#steel tunnel lining

[consosteelbelt]

consol carbon steel belt

[guardianofnightmares]

Sunrise

Faint beam of artificial light from a surface danced off yellow armor of an Autobot, giving it a color of a newborn star. Bumblebee graced the Decepticon with a broad smile, its warmth making the hostile gloom around his facial features to dissipate.

To Blitzwing a minibot reminded a stray ray of hope which arrived to safe lost souls from a long dead and forgotten world.

A true rising sun in the realm of darkness.

----------

Alright, fellas, next entry to the @blitzbee-week event is finally here)). The prompt of the second day was "Sunrise" and I decided to go more figuratively with it rather then depicting a literal "appearance of the sky" at a particular part of a day. As you can guess by a provided description, Bee basically becomes a "leading star" for a brooding Blitzwing, who, as it seems, is not that thrilled by discovery of his partner.

Just as a previous entry to a mentioned event, this picture is dedicated to my fanfic called "TFA: Icarus". Here's a [link] for the series "folder" which also includes an existing teaser (future prologue) for a story if anyone wants to give it a try. Again, can not thank you enough for all the support you've shown for it so far, I will try my best to come up with updates soon enough.

As it usually goes with such works of mine, I will provide the full snippet of one of chapters, which a depicted scene is taken from, under a cut line for anyone wishing to read more about the scene. Hope you'll enjoy it)

To the surprise of many comrades he’d worked with, the Triplechanger proved to be the most patient mech on a team when it came to long lasting missions. Usually he didn’t find it difficult to lay low and wait for orders to come, even if it meant to stay idle for several solar cycles. It was a useful trait of character which Decepticon rightfully prided himself of. 

Yet, even a seemingly boundless patience had its limits. 

“Can you see anything of use out there?” Blitzwing finally asked his unfortunate “partner in crime”.

A brightly colored mech slipped on the spot upon hearing Con’s voice but managed to regain his balance. 

“Not yet, Blitzwing, give me a klik!” A minibot shouted over his shoulder, holding on the steel bar for dear life. “Climbing is not as easy as I’m surely making it look in your optics.”

If Bumblebee planed to cheer up a Warframe with such a comment, he failed miserably, for it only seemed to sour up an already bad mood of a tall mech. 

To a Decepticon, it felt like forever since the minibot began his ascend up a steep scarp of a crumbled wall. One would think that, thanks to his light frame, he’d manage to reach the top level in no time. But even this uneven terrain, made of torn sheets of metal and broken cables, proved to be a challenge to an agile Autobot. 

The damned energy chain, which linked limbs of both mechs to each other, clearly was the greatest obstacle for Bumblebee, barely giving him a chance to move as far away from a somber mech as possible. Not to mention that a Decepticon was forced to stand on one pede in order to accommodate his companion’s slow conquest of new heights. 

Admittedly, a Triplechanger considered an option of tearing the bug’s pede he’s bound to off. But that type of cuffs always latched onto anything in their vicinity (while being activated). Meaning, the chances of getting tied to a nearby wall, as a result of said actions, reached more than 90%. 

Tearing his own pede off was not part of a Warframe’s plans. 

“If you haven’t noticed it yet, Bumblebee Prime, we don’t have plenty of time left to hide in these tunnels,” A “former” convict grumbled in response while surveying his surroundings for an up-tenth time. He didn’t notice how a Bot winced at the mention of his new title.

Minibot knew he deserved that snide remark. But it did not make him feel better about his recent promotion to an Elite Guard. Or about a decision to become one for that matter. The decision which led to a situation where an Autobot and a Decepticon got lost under an Iacon city. 

They had to hide in maintenance tunnels from the times prior to a Great War. Tunnels built by Decepticons for Autobots’ use, and left by them to slowly rot in an utter disrepair after the said War was officially ended. Sealed off since the banishment of Warframes from Cybertron, eventually the structure turned into an urban myth not many of currently living mechs remember or even know about.

An old complex Blitzwing and Bumblbee were currently navigating in was once part of the major supportive structure. Meant to protect veins and tubes once full of energon, that section was made of sturdy materials which stoically passed the test of time. 

The Decepticon would’ve lied if he’d said he’s not pleasantly surprised by that discovery. 

But it did not bright up his mood by much - they still needed to find a way to the surface level of a planet. 

“Foolish of me to expect a scout with no field experience to do a Warframe’s job,” the mech muttered under his breath, words bitter on his glossa. “Perhaps I should have been the one to search for an exit after all”.

Blitzwing had no intent for the last sentence to be heard by his peer, but an aforementioned scout, apparently, had nicely tuned audials. 

Figures. 

“And to risk exposing your Decepticon signature to raging authorities? No, thanks!” Bumblebee chirped after successfully reaching for a rod sticking out of a long abandoned structure. “It was already enough of me putting everything at risk by making stupid decisions - I don’t want to see you following my lead.”

Somehow the fact that a minibot admitted his mistakes helped to somewhat cool Blitzwing down. He said nothing in return but did glance at him once prior returning to surveying desolated surroundings. 

Bumbler’s changed since the promotion to the ranks of an Elite Guard. He seemed to act more mature, even if he’s still naive about most things happening around him. For strangers it’d be an unexpected change of character for such an optimistic and energetic Bot as Bumblebee. But Blitzwing was no random outsider, whether he liked to be on closer terms with a current companion of his or not. 

Death of a teammate has effected the minibot on a much deeper level then he’d ever admit to anybody, even to himself. Yet, despite how horrible it might’ve sounded, the Decepticon thought that that was an important lesson every soldier had to live through. And as a mech, who’s witnessed deaths of many of his comrades throughout the Great War, he had to agree that Bumbler was holding up pretty well for someone so inexperienced in mentioned matters. 

Even Blitzwing, who did not know Prowl as well as a yellow Bot did, felt the loss of a mech effecting him as well to a certain degree. No matter how secluded and cold the cyber-ninja seemed to be, he always had a special aura around him, the one that made people feel at ease in his presence. Though how he could so freely speak to a Con about importance of life and probability of peace among Cybertronians remained a mystery to him to that solar cycle.  

What was that thing black and golden Autobot’s talking about during the last conversation of theirs? 

“To have Faith not in Primus, not in The Allspark, but in each other”?

What exactly made him see it being possible back then and, especially, at a current stage of the reignited conflict between factions? Triplechanger had no answer to that question either. He didn’t view how the world should work the same way Prowl did. Could not fully comprehend the intricacies of a philosophy of an Autobot, but, at least, did not lack the courage to make it very clear during a mentioned discussion of theirs.

Blitzwing didn’t have Faith in anyone anymore, and he surely wouldn't in a foreseen future. 

For who could remain being supportive of their unhelpful, unwanted partn-… Autobot, while being lost in Allspark forsaken place with no means of escape?

…

“… -es! I see the gap in a wall!.. Blitzwing, I actually see it!”

The joyful voice tore Triplechanger from a deep melancholy state he slipped into while looking down a dark tunnel to his left. He raised his ruby optics, their faint glow barely lighting sharp features of his blue faceplates.

“Right where you’ve predicted it to be,” The Autobot added after turning around in order to face his unfortunate companion, unintentionally giving him quite a peculiar view of his small form.

Faint beam of artificial light from a surface danced off yellow armor of an Autobot, giving it a color of a newborn star. Bumblebee graced the Decepticon with a broad smile, its warmth making the hostile gloom around his facial features to dissipate.

To Blitzwing a minibot reminded a stray ray of hope which arrived to safe lost souls from a long dead and forgotten world.

A true rising sun in the realm of darkness.

...

Blitzwing huffed in mild annoyance at himself and his artistic side of a processor - it was not the right moment for poetic comparisons. Hope and Faith had no place in a situation he was stuck in, only cold calculations. He and Bumbler had to get out of that place, no matter the cost. And the sooner they’d get rid of an energy chain, the better.

[1800titz]

HI BESTIES. This is the first part of Shibari man/Shibari Asshole/Rigger!Harry x Rope bunny!Reader ((the one I teased here))

The one where Harry runs shibari classes and you think he should smile more

WC: 2.4K

This is part one of a patreon exclusive series; the rest will only be accessible through my patreon. You can already find part 2 up on my patreon (✿◠‿◠) 

When you were a little kid, your brother had an ant farm. 

An acrylic formicarium that’d started out as two boxes with a set of tubes. Over time, it morphed into a staggering, caged cityscape of twisting, pellucid hoses and burrows that spanned the entire length of the desk in his bedroom. 

You'd watch them scatter the tunnels as a little girl, lugging cracker crumbs and bits of fruit off your sticky fingers, weaving along the chutes connecting the boroughs of their curated city.

Your brother did what any nasty, older brother would do— those harvester ants were the torment of your childhood. You'd bicker, and he’d threaten to spill them into your bed when you were sleeping. Told you that the colony would eat her toes, that you'd wake up to wiggle nothing but grisly, little, ichor-soaked stumps.  

The gory intimidation tactic never really did much.

You'd still press your nose to the screen barring the insects and smudge your fingerprints over, fascinated as they congregated to the wet cotton ball in the depths of their home. 

You think it's a little like that now, wandering the swarming alcoves in the underbelly of New York. You're a little harvester ant (all exoskeleton to sheathe the pulpy anguish of a long day— ball it inside, keeping your face even and your mouth in a line), plodding through a network of crystalline, vinyl tubing. Swimming against the swathing current of the colony seeping past you in their beanies and their coats, deadpanned on their dog-eat-dog pursuit of errands. 

During the evening rush hour, it’s teeming under the city that never sleeps. It’s a stunning exhibit, maybe, for a tourist whose hometown flickers every porch light off by nine and has one tributary of a road that seeps away from the community, but it doesn’t help the headache thrumming behind your temples. Instead, it kindles the narked throb in your limbs until it feels like an itch in your bloodstream.

The day’s chewed you up with its sharp, ivory incisors and spit you out. Left something tired and empty. The dregs are grounds of a mucky ire, ready to be shed under the scalding spew of a showerhead. 

You mingle through the horde, slinking the gaps you can manage to squeeze past. Your nose burns. Anti-seize lubricant. Cherry cleaners and old concrete. Musk and brake dust. Ground up, heated steel from the wheels burning — metal on metal. Grease. It smells like asphalt and strife. 

The car is packed. A lumbering throng that weaves and scatters, either casting indignant looks over their shoulders when they’re nudged as you politely shoulder your way through, or soul-sucked into their phones altogether, scrolling in detachment. 

There’s one tawny seat, empty and tucked against the back wall. You inch for it on aching ankles, burning knees; the bits of a long day left sewn into your joints. It gnaws into your marrow, and nothing sounds better than hot water on naked skin. You twist—

Marimba blares from you bag. Someone casts an irrationally exasperated side-eye over their shoulder. You straighten out, and rummage through the contents. Find a battered lanyard. A spare stick of deodorant. A hair tie coated in lint and a sparse handful of change—

Drink water. You thumb the alarm off. 

When you sit back, it’s rigid. Firm and uneven. Warm, like a breathing furnace. It takes you all of a split second to recognize that you've managed to perch on a splayed thigh, clad in denim that’s shredded at the knees, rather than the grooved, ochre plastic of a hovering seat.  

You had thought there was little emotion you could have summoned beyond something drained and miffed. The day surprises you, yet, in its dying breaths. Like a mortified buoy, embarrassment bobs from the cesspool when you startle up and twist.

There’s a man in your seat. 

He looks oddly comfortable, almost as if he’d been there all along. As if you had just conjured a mirage of an empty seat. The only acknowledgement he gives you, blinking up from the phone cradled in his enormous, right hand, is a stoically disgruntled glance from behind the squared, pitch-framed lenses resting on the bridge of his nose. 

“Um. Excuse me—” you blink. Your brows crease, “I was sitting there.” 

He spares you a glance. There’s gems in his sockets. Emeralds. Dewy and dulled from the same, shitty day of skyscraper-morphed incisors gnawing. He looks away, and they coruscate in the near blinding glare of his LED, cast in a faint echo over his glasses.

“No, you weren’t.”

You blink again. He doesn’t even spare you a glance as he denies it. You're forced to stare at the part in his hair; the way a burnt umber curl sweeps over his temple. He scrolls over his screen, instead, with a neatly saffron-lacquered thumb. 

You swallow a flattering epithet that (his obvious disinterest) nearly wrests from your mouth. A flimsy facsimile of a smile sculpts over. Appalled. Nearly seeping into the beginnings of borderline deranged as your threadbare composure gets toyed at by a prick with a clandestine pair of scissors. Almost, almost, almost. 

“Well. I was going to.” 

“That’s unfortunate,” he murmurs, brows kinked, “because this seat is taken.”

A little noise clambers from the back of your throat. You swallow it down and scoff. “Are you serious?” 

“Deadly.” 

It’s dry, derisive, disinterested. The three D’s that are going to get his glasses plucked off and tossed to the floor to be crushed under someone’s heel. 

“Unbelievable.”

His eyes— mossy, reminiscent of the woods— sweep up. He’s quiet. Stony. For the first time, you really get a good look, and decide, instantly, that if he weren’t such an apparent dickhead, maybe his specs and his voguish jumper would make him look sophisticated. Handsome, with his even slope of a nose, full, pink lips, and the dusting of stubble along his cheeks and jawline. 

There’s a sharp contrast to him, like inverted colors. Patchwork of sutures that don’t fit. It’s off, his cozy sweater and his soft hair. He looks like a warm, barbed hug. 

Prickly— saguaro, in a Marc Jacobs pullover, with stinging spines sticking through the stitching. 

“What’s the matter with you?” It’s softer that you'd intended. 

You quiver— everything, all over. Your bottom lip wobbles, your mandible sets, your fingers wring at the strap of your tote. They twitch and stretch at your side with this provoked, goopy slurry of cortisol and adrenaline. It permeates your pericardium. Snakes the tubing with an incensed warmth— embers kindled.

“Do you realize how rude that is?” 

Asphalt and strife. Someone to your side glances over their shoulder and then turns back. The stranger blinks up at you from his phone with soft features chiseled apathetic. Vetiver and musk. 

“M’not sure what you mean.” 

“Are you joking? You stole my seat, dude,” you wave out with your hand. 

He blinks again. 

“I don’t think it ever belonged to you, to be fair—“ then, “Is your name on it?” 

It’s a childish retort to spall your argument into flinders. Your eyes narrow into anticipatory slits. 

“No—“

“Then I suppose it’s not your seat, is it?” he responds sharply— chiaroscuro to the lax, impassive shape that molds his face, “S’first come, first serve …dude.”

A stranger grazes your shoulder blade in passing— something you've become accustomed to. People finding walkways in strait gaps on a train that’s packed like a can of sardines. 

“Oh my God. You are such an asshole— I could be pregnant.” 

He raises his eyebrows. His eyes trail. A slow once-over, wry and disbelieving. Sage and owlish. A stray curl stemming from the forefront of his crown meddles to coil over his forehead. The corner of his otherwise indurated mouth twitches.

“Are you pregnant?” 

No.

“Yes,” you glower. 

It slinks from the back of your throat, unbidden— this lie. Rides up the back up of your tongue and slips through the cracks of your teeth. It’s curdled and twisted, miasmic pulp in tar— who the fuck lies about being pregnant for a subway seat?

You're never going to see him again. 

You're never, ever going to see him again. 

You cup your hand over the underside of your tummy. Sell it, now that you have to. All soft flesh under the button of your jeggings, shrouded under the boxy shaping of your fleece turtleneck— where a baby (that definitely doesn’t exist, last you checked), the size of a citrus limon, would curl up. You tuck your palm over the phantom at your underbelly. 

You've had a shitty day, and now you've been backed into a corner, offering the universe shitty manifestations with your hands cupped out. 

The seat stealer ogles. Meanders from your strategic hand placement to your ireful scowl. Back. His mouth purses. 

“So, it’s not that you could be,” he clarifies, slowly, “It’s that you are.”

Languid. Unrushed, like an overflowing, murky lake lapping at a berm. Someone brushes the back of your arm. 

“Yes.” 

“Are you lying?” 

You scoff. He’s fully transfixed on you now, the glow from his smartphone dimmed on its pending shut-off timer. 

“Are you kidding? Who—“ you hike your tote up, “lies about being pregnant for a subway seat?” 

He purses his lips again, ruddy pillows bordering the sharp chasm of his mouth where the tools to dissect her claims are stowed. Bobs his head. 

“How far along are you, then?” 

You grit out, teeth bared, “Thirteen weeks—“

And a stranger prods past with enough force to nudge you forward. Enough for your shin to brush against the bespectacled stranger's own. Enough to step into his space, nearly between his parted thighs. He frowns. 

He does another slow sweep with his gaze. Furrowed brows, glimmering viridian dancing from behind limped lenses. Gleaning pieces like cattail and twine for a nest. Deciding; are they worthy? A grip over your underbelly, the little frown on your lips that mirrors his own, the way you suddenly crowd his atoms. He’s unconvinced, almost. Apathetic. 

You fully expect him to tell you to fuck off, but then he nudges with his stubbly chin. You shuffle back as much as you can with about three, broad strangers at all sides. 

He bleeds out into you, for a moment, all heat, when he clambers up and steps in to make your cycle — this game of musical chairs to the tune of white noise, flitting on a screeching rail through a tunnel— smoother. He’s broad. Tapered. Thick in the shoulders, a carnegiea of a man towering when he nearly presses his firm chest to you, wrapped in french terry. He’s much softer to the touch than the spikes bristling from his mien implicate. Woodsy and clean, like smoke, and cedarwood, and soap. It flushes the miasmic undertone of grease the subway always has. 

He cocks his head. Sit down. 

“Congratulations,” he tells you when you slot into the nook, splaying your tote over your lap. 

He’s kept your seat warm. 

Whether the statement is in reference to your unborn pseudo-baby or your victory, you're unsure. 

-

-

-

-

KNOTS resembles a yoga studio, with its clean, tall walls, its french oak flooring, and its bone-white bulbs, linearly tiled into the ceiling. It smells like an amalgam of grapefruit cleaning products and spritzes of an air freshener that vaguely echoes the lapping sea. 

Salt, an airy ozone, muguet. Something pretentious that doesn’t fit into the city. 

If it weren’t for the myriad of ropes, lubricants, and toy cleaners stacking the shelving units by the front, you would have felt as if you were here to attend a pilates class. Cycling, maybe. Something sweaty and less …abrasive.

You're late for your seven-to-nine open level, beginner’s course— two soporific hours of staring at rope and tying knots that you'll never get back.

(Slaphappy and fecklessly inept at knot-tying are two traits that don’t work well to take up shibari as a hobby.

“Please— she’s been begging for months and none of those online tutorials make any fucking sense.” 

“So— why don’t you take her with you?” 

“Because I want it to be a surprise,” Niall had opposed. Puffed his chest, “I wanna surprise her. Like a proper ropes guy, you know. And she’s so flexible, too, I could tie her in loads of positions—“

You'd raised your hand. “Spare me.” 

Niall’s always been a glass half-full. Crystalline, effervescent. A bright color.

You couldn’t bear to ruffle his plume when, two autumns ago, he spent a Wednesday afternoon standing outside a women’s handicapped stall in an auto shop for pure, courageous moral support as you took an actual pregnancy test— not even by his doing, and he still was a very good sport. Even if he’s absolute shit at knots beyond tying his own shoes.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that if he struggled with twine and a palomar, it wasn’t going to matter how bendy his girlfriend was.)

You're fourteen minutes late. Eight-hundred-forty seconds and change for every two steps, by the time you find the right door in the balmy corridor of boundless doorways. The portly, alder ingress squeals on its hinges when you shuffle, as quietly as you can manage, into what vaguely resembles a dance studio. 

The attendees look the part, too, perched over their yoga mats in contemporary dancer garb, turning their chins over their shoulders at the disturbance. Dress casual and comfortable. There’s only about eight of them, and they coil in a piqued coterie ahead of the instructor, who has about six varying ropes, diverse in their tint and structure, and then he peers up—

It’s him. Saguaro, with the frames and the eyes like beds of flinty malachite. 

He’s holding a furled, plaited cord, the head of the class, and he pauses, blinking up. Briefly. He clears his throat—

”—Jute, on the other hand, has great knot stability. You can see here, the braided texture— that makes it less slippery.”

Compunction crinkles the valley of skin between your eyebrows as you trudge in alongside Niall— he’s much more amicable about it, mouthing apologies and raising his hand in friendly hello’s that don’t receive much beyond awkwardly indifferent glances. You sink to your knees toward the back, which isn’t all that far from the front, all things considered. It’s a small class. The wood burrows into your tailbone— were the yoga mats a complementary piece? Were you supposed to bring a yoga mat?

“It’s great for floor bondage, but it’s water sensitive. So if you want to work it into suspension, don’t wash it too often. Otherwise, you’re losing carrying capacity.”

The city of New York is a metaphorical hayrick. It’s a paradox, since the big apple is the furthest thing from watery mud, fir-constructed barns, and scythes sweeping through crops. 

Theoretically, though, you should have never seen this man again. 

He should have become swept into the mound of straw— got lost in it. Mortification strums at your muscles, tensing every sinew. It scars deep— scrapes at your cartilage. If you'd known this needle would prick your thumb again, maybe you wouldn’t have waged war for the seat on the subway. 

And yet, here he is.

[sleepynoons]

jing yuan x gn!reader, nsfw, not beta read

cw: implied violence/war, ptsd, angst/slight comfort

notes: getting back into the swing of writing! not necessarily canon – and maybe i'm projecting as someone with ptsd –, but jing yuan and ptsd just seem so inextricably linked to me. anyway, just an experimental drabble, hoping to expand into something larger down the line.

COLD. DESPITE the weight of the blanket and the warmth from your body pressed up against his, he feels so cold, almost shivering and trembling from the sweat clinging to his palms and temples.

he doesn’t dare to move, disallowing himself from glancing at you. in fear, truly, that the slow rocking of your chest in motion with deep breaths and the steeled grip of your hands on his arm are all conjurings of his subconscious.

the sweat is stubborn, sticky, tacky. congealing with each passing second, staining and matting his hair to his neck and shoulders. the air in the room also grows dense, heavy, oppressing, and it’s all too reminiscent of the caves, abandoned sheds, groves, underground tunnels jing yuan used to hide in.

him and his surviving soldiers, all holding their breaths, still vigilant, praying. he ordered the group to stay put while him and two others went to scavenge.

what a horrifying night.

the ringing silence of the bedroom distorts into wails. he can make out slinking shadows on the walls. you’re not by his side.

until he is jolted back, with the gentle pressure of a warm towel against his cheek.

his hand flies up to grab your wrist. his grip is a little tight, bound to leave a bit of redness, but it’s reassuring to feel your pulse underneath the pad of his thumb.

you continue to wipe away, making your way down to his adam’s apple and collarbone.

he won’t allow himself to open his eyes. and you won’t ask him to, either.

you know he only wants gentle comfort, nothing grand or extravagant. he can’t help it – no more loud noises, sudden, passionate movements, or words that are intoxicating in more ways than one.

so you continue to gently swipe and rub and smooth over the lines of his face, knowing that he will never experience the peace he truly craves for.

regardless, he will live on.

(for you.)

[momotonescreaming]

don't say nothing’s wrong

Rating: T | WC: 20k | Steve & Dustin Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Dustin Centric

“If you’re gonna continue to bully me, dude,” Steve starts, brows furrowing; lips pursed in a tight, angry line. “I don’t think I want to be your friend anymore.”

“What?” Dustin replies indignantly, whipping around to face Steve, mouth hanging open. What the hell is Steve talking about? He’s not a bully? He’s one of the nerds, the freaks, he’s the one who gets sneers from jocks and got pushed around on the playground by the bigger kids. He can’t be a bully, it’s like, in the rules of high school. Steve must’ve gotten hit on the head harder than Dustin thought.

It was a Saturday afternoon, they were hanging out at his house, and everything was going fine. Good, even. So where did this come from? A stack of movies from Family Video on the coffee table, a bowl full of popcorn, they were laughing and it was fun. Dustin was just joking and now Steve’s saying this?

“I’m not a bully, what the hell Steve?” Dustin adds, louder this time, frowning over at Steve. He has his arms crossed as he sits in the large armchair in the corner of the lounge. Suddenly he feels so far away. “Are you serious or are you stupider than I thought?”

He watches as something flickers over Steve’s face. Something small, quick as a flash, blink and it’s gone. Something in his eyes, the downturn of his lips, his brow. Dustin can’t quite place what it was, especially not now that it’s gone, and there’s a horrible feeling in his gut that it was important. Steve immediately steels his face, smothers it, and it’s reminiscent of King Steve. That aloofness, carelessness, that air about him. That he’s better. That he knows more than you. He’s got the upper hand.

He’s unaffected.

Flexing his jaw, moving in such a way that it looks like Steve’s digging food out of his teeth with his tongue. It almost feels like disdain. He’s never looked at Dustin like this before. Even back in the tunnel, with Billy, when he was dragging him down the train tracks. So what’s gotten into Steve now? It was just a joke, and now Steve’s threatening to ditch him? He would never.

“Thanks Dustin.” Steve says, uncrossing his arms and resting them on the armchair. As if he’s about to lift himself up to standing — and leave. “Thanks for proving my point.”

[read the whole thing on AO3]

[hobisfavoritespritecan]

Tourniquet

DUNCAN VIZLA X READER

⚠️ Warnings: Uhhh kinda extreme gore, I mean I definitely go into intense detail about some of the way these people die so probably don't read this if you're squeamish, blood, death, murder, language, mentions of drugs and alcohol, I think that's it but yeah ⚠️

Duncan comes to save you and risks his life in the process.

Duncan had originally wanted nothing more than to retire from this god-forsaken line of work he'd been in for over thirty years. To succumb fully to the relaxation that was unemployed bliss, somewhere far off in the lost woods with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Maybe he'd try for another dog again, although he wasn't too lucky with his PTSD responses around Rusty. Wherever in the world he may be or whomever he'd be with, he just wanted some goddamn peace and quiet, thankyouverymuch.

Today, he was not so lucky. Of course, he had to take the one job offer to end his career with a bang and to coagulate all of the money he'd originally been promised to begin with. One job after another, one shot fired towards a man's head and a stapler gun to his ankles, all led him here. At the front of this house. On a rescue mission. Which would then lead to a hitman mission. Obviously. Unfortunately.

Duncan sighed and took in the landscape with his one good eye, courtesy of the copious amount of torture he'd pushed through over the past month. Although his wounds were still healing and he felt their burn underneath the folds of his fabric coat, he had to act fast as there was no time to waste. He needed to put his life on the line once again; as he had for so many years working as a hitman. But now, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. A reward to his revenge. Nothing that was false promises of money or strippers or nights out at the bar that would only situate him for a week before he grew bored. No, at the end of this mission was the promise of your safety and the potential of the two of you living this retired life he'd dreamt of for so long.

He only had to kill 30+ men and his former "mission mates" before getting to you and fleeing this Damocles shit for good.

Easy, in theory. In actuality, he was probably going to end up dead. Unless he could control himself through his rage and use it as an adrenalin boost rather than a distraction to his plan.

The mansion was huge and lavish in comparison to the wood houses Duncan had come to love in Montana. It was almost entirely frivolous; the magnitude of Blut's weath, all gained from those who did his dirty work and never out of his own aspirations.

Seeing the coast was fairly clear, he crafted a plan in his head as to how he was going to make it in and out of the place unscathed. Two guards to his left on the rooftop, facing outwards. Meaning that there must be at least another two on the other side, not knowing from which direction he'd come. Another one in the upper right window that could easily be taken out with a sniper. A few fifteen or so on the ground in hidden positions, all of which he knew considering he used to work for the damn place. Assuming Blut's usual stupidity would mean that the plans for an attack on Damocles would be unchanged, minus those who were inside of the place itself.

Time for action. He took off his heavy coat and draped it on the tree nearest to him so as not to be weighed down by the material. His thick wool sweater would be more than enough to keep him warm, alongside his steel-toed boots. Underneath his coat and concealed by his initial wardrobe was a now visible belt with two loaded guns on either side. His hand was clad with brass knuckles and he had a knife in his boot, only for an extreme situation. Worse comes to worse, he still had that piece of shrapnel under the second layer of his skin from one of his older missions he could cut out if he really had to. Eyepatch in place and hair tied in an up-do, he was ready to start shooting people.

Hey, maybe if they were all dead he'd finally get his $8 million he'd been promised.

It happened as quickly as the next snowflake hit the ground; Blut's mansion was under attack. They'd been expecting him, but as he was called The Black Kaiser, he was the best of the best. He knew their ins and outs and was now thankful he kept a friendly but protective distance from everyone while he was in the org so that they wouldn't know the specificities for his own attack. One skillful shot to the top left roof was enough to pierce through the necks of both the men standing atop it, one falling off after the other and landing on the ground with a thick thud. Blasted through arteries and a fuckton of blood pooled out the edges from where they'd fallen, creating intricate patterns on the wintery terrain and leaving giant stains on the sides of the building.

Now understanding their mission was a go, the man from the window received the hint and withdrew himself from the window, racing back inside most likely to tell Blut about the outside commotion. No matter. He'd take his time to paint the entirety of the green estate red with the fallen victims of Damocles.

He'd been right about the guards from the top of the building being on the other side, except there were three instead of two. They rushed around looking for the potential places Duncan could be hiding, so as to scope him out first and be the ones to receive the praise from their fat ass nepo-baby boss. They must all be younger and have no idea the amount of years and experience he'd had in this industry because Duncan was in plain fucking sight with his guns readied in both hands.

"Bye." He said, and shot them at the same time, making two of the guards meet the same tragic fate as their friends. One, two, they hit the ground with more thuds and guts, spreading their entrails further out than most people would think the human body could reach. One of their intestines had wrapped around the edges of the window panes, a man still alive wishing he wasn't. He was screaming from the upper floor awaiting his fall as he was held up by the gaping wound in his stomach where Duncan had shot him once more. The last guard at the top of the roof looked down in horror and jumped himself, taking his own life and going limp once his neck made a loud snap against the pavement under the soft snow.

PTSD flashbacks edged the corners of Duncan's one-eyed vision, trying their best to stop him as he witnessed the horror of human death via his hands. He was used to this feeling, of wanting to curl up and revert into himself, to never see anyone or anything again and be tortured as payment for his crimes. He was just a man, not a deity. Why should he choose- or rather- listen to who chooses who should meet an untimely death? What makes him above the others within his species?

Because of their frequent visits, he shut his visions down and went soulless. That was the only way to truly do his job and to continue to do it well within the moment and not fight with the side that was desperate to live in peace and an understanding of humanity. He was a pacifist at heart, truly. And even though it went against his psychological beliefs of the world, he had to pretend that intentions outweighed his actions in the sense of his killing and this mission; that getting to you was worth the rampant murderous spree of all these people, paid by their boss just as he was to do the same tasks he's doing.

Burrowing into himself, he rolls to the nearest icicle filled tree, grabbing the man who was hidden here with the gun and twisting his neck until he heard the sounds of life escaping his throat. He discarded his now empty gun for the one in the holster of the other man, making sure it was fully loaded before proceeding to also extract the menthols from the upper part of the stranger's jacket.

"Mange Tak." He said, Danish for thank you. He could have a little class while he was at it.

Noticing the tree he was under and the man whom he'd just killed, Blut was either following their Five-Ten plan or the Outskirts plan, both of which were effective in combat. The Five-Ten plan was created by Vivian herself meaning that there would be five on the perimeter of the compound, five on the rooftop, and ten within the building before whomever was entering made it inside. Then, after getting through the frontlines of security (if they made it that far), whomever was infiltrating would meet the guards who allowed their cohorts to be killed as preparation time for the main show.

The Outskirts plan, however, would mean that every man who wasn't directly appointed as an assassin to Blut's side would be out in the fields which were now covered in snow, using the trapdoors hidden in the earth to prepare their weapons for combat and kill the intruder as he (or she) approached the compound.

He was going to take his bets with the Five-Ten.

Heart barely going over an easy 65bpm, he calmly readied his guns for the next part of the infiltration where a few other guards would pop up and flock to his sides, hoping that they might catch him off-guard. Which they wouldn't. Another few shots took care of those and as he wiped the blood off his face from the splatter of one of them, he lit a cigarette and started walking towards the front of the compound, taking his chances that he knew which plan they had chosen considering he'd killed most of the other ones when he'd killed Vivian during their surprise attack not even hours before he got here.

Stepping over the walkway and opening the doors to the inside, he'd been proven correct in his intuition and flanked to the wall, keeping himself out of sight to those in the building. There were three open entryways leading from the main hall to the upstairs where the pig himself resided. Which meant around six of those corners could be another guard and he'd have to take his shots carefully, unless he wanted to engage in hand-to-hand combat which didn't always end well when your opponent had a firearm. He checked his inventory quickly.

Six bullets left. He'd have to be stingy about it.

Holding the trigger and aiming the barrel towards his right, he took a shot through the ornate pillars holding up the entryway's corbel arch, a bullet forcing itself through the small opening in which the wall met the pillar. He heard an "oomph!" which he gathered triumphantly signified his tactic of approach was also correct.

Can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Rolling to the floor into the room from whence the sound came, he staggered over to the next wall and shot through the entryway, shooting the man in the room in the leg. Fuck. Slight misstep on his account (or the other guy's considering he no longer had the bottom half of his leg). He dodged the man's bullets and lifted one of the cylindrical vases decorating the hallway and bashed it into the man's skull, once, twice, and then dropping it as he watched blood ooze from his nose. A sound from behind him meant another and he was met with hands wrapping around his throat and a gun being pressed to his temple.

This man was much bigger in stature than Duncan, but it was no matter. He swiftly acted as though he were aiming for his opponent's side as they would have practiced for upon initiation training. Seeing the man respond confidently to where he'd presumed Duncan would strike meant he'd left his nuts unguarded to which Duncan kicked in with precision. The man screamed, letting go of his counterpart and went to hold himself in anguish. Duncan mercilessly grabbed the weapon from his hands and shot through the one holding his injured manhood, shooting off his limb and probably the area underneath.

A few more men appeared from the entryways, and, after killing them all with a few more bullets than needed considering he had two guns now and maybe a hit to the face with his brass knuckles; he made his way to the top of the stairs, ready for whatever else would come. He could take on twenty more of them before expressing any ounce of fatigue as he'd trained his whole life for missions like this.

However, it was just you in the room.

Almost entirely taken aback by the slumped position you were in bound to that chair in the middle of the room, Duncan froze in his advances. He didn't let his guard down, no, but he took careful detail to the contortions of your face and the state of your being from which he could make out from this distance. Your long hair fell from the roots of your head which seemed to still be intact (thank god), but your skin was an ashy grey and blood had littered your hands and chest area. It was deep and dark and so red, redder than he'd felt he'd ever seen before and the PTSD was back, clawing at his chest and vision through his one good eye, all of his labors seemingly returning to dust. If you were dead, it would be the death of all deaths despite having only known you for a short period of time.

It had been the way you'd entered his house for the first time that caught him winded, hands tucked into the pockets of your long coat that kept you warm and smelling like the vanilla candles that littered your house. Your flushed cheeks from being out in the cold. Your smile as he'd offered you a sip of his hot chocolate, only to find out it had an added hint of whiskey. Your face when he'd kissed you for the first time. The hug you'd given him after.

It took fifty years of his life to finally admit it to himself and to anyone else who'd listen to the raspy notches in his throat as he exclaimed that he was, indeed, in love. And it was, indeed, with you.

"Something caught your eye, Kaiser?" Blut's agonizing and cruel voice caught the echos of the marble flooring and flooded the room, signaling his emergence from the darkness. He was wearing his stupid, douchebaggy jacket with a shit eating grin nearly reaching the corners of his eyes. This was the man whom he'd worked for all these years, pledged his loyalty to despite having no ounce of previous companionship with him. The one who owed him $8 million and the one who'd sent out his own personal hitman army to kill Duncan and get away with it so he would no longer be a liability to the company.

"She'd better be alive, or I'll skewer your head on that fucking Damocles sword you have above the mantle." He nearly spat out, taking his time to enunciate the weight of every word that escaped his lips, forcing them out in such an anger that anyone would feel in the depths of their bones. Blut, however, could care less.

"Oh she's alive." Made sure to keep her that way for you." He said, sauntering towards her seemingly lifeless body and tilting her chin upwards to finally reveal her face. "Thought she could use some plastic surgery though, don't you think Duncan?"

It was as if a knife had pierced his chest then and there. Your face, which had been absolutely perfect upon anyone's first glance, now was missing an eye on the opposite side of his own. Flesh had been carved out around it, which meant it would leave a scar possibly even nastier than his. He wanted to throw up at the idea someone could've taken something so important to you and destroy a piece of your life forever. He then thought maybe that was how his victims' families felt, learning that their fathers or brothers had passed due to the brutality of murder.

But you were still beautiful. And he had to save you still.

"Duncan... you're not responding?" Blut taunted with his awful voice, ringing the question in his ears and twisting the metaphorical knife even further into his chest. Duncan knew he'd need to snap out of the hold of his traumas and force himself to swallow anything else other than the situation at hand in order to save you...and himself.

"You're fucking dead. Don't you fucking touch her." Duncan said, grabbing the hefty sword of the supposed Damocles mansion from the mantle near him, letting the blade drag on the floor before discarding his gun entirely and picking up the sword. It had to have been at least four feet long with a shiny hilt and an even shinier blade which would be stained with the blood of the man before him in the time it'd take to say the sword's name. He would avenge this piece of your life that had been wrongfully taken from you.

A little less smug now, Blut reached into his pocket and withdrew a gun. "Y-y-you fucking stay back Kaiser! I won't hesitate to blow your head off!!"

"Where are your other men? Or are you truly so out of options that you're here alone?" Duncan growled, his discarded gun going into the fireplace, and, with a loud boom, caught the floor and curtains surrounding it on fire. The flames twisted and danced against in the reflection of his newfound weapon, a proper visual to the fire that licked his veins with the rage he felt. He continued his progression to your chair, sparing you a softer glance, before focusing everything onto the man before him who was now cowering by the window on the wall.

It was as if he were a child who'd been told hiding under a blanket would save him from the monsters under his bed and in his closet. He shrunk into the glass and tried his best to aim his gun with a shaking hand at Duncan's head. Duncan was now eye-to-eye with the man whom he'd fucking rip to shreds faster than any job he'd done as a hitman in his life.

"Blut...you're not responding?" He sneered, dodging the bullet that flew from his opponent's barrel. He lifted the sword and thrust it from the nape of his neck to the back of his skull, brains flying out against the widow he was in front of. Blood spurt from the open wound like a the lake outside of Duncan's house in Montana, where he'd resided before all this madness. Eyes bulged out of his skull with the optic nerves sliding down the forefront of his face and falling just above his mouth. Duncan dismantled the head from his torso still attached to the blade and spear tossed the sword of Damocles out the window and onto the grounds below, the sharp end getting stuck in the ground and displaying Blut's upside down head like a totem pole.

"'Suck my fucking dick."

Duncan freed you from the chair, taking you outside and down the winding trail, mansion burning to the ground in the distance. Back to Montana where now, at last, he would fucking retire.

[ranticore]

colony culture is obviously really variable as cultures are but in the main character colony, their practices are strongly influenced by the characteristics of the adult dragon who's been living in the cave for a century. the dragon is large enough that it poses a threat to all else around it - you'd hardly move aside for a line of ants if they happened to be under your boot, and the dragon feels the same for the kobolds. as such the colony has had to construct additional defences to separate themselves from the grand chamber in which the dragon lives. There is a set of massive iron and steel doors, constructed from the leftover armour and weapons of would-be dragon slayers, and beyond these doors are the main warrens, a series of tunnels which make up the residential district. But these tunnels are finite and do not expand, made of very hard stone, so the colony also has a two-tier class structure wherein everyone whose ancestor managed to get a spot in the warrens gets to enjoy safety and security behind the iron doors, while a good half of the population lives in the grand cavern, at the mercy of the dragon and whatever else lives within the caves. having invented classism they proceeded to retroactively invent reasons why someone should deserve to live outside the doors; the crimes of their ancestors, their generally poor character, their unhygienic and scavenging lifestyle. People don't like to think it was random chance that separates them from the people outside the doors.

(cut for length)

There's no fire inside the caves. Ventilation is already poor, and reliant on the ice-caps of the mountain range remaining frozen (i.e those air holes would flood if the glaciers melted). Smoke and fire are dangerous, as are midden heaps, large rotting corpses, or anything else that might produce an excess of unbreathable air. The warrens especially forbid fire, relying solely on proximity to the dragon for warmth, and bioluminescent cave fauna for light. Food is uncooked or served frozen, mainly consisting of blind fish and other aquatic subterranean animals.

The concept of time is rudimentary. There's no night or day, no minute or hour. It's very difficult to convey how long ago something happened without linking it to a notable event that happened at the same time.

Outside the warrens, scavengers follow the dragon's lead - what's yours is mine. Theft is 100% acceptable so long as you're not physically taking an item out of someone's hands while they're using it. To keep a hold on precious belongings, scavengers hoard their things in remote corners of the cave system, far from society. If a hoard is found, it's fair game. But finding it is the challenge. It's accepted that everyone probably has a secret stash somewhere. The stashes usually contain items taken for their aesthetic value from dead dragonhunters, alongside curiosities from the cave itself; strange bones, crystals, mummified animals. A hoard is shared between partners, so collecting nice things is also an act of devotion and commitment.

Scavengers are broken up into broad groupings based on skill. They might work as hunters, fishers, explorers, or navigators, given their advanced knowledge of the cave system granted by having to find a good hoard spot. But they can also be outrunners, the only group of kobolds who regularly leave the cave. Outrunners are the ones bringing back evidence of plants, animals, and concepts from the outside. They may post sentries to warn of an impending dragon hunt, or sneak down to nearby human settlements to steal livestock.

The highest ranking group of scavengers, more important than any other, is the dragoneer group. They are chosen purely based on colour. If you are any variation of black and red, you can be a dragoneer. This is because the dragon's scales are black and red, and a suitably coloured dragoneer can blend in while scavenging on its body. They take scales to be used as blades and shields, shed spines for weapons, and harvest blood from the dragon by farming ticks and lice. Dragon blood is a vitally important nutrient source for the kobolds, usually consumed watered down. In concentrated form it is consumed for ritualistic purposes, the 'quickening agent' used by the mother of matriarchs to imbue her offspring with the ability to commune and share dreams with the dragon. Realistically, the high levels of heavy metals make the concentrated blood unsafe for a pregnant person to drink.

[lanitalay]

Soon

Eris x Rhysand's Sister!reader

a/n: just a lil drabble to spice things up.

word count 600

masterlist

Under the warmn glow of faelights faces always seem to blend together. Except one. With sharp amber eyes, Eris only grants you a few, calculated glances. Careful to not linger. Its the way it has to be for now. Your brother keeps you on the dias, flanked by Azriel and Cassian. He does it to keep you safe. To keep you out of the Court of Nightmare’s grasp, only allowing brief, illusive apperances from the sought-after princess of Night. He’ll deny any suitor, any bid for marriage. You’ll only be allowed out of the dias when the music begins. He’ll allow a dance or two. 

The first is with a nameless male, he smirks the whole song. The second is with Eris. He looks indiferent, you look tense. Warm, flame bitten fingertips will graze over the exposed skin of your lower back. Your thumb draws cirlces on his shoulder. Some day you’ll be able to rest your head on it, to breathe him in and melt into the strong lines of his chest without the threat of war. Indiferent eyes will meet by the end of the dance, feigning nonchalance as heads bow in goodbye. 

You step back to your position next to the throne. Dancing with him was always a gamble. Rhysand will scold your for it later. He always does when the heir of Autumn puts his “flea ridden paws” on you. Eris also thinks its unwise to push his limits but you insist “he needs to get used to the idea of us if we are to have a future.” You would deal with his tantrums. 

A yawn and an “I’m going to retire for the night” will let your lover know to meet you in your chambers of the cavernous court. He knocks on the door but it is muffled by a large bookshelf. With magic it is moved to the side so the door to the tunnels can open just enough for him to fit through. Before speaking, you throw up a sound and scent barrier. 

“You look dignified even when sneaking through tunnels, Vanserra.” 

He rolls his eyes but a smile that is only saved for you breaks through the steel of his face. “You look lovely in that gown, I wonder what made you depart from the traditional black?” 

You twirl and sway in the maroon fabric. “I wanted something different.” 

He chuckles as the distance between you is finally closed. Lips coming together in a molten kiss. Now you can run your hands through his hair. He can squeeze your hips and bring you closer and closer. Clothes are quickly discarded as fractured flesh becomes one. 

The night ends far too quickly. First light nipping at the windows. You help Eris get dressed, fixing his tie so that it sits perfectly on his chest. “When will we-” a gentle hand stops him from finishing the sentence. “When the time is right we will be together.” 

“I guess that’s what it comes down to.” You nod. 

“Soon, it will be soon.” You kiss him again, lips sore and swollen but still craving more. Maybe that’s a lie. Maybe you’re lying to yourself because Rhysand will not stand for this. Not for a long time. But you have to believe that you’ll be able to have it all. Refusing to live a life where your love, your family and your birthright are forever at odds.

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Five

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: Tom hurts himself like an idiot and tries to hurt reader like an idiot

— WORDCOUNT: 2.6k

I

When she returned the next morning, she didn’t have the sense that anything was wrong, even when she found the ledgers placed in the wrong order underneath her desk. It wouldn’t be the first time… So she followed her routine and spent the chill hours of the morning making coffee in the little kitchen in the back and finished a review of Pliny the Younger she’d begun two days ago.

It wasn’t until later, after lunch, when she went into the back rooms to put Pliny in his place that she realised something was definitely wrong. The carpet, usually so carefully smoothed over the trapdoor, was creased in a light wave, its yellow tassels ruffled. The table in the centre of the room was quite askew as well, the items on it shifted to the right. She froze, then rushed to check the hidden door.

But the door was safe. There wasn’t even a scratch on it… She placed her signet ring into the keyhole and it popped open with a click, just as it always did. She lifted it and stepped inside, down the steps that led into the tunnel. It was dark and quiet… Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe she was the one who made that mess the last time she was there. She did tend to be a bit clumsy sometimes…

With a sigh of relief, she climbed back up, and as her face reached the level of the floor, something shiny underneath the table caught her eye. She got up and closed the door behind her, then crawled on her knees underneath the table to grab the foreign thing.

It was one of those fancy pocket knives with all sorts of uses… Red handle, stainless steel blade. Her heartbeat turned frantic and sweat cloyed at her hairline, and she felt her stomach drop — someone else had been there. And she’d have to report this. With brisque and heavy steps, she went back to her desk and picked the phone up.

“Hello?” she whispered once the Curator picked up. “It’s me, upstairs. Erm, has anything gone missing? What? Oh, n-no reason, just, I think we had a break-in and — No, it’s fine! Just — I don’t think so. Erm, did I call him? Not yet. I —”

She listened to the frustrated cursing of the man downstairs as she stared at the Swiss knife, turning it in her hands, her whole body tense and weak, when suddenly her frown melted away and lips parted. There were two letters inscribed into the blade: C. M.

“It’s someone with the initials C and M,” she said quickly. “Know anyone? No, I don’t either… Alright. Alright, I’ll call him now. Thank you.”

II

“Yes, it’s not much to go on, but —”

“There is no need,” scraped the voice from the other end of the line.

“What?”

“You said nothing was taken?”

“A-as far as I can tell… Downstairs is safe too.”

“Hm. Possibly something forgotten by a customer.”

“H-how can you be sure?”

“If it had been an intruder, you would not have found a knife,” he said. “You would have found a corpse.”

She frowned, not really understanding him but ready to accept this resolution.

“S-so, what would you like me to do?”

Silence on the other end. Perhaps he expected her to increase security, or just carry on as normal since he seemed so calm about it…

“Put a copy of Torchia on display.”

“What?!”

“If it really was a break-in, and it has to do with the auction, we will test the resolve of our thief.”

“Do you want that book or…”

“Yes. Ask Ambrogio,” he said, and in the background, she could hear the scratching sound of him writing something down.

“Alright, sir…”

The scratching persisted until he hung up on her.

III

Tom smiled against the receiver. He so hated telephones with their smooth plastic in unnatural colours, but they were faster than an Owl… Besides, muggles seemed to love them.

“Yes, if you could manage it, I’d be ever so grateful,” he drawled silkily, putting on the same boyish airs he did when meeting with another of Burke’s clients. “No no, not right now. I’ll tell you when. Is that alright? It is? Oh, wonderful. You know, I keep thinking of that hotel you mentioned. You were right about this one, it’s awful. Yes. Yes, I’ll consider it.”

He hissed a few more pleasantries and said goodbye. When it was over, he reached to the bedside table to hang up, but not without some difficulty. He sighed and rested his cheek against his long cold palm cushioned by the pillow. Tom was lying on his front on the narrow hotel bed, a pack of ice on his hip — just a few cubes tied up in a handkerchief. It did little to reduce the bruise that bloomed there, but at least it kept the swelling down. He could think of a dozen potions that would do much better than this, but he had none of the ingredients on hand. His own fault for leaving London without buying some supplies first…

He held the pack to him and got up gingerly, growling all the while. He should have been happy, he’d made a great deal of progress in finding where they held the book, even if the way was closed to him. And with a bit of luck, he might yet find a way to gain their trust.

Tom limped over to the window, a drop of water sliding down his naked leg. The sun was setting and the streets were filling up, frothing with white dresses and silk scarves. How he hated being around muggles…

He let the curtains close again and waved his wand to brew him a cup of tea. Fire spells were so useful even if you didn’t have your mind on arson. He was at least glad he’d brought some tea leaves with him, and could brew them at just the right temperature. The milk they served around these parts was also not so bad, and worked wonderfully with the brew. It soothed his nerves if nothing else.

He sat down in the armchair, legs askew, loose shirt covering him to his thighs, and picked up his notebook. At least he knew they had the Trevisan that he was after... It would make the perfect excuse to visit again — in a more overt manner.

Absentmindedly, he placed the ice pack on his lap, and immediately jumped up in his seat.

“Oh fuck! Cold!”

He growled and with a sharp flick of his wand transformed the pack into a pillow, and settled down again.

IV

It should have delighted her that Frederico found the freedom to ask her out for lunch again. She sometimes thought she worked too many hours, but that impression faded when she heard from him. All Fred ever talked about was work. His shop was two streets away — not his of course, just as Casa Ur wasn’t hers — but he behaved as if it was his child sometimes, so dutifully he tended to it. She put it down to the speed with which she worked, as she was younger than most of the other book dealers in the city and less worn down by its pressures. But even she could not muster the endless enthusiasm of her friend.

Their lunches together had nothing romantic about them, they never did. He was a kind, soft-spoken man in his mid-forties, his skin just starting to sag around his cheeks, his forehead creased from frowning, brown eyes wet and tired behind a thick pair of glasses. The way he looked at her unnerved her sometimes, but then again, he seemed to look at everything that way…

He picked her up from Casa Ur and they went to a restaurant together, his paunch swinging before him and the sun shining brightly on the bald spot at his crown. He loved to talk, his high hoarse voice filling up the silence. She didn’t mind. She needed the company.

“And anyway, to prevent the shipment from being late, we found an old pathway they could take to avoid the flood, and they arrived five minutes before schedule,” he said, finishing the latest drama from his shop as they sat down at the restaurant across from the Fontana Trevi. “Can you imagine? Flooding, in the hottest summer on record?”

“Oh, last summer was even hotter.”

“You think so, but that’s not what they said on the weather report.”

“I think I’ll have carbonara,” she hummed, licking her lips. She loved the menu at this place…

“Hm? Oh, parmesan gnocchi for me, I think. With cream and garlic, oh yes… Wine for you?”

“No, I don’t think so. Just water.”

“Might be a while until they come around to us. So many tourists out today. Awful. Anyway, I wanted to tell you about the reason we found that route. Guess.”

“I don’t know,” she laughed.

“Guess, guess! Alright, so, it was our collection of Martinelli maps.”

“Fascinating. Oh, there’s a waiter! Scusi, cameriere!”

She hadn’t liked Fred when they first met two years before, but she’d gotten used to him. Or, she’d learned how to put up with him, allow herself to be carried on the wave of conversation that he wove. Now, it was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon, eating in the open air, letting his enthusiasm drown her worries as he wagged his sausage fingers in the air to summon up the largess of the maps that saved his boss’ shipment.

Every one of their colleagues was different, each with their own flaws and problems — broken marriage, spiteful children, loneliness and illness and malaise — but they all carried the same passion for books. Books most people never heard of, books only obsessives cared about, books older than countries. They, few and a little insane, were together enchanted by their beauty.

So she could forgive Fred his childlike wonder, even during their lunch break, because the same passion smouldered, albeit very deeply, within her. It was what kept her going in spite of her loneliness, her anomie, and the drudgery of daily life.

“By the way, who’s coming at the next auction?”

“Most of the same,” she sighed, her breath fogging the half-empty glass of water. “A few new names this time. Foreign names. Can’t say I know any of them.”

“Must be invited by Oso.”

“Oh, I doubt he has the authority.”

“No, but you know how the Baron looks up to him.”

She chuckled, her lips pursed to stop a toothy grin. “Given his condition, it’s hardly surprising.”

“What do — Oh, you mean the… Oh, that’s quite cruel,” said Fred, his eyes two charcoal slits beneath the fat dark crinkles of a smile.

“Sorry, sorry…”

“But anyway, you know he could talk him into doing just about anything.”

“Maybe… Would you like to have some coffee before we go?”

“Sure,” he said. “I know you don’t really like talking about the auctions.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just that… just that…”

“Just that you don’t like it,” he laughed.

She was playing with her fork in the leftover sauce of carbonara while Fred waved a waiter over when she noticed from the corner of her eye a familiar contrast of black hair and deathly pallor. Was that Mr. Riddle? His eyes were hidden by shades and his full lips were pressed against the rim of a wine glass, but she was certain it was him. She turned before he spotted her.

While Fred kept droning on about another fascinating problem he’d had at work, she found her thoughts drifting, dreaming, and a soft smile blossomed on her face at just the memory of how good Tom looked the last time he was in her shop. Those dark curls falling over his eyes, how she longed to ease them back, to trace the sharp angles of his jawline, to kiss him… His lips looked so soft.

She sneaked another glance his way when the waiter took their plates. Leisure looked good on him, even if he seemed an amateur at it. A workaholic, perhaps, like her… He wore a pale green shirt today. The colour tasted sweet in her mind, like pistachio gelato. It was generously parted at the neck where his sweat was cooling, and underneath the table she could tell his legs were crossed, clad in sinfully tight silver-grey trousers.

“And once we had the original manuscript, we realised it referred to the Capuchin Catacombs, not the Parisian ones! My dear, are you listening?”

“What? Yes, the catacombs, of course,” she said, hiding her warm smile behind a cup of coffee.

V

The shop was more quiet than usual when Tom stepped in that day. That was to say, it was quieter than when he’d broken in. There was a tense silence to the place, one that slithered up his spine and settled pleasantly at the back of his brain.

He hadn’t missed the Torchia displayed in the window, in the centre of a carefully constructed swirl, holding court over far lesser volumes. In fact, it was the reason he had come.

“Buongiorno.”

“H-hello!” she called from behind her desk, getting up quickly enough to knock over a stack of papers when she noticed him.

“Didn’t expect to see me again, did you?” he grinned, sliding a hand casually in his pocket.

“Not really, no,” she chuckled. “How can I help you?”

Her eyes flitted to the window before coming back to him. She was expecting him to ask for the Delomelanicon again. She probably had a whole little script ready once he did. As if Tom would fall for so obvious a trap…

“Well, I was wondering if you had a copy of The Lost Word, by Bernard Trevisan.”

“W-what?”

“Is it a bit too obscure? He’s a —”

“Fifteenth-century alchemist,” she said, her smile suddenly beaming with nothing of the apprehension from before. “The Lost Word is a famous alchemical treatise! Yes, I know it. Which edition?”

“Doesn’t matter. Any would do.”

“We have a solid copy. Not too old, but faithful to the original, and at a good price.”

She began leading him into the second room before she’d even finished speaking. What a charming girl… She’d hoped he hadn’t been the intruder, and Tom had just confirmed it. He had gained her trust.

He followed her quick and careful steps, a heady perfume trailing behind and the metronomic echo of her thin high heels.

“It’s quite deep inside,” she said.

“Is it indeed?”

His hand came slowly out of his pocket, holding his wand.

“Not much further now, through this door.”

Tom stopped, took aim, and cast it.

“Imperio.”

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” she asked as she kept walking.

“…Nothing?” Tom muttered to himself in wonder. He looked down at his wand as if it were impotent.

“What?” she said, half-turning.

He shoved the wand back between the folds of his jacket before she could see it.

“Ahem, nothing,” he smiled. “Please, continue.”

A chill ran down his skin and bile rose in his throat in anger. It was clear to Tom now that this building, or perhaps the very land it sat on, was protected by some counter-charm. His usual solutions of bending locks and minds would not suffice, but he could not call himself the Heir of Slytherin if he could not find a way. Tom eyed her figure, infuriating and sleek, and decided then and there that she would be his key.

[queenvhagar]

Alicent's New Bedroom: Book vs Show and Impact on Blood and Cheese

This is the Red Keep. It's made up of distinct towers and structures.

Maegor's Holdfast is the place of the royal residence, where the king's apartments are located. This is where the king and/or queen and their immediate household. It has unique characteristics:

"The royal apartments were in Maegor's Holdfast, a massive square fortress that nestled in the heart of the Red Keep behind walls twelve feet thick and a dry moat lined with iron spikes, a castle-with-a-castle. Ser Boros Blount guarded the far end of the bridge, white steel armor ghostly in the moonlight" (p. 502, Edward XIII, A Game of Thrones).

Well-designed and well-guarded, not even a rat catcher in the castle knows of a hidden way in or out of Maegor's Holdfast:

"The hidden doors and secret tunnels that Maegor the Cruel had built were as familiar to the rat catcher as to the rats he hunted. Using a forgotten pssageway, Cheese led Blood into the heart of the castle, unseen by guard. Some say their quarry was the king himself, but Aegon was accompanied by Kingsguard wherever he went and even Cheese knew of no way in and out of Maegor's Holdfast save the drawbridge that spanned the dry moat and it's formidable spikes" (p. 424, The Dying of the Dragons - A Son for a Son, Fire and Blood).

This is the most secure location within the Red Keep itself, which is why the royal family lives there. It is a large space with many rooms, including the Queen's Ballroom. In season one of House of the Dragon, Viserys lives in the king's apartments with his wives and there are many bedrooms where members of the royal household and their household staff live. After Alicent marries Viserys, she moves from the Tower of the Hand where she lived with her father to the king's apartment in Maegor's Holdfast and lives there until Viserys' death.

Separate from Maegor's Holdfast is the Tower of the Hand, where the Hand of the King and his family live. The tower contains many rooms, including the bedchamber of the Hand of the King, rooms for his household, and the Small Hall. There are guards in the Tower of the Hand, but there were those who were familiar with its hidden doorways and secret tunnels:

"Any man of normal size would have had to crawl on hands and knees, but Tyrion was short enough to walk upright [...] He came to the third door and fumbled about for a long time before his fingers brushed a small iron hook set between two stones. When he pulled down on it, there was a soft rumble that sounded loud as an avalanche in the stillness, and a square dull orange light opened a foot to his left. The hearth! He almost laughed [...] When he found himself in what had been once his bedchamber, he stood for a long moment" (p. 1070, Tyrion XI, A Storm of Swords).

After Aegon is crowned, he, Helaena, and their young children move into the king's apartments in Maegor's Holdfast, so the Dowager Queen, Alicent moves out. But where does she move to? In Fire and Blood, Alicent moves back into the Tower of the Hand, where she lived as a child with her father. It's because of this move to the Tower of the Hand specifically that Blood and Cheese have the opportunity to access Aegon's sons. Every night, Helaena and her kids would leave Maegor's Holdfast to go to the Tower of the Hand and visit Alicent before bed, which allowed Blood and Cheese to plan their ambush. Despite Helaena having a guard and the presence of guards throughout the Tower of the Hand and the Red Keep itself, Alicent's new bedchamber and its secret passageways have Blood and Cheese a chance to sneak in and make their move:

"The Tower of the Hand was less secure. The two men crept up through the walls, bypassing the spearman posted at the tower doors. Ser Otto's rooms were of no interest to them. Instead they slipped into his daughter's chambers, one floor below [...] Once inside, Cheese bound and gagged the Dowager Queen whilst Blood strangled her beadmaid. Then they settled down to wait, for they knew that it was the custom of Queen Helaena to bring her children to see their grandmother every evening before bed [...] Blood barred the door and slew the Queen's guardsman, while Cheese appeared to snatch up Maelor" p. 424, The Dying of the Dragons - A Son for a Son, Fire and Blood).

House of the Dragon, however, decided to make some major changes to the event of Blood and Cheese. In HOTD season 2, Queen Alicent doesn't move out of Maegor's Holdfast, and and instead, despite having choice of several different bedrooms, decides to move into the specific room where Rhaenyra lived up until episode 6 of season one.

The show previously added a tunnel from Rhaenyra's old room to the outside of the Red Keep in season one. However, instead of using that connection to have Blood and Cheese surprise Alicent in her room as they did in the book, they instead use a tunnel to sneak into the Red Keep. They then proceed to walk through large portions of the Red Keep, including the throne room, eventually walking right into Maegor's Holdfast, all the while unchecked by any servants or guards. They walk right into the king's apartments where the unguarded Helaena is with her sleeping children. Once Blood begins killing Jaehaerys, Helaena carries Jaehaera through empty hallways to Alicent's room where she walks in on Alicent and Criston.

Why the changes from the book? A few possibilities:

1) The show made the change because they write the characters of Alicent and Criston as intrinsically linked to Rhaenyra, so they wanted to make a point of showing them have sex in her old room, in order to make them both hypocritical, something that could only likely happen if Alicent lived there. Placing this scene at the end of the Blood and Cheese sequence adds an extra shock element for viewers. Removing Alicent's presence during Blood and Cheese and giving her a sex scene during the event instead viewers to focus on her "hypocrisy" as well as point the blame and outrage towards her and away from the true culprit. Additionally, the show doesn't have to include a scene where the Greens act like the family they are.

2) The show made the change of hallways being empty of servants and guards, as well as personal guards being absent from members of the royal family, to show viewers that the Greens have somehow become incompetent almost overnight when it comes to household security, despite having lived in the Red Keep for the last several years and effectively ruling the kingdoms in Viserys' stead. This diverts blame away from the Blacks and toward the Greens, as they should have been protecting themselves. Specifically, the blame is in on Criston Cole for not having guards posted (there's no real explanation for why he did not have them posted).

3) The show made the change because they wanted to film a one shot of Helaena and her baby walking through Maegor's Holdfast to call back to Rhaenyra's walk through the same hallways with her newborn in season 1 episode 6 because everything comes back to Rhaenyra in this show and they wanted viewers to connect the two events for whatever reason.

Among other changes to Blood and Cheese, it seems to me that the show ultimately changed these aspects of the event in order to minimize the event itself and shift the blame.

[anonymousewrites]

Burden of Truth (Book 1) Chapter Eleven

Father Figure! Marc Spector x Teen! Reader

Father Figure! Steven Grant x Teen! Reader

Mother Figure! Layla El-Faouly x Teen! Reader

Chapter Eleven: At the Sarcophagus

Summary: (Y/N) and Steven find the Sarcophagus of Ammit's Avatar, but Harrow finds it, too.

Mouse Note: Listen...I can't say I'm sorry, but, uh, yeah.

            (Y/N) and Steven continued on their way through the new tunnel. It was a bit caved in with bits of rock fallen in their way, but nothing impeded them severely. Finally, they rounded a corner, and another chamber opened up.

            “Oh my stars,” said Steven.

            “My god,” said (Y/N).

            They stared at the room, lit by a ray of sunshine reflected off pools and trickles of water. Stepping over rocks, they approached the burial chamber of the pharaoh. Statues and murals lined the walls, and the sarcophagus itself stood on a dais in the center of the room.

            Steven stared at the artifacts. “Thutmose III. Nefertiti. It’s gotta be one of the big ones.”

            “You nearly kissed her,” said Marc, and Steven stumbled.

            “Steven?” asked (Y/N).

            “Just Marc talking,” said Steven, trying to ignore him as they continued.

            (Y/N) frowned and looked at his reflection in the water. They wished they could still hear Marc. It was lonelier without him. They wished they could be with Layla, Steven, and Marc all together again.

            “I should try to drown you or punch you again,” said Marc. “But you also told her the truth about why I’ve been pushing her away. And that was unexpected. And you protected (Y/N).” So he wouldn’t try to hit Steven.

            “Are these Macedonian?” said (Y/N), unknowingly interrupting the conversation. They knelt by the relics and murals. “I can’t remember these symbols or translate them, but these are Macedonian, aren’t they?”

            Steven knelt next to them. “No way. That’s impossible. Only one pharaoh…But he called himself Egyptian.”

            (Y/N)’s eyes widened. “No way. No way. Is this really…?”

            “I think we’re looking at the long-lost tomb of Alexander the Great,” breathed Steven, giddy and reverent all at once.

            (Y/N) stared at it. “…Oh god. We have to open the sarcophagus.” It felt wrong to disturb the tomb, but this was Ammit’s tomb. Alexander the Great had been her Avatar. She needed to be stopped. Harrow needed to be stopped.

            “That just feels wrong,” groaned Steven. “Everything inside of me is screaming not to open this thing.”

            “You want Harrow to get to Ammit first?” said Marc.

            “Of course I don’t want him to get to Ammit,” said Steven.

            “Marc again?” said (Y/N).

            “Yeah,” said Steven. He looked at (Y/N). “Ready?”

            “As I’ll ever be,” said (Y/N).

            Steven nodded. Together, they put their hands on the lid of the sarcophagus and pushed. It was tough going, but they managed to shit the top end of the lid off enough so that they could see the mummy within. This was the Alexander the Great. In the flesh (literally, since he was a mummy).

            “Where’s the ushabti?” said Marc.

            “He’s not holding the ushabti,” said (Y/N) at the same moment, frowning.

            Steven nearly smiled at the coincidence and answered both at once. “If you’re gonna hide it for all eternity, you’d probably put it in a place where the average looter wouldn’t think to look.”

            (Y/N) coughed and pulled up their sleeves. “Um, I think I know where.”

            “Where?” said Steven and Marc at the same time, though (Y/N) could only hear one.

            “It’s the voice symbolism again,” said (Y/N), grimacing and gesturing to the wrapped head and throat of Alexander the Great.

            “Oh. Oh, gross,” said Steven.

            (Y/N) steeled themself, reached out, and pulled away the wrappings around Alexander the Great’s face. “I am so sorry,” they muttered to the mummy and the memory of their parents. They shouldn’t be disturbing a resting place like this. But it needed to be done.

            “Oh…” Steven grimaced as (Y/N) slipped their hand into Alexander the Great’s mouth and reached into his throat.

            Forcing themself not to retch, (Y/N) felt a wave of relief as they felt a stone sculpture. Grabbing it, they pulled it out. The sunlight illuminated the return of Ammit’s ushabti to the world.

            “We found it,” breathed Steven.

            “Good job, kid,” said Marc, unable to hold back the pride. He deflated as he remembered (Y/N) couldn’t hear him now.

            (Y/N) nodded and smiled at Steven in relief.

            Footsteps approached, and they tensed, whirling toward the passage. They relaxed as they saw it was Layla. She had made it.

            “Layla, look!” said Steven proudly, gesturing to the ushabti in (Y/N)’s hands. “We won!” He laughed.

            (Y/N) frowned. Layla’s eyes were narrowed, and her body was tense as she came closer. Something was off.

            “(Y/N) had to reach down Alexander the Great’s throat, but we found it,” said Steven. He frowned as he finally saw Layla’s furious gaze. “You alright, love?”

            “Can he hear me?” she snapped.

            “Alexander? No, I don’t think so. God, I hope not,” chuckled Steven, trying to keep the good energy going.

            Layla kept going. “What happened to my father?”

            (Y/N) frowned and flinched. They didn’t like the feeling that was appearing in the room. Everything had been going fine. And now, now, something was wrong. (Y/N) stepped back.

            Layla walked up to Steven. “I’m talking to you.”

            “What?” asked Steven.

            “I’m talking to you, Marc,” snapped Layla, trying to get him to come out and speak to her.

            Steven frowned, his eyes rolled up, and when Layla had him looking at her again, it was Marc staring out. He had gotten control of the body.

            “Come on, come on, let’s go,” said Marc, trying to take control of the situation and avoid the conversation. He took (Y/N)’s arm and Layla’s hand, but Layla pulled back.

            “No,” she said forcefully.

            “We need to go right now,” said Marc.

            “What’s going on?” said (Y/N), pulling the end of their sleeves.

            “Marc, no. No,” repeated Layla, refusing to go with him. “What happened to my father?!”

            “Listen to me. We need to leave right now,” said Marc. “I will explain everything, I swear. But we have to go.”

            “He’s telling the truth,” said (Y/N), trying to help but unsure of themself.

            “No, I want to know now,” said Layla. She glared at Marc. “Did you kill Abdullah El Faouly?!”

            (Y/N)’s eyes widened, and their gaze snapped to Marc. Their chest constricted as the terrible question was left in the air.

            “Of course not. Of course I didn’t!” said Marc.

            “He’s…He’s telling the truth,” said (Y/N). “He didn’t kill him, Layla.”

            “But he was there,” said Layla, seeing that Marc was evading the whole truth. “Weren’t you?”

            “Marc?” asked (Y/N), looking at him.

             “I—” Marc couldn’t answer. Lying was impossible, but the truth was painful. It would destroy everything he’d built with Layla and whatever had started to grow between (Y/N) and Marc.

            “Yeah, you were there,” said Layla. She could read him clearly.

            Marc swallowed. Softly, he admitted the terrible truth. “I was there. Yeah. I was there.”

            “Yeah. And how did he die?” snapped Layla.

            (Y/N) covered their mouth and stepped back. “The mercenaries and the archaeologists.” What Fitzgerald and Kennedy had said in the car.

            “Kid—” Marc reached out to them, but he let his hand drop. “I—My partner got greedy.” He spoke quietly, tiredly, as everything he’d never wanted to admit forced itself to the surface and destroyed what he’d built. “He executed everyone at the dig site. I tried to save your father, Layla, but I couldn’t. And I—”

            Layla glared at him. “No. But you brought a killer right to him. Right?” She shoved him back, and Marc just took it.

            He nodded helplessly, willing to take any abuse to make up for the terrible things he’d done. “Yeah. He shot me, too. I was supposed to die that night. But I didn’t die that night. And I should have.” Marc gazed at Layla with so much emotion as she wiped tears from her cheeks. “I’ve tried to tell you since the moment we met. But I just didn’t know how.”

            Layla sobbed. Then, she froze. “Oh my god.”

            “I’m sorry,” said Marc.

            Layla turned on him. “That’s the reason we met.”

            (Y/N)’s eyes widened, and they clutched the ushabti tightly.

            “You just had a guilty conscience?” said Layla incredulously, and the way Marc stared back at her was answer enough.

            “Layla—”

            The sound of a rolling stone broke through the moment, and they all turned towards the passageway. The rustle of footsteps grew louder.

            “They’re here,” said Marc in alarm.

            “There must be another way out,” said Layla, wanting to stay alive to keep being angry.

            “Okay, go, find it. Take (Y/N). I’ll hold them off,” said Marc, grabbing an ornamental axe from the sarcophagus.

            At the same time, (Y/N) took their moment to go with Layla to stuff the ushabti into the backpack to hide it from sight. The moment that Layla darted to grab (Y/N), though, Harrow and his numerous armed men stepped into the room. Layla had to hide behind a column, and as (Y/N) tried to scramble back, a guard that had snuck around the side grabbed them. (Y/N) yelped. Marc’s eyes widened, and he took a step towards (Y/N) but froze as the guard held (Y/N) tightly and raised his gun. They kicked at him, but the man was stronger, and (Y/N) was stuck staring fearfully at Marc.

            “Be gentle with them. They’re just misguided,” said Harrow to the guard.

            (Y/N) and Marc’s eyes went to Harrow as he stood in the tomb with them. The scarab that had guided him there fell into his hand, the magic having done its job.

            “Just you two, isn’t it?” said Harrow. “The rest is silence.” He strolled closer. “I remember the first morning I woke up knowing that Khonshu was gone. The quiet was liberating. You’re both free. And, of course, with that freedom comes choice. And right now, you both have a very important decision to make.”

            Harrow walked towards (Y/N), and Marc tensed. He smiled at them, and (Y/N) flinched. “I know it’s been hard.” (Y/N) fought to avoid his gaze. “Being used by the gods. Pushed so far. Being so alone. But you can be alright, now.” They shook their head furiously. “You have nothing to worry about. You can let go of all the pain you feel. All the blame you feel.” He smiled kindly. “I know you think your parents’ death is your fault.” (Y/N)’s eyes widened, and they let out a sound akin to a whimper, a desperate plea for him to stop. “You asked for them to show you Egypt. You begged them to take you to the place they’d met, fallen in love, worked and learned. And then they died.” Harrow reached out and put a hand on (Y/N)’s head, and they winced back. “That’s alright.” He removed his hand and took theirs into his.

            Marc and Layla’s eyes widened as the cane began to swing back and forth. (Y/N)’s soul was being judged.

            “Stop it,” shouted Marc, taking a step forward, but the guns raised and pointed at him.

            (Y/N) was tempted to shut their eyes as the scales tattoo weighed back and forth. Unable to avert their eyes, though, (Y/N) watched as it settled. Their eyes widened. The scales were green. Their soul had been deemed worthy.

            Harrow smiled. “I knew I had a good feeling about you.” He took back his cane and gazed at (Y/N). They reluctantly looked up at him. “Now the choice lies before you. You have been deemed worthy. Ammit wants you on her side. You can help relieve the pain of so many. You can have a purpose.”

            (Y/N) stared at him, that word pulling at them, twisted around their heart and lungs. Their eyes flicked to Marc, staring at them with such worry that they felt their heart stir despite the pressure on it. (Y/N) looked back at Harrow evenly.

            “I will never join you or Ammit,” said (Y/N), the words as honest as could be.

            Harrow sighed. “I’m disappointed. Nonetheless, I’m afraid I can’t let you and live freely just yet.” He smiled. “We need the ritual to release Ammit.”

            (Y/N) froze, and their eyes widened. Long ago, Ma’at had taught them different rituals, bits of ancient magic that might one day be needed. One was to release the gods from ushabtis. (Y/N) hadn’t understood the significance then, nor had they questioned why Ma’at wanted them to learn it, but now that Ma’at was imprisoned, (Y/N) understood. Ma’at had known her actions in the mortal world could get her imprisoned. She had made sure the Avatar she had basically raised would be able to come and free her.

            Unfortunately, now, that meant (Y/N) could also free Ammit.

            “Leave them alone,” said Marc forcefully.

            Harrow turned to him with a smile. “After I bring Ammit to this world and allow her to create a better one, (Y/N) can live a life free of danger and worry. I just need them for a little while longer.” Harrow gestured to them. “And you could be a part of that world, too. You just need to do the right thing.”

            Marc looked at (Y/N) and then at all the armed men. He knew how to answer. He grabbed the gun of one man and dragged him closer. The man stumbled, and Marc slammed the axe onto his arm before he could shoot. He slashed at the next closest man, and then he threw the axe at Harrow.

            One of his guards stepped it front and took the blow, loyal until death. The man fell, and Harrow pulled something from the man’s belt as the guard fell. Harrow looked evenly at Marc, raised the pistol, and shot.

            Bang!

            (Y/N) screamed as Marc stumbled back, blood pooling on his white shirt.

            “Marc!” they cried, trying to pull away from the guard. “No! Marc, Steven!” They screamed for both desperately, tears burning at their eyes.

            Harrow stepped up and raised the pistol again.

            “Please, please, please, no!” shouted (Y/N).

            Bang!

            Behind the column, Layla covered her mouth as tears spilled down her cheeks. (Y/N) let out another agonized scream. The second wound bled instantly, and Marc fell back. He collapsed off the dais of the sarcophagus and landed in the pool of water.

            “I can’t save anyone who won’t save themselves,” said Harrow, daring enough to be saddened.

            (Y/N) let out a sob as Marc’s body lay in the water, unmoving. He was gone. Steven was gone. The tiny bit of good and warmth and connection (Y/N) had gathered in their life had been ripped away once again.

            (Y/N) was alone.

Taglist:

@jaytheaceenby

@severussimp

@dmitrytherat

@slytherinroyalty16

@grippleback-galaxy

@alexpangender

@thewittyfanficreader

@aew-kun-age-regression

@oscarissac2099

@amberforest08

@kyalov

@yyourmotherr

@im-making-an-effort

@the-toskaverse

@wra-1-th

[consosteelbelt]

consol steel belt Cookie Line with Rotary Moulder and Depositor Unit

[meowjaa]

✧ underground ✧

warning: swearing, alcohol, knife mention, fighting, blood, the undergound, levi ackerman x fem!reader <33 if theres any other mentions I forgot please do not be afraid to let me know :))

context: fem!reader and levi are in the underground in their 20's and as y/n scraped up some coins for a decent amount of food she bumped into the levi..

a/n: enjoy this but uh as you can tell I love enemies to lovers but enjoy my loves <333

Levi watched her go, fingers brushing his lips. "Likewise," he muttered to the empty air. But they both knew it was a lie. What had started as enmity had evolved into an undeniable, complicated desire that could no longer be ignored…

Y/N's breath caught as Levi's fingers grazed slowly up the nape of her neck, his touch both feather-light and searing. She tilted her head instinctively, pulse quickening when his lips replaced his fingers, trailing languid kisses along the sensitive skin. A soft sigh escaped her parted lips when his teeth grazed her earlobe, his warm breath making her shiver.

"We shouldn't…" she protested weakly, the words fading into a gasp as Levi's hands slid unhurriedly down her sides, thumbs glancing teasingly along the curves of her waist.

"Give me one good reason why not," he challenged, nuzzling against her neck, voice a low rumble that reverberated through her. His steady hands anchored her hips against his, the contact igniting sparks beneath her skin.

She grasped for coherent thoughts, but they scattered like leaves in a storm when his intense gaze captured hers. Up close, the cool gray of his eyes gave way to flickers of blue, dark and fathomless, drawing her into their depths.

"This will only end badly," she managed to whisper even as her fingers moved of their own volition, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, fascinated by the contrast of soft skin over steel.

Levi said nothing, but dipped his head to brush his lips temptingly over hers. The kiss was slow, deliberate, coaxing a response rather than demanding. Y/N's lips parted helplessly, inviting him in. She felt his mouth curve into a subtle smile against hers, knowing he had won this round.

But as their kiss deepened unhurriedly, no victor emerged. They were both equally intoxicated, lost in this temporary oasis where only the two of them existed. Reality could wait a little longer…

Y/N took a steadying breath as she followed Levi through the winding tunnels of the Underground. He had unexpectedly asked her to meet two of his closest companions tonight. The significance of this invitation after keeping their affair secret for so long was not lost on her.

As they neared a doorway emitting a warm glow, Levi stopped and turned to her. "Let me do the talking first," he muttered. "They can be…overwhelming."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "I think I can handle meeting your friends, Levi."

He looked unconvinced but simply motioned her inside. Immediately, a feminine voice squealed in delight.

"Big bro, you're back! And you must be Y/N!" A bubbly redhead enveloped Y/N in an enthusiastic hug. "I'm Isabel! Wow you're even prettier than Levi said!"

Y/N shot a surprised glance at Levi as he pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Fascinating. Well, it's nice to meet you, Isabel," Y/N said politely.

A tall, blond man approached next with a friendly smile. "Name's Furlan. Levi told us you've been helping out kids down here?"

"I…try my best for them," Y/N answered, astonished that Levi had portrayed her charity work positively. She noticed his gaze lingering on her out the corner of her eye.

"It's so great to finally meet Levi's girl!" Isabel chattered excitedly, making them both tense up. "He's been so secretive about you, we were starting to think you didn't exist!"

"Alright that's enough," Levi cut in sharply. "I just wanted you all acquainted, that's all."

But when Isabel insisted Y/N stay for tea and Furlan asked her thoughtful questions, Levi's rigid posture slowly relaxed. And the lingering looks exchanged between him and Y/N spoke volumes more than words. This was the first cautious step toward something real growing between them in the light, not just the shadows…

Over tea, Y/N found herself charmed by Isabel's vivacious spirit and Furlan's quiet thoughtfulness. They welcomed her warmly, and she could see why Levi trusted these two deeply.

As the night went on, Levi's hand inched closer to Y/N's under the table until their pinkies discreetly linked. The simple touch ignited Y/N from the inside out. She had never seen Levi so unguarded before, interacting with easy familiarity and even rare smiles with his friends.

When at last they bid goodnight, Isabel hugged Y/N fiercely, insisting she visit again soon. Furlan nodded in agreement, giving Y/N a meaningful look of approval she knew was significant coming from Levi's protective second-in-command.

As they walked back alone, Levi spoke first, voice tinged with vulnerability. "Well? What did you think?"

Y/N squeezed his hand, smiling up at him tenderly. "I think you're even more special than I realized, to have earned such loyalty and devotion from them."

Levi glanced away, unaccustomed to sincerity. "They're good people. Annoying as hell, but good people."

"They love you," Y/N said simply. Levi's eyes snapped to hers at the word.

"And you?" he dared to ask, raw tension in the space between them.

Y/N's heart pounded at the crossroads before them. Taking his face in both hands, she whispered "I'm starting to" before kissing him with aching sweetness.

As they clung together in the shadows, the boundaries between once-sworn enemies fully melted away, the dawn of something beautiful emerging from the ashes at last.

[silver-tooth-the-panther]

Mysteries be unwinding with this one!

Exp Logs

(A DOAI Fanfic!)

Warnings: Angst, slight blood, body horror

Word Count: 2407

Darkness surrounded Clyde as they groaned. The large Veldigun’s vision was incredibly groggy and their limbs felt weak. When they looked up, they saw their sibling, Spec, terrified and backing away from them. “Sp-Spec?” Clyde spoke weakly, trudging closer to them. “What are you doing here?”

“Stay away from me!” They shrieked, backing away even further. Clyde tilted their head. “Spec?” The smaller Veldigun yelped while Clyde looked behind them. Nothing was there. “Stay away from me, you monster!” Then, everything clicked.

“Spec. I did what I had to do! I need to protect you!” Clyde cried out, trying to reach for them. Spec curled up into a ball and backed up. “You killed children!” Clyde was trying to think of a response, but saw something behind their sibling.

“Spec! Look out!” Clyde yelled as they tried to rush over to the smaller Veldigun. Before either of them could do anything, a caretaker stabbed Spec through the back, causing the blade to go right through their chest. “SPECTOR!” Clyde screamed as they fell right in front of their bleeding, dying sibling.

But it wasn’t real. Clyde woke up in a pool of their own tears. They were shaking. They were shaking like a leaf even though they were a large and deadly creature. Clyde looked around the cave they decided to take shelter in and sighed. They winced to themselves before curling up, trying to fall back into their slumber.

This Monday was one of the most dreadful days of Alex’s life. They knew that this was incredibly important and had to be done, but they couldn’t help but dread every moment of it. So, they thought it would be best to attempt the theft near the end of their shift. Hours ticked by ever so slowly as the day went on, only causing the lump in Alex’s stomach to grow even heavier.

Eventually, they were in the last hour of their shift, six o clock. Alex sighed heavily as they tended to a sickly patient. “Am I going to die here?” The patient said in a hushed voice. Alex dishonestly shook their head. “No. You’re not going to die here. Just try to get some sleep, okay?” The patient nodded slowly before turning over in their bed.

Alex looked outside of the patient’s room, knowing their next destination. They felt their feet drag on the ground as they walked out and shut the door behind them. Red, flickering lights lined the long hallway, making them shiver. Alex took a deep breath. “Alright, Alex. This is your one shot. Don’t screw it up.”

Their legs felt like steel as they trudged through the hallway. Breathing became more and more difficult with every step. Alex headed down to door 66, seeing the familiar, yet terrifying doors. They quickly swirled their head and turned to their left. There, they only saw a dead end. Or so it seemed…

With closer inspection, Alex found a strange, yet small curve in the floor tile. They bent down and ran their hand over it before sticking their fingers beneath the curve. A slight pull was all it took to lift up the trap door. Now, Alex was peering into a dark tunnel with a ladder nailed to the wall. “Found it.” Alex said to themselves with a gulp of fear.

Swallowing their courage, Alex one foot on the ladder, then the other. Darkness swallowed them as they climbed further down into the underbelly of the asylum. After what seemed like hours, their left foot felt the flat surface of concrete. Taking off their goggles, Alex blinked so their eyes could adjust to the light.

Faint, flickering, white lights lined the roof of the hallway, creating an eerie feeling. However, the strangest part of the hallway was the seemingly endless amount of cages surrounded by stone that lined both sides of the tunnel. “What the hell?” Alex whispered to themselves as they walked through the hallway.

They tried to make as little noise as they could. Therefore, they were able to hear nearly every sound in the cellar. Groans and growls came from the cages as they walked passed. Alex tried not to pay attention to them, worried that whatever was in there would cause a ruckus if they did so. Then, they reached the lab.

Large, quietly buzzing monitors filled the back of the room, showing where every camera was in the entire asylum. A desk covered in messy papers was placed beneath the monitors and a surgical table covered in dried blood rested in the middle of the room. Various surgical tool sat on a stand to the right of the table. The stench was easily the worst part of the room. Death, blood, and various other depraved smells swirled around the room.

Alex gagged as they put a hand over their mouth. Their eyes began to sting slightly and they began stumbling towards the desk. “The chest…Where is that chest?” They opened their eyes slightly, trying to scan over the work. A tiny navy blue chest with red embroidery was tucked right under a monitor.

Alex quickly grabbed it and fumbled it open. Many small items were scattered inside of it. Rummaging through the chest, they felt around for anything that could resemble a USB drive. Then, their fingers grazed something that was thin and metallic.

They quickly pulled out the tiny object and examined it. It was a tiny USB drive and the steel colored base had writing written in Sharpie. It said, “Exp Logs”. They had found it. “Yes!” Alex quietly hissed and stuffed the USB in their pocket, but their joy was quickly short-lived.

The soft sound of thudding and claws scraping against metal alerted Alex. They looked around them, trying to find a place to hide. Having little time to look, Alex decided to hide under the desk. They bent down and crawled through the side, since the front was almost completely covered with a metallic plate.

Alex peeked underneath the plate only to see two caretakers walking through the hallway. They were as silent as always as they approached Alex’s hiding spot. Alex put a hand over their mouth so their breathing couldn’t be heard, but they couldn’t do anything about how fast their heart was racing. Then, the caretakers did something completely unexpected.

They started clicking and growling at each other. This behavior incredibly confused Alex. It was only then that they realized that the caretakers weren’t necessarily human. The caretakers clicked as they looked through some of the papers on the desk. Both of them took a few before turning around and walking away.

Every second felt dreadful to Alex as they waited to make sure that the caretakers were gone. Eventually, the cellar door clicked shut and Alex slipped out. They waited a few more seconds before booking it to the ladder. They couldn’t be happier to get out of that hell hole. Although, they could’ve sworn that they heard someone say their name.

Alex quickly shut the trap door and ran to clock out before heading to their car. Once they finally sat down in the driver’s seat, they pulled out the USB. “I did it…I fucking did it…” They gasped as they leaned their head against the seat. It took a few seconds to catch their breath before driving off.

“Hewwo?” Spec squeaked as Alex entered their house. “Hewwo?” This was just what they needed to cheer up, so they chuckled happily. “You’re always so silly.” Alex smiled at their Veldigun friend, which made them grin back. Then, their expression turned more somber. “Lankmann wants to talk to you again.”

Alex knew exactly why they were worried. “Spec, they weren’t the reason why I cried yesterday.” The Veldigun tilted their head. “Are you sure?” Alex nodded reassuringly. “I’m sure.” Spec flickered their tail wearily. “Okay…Just let me know if you need a hug or anything, alright?” Alex smiled warmly at them. “I will.”

Alex quickly booted up the monitor and was quickly met with The Hijacker. “Ah! Alex, nice to see you again!” It started to speak. “So, do you have it?” Alex nodded and showed it the USB. “Excellent! Now plug it in, would ya?” Without hesitation, Alex did as they were told.

Sparks danced on The Hijacker once again, absorbing the information. “This is…disturbing.” It said in a soft voice. “Can I ask you something before we start?” Alex nodded. “Anything.” The Hijacker sighed. “What was your friend’s name?” Alex raised an eyebrow, but quickly answered. “Mortimer Grey. He was an animator who made the tapes for the foundation. I used to work with them since I voiced Toon Lankmann.”

The Hijacker nodded as it started to look through the files. “Seems like they were highly respected in the foundation.” Alex nodded, confirming their statement. “They were…” A few seconds passed as The Hijacker was looking through the files. “I-I can’t believe this…He…He.” It murmured, scrolling through various files. “What did he do?” Alex gritted their teeth as the hairs on the back of their neck raised.

“He…He‘a been using your patients…as experiments.” The Hijacker then pulled up an image of a patient being forcibly strapped down onto the surgical table. Caretakers surrounded them, armed with syringes and scalpels. The poor patient was covered in cuts…and they’re limbs appeared to be discolored. Yellow and black stripes faintly covered their right arm and left leg. Despite this, Alex recognized the patient.

“That’s Simon!” They jumped out of the chair with gritted teeth. “I took care of them for a week before…before the caretakers took them.” Alex sat back down in the chair. “What have they done to them?”

The Hijacker shook their head. “It’s sickening, isn’t it?” It shuddered before scrolling through more photos. Alex saw each of them as they passed. A goopy, purple bird-like Veldigun was being tased by a caretaker. An experiment that looked like Mortimer’s Candy Mouse was sitting in the corner of their cell, sobbing. A green rabbit that looked like it had a box for a chest was biting one of the caretaker’s hands. Then, The Hijacker stopped. “Oh my…”

“What?” Alex raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?” The Hijacker turned to face them. “Your friend…they’re still alive.” Alex’s eyes widened as they gripped the edge of the chair. “How?! I saw the blood.” The Hijacker sighed before showing an image that made Alex feel ill.

A black and white striped hand covered most of the camera, but Alex could vaguely see a body behind it. The body wore black and white overalls and also had striped limbs like the rest of the experiments. Their face almost looked like a 1930’s cartoon character, but it was heavily distorted. The left eye was droopy and yellow. Their mouth looked to be incredibly outstretched. Judging by the jet black hair, Alex knew who they were.

“Mortimer!” Alex winced and buried their face in their hands. Don’t get them wrong, they were grateful that they were alive, but the constant pain wouldn’t be worth it. “Oh god…” The Hijacker shook in both disgust and rage. “This is beyond cruel. I can’t imagine the pain they must be feeling. Not to mention, being force fed the other patients souls.” It then continued to look through some text files. The Hijacker looked more and more disgusted with each note it read, but it stopped when it saw the schedule.

“Alex, I’m afraid that we need to hurry.” It spoke, concerned. Alex raised their head from their hands, trying to see why. The Hijacker pulled up the lab schedule. It was filled with injections, soul feedings, and surgeries, but one caught their eye. It said “New Subject For Biological Replacement: Alex Williams.” It was scheduled for next Monday.

Alex’s jaw dropped when they saw the listing. “I thought they were just going to kill me.” They said with a hitched breath. “This is…much worse.” The Hijacker nodded. “Then, it’s good that this is the last information we need. We now know what my brother’s goal is and we need to plan accordingly. I have your next objective.”

Alex leaned in closer. “What is it?” The Hijacker opened a photo of The Smiling Snatcher. “I’m guessing you’ve met them already?” Alex nodded begrudgingly. “Clyde…” The Hijacker raised an eyebrow. “Woah…Why the animosity?” Alex crossed their arms. “They are an asshole to Spec.” The Hijacker quickly responded with a quiet “Oh.”

“Look. I know it may not seem like it, but they really do have good intentions. I mean, why do you think I’m stuck in this monitor instead of being out there?” Alex tilted their head and The Hijacker seemed to sense their confusion. “A long time ago, I promised them that I would help to look after Spec. Spec doesn’t know this though. They just think that I just came along randomly to hijack their stories.”

Alex nodded, now understanding the situation better. “What do I need to do with Clyde?” The Hijacker waved their claws. “You need to find them and try to persuade them to create a plan for the raid.” Alex sighed, leaning their head against their arm. “Understood.”

“Keep your hopes up, Alex.” The Hijacker. “I know that this will be difficult, but it will be worth it. Just put this USB back as soon as you go to work tomorrow. See you soon.” The monitor turned off with a click and Alex was all alone. They leaned back in the chair and sighed. “This is so much worse than I thought.” They whispered.

“Alex?” Spec spoke softly as they peeked their head around the corner. Alex spun around to greet them. “Oh hey, Spec. We’re done talking, so do you want to do something?” Spec just tilted their head. “I’m just wondering if you are okay. I know that sometimes Lankmann can be a bit…much.” Alex just smiled warmly at them. “I’m alright. I am kinda tired though. Wanna watch a movie with me?”

Spec quickly nodded before the duo sat down on the couch. The Veldigun curled up beside Alex as they picked out ‘Aliens’ to watch. As the movie played, Alex couldn’t help but feel immense guilt for lying to Spec. They knew it was for their own protection, but it still felt wrong to lie to someone they were so close to, Still, they swallowed their emotions and continued to watch the movie.

[milestacy]

wanted a lil domestic fluff with hobie brown and I decided to add a small twist to the end.

contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, domestic fluff, hobie making you breakfast, small plot twist, reader’s gender not specified.

wc. 877. requests. masterlist.

It should have been ironic. It was ironic, getting a brown apartment with Hobie Brown.

Nevermind, the word was completely wrong, ironic meant something similar to ‘opposite’ and getting a brown apartment with Hobie Brown was congruent to his last name. But you were never the expert with words, no. Hobie was. Especially when it came to his music. But you didn’t have to worry so much about words. It wasn’t important in your line of work.

You asked do you like it? When you first bought it even though it wasn’t actually his and you didn’t actually live with Hobie Brown.

I like it, he said. His eyes have already been hanging up posters on the light brown walls as they moved around the room, painting them in his gaze completely. Well, not completely. There had to be some place you could hide yourself.

You didn’t actually live with Hobie Brown but you had to ask because he comes and crashes all the time. Not that it was a bad thing—yes, your flesh was pressed so deeply into your rib cage when he would jump into bed on top of you, not with you, his weight completely compressing you into a third of whatever space you normally took up. You always let him because you had to, else he could find out.

Make it simple, he would say, when he would try to make you pancakes for breakfast every morning but it always tasted so off you never finished everything. Neither did he. Sometimes, it wasn’t because it tasted bad.

But you disagree. It’s never simple. Good things in life never come so simply to you.

I know, he replied. And he smiled. Shirtless and still gutting his pancakes with a fork, he chortled. But aren’t I a good thing?

Of course you are, you rebutted. Your pancakes still laid half finished on the white ceramic plate. A colorful yet very blackened poster of The Beatles hung over your very slim dining table.

The news buzzed softly in the background but you heard it like the bustling cries of London; a museum is under attack.

Your fingers gripped the chipped wood. Your hands and arms were steel screwed to your chair but the rest of your body was electrified.

And us, he began, getting out of his seat so abruptly the entire table shook.

We are simple, right?

Your mouth hung open, lips quivering at the empty ice holding your jaw apart.

Hobie, I have to go.

And then you correct yourself, because in this line of work, you always have to. There’s always a tunnel you have to go through, one dark and grimy, because if you swing up and leave in the light of day the world will collapse. Specifically your world.

Go ummm … change.

You rushed into your room, table clattering at your movement.

Into your spiderman suit?

Your hands slipped from the door, a screeching halt, not just to your legs but to the blood coursing through you, ice cold, the hairs on your arm now stretching for any sign of warmth.

Your eyes flickered. They’re glassy because your eyelids close over them and feel a fragile but rigid surface. You see the ghost of all the furniture in your room, and they’re dancing.

You turn.

He’s standing there as if the ground didn’t shake. As if the walls didn’t collapse. He’s so skinny, you imagined a pile of bones might lay where he once stood after he’d dropped that shattering weight.

Make it simple, he repeated again.

It’s okay.

But your knees were still bent, because you fear that if you stand completely straight you’ll find you can’t handle your own weight. Your hands moistened every surface it swept. He stood there looking.

Hobie, it’s not simple. Something cold hits your cheek.

I know, he said. He took a step forward, and you couldn’t take a step back. He’s holding his hands up like he’s the one being held at gunpoint.

I know.

Another step forward. His hands go a little higher, and he’s showing you his palms.

That’s why you gotta make it simple.

And now his hand was cupping yours, and his hand is slipping into your moist palms and now his fingers are curled around your hand.

You forgot just how long his arms were, how lanky and tall he’d been.

You’re stressed.

He gave your hand a little squeeze.

You care about these people.

The reporter’s boxy voice rings over the shock. But the shock muzzles it right back into the carpeted floors.

That’s all it is.

He drew closer. He casted his shadow on you, and it was dark for a moment and you finally felt warmth encase you when his shadow rose over you like a blanket.

His lips met your cheek, colder than you thought it would be, and he almost took a piece of you with him when he was finished.

There’s nothing else to it.

His grip loosened on your hand.

He looked past you and cocked his head a little to the left of you.

The window sat with the wind in its hair, sitting open and pretty with faint colors of buildings shining through it.

Of course it’s simple.

[spaghettificationandpretzels]

We Should Just Kiss Like Real People Do

Yes, Hozier is my go-to artist when I write, the man knows love. As always, I love comments, I'm so f---sing bust right now, and they make me super happy despite the stress. I'm thinking there'll be another two or three chapters plus some in universe one-shots.

Part 1, part 2, part 3 part 4

Part five of The Way the Stars Love the Heavens series.

Contains: Violence, gore, death, Graves being a creep, non-sexual bathing, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort.

Follow #the way the stars love the heavens for updates

3.5K words

In the low lamp light I was free, heaven and hell were words to me - Hozier.

He knocked on the door like it was any other day and put as much Southern gentleman into his tone as he could. "Hello, little mouse, it looks like I've finally found your hiding spot." 

Moving the steal table hurt with your injured arm, but even through the throbbing, you were grateful you could hide behind it. All Graves had to do was open the door, and he'd get a face full of shrapnel, and you'd be safe behind half an inch of steel. 

He knocked again, and you could hear the fake smile as he spoke. "Just open the door darlin', I'm not going to hurt you." 

You believed that, he needed you alive and well to get out, but there was no way you would let him get his hands on you without a fight. "Fuck off. Fuck off, you traitorous piece of shit." 

He sighed, big and dramatic, like your refusal hurt him. "Come on now, don't be like that." Something nasty crept into his voice, and it made your skin crawl. "Open the door now, and maybe I'll let you live once we walk out of here."

Your reply was the same. "Fuck you."

His fist slamming into the door made you jump, and it felt like there was a clawed hand digging into your back as the last of your adrenal supplies were dumped into your blood.

"I'm gonna make you regret that."

****

Ghost used the darkness like a shield as he stalked through the base. Graves' men didn't die easy, but between the rest of the squad at the gates and air support, they were dying fast. His hands were sticky with blood, having favoured his knife over his gun so he could stay silent. 

He crouched by a humvee and waited for a Shadow on his way to the gate to walk by, and the second he was in cutting distance, Ghost lunged out, took him in a chokehold, then slit his throat. It was a precise movement, he drove the blade into his flesh and then pulled it across, a spray of blood going outwards while the rest poured into his dissected trachea. 

He moved on without a thought, taking cover and waiting for another round of tank fire before taking out the two guards at the dorm's entrance. There were almost no Shadows around now, he'd be able to drop those with his gun. It happened fast, one after the other, his amour piercing round making quick work of their vests and the flesh beneath. 

His radio crackled, and Soap's voice filled his ears. "Alright, brother, I'm in the service tunnels. You better let your girl know so I don't get my ass blown off when I come to give you back up." 

Ghost chuckled and keyed his radio to your signal, hoping with every bit of him that you'd pick up. "Johnny's on his way in love, you hold tight." He knew someone would get to you, Soap would give his life just like he would have, but he was hoping he'd be the one to kill Graves. He rushed to the door and then waited for your reply, knowing that more Shadows would be waiting in the hallway for him when he burst in. 

"Tell me to use the north door, it's the only without something nasty across it." There was a pause as he heard a shout. "Fuck you pig, you can ram into it all you like, it won't fucking open." 

He swallowed his fear as the sound of someone bashing the closet door came over the line but he had bigger things to worry about. "You've got a good head on your shoulders. I'll let him know." 

He did just that, Soap giving a hearty laugh as his gun went off, then Ghost changed his magazine and breached the door. With Soap watching his six, he'd be by your side in no time. 

****

Price smiled as the last tank went down and the choppers landed, now it was just a matter of picking off the rest of the Shadows as they cleared the base. He waved Gaz down, his face coated in blood and his chest heaving as he stood beside his captain. "Can you reach y/n?" Gaz nodded. "Good, let her know that the base is back under control."

Gaz smiled. "With pleasure Cap."

****

Despite the indescribably horrible feeling growing in your chest, knowing that the end was finally close gave you the motivation you needed to give Graves that last push. "I don't know if you heard that, but you're done, the 141 are back through the gates and all your tanks are dead."

"Yeah, well this is your last chance to open the door or you will be too." He sounded so angry that it made your bones shake but the false charm was back as you heard him start to rattle the handle, he must have gotten it through his head that he couldn't break it down. "You know y/n, I've seen your personal file, you're a very pretty woman."

The threat was clear but you knew you had him when you heard the bullet zing off the lock. "Haven't you worked it out yet? I'm sitting in a pharmacy, that door won't move unless you have the key."

He chuckled and removed something from his vest before sticking it in the keyhole. "Well darlin, I might not have the key but I've got something just as good." He grinned wide as the lock pick gun did its work and the click filled his ears but his smile vanished fast when he looked down.

"FUCK."

You pressed your hands to your ears as the grenade went off. The whole room shaking as dents appeared in the table. It felt like hours, but Graves' voice was back, and if you thought he was pissed before, you were sorely mistaken. "You fucking bitch. I'm going to fucking kill you slow for that."

You didn't have the chance to run, Graves was in the room, making his way to your hiding place with murder in his eyes. Half his face was covered in blood, he must have had time to duck behind the door frame before the explosion went off.

He ripped the table away from you and grabbed a fist full of hair in one hand and your injured arm in the other, his glove pressing the ripped shirt into the wound so hard you sore you could feel the texture of the fabric. The pain made your vision darken as he dragged you out of the room and into the hallway, yelling threats and obscenities all the while.

You tried to twist out of his grip, but all you succeeded in was getting a swift kick to the ribs, and then you saw it, a large flash of black coming up the hallway. Graves must have felt you relax before he followed your eyeline, then went stiff.

It was Ghost, marching his way toward you with his gun raised. "Oh shi.."

Graves didn't have time to drop you and lift his gun, and you had lost the ability to flinch as two shots rang out, and Graves' body dropped down next to you. Your ears were still ringing as you watched blood pour from the fist-sized wound on his head, and despite the pain radiating down your arm, you used both hands to push yourself away from the spreading gore.

You didn't get far because Ghost was already at your side, bending down and wrapping one of his massive arms around your body to lift you to your feet and away from the mess. He pressed his finger to his headset as he went. "Graves is KIA. Y/n is safe."

It didn't feel like it was real until you got another look at the body and then it all hit you. You were covered head to toe in blood, you were pretty sure there was brain matter in your hair, and then you suddenly couldn't breathe.

You barely registered the two hands on your face as Ghost shielded you from the scene. "Love, love, look at me."

It was like you couldn't hear him, but his eyes still came into view. "This blood isn't mine." You weren't too sure of that, every muscle in your body started aching all at once.

He removed one hand from your face and ripped off his radio and then his balaclava, and you came face to face with him, his expression filled with worry. He was there, but the edges of your vision were greying as your lungs refused to work and your legs began to tingle. "I need to sit down."

You instinctively reached behind you to grab a wall that wasn't there, and Simon supported your weight as your legs gave out. The voice that came into your ears was much firmer this time. "Y/n, you're going to shock and if you don't listen to me you're going to pass out and I don't want that." He took your hand in his and placed it on his chest before taking a deep breath. "Like this love, you're going great."

It was hard, the more you breathed, the more the smell of blood and torn flesh washed over you. You managed to swallow down the bile and stand up on shaky legs, holding onto Simon all the way up, your hands still shaking so hard that you couldn't even move them. "I need a shower."

He chuckled and waved towards your bleeding arm. "You gotta see the doc first."

You wanted to protest but the look on his face told you not to, and before you could agree, Soap came around the corner. "Nice to see you in once piece y/n. Nice work on Peters by the way." His only acknowledgement that Simon was without his skull mask was a nod and a smile before he shook his head. "Laswell was able to recover the whole two hours of camera footage, you won't need to give a statement until the morning."

You blinked and reached up to touch your face before Simon stopped you with a gentle hand on your wrist, his thumb trying and failing to soothe the shaking away. "It's only been two hours?"

Simon gave you a soft smile. "Two hours can feel like a long time when you feel like you're going to die."

He placed a warm hand on your back and smiled to his friend. "I'm gonna head to the med bay, you right to debrief everyone?"

Soap nodded. "Hell yeah Lt."

****

"You are very very lucky that I can put this together with glue, stitching it would have been a bitch." You did your best not to flinch as the medic cleaned the wound. And the expression on Simon's face told you that it was as nasty looking as you thought it was.

Simon took your hand and ran his thumb over your fingers, sensing your frustration at their continued shaking. To make matters worse, your legs had started twitching the moment you climbed onto the bed, and he took his other hand and placed it on your knee. "It's just the adrenal love, it will stop soon enough."

You blinked back tears, if someone had paid you, you wouldn't be able to describe your current emotional state. "I really just want to have a shower."

The doc cleared your throat and pointed over to the medicine cabinet. "I'll cover this in a waterproof bandage and then give you some of our good painkillers so you can sleep. I'd ask you to come back here to spend the night before you take them but I don't think I need to worry about you not having someone watching over you."

Simon smiled softly. "Her room's next to mine, you got nothing to worry about."

****

Simon had been kind enough to walk you to the showers, his face still awash with concern as you got everything out of your locker so you could finally get clean but it was clear when you lifted your still shaking hands to your buttons that you'd need help. You went to apologise but he shook his head and placed his hands over yours. "It's nothing love, you don't need to be sorry." He paused and let out a chuckle. "Did I tell you about the time that Soap strained his back and I had to do this for him?"

You shook your head and he smiled. "You're going to have to wash my hair too."

He looked over the strands, and a slight sadness filled his face. "I'm not going to lie to you, love, this is not how I pictured getting to do that."

That painful quiet was back and the realisation that you were about to be naked in front of him hit you like a train. Simon, always the observant one, seemed to pick up on your hesitation because he took your chin between his fingers and met your eye. "You tell me if you're not comfortable with anything, yeah?"

You nodded. "Of course."

As he removed your clothes, his eyes never drifted, no matter how much skin was revealed. He followed his hands as each article fell to the floor rather than your bare body and before you knew it, he was pushing you into the shower.

He was stripped down to his shirt and pants, free of his vest and weapons, without a care in the world that was fully clothed and soaking wet. He washed your body with immense care and a gentleness you didn't think a man his size was capable of. When it came time for your hair, he waved to the pile of products in the corner and smiled sheepishly. You're gonna have to give me some pointers, love, I don't have a fucking clue what I'm going."

You giggled and laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's easy, don't worry."

He treated every stand like it was made of something terribly precious, washing the sticky chunks of blood and brain down the drain while carefully removing the knots from Graves' earlier treatment. When it came time to shampoo, his fingers rubbed the sting from your scalp as the scent of it filled the steamy air.

You fought the urge to rest your back against his chest as his fingers combed in the conditioner, he spun you around to face him. "You need me to do anything else while we wait." You shook your head and took a deep breath as more silence filled the room and a sudden wave of emotion hit you but before you could act on them and kiss him, he stopped you with a gentle hand on your face. "Not like this lovely, I'm gonna feel like I'm taking advantage of you."

The look on his face told you all you needed to know and you pressed your head against his chest for a moment, uncaring about his shirt. "Thank you."

His hand stroked your hair and he chuckled. "Come on lovely, before we both turn to prunes." He washed the conditioner from your hair then placed a hand on your bare back as you walked from the cubical. He helped you dry off, dressed you in your most comfy PJs and finished your hair before depositing you on the bench so he could have a quick shower. When he came out, he was already dressed in his boxers and you averted your eyes as he threw on a pair of sweats.

Helped you up and pulled you into his arms, his bare chest warm against you. "You feeling any better?"

You nodded. "Much."

His hand stayed on your lower back the whole time as he walked you to your room. Your hand paused on the handle and you turned towards him. "Can you stay with me tonight, please?"

He gave you a soft smile and nodded. "You heard the doc, I was planning on it." He pushed open the door as you turned the handle and he led you to the bed.

You thought the shakes and termors had faded, but as the quiet of your dorm room pushed at your senses, they were back, and you huffed in frustration and clenched your hands, hoping they would stop. "What the fuck is wrong with me, I should be over this by now."

Simon filled your glass from the water pitcher on the table, then handed you the small plastic medicine cup of pills before sitting down next to you and placing a hand on your jumping knee. "Take those and we'll talk while they work." There was no way you were going to argue, every part of you hurt and you longed for the rest that would come when the chemicals hit your brain.

He took the empty glass from you and threw the used medicine cup in the trash before taking you in his arms and lying down, the pressure of his body on yours easing some of the twitch in your body. "Now why do you think you should be over this by now?" He tried to keep the displeasure at your lack of self-compassion out of his tone, but he didn't do too well.

You took a deep breath and resisted the urge to wave him off as his hand started to run your back soothingly. "Because, you guys do shit like this everyday and I don't see you shaking like a leaf."

"We're trained for this, and trust me love, we all shake like this the first few times." He could remember how it felt to kill for the first time, his first firefight where he was sure he was going to die. He knew exactly how you were feeling.

You took a deep breath as you continued. "I killed two people tonight. The guy I stabbed and I heard over their radios that the Shadow that caught the door blast didn't make it. That wasn't spur of the moment, I could have chosen non-lethal methods. I made the choice to try and kill Graves. Logically I know I had to do it but still, there's something wrong because I don't know how to feel about that either."

The warmth of Simon's chest made it easy to talk, and his gentle responses eased the worry from your mind, but his was a stirring mess. He knew what he was, he was proud of himself and what he had done with his life, but his reiteration of how your feelings were normal echoed back something else for him, that he wasn't the normal one, that there was nothing wrong with you, but there was something wrong with him.

And yet, the way you pressed yourself to his chest in low lamp light chased all those feelings away because someone as wonderful as you wouldn't love him if there was something truly wrong with him. And that was just it, despite the fact that you had never said it to each other, you did love him and he loved you. Nothing else mattered, not the blood on his hands or the shake in yours.

He felt your warm hand on his cheek and he looked down at your face, your eyes staring into his with blatant affection. "What are you thinking about?"

The rush of blood in his ear was like a swarm of hornets, and their flicking wings overwhelmed his senses as he mirrored your hand and placed his on your cheek, his thumb rubbing back and forth as he leaned in. His lips brushed yours, and your eyes fluttered shut as he kissed you. He pulled back after bumping your nose with his and took a deep breath. "I love you y/n."

You kissed him again, your hand moving behind his head to hold his lips to yours. You pulled away enough to speak, his breath beating against your skin as you returned his proclamation. "I love you too Simon."

Sleep came easy that night, for both of you.

Part 6

@chaos-4baby