#rocking in the corner with a thousand yard stare

[ninibeingdelulu]

Seeing you comforting a child…

ft. leon kennedy, cloud strife

Leon Kennedy would never dare admit it openly, but the stoic, badass exterior melted away ever so slightly at the sight of you tenderly comforting a lost child.

That time in the ransacked village, when the haunting wails of a youngster pierced the air amidst the carnage - Leon instinctively tensed, jaw setting grimly as his grip tightened on his rifle.

But then he spotted you already racing ahead unhesitatingly. Dropping to one knee, arms outstretched in a gentle beckoning posture as the little one startled then sprinted straight into your protective embrace.

Your soothing tones murmured comforting assurances while cradling their trembling form close against you. Fingers carding soothingly through tangled hair with the utmost tender care.

And Leon couldn't tear his widened eyes away from the tenderhearted display. Throat constricting over the unexpected lump suddenly materializing there.

That million-watt smile radiating from your features as you rocked them patiently until whimpering quieted was like the first vibrant blossom peeking through the ash after a nuclear winter.

An oasis of affectionate nurturing shining through the oppressive bleakness suffocating them both for far too painfully long.

Leon found his calloused finger-pads unconsciously drifting up to caress his own chapped lips as if wishing to physically absorb the tranquil serenity you effortlessly exuded.

Eyelids momentarily fluttering closed while permitting himself to just bask in the warmth emanating from your very presence like a soothing balm against all the harrowing darkness poisoning them both.

A tremulous sigh escaped between those parted lips as the barest ghost of a smile tugged at their corners for the first time in...Christ, had it really been years since he last felt anything even remotely resembling that fleeting glimmer of unguarded optimism blossoming in his chest?

The peaceful tableau you presented with the now-placid child tucked securely in your arms struck Leon deeper than any physical combat wound ever could.

Worming past every steel-plated layer of defenses, countermeasures and failsafes, straight down into the most vulnerable core of his humanity he'd sworn died an agonizing death ages ago.

It terrified yet entranced him in equal measure just drinking in the serene display. Eventually those narrowed steel-blue irises regained some of their piercing guardedness while surreptitiously cataloging every nuance etched upon your expressions and ministrations.

As if desperately searing the moment into his consciousness to be revisited and clung onto later through whatever hell awaited them next.

Thank Christ for your influence and the inexplicable balm it provided against the miasma of torment clouding Leon's withered soul more with every passing abyss they navigated together...

The uncompromising mask remained solidly affixed in place by the time you finally lifted your eyes to meet his guarded gaze, the child nestled peacefully into the crook of your neck.

Not a single flicker of that momentary softness penetrated the hauntingly chiseled granite of his features now.

Yet behind that shuttered and fortified thousand-yard stare, the barest ember pulsed with renewed tenacity suffusing Leon's frigid disposition with almost undetectable glimmers of warmth.

All because of your natural radiance and selfless compassion reminding him why they fought on through each grueling gauntlet.

Sure he'd never verbalize sentiments that unbearably raw and guileless aloud. But that infinitesimal spark continuing to miraculously smolder despite all efforts to smother it was enough to propel them onward through any escalating onslaught yet to come.

This time with a renewed fervor steeling Leon's adamantine determination from the inside out.

The desolate, mako-tainted wastes proved no place for a child's cries. Yet the haunting echoes still pierced straight through Cloud's calloused defenses when tiny lungs unleashed their heartrending wails upon the barren landscape.

His gloved grip instinctively clenched tighter around the battered Buster Sword's hilt, jaw tensing as those predatory ice-blue irises immediately snapped towards the source of the disturbance.

Fully prepared for whatever fresh horror emerged after the merc caught fleeting movement through his peripherals.

But the cautious sweep revealed only your slender form already hastening ahead. Moving with fluid grace directly towards the sobbing bundle tucked against a crumbling wall.

His firm chapped lips tightened into a grim line witnessing you unhesitatingly drop to one knee before the distressed child without any apparent armaments at the ready.

From this distance, Cloud glimpsed your gentle features soften with bottomless compassion wholly separate from the usual battlefield ferocity.

Small hands unfurled in placating gestures exuding profound warmth and sincerity instantly easing some of the fractures riddling his own battered soul simply by proximity.

While you deftly coaxed the tiny thing into your embrace with susurrant tones and infinitely patient ministrations, Cloud suddenly found himself robbed of breath altogether.

Those glacial spheres wide and stunned at the exquisitely tender vision you presented cradling their fragility so reverently. A profound ache lodged behind his breastbone at the maternal aura emanating from your whole being.

He swallowed convulsively over the sandpaper abrasions rasping along his windpipe.

Gloved fingers betraying the slightest tremor disturbing his usual uncompromising stoicism while still drinking in every indelible detail of the intimate scene unraveling.

From the tender flickering caresses smoothed across tangled russet locks to your honeyed vocals humming soothing melodies of consolation.

All suffusing the stale, mako-saturated atmosphere with vibrant healing essences Cloud found himself instinctively gravitating closer towards.

Feather-light brushes scritched lovingly along the whimpering child's back forming hypnotic ellipses mirroring your unguarded smile radiating all-encompassing warmth across those cherubic cheeks now drenched in tear tracks.

Until finally after an eternity, the miniature form stilled in your arms. Body unlocking from its terrified rigor mortis into the very picture of youthful tranquility tucked securely against your heartbeat.

Cloud hadn't even realized he'd been holding his own respiration captive until the soft sigh expelled in a shuddering rush between lax lips.

A full-bodied flinch rattled his broad shoulders at its sudden harsh volume intruding upon the sacred tableau before him.

But thankfully, your features remained beautifully serene, wholly undisturbed while continuing to rock the now-quieted bundle in gentle rhythms.

Only then did molten sapphire pools drift up to lock with his widened stare burning with intensity across the slender lacuna separating you. A tremor not wholly attributable to anxiety skittered down his whip-cord musculature watching your radiant smile intensify directed solely towards Cloud.

As if silently communicating your infinite gratitude for him bearing witness to such an intimate and precious moment blossoming in this scorched hellscape...

Whatever parched recesses comprising the haunted mercenary's core still retained the capacity for absorbing nurturing warmth - it suddenly flooded within the confines of his barrel chest when those infinitely compassionate irises shone their benediction upon him.

Unknotting every rigid sinew and ligament hardened into a battle-tempered carapace purely through the power of your tender, life-affirming essence.

Almost imperceptibly, Cloud's chapped lips softened around the faintest half-curved suggestions budding there.

Posture unconsciously opening to welcome your pure light into his long-shadowed world while holding your loving gaze in mesmerized thrall.

As if determined to thoroughly archive this oasis of serenity and unconditional love in his consciousness so it may fortify whatever grueling battles destiny demanded they wage next.

Then in a single blink and a slight dip of your chin, the spell abruptly dissolved back into hyper-vigilance.

Yet even with the mercenary's legendary ice reformed across those exquisite Nordic features, perpetually braced for the next onslaught - a spark continued flickering in the hooded caverns of his stare.

A faint ember of something intangible yet transcendent now eternally kindled behind his armored exterior.

All because you'd reminded Cloud one of his most precious intangible dreams had been manifested into cherished reality...even under the most desolate conditions.

[vienssunshine]

Don’t know how to feel

pairing: Choso x fem-coded!reader nsfw: sub!Choso, oral sex choso receiving word count: 3k description: while attempting to escape the chaos in Shibuya station, you run into a man dressed in a strange Halloween costume

Your friends said Shibuya was the place to be for Halloween, that they would just die if you didn’t join them for the party tonight. You surrendered to their begging, it’s not like you had other plans, and put on a more-slutty-than-tasteful vampire costume to accompany them for the festivities in the square. It should be a good time, you thought, the perfect opportunity to get buzzed and maybe laid. But as the screams got louder and you realized that no, someone hadn’t slipped something into your drink and that yes, the stampede coming towards you was real, your only concern became staying alive.

You’re torn away from your friends, elbows jabbing your sides, hands pushing you to keep moving or be trampled under frenzied feet. When you look to the sky, fighting to stay upright, you see that some kind of boundary has fallen over the surrounding area, keeping you all trapped. Despite this, the crowd still searches for escape, lurching in directionless surges and crushing you with pounds of body weight every time the current turns. So when you get to the edge of the mob, you take the chance to break free and run to the first shelter you can see: Shibuya station. You hurry inside, trying to not let the blood coating the stairs leading underground deter you. If you can’t escape whatever’s going on, you’ll have to hide until it blows over.

The bottom of the stairs is covered in rubble, the gaping hole in the ceiling above it the clear perpetrator. You clamber over the loose rock and steel to land on the tile of the train station. Behind you, strange noises from the world above begin to bellow through the staircase. You don't know what could be causing such unnatural sounds, but it's clear it would be best to put distance between you and their origin.

Your feet hit the ground hard, and you’re panting as you whip your head around, looking for anything to use as cover. You spot a small divot in the wall—maybe there’s a tunnel out of here—but when you approach it, you find it filled with the crouched form of a man. He’s in a Halloween costume too—though you’re not sure what he’s dressed up as—and leaning on the cracked wall, eyes wide in a thousand yard stare. It’s clear he’s not taking the situation at hand well, but if he wants to have any chance of surviving, he can’t stay out in the open like this.

A loud roar and a flurry of screams from the ground above echos through the station.

“Hey,” you whisper-shout, “Come with me.”

Unaffected, he mumbles something.

You try again, the urgency in your voice unhidden, but are interrupted by footsteps rumbling down the steps of the train station—though it doesn't sound like a crowd of humans, rather a parade of zoo animals. You’ve got to go, now. Still, you reach down and grab his forearm, offering the poor man one more chance to come with you and save himself. He must've had a moment of clarity because because he allows you to get him to his feet and drag him behind you.

The stampede is reaching the bottom of the stairs when you turn the corner and pull the man through the first door you see, slamming it behind you. An emergency light overhead casts a dim, yellow haze over what you recognize as a closet, allowing you to spy a tall shelf of cleaning supplies—a janitor's closet.

“Help me move this in front of the door,” you command.

You get behind the shelf and begin pushing, digging your feet into the cement ground and pressing your weight against it. Fuck, it’s too heavy. The weird sounds are getting closer. You push even harder.

The shelf flies forward, causing you to stumble and steady yourself with the wall to your side. Though you wish it had been, it wasn't your strength that moved it.

You turn around to see that the man is right behind you, having joined in the effort to barricade the door, and from his extended arm, had only used one hand to do so.

He drops his arm down by his side and looks down at you. For the first time since you’ve met, he makes eye contact. There’s a horizontal line drawn across his face, just under his eyes, with what you assume is make-up, but you’re only able to study it up close for a second before his expression crumples. He backs up, pressing his back flat against the furthest wall—which doesn’t get him very far in such a cramped closet—while his eyes frantically dart over your tattered costume. Then he looks down, staring at the dirty floor beneath his feet. It doesn’t appear that his mental state has improved since you found him.

“Hey, are you okay?” you ask softly, speaking as if you were trying to not spook a stray animal. His hands are gripping the sides of his pants. He must’ve seen something terrible in the commotion above ground.

You try something else. “What’s your name?” you whisper. Hopefully this question is easier to answer and you can work on calming the poor man down.

He doesn’t meet your gaze as he mutters once again.

“What was that?” you say, taking a minuscule step forward.

Thankfully, the movement doesn't startle him, but he stays curled into himself when he answers. “Choso Kamo,” he says.

You introduce yourself, and though he gives you a few quick looks, he can’t keep his eyes on you as you speak. He must be really freaked out. “I know this is a traumatic situation, Choso,” you say, “I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to make you feel better.”

Choso shifts his weight, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. “You’re making me feel weird,” he replies.

You furrow your brow. Out of the two of you, you’re definitely the one acting the most normal. “I’m sorry,” you say, folding your arms over your black corset—it's a miracle it stayed up after all that running. “We’ll only have to be here until everything dies down. Then you won’t have to see me again.”

“It’s not like that,” he says, fidgeting with the sleeve of his costume. He glances at you. His pale face is flushed pink. “The feeling feels…good.”

Now you’re puzzled. “…okay?”

“Can I…can I try something?” he asks.

Well, at least he’s talking now. And he seems to have calmed down, making him less likely to do something stupid and get both of you killed. It's a good idea to keep him this way, make sure he stays relaxed and reassured.

So you agree. “Um…sure,” you respond.

The yellow light flickers.

Choso takes a step forward, a step that crosses the entirety of the small closet, and lays a big hand on your shoulder. You lost the cape of your ‘sexy vampire costume’ in the commotion, so your shoulder is bare; it can directly feel the roughness and warmth of his hands.

“It feels good to…touch you,” he breathes. He turns his attention from your shoulder to your eyes, “and look at you, too.”

You shudder; his gaze is heavy. This…isn’t what you expected.

“I thought I was scaring you,” you say, looking down. There's a few bottles of cleaning supplies scattered on the floor.

“A little bit,” he says, working it out as he speaks, “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s so intense.”

That’s when you notice how strong his grip on your shoulder is, not tight enough to bruise, but enough to communicate a possessiveness. A desire for more. You flick your eyes back up to him, evaluating. He is good-looking, and the expression he has on his face as he waits for your response—cheeks flushed and mouth slightly ajar in gentle pants—is stirring up something warm in your stomach.

You place your hand on his chest. Oh, how his heart is pounding. “You really don’t know what’s going on?” you ask.

He looks down at your hand, then back to you. “I-I don’t, just that…your hand feels so warm and nice.”

You smile a little, tilting your head. “It seems that you’re attracted to me.”

“I didn’t know that was possible–for me to be attracted to someone,” Choso responds. You laugh to yourself, is this guy an alien or something? Maybe that’s what his costume is. Alien or not, he’s still cute.

“Congrats on the revelation,” you say, dropping your hand.

Choso takes a moment to ponder, and you watch with amusement. This interaction doesn’t seem real. Well, this whole situation doesn’t seem real. You hope everything will blow over soon. You’re trying not to catastrophize, to think worse case scenario. And this—

“Are you…attracted to me?” Choso asks.

—is a good distraction.

“You’re handsome,” you say. “I don’t know you that well yet, but I think we are getting off to a good start.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, breathless. He’s trying not to, but his gaze is roaming what he can make out of your body in the dim light. There’s probably a lot to see due to how much your vampire costume already reveals and that parts of it were lost in the scramble for safety.

“Do you want me to keep touching you?” you ask, coy. His breath hitches at the idea.

“If…if it feels good for you too,” Choso responds.

“It does,” you say, taking the final step to have your chest pressing against his. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, hovering your lips just a millimeter away from a kiss. “It feels really good to me.”

He leans forward, not able to bear another second without, but just before he can get that release, you lean back.

He voices his frustration wordlessly and you giggle. “So desperate, aren’t you?”

“You’re teasing me,” he says, a whine in his voice.

“I’ll make it up to you,” you say, bringing your lips to the side of his neck. Choso gasps, a sweet sound, and when you open your mouth, licking a stripe on his skin, his fingers squeeze your waist.

“Fuck,” he says, breath shaky. Enjoying his reactions, you begin to suck on his skin, earning another swear and no doubt leaving a mark. You push yourself into him, and his back hits the wall, his chin raised, exposing more of his neck to be kissed.

With your body flat against his, it’s easy to feel the hardness beneath his waist. He's so eager; you only kissed him a few times. You slide your hand past his collarbone, down his chest, slender but strong, down to just above his aching erection.

Choso is caught off guard. “What are you”—you palm it—“ngh…shit, that feels so…”

“You like it?” you ask, proud because you already know the answer. His eyes are pressed shut as he nods.

“Use your words,” you say, squeezing his erection—he winces—“and I’ll make you feel even better.”

You continue to rub your hand over the erection pushing through his robe in slow, circular strokes as he forces himself to speak. “Yes, I—ah—like it—a lot.”

“So good,” you tell him. The simple praise makes his dick twitch against your palm.

Your eyes flick down to his white pants, billowing in fabric. You tug at it, but it doesn’t move.

“It’s–uh–all one thing.” He blushes, the color prominent on his pale cheeks. “Do you want me to take it off?”

You nod, and he clumsily pulls off his purple and white robe. You still haven’t been able to place what he’s dressed up as, but you don’t offer that thought another second when Choso stands in front of you, naked and impatiently waiting for whatever it is you'll do to him next.

You don’t deprive him long, stepping forward and running your fingers over his bare chest. Yes, you were able to feel how strong he was when you had your body pressed against his, but being able to see the defined ridges of his torso makes his strength unquestionable. He shivers under your fingers, needing more, needing you to touch him lower than you are.

“Can you…?” He’s squirming against the wall, looking down at you with needy eyes. “Sorry, it just feels so,” he exhales, the breath uneven, “so good.”

“Yeah?” you say, wrapping your hand around his length. It’s hot and throbbing. “You want me to touch you here?”

“Yes,” he whimpers, “There. Please.”

You begin to move your hand up and down his erection in a loose fist, spreading the precum dripping from his tip down his length, and adding some of your spit to coat it completely. Choso’s head falls back against the wall and he meets your hand with shallow thrusts of his hips.

“You’re so sensitive,” you notice. He’s reacting so sweetly to your every movement, every soft swipe of your thumb over his tip, every kiss you press to his neck as you stroke him. “I like it.”

You like it enough to get on your knees on the cold, hard closet floor, and position his length in front of your mouth, just so you can get even more of a reaction from him.

“What?” Choso gasps, “What are you doing?”

“Making you feel good,” you coo, pumping him a few more times—which quickly stops the questions and starts the moans—and then take him into your mouth.

He spasms, hand tangling in your hair, unsure of whether he should pull you away or push you further down on him.

“You’re so warm…and wet,” Choso gets out.

You hum your response, something that only makes him tighten the strong fingers knotted into your hair, and keep going, working your mouth around his dick. You wrap your hands around the backs of his thighs, bracing yourself as you take him in deeper with every bob of your head. He fills your throat significantly, so you take a few breaks, kissing and sucking on his tip as you catch your breath.

Choso doesn’t seem to mind that it’s hard to take his full length, he’s too busy writhing from the sensation of your mouth on him. He's new to all this, not able to process or understand what you're doing and why it feels so fucking good. But explanations don't matter, not when the pretty girl in the outfit that made him hot just from looking at it is on her knees for him, dedicated to blessing him with a pleasure that doesn't belong to this universe.

“Fuck, please–ah–keep going, feels so good.”

Choso's moans are filling the closet and he’s holding onto you for dear life. His thighs are shaking enough to make you worry his legs will give out. “Feel like I’m gonna die,” he murmurs, lost in pleasure.

You’d smile in victory if you weren’t so focused on getting him there, and with the way he’s tensing up, he’s close. It’s funny, how he’s gonna cum already; he must’ve been worked up from the beginning.

You dig your fingers into the thick muscle of his thighs, holding on as he takes over, placing his hands on the side of your head to keep you still, and sloppily slipping his length in and out of your mouth. You squeeze your eyes shut, and it’s obvious that you’re taking him well because he’s choking on his own moans, incoherent as he slurs his words.

“I can’t–fuck–oh–please–please–”

A final thrust into your mouth and his hot cum is pouring down your throat. It’s salty, but you’re able to swallow it, coughing a little as he pulls himself out of you. Then his strong arms come down under your armpits and lift you to your feet as if you weighed nothing. He pulls you into his body, gasping and shuddering as he recovers from the orgasm. Poor thing.

You press gentle kisses on his collarbone, soothing him. “You’re okay, Choso. You did so good.”

“Really?” Choso responds, his face nuzzled in your shoulder. He presses a small kiss there.

“Mhmm,” you affirm, smoothing his tied-up hair.

A rumble shakes the ground beneath you.

You swear, taking a step back to see the makeshift barricade you set up come crashing to the ground. Someone enters the closet.

You hold Choso’s arm tight. Surely you're dead now. Who the fuck is this dude? He’s in a weird costume too, possibly a movie villain because he has stitches all along his skin, even all over his face.

“Ah, Choso! There you are!” The patch-faced man is indifferent to Choso’s lack of clothing. He regards you, his grin unsettling. “And you have a friend.”

Choso’s face darkens, “She’s mine.”

“So territorial!” The intruder leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “I wasn’t gonna do anything…not to a friend of yours.” His words are lined with a playful deceit. “I’ll find someone else to have fun with.”

He turns on his heel, but before he leaves he says, “One more thing! Does this mean you’re out of our little game? Occupied with”—his slimy gaze oozes over you—“something else?”

“You’re not to lay a hand on Yuji Itadori,” Choso states, narrowing his eyes.

“No way! Guess you'll have to stop me then!” the man jeers, grinning like a bratty child as he disappears from the doorframe.

Choso turns to you. “I need to go help my brother…but not before I get you somewhere safe,” he says. Choso dresses quickly as you watch in a dumbfounded silence. What the fuck is going on?

He wraps a heavy arm around you and leads you out of the closet into the destroyed Shibuya station.

“Trust me, I’ll take care of you.”

Unable to make sense of anything that’s going on, you have no choice but to believe him.

[ohtoseni]

like real people do

chapter three

Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers x OFC

read it on ao3

the government forces soulmates to be together, no matter what it takes.

it just so happens that eve's soulmates are two bisexual super soldiers.

or,

steve and bucky struggle with their eighteen-year-old soulmate who refuses to settle into her new life after being kidnapped by the government.

tags/warnings: soulmate mark au, forced throuple/poly relationship (f/m/m), extreme age gap, kidnapping, slow burn, dub con, mental health issues (ptsd, audhd, ocd, bipolar, ed), found family, emotional hurt/comfort, sensory overload and meltdowns, eventual smut, tooth-rotting fluff, power imbalance, domestic discipline (spanking as punishment), general teenage angst, daddy dom energy, oral fixation, praise kink, implied/referenced child abuse/csa, kink exploration, p in v sex, oral sex, non sexual age regression, lots of cuddles and snuggles and crying

<- previous | ch 1

Another empty bottle of beer hit the hardwood floor with a rattling thud. It rolled its way toward where Eve sat in the corner, coming to a stop at her naked foot. She gently kicked it, sending it rolling back at the pile of fellow empty bottles. A loud crash and an aggravated yell made the young girl jump, now sitting up straight against the corner of the wall.

“I told you, not a sound!” A freshly opened bottle was hurled at her, hitting and breaking against the wall next to her head. It soaked her body in its content, leaving her a wet puddle of piss and cheap beer. “I got a fucking headache because of you, and you just make everything worse.”

“Sorry…” Eve whispered an apology, averting her eyes back down to the dirty floor. The figure stood up from the armchair, stomping unsteadily toward the young girl.

“Didn’t I tell you to shut the fuck up?” A foot collided with Eve’s chest. All the air left her lungs while she tried to hug her body as if to protect it from another blow. Calloused hands gripped her matted brown hair, pulling her head forward before slamming it back violently into the corner of the wall.

“First you piss the bed, then you don’t fucking listen. What good are you? Can’t you tell I’m having a bad day because of you?” A harsh laugh broke through to Eve, drawing her back to the coarse voice. “You’re twelve years old and still wetting the bed. Really, what good are you?”

Tears prickled around her eyes as Eve rocked back and forth, still hugging her body in a tight grip. She tried to mentally leave the scene, regress into her head and thoughts, away from the abuse. But, as long as the figure loomed over her, she wasn’t safe to check out mentally. “I-I’m fifteen-“

“That’s what I fucking said.” Another beer bottle broke, this time above her head. The glass and alcohol showered her head, letting the tears finally flow free. “Did I give you permission to talk? Did I give you permission to cry?”

A soft noise drew Eve out of her thoughts.

“… Eve, baby?” Bucky gently shook the girl’s shoulder. Her eyes were trained on her cell phone, but nothing but a black screen was on the device. She stared at her reflection in the black void, lost deep in her head. The phone was taken out of her grasp, flinging her back into reality. She looked in the direction her phone went off in; Bucky’s hand to the very left of her. When did he get so close?

“Oh- Um- Sorry…” Embarrassed, Eve tried to sink further into the couch. She wasn’t sure just how long she was out of it for; she hoped it wasn’t too long.

“Are you feeling okay?” Steve asked as Bucky handed Eve her phone back. Her absence episode worried both of them, her thousand-yard stare into her phone wasn’t a normal state of being. As expected, Eve only nodded in confirmation, burrowing further in on herself. Steve looked toward Bucky, coming to a mutual agreement not to push it too far.

Bucky stood up slowly so as not to spook the ball of anxiety on the couch. Her eyes briefly flashed over to him, curious about his sudden movements, before falling back down to her lap. “We were talking about going shopping soon. You need clothes and stuff.”

Nodding, Eve remained silent, picking at a spot on the knee of her sweatpants. She wanted out. If Steve and Bucky took her shopping, she had an easy way to escape into the city. Sneaking off while they weren’t looking sounded like the best way to go about it. They were much faster than her, so outright running away from them seemed like a dumb idea. The point of running away was to not get caught.

The two men excused themselves to get dressed for the day, making sure to let Eve know if she needed anything, they would be in their bedroom. Eve remained seated until she heard a faint click of the door closing. She cautiously stood up, her eyes locked in on the hallway. Walking backward toward the door, she made sure to keep her steps light and slow, not wanting to alert Steve or Bucky about her movement.

The door was heavily locked- there had to be at least three methods of keeping the damn thing locked. Eve fiddled with all of them, unsure which ones were and weren’t locked. She kept twisting the doorknob, hoping that one combination was the correct one. When the door finally gave way, Eve gave one last look down the hall before slipping on her shoes hastily, making her great escape out the door.

Eve’s heart pounded in her chest as she bolted through the door, not bothering to close it behind her. She ran down the building’s steps, from the third floor to the ground floor, briefly tripping on the final step. Using the door to catch her balance, she pushed hard on the metal until she could slip out of the stairway.

The apartment building disappeared as she ran, taking random corners and alleys she was unfamiliar with. She had no destination in mind, no plan, just the instinct to put as much space between her and the suffocating walls of that apartment.

The streets of Brooklyn blurred past her; all she could focus on was running and her ragged gasps of air. Eventually, she could no longer ignore the sharpness in her muscles, the weight of the cold breeze on her face, and the pulsing of her ears to each of her rapid heartbeats. She slowed down as she turned one final corner into an empty alley, taking a moment to lean against the cool brick wall of some building.

The city seemed endless, and Eve honestly didn’t know why so chose now to run. She didn’t know anything about New York, or better yet the city layout. But now, she couldn’t find a way back to the apartment even if she wanted to. She sank to the ground, realizing she was lost and powerless.

Tears finally fell with loud, wrenching sobs. Eve continued to gasp for air from running too hard, with sobs and hiccups intertwined. She felt like she would puke from the combination of adrenaline, exercise, and crying. Now she was truly alone, with nothing but the world to face. No plan, no safety, just the endless, confusing unknown. And somehow, that felt worse than Steve and Bucky.

She wasn’t sure exactly how long she sat there, sobbing into her hands, but it felt like an eternity on her cold, aching body.

“Shit,” Steve mumbled as he did a double take down a nearby alley. Lo and behold, there sat Eve, curled up into a ball, sobbing and shuddering from the cold wind. He didn’t hesitate in running to her, kneeling and holding her in his arms. The tightness of the hug was more to lessen his own anxieties about losing his girl.

“Shh, honey. You’re safe, I’ve got you,” Steve kept repeating the words over and over to try and calm the young woman down as she choked on her sobs. Steve feared she would get sick as she dry heaved against his shoulder. Leaning back for a brief moment, he slid his black jacket off before placing it around Eve’s shoulder. She swam in the damned thing, looking even smaller than normal. Once her sobs died down to a more manageable level, Steve pulled his phone out of the jacket pocket to send Bucky a quick text.

‘Got her. Heading back now.’

Steve carried her the entire half mile back to the apartment, his hands locked together under her thighs. She would sniffle, rubbing her head back and forth on his shoulder to wipe away the tears and snot that built up on her face. He didn’t mind one bit. Occasional apologies fled from her lips, quiet enough that only Steve could hear. Of course, he immediately tried to put an end to the string of ‘sorry’s, reminding her it’s okay, she’s safe now, he’s here for her. Eve grew quieter, her breath evening out, falling into an exhausted sleep.

Turning the final corner, Steve saw his partner standing outside the building, pacing back and forth in worry. Once Bucky’s frantic eyes met his own, the brunette came running over to the duo.

“She’s out right now,” Steve said in warning, not wanting Bucky to accidentally disturb her slumber. “Poor thing is exhausted and freezing.”

Bucky reached a shaking hand out, brushing gently through Eve’s short matted hair, trying to calm his heart beating rapidly from pure adrenaline. Together, the two men sandwiched in the girl, causing her to squirm slightly in her sleep at the sudden new body heat. Steve and he shared a quick kiss, giving each other a silent look that said ‘Get Eve inside and safe’.

Walking up the stairs made Eve stir on Steve’s chest until the irregular movement woke her up. The first thing she noticed was that her head hurt, badly. It pulsated with her heartbeat, creating a ferocious tension in her temples. She pushed her face further into Steve’s shoulder until she saw colors, liking the light feeling it brought her. For now, she can forget where she is.

A hand brushing her hair back from her face broke her out of her trance. Eve turned her head slightly, looking face to face with Bucky with heavy, painful eyes. He looked sad but had a soft smile on his face. He asked if she wanted something, but Eve wasn’t listening to anything besides the pulsing of her head. Wanting to make him go away, she nodded her head just to appease him.

Eve was torn from her warmth as Steve set her down on the couch, wrapping her tightly in a quilt that normally rested on the back of the sectional. The blanket was warm and silky smooth, allowing her to melt into it. Resting her head against the back of the couch, she wiggled her cold toes that rested on the plush couch opposite her. They started to hurt from running in the cold and Eve tried her best to get blood recirculating to them.

Bucky returned with a steaming mug of hot chocolate. He sat down next to Eve, carefully lifting her legs up to not disturb her too much before placing them on his lap. Eve’s eyes were still heavy, blinking slowly as if every second she remained awake was a battle. Her focus shifted from Bucky to the white mug being offered to her, weakly lifting her arms to accept the warm offering. Bucky said nothing, too scared to startle her out of the gentle comfort she found.

Holding the cup in her hands, she didn’t even try to take a sip. The mug served as a hand warmer of sorts, Eve savoring the warmth radiating to her palms. She cradled it to her chest like a lifeline, smiling softly like a child.

Seeing how accepting Eve was to Bucky’s touch, Steve shuffled closer to her on the couch, allowing her to lean back onto his shoulder in silent comfort. Without thinking, Eve leaned her head back into him, exposing her neck. She felt safe for once. Reaching a hand up, Steve gently stroked her cheek, watching her heavy eyes flutter close as he touched her cool pale skin. Eve looked so vulnerable, yet so peaceful, cuddled in between her soulmates. Her head wasn’t entirely there, but she liked it that way.

Bucky gave the two of them a soft reassuring smile. As Eve's breathing evened out, he reached over to grab the full mug. The hot chocolate was now lukewarm, having served its purpose. Her breathing became more rhythmic and slow, falling asleep in her cozy soulmate cocoon.

———

They decided to take Eve shopping later in the day when there would be fewer people in the store. Very few people did their shopping at this hour, Steve and Bucky included, which is why they chose it. They didn’t mind staying up later to make Eve more comfortable.

Eve wouldn’t take their hands to hold, opting to hold onto the side of the cart. She looked adorable holding on while Steve pushed it, her free hand playing with her bottom lip. After her two-hour-long nap, she had spent the rest of the day wound tight with her shoulders hunched, biting the skin around her nails raw. Bucky, walking behind Eve, reached over her shoulder to gently pull her hand away from her mouth. That lasted all of about ten seconds with her deciding to chew on her sweatshirt sleeve instead.

“Go crazy, doll,” Bucky said as they approached the women’s clothing section. Eve, however, didn’t make any indication of wanting to look at the clothes. She looked rather intimidated by them. Her eyes darted in between the various racks, never quite looking directly at the clothes. She tightened her grip on the cart as if its sole purpose was to keep her grounded. Eve wasn’t quite sure what she was supposed to do, the uncertainty gnawing at her with each passing second.

The overhead lights buzzed softly, dousing the store in an uncomfortable white light. It was too bright against the endless rows of fabric, too open, too exposed. The racks watched Eve, waiting for her to make the wrong move.

Steve and Bucky shared a glance, silently deciding to take the reins on this shopping trip. Bucky placed a gentle hand on the small of Eve’s back, guiding her toward a nearby rack. He felt her breath hitch, almost as if the very act of choosing something would kill her.

“Oh, this shirt is nice,” Steve said, pulling out a white top from a rack. “It has cute bows and stuff.”

“Very insightful fashion advice, babe,” Bucky deadpanned as he browsed around with Eve. It was more like they walked the aisles together, Bucky looking at the various clothes while Eve stared at her feet. Bucky felt her breathing grow more and more uneven, not missing her frantic eye movements between the floor, the cart, Steve, and the exit. She was on the verge of a panic attack.

Bucky quickly guided her back to Steve. The blonde looked up to see her teary eyes and shaking frame, immediately leaving the clothes behind to comfort her. Steve ran a hand through Eve’s hair, she seemed the like that kind of touch the most. The girl closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. She was trying so hard to be good, to keep calm, but everything was too much. The options, the bright lights, the static mixed in with the music.

Plus, the thought of her body and her size made her want to puke or pass out, she couldn’t quite place the feeling.

“I’m going to pick out some stuff here. You two can take a walk around for a bit until she calms down.” Bucky organized a game plan for the shopping trip. While Eve was distracted by Steve’s calming touches, Bucky subtly lifted the back collar of her shirt, checking the size on the tag. Small, not unexpected, but the shirt seemed too big on her tiny frame. He would have to eyeball the size apparently.

Steve nodded, slipping his hand from Eve’s hair to take her hand in his. She didn’t push back this time- they were making progress. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Let’s go check out the books or something.”

Eve let herself be led away, giving one look back at Bucky. He already had some clothes piled in the cart- more than Eve herself had put in. Steve gently pulled her along, walking along the main path of the store, stopping to look at whatever caught Eve’s attention. Steve was a patient man, letting her look around curiously and lead him down random aisles.

They passed the home goods section and Eve made a beeline for the display of fluffy throw blankets. Steve couldn’t help but chuckle at her enthusiasm, watching her touch and stroke every blanket folded neatly on the shelf.

“You like those?” He asked gently. Eve hesitated slightly before responding with a tiny ‘yeah’. Without a second thought, Steve grabbed the one Eve was currently stroking- a baby pink blanket with strawberries- and draped it over his arm. “Alright, we’re getting it,” he said, matter-of-factly, as if there was no room for arguments.

Eve blinked up at him, unsure how to respond. It wasn’t something she asked for, but Steve just smiled down at her like it was the most normal thing in the world. She looked away, chewing on the inside of her cheek. It felt… nice.

They wandered further, eventually making their way back to the book section. Steve let go of her hand, trusting her enough to let her move at her own pace now. She hovered by a display of new releases, trailing her finger over the spines without actually showing interest in any of them.

“You can get a book, too, y’know,” Steve encouraged, “Or a couple.”

Eve bit her lip, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I don’t…. I don’t have any money.”

Steve’s brows furrowed and he shook his head. “That’s not something you need to worry about, honey. We’ve got it covered.”

She glanced up at him with uncertainty in her eyes. She wasn’t used to people just buying her things. It made her chest feel tight- she wondered what Steve would want in return for it.

Seeing her hesitation, Steve decided to take a different approach. “Tell you what,” he said, running his hand through Eve’s hair again, pulling slightly to make her eyes meet his. “You pick a book, and I’ll pick one too. Then we can read together.”

That caught her attention. Reading had always been her quiet escape from reality, a comforting safety net. And the thought of reading with Steve, of having that shared moment, made the thought of picking something out a little less daunting. Eve looked at him, a smile spreading across her face, probably the first real, genuine smile Steve had seen from her.

She turned on her heels, going into the next aisle of books. Steve grinned, looking after her.

“That’s my girl.”

[sangelune]

“Drink some water. It has ice.” / @ofauroradreams

  knock  it  from  her  hands. 

   the  thought  is  intrusive  and violent.  a  single  twitch  to  his  right  eye  is  all  that's  given  toward  it,  toward  her.  gloved  hands  curl  in  his  lap,  tight  fists  that  grip  at  his  pants. god  -  what  does  anyone  know  what  it's  like?  his  chest  heaves  with  heavy  breaths. 

   it  was  a  late  timing.  that  much  he  stands  by.  he'd  spent  the  better  of  the  time  his  facade  came  crumbling  down  on  his  own.  he  doesn't  remeber  stumbling  into  the  safehouse,  coated  in  blood,  giving  the  entire  group  the  thousand  yard  stare. 

   it  scares  people  -  when  he  gets  like  that.  to  him;  it  feels  normal.  reaching  into  this mix  that  is simon  and ghost.  trying  to  separate  his  selves  from  each  other,  bring  himself  from  the  violent  brink. 

   he'd  sat  to  a  far  corner  of  the  safehouse,  letting  the  rest  of  the  team  quietly  mutter  amongst  themselves.  no  one  really  wanted  to  accost  him  like  this.  he'd  get  himself  together,  wouldn't  he?  he  always  did.  he  was  a  fucking rock.  there were  no  cracks. 

   if  only  it  were  so  easy  to  convince  himself  of  that  fact. 

   yet  -  now  he  stares  her  in  the  face.  offering  him  something.  he  stares  at  it,  blankly.  doesn't  feel  right.  at  all.  for  a  moment,  it's  not  her  face  he  sees.  it's  his  mothers.  a  blink.  it's  beth's  face.  a  blink.  it's  hers  again.  his  mind  swims,  and  his  muscles  tense;  he's  ready  to  lash  out. 

   but  he  doesn't. 

   he  takes  the  offered  cup  silently  instead,  staring  into  it.  maybe  he'll  drink  it.  eventually.  right  then?  might  just  be  better  to  have  something  other  than  bloodied  far  too  familiar  gear  to  stare  at. 

[dracowars]

LOVED YOUR TOM RIDDLE. Can I please request a arranged marriage au where yn is in love with him but he hates her so when she decides to let him go or someone else wants to marry her, Tom finally realises he’s in love with her. happ ending :))))

my heart belongs to you | tom riddle

pairing: tom x black!reader

word count: 3,3k

summary: where tom and y/n are in an arranged marriage

a/n: i'm so sorry for being so inactive recently, uni is taking its toll on me.. i had to do a bit of research for this one and also tom is a pureblood here!

warnings: toxic relationship, violence

universe: harry potter

“Get out of my sight, will you?”, he angrily snaps at you out of nowhere, for the third time already on this still very early day. Furiously, he stomps past you, pushing you to the side harshly, the filled glasses on your tray swaying dangerously. Knowing that you should just leave him alone, you stand there completely frozen at the door, still feeling the breeze on your skin after he stormed past you.

The glasses clink on the serving tray as you try to keep your trembling hands under control, but you terribly fail while tears shoot into your eyes. A lump forms in your throat and you gasp in desperation, losing your composure after hearing the front door slam shut.

Slowly, you slump down and therefore with a loud rattle let happen what could have been foreseen already: a thousand shattered pieces of glass scattered across the floor around you while you cower against the wall, your elegant dress pulled over your knees, your forehead leaning against it. Heavy sobs rock through your body and tears find their way down your cheeks, dripping from your chin onto the expensive fabric of your dress.

You just wanted to spend some time with him. Together, in the house of your parents, who went on a daily trip with their close friends early in the morning, all part of the most notorious popular pureblood families in the wizarding world – the Nott’s, the Macmillan’s, the Malfoy’s, the Lestrange’s. And if his parents were still alive, probably with the Riddle’s as well.

This is primarily the reason why you even are in this position right now; crying and huddled in the living room because your fiancé hates you profoundly.

After graduating from Hogwarts last year, the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you, descendant of the pureblood Black family, got engaged to Tom Marvolo Riddle, the last living heir of the Riddle’s. He would offer you a good future, they said, and you would never have to worry about anything again.

But nobody knows that in reality, your own beloved fiancé really does not want to have anything to do with you. He does not even want to stay in the same room as you.

You can’t explain why he acts like this towards you. You do not know why he harbors such an abysmal hatred for you and any clear-headed, rational person would have done something about it long ago. Unfortunately for you, you feel the exact opposite for him.

Your heart belongs to him and only to him.

You have liked him since you first met him at Hogwarts, back in 1938, when the two of you were sorted into the Slytherin house. This initial friendly liking has quickly evolved into something more than that over the years and lead you to where you are now, at a point where you would have never seen yourself back then.

You have already tried everything to convince him that you are not as bad as he seems to think. Every morning you bring him his breakfast, you give him everything he needs. Even when you were still at Hogwarts, you always looked after him, finished his homework for him when he was too busy to do it by himself, and helped him pass all of his exams.

And not once did you hear a thank you. Not then and not now either.

Slowly gathering your thoughts together again, you rub the long sleeves of your velvet dress over your damp face, wiping away all of your tears before you get up on shaky legs and begin to clean up the mess that you have created. After you went back to the kitchen with the broken pieces and some injuries on your hands, your gaze longingly slides out the window.

Outside, the sun stands high over the magnificent garden of the mansion, making the clear water in the fountain shimmer in its bright light. A gentle breeze blows through the air and rustles through the perfectly cut trees that line a small path through the garden.

The loud, excited voices that suddenly roar through the house snap you out of your daydream and you quickly wipe the blood from your fingers before you step into the huge marble entrance hall. You arrive at the front door just in time to open it for your parents, who, to your surprise, did not come back alone. You are amazed to find not too familiar faces in front of you as they climb up the stairs to the door where you are still standing.

“And that has to be Y/N. Oh, how you have grown!”, an older man smiles friendly at you and you return his smile with a certain uncertainty in your face.

“Darling, we brought guests over for dinner today. You surely remember the Lestranges?”, your father announces happily and only now do the faces that you have seen at numerous balls and celebrations seem familiar again. Especially one.

“Reinhard?”, you ask in amazement when you spot him standing behind his parents, a big smile on his face when he sees you.

“Y/N, how nice to see you again”, he grins, carefully pushing his way past your parents in order to slightly bow venerably to you, taking your hand in his to place a kiss on the back of it. “It has been some time.”

“I am sure you have a lot to tell each other”, your mother mentions in a sweet voice, but before she can continue, she watches how your facial expression changes from one second to the other as you look past them, out into the yard.

Next to the carriage with which they have returned, Tom is standing now, petting one of the splendid noble white horses before he joins all of you.

“Tom! There you are, I was already wondering where you went”, your father says, visibly pleased when he too spotted his future son-in-law, drawing everyone’s attention to him.

“Reinhard?”

“Tom?”

Within a few seconds, the two former best friends lay in each other’s arms, obviously happy to finally see the other again.

“Let us go inside. We want to show you our newest masterpiece of art in our wonderful collection, come on”, your mother announces happily and leads the Lestranges inside, but not without turning around to you once more. “The children can catch up on what they have missed.”

“I can’t believe it! You are really here, Tom. Man, you look even better than at Hogwarts”, Reinhard laughs, playfully pushing Tom to the side while you watch them in silence. “What are you doing here with the Blacks?”

“They kindly took me in”, Tom lies to him and for a moment you think he threw you a glance out of the corner of his eyes after uttering these words. His statement makes Reinhard realize that you were still there with them, who had apparently completely forgotten that you were even there.

“I am so happy to see you again, Y/N!”, he grins and takes a step closer to you, probably to be able to take a closer look at you. “Still just as beautiful as I imagined. And just as smart, I guess?”

Reinhard’s sudden compliments make you blush and your cheeks glow, which is why you nervously avert your gaze from him, directly falling on Tom, who looks at the scene in front of him with incredible resentment.

Unlike Tom, Reinhard was always there for you. You spent a lot of time together in your school days and if your parents had known about your close friendship, you are sure that he would have been your fiancé by now. Which, to be honest, does not sound bad anymore right now.

And yet your heart still belongs to Tom.

When you all sit together at dinner later in the evening, where your parents are talking about irrelevant things like Ministry of Magic, you keep making eye contact with Reinhard, who seems to be staring at you.

“Is there something on my face?”, you ask uncertainly and put your glass back on the table when you can no longer bear his piercing gaze.

“No, no, not at all. I was just wondering how a beautiful witch like you could have become so much more stunning”, Reinhard winks at you, causing you to swallow hard. You are not used to getting compliments, especially not from a handsome young man like him. Before you can answer to him, however, there is a loud clink and you startle, your eyes immediately fixed on the cause of the noise.

The glass, which you have certainly placed far away from the edge, is now lying in your lap, the little liquid that was still inside now spread over your elegant evening gown. You move your chair back in shock when, in the corner of your eye, you see how Tom puts away his wand. And not only did you notice Tom just now, but the rest of them follow your gaze.

“Tom, darling, how about you tell our guests how you and our daughter got to know each other”, your mother suddenly prompts him, not even realizing that he has just deliberately spilled your drink on you. But why did he in the first place?

„I would love to“, Tom puts on a really believable smile that no one but you questions and starts telling them how you met and fell in love with each other. He tells one lie after another, explaining the web of lies that you have spun around you over time to make your relationship as credible as possible, at least in front of other people. And suddenly nobody cares about you or your still soaking wet dress anymore.

“What a wonderful story”, Mrs. Lestrange applauds and everyone else seems to be completely enthusiastic about Tom’s fairytale. To top it off, he then reaches across the table to take your hand in his, just like a real affectionate couple would do.

You lower your gaze as he gently strokes the back of your hand with his thumb, trying your best to not show how uncomfortable you are. Oh, how much you wish that this were real, that Tom would actually treat you like this when you are alone, the same way as he does in front of your parents.

But he does not and deep down you know that he will never do.

“So, you are engaged?”, Reinhard scrutinizes the statement of his former best friend, his eyes focused on you suspiciously, as if he is expecting an answer from you and not from Tom. A slight pressure on your hand makes you flinch and look up.

“Y-Yes”, you force a smile onto your lips, whereupon Tom seems satisfied with your answer, letting go of your hand again with a - what seemed to you like a – disgusted expression on his face.

An uncomfortable silence spreads between the three of you, which is drowned out by the loud conversation of the adults on the other side of the table. Finally, making up your mind, you clear your throat loudly and get up from your chair, gaining everyone’s attention in a matter of seconds.

“Excuse me, I have to go freshen up for a moment”, you explain with a slight polite bow before turning away to leave the dining room.

“Reinhard, would you be so kind and help Y/N”, Mr. Lestrange asks his son, who stands up with furrowed brows, apparently just as surprised about this sudden request as you, but then follows you out into the hallway with no further objection.

“I really do not need any help, thank you”, you try to get rid of him as you walk up the large staircase leading to the first floor together, only wanting to be alone.

“Dinner like these are totally boring anyway”, he chuckles softly and shows no intentions of leaving your side any time soon, which is why you do not even try to search for further arguments. He follows you to your room where you are able to tear yourself away from him to put on a new dress while he waits outside in front of the door.

With an equally elegant burgundy red dress you step out of your room after a few minutes, Reinhard’s eyes greeting you with a sparkle.

“Wow”, he breathes out barely audible and takes you hand without asking to swirl you around, causing your dress to fly around gorgeously. Unintentionally, warmth rises in your face again and your hearts makes a barely noticeable jump inside your chest when he looks deep into your eyes after catching you back in his arms.

The loud clearing of a throat behind you makes you turn around in shock, only to see that Tom himself is now standing at the end of the corridor, not seeming very enthusiastic.

“We did not see you there, Tom”, Reinhard disguises his obvious nervousness with a laugh, acting like Tom had just caught you in doing something he should not have seen. Tom, however, does not even react to his words, but looks past Reinhard at you, his eyebrows raised meaningfully.

But when you do not move under his piercing gaze, his facial expression changes and he quickly approaches you, Reinhard instinctively pushing you behind him so that you can only see Tom approaching further over his shoulder. Before neither you nor Reinhard can say or do anything, Tom has already pulled out his wand and aims it directly at Reinhard, who flies back through the air only a few seconds later, hitting the hard marble floor at the end of the corridor with a thud.

“What the-?!”

“Come with me”, Tom orders, now standing directly in front of you. When you stubbornly refuse, he suddenly grabs your wrist to pull you away from there. No matter how much you fight against his firm grip, you cannot tear yourself away from him as he pulls you into the closest room, which turns out to be the library.

Once there, you can finally free yourself from his tight grip, but before you can reach for the doorknob to leave immediately, he locks the door with a spell. Angrily, you turn to him, despair written all over your stunning face.

“What is this supposed to be, Tom? Let me out of here, now!”, you command him in a loud voice, not caring if anybody can hear.

“What did he want from you?”, he asks you urgently and steps closer to you. Since the door is in your back, every possible escape route is blocked, and you are caught.

“We just talked to each other, you know. Like normal people do”, you answer irritably and cross your arms in front of your chest, not in the mood to justify yourself, especially not in front of someone who does not care about you at all and not after what he has done.

“But that did not look like it.”

“Tom, stop it.”

“You belong to me and nobody else!”

These words coming out of his mouth echo loudly through the dark library, his face wrapped in an eerie candlelight. Before you can even control yourself and fully process what he said, you severely slap him.

Frightened by your own horrible deed, you immediately pull your hand away, your gaze filled with fear, but the anger that keeps building up inside of you winning the upper hand after all.

“How dare you call me your property?!”, you scream in rage and tears form in your eyes because of your uncontrollable anger. However, Tom needs a moment to collect his thoughts after your heavy smack before he can answer you.

“You are my fiancé”, he spits out coldly, a touch of shock in his voice, apparently not expecting you to react like this.

“And that does not make me nowhere near your property! You never treat me like your fiancé anyway, so why now all of a sudden?!”, you bicker at him, your voice loud and constant, even though you would like to flee from this situation right away if you were able to.

But Tom does not have an answer.

“Fine, okay. If you have nothing to say to me, like you never have, then I will go back now and ask my parents to end this damn failed engagement and engage me with someone else who truly cares for me!”

Suddenly, without letting you time to catch your breath after your outburst, he presses you with your back against the door completely, his hands tightly grabbing your wrists, a little too tight for your personal liking.

“You mustn’t do that”, he softly whispers, his head lowered as if he does not dare to look you in the eyes.

“What is stopping me?”, you hiss, still full of anger and – probably for the very first time – hatred towards him.

But when you feel his lips on yours all of a sudden, all of these emotions evaporate and all that remains is your racing heartbeat, which is being repaired at this very moment. You never would have thought that at some point in your life the moment would come when Tom Marvolo Riddle, who absolutely loathes his fiancé, kisses you.

After kissing you, he looks straight into your eyes, and the Tom you met in 1938 is standing in front of you again. The Tom you fell so deeply in love with.

“I can’t explain it to you”, he finally breaks the silence, his gaze directed to the floor as he moves away from you, giving you enough space to breathe regularly again. You, however, do not say anything but just stare at him.

“I was not aware that I am capable of feeling such feelings for someone. I am unfamiliar with this feeling and I did not know how to deal with it, Y/N. I treated you badly because I did not want it to be true, I did not want to accept it. I could not imagine having feelings for the little nuisance that has always been running after me”, Tom explains, choosing each and every single word very carefully, trying to put his emotions into words which does not really work the way he would like it to. But that is how you know him. You know that this confession must be extremely difficult for him, but you can’t help but feel a sense of relief inside of you.

“When?”, you ask and manage, with this tiny little word, to make him look up at you. “When did you know?”

“Since I have been here. You served me every day and took care of me, even though I wanted to push you away from me with all of my might. You have already helped me so many times in the past without me even asking, you have always accepted me for who I am”, he desperately tries to but his feelings into words, asking himself what he is even doing right now.

“Tom..”

“No, I have to sincerely apologize to you. I had no right to treat you the way I did. And also today.. when I saw you with him and how well you got along, it finally became clear to me. Reinhard has felt something for you since our school days, I know that even though I could never understand, but now I do. I understand why he fell in love with you”, Tom continues without breathing, pouring out all of his feelings that he has hidden for so long.

“I understand if you want to dissolve this engagement and I will not stop you if that is what you want”, he quickly adds, looking at you with desperation in his eyes. He already prepares himself for the worst when you are the one getting closer to him this time.

“Idiot”, you smile slightly and place a gentle kiss on his lips while he looks at you puzzled. “I love you, I thought you knew that.”

“I know, but-“

“But nothing”, you interrupt him and take his hand to lead it to your fast pounding heart. “It always belonged to you.”

[markosmate]

taken away

Pairing; Marko x Emerson!Reader

Summary; Moving to a different state with your younger brothers and mother just to live with your grandfather was hard enough, but falling in love with a vampire and then watching your brother do the same thing? Much different story.

Warnings; strong language

au:// Woohoo y’all part 4 and we’re finally getting into the good stuff, only two more chapters till the smut ;)

Part 3   -   Part 5

“Where you going, Star?” My eyes snapped up to the owner of the voice, and they temporarily widened when I realized it was the same man the girl had left with the night prior. Apparently, her name was Star. His gaze was sharp, a silent warning that she better not defy him and proceed to get on Michael’s bike.

“For a ride. This is Michael.” She explained softly, gaze never leaving the mullet man. My own gaze flicked away from the conflict and towards my right where not even two feet away sat Marko, sitting atop his bike, and eyes already on me. He grinned a devilish kind of smile when my eyes met his and he sent me a small wink when I couldn’t bring myself to tear my eyes away for a good few seconds.

“Let’s go.” Michael’s voice broke me out of it as he continued to try and get Star to leave with him. It didn’t work.

“Star.” Mr. Mullet warned. My eyes flicked between him and Star as she finally gave up and stepped away from Michael’s bike, grabbing the man’s shoulder and hoisting herself onto the back of his bike. I raised an eyebrow, not quite understanding the dynamic of whether or not they were together.

Once Star was seated comfortably and the dark-haired biker pulled the small child onto the back of his bike, Mr. Mullet turned his attention back to Michael. “You know where Hudson’s Bluff is? Over-looking the point?”

Michael scoffed a bit and shook his head. “I can’t beat your bike.”

Mullet grinned deviously and revved his engine. “You don’t have to beat me, Michael. You just have to try and keep up.” Before any of them made a move to leave, his gaze flicked to mine. “You’re more than welcome to tag along, doll. Wouldn’t want to leave a girl like yourself here alone.” And despite everything screaming in my head that I would be crazy to leave with these guys, and that I promised myself I wouldn’t associate with them and would turn in the other direction if they even glanced at me, I nodded.

His face lit up in an arrogant smirk and before I could even make the move to mount the back of Michael’s bike, Marko locked his gaze onto mine. “You could ride with me sweet thing, I’ll keep you safe. Promise.” There was a teasing tone to his words, and I rolled my eyes at his stupid pet name, but accepted his invite nonetheless. I hated riding with Michael, he was always jerky with the steering and switching between going way too fast and way too slow. These dudes couldn’t possibly be worse drivers than him, no matter where they were taking us to.

I pushed myself up and off the railing and walked around the side of his bike. I didn’t miss the victorious smiles the two long-haired blonds sent each other, but I chose to ignore it. I grabbed his shoulders and hoisted myself up onto the seat behind him. He looked back over his shoulder with a sly grin and whispered quietly to me. “Hold on.” I listened to him, wrapping my arms tightly around his torso and holding on for dear life as they set off. 

The four bikes sped down the boardwalk, weaving between crowds of people and almost hitting a few concession stands, and finally the boys all quite literally jumped the staircases onto the beach sand. They must have done that a thousand times, because Marko was able to steady the bike as soon as it hit the sand and he kept going as fast as possible without ever making a move to slow down. I lifted my face from being buried in the back of his shoulder and turned my head to see how Michael was holding up.

He seemed to slow his bike to a stop at the top of the staircase, hesitating and debating his options, before eventually opting to rev the bike down the stairs. His back tire kicked out as he hit the sand, but he quickly balanced the vehicle back out again. Once I knew he was safely traveling behind us, I turned back around to face the direction we were heading in. The boys seemed to be riding in a kind of diamond shape so they could all make eye contact with each other if need be. From my spot, I caught sight of Star turning to catch a glance of Michael before turning to face forward and grin happily as the boys cheered. 

I loosened my grip on Marko’s middle slightly, but not too much because I liked being this close to him in a weird sort of way. He turned his head to cheer with Paul who was laughing his ass off on his own bike a few yards away. I laughed and pressed my cheek to his shoulder blade to watch the ocean as we drove across the entirety of the beach. Soon the bikes moved into a line instead of the previous diamond, and we were speeding through the wooden stakes of the pier and swerving over a dirt path leading through the woods.

Finally, we emerged from the woods into a large cloud of fog, something completely abnormal at this time in the night and near this close to the bluff. I hugged myself closer to Marko as he, and the two other bikers pulled off to the side to let Michael and Mr. Mullet play a rather dangerous game of chicken leading towards the edge of the point.

At the last moment, Michael laid down his bike, skidding to a stop just before he plummeted over with his front tire hanging inches off the edge. Mullet braked his bike just in time, and he and Star stared out over the edge down towards the waves crashing against the bank. Marko and the two others quickly stopped their bikes as Michael stood sharply and whirled on Mullet.

I quickly stood from the bike and moved off to the side to get out of the boys’ way. The three bikers pushed themselves off their bikes, laid them down to the ground, and quickly moved closer as Michael ran towards Mullet. “What the hell you doing, huh?”

“No!” Star’s short scream of protest cut through the air as Michael pulled his fist back before punching Mullet clean across the face. The three others of the group quickly grabbed ahold of my brother and yanked him backwards, but he reciprocated just as fast and used both arms to shove back the dark-haired biker and Marko on either side of him.

He pointed at Mullet and began speaking once more. “Just you, come on! Just you.” He repeated, glaring Mullet down as the biker turned to look back at Michael with an eerily calm grin. “Come on, just you.” Michael mumbled again as Marko turned to grin at the other blond at his side.

“How far you willing to go Michael?” He mocked, watching with calculated eyes at Michael’s next move. Mullet gestures for his three friends to head down into the cave, and they all disperse from the three and begin to move their bikes so they’re out of sight. Before I can even try to make my way over to Michael to check if he’s alright, a pair of arms wraps around my waist from behind and swings me for a short moment. I let out a short squeak of a laugh, deciding that the chances of it being Marko are very high and there was no need for me to panic at the contact.

The wind blows hard from behind us, and a few locks of curly hair are blown forward across my shoulders. That confirms it, I note to myself.

After Michael’s and Mullet’s bikes are hidden away with the others, the eight of us make our way down a set of stairs that lead to an opening in the rock. The dark-haired boy leads us, a large burning stick in his hand that he uses to light a couple of fires around the cave.

The glam-rocker dude jumped down the last rock hand-in-hand with the young child. “Rock bottom, bud.”

“Yeah.” The kid laughed along, moving off to the side towards a large radio speaker. Marko gripped the loop of my jeans, pulling me to jump off the last rock and land next to where he was standing. I tore my eyes away from where Michael was to look at the curly-haired boy next to me. He was watching what Mullet was doing, not looking me in the eyes, but a smirk curled his lips when he noticed me staring.

As Mullet began explaining the history behind the cave we were in, Marko scooped a pigeon up from where it was picking at crumbs, and held it against his check as he pulled my belt loop to have me leaning against one of his legs. “Not bad, huh? This was the hottest resort in Santa Carla about 85 years ago.” Mullet’s voice echoed through the cave as glam-rocker leaned down to grab the heavy radio from the kid. “Too bad they built it on a fault. In 1906, when the big one hit San Francisco, the ground opened up, this place took a header-” He clapped his gloved hands together loudly as he walked around the fountain and in the direction of the corner where Marko and I stood. “- right into the crack. So now it’s ours.”

“So check it out, Mikey.” Glam rocker teased from on top of the fountain, busying himself with lighting a blunt. The guys all laughed at his teasing, before Mullet turned to where Marko and I were standing. 

“Marko,” Said boy immediately stood a bit straighter, shifting from foot to foot and loosening his hold on the pigeon and I. “Food.” Marko gave a short nod, letting the pigeon go and turning to me. He jokingly kissed my cheek before whispering a little too softly into my ear.

“Be back soon, sweet thing.” When he pulled back he was sporting a large Cheshire grin, and he winked as I smacked his hair with a small laugh before turning and hopping back up the rocks we originally came down.

Now that he was gone, I couldn’t make myself look occupied and avoid contact with any of the other boys. I watched as Mullet held the blunt glam-rocker had given him up to Michael and offered it to him as an appetizer. Michael declined, and while Mullet’s attention was diverted I analyzed everyone else to see who the most approachable was. I decided on glam-rocker, shyly moving over to the couch he was seated on and plopping down next to him.

He grinned at me when he saw me make myself comfortable. “Hey, babe. Nice to meet you.”

I smiled back at him and gripped the hand he was offering to me, shaking it firmly. “Ivory.”

He laughed, almost a disbelieving kind of laugh, before locking eyes with me again. “Oh, we already know. Marko told us. I’m Paul, that’s Dwayne,” He pointed towards the dark-haired one sitting on the furniture opposite of us who sent me a small smile and tiny wave. I waved back before keying back into what Paul was saying. “And that’s David. You might wanna start calling him his name, I don’t think he takes too kindly to just ‘Mullet’.”

I felt my face flush and my eyes shot back to lock onto Paul’s. “Oh no, have I been calling him that out loud?”

I don’t remember calling him that out loud at all to be completely honest, but Paul grinned back at me like he knew something that I didn’t and went right along with it. “Oh yeah, definitely. Like three times, if I’m telling you the truth.”

I shot him a bewildered look before laughing. “Well, great first impression for the scary one I guess.”

Paul chuckled along with me. “Hey, you’re after Marko right now, if there’s anyone to be labeled the scary one - other than David - it’s him.”

I shrugged at his words. “My feelings for the blond can’t be helped.” I quite enjoyed this little banter we had going back and forth, it was flowing easily and I enjoyed being able to have an ongoing conversation with someone without it turning awkwardly quiet halfway through. After a little more banter between Paul and myself, footsteps echoed across the rocks and Marko jumped down into the cave.

“Feeding time, come and get it boys!” He called out voice echoing. 

“Alright.” Paul cheered quietly as Marko carried the large box towards where David was sitting in his wheelchair.

“Chinese... Good choice.” David complimented when he saw the food inside the carryout box. Marko handed a container to David, before turning and tossing one to Dwayne.

“Over here bud.” Paul called out and Marko tossed one to him as well. The curly-haired biker then pulled out another container and leaned over to hand it to me, shooting a small smile my way when I thanked him.

I leaned back against the couch, Paul at my side, and watched as David opened up the box of rice in his hands. He took a bite of it before leaning over and offering some to Michael. “Guests first.”

“No.” Michael politely declined, holding up his hand and shaking his head softly. “You don’t like rice? Tell me Michael, how could a billion Chinese people be wrong?” David questioned, his joke causing the other boys to laugh at Michael’s expense. Mike snorted quietly before leaning over and excepting the rice, pulling the fork out and taking a bite.

I shifted in my seat, pulling my knees up to my chest and watching as David grabbed another box from Marko’s hands. A weird feeling filled my chest as I watched David look up at Michael instead of continuing to pick at his noodles.

“How are those maggots?” David’s voice suddenly broke the air and my eyebrows shot up. Michael looked up at him, eyebrow quirking and eyes filling with confusion.

“Hm?”

“Maggots, Michael. You’re eating maggots, how do they taste?” Michael rolled his eyes at what David was saying but looked down at his box nonetheless. I followed in his steps and brought my gaze down to my own box. Rice, that’s all that was in mine. My eyebrows furrowed and I lifted my gaze over to Michael’s box and had to physically fight myself against gasping aloud. Maggots wiggled around each other, almost completely overflowing from the container. Mike’s eyes widened and he threw the box to the floor, leaning to the side to spit out the creatures while the four boys laughed and Star protested against what was going on.

Mike reached up, and grabbed a piece of rice from his lip before looking back down at the box. We both stared in disbelief as the contents spilled on the floor weren’t even close to resembling maggots anymore - now all that sat there was the same rice in the rest of the boxes. “Sorry about that. No hard feelings, huh?”

“Nah.” Michael shook his head, obviously trying to play it off cool as I switched my gaze between the spilled rice and David, who shoved his chopsticks into the noodles he was holding. How had he done that? I had clearly seen maggots rummaging in the take-out container, but the next second they were back to looking like parcels of rice.

Suddenly, David leaned over and offered Michael the box of noodles in his hand. “Why don’t you try some noodles?”

I watched Michael physically recoil from the offered food and I was almost scared to look down and see what it was this time. “They’re worms.” Michael wasn’t lying, I caught a glimpse of the box before David pulled it back to himself and there were, indeed, clumps of worms twisted around each other.

“They’re worms.” David snorted in disbelief, rolling his eyes and collecting a few on his chopsticks.

“Hey, don’t eat that-” Michael tried to protest but shut his mouth when the only thing that was wrapped around the chopsticks and getting stuffed into David’s mouth were a tangle of noodles.

David swallowed his food, before looking back down to Michael with a small satisfactory smirk. “They’re only noodles, Michael.” I stared at the platinum blond in admiration, how had he managed to make both of us actually see something that wasn’t really there? How had he managed to make both the maggots and the worms seem so realistic? 

“That’s enough.” Star spoke clearly, trying to get the boys to listen to what she was saying.

“Ah, chill out girl.” Paul shushed her from beside me, clearly enjoying the show David was putting on for them at Michael’s expense.

Suddenly, David’s cold eyes turned to me. He smirked, and gestured Marko over to him.

Marko leant over, letting David speak quietly into his ear and letting his eyes lock onto mine as the leader spoke. He nodded a bit, breaking his gaze from mine, dropping his food onto a small side table, and turning and walking over to an old, dusty collection of drawers. I watched him intently, feeling in that moment like I could live the rest of my life completely content if I could just watch Marko do absolutely anything. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a large bejeweled bottle with red liquid swishing around on the inside.

He carried this bottle with both hands and made his way back over to David’s side, handing it over to his leader as gently as possible. Everything became silent, and Star made her move to stand over to the side of where Michael was sitting against a broken fountain. Marko maintained his spot beside the platinum blond, but this time his eyes stayed on me - regardless of if mine returned his gaze or not.

David popped the cork of the bottle and raised it to his lips, taking a large gulp of the liquid and letting his eyes roll back into his head in pleasure after swallowing it. My eyebrows furrowed as I watched the interaction unfold. He opened his eyes, now a faint bloodshot, and locked them immediately with Mike’s.

“Drink some of this, Michael.” I didn’t like the feeling I got in my chest just then, a deep unsettling feeling that shook me to my core and made me want to run up and out of the fallen hotel and hightail it home. Judging by Michael’s expression, he obviously didn’t have even close to the same idea I did. He watched David with interested eyes as he spoke his next few words. “Be one of us.”

[ashintheairlikesnow]

first nat hug! first nat hug! first nat hug!🥺

CW: Traumatized whumpee, minor whumpee, trauma recovery, 

Nat climbs down the ladder from her room in the attic, swings it back up until the little flap closes back into the ceiling with a soft click. She has a mind to do some work in the backyard today, and she’s dressed for it, right down to the old gardening gloves she’s wearing with a loose long-sleeved shirt and her ever-present jeans. She’s traded her braid for a bun, and part of her thinks she can se entirely too much of her father in the lines of her face, and part of her doesn’t mind seeing ‘too much’ of that at all.

She heads down the stairs - she can hear Antoni in his room as she passes, humming to himself. The girls are in the living room curled up on the couch watching a show on TV, Krista squeaking at every jump scare while Leila sits back, unmoved by any of it. 

Jake and Chris she discovers outside, Jake sitting on the back steps drinking his coffee, holding the soft green mug in both hands while Chris does yoga, bending himself into pretzels. It’s genuinely a little unsettling to see the way he can move, when he wants to, as compared to how silent and still he can be when he doesn’t feel safe.

“Any heavy lifting you need done?” Jake asks as Nat passes him, her boots clumping down the steps.

“Not any I can’t handle myself,” Nat says, shrugging. The sun is warm on her back, soaking into even the pale cream of her shirt, settling into her dark brown hair. “I’m old but I’m not that old, Jake. Not yet.”

“I didn’t say you were old,” Jake points out. “Today, anyway.”

Nat laughs, heading to the little shed backed up against the fence in the backyard. She found Kauri sleeping here, once, when she forgot to put the spare key in its hiding spot under the bush next to the house. Came out to get the watering can and found Kauri half-sitting up in the shed, jumping into alertness - and pushing himself onto his knees into Position Two on pure instinct before he was even fully awake.

That had been... a surreal way to start her morning.

This way is much better. 

She gets out a bag of potting soil, carrying it over one shoulder to the newest planter, a big ceramic rectangle lined up along one side of the small concrete patio where her container garden lives. Chris, walking on his hands across the yard, yells a hello and Nat gives him a wave, wishing she had access to the kind of boundless energy that propels Chris now that he’s let his guard down a little. After getting sick - and choosing his new name - he’s been more open, although he still doesn’t touch anyone but Jake.

She heads back for a second bag of potting soil and picks up the little packet of seeds. It doesn’t take long, working hard in the early morning sun, to get the zucchini seeds carefully spaced out, covered up, planted in their little hills of new soil. She shakes out a little of the ‘plant food’ she buys in jugs at a local hardware stare, made by the owner’s mom. 

She turns around as Jake stands. “Can you stick with Chris for a second?” Jake calls out. “I’m gonna go refill my coffee.”

“Yeah, I’ll be out here for a while,” Nat replies, pulling a few weeds from the container with the tomato plants. The screen door bangs shut, and she hums happily while Chris stretches his arms high above his head, up on his toes, making his body as long as he can.

She’s just peeling the sweaty gloves off of her hands when a van drives by, painted a flat featureless white. It’s one of those long vans with the sliding side door and no windows. It rumbles by and she watches Chris go still when he sees it, eyes locking on.

One of the kids in the neighborhood is in the street, and the van has to stop. The driver leans out - a guy with a blocky jaw, older, sandy blond hair and pale skin. He yells something - Nat hears only you little shit, but his van backfires and she misses the rest.

Chris, staring at the man as he raises one hand in a fist, takes a step back. His eyes are impossibly wide, going from the body of the van to the man’s face and back again. His knees start to buckle. 

Nat knows what’s going to happen. She’s seen that look before, a thousand times for a thousand different reasons on a hundred different rescues. 

She can’t possibly move fast enough to catch him before he’s under, terrified and shaking, dropping onto his knees on the ground and then curling over himself in a desperate, frightened attempt to protect himself from the violence he thinks is coming. 

She drops to her knees next to him, ignoring the crack of her aging kneecaps protesting the speed with which she’s moving. She lays her hand over his back - he’s shivering, his whole body shaking, his hands over his head as he rocks himself, pushes forward and back where he curves over his knees on the ground. “Chris, honey-”

“Please no,” Chris whimpers, and looks up at her from behind the hair that falls over his face, copper strands cutting over the freckles on his nose and cheeks, standing out more each day as he spends more and more time outside in the sun. “Please, please, please don’t, don’t give me to, to, to them, please, please don’t, I’m, I’m good, I’m good here, I’m, please-”

“I would never,” Nat answers, forgoing soft and instead speaking with all her fierce and certain conviction. “Sweetie I’d hand myself over before I’d ever hurt you that way. It’s okay. He’s gone, sweetheart, he’s gone.” 

Chris dares only the slightest look down the street. The white van has driven on, turned a corner, disappeared in the direction of its eventual destination. Chris looks, and breathes deeply, and then turns and throws his arms around her waist, squeezing her so tightly it hurts, pressing the top of his head into her stomach. 

Her hands fly up, and then, slowly, she settles one hand into his hair and the other presses between his shoulder blades, rubbing in circles. 

He only ever touches Jake, or lets Jake touch him - follows the older boy everywhere he goes in the house and outside. 

This is the first time he’s ever seen Nat herself as the source of comfort, too, without it being because Jake right there nearby to make him feel safer. 

“You’re all right,” Nat murmurs, running her fingers through his hair. “Was it the van?”

There are always rumors - Nat knows at least some of them are true.

“The, the, the driver, looked, looked like... like m-my-, my, my my my, my-” He mumbles against the fabric of her shirt, breath hitching with buried sobs. 

“Your Sir?” Nat guesses, but Chris shakes his head, sniffing harder.

“M-my handler,” Chris whispers. “He, he was, was like, like like like my handler, h-handler, Handler Petrus... I-I, I, he was-”

“I understand... I understand, honey, it’s all right. It’s not him. It’s never going to be him, you’ll be safe... you’re safe here, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

The screen door opens and closes again and a second later she hears Jake call, “What happened?”

Chris pulls back instantly, pushes himself to his feet, and runs to Jake instead. Nat turns and looks as Chris throws himself at Jake, sighing heavily, laying one hand over her stomach where Chris’s head was just the moment before. 

Jake catches Chris with one arm, moving the mug out with the other so it won’t slosh onto anyone, and blinks at Nat. “What-”

“He just needs a minute,” Nat calls back, and he’s not the only one.

[kookie-doughs]

Y/N L/N AND THE HALFBLOODS

Percy Jackson X Reader

-Y/N L/N met Percy Jackson and everything was now ruined.

CHAPTER 18: High-Key Want A Three-Headed Dog

We stood in the shadows of Valencia Boulevard, looking up at gold letters etched in black marble: DOA RECORDING STUDIOS.

Underneath, stenciled on the glass doors: NO SOLICITORS. NO LOITERING. NO LIVING.

It was almost midnight, but the lobby was brightly lit and full of people. Behind the security desk sat a tough-looking guard with sunglasses and an earpiece.

I turned to my friends. "Okay. You remember the plan."

"The plan," Grover gulped. "Yeah. I love the plan."

Annabeth said, "What happens if the plan doesn't work?"

"Don't think negative." Percy said.

"Right," she said. "We're entering the Land of the Dead, and I shouldn't think negative."

Percy took the pearls out of his pocket, the three milky spheres the Nereid had given us in Santa Monica. They didn't seem like much of a backup in case something went wrong. I had mine mixed up in there in case mine was rigged, Percy insisted upon it.

Annabeth put her hand on Percy's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Percy. You're right, we'll make it. It'll be fine."

She gave Grover a nudge.

"Oh, right!" he chimed in. "We got this far. We'll find the master bolt and save your mom. No problem."

"Don't worry Percy. We'll do this."

He looked at us, and smiled.

He slipped the pearls back in his pocket. "Let's whup some Underworld butt."

We walked inside the DOA lobby.

Muzak played softly on hidden speakers. The carpet and walls were steel gray. Pencil cactuses grew in the corners like skeleton hands. The furniture was black leather, and every seat was taken. There were people sitting on couches, people standing up, people staring out the windows or waiting for the elevator. Nobody moved, or talked, or did much of anything. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see them all just fine, but if I focused on any one of them in particular, they started looking... transparent. I could see right through their bodies.

The security guard's desk was a raised podium, so we had to look up at him.

He was tall and elegant, with chocolate-colored skin and bleached-blond hair shaved military style. He wore tortoiseshell shades and a silk Italian suit that matched his hair. A black rose was pinned to his lapel under a silver name tag.

Percy read the name tag, then looked at him in bewilderment. "Your name is Chiron?"

He leaned across the desk. I couldn't see anything in his glasses except my own reflection, but his smile was sweet and cold, like a pythons, right before it eats you.

"What a precious young lad." He had a strange accent—British, maybe, but also as if he had learned English as a second language. "Tell me, mate, do I look like a centaur?"

"N-no."

"Sir," he added smoothly.

"Sir," Percy said.

He pinched the name tag and ran his finger under the letters. "Can you read this, mate? It says C-H-A-R-O-N. Say it with me: CARE-ON."

"Charon."

"Amazing! Now: Mr. Charon."

"Mr. Charon," I said.

"Well done." He sat back. "I hate being confused with that old horse-man. And now, how may I help you little dead ones?"

Percy looked at me for support.

"We want to go the Underworld," I said.

Charon's mouth twitched. "Well, that's refreshing."

"It is?" I asked.

"Straightforward and honest. No screaming. No 'There must be a mistake, Mr. Charon.'" He looked us over. "How did you die, then?"

I nudged Grover.

"Oh," he said. "Um... drowned... in the bathtub."

"All four of you?" Charon asked. We nodded. I could see Annabeth wanted to face palm.

"Big bathtub." Charon looked mildly impressed. "I don't suppose you have coins for passage. Normally, with adults, you see, I could charge your American Express, or add the ferry price to your last cable bill. But with children... alas, you never die prepared. Suppose you'll have to take a seat for a few centuries."

"Oh, but we have coins." Annabeth set three golden drachmas on the counter, part of the stash we'd found in Crusty's office desk.

"Well, now..." Charon moistened his lips. "Real drachmas. Real golden drachmas. I haven't seen these in..."

His fingers hovered greedily over the coins.

We were so close.

Then Charon looked at Percy. That cold stare behind his glasses seemed to bore a hole through his chest. "Here now," he said. "You couldn't read my name correctly. Are you dyslexic, lad?"

"No," Percy said. "I'm dead."

Charon leaned forward and took a sniff. "You're not dead. I should've known. You're a godling."

"We have to get to the Underworld," Annabeth insisted.

Charon made a growling sound deep in his throat.

Immediately, all the people in the waiting room got up and started pacing, agitated, lighting cigarettes, running hands through their hair, or checking their wristwatches.

"Leave while you can," Charon told us. "I'll just take these and forget I saw you."

He started to go for the coins, but I snatched them back.

"No service, no tip." I said staring at him.

Charon growled again—a deep, blood-chilling sound. The spirits of the dead started pounding on the elevator doors.

"It's a shame, too," I sighed. "We had more to offer."

I held up the entire bag from Crusty's stash. I took out a fistful of drachmas and let the coins spill through my fingers.

Charon's growl changed into something more like a lion's purr. "Do you think I can be bought, godling? Eh... just out of curiosity, how much have you got there?"

"A lot," I said. "I bet Hades doesn't pay you well enough for such hard work."

"Oh, you don't know the half of it. How would you like to babysit these spirits all day? Always 'Please don't let me be dead' or 'Please let me across for free.' I haven't had a pay raise in three thousand years. Do you imagine suits like this come cheap?"

"You deserve better," I agreed. "A little appreciation. Respect. Good pay."

With each word, I stacked another gold coin on the counter.

Charon glanced down at his silk Italian jacket, as if imagining himself in something even better. "I must say, lad, you're making some sense now. Just a little."

I stacked another few coins. "I could mention a pay raise while I'm talking to Hades."

He sighed. "The boat's almost full, anyway. I might as well add you three and be off."

He stood, scooped up our money, and said, "Come along."

We pushed through the crowd of waiting spirits, who started grabbing at our clothes like the wind, their voices whispering things I couldn't make out. Charon shoved them out of the way, grumbling, "Freeloaders."

He escorted us into the elevator, which was already crowded with souls of the dead, each one holding a green boarding pass. Charon grabbed two spirits who were trying to get on with us and pushed them back into the lobby.

"Right. Now, no one get any ideas while I'm gone," he announced to the waiting room. "And if anyone moves the dial off my easy-listening station again, I'll make sure you're here for another thousand years. Understand?"

He shut the doors. He put a key card into a slot in the elevator panel and we started to descend.

"What happens to the spirits waiting in the lobby?" Annabeth asked.

"Nothing," Charon said.

"For how long?"

"Forever, or until I'm feeling generous."

"Oh," she said. "That's... fair."

Charon raised an eyebrow. "Whoever said death was fair, young miss? Wait until it's your turn. You'll die soon enough, where you're going."

"We'll get out alive," Percy said.

"Ha."

I could feel we weren't going down anymore, but forward. The air turned misty. Spirits around me started changing shape. Their modern clothes flickered, turning into gray hooded robes. The floor of the elevator began swaying.

Charon's creamy Italian suit had been replaced by a long black robe. His tortoiseshell glasses were gone. Where his eyes should've been were empty sockets—like Ares's eyes, except Charon's were totally dark, full of night and death and despair.

He saw me looking, and said, "Well?"

"Nothing," I said. "I never knew you could look cool dead."

I thought he was grinning, but that wasn't it. The flesh of his face was becoming transparent, letting me see straight through to his skull.

The floor kept swaying.

Grover said, "I think I'm getting seasick."

When I blinked again, the elevator wasn't an elevator anymore. We were standing in a wooden barge. Charon was poling us across a dark, oily river, swirling with bones, dead fish, and other, stranger things—plastic dolls, crushed carnations, soggy diplomas with gilt edges.

"The River Styx," Annabeth murmured. "It's so..."

"Polluted," Charon said. "For thousands of years, you humans have been throwing in everything as you come across—hopes, dreams, wishes that never came true. Irresponsible waste management, if you ask me."

Mist curled off the filthy water. Above us, almost lost in the gloom, was a ceiling of stalactites. Ahead, the far shore glimmered with greenish light, the color of poison.

Panic closed up my throat. What was I doing here? These people around me... they were dead.

Percy grabbed hold of my hand. Annabeth took my other free one. I knew she wanted reassurance that somebody else was alive on this boat.

I could hear Percy muttering a prayer, though I wasn't quite sure who I was praying to. Down here, only one god mattered, and he was the one we had come to confront.

The shoreline of the Underworld came into view. Craggy rocks and black volcanic sand stretched inland about a hundred yards to the base of a high stone wall, which marched off in either direction as far as we could see. A sound came from somewhere nearby in the green gloom, echoing off the stones—the howl of a large animal.

"Old Three-Face is hungry," Charon said. His smile turned skeletal in the greenish light. "Bad luck for you, godlings."

The bottom of our boat slid onto the black sand. The dead began to disembark. A woman holding a little girl's hand. An old man and an old woman hobbling along arm in arm. A boy no older than I was, shuffling silently along in his gray robe.

Charon said, "I'd wish you luck, mate, but there isn't any down here. Mind you, don't forget to mention my pay raise."

He counted our golden coins into his pouch, then took up his pole. He warbled something that sounded like a Barry Manilow song as he ferried the empty barge back across the river.

We followed the spirits up a well-worn path.

I'm not sure what I was expecting—Pearly Gates, or a big black portcullis, or something. But the entrance to the Underworld looked like a cross between airport security and the Jersey Turnpike.

There were three separate entrances under one huge black archway that said YOU ARE NOW ENTERING EREBUS. Each entrance had a pass-through metal detector with security cameras mounted on top. Beyond this were tollbooths manned by black-robed ghouls like Charon.

The howling of the hungry animal was really loud now, but I couldn't see where it was coming from. The three-headed dog, Cerberus, who was supposed to guard Hades's door, was nowhere to be seen.

The dead queued up in the three lines, two marked ATTENDANT ON DUTY, and one marked EZ DEATH. The EZ DEATH line was moving right along. The other two were crawling.

"What do you figure?" Percy asked Annabeth.

"The fast line must go straight to the Asphodel Fields," she said. "No contest. They don't want to risk judgment from the court, because it might go against them."

"There's a court for dead people?"

"Yeah. Three judges. They switch around who sits on the bench. King Minos, Thomas Jefferson, Shakespeare—people like that. Sometimes they look at a life and decide that person needs a special reward—the Fields of Elysium. Sometimes they decide on punishment. But most people, well, they just lived. Nothing special, good or bad. So they go to the Asphodel Fields."

"And do what?"

Grover said, "Imagine standing in a wheat field in Kansas. Forever."

"Harsh," Percy said.

"Not as harsh as that," Grover muttered. "Look."

A couple of black-robbed ghouls had pulled aside one spirit and were frisking him at the security desk. The face of the dead man looked vaguely familiar.

"He's that preacher who made the news, remember?" Grover asked.

"Oh, yeah." Percy said. "We'd seen him on TV a couple of times at the Yancy Academy dorm. He was this annoying televangelist from upstate New York who'd raised millions of dollars for orphanages and then got caught spending the money on stuff for his mansion, like gold-plated toilet seats, and an indoor putt-putt golf course. He'd died in a police chase when his "Lamborghini for the Lord" went off a cliff."

"Humans." I said rolling my eyes, "What're they doing to him?"

"Special punishment from Hades," Grover guessed. "The really bad people get his personal attention as soon as they arrive. The Fur—the Kindly Ones will set up an eternal torture for him."

The thought of the Furies made me shudder. I realized I was in their home territory now. Old Mrs. Dodds and Mrs . Rudolph would be licking her lips with anticipation.

"But if he's a preacher," Percy said, "and he believes in a different hell... ."

Grover shrugged. "Who says he's seeing this place the way we're seeing it? Humans see what they want to see. You're very stubborn—er, persistent, that way."

We got closer to the gates. The howling was so loud now it shook the ground at my feet, about fifty feet in front of us, standing just where the path split into three lanes was an enormous shadowy monster.

My jaw hung open. All I could think to say was, "He's a Rottweiler."

I'd always imagined Cerberus as a big black mastiff. But he was obviously a purebred Rottweiler, except of course that he was twice the size of a woolly mammoth, and had three heads.

"I thought he would've been a mastiff."

"Same..."

The dead walked right up to him—no fear at all. The ATTENDANT ON DUTY lines parted on either side of him. The EZ DEATH spirits walked right between his front paws and under his belly, which they could do without even crouching.

"I'm starting to see him better," Percy muttered. "Why is that?"

"I think ..." Annabeth moistened her lips. "I'm afraid it's because we're getting closer to being dead."

The dog's middle head craned toward us. It sniffed the air and growled.

"It can smell the living," I said.

"But that's okay," Grover said, trembling next to Percy. "Because we have a plan."

"Right," Annabeth said. I'd never heard her voice sound quite so small. "A plan."

We moved toward the monster.

The middle head snarled at us, then barked so loud my eyeballs rattled.

"Can you understand it?" I asked Grover.

"Oh yeah," he said. "I can understand it."

"What's it saying?"

"I don't think humans have a four-letter word that translates, exactly."

Percy took the big stick out of his backpack—a bedpost we'd broken off Crusty's Safari Deluxe floor model. He held it up, and tried to channel happy dog thoughts toward Cerberus—Alpo commercials, cute little puppies, fire hydrants.

"Hey, Big Fella," He called up. "I bet they don't play with you much."

"GROWWWLLLL!"

"Good boy," he said weakly.

Percy waved the stick. The dog's middle head followed the movement. The other two heads trained their eyes on Percy, completely ignoring the spirits. Percy had Cerberus's undivided attention. I wasn't sure that was a good thing.

"Fetch!" I threw the stick into the gloom, a good solid throw. I heard it go ker-sploosh in the River Styx.

Cerberus glared at me, unimpressed. His eyes were baleful and cold.

So much for the plan.

Cerberus was now making a new kind of growl, deeper down in his three throats.

"Um," Grover said. "Percy?"

"Yeah?"

"I just thought you'd want to know."

"Yeah?"

"Cerberus? He's saying we've got ten seconds to pray to the god of our choice. After that... well... he's hungry."

"Wait!" Annabeth said. She started rifling through her pack.

"Five seconds," Grover said. "Do we run now?"

Annabeth produced a red rubber ball the size of a grapefruit. It was labeled WATERLAND, DENVER, CO. Before I could stop her, she raised the ball and marched straight up to Cerberus.

She shouted, "See the ball? You want the ball, Cerberus? Sit!"

Cerberus looked as stunned as we were.

All three of his heads cocked sideways. Six nostrils dilated.

"Sit!" Annabeth called again.

I don't know why but petting this gigantic three headed dog would have made my bucket list complete. I walked up to Annabeth with Percy and Grover panicking behind.

"I want to pet him. Cerberus sit!"

"Sit!" Annabeth yelled.

Cerberus licked his three sets of lips, shifted on his haunches, and sat, immediately crushing a dozen spirits who'd been passing underneath him in the EZ DEATH line. The spirits made muffled hisses as they dissipated, like the air let out of tires.

I said, "Good boy!"

Annabeth threw Cerberus the ball.

He caught it in his middle mouth. It was barely big enough for him to chew, and the other heads started snapping at the middle, trying to get the new toy.

"Drop it.'" I ordered.

Cerberus's heads stopped fighting and looked at me. The ball was wedged between two of his teeth like a tiny piece of gum. He made a loud, scary whimper, then dropped the ball, now slimy and bitten nearly in half, at Annabeth's feet.

"Good boy." She picked up the ball, ignoring the monster spit all over it.

She turned toward the two. "Go now. EZ DEATH line—it's faster."

Percy said, "But—"

"Now.'" She ordered, in the same tone she was using on the dog.

"You should go too. I wouldn't mind."

"How are you sure he'll follow you?" Annabeth laughed.

"I had a dog you know. Real sweetheart. Pretty sure he'll be as cute."

Grover and Percy inched forward warily.

Cerberus started to growl.

"Stay!" Annabeth ordered the monster. "If you want the ball, stay!"

Cerberus whimpered, but he stayed where he was.

"What about you guys?" Percy asked us as we passed her.

Annabeth looked at me and nodded. "Y/N wants to pet him," she muttered. "I think she can handle him."

Grover, Annabeth and Percy walked between the Cerberus's legs.

I was tempted to make Cerberus sit to be honest.

When made it through. I said, "Good dog!"

I held up the tattered red ball. The ball was tattered and this is going to be the last trick.

"Cerberus, could you get closer to me?" I called hesitantly. All three heads leaned down.

Oh gods... Oh gods... I'm going to pet him... I reluctantly touched his head. His head leaned to my touch. "Good boy." I cooed petting each his head. He whimpered on my touch.  "Okay boy." I leaned my head against his middle one.

I threw the ball. The good boy's left mouth immediately snatched it up, only to be attacked by the middle head, while the right head moaned in protest.

While the monster was distracted, I walked under its belly and joined us at the metal detector.

"Bucket list solved." Annabeth and I fist bumped.

"How did you do that?" Percy looked at Annabeth and I, amazed.

"Obedience school," Annabeth said breathlessly, "When I was little, at my dad's house, we had a Doberman... ."

"I had D/N you knew that." I was surprised to see there were tears in her eyes. "I promise I'll play again!"

"Never mind that," Grover said, tugging at Percy's shirt. "Come on!"

We were about to bolt through the EZ DEATH line when Cerberus moaned pitifully from all three mouths. Annabeth and I stopped.

We turned to face the cutie which had done a one-eighty to look at us.

Cerberus panted expectantly, the tiny red ball in pieces in a puddle of drool at its feet.

"Good boy," Annabeth said, but her voice sounded melancholy and uncertain.

The monster's heads turned sideways, as if worried.

"I'll bring you another ball soon," Annabeth promised faintly. "Would you like that?"

The monster whimpered. I didn't need to speak dog to know Cerberus was still waiting for the ball.

"Good dog. I'll come visit you soon. I promise we'll come back." I turned to the others. "Let's go."

Grover and Percy pushed through the metal detector, which immediately screamed and set off flashing red lights. "Unauthorized possessions! Magic detected!"

Cerberus started to bark.

We burst through the EZ DEATH gate, which started even more alarms blaring, and raced into the Underworld.

A few minutes later, we were hiding, out of breath, in the rotten trunk of an immense black tree as security ghouls scuttled past, yelling for backup from the Furies.

Grover murmured, "Well, Percy, what have we learned today?"

"That three-headed dogs prefer red rubber balls over sticks?"

"No," Grover told me. "We've learned that your plans really, really bite!"

I wasn't sure about that. I thought maybe Annabeth and I had both had the right idea. Even here in the Underworld, everybody—even monsters—needed a little attention once in a while.

I thought about that as we waited for the ghouls to pass. I pulled Annabeth closer as she wipe a tear from her cheek as we listened to the mournful keening of Cerberus in the distance,.

"We'll come back..."

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Taglist?

@gayer-than-the-gayest-gay @the-natureofme @booknerd-3000 @katara720 @ynfics

[permian-tropos]

“Seismic” -- Daniil Dankovsky/Artemy Burakh fic that I just spat out

CW: angst, suicidality

I will post this on AO3 maybe like a normal person but it’s late and I’m lazy

Edit: the AO3 link if you want it there

...

Two dogs barked in warning — they knew, as they so often did, of the oncoming quake.

The plague itself was growling in the air, unyielding in its final hours, and the black soot flakes soared on suddenly stirred air currents, all aflutter with anticipation.

On the eastern side of the Guzzle crossing came running the man who could always smell blood before it was spilled, because it was by rights his to harvest.

On the south side of town the cannons on the railroad were turning and aiming, ready to belch fire.

The yargachin stood on the bridge looking into the Stone Yard, where the spear would finally be ripped from the heart of the world. There it was; that glittering silhouette in the hazy air, that crystalized twister touching down by the bend in the river.

The Polyhedron’s manic angles had never seemed so alive. She was baring herself to the world, a witch upon the pyre screaming her last wild curse, and in that moment she and the Earth were not enemies but one being, united in defiance against their coming death.

As the ground beneath his boot soles shivered, the Haruspex at last knew what the odonghs meant when they said they could sense the weight of every pair of feet on the streets of the town.

Because he felt footsteps that should not be there, crossing the Bridge Square.

Walking west, to where the sun set, the steps spoke their own rhythmic language, tolling like a warning bell: I am going to see this to the end.

The butcher’s heart gasped like it too had been pierced through. Artemy heaved in a lungful of acrid infected air and sprinted through the Atrium, past the befuddled soldiers. His bad leg hobbled and nearly sent him down to one knee, but he turned a corner and beheld:

The fog in the square cut by the silhouette of a long leather coat — and he’d even brought his trademark bag; it swung at his side.

The Bachelor looked like a man upon the lip of a train platform, impatiently clasping his luggage, awaiting his chance to travel far away —truly far — the next time an engine thundered through the station.

His upturned head spelled out plainly that his eyes were only on the tower. Transfixed upon his beloved.

Artemy staggered across the paved stones, past the row of bodies left behind by the Inquisition, and caught Daniil Dankovsky by his arm.

And swung him around with one sharp pull. The man’s eyes were wide and red-rimmed, and out from them cracked all those furrows of stress that had been pressed into the man’s face over two weeks of squinting, straining, grimacing, scowling, and perhaps, by the looks of it, weeping.

“No,” was all Artemy could gasp with the last air in his lungs, and then he had to pant and recover.

“Don’t you dare stop me!” Dankovsky cried out, thrashing and fighting the grip on his arm.

Artemy clung to the snakeskin on his sleeve with all the strength he had left. He shook the man just as vigorously as the man was struggling, until his efforts stilled. “You’re not going up there.”

“You should have killed me in the Shelter. But you didn’t, so I’m going inside one last time. Maybe, just maybe, there’ll be one more dream left, and it won’t die alone.”

“The cannons!” Artemy choked out. “I delivered the orders! They’re taking aim!”

“I know,” said the Bachelor, tongue heavy, like he wanted the words carved on his grave. His lips shuddered, and then he twisted his arm, wildness flashing in his eyes.

Artemy grabbed his shoulders before he could wrench himself free. And stared at him, trying to vivisect him with a glare. By the way the man was trembling, the Haruspex was indeed cutting deep, through his medrel, his nerves.

Dankovsky was lost to his grief, seduced at his lowest moment by the Pied Piper herself, the temptress who had spirited away the children of the Town.

And now it wanted him to lie down with it in its grave, as its eternal lover. It had called him here with the siren song, there is nothing else but me, without me you are nothing, and I need you.

“What does a man do without a dream? What does mankind do?” Dankovsky dropped his bag and clutched the front of Artemy’s smock, and from the way his fingers clawed and twitched, he was coming close to reaching up and trying to squeeze his throat. But he did not do that. He just clung.

Artemy struggled for words. “We don’t do. We just are. And that’s enough.”

Dankovsky's breath caught on a wet clog in his throat. “I can’t live like this,” he rasped. “I’ll never be free again. I never was. Now let me go. I didn’t think you’d have to see this—”

“I’d see it when they found your body in the wreck. Is that how you want to be remembered, mangled and broken?” His jaw was tight as a bear trap, ready to snap. “Is that what you want to leave behind for someone you called a friend?”

The Bachelor’s cheeks were turning ashen. “Someone I called an idiot. Get out of here, Burakh, before you’re crushed by a chunk of debris. Any moment now, they’ll fire.”

“Then move, you bastard!” Artemy yanked on his arm to pull him away, yet still he fought.

A razor-sharp Line was wound all around Dankovsky’s body, biting through his clothes into his flesh like a garrote, and it was screeching the same discordant tune as the wicked metal frame balanced precariously in the Earth’s flesh.  

“It’s alive,” Dankovsky croaked. “In a way unlike anything in the universe. It’s so alive it makes the noon sun look like a shadow on the wall of a cave.”

Artemy wanted to sob, the way he had when a being shaped like his favorite childhood toy had tottered up to him on tiny hooves and plaintively asked, could it not live too? Was there not a world where it, strange form of life that it was, could be loved?

“I understand,” he said, and he did. “... I refuse to make another sacrifice. Especially not one as meaningless as this.”

“Not everything is about sacrifice!” the Bachelor spat. “My story is, quite simply, over.”

“You love that that tower so much you’d die with it? After two weeks? Barely any time!”

“Enough time to destroy a town and end thousands of lives.” A cruel grimace briefly flashed Dankovsky’s teeth, though it was covering up a flush of mortification. “You’ve known me for those same two weeks, but you’re out here in the open, waiting to be skewered on shrapnel, all over this poor waste of skin. Could it be that you’re—” he clutched a mocking hand to his breast, over his heart — “oh! just as suicidally devoted, my dearest Haruspex—!”

His words had such venom that he must have thought they would shame Artemy into letting go. A blow to his masculinity, or some such stupidity like that.

Artemy’s blood boiled, and then surged without thought. He seized Dankovsky in his arms and bent him over backwards and kissed him.

He tasted the pulse of both of their hearts as a tickle against his lips. Dankovsky flailed and helplessly threw his arms around Artemy’s shoulders, to catch his balance.

And as he did, his body shivered and his back arched into a yearning, yielding shape in Artemy’s tight grasp. Artemy’s own spine tingled from tip to tail, more urgently with every moment that Dankovsky did not pull away.

Artemy’s emboldened hand found the man’s free leg and clutched his thigh, while Dankovsky gasped through his nose and wriggled in embarrassment at the touch, but kept his mouth firmly sealed against Artemy’s.

The Cathedral bore witness; Artemy could feel it rapturously exhale a great gust of seconds into the world. The Crucible’s stately wings shivered and held their breath, scandalized. And the Polyhedron’s needle, jammed into the agonized Earth, vibrated with outrage.

He is mine, the edifice howled.

Not anymore, rumbled the Haruspex’s decree, and he planted his feet and refused to budge. His sympathy for the tower, miracle that it was, had dried up. For this eternal moment, he was the wedge forcing its way down upon those sharp threads tightly binding Daniil Dankovsky to the Polyhedron.

A great crack of gunfire split the sky and rocked the earth.

The scents of metal and blood were indistinguishable from one another, as both exploded into the air as a ruddy mist.

The seismic shudder sent Artemy down to his knees, but he didn’t let Dankovsky go; they sank together, dropping to the flagstones and unsticking their lips as their ears rang from the cacophony.

Artemy unclenched his eyelids. His heart jumped; they were both still alive, and Dankovsky had his gloved — and still very bloodstained — hand clutched over his mouth. But aside from that old gore, there was a faint spray of pink mist on the side of him that faced the river.

Fingers shaking, realizing he was staring at the cure for the Sand Pest splattered against the Bachelor’s pale skin, Artemy traced the droplets across the man’s temple. Magnificent, miraculous, chimeric blood.

“Don’t look so shocked,” he gruffly forced out, as his own mortification got the better of him. “Like I just took your innocence.” The Bachelor slowly lowered his hand from his mouth, and his dark brows dropped low and miserable, as he turned his head towards the river of blood and the jagged bones of the specular tower. “That’s exactly what you’ve done,” he whispered.

Artemy let go of Dankovsky slowly; his joints felt stuck. “Then I will bear the weight of that evil, and you will live to hold it against me.” He rose on trembling feet and pointed. “It’s over. That’s our cure, doctor.”

Dankovsky remained half-sprawled on the ground, lips forming silent words that could have been numb denials.

“It’s,” he finally said. “It’s… over.”

Artemy swallowed and took a rotten, sin-soaked step towards that beautiful red pool. He understood the hollow tones in Dankovsky’s voice. What even were they now, without the frantic running through the streets, without the smoke from signal fires stinging their eyes, without creeping to avoid the pools of light from streetlamps with a half-shattered blade in hand, without obsessive hoards of trinkets and trash filling their pockets?

The Earth’s thrashing and bellowing in pain underneath him was growing stiller, colder, fainter.

“No more of your self-pity,” Artemy finally forced out. “We have work to do. One more task. I need you, oynon.”

Behind him, by the sound of it, Dankovsky was picking himself up off the smooth stones. “You don’t need me,” he said dully. “I barely helped.”

“Spare me that bullshit. What’s left of the town is alive because of you.”

“Then. Everyone who died.”

“Stop it,” said Artemy. He didn’t turn around. “Don’t goad me right now. I won’t kiss you again, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

For an aching moment, the words caused a ripple, like a stone thrown in a pond.

“Then let’s work,” said Dankovsky, and he was quiet and bitter and resigned, but he was still there. To live in the throes of despair took courage, warm courage borne from warm blood, that still assiduously pumped inside his chest. His unthinking blood cherished the brain that struggled to love itself, and that would do for now.

[concussed-to-pieces]

Whether It Works Out Or Not: Winter’s Cold, Part One

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: High Honor!Arthur Morgan/Named OFC

Rating: Holy shit T.

AN: You kids lookin’ for a fix-it? Let’s get it started.

[Spoiler warning for the epilogue!]

Tag List: @huliabitch​​ @cookiethewriter​​ @pedrosbigdorkenergy​​ @thirstworldproblemss​​ @anonymouscosmos​​ @culturalrebel​​ @karmezii​​ @teaofpeach​​ @crookedmoonsaultpunk​​ @wrestlingfae​​ @zombiexbody​​ @nelba​​ @scribblenotes76​​ @toxiicpop​​ @mstgsmy​​ @misty-possum​​ @gallowsjoker​​ @midnightbeauty35​​ @lackofhonor​​ @renegademustelid​​ @missfronkensteen​

Part One: Strangers

Part Two: Friends

Part Three: More

Bonus One: A Brief Diversion

Bonus Two: Back In The Cage

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains brief mentions of pregnancy and general peril. Stay safe!]

"I want the fellow you've got in that cell. The one you're sending up the river." The mustachioed man demanded without pretext. "You boys give him to me and I'll make it worth your while, plus a touch extra." 

  "Listen mister, I don't know who you are or where the hell you came from, but that feller has five grand on his head. I doubt you've got enough scratch to make anythin' worth our while." The senior bounty hunter sneered, his boots still propped up on the table in front of him.

  A sack hit the table, the mysterious man undoing the drawstring slowly. "I've got six grand right here, genuine bill and coin. Count it all if you feel like it, or if you just want to touch it." His smile was mean , like the slash of a knife across his face. "Split between the two of you? Three grand apiece. Five hundred extra each. You boys really so well off that you can turn down five hundred window dressing?" The man queried.

  "Hell." The bounty hunter gawked at the money, then over at his partner, and finally back up at the man in front of them. "Jesus mister, you know this feller will probably die even before he reaches justice, don'cha? He's real sick. He was nearly dead on the mountainside as-is, and he ain't gotten better. Hasn't so much as opened his eyes in days!" 

  "Hey hey, if he wants him and he's willin' to pay that much…" The other bounty hunter trailed off, looking greedily at the bag on the table. "I ain't that inclined to turn the bastard in to the Pinks if I can make a little extra."

  "But we was gonna'-"

  "Or," the mysterious man sighed, "I suppose I could just take my money and be on my way." He began to retie the drawstring but the first bounty hunter stopped him. 

  "Hold up there, friend . We didn't even catch your name. Normally in polite society, a feller makin' an offer has the courtesy to introduce themselves."

  The man leaned in, sweeping his hat off of his head and offering a stately little bow. "Ah, where are my manners? Gentlemen, my name is Doctor Franklin Craft. Junior of course."

  The younger bounty hunter openly stared at him. "Ol' Doc Craft had a son?" He asked hesitantly. "All I ever heard about was the messy business that went on with his daughter's husband." 

  "Truly, a sordid tale. And she is actually the reason why I'm here." Doctor Craft ( junior, of course ) bowed his head in respect. "Before Irene...made her brief return to polite society, she chanced across the very fellow you have in that cell." Craft's grip on the brim of his hat tightened visibly. "He stole something from her. Something... irreplaceable . And while I may be unable to get it back, I can assure you that this man will be afforded all the comforts I can offer him while he lingers on this earth." He snarled sarcastically. "Now, do we have a deal?"

  ...

  Two Days Prior ...

  "Annie, you're a terror! " Irene laughed, scrubbing at the little girl's grubby face with the corner of her apron. "What have I told you about playing in the mud? Only in your mess trousers and only outside, right?"

  The child nodded, offering a beaming smile. Irene probably would have fallen for it, had the girl not tracked mud all over the modest dwelling. Anna was only a hair past one year of age, but she had been racing around from the moment she was able to walk. Irene was hard-pressed to keep track of her on her own. 

  It had been nearly two years since Irene had seen Arthur. Once she realized a seed had been planted during one of their pleasurable trysts, she took great pains to tie everything up neatly. Returning for her deceased husband's money had been her boldest move yet, but there was little the courts could do to dispute her claim to his property. Willie had purported that she was dead so he could remarry, and yet here she stood before them, hale and hearty. It had caused quite the uproar, if only for the unapologetic way that she had addressed everyone's shortcomings in dealing with her reports of abuse. 

  The railroad bonds he had hoarded so jealously became her failsafe, and it was with careful consideration that she began to invest in various ventures. Subsequently, there was the business of selling off every last thing . Every ounce of property, every stick of furniture, down to the hideous pewter candlesticks in the dining room. 

  Irene found herself politely turning down suitors left and right. Now that she was a woman of means, it appeared that men were willing to give her the time of day once more.

  It wouldn't be long before she would have real difficulty hiding how her body was changing. Irene decided to purchase a simple cottage up in the East Grizzlies, and it was there that she began making a home. A true home. A home of her own.

  She planted herbs, chopped enough firewood to last a lifetime, and went fishing and hunting in the nearby woodlands. The self-sufficient woman continued to live in relative isolation, only making the trip to Annesburg when she desperately needed a midwife. All the research and overheard lectures from her father couldn't have prepared her for labor, and she would be eternally grateful for the patient woman who had led her through the agony to emerge on the other side one daughter richer. 

  She named the baby Anna, her heart full to bursting when the tiny babe clutched Irene's index finger with all her strength. Little Annie Craft , her eyes just as devastatingly blue as her father's and her hair soon growing into a mess of tawny-blonde corkscrews.

  Anna held out a small rock to her mother, the muddy offering obviously one of contrition. "Sorry?" The child questioned.

  Irene sighed, rumpling her hair and accepting the pebble with a laugh. "Go get washed up, little one. It's nearly dinnertime."

  Anna nodded, trotting back outside to the small bowl on the steps that Irene had repurposed as a child-sized washbasin. 

  Irene took the small stone and wrung out her dishrag, scrubbing at the rock to reveal whatever it was that had caught Anna's eye with this particular specimen. It appeared to be quartz, the dull glitter in the last of the day's sunlight more than enough of a reason in a child's mind to acquire it. Irene smiled a bit sadly down at the small stone on the counter, then scooped it up and placed it carefully on the windowsill with the rest of its contemporaries. A few more pebbles, several dried up leaves and flowers, and the real prize, a snake's shed skin. All the treasures a small child could muster up and then some, proudly displayed.

  "Well! Gracious me, where did you come from, little cherub?" An unfamiliar man's voice drifted in through the windows and Irene jerked her head up, startled and dismayed to see a dapper-looking fellow on one knee in the mud of the front yard, her daughter's hand in his own as he presented her with a small paper flower. 

  The woman fairly bolted for the door. "Annie, love, come here!" She called benignly, trying not to distress the child. "What have I told you about strangers, wee miss?"

  Anna nodded, gifting the man one of her signature smiles but not moving. "She is a beautiful little girl." The stranger mused, rising to his full height and moving his hand to Anna's shoulder, keeping her where she was. "Her eyes, in particular! What a lovely shade of blue they are." He studied Irene standing on her front porch for several long moments. "I assume she must get them from her father, since yours are such a pristine hue of amber."

  "Indeed she does." Irene replied evenly. "Please unhand my child at once, Mister…"

  "Trelawny, ma'am! Josiah Trelawny, at your service."

  "Mister Trelawny, release my daughter and you may leave my property unharmed."

  "I had dealings with a man who has eyes like your little girl's, Miss Craft." He continued breezily like she hadn't spoken. How did he know her name? "Strong fellow, secretly altruistic, bit of a temper. Fiercely loyal." Josiah paused dramatically. "And currently , almost out of reach."

  Arthur . Irene knew she must have let something slip in her expression, for a knowing smile blossomed on Trelawny's face. The man let Anna go, and she toddled across the front yard to the steps. "What is it that you want from me, Josiah Trelawny?" Irene snapped. "Does he have debts that need paying?"

  "Heavens, no! That man has paid his debts twice over again." Josiah took a step forward. "Might we converse indoors, Miss Craft? The things I am about to tell you are matters that warrant a certain amount of... discretion ."

  Irene hesitated, then reluctantly nodded while beckoning him to approach. Trelawny followed her indoors, not speaking again until they had settled down at her small kitchen table.

  "Arthur, you see, is a friend of mine. Though I'm certain he would argue to the contrary." Josiah explained while he helped himself to the grudgingly-offered biscuits and fresh raspberry jam. "Currently, however, he sits in a filthy cell waiting to be judged. The bounty on him was very substantial, Miss Craft, very substantial indeed." He settled back in the chair, biscuit crumbs marring his damask waistcoat. "Five thousand dollars, by all accounts."

  " Five thousand? " Irene repeated in horrified dismay. 

  "Yes. Now, that is undoubtedly distressing enough. That is no simple room and board, ma'am! A man may work his whole life for funds such as those." Josiah leaned forward. "And yet there is something far worse that hangs like the sword of Damocles over his head, Miss Craft. Arthur is abysmally ill. He is plagued by that lunging pestilence, the consumption. Lord only knows how long he's had it, but it is ravaging him now in incarceration."

  Consumption . Irene had no doubt that she was white as a sheet at that news. "Why are you telling me this, Mister Trelawny?" She mentally congratulated herself on keeping her voice steady. 

  "The locals mentioned you are a woman of skill. That you know certain... remedies , though you are not permitted a doctorate so instead you must fall back upon the moniker of hermit witchery." Josiah steepled his fingers. "Then of course, there are the rumors I've heard about you being the long-lost Widow Carson. There was much ado about her in the polite society...why, over a year ago at this point! How time flies." His eyes were narrowed. "The dead woman who came from the wilds and returned to them just as fast, carrying with her a fortune and apparently ," those eyes darted to the oblivious child who was currently playing on the hearth rug, "an outlaw's brat-"

  Irene was on her feet in a flash, her palms meeting the table to cut the man off before he could continue. "You shall not speak so rough in front of my daughter, Mister Josiah, or I will make you regret opening your mouth. Mind your tongue while you sit at my table and take my hospitality hostage," she seethed. "What is it that you want from me? Did you simply come here to chastise me for having a child out of wedlock? I fear you're a touch too late to stop me on that front."

  "From you , my dear woman? Nothing at all!" Josiah exclaimed, seeming appropriately cowed by her display of backbone. "You misunderstand my intent. I am here because I am in search of a gentleman named Frank Craft ." His contrition gone, the man was watching her like a hawk . "I came across mention of him in Arthur's journal. Frank is... instrumental to a plan I have devised, you see."

  Shit . "Why don't you tell me about this... plan of yours and I'll see whether it's even worth Frank's time." Irene challenged him, folding her arms across her chest. Anna buried her face in Irene's apron, the child obviously picking up on her mother's discomfort. 

  ...

  Back In The Present...

  "Oh well done , sir! Well done indeed!" Josiah praised her roundly when she returned to their meeting spot with Arthur in the saddle in front of her. "You have performed admirably , Doctor Craft!" 

  "Don't forget your half of the bargain, Trelawny." Irene said sharply, peeling the false mustache off with a grimace. "I expect that money back in my hands in two days."

  "But of course! A few more investments in the Kilgore mines and I shall have your payment safely returned." 

  Arthur, who did not even seem to be conscious , started coughing and wheezing like his lungs were fit to come out. Irene didn't miss Josiah's look of extreme worry. "I'll do my best with him, Trelawny." She murmured. "I can't promise anything. He seems in a bad way."

  "The coughing started back in...April, perhaps early May of last year if I recall his journal entries correctly. It's a miracle he's endured this long." Trelawny stated bluntly. He shifted in his saddle, "speaking of his journal, I have that very item with me. Should he recuperate, I imagine he would miss it immensely." He tossed her the leatherbound book, and then tipped his hat. "I'll be off. Thank you for your assistance, Miss Craft."

  "Just get me the money, Josiah." She retorted, pulling her scarf up over her nose and mouth before spurring Bluster off in the direction of home. Arthur's mare trotted along behind them serenely, the other animal having always possessed a much more even temperament than Bluster. 

  Irene pressed her ear to Arthur's back after a time, listening to how ragged and labored his breathing was and her heart broke. She prayed like she never had before the entire ride home, prayed to the Good Lord to let her save this man.

  Please God, spare him, he's suffered enough .

  As she rounded the final bend in the road before the last thickly-wooded section, she was startled to see an enormous stag barring her way. The beast was a strange amber-white, boasting a many-pronged rack of antlers that would have left many a hunter awestruck. It practically glowed in the moonlight, nigh ethereal as it turned its head and studied the woman with one liquid, pitch-black eye.

  Irene cautiously reined in Bluster, who didn't seem concerned with the massive creature. That of all things was what made her uneasy. Bluster, the perennial coward, was wholly unbothered by the hulking apparition that currently sat in front of them. Chase was unphased as well, the mare actually lowering her head to graze the sparse grass. Bluster's breath fogged out around his nose, the air already sharp with the promise of winter, and Irene realized with a jolt of confusion that the stag had no visible haze from its breath around its head. 

  The deer that towered head and shoulders over her even while mounted turned in the direction they had been heading, and then set off at a stately pace. It stopped after a moment, looking back at her as if to say, " well? " 

  Irene clicked her tongue, coaxing Bluster to a careful trot. The stag appeared satisfied with this arrangement, soon picking up speed. It led her on a strange path, a bit more of a winding one than she would have taken, but Irene felt weirdly confident that this odd... vision was here to help. 

  Off in the woods to the left, sounding like it was dangerously close to the deer track she would have taken, she heard a furious crashing of branches and the yowling of a cougar as it chased down some unfortunate prey. 

  Irene looked wide-eyed at the stag and found that it had turned its head to stare at her once more. Bluster whinnied uncertainly, beginning to fidget as he doubtless caught the noise and smell of the big cat, and Irene urged him on a little faster. 

  Jesus , encountering a cougar at this hour, her with nothing but her revolver and the limp weight of Arthur further burdening Bluster? They would have been dead for certain!

  "Thank you." She breathed, feeling foolish for being disappointed when she received no reply.

  The stag finally halted on the rocky hilltop adjacent to the little hollow her stead rested in, still not an ounce of breath fog around its nose or issuing from its mouth, and Irene realized after a moment that it was waiting for her to continue onwards. 

  "Thank you," she said again softly, grateful even through her disbelief.

  The deer folded its legs to lay in the grass, as if to keep an eye out for danger while Irene dismounted and led the two horses down the steep incline. Arthur started to cough again, the noise sharp and hollow as his breath rasped in and out.

  "Nearly there Arthur, nearly there." Irene soothed, knowing that he was probably unable to hear her in his delirium. "We'll be home…" her words trailed off when she turned to look back at Arthur and saw that the stag had vanished. "...soon."

  Bluster whickered at her quietly after a moment, breaking the spell of her confusion. Right . Work to be done.

  ...

  " The queen will never win the game, for Rumpelstiltskin is my name! "

  Arthur couldn't even bring himself to wonder what the hell he was hearing. Some sort of distant nursery rhyme, and he wasn't sure if he was imagining the sound of a small child laughing fit to split their sides.

  Christ , he was tired. His body ached and his lungs seared like hellfire. Throat raw from coughing, tongue sour with the iron taste of blood. He had really, really thought he would be dead by now. Guess his body had other plans, the bastard .

  He went back under, muddling around in the red haze of semi-consciousness. It seemed like someone was always forcing him to take some kind of medicine. Bitter, scraping his battered throat like knives all the way down. Maybe it was poison. 

  Some strange salve for his chest, reeking so potently of mint that his eyes watered even though they were closed. It reminded him of the ointments Hosea had soothed the horses with, the damn man probably pious as a pope from all the anointing he did. 

  A ladle full of lukewarm water pressed to his lips and he drank as best as he could, though some of it ended up trickling down his chin. His jaw was physically sore from the rib-shattering coughing he had struggled through; it was all he could do just to pry his teeth apart. 

  Christ , he should be dead. He had been surprised enough when he managed to survive getting a hole blown in his shoulder without losing the limb to gangrene, but this was a whole new level of bullshit. 

  What little life he had left after enduring Dutch's madness, Micah had done his best to beat out of him.

  Maybe they wanted him healthy for the gallows. Put on more of a show if he was strong enough to raise his head. Arthur didn't have the heart or breath to tell whoever this was that their care was in vain. He was so far gone…

  Nobody could save him. Not even God himself could save Arthur Morgan at this point.

Winter’s Cold, Part Two

[mollymauk-teafleak]

we'll be well

Please consider reblogging or leaving a comment over on Ao3!

-------

Theseus isn't sure why he insisted on the Minotaur being brought to Elysium. Guilt? Pride? Pity? He just knows it is important to him.

Though now he's here, the beast of the labyrinth taking up residence in the grand afterlife palace of the king that killed him, he's not sure it was such a good idea.

-------

The bull had not said a word.

Theseus had expected that. He’d been warned of that. But still, the total silence from such a hulking form, not a murmur or a footfall or even an exhalation, was disconcerting. It would seem his lifetime in the labyrinth and however long he’d spent lost in the fringes of the afterlife had taught him to cloak himself in the complete absence of sound. As a hunter did.

Or as a scared child might.

“I hope these quarters are to your liking,” the hero of Athens was not used to the taste of uncertainty and he masked it as best he could in his usual booming manner, “All the luxuries of the palace are at your disposal. Ah...perhaps the baths, to begin with?”

The bull did look very out of place, standing in amongst the hard shells of gold and marble that armoured every room in Theseus’ Elysium palace. He was filthy, politely put, matted mane reaching near to the floor and covering his face like a veil, dust and dirt from who knew where blackening his already dark skin, his horns so large and overgrown that his head was bowed under their weight, their ends splintered and cracking. All he wore was a ragged piece of cloth eaten away by years, tied loosely around his hips. He reeked of blood, grave dirt, the dank, dark bowels of the labyrinth.

But he said nothing to Theseus’ suggestion, still standing in the middle of the room the prince had commanded be made ready for him, as soon as word had come that his request was granted and the bull would be admitted to Elysium. Dark eyes like spheres of wet river rock peered out from the ropes of hair, as if taking it all in but feeling nothing. The plush, four poster bed with it’s gossamer hanging, specially made to be big enough to accommodate him, the cavernous ceilings with their murals of heavenly skies, the gilded furnishings, the bowls of fine fruit for him to eat instead of...instead of what he’d been subsiding on for years. None of it seemed to raise any emotion in those dark eyes. He stayed silent.

As silent as he’d been when they’d fought. When he’d charged, when those piercing points had come down and flew like arrowheads right at him, all of that weight and strength and power like an avalanche of rock down a mountainside. When he’d tried to kill Theseus, as he’d killed so many others.

As silent as he had been when the spear thrust had killed him. When the light had gone out of those eyes, a light he hadn’t even realised was there until it fled, and he’d looked so young and so scared.

“Ah...very well then…” the unfamiliar bitterness of uncertainty grew stronger and Theseus had to resist the urge to fidget and bite his lip, like he did when he was a child, “There are servants you can call on when you require. I shall...I shall leave you to get acquainted with your new quarters.”

He turned and tried not to seem as though he was fleeing, as though he wasn’t relieved when the heavy door closed between them and cut off that silence. For a moment, Theseus stood in the hallway and ran his fingers through his hair, exhaling sharply. To his immense relief, he found anger and irritation to replace the emotions roiling in his belly. Did the bull not realise just what he’d done for him? Did he not see that he’d been saved from an eternity of torturous wandering, granted a place where only heroes were meant to stand, all because of Theseus? And to not be given so much as a word, let alone a word of thanks?

Theseus shook his head, huffing indignantly. His palm itched, he needed to hold some weapon and break something.

The servants could deal with the bull, he was going to the practice yard.

Training had not been everything Theseus wished.

Of course he had excelled. He had struck the targets clean every time, he had torn the sawdust figures to shreds with ease, he had commanded his chariot as easily as the gods commanded the wind.

But despite his prowess, he was missing the peace that settled over him after a good training session, the sense of control. The knowledge that he was here, in the moment, doing exactly what the gods had shaped him to do, in death as easily as he ever had in life. Instead he was still hollow in the pit of his stomach, still tense and anxious. These feelings were very new to Theseus and they were not welcome at all.

Even a long, steamed soak in the baths to clean the cooling sweat from his body couldn’t settle him, he was still frowning as he slipped into a robe after towelling off, blonde hair damp and dripping gently onto his shoulders. He paused to ask one of the attendants if the bull had come down to bathe yet, telling himself he simply didn’t want his new housemate wandering around in the state he’d arrived in. The footprints he’d left on the carpet would be a nightmare to remove…

Theseus could tell himself that but the first emotion that struck him, when the attending shade told him there had been no sign of the bull, was fear. Immediately he was running, not caring that he was sprinting through his manse in a bathrobe, not caring that shades were looking at him in confusion, caring only that he shouldn’t have left the bull alone, he should have been there with him, he should have tried to talk to him…

The room was empty, as Theseus had feared. No sign of him anywhere in the cavernous luxury, not even any footprints around the place. Just the ones to show where he’d stood when Theseus had left him, in the middle of the room, silently staring. He hadn’t even moved to look at anything, to sit on the bed, to explore his new surroundings. He’d just left.

Theseus willed himself to calm down. The bull couldn’t have gone far, his guards would have alerted him if he’d tried to leave. One of the conditions of him even being here was him staying put, they could hardly trust such a beast to wander Elysium. If he’d left, if he’d tried to escape, there would have been uproar and he’d have been brought back. And then what, part of Theseus murmured anxiously. Anxiety, something else he wasn’t used to feeling. At least not recently.

He couldn’t allow him to go back to the fringes. He couldn’t see him condemned to that eternity, whatever else he felt. He deserved better.

Fortunately, the footprints were easy to follow, dark smudges of filth against the light carpets and white marble. Theseus thought briefly of calling for aid but dismissed the thought just as quickly. Whatever state the bull was in, it would be compassion he required, not spear points. The whole aim of this was to offer him something more than life had, more than fear and anger and pain. And if the bull was enraged and dangerous, well, hadn’t Theseus proven he didn’t need anyone’s help taking him down?

The footprints led deep into the palace, almost to the other side entirely. It was as if the bull had been looking for something, lingering in places before wandering away, seeking but not finding. Was he hunting?

Apparently not. The footprints stopped in some faraway corridor used only by the servants, veering sharply and ending at a nondescript door, tucked away in a corner. It was simply for utilities, mops and brooms and the like. Theseus frowned, scanning the floor but the footprints really did stop here, though he couldn’t imagine what interest the bull had found here.

Feeling rather absurd, he knocked on the door, calling softly, “Um...Asterius?”

It took him a moment to remember the name the bull had been given, unsure if it would get him anywhere. It had to be decades upon decades since anyone had called him that, it just felt rude to hail him as ‘the bull’ or ‘the beast’.

There was no reply but of course there wouldn’t be. Wild with fury or the strange subduedness he’d worn recently, the bull...Asterius made no sound.

“I’m going to come in,” Theseus announced, feeling more than a little foolish, “If you do not want any intrusion then...then throw something at me, I suppose.” He hoped nothing too heavy was in reach.

He pushed back the door and saw exactly what he’d expected to see, a dark, close space cluttered with cleaning supplies. For a second his heart stopped, convinced Asterius wasn’t even in the closet until one of the shadows broke away from the others and shifted, taking the shape of the broad, tall body and the immense horns of the minotaur. He had pushed himself into the furthest corner, where it should have been impossible for him to actually fit but he’d forced it.

Nothing came sailing at his head so Theseus moved closer, stepping cautiously in bare feet around the jumble.

“Asterius? What brings you in here?”

There was no reply but the shadow’s head turned away from him, shaking slightly, sadly.

“Were the rooms not to your liking?” Theseus hazarded a guess, “I can find bigger accommodations, better light...something outside perhaps, in the fresh air? All you need to do is communicate what you need and I will find it for you. I want this to work, Asterius, I promise you that.”

Closer now, there was enough light from the open door to see some of him. He was still filthy and he almost seemed to be hiding behind his hair, letting it fall across his eyes, knees pulled tight to his chest.

He was...cringing. Hiding himself.

In the time it took him to exhale and curse himself for a fool, Theseus understood. Of course Asterius didn’t want open space, light and air. He’d been living in the dark and dank his entire life, told that he deserved nothing more than that. How long had it been since those soft, dark eyes had seen real sunlight, since his hands had touched anything soft or comforting, since his tongue had tasted anything but blood?

Theseus had sworn a thousand oaths to bring Asterius here, promised all the gods of the House that he could keep him in line, that Elysium had nothing to fear from the beast of the labyrinth.

And now he was here, the beast was terrified.

Theseus swallowed hard, moving slightly so his body covered most of the light from outside. Without another word, he stepped closer and sat down on an overturned bucket next to Asterius and simply reached out his hand, letting it hang there in the space between them.

There was an achingly long pause, as Asterius turned slowly and saw what he was doing. He regarded the open hand with his usual silence but now Theseus couldn’t believe he’d ever thought those eyes held nothing to see. They were alive as anyone’s and right now they were pleading, looking for help but scared to take it.

Theseus nodded, keeping his voice soft and low, “I understand. Of course you’re afraid, Asterius. But we’re going to change that.”

Finally, after a moment, Asterius nodded slightly, ever so slightly, and gave a soft exhale lighter than the whisper of the wind. He reached over and closed his large hand around Theseus’, enveloping it entirely.

It wasn’t much. But it was a start.

Time meant very little to those in the afterlife. It’s passage was marked in change only and that was certainly taking place within the manse of the deceased Hero of Athens.

The training yard was calling to him and he strode to meet it with his usual, breezy confidence and cocky smile, humming an old marching song he remembered from his days on Earth as he went. There was a renewed vigor in his muscles today, Theseus could feel it. He would excel, even more than usual.

But before he did, he paused outside the door further along the corridor from his own bedchamber, rapping on it in a sprightly rhythm. After a beat, a loud snort came from the room inside and Theseus pushed back the door.

Anyone who had seen the rest of the palace would be struck by this room’s immediate difference. It looked as if it had been ripped out of another building and left here, completely out of place. The walls were close, the light dim, only one small window to let in light with heavy curtains to stifle it completely if needed. There was no gold, no marble, soft furnishings instead, heavy tapestries in natural colours. It was small too, most of the space taken up entirely by a large bed.

And on that bed, Asterius sat cross legged, holding a small wax tablet in one large hand, stylus in the other. He was looking up from what he’d been drawing, eyes warm and welcoming, and Theseus smiled back.

“I was just passing, Asterius, and wanted to remind you that my offer to join me in the training yard still stands?” he offered brightly, “It is a fine day for it.”

As he’d expected, Asterius shook his head gently, nodding to his tablet. Since they’d discovered how much the bull liked to make marks, draw and write of a very simple fashion, it was nigh impossible to pull him away from the tablet once he’d settled into it. He’d not accepted Theseus’ invitation yet but the king liked to make him feel welcome by repeating it. Perhaps one day.

“Very well!” he beamed, undeterred, “I should like to stop by your chambers later this evening, if it is agreeable to you? Share a cup of wine?”

Asterius nodded, eyes content. It was their common routine by now but still Theseus asked, every single time. For the same reason he always knocked before opening Asterius’ door.

“Until then!” he let the door close and left his new housemate to his drawing and his close, cozy chamber, hearing him huff once more.

As he kept walking, Theseus found himself smiling for an entirely different reason than his usual cockiness. It was a warmer, gentler smile, one that he wasn’t entirely familiar with wearing. But he was growing to like it.

He felt he would grow to like a lot of things.

[snarkwriteswrasslin]

Enemies to lovers with Matt Jackson!

Ya’ll really out here reading me my rights because I caved in to this fucker, lmao! I love it. I’m here for it. I think I can do this because this is very me @ him right now. Thank you so much for sending me this!

I’m so sorry it took a thousand years to get to this!!

Warnings:

This is probably gonna get way out of pocket. So, kids, amscray. Go outdoors. Read a book. Watch some tv. Idk, I just know you guys probably shouldn’t be reading what’s about to occur. I’m gonna try to keep it tame but I’m not gonna lie.. as mad as I am at him for making me thirst/catching my attention, i cannot guarantee that is what happens.

Tagging:

@kyleoreillysknee @rampagewriting @writertoo18 @thatnerdwriter @wrestlingismyguiltypleasure @chasingeverybreakingwave @waywardwrestlewritingwaif @sassymox @champbucks @hungmanhorsecarriage @wardl0w @ryantaylorgirl @wrestlingthot @hotyeehawman @darbysallin @gabbynorth98 @bec0m

Other Stuff:

[ ABOUT MY WRITING | MASTERLIST | TAG LIST DOC ]

From the word go, you utterly loathed the man. Maybe it was the ego and confident swagger he had. Maybe it was that smart ass mouth. Maybe it was the way he knew exactly what to say to strike a nerve, either way... You hated him on sight pretty much.

-- He looked at you as kind of a conquest. Not a notch on his belt, no, he wasn’t yet considering that possibility (but damned if you weren’t, secretly, fyi) but he simply wanted to make you at least able to tolerate him. (Because yeah, maybe he wanted you, kinda. It frustrated him too.) The more he tried, the harder you pushed away. The sharper your tongue. The more eye-rolls he got instead of having a simple conversations.

-- it got old, real fast. So, he decides that two can play at that game. Did I mention that when he started to respond in kind that the sexual tension/frustration between you two skyrocketed? Because yes. That’s exactly what happened. Lots of loud and passionate angry arguments in the hallway. Or an elevator. Or the back of an Uber. And with each one, you two got just a little bit closer to ripping each other’s clothing off and trashing the nearest room with each other’s bodies.

-- Doesn’t help that you’re the type that doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks so Matt’s attempts at humiliating you did nothing but rile you up more and make you turn on your own sharp wit to try and do the same to him. You both lowkey got off on trying to embarrass the other. And got increasingly frustrated when that didn’t happen every time either of you tried. Each argument grew more and more intense until finally..

You knew you pushed him too far when he was grabbing your elbow and leading you towards a quiet room. Stepping in and shutting the door behind you both. Leaning against said door with thick arms folded over that damn chest and his fucking snide smirk firmly in place. “I’m gonna need you to simmer down, darlin.”

-- “ The second you stop walking around here thinking you’re the only rooster in the yard, maybe so. Until then? Nah. Fuck that and fuck you.”

-- an ambery gleam took over his eyes and he went from across the room to pressing himself totally into you in a split second. “What’d you say to me, darlin? Because if I heard you right.. I think you were saying you wanna fuck me.”

-- you did but totally a moot point. You glared up at him, tried to slip from between him and the corner he had you backed into but Matt was hell bent on keeping you there. You shoved at him and practically growled the words “Get the fuck off me.” and he chuckled. Because while your mouth was saying one thing... The look in your eyes when he leaned his face in real close to yours when he’d been asking you what you said just then told a totally different tale. He chuckled harder, staring you down when he grabbed hold of you. “I know what this is, hon... You want me... You want me and it’s eatin you alive.”

-- “What I want is for you to fuck outta here.” and he stepped back, raising his hands because for a minute there, it did look like you were about to raise a knee and take out his babymaker. You straightened yourself up and rolled your eyes at him, scoffing. “I don’t want you. I have more sense than the rest of these...” But he was there again, grabbing hold of your face, crashing his mouth against yours, his tongue invading. “That’s kinda sad because darlin, I want you so bad I can fuckin taste it and this has been driving me insane.”

--His words caught you TOTALLY OFF GUARD. You stared at him with your brow raised for at least a good minute or two, unable to form words. And that hurt look in his eyes. You’d wounded him. And you never really liked hurting anyone. You stepped a little closer, cautiously. “This is a trick. Listen, if all you want is a fuck, let’s do this and go our separate ways because I am beyond tired of you, living in my head, rent free. Asshole.” 

-- His turn to be caught off guard. He rubbed his chin, eyes roaming slowly over you. Oh, he was fully aware that he could’ve wounded you... He could’ve said n and told you that you weren’t his kind of girl, but that’d be lying and despite his many glaring faults, he’s just not the kind of  guy who lies without a really good reason. Especially if the truth will get him something out of the deal. He chuckled. “You’d do that, huh?” he was rubbing against you. His hands pinned yours above your head and his forehead met yours. “Now what’s gonna happen if this one time leads to you, wanting more. Nobody can resist me.”

-- “Doubtful. Are we fuckin or am I walking out of here, Jackson? Because I have people to do and things to see.”

-- “Like hell, darlin. You’re all mine now.” his mouth met yours in a kiss so passionate that you went from holding onto his shirt to keep him at bay to melting against him, your mouth falling open willingly as his tongue invaded it a second time... One of his hands lowered, slipping beneath your dress, working you like a charm. When his palm came away wet, he was hauling you up in his arms, your back hitting the wall with a soft thud all over again as he met your gaze with a hungry gleam in his eyes...

-- “Thought you hated me.” he chuckled.

-- “Hate and lust are two entirely seperate entities.” you managed to gasp, rocking yourself against his hand all over again, getting wetter and wetter with each rock.

By the time he was done with you, you knew you were hooked. Done for. There was no way you could just walk out of the room and distance and forget any of this ever happened because he rocked your entire fucking world.

[ivanshatov]

our happy ending, pt. 1

wc: 3.3k

think about a demons sequel where (mostly) everyone lives and involving some reality manipulation, time travel, and revenge. i’m bored okay and i want my favorites to be happy and live and to piss on dostoevskys grave

tw for blood, gore, drowning, gun mention, suicide mention

As soon as he awoke, water filled his lungs, and he screamed.

That wasn’t the way he died, no. It couldn’t have been. Sure, his arms felt heavy from his sodden clothes and the blocks strapped to his arms, but there was something else. A pinch in the space between his eyes. Something that rang in the back of his skull. He closed his eyes, tight, fighting against the weight of his own body as he struggled to the surface. It was there, splattered with pale sunlight, just out of arms reach, and he couldn’t help but open his mouth again. He needed to breathe. Murky water filled his mouth yet again, and he struggled helplessly to the surface, finally breaking through the prison of the water. He gagged and paddled his arms, desperate to stay afloat as water poured from his nose and mouth. Just barely, behind the tears that blurred his vision, he could see the matted coastline. With an exhausted gasp, he wrestled towards it, water still trickling down his chin as his body filled with replenishing oxygen.

At last, he crawled to the surface, soaking wet and clinging to consciousness. He rolled in the grasp, coughing up the last of the water in his lungs, reorienting himself with the dizzying earth. Tips of trees stretched out before him, meeting a grey sky, and he closed his eyes again. Where am I?

He forced out another wail, a desperate plea for help, and he heard the panicked fluttering of birds. 

Who am I?

The pinch in his skull came back, and he winced, pounding the earth with his pruned fist. “It hurts,” he moaned to himself. “Hurts...” 

With great effort and shallow breaths, he lifted his hand to the sky, a black shadow against the graying clouds. He put down his fingers, held them into his fist, glad to feel the pins and needles slipping away and regain control of his hand. He closed his fingers, opened them, stared at his wrinkled palm and pruned fingertips. Who am I? he wondered again. At last, his vision became clear and he stared at his torso, his feet. His chest had been bound with rope, weighed down by rocks. His ankles were tied together, too, but his brown shoes were still on his feet, their laces tied as if he had done them up that very day.

His chest rose and fell in a sad smattering of breaths, still struggling back to health after the mess they had been through. An unpleasant taste filled his mouth, and he rolled over again, hiding his pounding head in the dirt and grass. The pain between his eyes spasmed yet again, and his arms went limp, unable to even pry the ropes from his waist or from his ankles, or even to shift his position yet again. Birds chattered above his head, and the water in the lake, his murderous warden, trickled, hummed with bugs, lapped up against the tiny shoreline. His temple throbbed, his fingers went numb, and he wheezed, eyes fluttering in and out of the darkness of the earth.

Then, as he battled the urge to sleep, the warmth of another person brushed against his ear. “Get up, Ivan.”

Ivan.

Ivan who?

“Stand up,” the voice hissed again. It was harsh, feminine, splintered by the hammering in his head and the sounds of nature around him.

He pressed his hands down into the earth, trying to pull himself from the ground. “I can’t,” he gasped. “I can’t. Help me.”

The voice brushed against him again, warm and furious. “You can do it. Go.”

Urged on by the subtle and unfamiliar voice, he sat up, leaned forward, started to undo the ropes from his ankles. He clenched his teeth as he pulled the ropes away, still feeling the grooves and marks burning into his skin even as they fell away. It took minutes for him to undo the knots, tied so tight and harder to unravel with the numbness in his fingers. It thudded to the ground and he pressed his knees into the damp earth, blood rushing to his face as he got to his feet.

He swayed momentarily, and the dizziness returned. Slamming his hand to his forehead, he suddenly recoiled upon feeling a dent between his eyebrows. Opening and closing his fingers again, he pressed one into the dented space. When he pulled it back, blinking away his bleary vision, a ring of dried blood stared back at him, and a hitch entered his throat.

Warm hands pressed against his shoulders, the heat of the voice touching his ear. “Do you see what he did to you?”

“He...?”

The voice and warmth melted away, and, with a stumble, he moved towards the murky lake water, hands shaking. As he got to the rim of the water, falling to his knees yet again, his face was reflected in the murky lake. It was round, with plump cheeks, and hollowed eyes. Beneath his eyes were smudged dark circles, and a mess of red facial hair smattered his chin and mouth. His hair was blonde and untamed, still wet and dripping from the lake. And, directly between his dark and wild eyes, was a bullet hole. Blood was smeared over his forehead and nose, barely washed by the water from the lake. He touched his face, felt his cheekbones and nose, the arch of his brows and the wrinkles on his forehead, and steadied his breaths as a familiar warmth poured over him.

“Who am I?” he asked, desperate and hoarse.

A pair of arms wrapped around him, and he found himself on his feet, shivering and pounding his chest as he gasped for more air. 

“Ivan Shatov,” the voice whispered. “Your name is Ivan Shatov.” Warm hands caressed his cold face, and as he reached up to touch them, he felt nothing but cold air. “My husband,” the voice said, melting away into the wind.

As the voice faded, his head pounded with thousands of colors and sounds, a tapestry of a short life weaving itself in front of him. 

You are Ivan Pavlovich Shatov. 

You were born to a valet of a short, severe woman. You don’t remember your father’s face. Your sister doesn’t look like you, but you remember her teardrop face and blue eyes. The laughter you shared in childhood and the glee you got from running in the yard or racing up the stairs.

You remember Switzerland, and a hodgepodge of faces, a patchwork of dozens of names  who you can’t recall. You remember caring for a child, the humiliation of meager pay, and a woman’s smiling face.

You remember America. You remember the gnawing hunger and the shared looks with another man who’s name you have on the tip of your tongue, the way you linked hands and shared small kisses under haylofts and in alleyways.

And then it hits you.

You are Ivan Pavlovich Shatov. You were dead, and now you’re not.

Something feels different, as though this world is rejecting him. His head reels and he stumbles back from the lake, hardly keeping his balance as he backs into the darkness of the woods. 

You were supposed to be dead, the world says to him. Faces appear in the bark and the branches and pine needles cut dark wounds in the gray sky. You were supposed to be dead, they scream at him. Why are you here?

Why are you alive?

***

When he awoke, his head slammed backwards into the wall and blood filled his throat, nearly drowning him. He rose to his feet in a haste, though his entire body screamed in pure resistance. Blood filled his mouth, first staining his teeth and pouring from his nose and dribbling down his chin. He spat out the blood, wiped his nose, slammed his hands on the wall as he looked around, mind racing and eyes wild.

He’s been here before, he knows it, yet he can’t remember his name, or this town, or anything, for that matter. First, he tastes the metallic tinge of blood in his mouth, and then feels the weight of cold metal in his hands. He raises up his hand to the light, and studies a silver revolver. The light from the open window bounces off of its finish, and he shakes it, eyes wild with confusion and horror. A single empty casing pops out of the barrel, plopping into a pool of blood on the floor. He steps forward, and the redness stains the tops of his brown shoes. Next, he lets the gun slip from his fingers as he turns around.

Across the wall behind him is a splattering of blood, arching across from the corner up to the ceiling, staining the peeling wallpaper a sickly red. Just as everything around him has turned red, bloodstains coating the furniture and pooling in the cracks between the floorboards, his hands and clothing have done the same. Blood stains his unbuttoned undershirt and undone waistcoat, and his hands are dripping with it. Strangely enough, underneath his fingernails, blood has congealed, and the tips of his knuckles are bruised purple, as if he had just been in a fight. Had he been shot?

No, he argues with himself. The gun was in my hand. I have shot myself.

He paced the small room, paying no mind to the carnage that surrounded him, or his own brains splayed across the wallpaper and floor. No, instead, his hand is on his mouth, and he thinks. What could have happened here?

And why am I alive?

He rubbed his mouth in confusion, and suddenly felt soreness on his lip and cheek. Bruising, again. Blood pooled on his tongue again, but he spat and marched out of the room, fighting with the doorknob and stumbling out into another familiar room. A coffee table sat in the middle of the room, with an unfinished plate of chicken and a samovar still waiting atop it. 

The room seemed to be distorted as he paced, changing in height, depth, shape, dimension, as he tried to orient himself in the brightness and confusion. His temples were howling, as were his joints, his legs, his whole body. The room was a funhouse imitation of what reality should have been, and as he stretched out a shaking, bloodstained hand, a piercing noise rang out in his ear. His hand dropped to his side, and he grumbled, frustrated, hurting, sick with confusion and vertigo. Another thought entered his mind at that moment, and he started down a corridor. I need a mirror.

He pushed open every door and peeped into every room, finding undone sheets and raided cabinets. Drawings and paintings seemed to be strewn about the floor. As he guided himself down the hall, leaving a long handprint of blood on the wall, he searched every room until he at last found the bathroom in the far corner. Pleased, he scampered inside, pushing dust from the sink and running the water as he met his gaze in the mirror. Then, seeing his own face, his expression fell.

It was almost recognizable, at least, to him. His own likeness seemed a distant relative or friend one sees on rare occasions, some faint memory of the wrinkles, shapes, eyes. His face is long and sullen, his brown eyes sunken in his skull, bloodshot and dilated. His cheekbones and jawline are that of an athlete, strong, high, and defined, and he had an aquiline nose that bumped in the middle and hooked down at the front. Across his handsome face, though, were dried bloodstains and a series of bruises, bloodstains, and fresh scratches. His cheeks, obviously once rosy and pink, were black and purple, throbbing with pain. As he turned his head, massaging his jaw and neck with his gangly fingers, he nearly collided in the mirror as he saw the tiny wound.

The bullet must have gone right through his head, leaving only a faint entry wound on his temple, but nonetheless matting his brown hair  and face with dark blood and carnage. That was his own blood on the wall back there, his own blood. He winced as he wrapped his hands around his neck, feeling his Adam’s apple and resting them on his collarbone. He tensed as he squeezed his neck, and his hands went limp and numb. The sensation of vertigo and distortion came back, and he found himself once again submerged in an unfamiliar palace of funhouse mirrors and sickly distortion. He stumbled out of the room, across the hall and onto his knees. Papers and drawings flew up as he collided with the floor, and he grabbed one as it drifted through the air, hands shaking as he held it up to the pale ceiling.

It seemed to be a simple drawing of a bridge, precise, simple, lifeless. Yet, written plainly on the corner in a handwriting so familiar to him, was a name. Alexei Kirillov.

His hand went to his mouth, and the paper dropped to his waistcoat. His chest heaved, and his jaw dropped open. “Alexei Kirillov,” he said, playing with the name on his tongue as if he had just met the beholder for the first time “Alexei Kirillov,” he repeated in a mumble, dragging his hands down his face. “I am Alexei Kirillov.”

Then, as he tried to rise to his feet, he was struck back down as a wave of memories hit him. He saw the face of somebody he knew and loved, a brother, perhaps, smiling with permanent childhood naivete. Permanent, he thought, because moments later he remembered holding onto that boy’s hand as he succumbed to illness. He remembered school and travel, friendship and young adulthood, America, and...

Lips against his, hands on his cheeks, undoing his shirts and singing softly to him as they lay against the hard dirt, stomachs rumbling. This memory eats at him, yet he is pushed away from it a second later, back to this shanty shack and back to drawing and architecture and nihilism, to tea and exercise and ramblings of a self-proclaimed godhood he was to ascend at one point. A grin crossed his face, then, as he rose to his feet. He grasped the paper in his hands and headed back into the center room, crossing by the table and towards a window. He slid it open, peering out at an empty lot that appeared to be overrun with trees and foliage. He tasted smoke on his lips, then the metallic sting of blood that merged with it, and he coughed. Then, in a decisive swing, he slammed the windows shut. Anybody who came across him would certainly be horrified. 

Confused, bothered, knowing nothing but his name, Alexei Kirillov intended to cross back to the bathroom before pausing. On the counter, just beside the door, was a framed photograph. 

He picked it up, holding it with great care and tenderness he had until then had not realized he had. With a delicate stroke of his fingers, he cleared away some dust and debris and held the yellowing photograph to his face. Two men, one of which was himself— that same oval face, jawline, aquiline nose— and the other, a man he had once loved. The man who sang and jested and kept him strong and happy throughout their time in the plains, despite the poverty they lived in, the prejudice they faced, the emptiness of their stomachs. The name waited on the tip of his tongue, yet he could not seem to find it. 

With gentle earnestness, he removed the photo from its frame, and carefully placed it in his back pocket, folding it down the middle. He stormed back into the bathroom, threw water on his face and cleaned the blood off of it, though the stubborn bruising remained. He discarded the bloodstained shirt and waistcoat on the floor and scampered into what he remembered to be his room. He searched in an old dresser, threw on an old sweater that had been chewed by moths and aged by disuse, and grabbed a cap from a nightstand. Pressing his hand against the wound on the side of his head, he made certain to pull the cap down over it. Then, stealing a coat left dangling on a rack, he fiddled with the doorknob, and escaped down the stairs.

Sure, his vision was wild, blurred, confused. The ringing in his ears was chiming in the back of his skull, and anyone to come across him would have instantly noticed he was disoriented. He searched in his pocket as he drifted past the exterior of the cottage in which he lived. Just past his cottage was the skeleton of another, larger house, still smoldering and pungent with soot and smoke. He gripped the photo between his fingers. Smoke curled past his face as he followed his weakened memory out onto a dirt road, and began walking towards a place he didn’t know.

***

The town had burned millions of times. Millions of times, the ball descended into chaos as the governor descended into insanity, and millions of times he had placed the gun between Shatov’s eyes and pulled the trigger. And after that, his conspirators had always begun to scream in a demented chorus. Every time, Kirillov fought him back valiantly, in some meager act of resistance, and bit down on his finger before blowing his brains out against the wall. Every time, a noose cracked Nikolai Stavrogin’s neck. And every time, he had escaped the town by the skin of his teeth, hurrying to Petersburg and leaving behind his dying father, bloodstained streets, skies and snow dirtied with ash and smoke. 

And this time, it had not gone to plan.

Something went wrong.

He had maintained it for years now, repeating his little game. Perhaps some subtle things would change. A line was spoken differently, or an action described in a new way. In some versions, some people would even have different names, or were sometimes erased completely from the harrowing tale. But each time, the story would always end the same, and he would always end up free, still alive and kicking. It had no longer been about revolution, nor about atheism, nihilism, whatever. No, it had become about the death, the pattern, the repetition, the joy of being in control and having complete power over the outcome every single time. It seemed, however, that he had let himself get lazy. Or perhaps his thralls had turned on him at last. Likely story! They’d never defeat him either way, not at this point. Yet, his legs brought him out of the city, preserved forever in its Victorian coffin, and out into Petersburg.

Tourists clamored the city streets, sipping coffee and chatting, taking the subways or talking on the phone. He had tried to update his wardrobe, too, but the cashier seemed shocked when he presented his rainbow-colored rubles. “From 1860?” the cashier had asked, eyes wide. “Where have you found these?” The bank refused to take them, too. So at last, he had pawned them off at some corner store, and now carried a few dozen bundles of hundred-rubles in his suitcase. Now, he faced the arrival and departure board of the train station, two screens staring him in the face and featuring clusters of cities. Vladivostok, Moscow, Novosibirsk, Helsinki, Vilnius, Minsk. His eyes scanned the board then met the uniformed woman who stared at him coldly from her seat.

Pyotr Verkhovensky smiled at her, revealing two rows of white teeth and crinkling two bright, charming blue eyes. “Is there a train to Switzerland, ma’am?”

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Haven (13/50)

Summary: They say Resembool is a haven, and they’re right. Lush pastures, quaint country town, farmers’ markets on Saturdays: a bucolic paradise.

But it’s more than that. Resembool is a haven for the runaways, the deserters, the people who don’t want to be found…

The Resembool community knows there’s something odd about Hohenheim, but they’re not going to let that stop them helping him out. This is Resembool after all, a place where no one has to hide and neighbours help neighbours, be they building a fence, chasing a sheep, or trying to save the country from an evil they inadvertently helped release centuries ago…

Or: A series of slices of life in an AU in which Hohenheim never leaves, and several broken state alchemists find hope and home in Resembool.

Rated: T

==

Haven

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [AO3]

Summary: Hohenheim realises what is going on in Amestris and makes plans to leave. The rest of Resembool, however, has other ideas. 

Characters: Hohenheim, some Resemboolian good samaritans. 

Pairing: Trisha/Hohenheim

==

“Trisha, I have to leave. Wait here for me.”

“OK.”

He didn’t want to have to leave, but he knows that when it comes down to it, he’s the only one who can put a stop to whatever it is that Homunculus is doing. He won’t be able to rest easy until he has made sure that another Xerxes will never happen. 

But he has no idea how long he’s going to be away, and he is going to miss Trisha and the boys so, so much. 

“Planning a trip, Hohenheim?”

Joe comes out of the stationmaster’s office with his morning tea. It’s still early and the first train of the day is not due for a while. Hohenheim is the only person on the platform. He doesn’t look up as Joe comes and sits on the bench beside him; he just continues to stare down at the suitcase between his feet. 

“Going away for a while?”

Joe does not seem at all perturbed by Hohenheim’s lack of response, and continues to calmly sip his tea as they wait for the train together. 

“Where are you headed?”

Silence stretches on between them for a while, and eventually Joe gives a sigh. 

“Ok, I know that you and Trisha’s marriage is as solid as a rock so I know you haven’t been kicked out of the house in disgrace, so I know you must have left of your own accord, and I know that you don’t want to leave because you wouldn’t be looking so incredibly miserable if you did, so I’m at a loss here. There’s also the fact that you’re almost an hour early for the first train which I’m taking to mean that you wanted to leave the house before your kids woke up. Potentially before Trisha woke up as well, but I know her well enough to know you wouldn’t have left without telling her. What’s going on, Hohenheim? As previously stated, we’ve got time before the train arrives, and you look so down I’d be slightly concerned about you throwing yourself in front of it if you weren’t, well, you know.”

Hohenheim sighs. “It’s complicated.”

“Try me. I’ve got an hour before I need to do anything and this tea’s still too hot to drink. Actually, would you like some? There’s plenty for two.”

Hohenheim sits back, taking his glasses off and scrubbing his hands over his face. Everyone in the town knows his story to some extent, so it shouldn’t really be anything too shocking to Joe, even if he can’t actually do anything about it. It’s just that it’s something so big, and so all-encompassing… Since there’s nothing that anyone else can do, he shouldn’t burden them with the worry of it. He didn’t even burden Trisha with the worry of it. 

“Hohenheim… You know that whatever’s going on, you’re not alone, right? I know that Basil’s weird and wonderful ideas to try and stop you being immortal are impractical at best, but we’re on your side when it comes to anything strange and alchemical that you have to do. We might not be able to do what you’re able to do, but you don’t have to handle it on your own.”

Hohenheim sighs and puts his glasses back on. 

“Even I don’t know what I have to do,” he says. “I just know that I have to do something and I’m the only one who can.”

“Well, maybe that’s true, but we’re always here as a sounding board, you know.” Joe pauses. “Have you even talked to Trisha about this?”

“Yes, of course. Well. Not all the details.”

Joe rubs the bridge of his nose with the hand not holding the tea. “If I was Pinako I would smack you upside the head with a wrench right now. You are a complete and utter idiot.”

“I know. I have at least five hundred thousand voices in my head telling me the same thing.”

“You should listen to them. They’ve known you longer than any of us have and they sound like they know what they’re talking about.”

They continue to sit on the bench waiting for the train, but before either of them can break the heavy silence, the silence is broken for them by a sheep careening down the platform, closely followed by Farmer Anderson.

“Get back here!”

Joe puts the tea down and follows sheep and farmer down the platform towards the water tower. Hohenheim peers along in the direction that they came from to find the loading pen full of sheep waiting to get on the train when it arrives, all of them completely uninterested by their comrade’s escape attempt. 

“Hohenheim! Give us a hand here!”

He gets up and makes his way towards the shunting yard where Joe and Anderson are trying to corner the sheep. 

“I’m really not sure what I can bring to the table, most things on four legs tend to flee in the opposite direction when I get near them.”

“Exactly!” Anderson stops to get his breath back as Joe continues to try and hilariously fail to sneak up on the wily beast. “She’ll run away from you and towards us!”

Not entirely convinced by this plan, Hohenheim nevertheless realises that he’s got nothing to lose and might as well lend a likely useless hand. As expected, as soon as the sheep gets anywhere near him, it gives an alarmed bleat and runs off in the opposite direction, eventually breaking out of the shunting yard and hopping across the lines.

“I’ve never been so glad we only have six trains a day,” Joe pants. “Hohenheim, can’t you do something?”

Hohenheim throws up an alchemy wall to stop the sheep getting out of the vicinity of the station when it makes a break for further freedom and the fields it’s just left. 

Joe blinks. They’ve been used to him and his alchemy for a long time now, but it does still sometimes take them by surprise with the suddenness of it.

“Yeah, that’ll do it.”

By the time they manage to corral the sheep back into the loading pen, the train has pulled into the station and the driver is watching them with amusement. Anderson begins to load the sheep into the livestock car with Joe’s help, and Hohenheim goes to retrieve his suitcase. 

He’s going to miss Resembool so much. 

The suitcase is not where he left it under the bench, and he looks up to see Joe holding it hostage. 

“You can take the next train,” he says. “But you’re not getting it back until you tell at least someone exactly what madcap world-saving mission you’re going on. What’s Trisha going to tell the boys? ‘Dad left for a good reason but I’m not entirely sure what?’” He pauses. “Don’t make me call Pinako and get her down here with a wrench.”

Hohenheim sags in defeat, but ultimately, he smiles. Only in Resembool could your neighbours be willing to help out with anything from chasing runaway sheep to saving the entire country as they know it from a not-entirely-human madman. 

He collects his suitcase from and takes it home to Trisha later that day, still somewhat overwhelmed by the reassurance that he is nowhere near alone in the world and no matter what, he has people who will help him and fight for him through thick and thin.

[jordisstigander]

Reaper Chp. 3

Chp. 1, Chp. 2

I fought to keep my eyes on the road instead of the thing in the rearview mirror as the speedometer ticked higher, higher. Even so, I still caught glimpses of it out of the corner of my eye: some polymorphic shape, flowing in and out of itself.

It was gaining on us.

As it got closer, I started to notice individual features. Teeth, a wing. A face, or…not faces? But every time I thought I saw something distinguishing in what I now thought had to be more than one creature, I quickly lost track of it in the swirling cloud.

Aesa continued to fire at the swarm, and it seemed to ripple with the impacts. It didn’t slow down.

Suddenly, Aesa jumped on the hood of the car. I swerved in shock, nearly spinning out of control, but Aesa remained firmly planted where he crouched. His dark eyes locked with mine.

“Whatever happens, keep driving,” he ordered. Then he turned to face the road, coat swirling around him. He reached out, hands clawed as though he was trying to tear the air apart. The air began to shimmer and warp as he strained, the muscles on the back of his neck standing out.

The swarm was getting closer, and individual members of the group were breaking off, getting closer, closer.

Then Aesa screamed.

Energy pulsed through my being, and I saw reality rip in front of me. I had no time to react, and the next thing I knew, we were hurtling through.

I could feel the pressure around me once again, but this time it was neither soft nor gentle. It pulled  at me: my hair, my skin, my eyes, dragging me backwards like a rubber band. Then the pressure snapped, and we were through to the other side.

This place did not look anything like the fields and mountains of the landscape of the inbetween I had seen before. The terrain was warped, rocky, and violet-grey, the sky a strange olive green. I jerked the wheel to avoid twisted outcroppings and instinctively hit the brakes.

“Keep going!” Aesa yelled, “We have to draw them in!” And so I gasped a prayer and stomped on the gas as my tiny vehicle rocketed through the alien landscape.

We gained a little breathing room as the swarm was forced to fight their way through the hole Aesa had ripped for us, but they quickly burst through. Before, we’d had the advantage of a straight, clear highway; now we were slowed as I desperately swerved through the uneven terrain of the other place.

And now, I could hear them. They muttered and shrieked almost words, echos of hunger and hatred and an ancient fear. However, Aesa didn’t fire on them even as they neared, crouching in wait on the trunk. Finally, he reached out again, and the hole he had made in reality began to shimmer and knit itself back together.

Distracted by the sight, I was forced to jerk the wheel to the side, barely avoiding a large rock which suddenly loomed before us, sending us between the walls of a canyon. Horrified, I realized that the canyon appeared to empty out into nothingness.

“Aesa!” I screamed. He turned, sprinting to the front of the car.

“Just keep going!” He told me.

The swarm was right behind us now. Gas pedal pressed to the floor, I stared helplessly as we speed towards the edge of the cliff. Tires kicked up violet dust and pebbles before spinning uselessly as we hurtled over the edge. For a moment, all I saw was the olive sky. As we began to fall, I saw a deep abyss beneath us, sparkling with neon flame. I closed my eyes, the screams of the swarm enveloping me.

A moment later the pressure embraced me again, and by the time I opened my eyes we were flung back into the world. Gravity shifted, and instead of falling nose first, we crashed wheels down into the middle of a field of wheat, deploying my airbags as dirt spraying around us and we skidded to a stop.

Aesa flung up his arms to seal the hole, but the swarm was already forcing its way through. Three managed to squeeze their way through before the final cracks glistened and disappeared, severing another as they did.

Aesa drew his weapon and fired off three shots in quick succession, the final stray exploding into a grey mist beside my window.

I clung to the steering wheel and breathed as the wheat shivered and stilled. Everything fell silent. Aesa sighed, slumped his shoulders, and fell off the back of my car. I threw open my car door and tried to run to him, but my legs gave out. I fell to my knees and vomited.

On the ground beside me, the last remnants of the thing bubbled away into nothingness.

Breathing heavily, I crawled over to where Aesa lay, crumpled. He seemed almost ethereal, more a shadow than a man. I reached out a trembling hand to touch him.

“No,” he whispered, “no help, not safe, just, rest, a minute, please.”

I drew back and let myself sink into the crushed wheat, moving only to try to spit the foulness out my mouth.

Finally, Aesa stirred. When he spoke, I could barely hear his voice.

“We need, get back, people. Safer.” I dragged my eyes to his face. He wore a thousand-yard stare. “If, I can’t, another. Need others.” He began to drag himself back to the car, and I followed suit. I shoved the airbags out of the way and strapped myself into the seat.

I reached for the steering wheel and then stopped, trembling.

“What was that thing?”

Aesa didn’t look at me.

“I’ll tell what I can later. Rest now. Please.”

I looked at him sitting there, barely present, as though he might fracture at lightest touch. I pushed away my fear and made myself go numb.

I pulled out onto the highway, speeding away from unspoken terrors and a field of crumpled wheat.

[melissanovels]

♡ Chapter 5 of TRANSIENT TIME TRAVELLER is out! ♡

○ Read on my Website ○ Read on Tumblr (below) ○ Read on Ao3 ○ Read on Royal Road  ○

TTT  is an LGBTQ+ historical fantasy novel about Aida, a time traveller hellbent on proving the innocence of a 1,200-year-old dead queen, and Lorian, an escaped princess-turned-officer who wants to drain the royal blood from their body, & the two coming together with the help of their mischievous future selves.

♡ Reblogs are appreciated! ♡

Read Chapter 5 Below:

As Lorian walked into an empty classroom and waited for Aida and Mister Omar to leave, she pressed her back into the door and utterly lost it.

She covered her mouth with her gloved hands. She’d done it. She’d finally talked to Aida again. And she hadn’t been so crass as she’d been when they’d first met. The first time had been a complete disaster. With Aida being naked and Lorian open-mouthed staring at her, the curves of her wide hips and ass, her breasts, her face, her eyes. God help her, she’d never seen a woman’s body so openly before. All she’d wanted to do that night was slam her down into bed and do unspeakable things to her, yet what had Aida wanted? To talk about fantasy novels and a queen who’d been dead for 1,200 years. What had Lorian even said that’d led her up to Aida’s bedroom? She’d need to write it down for reference.

Despite being betrothed for more than half of her life, Lorian hadn’t a clue how courting worked. The girls she’d met in the palace were diplomatic and groomed to please her, all peachy smiles and saying whatever they needed to make her happy. She’d tried to court an Aldaían knight a few years back, but she’d only earned her name and her preference of cakes before they’d parted ways.

Aida’s attitude was so defiant, so cheeky and unbecoming that it would’ve sent Lorian’s father into hysterics. She wanted her. She wanted to crack her open and explore her mind and passions and give it back to her a ten-thousand fold.

Lorian dragged her hands down her face. Maybe she’d buy her a history book, really push more into the things she loved, or maybe a ticket to En Tempore Rose. The official one, the one that played in the Colosseum. She’d have to schedule a trip to the city center. She’d wear a cloak.

After she heard Aida run off somewhere, Lorian re-entered the library and backtracked for the books Aida had put away. They were old and leather-bound, with yellow pages that smelled of mothballs: History of Roma: From the Perspective of King Julius II to His People and Hidden Dangers of Visatorre in Roman History.

Lorian put that last one back. Aida was brave to read about history that was so rarely taught in class. Lorian had secretly read about it behind Missus’ Sharma’s back. She’d learned about the lost city-state of Siina and the belligerent queen who killed one of the dead kings, and how they killed and tortured those poor Visatorre people for sport soon afterwards as punishment. Thrown into the Colosseum with a pack of lions without any weapons with which to defend themselves. In this aisle alone, Lorian saw four other books detailing what a plight the Visatorre were to other people not blessed with the ability to travel through time.

She believed. The power to go back in time, acting as a ghost to witness history in the raw way it was intended, only to come back and harbor the pains of going backwards. She’d never understand their full pain, she could only educate herself and hope that that injustice would never happen again in her history.

After skimming through more of Aida’s books and realizing how little of it she retained, Lorian picked up the shortest read and went near the windows for light.

She got to page ten, most of which was a glorified chapter about how great the Roman kings were and are, when she heard someone call her name.

“Lorian, you fuck!”

Between the library and the writing hall was a strip of muddy grass. It was a shortcut between the buildings for her and other officers to travel. Two of them were there, calling for her: Alessio and Matteo, the two assholes she’d befriended that month.

“There he is, little bugger,” Alessio said, catching Lorian’s profile from the window. He climbed onto a rock wall to get closer. “Get out of there and come down. Lunch’s almost over!”

“Alright, alright,” she said, and slotted the book for later.

They were good boys, these two. She liked them enough to hang out with them while not on duty. They didn’t know this, and they never would, but she’d actually known them back at the palace. All officers-in-training had to go through a mandatory training program held by a Constable. Lorian had always favored officers for their rowdiness. She’d watch them work out in secret, sneak peeks at their naked bodies when they’d change. When she’d found that both Alessio and Matteo were working as security details at this academy, her decision had been made. A few faked letters of recommendation and her crafty ability to lie through her teeth and she was enrolled as an officer-in-training in a week.

They’d never known it was her as she paraded around as a young, unfavorable princess with incredibly long hair wearing the dresses she loathed, but she liked to tease them every now again with knowledge she shouldn’t have known.

“Hey, Alessio, have you ever been persuaded to eat worms?”

“Matteo, didn’t you pee yourself after seeing a real lion in captivity?”

“Have you two ever kissed on a dare?”

She’d lied to them, calling herself a good guesser.

She walked out of the library and turned the corner to find her boys, but they weren’t there. The yard was quiet; she heard the teachers writing on the chalkboard from the writing rooms.

She stilled her steps. From her knowledge, she knew nobody could truly vanish from the world for good. Something would always bring you back to where you were meant to be.

A twig snapped behind her, and she was put into a chokehold that stole away her breath. She could’ve gotten out of it easily, but she didn’t want to hurt who, from their laughing, she knew was Alessio. Alessio was a redhead with more power than Lorian believed him to have. Matteo, on the other hand, was softer, with dark, floppy hair and innocent eyes.

Laughing, Lorian took out her rapier and used the butt of the sword to knock the wind out of Alessio.

Alessio gagged and let her go. “Ow! You ass.”

“You attacked me.” She lightly kicked him for good measure. “What’re we doing now?”

“Late lunch,” Matteo said, and shared a loaf of bread. They weren’t students, but through their enlistment, they were given a dorm room that she shared with Alessio and Matteo and three simple meals ordained by their royal regimen. Sometimes, if they wooed the right girl or boy, they’d get sweets and even alcohol, something that was forbidden to officers. All three of them had already gotten drunk in that month alone.

They walked to their preferred eating space that the Academy cheekily called “The Defense Wall.” It separated the school from the villainous farmlands of lazy cows and stupid chickens. What used to be a formidable, three-meter tall fortress from a time period Aida probably knew about was now a blockage from the smelly farm animals that provided the school a portion of their eggs, milk, cheese, and occasional meat.

Lorian hopped atop an abandoned wagon of hay to scale the tall wall. Alessio followed her, and they needed to help Matteo make it due to his size. There, they shared their bread and butter and made horrible jokes for hours that, if any other officer heard them say, they would’ve had their hands whipped. Lorian had had her fair share of that back home and was keen not to get struck again for misbehaving.

As Lorian dined, Alessio asked her, “Why do you always spend your time in those libraries? You never read.”

It was true, Lorian wasn’t so much a learned soul as her mother and father pretended she was. She was a physical person who liked getting her hands dirty in order to understand something abstract. This had been her fourth trip to the library that week. The first attempt to find and talk to Aida had failed miserably and she was left hiding behind a bookshelf to spy on her. The other try and Aida hadn’t even been there. The girl kept Lorian on a leash and Lorian had no problem with that. “I do read. I know a great deal of things, much more than you do.”

“Then name two books you’ve loved over the past year. No, five authors, and no poets.”

“You try that. When’s the last time you ever picked up a book?” Lorian reached to pull on Alessio’s hair, but he jerked away and stuffed his mouth with his dry loaf end.

“That Miss spends her time there, doesn’t she?” Matteo asked. “That Aida girl.”

“The traveller?” Alessio asked. “She’s a weird one. I’ve talked with some of the girls in her class, and they say she’s really weird. I heard she’s gonna get the nix, you know?” He made a mark across his neck. “Cut out.”

“What do you mean?” Lorian asked.

“I heard it from my father, and he heard it from Constable Carmine. Word from the Lion is that he’s gonna bar those types of people from secondary education.”

Lorian’s ears heated up. “Carmine said that? And the king agreed to it? When?”

Alessio slowed his chewing at Lorian’s mention of Carmine’s name without his title. She had to stop doing that, being so informal about a man she shouldn’t have known so personally. “That’s just what I heard from my dad, so I think it’s true.”

Lorian rubbed her neck. She knew Carmine well enough to forgo titles when she’d address him in the palace, but after being promoted to Constable, she couldn’t say if this was something he’d enforce under the king’s orders or not. He’d exchange his heart for his duty.

But she wouldn’t have put this horrendous action past her father. He was the most racist, hurtful, selfish person she’d ever known, and she hated herself that parts of his speech and behaviors had sunk into her own bones. It took a great deal of unlearning to undo all of those negative stereotypes, and it took her finally leaving the house and joining the ranks to realize how real Visatorre people lived and how awful the world was to them.

“What’s to happen to her?” Matteo asked when they went silent.

“Dunno,” Alessio said. “Kick her out? There’s only a few of those people here, so it’s not like we’d notice right away.”

“But that’s not fair,” Lorian said. “She hasn’t done anything.”

“That’s not gonna stop them, you know that.”

“Then…I’ll stop them,” she promised, and tried mimicking how confident Aida sounded whenever she opened her mouth. “It’s not right. Do you know Miss Mirko uses a cane because of her illness—” She bit her cheek. “Uh, affliction. Can you imagine walking around with a cane at our age? It’s uncouth to belittle those who were born with advantages we weren’t given.”

Alessio pulled a face. “Don’t act high and mighty to me. This wasn’t my decision, I’m just the fucking messenger. And it’s not like we can change this.”

“Say I become a leading Constable, then,” Lorian argued. “I’d rewrite the rules to make them fair for everyone.”

“You wanna be a Constable?”

“Don’t you? Isn’t that the goal of being an officer, to one day be a Constable?”

“Eh, not really. Not for me, anyway. I just needed to get away from my mother, and this was the best option. To be a Constable means you have to put in ten, sometimes fifteen-hour-days and be on the king’s every beck and call. Thanks, but I’m good just being ordered around for simple things.”

“And I wanted to become stronger like my brothers are, but I don’t think I’m strong enough to do everything a Constable does,” Matteo said, and he looked across the field towards the water well. “Oh.”

Alessio and Lorian followed his intent gaze.

“Speak of the devil,” Alessio said.

Stomping down the fields, dress lifted to keep from stepping in cow droppings, was Aida on a mission. Her hands were bunched up in her dress, her teeth grit, and she was mumbling something to herself as her heels plowed through the dry mud. She’d lost her cane, shortening her steps.

Lorian brushed the crumbs off of her chest and stood up higher to better see her. She always walked with such determination, like she truly did not care how other people saw her. Lorian wanted to walk like that one day.

“Do you need a hand, Miss?” Alessio called out.

“Fuck off!” Aida yelled back.

Alessio tensed up. “What the fuck’s her problem?” he muttered.

“S-she isn’t allowed to talk to us like that,” Matteo said meekly. “What should we do?”

“We need to stop her. Hey—”

Lorian palmed Alessio’s chest, almost knocking him off completely before clutching his jacket and keeping him vertical.

“Ow! Lorian, what’s with you today?”

Lorian stared intently at Aida.

Silent tears were running down Aida’s cheeks as she walked. She wasn’t sobbing or weeping, the tears were simply there, though it was hard to tell why she was crying in the first place. It looked like she was off to kill somebody.

When she was out of sight and then some, Lorian got up, told her friends that she was thirsty, and secretly tailed Aida down her chosen path.