

Chapter 2 Summary: The cold morning wears on and Daryl gets sicker and more irritable, lashing out at those who are trying to help him. He is fragile and does not believe he deserves any sort of comfort.

AU: This fic has some timeline and plot-point changes. They are still in the prison and the second Governor fight never happened. He died in the first one and the last few months have been them adjusting to all the new Woodbury inhabitants. Rick and Lori broke up when Shane was killed, but Rick still lost his mind when she died. Daryl and Rick have just recently gotten together. Farmer Rick era is lot shorter than in the show. An original character is introduced for plot furthering purposes. Also this is Daryl on the cusp between feral Daryl, and 'I will protect my people within an inch of my life' Daryl, because it's fun to write both

Content warning: adult language, sickfic, mess, snot, bodily functions, hurt/comfort, vivid nightmares, adult content, 18+ for eventual smut (still deciding hehe), original character

Word count: 2.9k+

My Personal Daryl Dixon playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2PrdzgwtCiUgwDLLBy5C4g?si=c83773b44c964bb1

As always ty to @dumbslxtclub for editing and hyping me up

pls enjoy and feel free to leave comments :)

Chapter 2: Daryl is Daryl

Daryl stood motionless under the stream of icy shower water, willing himself to wake up from whatever nightmare he was about to enter. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been in there, but he knew he needed to get out before the freezing water rendered him as good as dead. The only semblance of warmth Daryl could feel was the hot trail of sticky liquid that flowed from his nostrils without inhibition.

With a wrist pressed hard against his nose, he sniffled back hard, hoping to quash the intense tickle that seemed to only get worse as the morning trudged on.

“Fu..huh…ck…HAH’EESCHshuU…Heh..h’AATChoO…Fuhc’heh’eeEITChuuU…

hih’EtSSCht…Nnng '' The sneezes ripped out of Daryl with full abandon, bending him at the waist and scraping his throat in their natural glory. Launching into a coughing fit, he braced the walls of the shower for support as he surrendered to the mercy of his lungs..

When he had recovered enough to open his eyes he was rudely greeted with a wave of intense dizziness and specks of black invading his vision. He shut off the water and snorted loudly, attempting feebly to clear the congestion that had become a permanent feature in his nose. Jesus it’d be nice to breathe again.

Wrapping a small towel around his waist, Daryl was wracked with a deep shiver that set a chill deep in his bones, he knew would not go away.

He shook his mess of chocolate brown hair out like a wet dog and looked down at the pile of black clothes that he haphazardly grabbed from his old room at the top of the cell block. His faded jeans with one too many blood stains, one of Rick’s soft undershirts that he had stolen because it smelt like him, and the oversized sweatshirt Carol had found and gifted to him last winter.

Daryl dried and dressed, still unable to shake the chill that had made an unwelcome residence in the hunter’s sick body. He hoped that his leather vest would be the answer to keeping his body warm today. Not that he knew where it was. ‘Probably screwed up in a pile of Rick’s things’ he mused, picturing his bearded partner repeatedly tearing it off his body in hot fits of passion. A tiny smile crept into the corners of Daryl’s mouth, as his steadfast resolve softened slightly.

Lifting his head, Daryl caught a glimpse of his reflection in a distant, broken mirror. He walked up to the grimy basin to study his face a bit more closely. Regarding his own reflection was an activity Daryl seldom took part in, but he had to know what he was dealing with today.

Chewing briefly on the side of his thumb, he looked up and was taken aback by the sickly image before him. If he wasn’t breathing and continually fighting the urge to sneeze, he could’ve sworn that he’d died and turned into a walker. His skin was pale and clammy, the only colour coming from a feverish hue in his cheeks and the pink around his chapped, irritated nostrils. Daryl’s normally icy blue eyes were lost within the tired purple bags that sat beneath them, looking like he’d gone several rounds with the butt of a revolver. His damp hair stuck to his forehead, and a thin trickle of mucus was beginning to settle on his upper lip.

Growling to himself, Daryl picked up the rag in front of him and blew, and blew, and blew his nose hard. He was disgusted with just how quickly he filled up the fabric and how little relief it actually granted him.

The blowing disturbed the weak equilibrium his nose had established in the brief time he was out of the shower. His angry sinuses sought their revenge with an intense burning that no amount of sniffling, wiggling or rubbing could suppress. A slave to his body, Daryl had no choice but to grip the basin tight and strap in for the ride.

“heh…h’ATSCH uU… h’EITCHEW… Hh’EsTCHUU… Hh’GstcHh, GstcHh, h’EITch …heh…heh…HAH’EESCHshuU!” He collapsed to the floor with the sheer intensity of the attack. He sat pitifully against the concrete wall, welcoming the cool touch on his over exerted body.

Breathing hard and shallow, the hunter tried to remember the last time he’d ever felt so goddamned awful, but came up short. Tears pricked the corners of Daryl’s tired eyes, but whether it was from the sneezing or the anxiety that had risen up in his throat, he was unsure. Letting his cantankerous guard down for a second, Daryl allowed himself a moment of longing. He so longed to be held in the arms of his love, having his head stroked and being told that ‘everything would be alright’- a newfound luxury he vowed never to take for granted. He longed for warmth, for rest, for sleep, for vapour rub and hot tea. He longed to cry.

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. The fall of The Governor, while decreasing the immediate threat, had brought more challenges with the residents from Woodbury joining ranks with those at the prison. More hands to help, but more mouths to feed. The demand for supplies seemed to have tripled overnight, putting immense pressure on Rick and the council. There were too many people relying on Daryl and he refused to be a burden to anyone, especially his love.

‘Pull yourself together Dixon, it’s just a fucking cold.’

Mental pep talk done, Daryl dragged himself up from the floor, splashed his face with cold water, snorted and headed for the door.

Stopping in his tracks, he heard the unmistakable voices of his best friend and boyfriend talking rather loudly down the end of the cell block. Now, eavesdropping wasn’t usually on the list of Daryl’s preferred past times, but today he granted himself the exception.

Opening the bathroom door a crack, Daryl committed to some solid mouth breathing and listened pointedly.

“I’m just asking you to talk to him-” Rick’s voice echoed through the draughty tomb. “He was sniffling and sneezing all night and I just don’t think he’ll make it through the next couple of days.”

“Do you two ever talk to each other in the watchtower or?” Carol laughed heartily. ‘Jesus, of course we do.’

“J…Jesus of course we do!” Rick’s spreading blush was almost audible as the two men shared the same thought. “Com’on this is serious Carol! I don’t know what to do, he’s just so damn stubborn. You’re his best friend, how do I deal with him?”

‘Deal with me?’ A ripple of pain burst through Daryl’s chest. He wrapped his arms around himself in order not to shake the door open with emotion.

“I know, I know Rick.” Carol comforted, “The thing is, Daryl is Daryl, and sometimes you gotta wait a long time for a personal victory.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing.“May I give you some advice?”

“Yes, anything, please,” Rick practically begged, which left Daryl feeling immensely worse, if that was even possible.

“Avoid smothering, give him space, and please try not to say anything stupid.”

They kept talking but Daryl’s heart burned. ‘So much for not bein’ a burden, idiot’. He was hurt and angry but leaned into the rage as he pondered his next move. Two options presented themselves- wait until they were gone and leave the bathroom with a skerrick of dignity, or or, bust into their conversation for a thinly veiled upper hand? Logically, he knew what to do, but hell! Daryl was Daryl right?

“Sorry I mbissed the dambnd mbother’s club mbeeting!” Daryl’s congested voice echoed through the tomb of the cell block, drawing concerned blue and green eyes to meet the feverish man. “Just leave mbe a ndote next timbe, mbaybe I can joind y’all!” He stormed through the pair, making a pitiful effort to bump into his boyfriend on the way past.

“Daryl, babe -” Rick reached out to grab his partner’s arm, only to be violently shaken off.

“-Dond’t fugcking touch mbe!” he warned with an unintended sickly, feral energy radiating from his eyes. A mini stand off between two lovers and a friend. ‘Welcome to the Daryl Dixon Drama Kingdom’ he mentally decreed before storming off in a delirious, guilt ridden rage. ‘You really are impossible.’

Carol and Rick stood standing in shock, almost unable to process what had just happened. She crossed her arms in frustration and he hung his head in defeat.

“Daryl is Daryl” he echoed, as his boyfriend’s descending footsteps drew to a silent finish.

—

Still reeling from the events of the shower block, Daryl stormed into Rick’s cell to look for his vest; shivering, snorting and sneezing all the while. Rifling through the piles of mixed up clothes he eventually found it tucked under the mattress of the top bunk. He threw it on and stupidly hoped he’d somehow feel better. Instead he sneezed thrice and launched into yet another waist-bending coughing fit. The dry barking was turning into wet hacking, and Daryl desperately tried to deny the sensation of drowning surging through his body.

He contemplated laying down to sleep a while before he had to pack the truck, but Rick could be back at any second, and with the way he’d acted this morning, keeping up appearances was of the utmost importance. So off he went to breakfast.

—

A quick survey of the room and everyone seemed to be chatting amongst themselves, unaware of the events that had plagued Daryl’s morning. Unfortunately there was a seat free next to Carol, and of course she had to look up at him and beckoned him over.

He slipped sheepishly in beside her, hoping that she’d just eat her cereal in silence, but luck was not on Daryl’s side this rainy season.

“Look at your hair! I swear it’s getting darker and longer by the day!” She ran a hand through his ratty layers, purposely feeling for a fever she could already tell was there. Daryl begrudgingly knew this, but welcomed the touch anyway.

“Mbmm.” he wheezed, losing the identity of his voice to the virus that plagued him.

“I could give you a haircut you know, get it out of those pretty eyes.” She cupped his chin, offering a little bit too much comfort, but Daryl didn't recoil.

“Ondly if I get the Carol super special,” he mused, sharing a genuine laugh with his best friend. Looking at each other for a moment, Daryl felt a twang of guilt deepset in his sternum. His war wasn’t with Carol, and it shouldn’t be with Rick but still, he needed to absolve something.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked earnestly.

She smiled fondly, “It’s okay to not be okay,” she whispered, and for a split second, they were the only two people in the entire prison.

*CLANG*

A sad plate of dry toast suddenly landed in front of Daryl, making him jump slightly from the bench. Trailing his tired eyes along the table, blue met blue as Rick placed himself next to the hunter at the table. He wore a mix of anger and disappointment across his face and inhaled sharply through his nose, almost mocking the sick man who could not. .

“Eat.” he spat, turning back to his own plate of food.

“Mb’not hungry,” Daryl mumbled, anxiously biting his fingers again.

“Daryl just-” Rick stopped him himself and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Fine, whatever, I don’t care” the exasperated man relented, heeding the advice of a friend.

‘Petty breeds petty, I guess.’

After a while, the people around him joined in on other conversations. Rick laughed heartily at something Michonne had said, and Carol had turned away to attend to a couple of the smaller girls that had recently joined the group. Daryl was sure he knew their names, but the fog that pressed on his head rendered his neural pathways useless today. He picked a bit at his piece of toast, a knuckle pressed hard against the base of his sensitive nostrils, determined to ward off another attack.

“Someone’s excited to see their Daddy this morning!” The melodic voice of one Beth Greene rose above the others as she walked over and handed baby Judith to Rick. The deputy’s face lit up as his daughter giggled with joy and made attempts to grab at her father’s beard.

The horrific dream that Daryl had pushed into a recess of his mind, crawled out suddenly to slap him in the face, forcing him to close his eyes and shake the traumatic images away once again. She’s alive, Daryl. You haven’t lost her. Opening his eyes, he scooted a little closer to Rick and reached up gingerly to tickle the toddler’s chubby leg.

“Mbornin’ lil’ ass kicker.” His voice, thick with congestion, wavered slightly but the little girl squealed with delight at the presence of her tough tracker man. Daryl adored Judith more than mere thoughts could comprehend. They all did. The possibility that something could ever happen to her constantly weighed heavy on his mind and he really hoped Rick couldn’t sense his vulnerable fear.

He could.

Rick didn’t need to mindread to see the upset behind the eyes of his beloved. For longer than they had even been friendly, Daryl had been plagued by vivid nightmares that rendered him anxious and temporarily catatonic. Rick was grateful that being ‘together’ meant that he could finally offer some comfort when the dreams got really bad, but the pain always lingered. Since birth, Judith and Daryl had been inseparable. He stepped up and became a surrogate father when Rick had lost his mind all those months ago and it melted the Deputy’s heart to see his daughter slowly cracking the tough exterior of a man who was truly pure to the bone. Their bond was a great beacon of light in the dark and dungy prison. But recently, Judith had become the lead protagonist in Daryl’s vicious subconscious and that. Broke. His. Heart.

Rick brought up his hand to tentatively stroke his thumb against another, and breathed out a pent up sigh of relief when Daryl's hand gave a much needed squeeze back. They looked at each other with a keen sense of each other’s mind, and allowed themselves to love and be loved for a moment.

The moment was fleeting though, as Daryl’s nose once again commandeered the man’s body. Eyebrows furrowing, nostrils quivering and eyes glazing over, he twisted his nose in a final spasmodic sniffle before clamping a hand to his face, and launching into a barrage of painfully suppressed sneezes.

“H’nngt, nngt, nngt…ha’kngt…h’nnxxt-tchu…h’Ggst…heh..heeeh…HA’mmmpht!” Daryl forced himself to muffle the last sneeze into his sleeve of his sweatshirt, a mess that was growing in tandem with his humiliation.

“Bless yo-”

“Dond’t.”

For the first time in his life, he longed to be far away in one of his nightmares, surely nothing could be as hellish as this? Snorting back as quietly as possible, Daryl folded the sleeve of his wet jumper into his lap. Fixing his gaze just above the heads of the people in front of him, he separated himself from the concerned eyes that sat either side of him. ‘Ahhh, when will death come?’

Shockingly, nothing happened and no one said anything. His head was pounding like the sputtering engine of his motorcycle, nose leaking like the roof in their penitentiary, and a violent buzzing bounced its way around his sinus cavity like a bee on the first day of spring. Still. He got away with it, giving the man a fighting resolve to get on with the day and hold steadfast with his denial. ‘I ain’t that sick anyways.’-

“-That’s one hell-of-uh cold you got there son!” Herschel Greene had entered the dining room and click-clacked his way over to Daryl on his crutches. ‘Shit’. “If ya got some time this mornin’ I can check you out, give you some relief for that congestion, hm?”

‘Don’t be a dick to Herschel, don't be a dick to Herschel.’

“Ahh, thagnks for th’ offer, but m’finde. I got allergies s’all.” Not a particularly convincing response on Daryl’s part, but with a wave of anxiety washing over him he just needed to get out of there.

“...Okay, sure then.” The vet responded without a lick of belief. - “Oh Rick, I’d move lil’ Judy a bit farther away if I were you, she don’t have that natural immunity yet, and we don’t want her catching whatever nasty bug Mr Dixon has.”

Yep. Yep. That was it. Daryl was humiliated, pained and deliriously febrile. But he didn’t care anymore. Not enough.

“I already goddamnd told you doc, I. Ain’t. Sick!” He shot up from his seated position, stepped over the bench and planted himself intimately close to Herschel’s face. If he didn’t have an audience before, he definitely had a sold out performance now. Someone tried to grab his hand. Carol? Maybe. Possibly Rick, but it didn’t matter.

He tore his gaze from The Vet to the rest of the room, an unhinged growl escaping his throat, not unlike a feral cat.

“Y’know what? Screw you all!” A final fuck you to the peanut gallery that showered him with a mix of shock and concern. He turned and stormed out of the room, forcing himself not to look back, to postpone the guilt that would inevitably hit him sooner or later.

Swinging the door open with haste, he almost bowled an oblivious Sasha down. But he kept walking, heavy boots beating down on the cold concrete floor. He dramatically spat some mucus onto the ground and then turned towards the armoury. It was time to pack the truck and go.

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fairytales-and-folklore · 2 years

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Huntlow Christmas Snippets

So the original plan was to have this human realm series finished and posted in time for Christmas, but then a whole bunch of stressful life stuff got in the way, so for now, please enjoy this little Christmas themed huntlow snippet! Happy Christmas, Huntlow Fam! 💛💚

Sneak Peek from Being Human | Chapter Eight: Winter's Waltz

The living room is a war zone of ribbons and wrapping paper as everyone tears into their presents, getting distracted halfway through when Camila puts on her favorite Christmas music and Luz endeavors to turn the evening into Grom Part 2, sweeping into a low bow and asking a giggling, blushing Amity to dance. Hunter is so swept up in the mayhem of watching the two of them laugh and spin one another in the glimmer of the Christmas lights, he almost doesn't register the Willow-shaped silhouette hovering next to him, offering him her hand. "May I have this dance?" she asks, fairy lights glinting off the lenses of her glasses, igniting them in a golden glow. "Oh, uh— yeah. Yes. Absolutely," he stutters, barely a moment to stagger to his feet before he's swept away in Willow's arms. Hunter has never danced in his entire life, but Willow is a marvelous lead, the comforting weight of her hand pressed between his shoulder blades, soft plush fingers curling over the palm of his hand, heat hotter than the flames in the fireplace as she draws him closer and instructs him to place his other hand on the small of her waist. Just when he thinks he's finally got the moves down, Willow surprises him by twirling him around in a circle and then dipping him backward on the catch, safe in her strong, gentle hands as his whole world spins upside down in a blur of green and gold. And then she's pulling him back up toward her, lips parted in a wide smile, breathless laughter rushing out of the both of them as their chests heave from the exertion, and all Hunter can think as he gazes into her bright green eyes are three simple words. Oh. Wow. Dancing. Well. Maybe those aren't the only three words he's thinking.

It's nearing midnight by the time everyone heads off to bed, shuffling off to their respective rooms with barely stifled yawns and sleepy smiles, leaving Hunter and Willow alone in the living room, sitting side by side, curled up by the fire. Evidently they'd both had the same idea, not wanting to give the gifts they'd gotten each other in front of everyone else. Without a word, the two of them reach behind opposite sides of the tree and withdraw two packages — one wrapped up pristinely in red and gold striped paper, the other a mess of ripped green wrapping paper and far too much tape. Ever since their lessons, Hunter has developed a love for sewing, but Willow had no idea he'd gotten this good. When Willow unwraps her gift, a neatly-folded letterman jacket with the words captain stitched across the back in bold white lettering spills out onto her lap, handmade from the coziest green and gold fabric she's ever felt beneath her fingers. Little swatches of embroidery line the lapels and the arms of the jacket — wildflowers, bumblebees, cardinals, hearts, and stars — and in the very center right over the heart, a miniature rendering of a flyer derby field complete with goals posts and green and purple flags. Willow spreads her hands over it, amazed by all the carefully crafted details. This must have taken him weeks to complete. "This is amazing, Hunter. Thank you so much, I love—" she says, slipping the jacket over her shoulders and marveling at how perfectly it fits her, gazing up at him with a radiant smile on her face, only to find him staring back at her, looking awestruck. Clutched in his hands are two different gifts she couldn't decide between — one, a hand-knitted sweater made from that same cozy yellow yarn he'd fallen in love with the first time they'd gone to the craft store together, complete with a little breast pocket for Flapjack to nap in — and two, a brand new pair of handsome leather gloves, similar enough to his old pair to provide that same level of comfort and safety to a set of scarred, sensitive hands, but different enough so that he no longer has to be reminded of Belos, of being the golden guard every time he looks down at his own hands. "I hope you like them," she says in a small voice, suddenly feeling nervous. "The cardinals along the sides there are hand-stitched. I tried to make them look as much like Flapjack as I could, but—" "They're perfect. You're perfect," he says, rushing forward to wrap her up in a hug, tucking his chin against the curve of her shoulder and breathing her in in a series of slow, steady breaths. "Merry Christmas, Hunter," she says, voice muffled as she melts into the hug, face buried in the cozy fabric of his sweater. "Merry Christmas, Willow," he says, voice almost too soft to catch over the steady crackling of the fireplace.

#huntlow #huntlow fic #huntlow fanfic #huntlow fanfiction #huntlow fan fiction #winter toh #toh #toh fic #toh fanfic #christmas fic #snippet #fic snippet #being human series #human realm series #wintery junk

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starboundanon · 3 years

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Herbie, you know what I love? Men flirting with Luke and seeing Din’s (or even dad’s) reaction to that? *chef’s kiss* Han would always be flirting with Luke because he knows Luke had a massive crush on him and feels like he has some type of ownership of Luke since he got him off Tatooine (and might’ve even taught him some stuff on the way to Alderaan👀 And honestly they are so hot together lol) Lando of course cause Lando is a charming flirt and renders Luke speechless a lot with his sweet words and handsome smile. There’s also a serious lack of Cobb flirting with Luke that hurts my soul. Luke would probably die if Cobb flirts with him cause um… Timothy Olyphant🥵 Boba. I mean. Come on. He just loves to make Luke flustered with his obscene remarks. Bonus: Din flirting with Luke in front of Vader is of course always a winner. I do wonder if Luke would be aware if someone is flirting with him though? Because if it’s even slightly subtle I feel Luke would just be so happy that “people are so nice Din wow!” lol. Do you have any headcanons with all these men flirting with Luke and Din or Vader’s reaction?

Din being a possessive boyfriend and Vader being an overprotective dad are timeless classics, and I will never tire of discussing them.

TW: nsfw, slightly darkfic

Din's reaction when people flirt with Luke, mostly, comes down to asserting dominance.

Han thinks he can just walk over and put his arm around his Luke? Fuck that. Din's going to fuck Luke bareback in the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon and leave the mess for Han to find.

Cobb thinks he has any right to make Luke blush? No way, Din's going to take Luke apart with his tongue that night and make sure Cobb can hear the boy screaming his name.

This Lando guy thinks he can call and flirt with Luke whenever he pleases? Nope, Din's going to take Luke's comm-unit and mute that smug bastard, then make him listen as he wrecks Luke with nothing but some expert dirty talk.

Now, Vader? Vader just fucking kills people. If he catches some random asshole making moves on his boy, he snaps their neck with the Force before they even know he's there.

But of course, there are times when he has to show restraint, namely when Luke, unfortunately, cares for whoever is currently trying Vader's patience. These times include:

When Han jokingly palmed Luke's ass after a hug, and Vader flung him across the room with the Force, promising him he would lose all his limbs if he ever dared to lay them on his son again;

When Boba Fett, stupidly, made a suggestive comment to Luke about how "talented" his mouth must be, and Vader, furious, promised him he would use the Force to rip Boba's tongue from his mouth if he ever spoke to his son that way again;

And finally, when Din, this brazen, wretched, dissentious bounty hunter — who his son, somehow, inexplicably adored — had the nerve to wrap his arms around Luke's waist and pull him close, pressing their foreheads together, hands roaming his son's body like he owned him . . . Vader didn't even use the Force. He lifted the Mandalorian by the throat, durasteel hand unrelenting around the man's neck, and threw him through the Palace window. The man should've been grateful for his beskar armor, because without it, Piett would've had to mop up another one of Luke's unfortunate suitors from the courtyard's cobblestones.

#dinluke #herbie asks #tw darkfic

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whump-only · 3 years

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intro -- golden (vamp whump)

Ok so I have a vampire whump addiction now..... (thanks @deluxewhump + @ashintheairlikesnow). NEW WIP NEW OCs eeeeee

tw: broken bones, reference to gore (removal of teeth), captivity, restraint, it/its as pronouns, physical abuse/manhandling, non-sexual nudity, manipulative/abusive relationship, referenced death / murder

----

“Come on. Just let me just show it to you.” Hyde phrased it as though it was a request, but he stood blocking the front door. Daring Pollen to refuse him.

“No. Find someone else. I’m leaving,” Pollen said, but they both knew that wouldn’t happen. Pollen really, really regretted agreeing to housesit, For a whole month? On Hyde’s turf? Idiot! But he didn’t think Hyde would spring this on him.

Hyde stepped forward and took Pollen by the elbow. “I’ll protect you…” he said cheekily, pulling Pollen towards the basement door.

“Fuck you.” Pollen planted his feet firmly. To think Pollen would agree to living with a vampire…

“Fuck! I said just look at it. How is that hard?” Hyde snapped with that ferociousness he was capable of. It’s why he was a top tier vampire hunter, but it startled Pollen when it came out like that.

But just like that, the flash of anger was smoothed away, and Hyde was soft, coaxing. “Listen… if you actually look at it and still think it’s dangerous, then I’ll kill it before I go? Okay?”

Pollen was baffled. Did Hyde really think this was reasonable? Knowing what vampires did to his life, to his family? “…You’re serious?”

Hyde grinned before leading the way. That smile of assured victory that everyone swooned over. That Pollen used to want to kiss. Pollen clenched his teeth.

Hyde opened the door to the pitch black basement and already everything in Pollen wanted to say, Close the door, get the fuck out! Leave it down there! That’s what any sensible human would do.

Hyde flicked on a pale yellow light and padded down the steps. Pollen stopped at the threshold of the door, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. Run. Run! Those last words of his mother echoed in his head, the memory of that night wrapping itself around his neck, like a snake. Run!

Hyde looked up at him, raised his eyebrows mockingly. Scared?

Pollen reasoned that if the thing somehow got loose it could kill Hyde first and give Pollen time to run away. Or something. And so, he forced himself to step down, one creaky, labored step after another. The smell of rotting, horrible something hit him so hard it triggered a coughing fit. “Ugh, god. You never crack a window down here?” Pollen called.

Hyde was already out of sight, somewhere down there. “No windows.”

Pollen’s eyes watered and he could barely see anything in the yellow glow of the overhead light. Hyde was near the far wall, and Pollen urgently scanned the bare room for the monster. With a shock he realized it must be the figure at Hyde’s feet, curled under a blanket.

With the clink of chains, the thing suddenly shifted and let out a whimper and Pollen’s heart leapt into his throat.

Hyde kneeled down next to it and Pollen braced himself for it to leap up and rip open Hyde’s face.

But instead Hyde lifted it clean off the floor and held it up. Its blanket fell away and it was naked, so thin that it looked like its every bone was visible through its grey skin, making it all the more inhuman. It looked like an eerily accurate mannequin, utterly plastic and lifeless, yet still detailed in its rendering. The chain that dropped down from its neck looked heavier than its body. The thing remained limp in Hyde’s arms, its head drooped down to its chest, its bound wrists hung loosely. Its mop of black hair covered the top half of its face and the bottom was obscured with a muzzle. Its legs dangled a full foot off the ground. There was no way it was full grown, Pollen realized.

It did not paint an intimidating picture. But Pollen still flinched when it growled suddenly.

Hyde didn’t seem to register the sound at all, even though he was holding it against his body. He switched to holding it up with one arm. “Look at its eyes.” With the other hand he moved its matted hair out of the way and pulled up one of its eyelids. The iris was a deep, almost golden, yellow. “Such a pretty color.”

The vampire’s eye seemed to fix on Pollen, its pupil growing small in an instant. Pollen turned away, finding himself overwhelmed. Those eyes. Just like—

“Want to touch it?” Hyde said, almost reverently.

“No,” Pollen said firmly. “Just stop.”

“Suit yourself.” Hyde dropped the vampire so suddenly that Pollen jerked in surprise as it hit the floor and cried out.

Hyde stepped over the cowering creature and with a gleam in his eyes. “See? Didn’t I tell you?”

Pollen stepped back, momentarily forgetting the vampire, but nonetheless terrified. Hyde was alive now, glowing with excitement. At any moment his energy could be redirected by a swift turn of anger into a quick bone cracking punch or the instant unsheathing of his knife. In this basement, Hyde could get away with anything, Pollen thought.

But Hyde was in good spirits, seemingly assured that his presentation had been thoroughly convincing. So he was now onto logistics, “The freezer upstairs is filled with cow blood. Give the vamp a block every day or so. That’ll keep it alive but it won’t get strong enough to give you trouble. You can always lower the portion if it’s getting too energetic.”

Pollen’s head was still spinning from the slow realization of what he’d gotten backed into doing. “And what, take off its muzzle? What if it bites me?”

Hyde grinned with chaotic glee. “I took out its fangs! And the rest of the front ones too.”

Pollen unconsciously raised his hand to cover his mouth.

Hyde continued. “Still gotta be wary of the things growing back of course. You can use the pitchfork to pin it down, but trust me, it doesn’t move around much anyway. It’s pretty easy.”

Pollen tried to relax his clenched mouth. “Right. Cow blood. Got it.”

Hyde tapped his chin. “Other than that, I just dump a bucket of water or two every few days, to wash down the piss an everything to the drain there.”

Literally mopping shit. Unbelievable that Hyde would take him for granted like this, Pollen sulked. “I hate you. You’re a bad friend.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” Hyde said tenderly. He reached for Pollen’s hand and teasingly wrapped his index finger around Pollen’s pinkie. With the other hand he gave Pollen’s butt a little squeeze. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Ridiculous. Did Hyde think he was so good that sex would make up for this?, Pollen wondered. Pollen wasn’t that desperate.

And now Pollen was insulted. “Hey. I never say I’d do it. Chained up or not, toothless or whatever, I’m not going to be able to sleep knowing there’s a vampire under me. That’s a risk you’re willing to live with. But not me. What if it gets away and comes upstairs to kill me?”

Hyde sighed. “You really think that thing is any threat to you? Be serious.”

“Yes!” Pollen insisted.

Hyde’s eyes narrowed and he smirked coldly. “So sad. But I get it. Can’t be too careful with vamps. They killed your folks right?”

Pollen already knew Hyde wasn’t just giving up. But Pollen didn’t know how to stop him. How to not walk into the trap. So Pollen yielded, “Yes. And my siblings. I had two sisters.”

“That’s too bad...” Hyde turned to the vampire that had somehow managed to silently twist most of itself back under the blanket. “Hey, Goldie. Mr. Pollen doesn’t trust you…”

Hyde walked purposefully toward a metal baseball bat that Pollen hadn’t noticed before. Pollen didn’t think he imagined the dark staining on it.

Hyde glanced over, trying to catch Pollen’s gaze. “…What can we do about that?”

Pollen felt very cold in his stomach, remembering Hyde’s promise to kill it if Pollen thought it was dangerous. “Hey, come on Hyde. Hyde! Don’t do that,” Pollen said, but he wasn’t sure. The vampire couldn’t be released back to the outside to terrorize people, they both knew that.

The vampire too, must’ve sensed the lurch toward danger, because it broke out of its stupor. As Hyde loomed over it, it struggled and whined, tried to scrabble against the concrete, pull itself away. But Hyde firmly stepped down on a part of it, pinning it.

“Stop! No!” Pollen shouted, but Hyde raised the tool above his head—

Pollen turned away and covered his ears to block the piercing cry of the creature. With every new breath it screamed into its muzzle and seemed to choke on its own voice before screaming again. Pollen panted in horror, unable to look up.

“One broken leg,” Hyde reported, loudly, over the thing’s cries. “Or if we’re really being more exact, it’s probably shattered from the knee down. Still think vampy can get away?”

Pollen shook his head. “Hyde. I can’t…”

“What do you think, Goldie? Can you still crawl up the stairs and kill Mr. Pollen?” Hyde addressed it with a tone that approached tenderness. But he still held that bat, weighing it in his hand. Pollen realized Hyde never intended to kill it.

Pollen wished he could jump up and snatch away the bat. But his body wouldn’t move. “Hyde. Hyde, please stop. Just stop.”

Hyde looked right at Pollen with dark eyes as he raised the bat again. “Sorry, Goldie. One leg to go.”

Pollen finally unfroze and raced up the stairs two at a time, tripped once, bashing his chin into a stair, but it didn’t slow him down until he was back in the kitchen. He felt dizzy so he sank to the floor and clapped his hands over his ears as the creature wailed.

The stairs creaked as Hyde climbed them. He softly closed the basement door, muting the sounds of pain.

The ringing finally subsided in Pollen’s head. “Why the fuck did you do that?” Pollen demanded.

“You know I’m the last person on earth who’d underestimate a vampire. I wouldn’t leave you in a situation where you could get hurt,” Hyde said sweetly.

You knew it’d make me guilty, Pollen thought. To get back at me for resisting you, right? But Pollen said nothing, and took the hand Hyde offered.

Hyde pulled Pollen to his feet. “I know it’s scary. Especially for you. But you can do this.”

Pollen rested his head on Hyde’s shoulder, pretending that this Hyde, the soft one, couldn’t switch back if he was hugging Pollen. The broken moans of the thing could still be heard through the door. This whole exercise seemed so cruel now, so unnecessary. Pollen mumbled into Hyde’s shirt. “Why can’t you just kill it?”

Hyde wrapped his arms around Pollen. “This is a rare opportunity. I’ll take it around to fairs and things, earn a little cash showing people something they’ve never seen before. It’ll be something to do between my hunting trips. Maybe I can even travel less, if the money’s good… I’m not getting younger, you know?”

The creature’s pitiful sobs echoed in Pollen’s skull. Pollen gripped Hyde’s shirt tighter. “Mhm.”

Hyde approvingly pecked a kiss onto Pollen’s forehead. “Thank you.”

Pollen cursed the fluttery feeling it gave him. He broke out of the hug. “You’re welcome, asshole.”

Hyde began to shuttle around the house, scanning for things he might’ve forgotten to pack. The vampire had gone quiet.

Finally Hyde stood at the door, ready to leave.

Pollen joined him to see him off. “Have a nice trip. Kills lots of vampires for me.”

“That I will.” Hyde gave a salut and marched off.

Pollen closed the door and slumped down to the floor. “Fuck!”

#vampire whump #captivity whump #golden the vamp #whump writing #broken bones #gore #captivity #restraint #it/its pronouns #non-sexual nudity #manhandling #physical abuse #abusive relationship #manipulation #referenced death

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betterbards · 2 years

Text

A summer knight 3/8

read it here on Ao3

----

That stupid bard was going to get the both of them killed. Geralt wasn’t sure how, but he was fairly sure that it was going to be soon.

He watched as Jaskier sasheyed towards the person seated at the corner table.

Calling her a person was generous. The Winter Court members were more closely related to rocks than to humans. Hell, the Winter Court made Geralt look like an average person.

Geralt could clearly see her for what she was. The woman’s eyes were locked on Jaskier, like cat eyeing up a particularly stupid mouse. Her smile was wide and sharp. Looking closer, he could see tendrils of cold pouring off her into the humid air of the packed tavern.

How did Jaskier not notice? Did all of the blood rush from his head? Geralt turned back to the bar, unable to watch the tableau about to unfold.

He hated dealing with the fae, their tricks and their schemes. Every conversation was a mine field where the smallest misstep was likely to result in tragedy. Many with more silver tongues than Geralt had attempted to finesse the Courts. All of them ended the same. Sure, Jaskier was nimble. But in these situations, Geralt found that silence was the only thing that kept him safe.

Geralt wished that all his knowledge was learned second hand from some drunk at the pub, but unfortunately he had many dealings with the fair folk—luckily most of them with the Summer Court.

The Summer court was more concerned with bacchanal than their more conquest minded counterpart. Their leadership passed willingly via mantel. A position must be gifted to a successor. In the winter courts, it was the one with the most power who ruled.

Of course, both Courts had the potential to be deadly.

Many years back Geralt had worked a job to the south. A pair of twins had gone missing on the day of the festival. Normally, there wouldn’t had been any cause to hire a witcher. Children go missing all the time. It was an unfortunate part of living in the country. Sure, you don’t have some lord breathing down your neck, but you also are without his protection. Those greedy nobles have to maintain their workforces.

They found the first twin only a few days later. He was in a clearing, only a short hike into the woods. Original fears of wolves and kidnappers disappeared and left only confusion and heartbreak. According to the hunter who found the boy, the child feet were raw and bloodied while his frame was rendered gaunt. He couldn’t have been dead for more than a few hours, as no animals seemed to scavenge the remains.

The body was taken back to the town. The child was so much thinner than three days without supper would cause. It was eerie, but nothing to cause any further alarm.

From what Geralt had gathered from the posting, the family mourned and the town moved on. They gave up looking for the other child, assuming the worst.

Then, the other twin returned. It was the first new moon following the festival. A traveling merchant found her wandering the road into town, feet bare and dress dirty.

At first everyone had rejoiced, but they soon realized the child was different. Changed. She wouldn’t talk or eat, her tanned skin had paled until the slightest ray of sunlight would cause her to burn. She didn’t speak aside from saying that she was hungry.

The town assumed that she had been turned into some sort of vampire and called a witcher to take care of the problem. No one wants child blood on their hands—even monster children. Though by the time Geralt had arrived, the changeling had had feasted until there was no one left.

He found her cowering from the light in her parent’s basement. It was easy to find the trail of blood left by the small creature. She was a young fae. Much too young to be let out in the mortal realms. Summer changelings were introduced into human households to learn how to be human until they are made aware of their nature and would seek their own kind. In this case, the child’s humanity was ripped from her, leaving only the cold hunger of the Winter Court.

She was so little. Her eyes looked feral, her teeth too wicked for such a small mouth.

It was too weak to put up any fight. The thing had been ripped apart by the Chaos before Geralt had even arrived. Its limbs stretched and twisted, deep gashes marred its skin, its mind flayed by the raw power it had been exposed to.

All in all, it was a terrible job. There were no victors here.

On a normal day, Geralt would kill the monster, collect his payment, and leave. There was, however, no one to collect payment from. There were no half-hearted thanks. There weren’t even any townspeople left to tell him that he outstayed his welcome. Information was his only prize.

Stupidly, he sought out his contact in the Courts. He was young then, and still eager to expand his knowledge of monsters in the night. If he couldn’t get any coin, maybe knowledge about what happened to the town would help him on another job. In general, the fae were thought to be a little more than a myth. He had been warned to not dig to deeply into their existence. To know the fae was to become them. Knowledge of their existence would only lead off The Path.

This contact was probably Geralt closet relation outside Kaer Morhen, though he’d never admit it. Even in his youth, Geralt didn’t have friends. In this way, Lady Fall was a bit of an outlier. Friends were liabilities and Geralt liked to think that he didn’t need them. In truth, he knew that he was too much of an ass to keep anyone around for a long enough time.

Someone had taken a contract out on the Lady in Geralt’s very early days. She took pity on the young witcher and, rather than killing him, decided to aide him on his Path. She would often remark that ‘Their fates were entwined’ and there was little Geralt could do to avoid her for long.

No one would make the mistake of calling them friends, but Geralt always enjoyed his time with the creature. She was beautiful, brilliant, and tight lipped. Apparently learning from her time as a member of the Winter Court, though now she would consider herself a free agent.

That day, Fall agreed to share what she knew. Apparently, this town had agreed to ritual sacrifice during a dark and ancient part of their history. Every 27 years, two children would be taken, one for Winter and one for Summer. This cycle, the Winter Court returned their gift. The child was without talent and there was no hope for her to ever channel the chaos and to become a true fae of the Winter Court. An ungifted sacrifice was, apparently, enough to spur Winter’s ire.

It wasn’t very helpful information. Geralt had been ready to curse her out for letting this happen. Fall was indifferent to human suffering, but she had always found random acts of violence distasteful. But the look on her face stopped him.

Even all these years later, Geralt can still see her intense gaze. Eyes wide with recognition and cold with pity. It was like she had pieced something together, but wasn’t willing to share with the class. She only offered one thing before she left. His involvement in the case, followed by their contact had stirred the attention of the Courts. Attention that would surely lead to his undoing.

Geralt had spent the next 60 years avoiding the Fair Folk’s request for an audience with varying success.

Now, here he is--sitting in a bar where his bard is falling head over heels for one of those beings of untold power and evil.

He stared into his empty mug, willing it to be full.

He certainly wasn’t brooding.

“Sir, are going planning on covering your friends tab?” A loud voice shook him from his memories.

Geralt looked up and squinted at the barkeep, “He’s an adult, he can buy his own drinks.”

The bartended raised his hands in a display of peace. “I’m sure he can, but he just left with his date without paying and they racked up quite the bill.”

Geralt stood up. His stool screeched, protesting the sudden movement. He whipped head around to the corner to find it empty.

“Where did they go?” Geralt turned back to the man, standing at his full height.

“I didn’t see!” He looked around for someone to help him, but all other patrons were suddenly very invested in their drinks. “They didn’t pay for a room, I think they went outside.” The barkeep managed to stammer out.

Stupid. Geralt brought a hand to his medallion. When did the thing stop singing, and why didn’t he notice? This is what happened when he let his guard down. He threw some gold on the bar and grabbed his pack from the ground.

The outside air was cool compared to the stuffy tavern. Night had completely fallen and a wide swath of open forest and empty town lay before him. Even his eyesight couldn’t see the bard in the distance.

"Fuck”, He cursed to himself. He was running out of time. Grabbing Roach from the stables was out of the question. She had been brushed and the tack had been put away, he would lose too much time getting her ready.

Geralt forced himself to take a breath. He needed to calm down. Rash movements wouldn’t help Jaskier. He felt a begrudging calm wash over him as he slowed his thinking and listened. nd then he heard it. It was faint, nothing more than a few notes carried by a gentle breeze. Someone in the woods was playing a lute.

eralt bolted towards the forest. Those feyhounds didn’t spring up out of thin air. They must have been scouting for their master, which meant there was a door somewhere close. What the fae wanted with Jaskier was anyone guess. Geralt pushed away thoughts of the bard striking deals left and right with beautiful charming fae.

Any attempt at stealth was forsaken for speed. The trees rose up around him, blocking out the light from the moon. Roots and vines grasped at his ankles as he attempted to retrace their path from earlier. The lute playing growing louder, the melody clearer.

“My, my. If you weren’t so beautiful, I would think you are out here to murder me.” Geralt could hear Jaskier voice. Though meant as a joke, Geralt could make out a terrible edge to the words. Geralt couldn’t see them but the voices were easy to pick out. Geralt noticed that the forest was deathly silent. There were no birds or wind to masks his footsteps. There was no way the Winter Fae hadn’t noticed him.

“Oh little bird, why must you conflate my beauty with good intentions?” She chided. Her tone clipped like a disapproving mother. “Beauty is a tool, nothing more. Now come along, quickly. I grow tired of this realm.”

Shit. Geralt was so close, only a few hundred meters away. He could make it.

“Ah. No, that’s quite alright. I think I would rather stay here--”

Jaskier was cut off.

Geralt felt a frigid wind rip through the air and his medallion screamed against his chest. He kept running, kept pushing through the cold burst. Geralt raised an arm to protect from ice and sleet now relentlessly cutting into his face.

Then it stopped. The blizzard was replaced by the stagnant summer night air. Geralt didn’t stop running and in a few short moments he burst into the clearing.

The bodies of the feyhounds were gone, but he knew it was the same. He looked around wildly. The summer stillness now mocking. There was no sound of voices, no twigs snapping, no rustlings from the underbrush. There was only silence and Geralt knew he was truly alone.

He stood there for a long while. Jaskier was gone and it was Geralt’s fault. The bard was another human life on his hands. If he hadn’t been so jealous and petty, Jaskier would still be here. They would be sweating in the tavern, Jaskier still on his lap flirting like there was no tomorrow.

Time passed slowly. Gradually the forest came alive. It was like all creatures were holding their breath until it was safe from Winter.

Eventually, the dark of the clearing was cleaved by a pale sliver of moonlight. A circle of mushroom sat innocuously at the center. He knew it was the door. Geralt himself had been through his fair share. A closed fairy ring was useless without a fae to open it and who know where Jaskier had been taken. Time moves differently in the Courts, he could be across the plane by now. But it did give him an idea.

A dumb one to be sure, but it was something.

Geralt dug through his pack and grabbed a small white flower. It had been attached to an invitation from the Summer Court and no matter how he tried, he could never seem to get rid of it.

He grabbed it triumphantly. After all this time, it still looked like it had plucked this morning. The sap stuck to his fingers as he crushed the delicate petals.

“I request an audience with the Summer Court!” He yelled as he squeezed the flower in his palm.

For a second, nothing happened. Geralt was left alone, stupidly grasping a flower like a child. His stomach dropped, realizing that it didn’t work.

“Oh well, didn’t I say ‘Attention would lead to your undoing’?” A sarcastic voice sang out from the darkness.

“Yennifer?”

A beautiful fae stepped into the moonlight. Her raven dark hair somehow blacker than the forest behind her. The violet of her eyes glowed eerily making it clear that Geralt had this predator’s full attention.

“Ouch, real names I see.” She scrunched her face in distaste. “Is that how you greet an old friend after, what, 50 years? I have to say that you look incredible for a man pushing 100. Are you sure you aren’t Fae?”

Geralt ignored her. “I need an audience with Her Majesty the Lioness. It is urgent”

Yennifer rolled her eyes and walked over to a stump to take a seat. She smoothed out her dress making her non-urgency extremely clear. “And you will get an audience. Now, you have kept her waiting for the better part of a century, it seems only fair that you wait the same time.”

“Yen, please. The Winter court took Jaskier.”

“Who?” She examined her nails.

“The,” He paused trying to find the words, “…Bard I travel with.”

She snorted, “That’s rich. The mighty White Wolf is going to give up his freedom for some bard he was traveling with?”

“Please. I can’t lose him.”

Lady Fall waved her had as if to blow away a bad odor. “Ugh I’m such a sucker. Fine, currently I’m in residence at the Summer Court. Her Majesty sent me here in good faith since she knows of our past. I’m sure I can smooth things over with her.” She stood up from her stump and moved over to the fairy circle.

“I thought you didn’t belong to any Court?”

“I don’t.” Yen continued inspecting the toadstools until she found what she was looking for. “But the Winter Queen has been interested in getting me back ‘into the fold’. The last few decades have been difficult and I decided to try my luck making friends with the Lioness.” Her tone was measured as she found words which toed the line of truth and lies. “So far Tissaia has turned her attentions away from me for the time being. Here we go.”

Yen tapped one the mushrooms and the crackle of her magic filled the clearing. It smelled of fallen leaves and the promise of dark nights ahead. The space between the mushrooms filled with a crisscross of knot work that glowed the same color as Yen’s eyes.

She motioned for Geralt to step into the circle, “Age before beauty.”

He started walking, suppressing his instinct screaming at him to turn around and leave well enough alone.

“Oh wait, before we go,” Fall raised a finger at Geralt, “You owe me one.” The words had a different tone. They wrapped around Geralt’s mind.”

“I know.” He relented, “Though, I have a feeling that there will be a queue.”

He stepped into the portal.

#Witcher #netflix witcher #fae #Jaskier #Geralt #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #fanfiction

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tryingmybestpls · 4 years

Text

off the table

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Reader

Summary: Din and the reader enjoy a moment of softness together.

Word Count: 1k (just a sweet little Drabble)

Rating: T

Warnings: Sweetness, some angst, din deserves nice things

A/N: look this is probably bad but I just wanted to write also thank you so much for 200 followers I love you all

Din watches from the cot as Y/N kicks off her shoes and socks. Her exhaustion was clearly written all over her face, her movements a lot slower than usual. He'd offer to help her, but last time he did Y/N went into a whole tirade about how her condition didn't render her useless and incompetent. He knew that. Y/N was the smartest person he knows, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to help her out and make sure she was okay.

The Mandalorian stays silent was he watches her from his spot. This is his favorite part, when his riduur strips herself of her thicker outer layers and leaves herself in just her shirt and under clothes. It’s not the lack of clothing that he enjoys (well he does, but that’s not the focal point). It's when her growing bump is finally on display.

Y/N was still early enough that they could keep the fact that she was with child a secret just with certain pieces of clothing. His riduur was worried about somehow jinxing her pregnancy by telling people too soon. She was still early and so many things can go wrong, especially in their way of life Din understood completely and while he watched her even more closely, he didn't do anything that might give up their secret.

"How are you feeling, cyar'ika?" He asks, looking up at Y/N as she walks toward him. She gives him a small sweet smile, one that makes his heart race like he's a teenager. Her hand moves to cup Din's stubble covered cheek as she stands in between his legs. His bare hands move to rest on her waist, wanting her as close as possible. He’s just as bare as she is, his helmet, gloves, and armor heaving been removed as soon as they got into the room.

"Tired. I feel like they're draining me." Y/N replies, her thumb brushing against his cheekbone. Her touches are soft, much softer than he feels like he deserves. Din leans into her touch as pulling her a little closer so her legs are flush against the cot. He's right at eye level with her stomach.

"Ik'aad, you have to take it easy on your mother." Din murmurs softly as her hand slips from his face into his hair. He slowly lifts up her shirt, exposing her stomach to him. Din tries to talk to the unborn child every night, wanting his child to know his voice.

They had found out she was carrying after Luke Skywalker had taken Grogu. Y/N and Din finally got a chance to catch their breaths, which had included visiting the medic on Nevarro. The news had raised their spirits slightly, which was needed after the small green child they considered their adopted son left.

"I wish we can go visit Grogu before they're born, tell him that he's going to be a big brother." Y/N says quietly as her fingers run through his hair. Din looks up at her, his heart swelling in his chest. There's something about her loving Grogu as much as he does that makes Din love Y/N even more.

"Maybe we can. He'd be excited. My aliit all together." Din responds, leaning forward to press his lips against her skin. Y/N smiles down at him as she smoothes out his unruly curls. She would never dare tell anyone else in this Galaxy how sweet her big bad Mandalorian was to her, Grogu, and the baby.

The Mandalorian watches as she sinks down to sit in his lap, her arms moving to wrap around his neck loosely. Y/N rests his forehead against his, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Din’s arms wrap around her, holding her against him just in case she might slip through his fingers. He lets his own eyes shut as they just sit there together. It’s something they’ve been doing more and more. Din needs it, needs to know that she’s with him, that she’s actually with him and all this is happening.

The Galaxy is a cruel, cruel place. It’s constantly ripping families apart, making partners into widows, children into orphans. Din has already had so many things ripped away from him-his parents, his people, his ship, his home, his son-and he doesn’t know if he can handle anymore loss. The bounty hunter is constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, because all of this happiness that he is experiencing, this family that he has-he knows that it can be gone within an instant.

Y/N wasn’t any better. She lived in fear that one day her bounty hunter wasn’t going to return to her or that Grogu would be taken from them again. The child growing inside of her only worsened her fears, because that meant there was one more person to worry about, to be afraid of losing. They needed each other, especially since Grogu was away. Without their small green adorable menace, everything fell far too quiet and lonely, which made it incredibly easy for those worries and fears to settle in. Everything was becoming almost unbearable and Din doesn’t understand what he would do if something happened to his aliit again. To his son, to his unborn child, to Y/N-

Her hand reaches up again, cupping his cheek as if she knew exactly what he is thinking about. Y/N is right here with him. She’s here in his arms, their skin was pressed against each other, holding onto to one another. If he opened his eyes, Din would see her. Grogu was okay. He was completely safe with the Jedi. For once, everything was at ease in Din’s little corner of this vast galaxy and he was able to just sit here with his riduur in his lap, not having to worry about who might be coming after him.

And one day, they’d all be reunited again. His clan of two now a clan of four. And he can’t wait until that day arrives.

#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x r #the mandalorian #star wars #din djarin #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal

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meaningofmischief · 3 years

Text

Evil, Lying Scourge

Set immediately after the battle in the Timekeepers’ chamber. Loki and Renslayer go toe-to-toe as Loki creates the ultimately confronting conditions to force the truth of Sylvie’s Nexus Event from Renslayer.

The truth is devastating - can Loki and Sylvie survive it?

Loki and Sylvie were traumatized - that was near the only way to put it.

Hours ago they had resigned themselves to die together on an exploding moon.

They had been forcibly yanked into the clutches of the TVA at the last possible minute, restrained, separated, each subject to individual psychological tortures as all their remaining tatters of stability and freedom and friendship were ripped away from them one by one. Both prepared to meet their ends together again, and now even their impossible escape was ice cold comfort as they both examined in horror the head of the mindless android they had taken to be one of the three all-powerful Timekeepers.

Not to mention the barely suppressed passion each felt for the other that roiled away like a wildfire between them - burning both the longer it went unacknowledged.

‘Then who,’ Loki’s voice broke for stress, ‘created the TVA?’. Sylvie felt choked by a sudden rage. Hurling the head of the android viciously across the floor of the chamber, she spat: ‘I thought this was it.’ They both had, of course.

A low moan startled them and they whipped around, mirrors of defense for the next attack, but the despised Ravonna Renslayer still lay passed out cold from the hefty blow Sylvie had dealt her not a minute before.

B-15, the undisputed saviour of the pair of them, had finally regained consciousness after the massive strike to the head she had received at the hands of one of the Timekeepers’ specialist defense team. They had not treated her mercifully while she was down either, delivering unnecessarily cruel, wounding kicks to the woman they saw as the traitor in their midst.

Sylvie reacted as if by instinct and rushed straight to B-15’s side, running practiced hands down the Hunter’s limbs to assess for fractures or broken bones. Loki could only marvel - for all her uncompromising toughness, Sylvie’s unconscious impulse was to compassion, a quality that he found at times miserably difficult to access, which frustrated him to no end, especially when he considered how yet more painful Sylvie’s past had been to his own.

‘Nothing broken.’ Sylvie’s soft reassurance to B-15 snapped Loki out of his reverie. ‘But those arseholes didn’t go easy on you by any means. Do you think you can walk?’ There was a flash of fire in the resilient Hunter’s eyes and she opened her mouth to deliver a stinging retort before Sylvie broke out into a warm smile and there was a brief moment of kinship between these two fearsome warriors.

‘Still,’ continued Sylvie bluntly, ‘I’m not having you risk your life to save us only to pass out in one of these obscure corridors where no-one’ll find you for the next week. I’m gonna see you to the infirmary and you can’t stop me.’ She was busy helping B-15 struggle painfully to her feet when Loki murmured, gravelly, ‘Sylvie. Is that wise?’

Sylvie glowered. Whatever difficult feelings she had for this man, he was not about to tell her what to do. Luckily B-15 interceded, voice tight with pain, but determined nonetheless: ‘I know how we can do this. Variant -’, she checked herself, ‘L-Loki. Take out Ravonna’s Tempad from her jacket.’

Loki’s skin crawled but he nevertheless did as she commanded, crouching down to where Ravonna still lay knocked out, reaching inside her jacket to retrieve the rectangular Tempad, surprisingly heavy in his palm. He handed it uncertainly to B-15 who snapped it open and began pressing buttons with a confident ease that seemed to indicate she knew exactly what she was doing. ‘There,’ she said smugly after 30 seconds or so, ‘the warrant for my capture has been deleted. And don’t worry,’ her gaze flitted over to Loki and in that brief glance Loki knew that B-15 had perceptively ascertained the depth of his attachment to Sylvie, ‘nothing is going to happen to that Variant on my watch. The store cupboard for this unit is right next to the infirmary, so we’ll get her a uniform to act as a disguise on the way back.’ B-15’s eyes narrowed, and Loki knew she was fighting hard what must be a tremendous amount of pain. She handed the Tempad back to Loki and he felt incredibly humbled by the action. Sylvie helped her very gently to the elevator door. ‘Promise me,’ B-15 whispered through gritted teeth as she turned to face Loki one last time, ‘that you’ll bring this place to the ground.’ Loki nodded once, slow and solemn - forcing himself to believe that such a thing was possible when so much lay still unknown. He and Sylvie locked gazes, and Loki longed to cross to the elevator doors in a handful of strides, hold her so close to him, take her face in his hands… Stop. He forced himself to focus right now, for all of their sakes. He only held her gaze as the elevator doors closed, and then they were gone.

Loki exhaled, and it came out mostly as a sob. He closed his eyes to withhold the tears which he felt welling in their sea-green depths. He had held himself together all this while for Sylvie, but now, standing alone in the cold, misty chamber - he felt assaulted by uncertainty and fear. And sorrow. He so wished for Mobius, for his friend, who was always so grounded and strong - a master of strategy. Loki’s gift for style and verbal artistry were rendered useless in a situation such as this and he felt utterly incompetent and broken.

‘You can be whatever - whoever - you wanna be. Even someone good. I mean just in case anyone ever told you different.’

Loki’s eyes snapped open, shining with salt water and yet never so determined as now.

No.

He had the ability to stand up and make his own choices, and that started now. Not his first act of defiance against whatever cruel authority had created this suffocating institution of control, and certainly not his last.

He knew what he needed to do, and he needed to do it for Sylvie - while he had this rapidly diminishing window and before they set about trying to achieve the impossible in burning this place to the ground.

And before he told her that he loved her.

Loki stooped and grimly retrieved his Time Collar where it lay on the floor after B-15 had freed him of it. He was going to need it, unfortunately. He opened the Tempad and after a short while as he got to grips with its functions, a Time Door with a subtle magenta sheen opened up next to him.

Panicked breathing behind him.

Good, she was awake.

Loki wasted no time, seizing Renslayer none too gently by the lapel of her jacket. She foggily tried to resist him, but before her blurry vision had even cleared, she felt the Time Collar wrap constrictingly around her neck, felt Loki haul her to her feet and unceremoniously push her through the Time Door ahead of him.

The Asgardian bedchamber was light and airy and warm - a stark contrast to the cool, damp darkness of the place they had emerged from. Loki looked around briefly, instantly wistful, recognising the arch of the ceiling, the pristine white marble floor, even smelling the heady summer scents of his old home. It made his heart ache even more - if that was possible at this stage. He was quickly distracted, however, by Ravonna’s wild sprint away from his side. She had regained her full mental capacity now, but was seized by terror at the situation - at the mercy of the Variant and whatever tortures he could concuct for her.

Loki fiercely loathed to play the jailor - even to someone as worthy of harsh treatment as Renslayer - but he needed her attention. He turned the dial of the Time Twister and in an instant Renslayer was back at his side. Though the logical part of Ravonna’s brain knew it was fruitless, she tried to break away from him several more times, just as Loki had tried upon his capture. Eventually Loki seized her by the arm and made her turn to look at the scene before them.

Throughout the chaos the little girl seated on the floor had payed them no heed. Not that she could. This was what the TVA quaintly referred to as an ‘Observant Loop Cell’ - of course obnoxiously abbreviated to OLC. An OLC was designed not to punish prisoners into submission but rather to force them to reflect on situations they had experienced - made to watch those situations over and over and unable to help, hinder or manipulate any of the figures within it.

Loki himself had had no idea what to expect when he had found Variant L1129’s file on Renslayer’s Tempad, and created an OLC of the Variant’s apprehension. He had briefly had a vision of the young, out-of-control Goddess of Mischief, terrorizing Asgard - effecting pain and suffering, destruction and death so devastating that there was no choice but to send up a smoke flare, a Nexus Event. It did not fit in the slightest with what he perceived of Sylvie’s true character, but he could think of no other reasonable explanation. He did certainly not expect this angelic child, playing as any child would, with her toys. Loki felt a pang of unhappiness as he remembered his own childhood days, he never could play nicely. It was all borne of resentment and jealousy: Father would always ensure Thor had the most luxurious selection of toys, and he was anyway keen that both of his sons stopped messing around with playthings as early as possible and go out for battle training with the young sons of Asgardian nobility instead. Where Thor thrived in the competitive, loud environment of the training ground, Loki shrank into himself. Self-conscious, anxious, lacking the warrior’s bulk that all the other boys seemed to possess, the young prince found himself more often than not in a corner with a few books and some of the toys his father scorned - to make up his own stories in his own time. The other boys mocked him endlessly, tore pages out of the books, stole the miniature figurines of Valkyrie and other great warriors. Loki had eventually learned to be as harsh and cruel as they - only his power to hurt came from his intelligence rather than brawn.

This little girl was anything but harsh and cruel, hurt and isolated. Yes, she was alone, but she seemed to relish that independence - making her own stories up in her own time. ‘Dragon swoops towards the palace, but Valkyrie flies over, defeats the dragon and saves Asgard!’ she crowed, face alit at the conclusion of what had evidently been an epic story. Loki couldn’t suppress a small smile, though he knew that any moment there must be some great catastrophe which would set off the Nexus Event. Ravonna seemed to have frozen at his side - both were caught up in their individual perception of the events unfolding before their eyes.

When the golden Time Door opened mere seconds later, Loki gasped in disbelief, gaze flitting around the room and then back to Sylvie as he tried to ascertain what could have caused the Nexus and finding no evidence at all. Ravonna stiffened next to him as they both saw none other than Ravonna Renslayer - or more precisely Hunter A-20 - in clear command of the two Minutemen flanking her, hold out her Tempad before her and certify in a cold, triumphant voice: ‘There’s our variant.’ Sylvie’s eyes were huge and frightened as Renslayer continued without pause: ‘On the authority of the Timekeepers, I hereby arrest you for crimes against the sacred timeline’, as though she were addressing some notorious criminal and not a terrified little girl.

‘Where’s the Nexus?!’ Loki thought, increasingly desperate and distressed as the OLC Renslayer seized Sylvie by her skinny arm and wrenched her towards the Time Door. It all happened very quickly then. The Minutemen set their Reset Charge which immediately began its task of disintegrating Sylvie’s possessions - anything and everything that indicated that she had ever been in this room. Sylvie screamed, high-pitched, shaking in Renslayer’s grasp: ‘Wait!!!’. Loki resisted the urge to run to her aid, knowing it would be completely useless. Then Sylvie and Renslayer gone, followed by the Minutemen, the Time Door snapped shut and Loki and his Renslayer stood facing one another in a deafening silence in the handful of seconds of respite prisoners would receive before the loop started again.

Tears were clouding Loki’s vision, but he blinked them away angrily. ‘Why?’ was the only thing he said - in a voice several octaves below his usual speaking voice. Renslayer shook her head and pressed her lips together, though her chest heaved at the fraught situation. Loki growled softly and resisted the urge to hurt her - to make her talk.

No.

That was what he would have done in the past, he would not descend to such base measures now.

He didn’t need to, the loop was already starting again. Loki felt as though his heart would fairly break in two as he watched the young Sylvie skip into her bedroom, arms full of her toys, setting them out, beginning to play. ‘You’re going,’ he spat at Renslayer ‘to stand here with me and watch this as many times as it takes for you to tell me what the Nexus event was that made you rip an innocent young girl’s life away from her and force her on the run for her entire life. I don’t care how long it takes. You’re going to tell me.’

In reality that wasn’t exactly true - Sylvie and B-15 had almost certainly reached the infirmary by now and if Sylvie made it back to the Timekeepers’ chamber to find it empty, to think that she had been abandoned by her one companion (and perhaps more than that) in the universe… It nearly had Loki sending them both back to the TVA instantly. But Renslayer was breaking already, he could see it, as he forced her to watch the abject cruelty, cruelty at her hands, again and again. By the third viewing, Renslayer’s eyes brimmed with tears and Loki would gladly have wept openly. By the fifth, she started to hyperventilate, made to move away. Loki turned the Time Twister’s dial and she was jarred back into place. On the sixth viewing, just as the OLC Renslayer was about to seize Sylvie, she abruptly screamed: ‘Enough! I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you.’

Both breathed out in relief, when Loki pressed the button on the Tempad that cut the loop and everyone in the scene disintegrated immediately. He turned to face her and forced out between his teeth: ‘Do not try to lie to the God of Mischief. You have no idea how acutely I am attuned to falsehoods. You will tell me in every horrifying detail about this Nexus Event, or I will leave you in this Time Cell and bury this Tempad in the deepest crevice of the TVA where no one will ever, ever find it. Now TELL ME.’

Renslayer took a deep breath to steady herself, closed her eyes and spoke with a surprisingly steady voice: ‘The Variant was deviating from her role on the Sacred Timeline.’ Loki snarled: ‘Obviously! What was the deviation?’. Renslayer opened her eyes and locked her chocolate brown eyes with his green ones. ‘A Loki,’ she said, slowly, as though choosing her words carefully, ‘does not get to travel the kind of path that that Variant was on.’ Loki rushed to intercede, but Renslayer narrowed her eyes, warning him not to interrupt her.

‘It was a mistake that she ever got as far as she did. Our technology advances every day - it’s now so accurate that we can nip burgeoning Nexus events like this one in the bud.’ Loki was amazed that she could speak in such clinical terms about the organisation that had only very recently been revealed to have three mindless robots as its figureheads. But Renslayer’s voice ran with conviction which only strengthened as she continued: ‘Lokis are so very tricky. It’s an incredible rarity that any being is allowed so much leeway as they have been, and we have all had to suffer the consequences of that. You see, due to your natures as shapeshifters, this Variant being born the Goddess rather than the God of Mischief was no cause for a Nexus flare. But of course in the archaic society that you are raised in, the ridiculous difference in gender is of massive significance. Recall that only male heirs are permitted to succeed the throne of Asgard. In your case, informing you of your adoption would have caused colossal problems for King Odin - that would have had ramifications across Asgard, not to mention potential rebellion from you yourself. Odin was under no illusions of how much more intelligent you were than his legitimate son, and how that would have fused with the arrogance of princehood to create the ultimate cuckoo within the sparrow’s nest - an utterly unacceptable scenario. Far better to keep that knowledge from you, even if it did mean that you grew up confused and resentful - emotions Odin could easily ignore. Far better to have you treated as the bastard son, who he would insidiously try to manipulate to his own ideals, who might possibly one, highly unlikely day, be fit for the throne should Thor be killed in battle before his heir was old enough to succeed the throne.’

‘Of course, for a girl, Odin had no such concerns. He took the child from Jotunheim out of some scrap of pity, and because she could prove useful in negotiating with the Jotuns at a later date. A princess had no chance of succeeding the throne, not to mention an illegitimate one, who would likely be married off to some lowborn noble as soon as she had come of age. So Odin told the Variant of her adoption. And somehow, ludicrously, that knowledge failed to break the Variant, it only made her stronger. She took pride in her differences from her family and the rest of Asgard, her inclination to independence rather than company, her delight of mischief. Where she should have been enraged, embittered and vengeful, she was courageous, compassionate and creative.’

‘Excuse me,’ Loki hissed, interrupting Renslayer’s monologue, ‘where she SHOULD have been?’. Despite the fact that she had found herself at his mercy, Renslayer sneered at him. ‘Of course-’ she continued, seeming to try to gain the upper hand over him with the knowledge she was revealing, ‘a Loki is an evil, lying scourge, like you. Where would be the heroes of the Timeline without the villains? That Variant had a role to play, same as you, same as all of us, and she went off the path. Whoever heard of a heroic Goddess of Mischief?’. Ravonna’s voice cracked slightly on the last sentence as she bore witness to Loki’s murderous expression. ‘So what you’re saying,’ he replied with devastating calm ‘is that Sylvie lost her home, her family, her life, because she would one day grow up to be kind and just, to be her own person? Oh, no one is truly good or truly bad, but the TVA decrees that not to be so.’ His voice grew more intense and Renslayer shrank before him. ‘Because whatever devil puppetmaster is controlling the TVA, they like to have their play made interesting - with villains to cause destruction and heroes to save the day?’. Renslayer was at a loss for words, but Loki had heard enough. He pressed a button on the Time Twister he held and Ravonna sank ungraciously to the floor, unconscious once more. One of the functions the delightful Twister could enact was to reverse the prisoner’s physiological state - mainly meant for various exotic creatures the TVA brought in, that could effect all sorts of trouble as a result of their innate biology, but in this case merely necessary to give Loki a moment to take in what he had just experienced. He couldn’t quite do it.

Only concern for Sylvie forced Loki to action, and he opened up the door back to the Timekeepers’ chamber using the Tempad, dragging the unconscious Ravonna back through with him. Despite what he had said, he would never consign anyone to spend their life trapped in one of the hideous Time Cells. He removed her Time Collar too, and flung it to a far corner of the chamber, repulsed that it had had to come to him using one of the TVA’s disgusting methods of control to get the information he needed.

His thoughts left Renslayer entirely behind as the elevator doors opened and Sylvie emerged not a moment too soon, yanking off the breastplate and trousers of the TVA Minutemen she had worn as a disguise over her usual black top and trousers. Now that Sylvie’s purpose had been achieved, she too seemed utterly spent as she staggered over to where Loki stood staring at her. Both failed to speak for several moments and then Loki rasped, with a voice that sounded unused for days, ‘Sylvie. Sylvie, I need to tell you something.’

Sylvie’s deep blue eyes widened, her heart began to pound like a wild drum in her chest. ‘What?’ she could only say as Loki struggled to find the words for what he had just learned.

When it was over, they both started to cry.

Loki and Sylvie had never been ones for excessive, histrionic displays of emotion. They had had to armour themselves in toughness and charm and mischief and wit all their lives despite the turbulence that roared inside of them.

And now here the both of them stood, silent but for the ragged intake of breath as they struggled to bring themselves under some semblance of control.

Eventually they stopped. Each observed the other’s tear-streaked face.

‘Sylvie...’ Loki said again. The word seemed to ground him and her at the same time.

‘Not another pep talk please.’ Sylvie uttered with a weak attempt at humour, that fell flat instantly with the sheer desperation in her tone.

‘No. I have to tell you something else.’

Sylvie wasn’t sure that she could handle anything else.

Loki stepped closer to her, and avoided her gaze, his breathing picking up again.

Sylvie felt herself instinctively mirroring him, and forced herself to focus.

Loki looked her in the eyes.

‘We will figure this out.’

It really was too much.

‘How do you know that?’ How was there any certainty about anything anymore?

‘Because, uh -’ Loki’s near-gasping for air cut him off and he twisted his sweaty hands together.

‘Well, back on Lamentis…’ It was all too impossible to explain. Loki gestured helplessly, trying to find the beginnings of some clever story that had never failed to come to him with infinite ease before and now completely failed him.

He gave up. His arms dropped to his sides.

‘This is new for me. Um -’ Loki’s heart raced in his chest and the sound seemed amplified, obliterating his thoughts. They were a tangle of grief and passion and...and love - a tangle that was impossible to reconcile.

Loki turned his hands towards his heart, as though it could speak for him.

‘What?’ Sylvie breathed, hardly daring to speak, her own heart pulsing just as intensely.

They would figure this out. They would. Some very deep and very soulful part in both of them, inextricably linking one to the other, knew it. Loki clasped her upper arms, barely believing himself.

I love you Sylvie. Sylvie I love you. Sylvie I will always love you - you beautiful spirit of mischief. Sylvie, we are free and we will figure this out. I love you Sylvie, I love you.

‘If it were now to die, ‘twere now to be most happy.’ thought Loki, even as he felt the icy touch of Ravonna Renslayer’s weapon seize his heart and rip its chill through his body, as Sylvie watched him disintegrate right before her eyes which never left his - as he was transported to some realm of chaos where the God of Mischief would navigate the labyrinth back to his Goddess so that he could speak those words unsung softly in her ear before bending down to her lips and watching the TVA burn.

- Inspired by a fantastic suggestion from asgardian1112! More suggestions for future stories gladly welcome!

#loki #lokiseries #sylki #sylvie x loki #sylvie laufeydottir

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spicymayo1983 · 3 years

Text

Hiya. Happy late May the 4th. Today I decided to branch out and do a Mandalorian X reader smut story.

The child has been captured by the fallen empire. You are Moff Gideon's beautiful, intelligent but extremely evil daughter. Din Djarin has captured you and is holding you prisoner aboard his ship.

Will your seductive powers work? Or are you just wasting your time and energy? Or will the tables be turned on you?

Are you really as hard hearted and loyal to your father and the empire as you think?

This one is short and simple. Lol.

Warnings, language, smut, not for anyone under 18. Force related violence. In my story Mando is absolutely ripped but dad bods are sexy too!

Daughter of darkness

Someone close has betrayed you. And you are spitting mad. You have been captured on your home planet of Nevarro. By a bounty hunter, a Mandalorian. You are locked in a small cell aboard his ship, the razorcrest.

You are an asset of the now fallen empire. Your father, Moff Gideon, realizes this too and gives you credit for a lot of his success.

But now you are a prisoner. Aboard a primitive little ship. The child, the most wanted asset in the galaxy has been captured by your father. The Mandalorian captured you in hopes that you will give up the location of the child, HIS child. Despite the fact that you hate your captor with every fiber of your being you can't help but feel a slight twinge of physical attraction whenever he barks at you in his deep, smokey voice.

You can't help but wonder who is under the helmet?

His sensual, bedroom bedroom voice certainly has you sucked in. You decide to attempt to gain your freedom the fun way. Using your legendary powers of seduction.

You hate him, yes. But you have a hunch that your captor might be hot.

You have somehow managed to fall asleep in your tiny, uncomfortable cell. Your hands and legs are bound by shackles.

You are jolted awake by the sound of a heavy door slamming. You peer into the doorway and see the shiny, Beskar clad form of your captor.

Din opens your cell and forcefully sits you upright.

"Where is your father? Where has he taken the child?" Din demands loudly.

"I have no idea who or what you're talking about". You coo seductively, you are lieing of course. "You've got the wrong woman".

"Your ID says otherwise, y/n". Din shouts back, throwing your galactic ID right at you. "Give me their location and I won't hurt you".

You can feel the rage boiling in your blood from his words. You use the force to slam Din against the wall.

He quickly regains his balance and points his blaster right at you.

"I'll kill you right now". Din shouts.

"Go ahead". You taunt. "If I die then you die".

"I want to see your face". You demand, your voice lowering to a sexy purr. "Maybe we can make this fun".

Din is desperate to get his child back. He leans down to your eye level and much to your surprise he removes the helmet.

You are correct in your assumptions. Your captor is indeed attractive. You smile a little as you gaze into his deep brown eyes and touch his messy brown hair. His full lips are aching for you to kiss or touch them.

For a moment you are rendered speechless. As you bite your bottom lip a little you whisper,

"Pleasure me and let me pleasure you and I just might have some information".

"You've got a deal". Din replies, his voice smoldering with a combination of rage and lust.

The two of you share an angry, passionate kiss. Din frees you from your shackles. Once inside his bedchamber Din strips out of his armor, revealing an exquisite, muscular body and a thick, uncut cock.

He fumbles with your dark robe. Once you are nude Din runs his large, strong hands all over your body, making you moan in anticipation.

You sigh deeply as he slides two fingers inside of your warm, wet, silken folds.

You are silently begging Din to fuck you. He picks up on your silent cues and slides his thick cock inside of you.

Which you are able to take easily because you are so wet.

You dig your nails into his muscular back as Din thrusts in and out slowly, pulling his full length out and then shoving it back inside.

You scream from delight as you tighten yourself up around him, your resulting climax almost causing you to cry.

Din kisses you passionately again as he nears his own completion. When he does cum it you can feel his cock spasm and fill you up with his thick, hot juices.

The sex was hot, fast and hungry.

You collapse into his strong arms and affectionately nuzzle his neck and tenderly kiss the little bald spots on his beard. You climb back on top of him and eagerly grind yourself against his now soft cock.

This beautiful specimen of a man has left you weak, physically and mentally.

You aren't in your right frame of mind due to the cocktail of cuddly hormones surging through your brain.

"What do you want to know?" You blurt out, nuzzling him and gazing into his brown eyes.

The end

#the mandalorian #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian smut #star wars smut #mandalorian x you

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mimosaeyes · 4 years

Text

Post-176. Jon, Martin, and Basira regroup before continuing the search for Daisy. (Or: everyone is allowed to feel their feelings.) 2.1k, hurt/comfort.

I wrote a few lines of this fic after listening to the episode, but I wasn't going to finish it until I read @dathen's post about how 176 is basically "emotionally repress or die". Then I thought, oh wait, do people actually want the self-indulgent emotional catharsis? So, with @emberidzae's enabling and beta-ing, here we are.

It takes Martin longer than it should to realise that Basira is leading them out of the domain, not farther into it. Because of the way she’d begun hurrying them along, he assumed they were only a few steps behind Daisy, about to catch up with her at any moment.

Instead, the trees begin to thin out around them. Soon there’s enough space between the trunks to render them ineffective camouflage, and Martin stops feeling the urge to check his surroundings for the silhouettes of wolves waiting in ambush. There’s still a tight feeling in his throat, but at least the prickle on the back of his neck has disappeared.

He can still feel where Trevor had pressed the knife, the sharp edge of it right up against his jugular. The man’s voice had been shaking, but never his hand. No, that had been Martin’s own pulse, throbbing sickeningly beneath the blade and rushing loud in his ears.

Lost in the memory, Martin doesn’t notice the root sticking out of the ground until he’s already tripping over it. He has a split-second to think how stupid that is, how this has probably been the downfall of many people being chased by the Hunt — then his elbow is snagged by a familiar, scarred hand.

Jon doesn’t spare him a glance even as he releases his arm to clasp Martin’s hand instead. He just pulls him along, his pace brisk but not overtly hurried by fear or panic. Martin falls into step beside him, gradually regaining his rhythm and composure.

When they finally stumble into open space, Martin senses the difference at once. It’s not that he instantly relaxes; all things considered, he’d managed to remain relatively unfazed. But suddenly it takes much less effort to breathe normally. Suddenly, tension he hadn’t been aware of dissipates from his shoulders and chest.

He looks up to find Basira watching him closely. “Good job,” she says, making no effort to deny her scrutiny. “You’ll need full control over your emotions if you’re planning on following me back in there.”

Ah. There’s the rub. Of course they’re not done with this domain yet; this is only a pit-stop for Basira to make sure she hasn’t taken on liabilities.

“So you’re sure Daisy’s here?” Martin asks, managing to sound far more businesslike than he really feels about the thought of returning to the forest. “You’ve seen her?”

A muscle jumps in Basira’s cheek. Not quite a flinch, but the shadow of one. “I’m sure.”

She turns away from them and starts fiddling with her gun, checking the mechanism even though it had clearly worked fine on Trevor. Perhaps she wants a reason to keep her hands busy. Perhaps she wants to hide her face.

Martin leaves her to it and turns to Jon. He’s about to say something at random, anything to afford Basira the illusion of privacy, but the words die on his lips as Jon lets go of his hand and throws his arms around Martin.

He’s hugging back before he has time to fully register what’s happening. “Jon?” His voice squeaks from how tightly Jon is squeezing. “What’s wrong?”

Jon mumbles something against the crook of his neck. He can’t quite make out what it is. He catches sorry and couldn’t and so scared. Jon is trembling, he realises. It makes his heart lurch. He rubs a hand over his back in what he hopes is a soothing way.

After a long moment, Jon pulls back, gripping his arm with one hand while the other goes to the side of Martin’s face. “Are you alright?” he asks. “Are you hurt?”

Martin shakes his head. “I, I don’t think so.” But Jon checks anyway, running his fingers lightly over his neck to check for the smallest nick. Martin shivers at the gentle touch.

Then Jon tugs his long sleeve down over his knuckles and starts dabbing at Martin’s cheek and chin, which is when it hits Martin that the damp feeling there isn’t nervous sweat, but the spray of Trevor’s blood from the gunshot that had killed him.

He reels away from Jon — or he tries to, but Jon holds him steady. “Don’t look,” he says softly. “It’s okay, just look at me. It’s okay.” There’s something quietly insistent in his tone that makes Martin go still. Let me do this for you, it seems to say. Let me spare you this.

So he does. Instead of thinking about what happened, instead of peering at the red on Jon’s sleeve in his peripheral vision, Martin watches his face. Part of him is braced for the slightest wrinkling of his nose, indicating revulsion at his task. Mostly, he expects to see regret. They’d come to this domain hoping to find their friends and save Daisy, and instead another person has died because of them. It had happened indirectly, in that Basira had been the one to pull the trigger, but Jon had engineered the situation and Martin had participated in it, and... and it feels different, like this. Martin’s been calling it smiting when Jon turns the Ceaseless Watcher on an avatar, vaporising them. But there was nothing righteous about this, nothing neat and sterile. There is only the visceral, ignominious reality of a body left on the ground, and some of the gore still smeared over Martin’s skin.

Yet he looks, and finds only tenderness in Jon’s expression. All throughout the encounter with Trevor, he had kept his face impassive, his voice calm and in control. Only now is Martin seeing the depth of his fear for him.

Jon finishes cleaning off the blood and without further ado, rips the end of his sleeve off entirely, stuffing it in a pocket so it’s out of sight.

Half-jokingly, Martin laments, “Aww. I liked that shirt.” It’s one of his own, hence the excessively long sleeves on Jon. He’d stolen it a few days into their stay in the safehouse. Martin had teased him about it at the time, but never really minded.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says sombrely. Martin’s about to clarify that he was kidding, but then Jon continues, “I thought Trevor would go for me. I was nearly sure of it, else I would’ve told you more. I thought the worst I was asking of you was to stay calm while he threatened me, and you know nothing can really hurt me, so.”

“It’s alright,” Martin tells him. “I mean, it’s not alright, obviously; that was messed up to have to go through, but.” He offers him a slightly lopsided smile. “I trust you.”

Jon doesn’t return the smile, though. He just looks preoccupied; cagey. Like before, like he’s not telling him something. Martin frowns. “Why did you think he’d pick you? You’re not exactly without defences.” He glances pointedly at the eyes staring down at them from the sky.

“Because...” Jon sighs, shrugs, runs one hand roughly through his hair. “Because I’m the one who’d be prey in this domain. Fear of your friends turning on you? After Jane Prentiss, I staked out Tim’s house, I went through the belongings you’d left at the Institute. I was so easily made to feel paranoid, to dread betrayal. Besides—” He cuts himself off abruptly.

Martin narrows his eyes in suspicion. “What?”

Jon hesitates, reluctant. “And, well. Trevor’s a monster hunter.”

He seems about to elaborate, but then just makes a vague gesture, encompassing all of himself.

“Oh, Jon...”

But before Martin can tell him he’s not a monster, smack him, or possibly pull him in for another hug, Basira interjects. “You two do know I can still hear you, right? Honestly, you have definitely been wandering around with no other company for too long.”

Startled and sheepish, they both turn to her. She’s re-holstered her gun and is smirking at them with one hand on her hip. Martin sees the moment when her mirth reverts to steely resolve. “Enough blubbering. Daisy’s after Trevor. If we want to catch her here, we’ll have to move fast. Are you coming with, and can you handle yourselves?”

“Of course,” Jon replies, nodding and stepping out of Martin’s embrace. “Let’s go.”

Even though Martin hadn’t been around at the time, he imagines this is exactly how it went before these two ran off to Ny-Ålesund together. “Wait! Do you even have a plan?”

“Find Daisy,” Jon and Basira say in unison.

Martin resists the urge to slap his forehead. “And then what?” he asks, softening his tone from exasperated to reasonable. He addresses Basira specifically: “You promised to kill Daisy. Is that your first option, or do you have another plan?”

Judging from the way she stiffens ever so slightly at the word kill, there’s at least some doubt in her mind. Basira glances at Jon. “You wouldn’t happen to have any convenient Beholding powers to get through to her, would you?”

Jon winces. “We need a key to a lock in this situation, and I have... the equivalent of a nuclear warhead.”

Basira stares. “I don’t even want to know.”

“What about how we’re finding her, then?” Martin wonders aloud, hastily changing the topic. “If Trevor’s, uh, no longer with us, then we don’t have anyone to follow. Unless we can find Daisy’s tracks.”

“Unlikely,” Basira says. “She’s too good a Hunter to be hunted herself. I’ve been relying on Trevor, mostly.”

“So why’d you kill him?” Martin asks thoughtlessly.

Almost before he’s finished the sentence, he anticipates Basira’s raised eyebrow and sarcastic, “He had you at knifepoint. You’re welcome.”

“And the other reason?” Jon asks quietly.

Immediately, Basira snaps, “Don’t compel me. Do not look in my head.”

“I didn’t, and I won’t,” Jon says, holding up both hands placatingly. He’s telling the truth; there had been no telltale buzz of static. “But you could have shot him without killing him. You could have lamed him and waited for Daisy to come end it. So I know there’s another reason.”

Basira is glaring askance, but Martin can still feel the ferocity of that look. Then, haltingly but with more sincerity than he would have expected, she actually answers. “I found Julia’s body. Trevor is older than her, slower. Which means Daisy let him go on purpose. She — she’s relishing this too much. Trying to prolong the chase. I could’ve kept it going. Could’ve followed him for days, or what used to be days. But the longer that goes on, the longer she gets to toy with him... the less likely she comes back to me as Daisy. So. It’s better this way, with his blood on my hands.”

She takes a deep breath. Then she punches Jon in the arm — not hard, but not very lightly either. “I blame you for all this touchy-feely stuff. It must be contagious.”

Jon has the cheek to smugly say, “You’re welcome.”

Martin barely hears it, though. Basira’s words are echoing through his mind: his blood on my hands, his blood on my hands.

“I know how we can find Daisy,” he says. “Jon. That strip of sleeve? Give it to Basira.”

To Basira’s credit, she barely reacts as Jon uneasily extracts the bloodied cloth from his pocket and helps her tie it around one wrist. “This is Trevor’s blood?” is all she says.

“And now it also smells like me, Jon, and you.” Martin’s eyes flick briefly to the forest. “Daisy might’ve already found Trevor’s body. She’ll be looking for something else worth hunting.”

“It could work,” Jon says slowly. Martin doesn’t miss the worried look he gives him.

Basira holds her arm aloft on the breeze for a few seconds, letting the wind carry the scent into the trees. “Are you sure about this?” she asks them both. “You do understand that we’re making ourselves bait.”

The forest looms before them. Does it look darker than before? It never gets any later in the apocalypse, so it must be his imagination. Or his mind, already being drawn into the mentality of prey. Martin gulps. He tries to sound confident about his plan as he says, “The best bait is friendship?”

“Now I know why we never hung out,” Basira tells him, but without much heat.

As they begin walking, Martin reaches for Jon’s hand. “Hey,” he says quietly. “It’ll be okay. We’ve got this.”

There’s a flicker of recognition in Jon’s eyes. “Apparently so,” he murmurs, giving Martin’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

They hold on for a couple more seconds while ignoring Basira’s eye-roll. Then Martin lets go and sets about pulling his emotions into order. They only want one wolf to come after them.

At the edge of the forest, Basira checks her gun in its holster, glances at Jon and Martin in turn. Then she raises her arm again. “Alright, Daisy,” she murmurs, more to herself than to them. “Hunt this. Hunt me.”

[also available on AO3 here]

[my TMA fic on AO3]

#the magnus archives #jonmartin #dasira #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #basira hussain #mimofic

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heyyy-hey-babyyy · 4 years

Text

When We Were Young (part VIII)

Dean x Fem!Reader; Sam x Fem!Reader (platonic)

Read part I here ; Read part II here ; Read part III here ;

Read part IV here ; Read part V here ; Read part VI here

Read part VII here

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of trauma/abuse, brief moments of self-harm, mentions of anxiety attack, *moments of assault*

**This chapter contains images of assault. Please be aware if this is trigging for you!

B/N: I’m getting a little lost in my own timeline, so apologies for any inaccuracies... All mistakes I claim as my own.

Summary: Dean, Sam, and Y/N grew up together, but when she’s taken away for over 10 years, the boys have no idea what she’s been through. Will asking her to move into the bunker with them reveal more than she’s ready for?

1773 words

All you could hear was the constant dripping of the pipes above you, one splashing cold water on the back of your neck. Greg hadn’t left you alone after unbuttoning Dean’s flannel, and rather decided to strip you down and shackle your hands above your head again after. Then he walked out of the room, leaving you shivering, still leaning on your naked and bruised knees, arms growing numb above you.

You had to have been in the same position for over eight hours or so after you factored in how long you might have been passed out, and your body felt like it was ready to snap in half. You couldn’t lift your head anymore, though you wanted to move out of the dripping water, which felt like standing under a cold shower. But you couldn’t be too worried about it, because suddenly you felt an arm snake around your waist and lift you to your feet. You felt yourself fall into a slight feeling of hope, thinking that perhaps Dean had finally come for you. But your hopes were dashed when Greg whispered in your ear.

“Okay, hunny-bear, time to make it up to me.” You whimpered slightly in response, and you felt Greg release his hold on your waist, your body crashing roughly to the floor, chains yanking your arms above your head again almost ripping your limbs from their sockets. You cried out with what energy you had left, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Oh dear. I’m sorry hunny, I didn’t realize you were this weak already...” He trailed off, pulling you to a standing position again. He spoke like he cared about you, but you heard the smile behind his voice, relishing in the fact that you couldn’t fight back right now. “I’ll make sure to be gentle,” he whispered in your ear again, making you shudder, tears continuing to fall down your face.

Greg grabbed the back of your neck, bending you at the waist and holding you up on your own legs, rendering you completely powerless, afraid he would snap your neck if he felt like it. You felt fear course through your body as her rubbed his other hand slowly down your exposed back tracing a long scar down your side that you got from a vampire hunt, ending at your hip bone. You hated the way he seemed to be caring for you, his movements slow and careful, and your mind quickly drifted to Dean. Shaking your head, you dislodged the hunter’s green eyes from your mind, knowing you would need to repress this memory later on and it would be impossible if Dean was anywhere near it. Greg felt you shaking your head, and he stilled his movements, turning to stand in front of you instead, hand still at your neck.

“What’s wrong, hunny?” He lifted your head so that you were forced to look into his eyes, and he smiled knowingly. “Oh, I get it. You’ve moved on.” He gave you a small pout and you avoided his gaze. “It’s okay, I want this to be good for you. And honestly, it doesn’t matter what body I’m in anyway. It feels amazing either way.” You whipped your head around, suddenly staring into bright green eyes. Gasping loudly, you were suddenly pulled forward toward the lips of Dean Winchester. You froze, but felt yourself kissing him back slightly, your brain playing tricks on you. Dean pulled away and smiled at you widely, and you smiled back until he opened his mouth.

“That’s right, hunny-bear. Now we can both be comfortable.” ‘Dean’ disappeared from your view and you felt a small bout of strength, your body fighting against the chains holding you in place, trying to escape from the nightmare your brain couldn’t even imagine up. But Greg’s hands held you tight to him, and you felt his hips move against you. You were prepared to accept this happening to you at the hands of Greg, but you couldn’t get the image of Dean standing before you in the damp room out of your head. And though you kept repeating to yourself that it wasn’t Dean, it was becoming impossible as Greg continued to speak, Dean’s gruff voice floating up to you.

“Alright hunny,” he cooed, stroking up and down your back as you heard the zipper of his jeans. “Are you ready for me?”

You didn’t respond, your mind shutting down like it had so many times before to help you survive this moment. You felt some pressure to your core, and then your body was moving back and forth, but you felt numb, and didn’t say a word. You weren’t sure how long Greg used you, but when he was done, he pulled out, zipped back up, and came to stand in front of you. Dean’s body came into view, and he looked concerned, as he swiped at the tears you didn’t realize were streaming down your face, cupping your cheek. You involuntarily leaned into it, and when you looked up again, Greg was staring into your eyes. You leaned out of his grasp, and he sighed, pulling you forward to kiss you on the top of the head.

“I have something I have to do hunny-bear. I’ll be back soon.” And just like that he was gone, leaving you hanging from the chains, bent at the waist.

You started to sob silently, knowing that Greg didn’t destroy you 13 years ago. He destroyed you now, using the only man you felt comfortable with against you. Being a hunter you didn’t believe in anything you couldn’t see, so you often refused to believe in God, but in that moment you felt yourself praying, reaching out to anything or anyone to help you.

You suddenly heard the rush of wind and the flutter of wings, as a figure appeared in front of you. Too tired to react you attempted to move away from whoever had appeared in the room, when you felt a soft hand on your cheek, causing a warmth to spread throughout your body.

“Hello, Y/N.” The figure began and you looked up into bright blue eyes. “I heard your prayer. My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord.” You stared up at the man in disbelief before your world went black.

-----------

Cas disappeared as quickly as he appeared and Dean spun around looking for him in the small room.

“Cas!” He yelled into the emptiness, but the angel didn’t reappear. Dean scoffed, returning to find Sam and Bobby in the living room. Sam rose to his feet when Dean entered, looking questioningly behind him, anticipating Cas following Dean. Dean shook his head, throwing his hands up the air, when he heard the flutter of wings behind him again. The look on Sam’s face made Dean whip around nervously afraid of what he might find behind him.

Cas was standing in the doorway to the office holding Y/N tightly in his arms. He had shed his trench coat and it was wrapped around an unmistakingly naked Y/N like a towel.

“Hello Dean,” Cas repeated for the second time in 20 minutes, and Dean rushed forward taking Y/N out of Cas’ arms and cradling you tightly to his chest. You looked as if you were sleeping, but your face looked like you were in pain, stuck in whatever nightmare you were being forced into. Bobby and Sam rushed over to where Dean stood holding you, both men looking murderous.

“Cas, what happened?!” Sam was yelling, unable to control his emotions, and Castiel stood awkwardly, not having the people skills to deal with human emotions this complex. He took a beat or two to answer, but Dean cut him off, not ready to hear the story while you were still in the room.

Dean shifted you slightly in his arms and your face relaxed as he hiked you up, your head resting in the crook of his neck. He didn’t want to leave you alone right now, but he wanted you to be more comfortable as you slept, and didn’t want you to be naked anymore. He motioned with his head for his brother to follow him upstairs. Sam followed, and as they reached the stairs Dean spoke over his shoulder.

“Cas, stick around.” Cas nodded once, and Bobby motioned for him to sit on the couch him and Sam had just vacated. Cas sat awkwardly fixing his stare on the wall ahead of him, as Bobby left the room.

Dean walked toward Bobby’s room upstairs knowing you would feel most comfortable there if you woke up while they were downstairs talking to Cas. Sam opened the door for him, and stood in the doorway as you placed Y/N down on the soft blankets.

“Sam,” Dean spoke up, making sure you were fully covered with Cas’ trench coat for the moment after you were jostled about a bit. “Can you find Y/N’s bag and get maybe some sleep shorts, or something we can get on her easily?” Sam nodded, disappearing from the room. You took a second to take in Y/N’s appearance, not seeing any signs that you had been hurt, but you figured you’d learn the extent of the injuries from Cas, as Dean was sure he healed you before bringing you here. He knew Cas wouldn’t without permission, but he also secretly hoped that Cas had scrubbed your memories of whatever had happened in the hours that you were missing.

Sam returned while he was lost in his thoughts, clearing his throat simply. Dean turned around and Sam handed him a pair of Y/N’s loose shorts and one of Sam’s flannels, figuring it would work best to cover her.

“Can you help me?” Dean asked his brother awkwardly, not wanting to betray Y/N’s trust, especially not when you were sleeping. Sam nodded coming forward while Dean placed each of your feet carefully in the leg holds of the shorts. You were still in a deep sleep, your chest rising and falling slowly, so Dean pulled the shorts up your legs, careful to not touch you, and both brothers looked away while Dean slid your shorts up over your hips and Sam moved the bottom of the trench coat out of the way. They repeated the same process to move Sam’s flannel over your head and slip your hands into the sleeves. Sam grabbed Cas’ trench coat off the bed and left the room, nodding once at Dean with pain in his eyes.

Dean couldn’t stop looking at you, relishing in how peaceful you looked now that you were curled up in the blankets with familiar smells all around. He felt a tear slip down over his cheeks, and he swiped at it angrily, muttering to himself that he didn’t deserve to cry right now. Leaning forward he pressed his lips softly to your head and you stirred lightly, letting out a dreamy sigh, and Dean stood intent on killing the monster that hurt you before you even woke up and bringing his head to you as a trophy.

Read part IX here

When We Were Young Tag List: @vicmc624 @woundedxsmile @akshi8278

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one-boring-person · 4 years

Note

Hey! I have another poly Lost Boys idea it’s kinda angsty but a good ending. I was listening to the slowed song “Dusk Till Dawn”, and thought what if the mate of the Lost Boys was taken by hunters for like a year and they weren’t able to find her. Then on a stormy night she shows up at the cave after having escaped the hunters. And the boys just break down from joy and relief. I understand if you don’t want to do this one though! Thank you for doing my other request!💜

No problem! I'll happily do this request, I find it really interesting💛💛💛(I'm sorry if the ending sucks, I'm not that great at emotion😅)

Agreed.

The Lost Boys x reader

Warnings: mention of death, blood imagery, implied injury

Masterlist

Winds howls through the echoing halls of the cave, whistling amongst the stalactites as it rushes past, creating a haunting ambience that seems to hang over the darkened areas like a black miasma, dampening the already depressive mood. Rain pelts the rocks outside, the waves crashing and roaring at the seaward entrances, adding an almost deliberate rhythm to the catawauling shriek of the wind, a deep chill diffusing into the air as the night wears on, the frequent growls of thunder and crashes of lightning helping to create some natural orchestra of noise. A damp odour perpetrates the usually stale air, giving it a fresher feel and smell, though this new scent will most likely cling to the inhabitants for days to come, the moisture easily soaking into leather coats and dark denim jeans, rendering the garments' warming-abilities useless. None of them notice this, however, as they slouch in their communal area, all of them oddly silent for once, each deep in their own thoughts, though they all share a similar objective, one they'd rather not talk about out loud anymore.

In his wheelchair, David idly flicks through a book, unable to concentrate on it as his mind recalls more depressive memories, the heart-wrenching pain in his body reinstating itself after a year of oppressing it, the vampire nearly biting through his lip to prevent himself from crying in front of the others, blue eyes narrowed slightly. Across from him, Dwayne leans against the wall, polishing an older part of his motorcycle, working the cloth rhythmically round as he grates off the grease and rust that has built up over time, dark eyes scrutinizing the bright silver under the blackish marks with an acuteness borne of experience and practice, trying his hardest to stay distracted. Over in the corner, Marko tends to his pigeons, fussing over them with a deep affection, feeding them and petting them as much as he can without smothering them, cooing silently to them as he does so, doe eyes not quite sharing the enthusiasm he is putting on, their depths flooded with partially concealed grief. A little way away from him is Paul, who is listening quietly to his walkman, staying mostly still for once in his life, hands crossed placidly over his chest as he lies back on the sofa, blue eyes staring aimlessly up at the ceiling, jaw set in a tense manner, a reaction he's always had to a hard topic.

The silence is broken by a particularly loud crash of thunder, the deafening sound snapping the four of them from their trances as they look up, each pair of eyes meeting with each other's as they do so. None of them say a word choosing instead to remain quiet, waiting for the others to acknowledge the subject eating at their conciousnesses. Eventually, it's Paul who manages to say something.

"I can't believe it's been a year." He murmurs out loud, drawing a hand down his face in habitual remorse, nails scratching lightly at his skin as he does so.

"Me neither." Marko agrees from across the room, setting the pigeons free again as he moves to sit on the edge of the fountain, his posture slouched and downcast.

"I can't believe she's gone." David mumbles quietly, feeling a little uneasy admitting his feelings to the room, but feeling it necessary in any case. His tone is hollow and empty for once, the snide undertones gone from it, leaving him sounding oddly vulnerable.

"I don't think any of us can." Dwayne points out, placing down the part in his hands and coming over to sit beside Marko, flicking his long, dark hair from his face. Paul pushes off his headphones and joins them, all four vampires watching each other in dull grief, listening to the sounds of the storm around them in silence for a few seconds.

Greif-stricken, they remain like this until Paul catches something on the wind, his head snapping towards it with a confused look in his eyes.

"What is it, Paul?" Marko questions, having noticed his friend's sudden discomfort, looking in the direction that Paul is gazing in.

"I could've sworn I just heard something...like a moan or something." The blonde informs them, listening out for it again until David goes to scold him.

"Paul, I'm not really sure now is the time to be playing tricks on us."

"I'm not! I swear I heard it!" Paul insists, straining his ears for the sound again, only just catching it as it carries past him on the wind, "There! Did you hear it?!"

Marko and David shake their heads, eyeing Paul oddly as they do so, slightly sceptical of his antics.

"I heard it." Dwayne speaks up suddenly, eyes wide.

"You did?" Marko exclaims in disbelief, prompting them all to listen closely again.

Under the howling of the wind and the ferocious tapping of the rain, once the thunder and lightning have faded for the moment, two sounds are audible: a pained moan, and trembling footsteps.

Instantly, the boys are out of their seats and racing to the entrance, ready to scare off this new intruder, unwilling to be crafty about it tonight, faces morphing as they go, eyes flashing yellow. David is first out of the cave, but he stops stock-still as his eyes fall on something a little way away, not quite believing what he's seeing, the others running into him with protests and cries of annoyance, only for these to peter out as they also find the object of their leader's attention.

There, lying face-down on the last step, clothes torn and wet, hair sticking to their head, is a body, the shoulders barely rising and falling as they breathe.

Unsure of what to do, the boys stand there, staring at the vaguely familiar figure until Dwayne decides to go over to them, going cautiously, expecting it to be a trap of sorts. When nothing happens, he kneels by the body and rolls it over, a sharp gasp escaping him as he sees the features, in disbelief over what he is seeing.

"You guys are not gonna believe this." The vampire says out loud, carefully moving to pick the body up as the others surge forwards, their shock voices loudly as they see who it is.

"Is that..?" Marko starts, allowing David to finish the sentence off for him.

"It is." He swiftly ushers Dwayne inside, allowing the brunette to lay his burden down on the sofa before the four of them crowd around her, eyeing the form of their presumed-dead mate.

Visibly discouloured, (Y/n) appears much thinner than before, her bone structure showing through her frail skin horribly frequently, her beautiful features gaunt and sallow, bedraggled hair matted and unkempt as it sticks to her now-prominent cheekbones, leaving her pallid lips uncovered and parted, a single trickle of crimson steaming down her icy cheek. Her clothes are ripped and torn in many places, showing areas of wounded and scarred skin, blood forming a thick crust around her side, cracking as she moves slightly, drawing a thin whine of pain from her. Slowly, her somehow clear eyes open up, having been woken from her sleep by the sharp jolt of agony, flicking back and forth as she tries to figure out where she is.

"P-paul? M-m-marko? D-Dwayne?" She manages out, her head turning slightly to look up at the platinum blonde, eyes locking, "D-david?"

"We're all here, kitten, don't worry. You're safe now." David is barely able to contain himself as he looks over the form of their mate, relief, happiness and joy flooding him, momentarily dampening the concern.

"G-good..." She forces out, coughing slightly, her body shivering in cold as she reaches up, grabbing for one of them like she used to, asking silently for one of them to hold her, despite their freezing body temperatures. Wordlessly, Paul slips in behind her, pulling her body into his with a smile, teeth digging into his bottom lip at the feeling of her against him again after so long.

Upon seeing this, the others exchange glances, all of them thinking the same thing.

"She's back...(Y/n)'s alive..." Marko muses, unable to keep himself still as tears start to track down his pale skin, eventually throwing himself forwards with a gasp of happiness, burying his head into (Y/n)'s chest, hands feeling at her body to make sure she's real.

Dwayne does nothing to hide the fact that he is beaming from ear to ear, cheeks wet from crying as he looks over the form of his mate, the brunette vampire turning his gaze up to pick with David's, resulting in an overload of emotions for the latter. Tears spill out over his cheeks, a wretched sob leaving him as he collapses to his knees, blue eyes fixing on (Y/n) as he reaches out one hand to grasp her's, taking off a glove so that he can feel her skin under his, a giddy shudder of relief erupting from him as he does so, unable to contain himself.

Ignoring the blood and rainwater, Dwayne lifts a hand to caress (Y/n)'s face, murmuring to himself quietly in disbelief, mixtures of English and his native tongue slipping into the exclamations, fingers brushing over the raised bone in her face.

"No one will ever take her again." The dark-haired vampire promises to the others, looking fiercely at them with conviction.

"Agreed." Marko responds, looking to the others.

"Agreed." Paul confirms, tightening his grip on the girl in his arms.

David takes a little while longer to respond, feeling that just saying so will do nothing.

"No one will ever take her again and live to tell the tale. I'm not gonna let them get close." He snarls, leaning in to press a soft kiss to (Y/n)'s scalp, "We're not gonna let them get close."

#the lost boys #joel schumacher #vampire #david(thelostboys)#kiefer sutherland #paul(the lost boys)#dwayne(the lost boys)#santa carla #marko(the lost boys)#star(the lost boys)

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sxveme-2 · 4 years

Text

blueberry pancakes // bucky barnes

MASTERLIST

Description: A single mother. Juggling being a mom, a full time pediatrician, and a difficult ex who believed now would be the best time to finally be a father. A soldier ripped out of time. Ex-assassin turned superhero. Learning how to balance a new domestic life with handling demons of his past, while facing the trials of the future. a love story began over something as simple as chocolate chip pancakes with hidden blueberries.

Disclaimer: I do not own any original Marvel characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Marvel Comics and Marvel Studios. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else

Status: Edited

Note: Takes place after endgame. I have elected to ignore Tony's death and Steve's leaving. Did not happen. Quick Reminder! My works are only published here, AO3 and on Wattpad, thank you.

Chapter Five: The One with the Tour

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 2476

Scott Harvey was a manipulative man. He knew how to get what he wanted when he wanted and was never one to take no for an answer. He'd do whatever it took to ensure he had people wrapped around his finger so that he could snap his fingers and have what he desired in his hands at a moment’s notice. And Lily fell for that. She became the next in a long line of women who were eating out of the palm of his hand, all because he promised her the world. He promised her security, happiness, and peace. Instead, she got fear, chaos, and emotional trauma. The exact thing she was terrified of. He used her anxiety against her, used the fragility of her mind to keep her trapped in his web like a fly.

She was sort of thankful for Mary. she was a sweet woman, the two got along and were pretty amicable. Lily knew if she needed anything, Mary would help out, and vice versa. Because you can have a messy marriage, but keep a healthy relationship with the wrecking ball that destroyed the thin wall that still stood. Lily was grateful for Mary because she was able to open the blonde’s eyes to see what was going on. The web of lies that Scott had caught Lily in, like a spider, finding its next meal.

And every time she saw him, saw that sideways smile and forehead creases, all of the emotions he caused caught up to Lily in a ball, and took up camp in the middle of her throat, rendering her speechless for the majority of their brief conversations. Which is where we pick up, in the hallway of Scott and Mary's apartment building, Scott holding his daughter, Leila, in his arms. something Lily didn't believe she had ever seen her ex do with their son.

"Traffic was insane...sorry I'm a little late." Lily mumbled, her broken eyes darting everywhere, in an attempt to keep them from making contact with the deep-set hazel of Scott’s iris'.

"Don't apologize. I'll never complain about spending a bit longer with Hunter." Scott said, his voice still as soft as a marshmallow. Lily couldn't help but wince ever so gently as it floated into her ears, sending a rush of adrenaline and nerves to her heart, picking up its pace.

"Mom!" a young boy’s voice called before bursting past the older man, almost knocking down his mother, gripping onto her waist.

"Hey kiddo," Lily smiled, hand running through the blonde locks atop of her son’s head, smiling gently as he hid his face into her side. turning her attention back to Scott, she gave a weak smile, "Thanks for letting me pick him up early. my parents are coming down for dinner."

“No problem. Say hi to Abel and Alicia for me," Scott smiled, causing a shiver to run down Lily's spine. The idea of saying that Scott said hi made Lily sick to her stomach. Her parents despised the father of their grandson, for good reason. As far as the Osborne parents were concerned, Scott was a dead man, "See ya, buddy."

Saying a quick goodbye, Lily and Hunter found themselves back in the car as quickly as the conversation that just happened. Hunter was quiet at first, waiting for Lily to regain her composure for the second time that day. Her forehead rested on the leather of her steering wheel, deep breaths escaping her lips as her fingers wrapped around the wheel. A few moments later, Lily relaxed back into her seat, turning on the car.

"So Grandma and Grandpa are coming over?" Hunter asked, breaking the comfortable silence the mother and son had going on, "When did you find out?"

Lily tried her best to repress the smile the threatened to explode onto her face. She loved giving Hunter surprises. With everything the boy has been through, being able to see his face light up when he's faced with something unexpected was the only high she'd ever need. It was rare to see such extreme emotion out of Hunter, and let alone something as raw as the joy he gets with surprises. And this one that she had planned, it would go down in history. He would be talking about it for ages to come, for the rest of his life even. That's what Lily wanted, for him to create perfect childhood memories he'd be able to tell his kids in the future. To gather them up around the table at Christmas and pass stories around about how he and Grandma spent a day with Earth’s mightiest heroes and got to see where they worked. That was the goal of a parent, to make their child's days as memorable as they could.

"Oh the other day they mentioned it, but nothing was ever confirmed. I got a text this morning from Grandma about it," Lily hummed nonchalantly as she pulled out of the Brooklyn apartment complex, and turned onto the busy roads.

Connecting his phone to the Apple car play that came with the vehicle, Hunter spoke again, "That'll be nice. I know you miss seeing them sometimes. Long Island is so far away from Manhattan, why did you move away?"

Lily's smile grew wide, the dimple in her cheek creating a cavern of happiness at her son’s words. He was as intuitive as they come, and as observant as all get out. Truly, Lily believed herself to be one of the luckiest mothers in the world to be blessed with an angel-like Hunter. He was pure of heart and as sharp as a whip. He always picked up on Lily's microaggressions, and all of the small mannerisms she showed while in certain moods. She was never sure how he became as smart as he did, but doctors insisted it was because of her intelligence. That it carried on down to her son, and how he reflected her as a child. And Lily lived a loving and wonderful childhood, so hopefully, that too would relay to her son.

Reaching over to ruffle his hair, Lily let out a gentle sigh, "Well Hunter, I moved out here to the city with Auntie Gen when I graduated high school. I got into Columbia University, which was my dream school. So I came out here to study, while Aunt Gen was over in NYU, studying business. I moved out here for the opportunity, and I'm glad I did because you were the result."

Hunter let out a small noise as he acknowledged the story that his mother just shared while scanning Spotify for the best playlist. The two loved the eighties and nineties, so he settled on a premade group of songs from that era. The bass boomed throughout the car as the two began to belt out the lyrics to Billie Jean by Michael Jackson. It was moments like these when Lily felt most content. Just her and Hunter, living their best lives together as they sang to oldies but goodies. Being able to see his eyes light up whenever they passed a cool-looking building or when they saw a cute dog or one that looked like Joey. Her favourite moment though, the cream of the crop is when he sings. Though not a professional, he always looked so at ease while letting his voice dance through the car.

About twenty minutes into the drive, he caught on though, "This isn't the way home. Where are we going?" his voice rang, turning down the volume of the Lionel Richie.

She had to think quickly. If he noticed the slightest of hesitation in Lily's speech, the surprise would be blown, and he wouldn't be surprised when they didn't stop at home. So, she did what she thought would throw him off the most, "We've gotta hit a grocery store on the way home. Aunt Gen needs something for the cafe and this is the only place that sells it near here. Is that okay kiddo?"

Nodding, he turned the music back up. This meant that he believed what she said. If he didn't, he'd press on further. Interrogating Lily until he got the truth out of her. He would make a hell of a lawyer in the future, due to the strange ability he had of getting into people’s minds. He was like Scott in that way, but different at the same time. He never used it to manipulate, or use people, but to find out the truth. Get the answers. learn. That was Hunter’s goal, not to make people the puppets in his little game. he was curious, that was all.

Shortly after the small conversation between the two introverts, Lily took the turn that would lead them straight to the compound. Her aged eyes glanced towards the world that sat in her passenger seat. He hadn't noticed yet, and Lily was thankful. It would be more exhilarating if he didn't realize until they went up to the door. Knocking on the door and having someone like Captain America answer? Now that was something that Lily would love to witness. To see her son's heart swell at the sight of one of his heroes answering the door. She could only imagine what he would say, and couldn't seem to fathom how he would react.

Pulling into the parking lot, Lily stopped the car and turned it off, capturing Hunters’ attention. He sat up in his seat and glanced out the window, a confused yet intrigued look masking his typical stoic facial expression. Stepping out of the car, Lily gestured with her left hand to follow her up towards the doors. Hesitantly, Hunter followed along, his shoes making gentle noises on the rocks and pebbles below his feet.

"Where are we?" he questioned, hand slipping into the fragile one of his mothers, "and why are your hands always so cold?"

Lily remained silent, simply walking up the stairs of the compound. Her neck craned to look down at the bewildered boy, who couldn't help but swivel his head around in an attempt to recognize his surroundings. But the only time he would have ever seen this place was maybe in pictures, so Lily was sure that she had gotten the surprise in the bag. That she was able to dupe the boy that could rarely ever be surprised. Now that would be an accomplishment.

Lily's free hand reached up and knocked on the grey doors in front of them, pursing and nibbling on her lips in an attempt to hide the mischievous and prideful grin that threatened to give away the present. She had been looking forward to this moment the entire car ride, hardly being able to contain the excitement that rushed through her veins at the idea of her son’s wildest dreams coming true. Well, his wildest dream would be to become an Avenger or any sort of superhero. But a mother could only do so much.

Voices rang out behind the door before it was swung open to reveal Sam Wilson. The man who had originally offered to take the eleven-year-old boy on a tour of the place, "Lily! you made it, was starting to get worried you two would bail on us," he teased, chocolate brown eyes readjusting to look down at the blonde boy beside Lily, "Hey Hunter, nice to see you again."

Her son’s hand had slipped out of her own, which caught Lily's attention. she looked down at him and felt her heart swell about a million times bigger than it already was. His smile reached ear to ear, cheeks growing to a rosy red and his pupils dilated to eleven. He seemed frozen, stuck to his one position on the porch step of the Avengers compound. Her frail hand tapped the boy on the back, urging him to respond and walk into the building.

"He's a tad awestruck it seems," Lily chuckled, taking his small hand into her own and walking past the threshold of the home, "It took me a bit to find this place."

"Privacy is key for us," a voice rang out from a bit away. Lily's eyes averted towards the sound and she spotted Captain America. The Captain America. Steve Rogers. Every girl’s dream man. He was even more gorgeous in person, and Lily couldn't help but feel choked up as she looked at him. The way his chest looked as though it was going to burst through the fabric of his shirt, or how she could see his sky blue eyes from eight meters away, "Glad you guys could make it. Picked a perfect day, everyone’s around."

"Why don't I take Hunter down through the compound so he can get the full tour," Sam grinned down at the beaming boy, "Will you be joining us, Ms. Osborne?"

Oh no. If she went, her mind wouldn't be able to handle it. The idea of walking around with her son in a place like this was already overwhelming. Feeling as though she should be able to do more to give him the luxury life he so badly deserved. Making him feel as though he was the king of the world. Not to mention, the entire place itself was a lot to take in. And with her anxiety already running high today, it would be better for Lily's mind and heart to wait out in the car or something. Plus, Hunter was with the Falcon, she had no worries.

"It's okay, you two go have fun, I'll wait in the car," Lily said, a tight smile pulling at the sides of her lips as she ran a thumb across her son’s chin, nodding for him to follow the superhero. And as if he was in a trance, Hunter followed Sam like a zombie, or may a dog following a treat. Either would work in this scenario.

"Oh no don't go wait in your car, come sit with us. I'm sure Bucky wouldn't mind seeing you again after your run-in yesterday," Steve smiled, making Lily's knees feel like they had miraculously turned into jello, "He's making blueberry pancakes for a part of the team."

Lily's mouth ran dry. Blueberry pancakes. Just like the ones she had gotten the day prior. The ones he had asked her about. Her cheeks grew hot as a magenta colour blush forced itself onto them, giving away the embarrassment and intrigue she had. It couldn't have been anything. He was just making blueberry pancakes. That's normal. It was an average thing for people to do. Especially when you've got nothing else to do. right?

"He knew you may have been coming, that's why he made them." Steve whispered as he offered his arm for Lily, beginning to lead her towards the kitchen.

So he did make them on purpose.

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imnotwolverine · 4 years

Text

The Monster’s Lair - A Belle Tune

Vampire!Henry x Belle - multi-chapter

Chapter 1 - A Belle Tune | Chap 2 >

Disclaimer: Dark adult fairytale - stalking, mild injury, angsty vibes

Author’s note: Here we go dear readers, a whole new series!! As I was setting out the plotline I kept saying to myself; “Let’s make this 3-5 chapters, a short series, okay, Wolfie?” ...Welp... Apparently I have many talents, but writing short series is not one of them. I’ve tried again and again to reshape the plot into a shorter, snappier version, but I just couldn’t. So, here goes; 12 chapters of broody vampire Henry and sweet Belle. I hope you are ready ❤️

Word count: 1.991

Reading music: Agnes Obel - Tokka

(Link to my Masterlist)

It was the first day of Autumn, summer finally past, as a tale of old was sung anew.

The land was cracked open dry and dusty after months without rain, the crops starting to fail just before harvest season. It made the tensions run high amongst the town folk, their worried eyes aiming upwards. The air had been thick for days now, the clouds drifting heavy and grey on dreary skies, foreboding a long awaited storm that just wouldn’t break.

And yet, not all were worried. At this moment the morning air felt slightly cheery too, as a soft tune wove through the ancient pine tree forest that lay like a prickly blanket over the rolling hills.

It was a familiar tune, sung by a familiar woman’s voice, her pale skin and dark braided hair a sight he saw often in these parts of the land. Before her, two mutts sniffled happily, their wet noses pushing through the fallen leaves and shrubs that covered the dry forest floor.

From the shadows of that same thicket, he was watching her, watching her rosy lips curl up in that dreamy smile, her feet kicking her blue skirts with confident strides.

Belle, he knew her name by now, was one of the few who dared to wander so close to his grounds, his domain, her skirts rustling as she conjured a book from the depths of her pockets. Always reading.

At first he had been somewhat surprised to see a woman of her position even owning a book, a proper book. Her father was but a poor horse handler and her family long deceased.

But, indeed, she could read.

With an elegant hand she brushed down her skirts before sitting down on that same fallen down tree that she used everyday; her hide-out whenever the weather allowed. Clicking her tongue she instructed her dogs to lay down, her hand flicking through the book, returning to the page where she had left off a day ago.

Away from the snarky remarks and jealous whispers of the town folk, here she could read as dawn cracked over the horizon, her presence welcomed by the listening embrace of the forest and its inhabitants. The birds quieted their song and the mice and squirrels halted their squabbling, just long enough to look and listen, bewitched beady eyes watching the pretty woman as she started to read aloud.

It was an old and leather bound rendering of Apuleius’ Cupid and Psyche, an ancient fairy tale, the book nearly falling apart as she brushed her fingertips over the yellowed, vulnerable pages. She had read it a dozen times now, and yet the monster couldn’t help but listen, his lips moving in a silent joined recital. He knew the words by heart at this point.

What exactly she did by the day time he couldn’t tell, his disposition making it impossible for him to visit town when the sun was out. And thus he would just imagine it. Perhaps she worked as one of the chambermaids for the Les Comtes. Perhaps she helped her father in the stables - he had seen the old man during the nights many a time, his rough hands being ever so gentle with the handsome beasts that belonged to the Les Comtes. In fact all was owned by the Les Comtes, the family so rich that almost all villagers worked for their estate and businesses.

Far too soon Belle’s voice would silence again, her finger tracing the page she had ended on, memorising it before gently closing the book, her eyes looking up through the thicket of the tree branches, watching those looming clouds up above. He knew what she thought; it was going to rain and she probably couldn’t return to this spot for a long time.

After the rain would come hail, winds, winter. And as it goes with reading outside, her natural reading nook was simply not able to hide her from the elements, and, with her reading hobby sneered at by the town’s folk, this might very well be her last reading session for this year.

With a sigh she got up, calling for her dogs and making her way back to the village, long skirts kicking, her book hidden back in the depths of her pockets. Oh, how he was going to miss her. Even if it was just for a day. Here in the forest he was awaited by an eternal nothingness. No job, no destination, only empty days that wove into a long string of months, years, centuries.

Returning to the crumbling ruins of his castle, the grande structure long past its glory days, he wandered endlessly through its halls, dust collecting on items that shouldn’t ever run into such disuse. Plates, cups, the fireplace, the beds. For centuries now he could not feel the pleasure of the simplicity of life. The food ashen on his tongue. His eyes, though closed, never truly resting. His skin no longer feeling the comfort of a warm hearth. His still beating heart but a mousy whisper of its once roaring strength.

Watching those heavy clouds above the treetops, he knew that it would be long before he would get to hear her voice again. A storm was looming, the long dry spell finally coming to an end and taking with it the long awaited rains. He knew it was a necessity, the listening critters around him feeling desperate for food now winter was soon to arrive, but he couldn’t help but feel a deep disappointment all the same. Because with the dreary days would come even more dark hours for him, the last sparkle of joy ripped from his life until spring would probably come again.

—

‘Another one dead.’ The hunter growled, heaving the dead dog’s body from his cart, the boneless heap of bled out sinew and fur unceremoniously dropping to the dusty ground. With the ongoing drought, food has become more and more scarce. Crops were failing, wild animals were roaming nearer to the village and despite their best efforts, the hunters had great difficulty to actually catch anything. Something strange was afoot in the forest and rumour was about; it was the beast!

‘So no luck then.’ Arthur said in a hushed tone, his old knees cracking as he squatted down to inspect the remains of the hound. And indeed. Neck cracked, jugular torn, the required strength for such an act belonging to no less than a bear..or beast..of sorts.

‘Twas a mad dog anyways. But still..’ The hunter squinted, looking out over the yellow grassed meadows, to the edge of the forest where that monstrous beast hid away. ‘..we must see to it. The darn thing must be done with once and ..for..’ He blinked, then looked at Arthur with mild confusion. ‘Is that Belle?’ He pointed at a figure that appeared from the tree-line, two dogs at either side of her light blue skirts.

Arthur pushed himself up with a groan and also squinted his eyes, his sight no longer what it had been. ‘If it’s a pretty thing with two mutts, a dress of blue and a smile for days, it must be Belle.’ He said, his vision too blurry to discern anything that resembled his daughter. The hunter gruntled his disapproval, though not denying that it was indeed Belle, his strong, broad shouldered frame turning back to his cart to bring out what few rabbits and pheasants he had managed to catch in his traps. ‘You ought to bring some sense in that girl, Arthur..’ He warned, bushy eyebrows frowning as he looked back at the girl, her skirts twirling as she threw a stick for the dogs to fetch.

‘She is just so very much like her mother.’ Arthur sighed, not fully agreeing with the hunter’s sentiments as his lips curled in an amused smile.

‘Tcould be the death of her, old man. The beast is out there, I know that much. In fact. There’s a meeting in the town hall by sundown, in case you wish to join.’

‘Good..good...’ Arthur nodded, only half-listening now, his eyes finally managing to focus on Belle as she kicked her legs over the wood log fence near the stables he worked, her face all smiles and skirts a muddy mess.

Oh..Belle!

The shutters of the barn-like town hall shuddered, the wind outside picking up and the torch flames dancing wildly in the draft. It was a busy night, the floorboards creaking as the town’s men got up from their benches to express their bewilderment and frustrations, loud “Aye’s” and “Nays” echoing in the air as the discussions roared.

Now the food reserves of the town were running low and people had to ration, the tension was near tangible. Winter was coming and the people felt as restless as the storm that was picking up outside. The pigs needed to be fed, the elderly were struggling, sickness was spreading and all fingers pointed angrily at the direction of that wicked forest. The Beast’s forest.

‘Dear people! My people!’ Old Master Le Comte stood up from the throne-like seat that was situated right at the head of the hall, his fatty fingers balancing a shiny cup of wine. He raised his hand to calm the uproar, old furrowy brows raising up to show two grey, beady eyes. ‘Say AYE and agree, that we must see to the end of this beast for once and for all. He threatens our livestock, steals our hunted bounty and his cursed evil talons bring us only disease and misfortune. This drought? I would not be surprised if it were by HIS design!’ He exclaimed.

The town roared up with enthusiasm, fists raised in the air as a loud ‘AYE’ resounded front to back. In fact only the old man Arthur sat quiet, far in the corner, thinking fingers pulling at his moustache. He had discussed the matter with Belle and all she had to say was; “It is indeed quite practical to make a simple minded animal responsible for all your sorrows. But is it right to kill it because you conjured an image of beastly proportion, fed by your own fears? From what I heard he only has killed those who came too close..far too close.”

‘HELP HELP!! The church! A FIRE!’ The large doors of the hall swung open as a young man burst through, arms waving in despair, the discussions regarding the monster quickly forgotten as everyone made haste to stop the flames as they quickly swept around them, the simple wooden structures of the inner town feeding themselves like perfectly dried logs to the hellish bonfire.

Arthur looked up from his daze and slowly followed the hastened crowd outside, his feet no longer so fast as he felt a sudden, surprising coolness in his neck. A wet coolness. With a question in his eyes he looked up at the darkened sky, feeling another drop on his wrinkly skin. Rain? Did the gods bless them just in time? Would all be well?

A conclusion made prematurely, as a new alarm was struck from the village’s heart.

‘THE BEAST! TIS THE BEAST!’ The loud screams came from the village square, Arthur’s attention immediately drawn back to the people that sped past him. Oh no..oh no...BELLE! She was alone, she was..

*FLUNK*

With a loud thud Arthur smacked to the ground, his eyes blinking in shock as he saw the person who had bumped into him rush passed, the silhouette of the person already fading from his vision as all he could do was claw into the dusty road, eyes seeing all black.

Oh no...he thought, his body now fading out of consciousness. Belle! She must be warned! She was all alone! The beast..Oh Belle..the beast..and...Belle...

With heavy blinking eyes he scratched and cried, trying to gain the attention of people rushing by, but failing. None could hear or see him as the storm drowned out his wails and the night hid him in unblinking dark, leaving him with little else but hope, hope that Belle’s joyful tunes would indeed not be ended at the slashing of beastly claws, like the hunter had warned him for this morning.

Oh Belle, dear Belle..

Chap 2 >

General Tagsquad: @harrysthiccthighss @tumblnewby @magdelen69 @thereisa8ella @mary-ann84 @darkbooksarwin @summersong69 @madbaddic7ed @luclittlepond @maroonmolly

Vampire!Henry Tagsquad: @elinesama @i-cant-remember-my-old-login

If you want to be added to or removed from my tag lists, shoot me a message!

#henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill fanfic #vampire!henry #beauty and the beast au #vampire #beast #angst #adult fairytale #belle #apuleius #cupid and psyche #stalking

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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years

Text

My Wild Heart Bleeds || Morgan, Adam, Blanche, Margot, & Constance

TIMING: Current

LOCATION: UMWC Humanities Dept

PARTIES: @walker-journal, @harlowhaunted, @g0t-ri5h, @constancecunningham, @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Constance sits in on Morgan’s lit seminar.

CONTAINS: Mild gore, death tw

The afternoon section of Fear and Loathing: Western Literature of Speculation was crammed into a corner seminar room designed for intimate grad-level meetings half the size, baked into the side of the building through its set of large windows like a hothouse. Even with zombie strength, they wouldn’t slide up more than an inch to let in the cooling September air. Morgan smiled brightly at her students, as if enthusiasm alone could make the central air in the building work double time for them. “I really like the place you’re coming from with that point! Do you think it’s fair and accurate for me to rephrase your thought as, ‘the debate between Carmilla and Laura’s father in the dinner scene ends formally unresolved, with Carmilla having the last word, positioning her as a possible victor in the exchange, a position which then renders credibility to her reasonable points and, by extension, to her own perspective and humanity?’” Morgan nodded encouragingly at the girl, Maxine. Her rephrasing was a bit of a generous take on her thought, but not completely unfounded.

“Uh...sure?” Maxine replied.

“Amazing! So, going off of Maxine’s thought, what possibilities open up for us when considering the figure of Carmilla? And, does recognizing the humanity behind her perspective complicate the more critical, even predatory ways of viewing her we discussed on Monday?”

The class trudged on in spite of the heat, fixated on passing through each moment that brought them closer to the end of the seminar. Around and behind them, the windows blazed with light. A fissure down the centermost panel glared like liquid metal as it spidered outward, spreading crooked fingers as far as they could reach, as if it meant to rip itself free, seemingly of its own accord.

The refulgent heat made Adam even less inclined to engage with class then was usual for someone who’d entered higher academia mainly to play football and have somewhere to stay while stabbing monsters to death after practice. Thus Adam had chosen his curriculum purely on the basis of what made it easier to flirt with his adamic advisor or what sounded vaguely tangential to his higher purpose of putting bullets in horror movie rejects.

What was literature of speculation? Who knows? Adam, Terry, and Andros had privately speculated on Professor Beck’s ‘assets’ at various points. Thus Adam figured they’d satisfied the syllabus requirements.

The DIE fellows were sweating in the back of the class and praying for death whenever one of their more enthusiastic classmate decided to ‘try hard’ on this Gothic Lesbian stuff.

She just wanted to go home, but Blanche had to rush to work after class to help Mercy on some assignment - which probably meant she was going to be stuck on photography stake-out duty again. At least her car had working air conditioning. She was technically a nerd (Blanche had really done the reading), but it was too hot to really do anything comfortably - even listening to Morgan talk about Carmilla and humanity and thinking deeply.

Blanche went rigid in her seat the second she felt the presence, her colored pen dropping down onto her notebook. She wouldn't have been overly concerned (she felt ghosts pass through campus all the time), but her conversation with Morgan after she warded up her house meant trouble or worse. As calmly as Blanche could manage, she tuned the lecture out as she sat back in her chair, quietly scanning the room with narrowed eyes as the temperature in the room plummeted. Fuck. Fuck. She swiveled around her seat, looking straight over the DIE boys and Adam’s head and straight into the ghosts’ angry eyes.

Oh fuck.

The color drained from her face as Blanche’s hand immediately shot into the air as she almost flew out of her seat. “Morgan-I-Have-A-Really-Important-Question!” Blanche blurted out immediately.

Margot had all but fallen asleep in the sweltering heat of the classroom. It didn’t help that she’d been up half the night, awoken by her recurring night terror. Her mind was so tired. Still, Morgan was trying her best to be an engaging professor, to lead the class discussion in a formative direction. It was a pity Margot wasn’t interested in the class. She would Google the SparkNotes later.

Her eyes were just now closing, lulled by the dulcet tones of Morgan’s voice. It reminded her of a lullaby one of her nannies used to sing. So -- soothing… Sleepy...

Interrupted, jolted awake by the student behind her, knocking Margot’s seat as she stood up and began shouting for attention. Margot turned to give Blanche a hard stare, the girl flapping her hand back and forth. How rude.

Morgan was teasing out a comment from another student. Everyone was melting in their seats in the worst way but they were so close to stumbling upon the paradoxical existence of Carmilla’s complex humanity and the inhuman treatment she received in the narrative’s third act, the fear behind that swerve--- and then Blanche interrupted. “Uh...yes, Blanche?” This wasn’t usually her way, and neither was the two-notches-away-from-full-panic expression. “Go ahead. Unless the question is about excusing yourself because you’re not feeling well, because you can just...go, in that case.”

Behind them, the window’s spider veins multiplied. The glass trembled in its pain, whimpering under the pressure of Constance’s grip. What had she expected when she drifted up to the campus, looking for signs of the woman? And yet, what could have prepared her for how blindingly smug she looked as she lectured her students? How shameless and bitterly ironic, to speak on humanity, on true feeling and justice? Constance barely noticed the blonde girl look at her. Her gaze was steadfast on Morgan, who sported neither a scratch nor an ounce of regret. Constance focused her energy on the glass, wispy tears running down her face. It wasn’t fair. If she didn’t get to have her life, she shouldn’t have to watch a Bachman run amok with theirs either. With a shriek, she burst the window inward, hailing glass down on the whole class.

Morgan ducked to cover her face gave Blanche a look that said, Oh, is that what you meant?

Adam’s eyes had flicked up when Blanche’s body language had changed, gaze scanning the room for anything new before settling back on her face. Adam was well aware that Blanche could perceive things he couldn’t. Just as Adam constantly felt waves of ice-hot inhumanity rippling off Professor Beck whenever he was in the same room as her, so too could Blanche be a sexier and less creepy version of that 6th Sense kid.

Honestly Adam couldn’t tell if Blanche just was having a paranormal activity moment or was just nerdgasming about a vampy lesbian flick with a depressing lack of sex scenes. Blanche ticked off Miss Narcolepsy over there and for a few seconds Adam, Terry, and Andros sat up in mutual of some awesome cat-fight action.

Then in one shitfuck moment glass was falling down and lots of people were doing the duck and panic thing.

If this was a roomful of Hunter kids here, all Adam would have had to do was designate the extraction point at the nearest Safe Space and watch as everyone fell into a coordinated boot camp pace outta here.

Still he wasn’t sure if this was some structural thing, ghost stuff, or someone just popped some X-man powers from a Victorian sexual awakening. “Yo Harlow,” Adam said across the room as he tried to shake glass shards from his hair. “Got any Caspers?”

Blanche had just grimaced at Margot when screams echoed from the surrounding students as glass scattered over the class. Pure driven panic flew through her, and she froze until she heard Adam yell out to her. Caspers. A much less important part of her mind screamed at talking about ghosts in public, but it was enough to check her back into reality

“Adam, she’s after Morgan!!” Blanche swore, clamping her hand over her ears as Constance let out another anguished scream. Fuck, that was disorienting. Students continued to panic, some running out the door as fast as they could as lights overheard started flickering and then exploding, the temperature dropping to a cool chill. Desks started flying towards their beloved professor, crashing against the whiteboard behind them.

“Fuck, my bag, where’s my bag?” It had just been right next to her.

The panicking students had punted her bag - full of salt, iron rods, an iron dagger, a gun, and wards- away from her and she was trying to strong arm her way through to get to Morgan. Some poor student went flying as a chair was ripped from under him, a crunch of metal as the chair bent and snapped before their eyes. Blanche shoved someone out of her way, rushing toward the front of the room.

“Morgan, no!”

The sharp end of the now broken leg of the chair was rammed straight into Morgan’s stomach, pinning her to the whiteboard behind her. And then all hell broke loose.

Margot covered her head with her hands as glass sprayed across the room. She could feel the shallow cuts on her forearms where shards had spliced her skin, but the pain was an afterthought. Were her eyes deceiving her? Margot couldn’t fathom the chaos that was taking place. Flying desks, shattering windows; were they experiencing some kind of tornado?

While other students fled the room, Margot was frozen in place, watching as her professor was impaled by an invisible force and Blanche was shouting about her stupid bag. What purse was so important at this moment? “What the fuck is going on?!” Margot screamed over the chaos.

None of this was real. She had surely just fallen asleep in class. Yes, this was all some part of her twisted nightmares. “This is a dream.” Margot whispered to herself. “You’re about to wake up.” She repeated this mantra as she pinched herself. Only she wasn’t waking up.

The world shattered around Morgan. Sharp edges and razor points pinwheeled toward her face, too fast for her to catch her horrified reflection spliced through each piece. The fog around her senses parted; Morgan swore later that she felt every groove in the wood grain as it raced through her body, heavier and slower than the pole that had killed her, but no less painful. “Fuck you…” She hissed in a whisper, her lungs wheezing as they remembered the blood rushing through them, the bite of concrete at her back, and the numb feeling of death in her mouth.

Constance screamed again as she drove the chair leg harder into the wall. “Stop! What’s wrong with you? Just stop! Stop and die!” The old overhead lights buzzed anxiously. Sparks burst and showered down on the class. Children. She hadn’t even been thinking about the children. Constance drifted back, staring with wild confusion as students phased in and out of her, neither seeing nor caring, much less understanding… What was she becoming? Constance reached out for a small one, squeezing himself under a chair as tightly as he could. “I’m sorry, it’s not you, it’s her. She’s making me do this, she can’t leave me alone!” The chair flew back against the wall and snapped in two.

Morgan’s body trembled, trying to fix itself and coming up against the chair leg in her chest. She gripped it with both hands and pulled, gasping as it inched out, dripping with dark, tar like blood. Her eyes found Margot’s as she struggled. “This. Is. Real,” she said between gasps. “Help Blanche or get out of here.”

Adam was a normally laid back guy, preferring to let non-monster life just proceed at its own pace. But he’d been conditioned to respond when the spooky side reared its head. He hollered to Terry, and Andros to get people out. Luckily instincts from the football field asserted themselves and the two other DIE started ushering students off.

Adam’s backpack would probably be a national security concern and unfortunately most of the stuff in here could only harm physical threats. But nevertheless Adam withdrew a long cruel length of barbed wire that’d done more then its fair share of strangling and trip-wire duty lately. The cold iron glinted beneath spots of rust and dried blood.

Technically it was a weapon against Fae, but iron was iron.

Adam could trust Blanche to do her ghostbusters stuff, while he could only help those he could see. He vaulted over twisted chairs as if they were track hurdles, trying to navigate a room quickly becoming a telekinetic warzone. Adam knelt beside Morgan, spooling out the suspiciously-stained barbed wire in a circle around them both.

“Oh you’re still alive Prof ….cool, uh just a sec.”

She’s making me do this, she can’t leave me alone. For a single moment, Blanche could almost understand Morgan inherently wanting to destroy Constance’s soul. There was no time, however, to dwell on Constance’s blatant hypocrisy woven in her rationalization of endangering a room full of people. She ducked under pieces of flying debris as Adam launched himself at Morgan. Blanche, already in a poor mood, wondered only briefly if she should be concerned about Adam killing Morgan for her obvious inhuman nature of surviving being impaled - would Morgan be necessary to kill for humanity?? - but decided that the only thing she could do right now was trust him, even through the underlying anger.

Constance launched herself at Adam and Morgan, her infuriated scream echoing in Blanche’s ears as she realized she couldn’t pass the invisible wall the iron circle created. Blanche wasn’t thinking clearly as she frantically searched for her bag, head whipping around for the stupid thing. Before she knew it, though, she was throwing herself in front of Adam and Morgan just as a large piece of desk ripped from the floor and was thrown at them.

Blanche’s hands raised out in front of her and there was a loud crash.

She hardly registered the pain, she was used to it. Honestly, she was more thrown off by the large broken window in the back of the classroom the desk had flown out of. Whoops, maybe she had given that a little too much juice. The desk had sailed away from the three in front, going straight through Constance and crashing through the window. Screaming was erupting from the remaining students in the classroom.

“Please, get my bag!” Blanche snapped at Margot, breathing heavily. “It’s pink and white and it has things that can stop this. Now! I’ll try to stop her from doing any more damage to anyone else but I can only play ping pong for so long before I pass out!”

Despite Morgan’s words Margot couldn’t make herself believe this was reality. The black strands of blood that oozed from the professor’s wounds were enough to convince herself this was some kind of fever, probably the result of a concussion or even blood loss from her shallow wounds. Nonetheless Margot felt some kind of control, different than how her nightmares usually felt.

Margot watched as one of the remaining students, she thought his name was Adam, bound over the anarchy that had taken over the classroom, before surrounding himself and Morgan in some kind of strange, ritualistic circle. Wow, her brain was so very good at conjuring things up, it had even given Blanche some Carrie-esque superpowers. Doing as Morgan had instructed, Margot turned to Blanche who was in the midst of quite the battle.

“Okay, okay! I can do that!” Margot yelled back to Blanche’s request. Pink and white, pink and white. She repeated the description to herself as she searched. Margot dodged the multitude of flying furniture as her eyes scanned the classroom floor for the bag. Margot thought back to where they had been sitting before all of this had started up. She looked in this direction, spotting the bag. Margot scrambled towards it on all fours, her palms and knees burning as she did so. “Blanche! I got it!” Just as her left hand clasped the object, she heard a deep crunch. A large overhead light had fallen, or rather, had been dropped onto her wrist by an unseen force. Margot could feel a shattering in her bones and glass in her skin. She cried out. For a dream, this pain felt so very real. She reached out with her other hand, taking hold of the bag. Margot shook the heavy light fixture off of her and cradled the injury. “Here.” She whimpered, holding it up as high as she could manage, the splinters and glass digging in deeper.

Morgan tugged on the chair leg in her chest. She could imagine how it splintered around her body and all the screaming she would’ve been doing if she’d still had a life to lose. Should she scream now? Would it make anything any better if she made a big ol’ holler and begged for someone to make this stop? Would any of this be any less ridiculous? Morgan started to laugh. It was a deathly, wheezing little rattle at first, but as the chair leg popped free and she fell into her student, it grew stronger. “Well that was weird and random and lucky, right?” She said to Adam. The classroom was still flying in chaos. Half the students had made it out but half a dozen remained, most of them cowering in corners or frozen in shock. “Class dismissed!” She called chucking the chair leg at Constance. It sailed through her and clattered against the wall, bopping Maxine on the head. “Apologies! But, seriously, go!” What else was there to do? There was some very gnarly looking wire around her and Adam that looked suspiciously purposeful. She gave him a sidelong look, brow arched in a silent question as she knelt down and reached outside it for her bag. “Can you see what’s going on?” She asked, running her hand through, but finding everything but what she was looking for. She undid all the zippers and flaps and started to dump the contents on the ground. “Don’t see many frat boys carrying this in their backpack. I’m not sure if that’s technically allowed on campus…” But anxious blabbering wasn’t actually making anything better. She needed to find-- her salt! “Perfect.” Morgan opened the velvet pouch and heaved the contents across the floor. The salt pattered the ground like rain. It spread thin, rolling wide across the dusty tile. Constance flew up to one of the chairs still standing, unharmed. She clenched her fists as she took in the double barrier between her and her ‘prize.’ “Sorry to keep disappointing you,” Morgan sneered, her eyes drifting downwards at her failed ploy. The feeling was mutual.

Adam had known Morgan was an inhuman since first being in class with her and feeling the frigid fire sensation her proximity set off all through his body. But though Adam had been born with the clairvoyant ability to sense all supernatural creatures, well those with physical bodies anyway, his Hunter vibes weren’t as specific as those who’d undergone more specific mutation. Morgan could have just been the world’s biggest pixie for all he knew.

But since the prof was taking this whole impalement thing like a champ, Adam was placing his bets on one of the undead. Since he’d seen her during the day without wickerman shit going down, the Hunter was going to very tentatively put his money on his gothic lit teacher being a zombie.

Was Morgan Beck actually a two hundred and twenty something year old Mary Shelly moonlighting as a Texan? Time would tell.

Morgan asked some rather uncharitable questions of why a gentleman was carrying bloodstained barbed wire in his bag and if he could see anything. “Trying to keep cows outta the keggers,” he explained cheekily before turning to survey the madness going on. He wanted to help Blanche and not just chill in this iron circle, but the simple fact was: “Can’t see anything except shit flying everywhere and Harlow doing some cheer squad poses.”

“Morgan! Adam! Stay in the circle!” Blanche yelled frantically. Playing telekinetic interference was harder than she thought, and she didn't want them to get hurt chucking trying to chuck salt. Out of frustration, Constancee stopped aiming at Adam and Morgan and aimed at Blanche herself, seeing it faster to go through her. Debris was building up as Blanche redirected things to slam into the walls, Constance howling in rage at her failures.

Finally, Margot yelled to her, and Blanche heard the best news of the day. Unfortunately, Constance wasn’t deaf. “No! Fuck -” She saw the light fall, and feared the worst - but Margot was okay, for now, holding her bag high enough for all to see. “Margot, run! Or take cover!!” Blanche reached out her hand, and her bag flew through the air. Constance tried to rip it down away from Blanche, causing salt and books and a small dagger to go clattering to the ground. Blanche tugged back, the pain in her head excruciating as she gave one hard mental yank, and it flew back into her. Blanche wasted no time; she finally grasped her iron rod tightly, throwing her bag to the side. Constance threw things, trying to knock her off balance to get her away or worse. There was no use. Blanche ducked or threw them away herself before she was close enough to --

“This doesn’t concern you! Run like the others, why don’t you! Run, before I--”

Blanche cut Constance off with a hard swing of the iron rod. She dissolved with one last scream, and the presence faded away quickly. Blanche felt like her skin was on fire, but the tiny pin pricks in her skin were gone. They were alone. It was over. She looked back to where Adam and Morgan were, their figures blurring as the rod slipped from her hand. “She’s gone. It’s safe.” Blanche’s knees buckled underneath her and she collapsed, utterly exhausted. “Call 9-1-1, Margot’s hurt.” Blanche called quietly. She laid backward, unable to keep herself upright as she closed her eyes tight and sank into darkness. Time to rest.

The bag flew from her grasp, and at Blanche’s order, Margot reduced her form to a fetal position, not knowing if she could make it to the exit. She covered her head and drifted in and out of consciousness, her mind forgetting, or rather, repressing the memory of what had just occurred.

Margot was awoken by Constance’s piercing scream, her ears continuing to ring from the sound for minutes afterwards, but at least she was back to the real world. Finally she was out of the strange scenario her brain had conjured up after the tornado, or hurricane, or whatever it was.

She began to stand, holding her head. “I’m okay. I’m fine!” Margot assured Blanche and the rest of them, though her body was throbbing. “Blanche?” Margot could see the girl’s crumbled frame on the ground. “Blanche!” Margot ran to her and kneeled beside her. She brought her head to Blanche’s chest and heard the slow thumping of her heart. At least she was alive. Margot took Blanche’s hand, not knowing how else to be useful. “Professor, are you okay?” She looked back at Morgan and Adam.

It never felt like it was over, with Constance. Morgan stayed still, trembling and on high alert. It wasn’t until Blanche’s body slipped to the ground with a thud that she snapped back into step with the rest of the world. All the wrecked furniture leapt out at her eyes, super saturated with violence, confounding her sense of space with their jutting wrong angles, dusty debris, and bloody ends… blood…

“I-I’m fine,” Morgan stammered, stepping over Adam’s wire ring. “Who all is still in here? Adam, you’re good, right? Margot--” She stumbled over to the girl, looking at the mess of her wrist. “You’re gonna need to get to student health, or the hospital. But you’ve in one piece, and you’re gonna be okay!” She squeezed the girl’s shoulder, nodding encouragingly. If it wasn’t for the dark stain of dead blood on her cardigan, you wouldn’t have known she’d been run through and stuck to the wall only minutes ago. “Blanche--” she sighed, shrugged, and stepped over the girl. She would be okay. Morgan could carry her out to her car and get her squared up in her own apartment easy. “Carlos!” She gave the boy a sharp look.

He was grinning sheepishly, scrunched up in the corner, as if it would make him any smaller than his six feet two inches. “Sorry. It just seemed, like, better to try to be invisible? But I’m going now. I’m--”

Carlos paled and bent double as he vomited cheetos, acid, and clear fluid on the floor.

Morgan followed his line of vision and found-- “Shit, Maxine! Maxine?” She pushed the rest of the classroom furniture aside and knelt down to where she lay on the floor. There was a deep gash in her head, soaking her sandy brown hair black. Her eyelid hung down the wrong way and there was some kind of matter sticking up through her hair. Morgan’s stomach clenched. She didn’t dare touch her like this. There was no telling how few barriers there were between her brain and Morgan now, or if there was any tender, fresh-peeled skin she’d crave taking a bite of-- Maxine had been quiet, depressed, wry humored, blunt when you could get her to open up. She really wasn’t good at explicating literature into coherent theory, but she was young and soft and struggling, and now she was nothing. “Carlos--” she said, voice shaking. “Please leave. All of you…” She turned around and collected Blanche off the floor and into her arms. “Grab your stuff, or don’t, but we’re not staying here. It’s not safe.” It was starting to seem like nowhere was.

“I’m alright Professor,” Adam quietly gathered both his and Blanche’s occult paraphernalia while the Medium was being attended to by Morgan. Though salt, iron, and other instruments were unlikely to arouse that much suspicion, it didn’t make sense to take any chances in this town. He packed up his backpack and Blanche’s bag and slung them as a shoulder as the room was vacated.

But though Adam pretended to be wholly engrossed in packing and ushering the vomiting remaining students out the door, the Hunter kept an eye on Professor Beck. If Morgan was what Adam thought she was, or some other rarer variety of undead, then she’d have to be closely observed when around the wounded students.

If she slipped up? Well with those gnarly injuries it’d be pretty plausible that a beloved literature professor perished in the hospital complication. There’d be a whole weepy story in the student paper and everything.

With Blanche safely cradled in Morgan’s arms, Margot let go of the girl's hand. She sensed that Blanche was in safe hands with the professor. As everyone began to exit, Margot took a second to gather herself. She wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened, but she was not in any mood to find out right now. Using her one good arm, she hoisted her backpack over her shoulder. There was no way she was leaving her laptop behind. How else was she going to figure all of this out?

The room was empty now, the rest of the class being ushered out by Morgan and Adam. Margot stood in the doorway for a few moments, admiring the destruction, before following the rest of the group out into the hall and presumably to the hospital.

Constance screamed silently, reaching within her soul for something to sew herself back together again. The world broke into starlight flashes, too bright and formless to mean anything. Her mind blazed. Was she dying again? Was she going back to the purgatory before this new world? To hell? She wondered the same every time she was struck and dissipated. The magic of death was strange to her and she did not know when it would be ripped away as suddenly as it had been ripped into her. When the winds of fear that had scattered her to the wilds fell and the world was still once more, she could see the room where she had shattered it, and within, puddles of salt laid to tell her how much she did not belong and was not wanted, as if she did not spend her existence with that clarity in abundance. But beyond the salt, and dripping slowly into it, was the darkness of thick blood protruding from the head of a young girl.

Constance flew to the broken classroom walls. She would reach all the way through to the girl if her body would only will itself solid again. But she was only air, and the salt had spilled too close to the wall for her to come through. She spied the dead girl only from a distance, taking in the judgement from her unblinking eyes. What have I done? She thought. What have I done?

You have crushed me, the girl’s body seemed to say. You have proven them right.

If Constance could have wept for them both she would have. What cruelty was this, that she set out to strike down only one soul and take a life as miserable and innocent as her own had once been? She sent the thought away on the wind, lest it destroy her further.

“I will show them,” she whispered to the air. “I will show them all what true monsters are.”

#wr adam #wr blanche #wr margot #wr adam chatzy #wr blanche chatzy #wr margot chatzy #wr chatzy #death tw #wr group chatzy #wickedswriting

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