#suffering suffering. wailing clawing at the walls.

[blackwaxidol]

hypovolaemia is so stupid. just make more blood, idiot...

[gemissleeping]

Moonlight & Masks

Theodore Nott x Fem!Reader

Summary: Newly turned Death Eater Theodore Nott is tasked with hunting down Harry Potter and the Order Operative protecting him. Only to discover the person he hunts happens to be the one he loves.

Length: 1.8k

Notes: Back from the dead (I am so sorry things are hectic and I don’t want to release a chapter I’m not feeling) with this little one from @thatdammchickennugget’s Hogmarch Challenge! Death Eater Theo. Use of the killing curse. Angst as always because we know I live for the drama. For those of you wanting more Veleveteen, in my head this occurs in the same story universe (which I know isn’t the same as an update pls forgive my sins). Not proofread, we have deadlines to meet.

The sting of lightning hung in the air as she weaved through the trees. The thundering footfall still pressing behind her. Lungs burning with need, she pressed on. Dizzied from the turbulent descent she and Mad Eye had suffered.

Alastor. He was dead.

She hadn’t even been able to take his body from the dirt where it had fallen. And the Death Eaters certainly wouldn’t afford him the dignity of a proper burial.

Tears clawed at her cheeks as she bounded over the tree roots twisting across the forest floor. Thinking only of Mad Eye, the way his voice had simply ceased when the curse had hit him. No cry of pain, no strangled wail. Only silence.

Her grip on her wand tightened as her tears ran hot. The taunting laugh of one of her pursuers echoing through the trees as they crashed after her. The darkness spinning endlessly around her. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. Gone were the rules they had been taught to play by. Humanity sacrificed for power. Thoughtless with rage, she cast back her wand into the leering shadows. Letting the words fall from her lips before her heart could catch them.

Avada Kedavra

The green light felt as though it tore right through her as it ricocheted from her wand. Scattering through the trees and hitting its mark with a crack. Ripping at her chest with blistering heat, forcing her ribs apart until the spell dissipated. The laughter ceased. That same absence that had followed earlier resting through the trees. She was dragged to a still.

The force of the spell brought her to her knees. Bark breaking the skin of her palms, blood blooming as she fell forward in agony. She felt it being torn from her throat just now; some vital piece of herself. What she had given to cast the curse. The crack rung through her ears. Trailing her even as its ringing grew soft, faded into the background of the forest’s creaks and stutters. She could feel the heaving of her chest, dizzied by the absence that had been dug into her.

Before she could break upon the forest floor completely, the snap of a twig behind her brought reality rearing back. Whipping to face the darkness, she searched the teasing shadows that surrounded her. Nothing answered but the wind. She pushed herself up on bloody palms, staggering towards the nearest tree. Catching the glint of a metal smile hit by moonlight as she turned. But it was too late.

The Death Eater was on her in a second, wand jammed to her throat. One hand wrenching her head back by the hair. A mutilated snarl coming from the unmoving mask.

“Potter.”

She still had Harry’s face.

The figure towered before her, gloved hand pulling harshly at her hair as she strained against their grip. More tears pricking at her eyes as she faced the smooth and indifferent wall between them. Both of them were wearing masks really. But the thought brought little comfort to the nausea biting at her.

She was going to die someone else.

Wand to her throat, she closed her eyes. Preparing for the flurry of hot green light. Perhaps it was what she deserved, it could be a mercy. This way she would never have to truly face what she had done. There was no doubt in her mind that the person before her would finish the job. And yet she waited, but nothing came.

Opening her eyes once again she found him watching her carefully. Blue eyes clouded with something foreign, his silver mask lodged in the dirt at their feet. Looking at her with nothing but quiet restraint. She felt her throat close at the sight of him, all defences leaving her as she stared up at the boy before her.

“I asked something of you, when I saw you last,” Theo spoke lowly, wand still jammed to her throat as though he didn’t fully trust the person he saw before him. “Do you have an answer for me?” His voice fell flat against the forest air, low and heavy as his empty eyes.

His words sent another wave of dizziness crashing through her. The events of the past ten minutes threatening to bring everything up from her stomach. She wanted to fall into his chest and let his robes soak up her tears. To slice her palm clean across his cheek. Fall to the forest floor and not get up. Beg him to finish the job.

But instead, she did as she was told; she stayed quiet. Like the good little soldier they had taught her to be. Counting the freckles and moles that dotted the skin of his cheeks like they were her favourite constellations.

“Answer the question,” Theo snarled again, shoving her back forcefully. Back hitting the jagged edges of bark with an audible crack as a groan left her. Still she didn’t speak, blinking up at him as her head spun from when it had made contact with the tree.

“I’ll do it Potter,” he hissed lowly. His wand cutting further into her throat as she struggled to breathe under its pressure. He barely seemed to notice, staring down at her with empty eyes. “Don’t think I won’t just because you have something I want.”

She only watched him carefully, trying not to let herself give it away as she watched him. Staving off the clouds of memory that threatened to consume her at the sight of him.

“No?” He chimed, a sharp edge to his warm voice, “Very well.”

He drew a breathe, anger taking him in its burning grip. But just as the curse he had planned to cast was forming a whisper of air on his lips; she felt it. The rippling beneath her skin. Pulling and tugging and melting at the fibres of her. She bit her tongue as the pain of it ripped through her. Reforming beneath the skin as everything cracked and popped in and out of place. Until only she remained, swimming in Harry’s ridiculous hoodie.

Theo still had her pressed against the tree, all colour drained from his face as he watched the skin seem to melt and reform on her bones. His hands began to shake. She watched him with distant eyes, trying to hold onto what little restraint remained.

“What’s wrong?” She asked hoarsely, her throat aching from the potion’s due course. Theo’s wand still hesitantly pressed to the delicate skin of her throat. “Can’t do it anymore?”

It happened like the break of a dam. Her name fell from his lips in a rush of credence. Lips falling apart at the sight of her before him, what he’d almost done without realising. His wand dropped in a stagger, as though she had struck him. The darkness of the forest enclosing around them.

“You left me there,” he breathed suddenly, as though it hadn’t meant to come out. She blinked up at him as confusion swept her. But the lost look he carried only washed away as his eyes hardened.

“What?” she breathed.

“You left me there alone,” he spoke again, ignited with a sudden rage. His words were like kindling to her own. Her brow cracking with anger.

“No, Theo,” her voice shook, “you left me.” Theo looked to the ground, shaking his head gently in denial. He took a hesitant step forwards, as though to reach for her. But she stepped back, her spine hitting the tree. “Do you know how much I had to go through alone before I got out of there? Because you were too busy running off with Draco, or-”

He closed the distance between them with a blistering intensity.

“Do you know what it’s been like since? Without you?” It came out in a boiling whisper. “He wants your head almost as much as he wants Potter’s,” Theo’s eyes softened at the words, swept up in whatever memory they procured. “And I just have to sit there and take it, listening to the vile things they plan to do to you. Knowing there’s not a single fucking thing I can do about any of it, except for-”

He didn’t have to say it, the break of his voice said enough. The way his eyes fled from her own. He had meant to kill her.

“Why don’t you do it then?” She whispered, eyes brimming with more tears. Looking to the boy she had loved since she was too young to understand the word. “It would save me the-”

“Stop it.”

“I deserve it, don’t I? For leaving you. You said so yourself, in your letter. I read it you know.”

“No, I didn’t mean-”

“I know you’ve cast it before-”

“I said stop,” he bellowed, pressing himself against her in a flash of pent up fury. His body flush against hers as his chest heaved with the weight of his rage. “Even if I wanted to,” he whispered, his lips brushing lightly against her ear, “I can’t.” His hands tightened into fists, “He wants to do it himself.”

He peeled himself away from her, as though every inch of his skin that couldn’t feel hers was the worst form of torture. Drinking in every part of her except for her eyes, which he couldn’t bring himself to meet. She searched his, begging him to pull himself to meet hers.

“Is it that?” She breathed, fearful eyes rounded as she looked up to him. Searching for that thread that had always hung between them. His eyes grew tense as he saw what thoughts lay in hers, “Or is it because-”

“Stop.”

-you love me.

“Don’t,” he snapped, but even the sharp edge of his voice couldn’t distract from the despair swimming in his eyes. “Please,” he breathed, his head dipping towards her neck in defeat, but not daring to brush the skin, “don’t.”

He wanted to hold her, let his fingers trail across her cheeks, brush his thumb over her eyelashes. Just to make sure it was really her. Not some cruel trick made out to test his loyalty. But instead he let his breath fan across the bare skin of her neck. Knowing it was the only way he could allow himself to touch her.

“It was you I asked after,” his confession fell dead against the skin of her neck. He heard the breath she drew as though it was taken from him. Felt himself unravelling being so close to her now, after months of waiting and silence and searching.

Fuck it.

He’d be flayed for it, but everything could be damned. None of it mattered if he could feel her lips on his again. His hands flew to the delicate skin of her cheeks. Palms soaking in the remainder of her tears as his lips met hers. They parted effortlessly for him, welcoming him in as though she had been waiting just as he had. The softness of her lips balancing against his hunger. Her head tilted towards him, completely at his mercy beneath his calloused palms. Just as she should have been all this time.

[moon7jay]

OKAY (p.sh)

Warnings : smut, rough sex, degradation, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

Dedicated to •┈┈⛧ @hoondrop

Sunghoon didn't think of it much when you let him into your apartment without a single word when usually you'd be huffing and puffing because he showed up unannounced. He didn't think much of it when you slipped off your dress silently and laid on the bed, spread open, waiting for him to use you however he wanted.

He attributed it to you being really needy. Sunghoon was too lost in his own lust to notice how you cried out his name when he slipped himself home inside of your wet heat in one painful thrust. Your nails dug into his back and your hazy eyes fell on his expressions of bliss, hot pants falling from his mouth, brows furrowed and eyes fixated on your heaving chest. He wasn't even looking at your face and an acute pain started to bloom inside your chest.

"Fuck-oh god-never been inside a pussy so fucking good ,you were just made to be fucked" He grunted, pelting his hips harshly into you. His touches were rough, palms groping around your body in a desperate abandon, leaving bruises in their wake. Usually you loved it, your body welcomed the familiar sting and the pleasure that came along with it, but the bruises from your inside were looming on the surface today, making you feel like an open, gaping wound.

He buried his face inside the crook of your neck, folding your body in half, his thrusts merciless as always. "fucking slut, can't stop coming back to this tight little cunt, you should get paid for it" he panted in your ear. His words were hitting you as hard as his thrusts were, the hollowness in your chest intensifying by the second. Soft sobs started leaving your lips before you could stop them.

"Yeah ? Does it hurt?" He asked coming up to rest his forehead against yours, looking you dead in the eye for the first time since he came over. His eyes were dark in lust, hot breaths of exertion falling on your lips while his hips kept pounding you into the sheets. You nodded, your vision becoming blurry as you were unable to control the onslaught of tears that was wracking your body. "You can take it, just keep letting me use this hot little body till I'm fucking satisfied" His movements became rapid, you could tell that he was close. Your walls were breaking down with each snap of his hips, pain beginning to constrict your throat. Your breaths were becoming shorter, sobs becoming ugly, the physical pain transcending into emotional one.

You hated it, hated feeling so vulnerable and raw, especially in front of someone who didn't give two fucks about you. Maybe it was the stupid feelings you had started harbouring for the boy above you that were begging him to notice your suffering. To see you, look beyond the relief that your body had to offer and peek behind the mask which was your face. To hold your aching body till it didn't feel like something was clawing it's way out of your chest, till you could voice out your grief and give this empty feeling a name.

Sunghoon's mind was beginning to get clouded over by the feelings of ecstasy, his hips stuttering, feeling his high approaching closer. Even though his body was responding to the pleasure you were giving him, something about the way you were looking at him was filling him with unease. He had never seen you crying so much during sex and something inside him was telling him that this was something else. Those weren't the sobs of pleasure that were racking your tiny form underneath him, your wails sounded like cries of actual pain and he wasn't sure what to do. His high faded into the void the more that he focused on your quivering lips and flooded eyes, his hips coming to a halt inside of you. When you didn't stop wailing despite the lack of his assault on your lower body, sunghoon's chest constricted in panic. Did he hurt you? what the fuck was going on?

You were jolted out of your agony by the feeling of two big palms cupping your face.

"Y/n? Hey, hey, calm down" Sunghoon's panic filled voice penetrated through the viel of tears covering your eyes. It took you a while to notice how he wasn't inside of you anymore, the aching between your legs was lost somewhere between your grief stricken cries. You pushed him away and curled into yourself, wrapping your hands around your middle to find some sort of comfort. Rocking your body back and forth to calm your stuttering breaths. This was all you had. For as long as you can remember, this tiny stroke of comfort was all you had to ground yourself to reality. The fact that someone else was witnessing your breakdown was making you feel defenseless. "G-Go please" you sobbed and closed your eyes to drown out your surroundings.

Sunghoon's brain was going into overdrive. Seeing you like this was something he had not thought about even in his worst nightmares and he felt helpless. He didn't want to leave but at the same time he didn't want to push your limits either, so he gathered his clothes and dressed himself as fast as he could. There was an intense urge to hold you that was blooming in his chest, but who was he kidding? He couldn't comfort people for shit. Sunghoon didn't do emotions, he didn't do feelings and he sure as fuck didn't care about anyone, so why were you making him feel this way?

As he took one last look at your naked body curled into a fetus position, your cries tearing through his heart, sunghoon did what he did best. He left.

As you stared at the empty screen of your phone with no calls or messages from sunghoon, you could hear the distinct sound of your heart breaking. One would think you would have gotten used to that sound by now. How pathetic.

Did you not know how it was gonna end from the beginning? or when you decided to be vulnerable and scare him away ? Did you really think you meant something to him? That you meant more to him than just a warm body to fuck? How many heart breaks would it take for you to realize that you were just convenient? Convenient and replaceable and so so naive. You wouldn't call yourself naive tho, you were just desperate. Choosing to ignore reality to live in momentary illusions of happiness. You guess this is what becomes of people who come out of broken homes, searching for little specks of love where it doesn't exist, deluding yourself till the glaring reality decides to shove you back to where you came from. Somewhere along the way, you had come to terms with the fact that you couldn't make people love you. You had always lacked that ability, to make someone want you, to make someone stay.

You picked on the scab of wound on your knuckle mindlessly, chuckling to yourself as tears started streaming down your face again. You out of all people should have known better. You had so much love inside of you and no one to give it to. And what was excess love if not grief? Where do you put this agony? How do you get rid of this aching need to be enough for someone else?

He must be with some other girl right now, some girl who didn't ruin his pleasure with random breakdowns and ugly sobs. Someone who wasn't so difficult and unlovable and excruciatingly clingy. you kept scratching till the healed skin was peeling off, making way for warm blood to ooze out. A sigh fell from your quivering lips at the familiar sting, wondering if he stayed when other girls asked him to.

Sunghoon downed his 6th shot of the night and yet, he was wide awake and functioning. He'd been sitting in this godforsaken bar for days but no amount of alcohol could take you out of his head. You were like a constant itch at the back of his mind. What fucked him up the most was the fact that he missed you. Utterly and desperately. And not just your body, he missed YOU. He missed your giggles and he missed your flustered smiles. He missed the way you sassed him when he teased you. He missed watching his big palms engulf your small ones.

The past few days had been enough to bring him to the glaring realization that he needed you. He cared about you. Your wails were still ringing in his ears and your broken voice when you told him to leave was haunting him at nights. His dark circles could attest to that. His hands shook with the desperate need to call you and hear your voice but he was a coward. He left you in your worst moment and the guilt and shame was eating him from the inside. What would he even say to you? You probably hated him now.

His mind drifted off to the conversation you had with him a few weeks ago. He'd been getting ready to leave when your soft, hesitant voice had spoken the words which changed the trajectory of his life. "c-can you stay?" you'd asked and sunghoon had looked at you like he'd seen a ghost. Your tiny figure had been wrapped in your white sheets while you peered up at him nervously, your fingers fiddling with the stray thread on the duvet. "can you stop being fucking clingy?" He'd replied, regretting his words as soon as he'd seen you visibly flinch. Then truth was that he'd been afraid. He was scared then and he was scared now. Scared of how badly he'd wanted to stay.

He downed another shot and hoped it would be enough to give him the liquid courage for what he was about to do.

You didn't know what to expect when your doorbell rang in the middle of the night. You were lounging on your couch in the living room, staring blankly at the romcom playing on your television. Your first thought was to ignore it, the emotional distress of the past few days had taken so much away from you physically that you had little to no strength left in your body.

But whoever was behind that door was persistent. Ringing and ringing till you couldn't help but heave yourself up from the couch in frustration.

You yanked the door open and froze. It took a few seconds for you to process the fact that he was standing in front of you and another few seconds to stop yourself from running into his arms. You swallowed harshly and stepped aside to let him in. His eyes were fixated on you and you were looking anywhere but at him. Not quite ready to face your demons just yet. You weren't surprised to see him at your door to be honest, he couldn't stay without sex for too long.

At least you are useful for something, you thought. You were in the middle of slipping off your top's strap down your shoulder when his voice interrupted you. "What are you doing?" He asked, making you look up at him, staring at him blankly. "Getting undressed" you replied in a solemn monotone like it was the most obvious thing in the world but he shook his head, his gaze intense "why? "

"Isn't that what you're here for?"

Your genuinely confused question hit sunghoon like a slap across the face. He knew that he had been treating you like shit but why were you treating yourself like this? It made him want to puke. He shook his head again and willed his heart to calm down "I'm not here to have sex with you"

His words sounded like static to you. Oh. He was here to break things off with you, because of course he was. Did you really think he was going to come back to you for sex after what you had done when he could have any girl he wanted for the night? You really were delusional. You bit your lower lip to stop it from wobbling when you felt tears gathering at your waterline. So this was it then? You really had driven another person you loved away from you successfully.

"I-im sorry, j-just don't hate me please" you spoke through gritted teeth, blinking rapidly to avoid crying in front of him again. If he couldn't love you, you wanted to make sure he didn't leave hating you. You honestly wouldn't be able to live with yourself if he did.

Sunghoon watched your cowering form inching away from him and he was overcome with an intense urge to wrap you in his arms and keep you close. You looked so scared and small standing there, asking him to not hate you. Silly little girl, he thought. How could he ever hate you?

He rubbed a shaky hand over his face to choose his next words carefully but you interpreted his actions the wrong way. Your throat constricted and you fisted the hem of your top tightly. The feeling of desperation was beginning to overpower your rational thoughts, what were you going to do if he left? Your feet moved before you could stop yourself and your shaky fingers were tugging on his shirt softly. When his dark eyes met yours, you couldn't stop the tears from pouring down your cheeks. "G-give me one chance, I won't ruin it this time" you hiccuped through your sobs. "Y/n- " please sunghoon i-i'll be so good and s- so quiet, just u-use m-your words were cut of by a sobbed gasp escaping your lips when sunghoon pinned you against the wall behind you forcefully, his body pressed firmly against yours. You stared up at him with wide teary eyes and he looked angry, the vein on his forehead throbbing visibly. "Stop that" He spoke sternly through gritted teeth and cupped your face in his palms, resting his forehead against yours. "Stop treating yourself like a fucking object y/n, this isn't you" His lips captured yours before you could react and the softness of the kiss caught you off gaurd. You didn't remember the last time you had been kissed with so much tenderness and you couldn't help but sob into his mouth, your hands fisting his shirt desperately. Sunghoon didn't stop kissing you. More like, he couldn't stop kissing you. Hoping that he could convey with his kiss, all the words that he couldn't say. His hold on your face was soft and you couldn't help but press yourself closer to his body, seeking warmth, looking for comfort. He pulled away briefly, his forehead still pressed against yours and he stared right into your soul. His thumbs reached up to wipe your tears and you hiccuped through your sniffles. "would you believe me if I said that I'm here to stay baby?" He asked softly. The sweet nickname was something he'd only called you in throes of passion sometimes, so the fact that he was consciously speaking to you with so much affection made your heart hurt. Hope fluttered like butterflies in your stomach and you searched his face. You wanted to believe him, you wanted to get lost in his affection even if he was lying, so exhausted from your emotional turmoil. Your eyes flooded with tears and you sobbed a pathetic "no" while you shook your head. Sunghoon closed his eyes and rubbed his nose against yours, caressing your cheeks with his thumbs. "will you give me a chance to prove it to you?" He asked, his hot breath warming up your mouth. You bit your lower lip and buried your face into his chest, unable to stop yourself from crying your heart out. This felt like a fever dream and you wanted to stay in it a little longer. You wanted to feel his arms around you, holding you closer in a way only you had ever done to yourself. He wrapped your body in his embrace and sighed in relief, he couldn't comprehend how he'd gone so long without the feeling of you in his arms. "please baby, you're like air to me and i know that i have hurt you and i won't ask you to forgive me but these past few days have been hell and i don't think I can survive something like that again" He whispered his truth and it felt like a heavy weight had been lifted off of his chest.

He hated that he was always so afraid of his own feelings, hated that you were turning him into this emotional person that he was not. His words made you tighten your hold around his shoulders and you peeked up slightly to stare into his eyes. His eyes that were staring at you with so much adoration that you couldn't help the blush spreading across your cheeks.

He pecked your nose "let me inside your heart baby, I want to know what hurts you and makes you bleed, I want to swallow your pain if it's the last thing I do"

Your breathing had evened out from hearing him speak and you were suddenly coming to the realisation that he was asking you to give him a chance at loving you. Sunghoon wanted to love you. Your heart was beating rapidly across your chest at the possibility of your feelings being reciprocated and yet at the back of your mind, you couldn't help but question. Were you ready to let him in like that? would you be able to take it if he left you stranded again? You didn't know. But what you did know was that you were tired of running away.

"Okay" you whispered and his lips were immediately on yours, kissing you like his life depended on it, in a way it did. "Okay" He whispered back into your mouth and swallowed your whines, pressing you closer to himself, tasting you like he'd never given himself the liberty to.

There were so many things you wanted to ask him and so many feelings he wanted to express. But for now, okay was enough.

[pukanavis]

[18Trip] Toi Shiramitsu Mayor Novel "The Day I Became an Angel" Chapter 1 | The Ritual Room

Part 1 | Part 2

*Before you choose to continue, please note that the novels contain major spoilers for the main story of the game, and it is recommended that you only read them once you have finished the main story!

There’s a ritual that Grandfather told me about, one that the heads of the Shiramitsu family have passed down for generations.

It’s a mandatory process in order to be blessed with the powers of an angel, apparently.

Subsequently, I was determined to try my hardest. Once the 9 day long ritual ended, they said that an angel—Oshisha-sama—would settle within my body. I told myself without a shadow of doubt, that I would make it through.

“Ah…aah…uhgg…”

When they first locked me away, I felt scared, panicked, I called out for my brother to save me, and wept for hours. When I no longer had the strength to even cry, I finally began to feel a semblance of peace. I was cold, tired and starved, but I promised myself I would persist. At times, I couldn't hold back the strange groaning sounds that slipped out. And yet, and yet…

“Uu…aah…”

The mucous membranes in my parched throat dried out, making it painful to even draw a breath. I was so thirsty that spots began to fill my vision.

I told myself to keep going.

“Aah…”

My fingers, devoid of nearly all their strength, clawed at the ground. There was a strange design painted across the floor. Mother said it was a summoning circle that would bring forth Oshisha-sama.

I scratched at the circle, almost as if I were tracing the lines.

In order to earn Oshisha-sama's favour, it is imperative that one must be near death. Oshisha-sama won’t come otherwise, they say.

“Does...Oshisha-sama like it when...people are on their deathbed…?” 

My voice was hoarse. It didn’t sound like it belonged to me. It reminded me of the wailing ghosts I saw around town, the ones that had suffered miserable deaths.

I thought it was a little strange that Oshisha-sama liked people on the drink of death. He is an angel, after all. I had always imagined angels as beings that saved those in need.

“Ah, ah…aah…”

Even so, Oshisha-sama was going to save me from this pain. He and I would form a bond and then…and then…uhm…?

My head was screaming. I struggled to form a coherent thought. I was trying my hardest not to fall asleep, but my consciousness began to slip away from me. My body was trying to make me rest, but I couldn't. It was the one thing I couldn't let happen.

I leaned against the wall in an attempt to keep myself awake but with no strength left in my frail neck, my head slumped backwards.

My eyes landed on the sole tiny window in my cell, the only thing that allowed light to seep through. 

The dark, cloudy sky beyond it seemed to go on forever.

“...”

They say that the family my brother and I were born into—the Shiramitsu family—have been possessed by angels for generations.

Many of their children showed a sense for the paranormal and possessed clairvoyance, psychic abilities and a talent for divination…they used these powers to provide aid to others and steadily amassed a following of believers.  Mother and Grandfather say that our family is famed within those areas.

“It is the duty of the Shiramitsu family…to help people.”

Just as they had told me, I too had psychic abilities. I could see ghosts and phantoms and even speak with them if they were open to it.

Ani-sama doesn’t have any psychic power…I must have hogged it all to myself while we were in Mother’s tummy.

Instead, all the masculinity and coolness that I lack went to him. Ani-sama has always been my very own shining hero…

“...”

My thoughts were a scattered mess and it began to feel like I may never again be the way I once was.

Maybe I really had been just a step away from reaching my limit. I could feel unconsciousness creeping up the longer I remained in that state. Grandfather warned me not to fall asleep, but what fate would I meet if I happened to faint?

Would I become a failure if I lost consciousness? Would they be mad at me?

No, no, I’m not afraid of anyone being upset with me. What scares me is failing and not being able to become a source of help for everyone.

I have to keep going. I have to do this, for everyone. I have to.

But…but my body, it wants so so desperately to just—

“Toi!”

“...!”

—The sight I saw at that moment…

“Toi, are you okay!?”

The sight beyond that little window—

Before I knew it, the skies had cleared and light began to pour past the glass.

“Ah…”

The shadows cast by the barred window piled onto one another, swallowed by a single silhouette. Backed by the gleaming moonlight, was my brother—

“Toi, Toi…!”

It was as if a new God had just descended onto Earth.

Oh no…what do I do now? I was waiting for Oshisha-sama, but God had shown up ahead of the angel. Maybe I had already died… No, that couldn’t be right.

“Ani…sama…!” I called back.

My brother's face crumpled with guilt. He called my name in a pained voice. Ani-sama was distressed…because of me.

Please, don’t make that face. Don’t feel sad over me. I’m okay.

I wanted to hold him in my arms.  I wanted to assure him everything was okay. I wanted dearly to touch him one more time.

I wanted to take away my brother’s pain, no matter what may happen to me. I wanted to heal his sorrow.

I didn't even need to be the one to do it. Please, someone, anyone—

And then it happened.

“Are you my next host?” a voice echoed in my head.

Part 1 | Part 2

[tightjeansjavi]

Sing me a Lullaby Darlin’

Joel Miller x f!reader

A/N: I have no words for what I have created. I am a monster and I blame The Civil Wars for this one. It’s all their fault.

Summary: You soothe Joel’s constant nightmares of his daughter dying, and his fears of losing his younger brother Tommy, by singing him a lullaby.

~word count : 1.5k~

Warnings: so much fucking angst. Literally I have tears streaming down my face from how much angst is in this. Triggering themes of child loss, trauma, depictions of graphic violence taking place in the mind. Dark thoughts, depression, mentions of using alcohol, drugs, sex to cope. Nightmares, emotions, comforting themes, some fluff at the end. (+18) minors dni !!

Song used:

“You Are My Sunshine” cover by The Civil Wars

Joel Miller never knew how to evade his endless nightmares till he met you, his sunshine. For the years after Sarah’s death, Joel suffered day in and day out. He found himself lying awake at night, imagining himself crafting a sledge hammer with his worn, damaged hands. He pictured himself cutting his chest open, right down the middle, and wrenching his broken, bleeding heart from his chest. He would smash his heart over, and over again. Broken sobs eliciting past his lips as he would beg a higher power to make the pain stop. Make his daughters gasps, and screams of anguish cease from his mind. He begged that for every time he would close his eyes, he would no longer see her body tumbling in the dry grass. He would no longer see the blood pooling through her shirt, or her lifeless, cold eyes staring up at him.

He begged, and begged, and begged. No one would listen. There was no higher power to hear his cries, his pleas to make his suffering end. The grief, aguish, and turmoil would continuously crash into him, like waves on a rocky shoreline. He often found himself struggling to breathe, clutching at his chest as tears blurred his vision. He’d let out a wail, punching his fist into the wall, feeling his knuckles split, the skin raw, and bleeding. He’d punch the wall over, and over again. Sometimes, on the worst nights, he’d bite down on his fist to block out his heart wrenching sobs. When his tears were spent, and his voice raw, and broken, He’d wrap his arms around his chest, hugging himself tightly as he would rock back and forth, his mouth open, with no sound coming out, just a wheeze of a struggled breath.

He’d find himself turning to copious amounts of drugs, and alcohol. Whatever he could fucking get his hands on. He’d risk his life smuggling this shit into the QZ because it was the only temporary solution to numb his heart, and his mind. When the drugs and alcohol would wear out, he’d turn to sex. Burying himself into a body felt good in the moment. That high would soon pass and leave him in his filth. Joel Miller believed that there was nothing in this fucking god forsaken, shit-hole world that could ever keep his nightmares at bay. Then he met you, and everything changed.

Now, when he closed his eyes at night, he was met with peace. There were no screams, no bullets, no images of his daughter’s tumbling body. There was no blood, no lifeless cold eyes looking up at him. Now all he could see was you. You’d hold each other every night, legs and hearts entwined. Breaths in sync and heart beats slow, steady, calm. You had pacified his nightmares, drove them deep down into the cold dark earth. You soothed this broken man with soft touches and words of love.

Joel nearly lost you one Spring. You nearly bled out in his arms but he would be damned if he’d lose you too. He couldn’t possibly fathom it. He had the chance to save you and he fucking took that opportunity swiftly. He vowed to never leave your side, and you kept his words like an oath. Deep in the caverns of your chest, where your heart laid, beating for him.

Joel’s younger brother Tommy not responding to his radio calls is what finally broke him. The nightmares had clawed their way out from the depths that you had sent them. They tore up the dirt, the flowers that you had implanted into his soul were shredded to nothing. They turned to fucking dust as the darkness encased around his heart once more. You spent years sewing your man back together. Since that day, the moment you met him, you were subconsciously healing him. Needle and thread in hand, you had taken the bits and pieces of his heart that were left and sewed them back together. The pieces, and fragments that were missing, were regrown. Stems sprouting and flowers blossoming. You had turned this man’s soul into a garden where he was safe to flourish. All your effort, all your hard work was turning to dust before your very eyes.

You refused to give up on him when he needed you most. Yes, he had grown cruel. Yes, he had fallen back into his old patterns, his old ways. Yes, he didn’t hold you on most nights, but you knew that your Joel was still there, hidden behind a vast expanse of thick, putrid thorns.

You’d poison yourself over and over if it meant that you’d get him back. Joel was too deeply entwined into your soul for you to not care. When he was suffering, you suffered with him.

So when your sunshine awoke one night in a cold sweat, calling for his daughter, as he looked around in a frantic state. His eyes were wide, his body trembling, hands shaking.

He kept sobbing Sarah’s name as you were knocked out of your dreamless state. You heard his sobs as you sat up, slowly bringing your arms around his shaking form, your touch was gentle, tender.

“Joel. Hey, Joel. Baby, you’re okay. You’re safe, I'm right here. I have you.” You spoke softly, your tone soothing and low, afraid to startle him anymore than he already was.

He was clawing for you immediately, his hands grasping your arms tightly as you held him. His sobs continued to rake over his body, leaving him a blubbering mess.

“Darlin,’ she–she—Sarah–my baby girl!” He gasped, struggling to breathe as you slowly slid your hands under his shirt, rubbing soothing circles into his sweat soaked skin.

“You’re safe Joel. You’re safe. I’ve got you baby and I'm not letting go.”

“They took her from me–they fuckin’ ripped her from my fuckin’ arms!” He wailed.

“Joel, shhh. Baby, I know. I’m so sorry.” You had gently grabbed his face in your hands. He had tears streaming down his face. They were hot and heavy tears, flowing like a river. His vision was blurred as he looked at you.

“Why’d they fuckin’ take her from me. Why? My baby girl..and Tommy. Where’s Tommy?”

You had kissed away his free falling tears. Your lips were soft on his skin as his eyelashes fluttered shut, his grip on your arms loosened as you soothed him.

You couldn’t stomach giving him the answer as to why the government shot his baby girl. You couldn’t give him the answer because he already knew why; you both did.

“Joel, what can I do to help you? Please, tell me. I’ll do anything for you baby. I can’t stand to see you suffer like this every night. It fucking tears me up inside. What can I do to make it go away? There must be something–”

He let out a broken chuckle because you, his sweet girl shouldn’t have to deal with him. Not when he was a shell of the man you once knew.

“Sing me a lullaby, darlin. Sing to me, sweet girl please.” He rasped while you gently cradled him against your chest.

He was clutching your shirt between his fists, his breathing jagged as his tears continued to flow.

It was a simple request for you to sing to him. You’d do anything for this man that you had learned to love so deeply, so unselfishly, so openly.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.” You began to softly sing to him, your own tears beginning to stream down your cheeks, while you threaded your fingers through his sweaty hair, gently scratching his scalp.

Joel’s eyes slowly fluttered shut as he listened to your soothing voice. He could hear your heartbeat against his ear, where his tear stained cheek rested against your chest.

“The other night dear, as I lay sleeping. I dreamed I held you in my arms. When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken so I hung my head and cried.”

You could feel his breathing grow steady, his body went slack in your arms as you continued to cradle him.

“You have such a pretty voice, darlin’” You heard him whisper. “So pretty, so sweet.”

You glanced down at his face, casted by the soft moonlight. For a brief moment, you saw his features soften. The permanent furrow between his brows ceased to exist. You couldn’t help but admire him in these tender moments. Seeing him in a peaceful state for once. The thorns that were wrapped tightly around his heart, building a thick poisonous wall, were rotting away and being replaced with new green stems that would soon bloom again. The thorns would be replaced with flowers, beautiful, pure, flowers.

You brushed your fingers against his forehead, sweeping away a stray, sweaty curl as you leaned down and whispered, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. I won’t let them take my sunshine away..”

“I promise.” You whispered.

You held Joel in your warm embrace for the rest of the night. He did not have another nightmare, with you by his side. You protected him from the darkness that once consumed him entirely. You were his sunshine, and he was yours.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Demon!Azriel x reader: Teeth and Talons - Chapter 11

Warnings: murder, general death, Azriel, gore

Word Count: 3,549

-Part 10-

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It’s been simmering away long before he turned you. Maybe even before he met you. Bubbling and festering deep in the marrow of your bones, suppressed and denied over and over until it became something awful and ugly, untameable and unstoppable once it’s leash finally snapped. Wreaking devastation with wide-grinning teeth, talons that snicker-snack through flesh, crushing corpses beneath its leather covered paws.

You can feel it cracking open an eye, a slimy, translucent film beneath its lid, opening blearily, fully fledged at last, and ready to wreak havoc on everything around it.

And you know just the place to begin your destruction, how to set the doomsday in motion.

The twisted fucker that got you into this situation in the first place.

—————

It’s been a long time coming, this selfish sense of justice that you need to bring.

How many other women and innocents have they murdered in the name of mild boredom. The devil makes work for the idle, and their palms are softer than cotton. Easier to shred through.

Night hasn’t even fallen when you crawl up the walls of the palace, built in the centre of the citadel, able to see the priestess’ temple from the high crenellations. In a fleeting thought, you wonder what she’d think of your actions, if she’d condemn them or turn a blind eye for the sake of your own suffering. But she won’t be spared either—she should have warned you. Not sat you down over a cup of tea and given out her own simpering story.

Your claws hook over the balcony, effortlessly hauling yourself into the boy-king’s chambers. Take in the gaudy and lavish spread, undeserved opulence at its finest, long past the line of decadence. Nobody needs a golden chamber pot beneath their bed, no matter how well they eat.

Heightened senses pick up the beat of two hearts outside the door, filthily-paid guards positioned at the entrance, and your forked tongue flickers out over dark, rubbery lips. Drool drips onto the floor, but you pay it no mind, snaking silently across the marble before flinging the doors from their hinges. Blood splatters and bone splinters beneath the force, glittering talons making a wretched mess of the spurting bodies, unthreading sinew as you crush their lungs beneath your paw, the steel of their weapons nothing against the raw hide coating leathery limbs. At your back, your tails thrashes, gouging slashes in the stone as spikes slice through marble, putting breaks in the castle that nearly broke you.

Your nostrils flare, picking up the scent of someone young, blood too sour to enjoy laced with the overripe flavour of age. The sag of skin practically a flavour in and of itself as you skitter down the hallway, scrambling up the walls, clambering along the ceiling as you spot a familiar pathway, ones you’d been forced up when you were human. A human woman with bare feet and scrappy clothing, still shot through with remnants of sickness.

The great hall looms before you, and your pulse spikes, screaming for you to loose hell on the people within. Your back arches in a stretch, easing your muscles into working condition, warmed from the earlier blood-bath.

With a flick of your great, thrashing tail, the massive doors cave in, being flung from the frame in a crash of dust and stone. It doesn’t even take a minute before the guards within are splattered upon the pristine walls, dripping blood and viscera onto pretty, marble floors. Staining the stained glass red.

The boy-king screams, a high pitched wail that grates on your ears as you slither through the hall, only to come to a stop at the foot of the dais, watching as an acrid smelling liquid drips from the too-large throne where he’s cowering. Blacked-out eyes flick through the room, but the advisor is no where to be found, fury lighting you ablaze, rage rippling through your soul as magic pulses through the room, shattering the glass, sending bloody fragments raining down on the gardens below.

You hardly feel his tiny bones crack beneath your palm, as simple as squashing a fly—the difference being you’d feel bad about the latter, stealing food from the spider. Hot flesh is crushed into the floor, leaving a mushy pile of indiscernible parts dripping from the throne, iron mixing with ammonia.

Again your nostrils flare, heart pounding with bloodlust as you search for the man who’d sentenced you. Who’d been responsible for casting you out into that forest, beyond reason.

A broken cry sounds from the entrance, and you whip around, rubbery maw sharpening into a grin as you find your meal, held upon narrow, shaky legs that wouldn’t make more than a mouthful. His eyes are round and terror-filled as they take in the hell-beast you’ve become.

Shadows writhe at your wings, crowing them in a corona of darkness, tail thrashing and tearing at stone.

The advisor stumbles back on doddery old legs, stumbling and tripping as he falls on his bony behind, hands scrambling as he frantically pushes back from you, like a baby trying to crawl away. Razor-sharp teeth glitter, kept clean and pristine, waiting to be used.

You prowl forward, excited to take your time stripping his skin from his skeleton, feeling it peel from his flesh. Claws click on the marble floor, ticking like the second hand of a clock as you revel in the rising scent of his terror, so many wonders afforded to you with this new body.

His mouth opens in soundless scream, a wet gasp rasps from dry, old lips, hot breath wheezing from sinking lungs.

You press your paw over his chest, pinning him to the ground as his skeletal hands weakly rub at your fingers, trying to remove the great things from spearing him entirely as they curl into his back, tearing at sagging muscle. You wish you could gloat, could tell him who you are, see if he remembers what he did to you. See if he remembers being the one to suggest leaving you to the devil you’d sold your heart to in order to be cured from the plague.

His eyes are wide and glassy…the old man with already fading hair and wrinkles that swallow his eyes beneath flaps of loose skin.

The memories pour in, the rope biting into your wrists, weakness coating your muscles…eyes as black as the devils. The look alone had been enough to have nausea roiling in your stomach, threatening to upend it right there on the marble floor you’d been shoved to. Eyes that had swallowed you whole—black like you’d never seen black. Dark as pitch.

(alarmingly void, more than anyone’s have any right to be…and lacking in definition. Just one solid layer glazing across the obsidian coloured surface. Depthless.)

Terror-stricken blue eyes stare up at you, watery and weak as they strain and bulge beneath the pressure on his chest.

Ice glazes through your veins, blood freezing over just as a wave of pure power slams into you, throwing you back through the hall.

Your head cracks back against the marble, spine aching from the shockwave and you slide down onto the floor, collapsing behind the throne before slithering back to your feet, snaking down the dais. Eyes locking with cocoa.

There’s a brief moment of sorrow that flashes. It’s hardly noticeable, and passes before you can fully grasp it, but it’s enough for her to slip in.

Elain raises her thyrsus, knocking its base against the floor, a thrumming wave of power gathering in a shield as your talons clack against the stone, warily prowling forward, mouth watering to sink into his flesh. Cocoa flicks through the room, finally taking in the carnage—the blood splatters, and splintered fragments of bone dripping from the dais you’re standing on. The warped and crushed corpse of the young king.

“What have you become?” She breathes vehemently, delicate brow narrowing over cold eyes, shields rising up and locking down, sceptre spinning in her hand as she sets one foot before her, the other behind at five o’clock, pointed outward. A snarl rips from your chest, watching as she takes up a defensive position between you and the exit—between you and the rasping advisor. Between you and your meal.

Before you can think properly, you’re darting forward, faster than a shadow, shooting across the floor as talons crack down on her shield of magic, the staff appearing as a way from her to convert her power into a weapon. Burning rage pounds through your skull, yearning to obliterate as magic gathers at your fingertips, rubbery lips stretching into a grin when it coats your claws, slicing through her barrier.

She’s thrown back in the room, robes skidding through cooling pools of blood until she reaches the threshold of the caved-in doors. Glee beats in your chest as you skitter forward, the sound of leather stretching as your grin widens, showcasing gleaming rows of razor-sharp teeth, ready to rip and shred to your pleasure. The staff has been knocked from her tender hand, and she grapples for it as you scuttle closer, speeding up the closer you get until darkness is building at your back and your wings are flared in a display of dominance, keeping her pinned to the bloody marble with shadows.

Incisors glitter in the light as your jaws part above her, preparing to bite down and end when steel wreathed in fire slides beneath your throat. “Step away from her.”

Eyes flick up, jaw locking as stinging, searing pain lances down your right collar bone, bleeding into your shoulder as your gaze locks with a whirring, mechanical eye. Golden and russet narrows with unforgiving fury, glowing like the flames from a forge as the blistering steel raises in warning before pulling back. Fire sparks across the floor, aiming for your limbs to burn you alive as he spins, making to slice the blade across your throat.

Darkness flares out of nowhere, colliding with rampant and furious fire, and you’re thrown back as another figure joins the fray. One that’s packed with deadly power, great wings wreathing his back as he looms over Lucien.

“Step aside, Azriel,” the male hisses, flame licking up the walls, heat sweltering.

“Put the blade away, and I’ll consider letting you keep your other eye,” he drawls lowly, syllables dragging like gravel from his throat. Fury gathers in the room, settling like oil over your skin, so heavy and greasy you can feel it practically weighing you down.

“Look around,” Lucien snarls, flame deepening with sizzling rage, held in check by a leash of thread. “Your mate has killed dozens of humans, as well as trying to murder mine.” His power flares on that last word, as if instinct is roaring at him to protect but he’s restraining it. “Put. Her. Down.”

Even through your haze of anger, the words clang through, reverberating across leathery skin, hackles raising at the threat.

Azriel shifts on his four great paws, wings flaring menacingly as a snarl rips from his throat, settling between you and the male. “You look after yours and I’ll look after mine,” he growls, darkness taunting flame, building steadily at his back.

A little further behind Lucien, Elain shakily pushes up from the pool of blood, a trembling, pale hand reaching for her staff, brimming with a pale light. With a flick of her wrist, the magic flares, beaming like a spear for the unprotected underside of his throat. Faster than thought, faster than instinct, you’ve shot across the marble, skittering beneath his front left paw, jaws snapping viciously as your own power grates against Elain’s before sending it careening off, gouging marble from the crumbling castle.

Tension ripples as the four of you are locked in on one another, senses keyed to the slightest movement, waiting for the coil to snap so the others can be torn to shreds.

The room explodes in glittering black, razor sharp talons clicking skittishly as power splits your two sides apart, blasting a wall of physical adamant between you, just translucent enough for Elain and Lucien’s figures to be wrought in shadow.

Azriel’s body lowers, both in a bow and in a circle of protection, paw shifting forward to keep you tucked beneath him. Instinctively you follow, curling back into his power, tail pulled tight—ready to lash out.

The darkness simmers away, revealing the tall, powerfully hewn figure of a male. Wickedness practically drips from his finery, raven-black hair pushed neatly back from his brow as sharp violet eyes settle coldly over the scene. A wave of dread ices across your skin, a weight dropping in your belly as you take in the immense power that’s rolling from his shoulders—a god.

Azriel doesn’t so much as breathe different, but his shadows gather beneath you, thick and lush like a rug of black wool, drawing his magic in closer as a circle of protection. A suggestion of defence.

“Azriel.”

The voice is deep and icy, dripping with malice, and the spines at your back prickle. Your own magic weaves through with his shadow, hiding in plain sight but ready to spring free as fear pools in your stomach.

Violet flicks through the room, taking in the splatters of blood, dripping viscera, then his gaze locks with yours. It’s a new kind of fear, you realise, being singled out by a being so much greater than you are, and you shrink away, pushing back into the protective power of the male above you. His stance broadens, covering more of you as great paws settle further apart, braced for sudden movement.

“What happened here?” The god doesn’t remove his attention from Azriel, but it’s clear the question is not addressed to him. The shadowy wall fades entirely, and your gaze shifts to the two figures opposing you, Elain having gotten to her feet, robes soaked in blood, staff gripped dismally in her hand with grim determination.

“Your brother let his mate run free,” Lucien replies lowly, tone like gravel—lined with restraint. “She tried to kill Elain.” Fire brightens before again banking, as if being soothed by the reminder of her presence at his side. Sharp, violet eyes once again cut to you, “is that right?”

You manage a quiet snarl, fear drumming in your pulse, paws shifting like a great cat preparing to pounce. Muscle coils tight with terror at being faced with the god, having his attention settle like ice over skin, preparing to rip away. His sharp eyes narrow on you, and you pull your magic tighter.

Is that right? He repeats, and you recoil into Azriel’s chest, flinching as the god’s voice echoes through your mind. Through your peripherals you can see as a frail body starts to life, gangly limbs trying to heave up his torso as the king’s advisor return to consciousness. Once again you shift on your paws, hissing viciously at the trembling man, blood and vomit coating his front as he takes in the four beasts before him. Five.

“She wouldn’t kill Elain,” Azriel growls from above you, shifting his paw to block your line of sight from the advisor. “I wasn’t asking you,” your god replies coldly, attention pinning you to the ground as violet bores into you. “She won’t be able to speak yet,” Azriel bites out, power thrumming at your paws, curling up your arms, brushing at the leathery hide you’ve been coated in. “She changed less than a week ago.”

“Then why weren’t you watching her?” Lucien growls sharply, eyes blazing.

The god casts a warning glance at the fiery male, but does no more than that, evidently also seeking an answer.

Azriel shifts above you, and you can feel the oiled gears of his mind clicking effortlessly, spinning his information into a silky web. “I was,” he growls, gaze turning to the god appealingly. “You know as well as I do everything is well warded. The only way she could have escaped is if someone let her out.”

“If someone let her out?” Lucien echoes disbelievingly. “Those wards are practically impenetrable. It would be impossible to unlock them from the outside.”

“Lucien’s correct,” the god drawls icily, gaze drifting to Azriel’s, warning glittering in their depths. A timer counting down as his patience begins to fray, the metallic scent heavy in the air. Azriel makes no obvious moves, but you can feel his frustration curving around your bones, wrapping you tight to him.

It seems the god senses his hesitance, pouncing on the second of indecisiveness. “Don’t try and hide things from me,” he bites out coldly, power weighing heavily in the air, so intense it sets your iron stomach churning.

A muscle feathers in Azriel’s jaw, before charcoal eyes raise to violet. “She wasn’t going to make it,” he growls lowly, resentment coating his tongue. “Elain can attest to that.”

Violet flicks to hardened cocoa expectantly, but the priestess is already watching you, peering beneath a strained brow. Her jaw is tight, but she gives a curt nod, fingers still bone white around her staff. “That’s true. We both saw her before,” she answers, gaze briefly meeting Lucien’s. “She was feverish and already going into delirium. It’s unlikely she was going to survive.”

The god’s attention returns to Azriel, the edges of his irises slightly thawed but remaining hard.

“She was going to die,” Azriel repeats, words pulled taut as they leave his tongue. “She had to go through the Pit, or she wouldn’t have survived.” The three figures stiffen preternaturally, colour draining as something cold and awful settles uneasily across the room.

“The wards were likely weakened from residual magic,” he grits out, still keeping you wrapped beneath his shadows, as if trying to keep you hidden from them. “Enough for someone to get through.” You press a little closer into the lines of his body, tension beginning to drip away, releasing its hold on your heart. “They’d already tried to take her once. They thought this would be their chance to get back at me.” Shadows writhe across the marble floor, flaring with concealed rage, fury manifesting in his power.

“You think your brothers caused this?” The god asks slowly, eyes once again touring the room, filled with drying gore. Azriel nods, and you begin pulling slowly at your magic, gathering it close to your skin, preparing to jump.

Tension and fear knots your stomach, twisting in vicious carvings as you keep yourself coiled tight beneath the solid frame of Azriel’s form, keeping pressed tight.

Cold violet flicks over the squashed carcass of the young king, distaste passing through his features. “You’re telling me your brothers created a gap in your wards, and she managed to do all this before you noticed?” The god drawls skeptically, voice clean-cut like glass. Azriel’s talons pierce the marble floor. “She went through the Pit,” he repeats lowly, “she’s much stronger than—”

The advisor starts in your peripherals, body jerking to life as the contents of his stomach is heaved upon the floor.

Your tail cracks like a whip, coil snapping free, splattering pieces of flesh against the already blood-caked windows.

Body obliterated in the blink of an eye, before curling back tight to your paws.

Silence buzzes across the room, four pairs of wide eyes watching as bits of intestine drip from the sill, pooling in a gouged-out puddle in the floor. Almost immediately Azriel’s own tail is curling around you comfortingly, shadows stroking at your sides as if to lull you back into a state of ease, soothing the wild drum of your heartbeat, tail twining with your own.

Cold power raises from the floor, darkness thrumming in warning as tension buzzes in your ears, having them flatten against your head.

“How much blood did you give her?” The god’s tone puts fractures into your bones, like rock grinding against rock, grating on your soul.

“As much as she would take,” Azriel replies quietly, and you feel his attention brushing affectionately over your leathery skin. Silence reigns heavily, stretching out as you huddle back into his power, wanting to escape from the immense power of the god.

“You did what?” Elain breathes, eyes wide as she stares at Azriel, grip tightening on her sceptre. She seems to be the only one of the three capable of formulating a response, something blazing in her eyes. “She was going to die, Elain,” he snarls protectively, body settling closer to you. “Because you neglected her,” she hisses, brown eyes cold and hard as they bore into the male. “You plucked her up out of her life, you refused to properly care for her, you were the one who refused to teach her anything because she wasn’t what you wanted.”

Azriel’s snarl is like thunder breaking across the heavens, marble trembling beneath your claws, and you settle against the sound.

Yet it doesn’t seem to bother the priestess.

“If she was the one who tore all these people to shreds,” she breathes, pale blue light blazing from her staff. “It is because you put that anger into her.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut

[loveinhawkins]

connected to this

Sometime during the bat-proofing of his Upside Down trailer, Eddie’s hit with a wave of vertigo so bad his ears ring.

He has to stop in his tracks, clinging onto the chain-link fence with one hand. He lets his head hang low until the dizziness passes. Breathes slowly.

At first he thinks the faint thudding noise is just an after-effect, but then he glances up to see Dustin scrambling onto the trailer roof.

“What’re you doing?” Eddie asks blankly. “We’re not going up there until—”

He breaks off at the look Dustin gives him over his shoulder—eyes bright with a frenzied determination.

“We’ve gotta block the vents,” Dustin says.

There’s something… off with his voice, Eddie thinks. He can’t put his finger on it.

“Okay,” he says hesitantly. “Good thinking, man.”

He joins Dustin on the roof, just watches him for a couple seconds, perplexed: he’s working so fast.

Too fast.

Eddie’s heart jumps into his throat when Dustin loses his footing; he yanks him back from the edge in a flash, forces out a chuckle, “Woah, hey, take it easy. We’ve got plenty of time.”

Dustin doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s heard.

But he’s holding onto Eddie’s wrist so tightly Eddie swears his bones creak.

The ‘concert’ goes fine—Dustin delivers his countdown with precision, but his eyes always slide to a point that’s just slightly to the left of where Eddie actually is.

What the hell did I do? Eddie thinks.

He can’t come up with an answer.

“One!” Dustin bellows, and they’re off; Eddie makes sure Dustin’s always in front of him, feels like their feet barely touch the ground…

And then they’re inside.

We’ve made it.

Eddie sinks against a wall, breathless. “H-holy shit—”

“Shh!”

Dustin’s standing, one hand up. Listening intently.

The sheer noise of the bats on the roof is awful—scratching, clawing, chattering. Like mice in the walls, but a million times worse.

Eddie suffers through thirty seconds of not talking before it bursts out of him, and maybe it’s tempting fate, but he can’t help it, the panicked urge to voice it is too great, “I think—think everything’s holding. They’re…” He swallows. “They’re not gonna get in.”

Dustin nods faintly.

But there’s a rigidness to him that sets the hairs on the back of Eddie’s neck on end. He looks like a hound on the scent. Ready to bolt.

“Hey, um…” Eddie stands and nods up to the Gate meaningfully. “Think we’ve done all we can, Henderson. We were good decoys, and… uh, no deviations, remember?”

Dustin laughs. It’s a terrible noise; Eddie’s never heard him sound bitter before.

“Oh, now you want to go,” he says with uncharacteristic venom—but Eddie knows all too well how that can mask a deep, unimaginable terror.

Eddie opens his mouth—intending to reassure, to say something, anything—before he realises that above them, it’s all gone quiet.

Dustin comes to the same discovery a millisecond after he does. “What’s…” He trails off and finally looks Eddie right in the eyes.

He sprints to the front door, pulls it open.

Eddie curses. “Are you insane? Get back, shut the—”

But the only thing that comes through the doorway is the chill of The Upside Down.

A rumble of thunder. The bats screech, but it sounds like…

“They’re leaving,” Dustin says numbly. “Why are they leaving?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Eddie says, even though he feels sick to his stomach. “That’s not for us to—hey! Dustin, don’t!”

He lunges forward, but he’s not quick enough; Dustin slips right through his fingers, and Eddie watches in horror as he tears across the trailer park, and Eddie follows, of course he does, but he’s always a step behind, always too late to help—

The bats grow louder and louder. Lightning illuminates them, a monstrous cloud in the sky: they’re circling up ahead, and it makes Eddie think of vultures and carrion.

And he sees…

Dustin lets out this wail, a painful keen; Eddie feels it reverberate inside his chest, almost as if it comes from him too.

He catches up (too late, too late), and suddenly he is Wayne, pulling a child into his arms, urging brokenly, “Don’t look, don’t look,” even though when told that any kid’s first instinct is to—

“Let me go!” The scream sounds like it’s tearing Dustin’s throat, splitting him in two. A grief too much to hold. “Let me go, you asshole—Steve! Steve, please.”

“D-Dustin. You can’t help, he’s—” Eddie’s eyes burn. “He’s beyond…”

One solitary chime.

Eddie shudders, almost laughs—because if there was to be a vision designed to torment him, surely it would be this one; God, he’ll take it, he’ll take anything so long as it meant—

But Dustin freezes in his arms, and Eddie knows that he can see the clock, too.

With a gut-wrenching cry, Dustin fights to break away again.

“Don’t,” Eddie repeats, but it’s no use; Dustin hits him right in the jaw.

He falls to the ground, but the pain is nothing to the tug he suddenly feels in the back of his mind; he thinks of when Steve whispered, “He's here. Henderson. That little shit, he's here. He's like… He's in the walls or something. Just listen,” and Eddie could only stare in bewilderment, because some things are just impossible, aren’t they?

Aren’t they?

Eddie pushes himself up with his hands.

Dustin’s not running towards Steve.

He’s running towards the clock.

Until… he isn’t. He just stops, halfway to it. He looks over his shoulder, looks back at Eddie with heartbreaking uncertainty.

“I can—I can do it, right?”

It shouldn’t make sense—it doesn’t make sense, but Eddie inexplicably finds his mouth opening.

As if from somewhere deep within, he says, “Sure you can.” He doesn’t understand where the words are coming from, is just abruptly certain that he believes them with all his heart. “I know you can.”

Dustin takes a deep breath. He nods.

Runs.

Eddie watches him go—he doesn’t look away, not until the world is lit up, a burning white, and he simply can’t do it anymore.

[kkl1nch0r]

title: woes of an immortal (blade x gn!reader)

angst. this is angst guys. i was feeling emo. please don't come for my throat if your soul is shattered like mine was when I typed in the last words LOL!

-------

Since when did once an abomination seek and find its inner beauty?

Since when did a monster find their claws worthy and able to cradle the body of their dead love gently?

Since when did a beast, its fangs eternally stained with the slaughterous voices of its sin, bound and sliced cleanly from its vices, learn to find itself worthy of affection?

Blade was the first to be.

Once his weary eyes, deprived of desire, gazed into yours– the savage tamed by the saint– everything prior to his misery (as well the whole of his suffering) had been snuffed out. Much like the blowing out of a candle with its constant need to burn, all there was left was the stub of wax. Unhealed scars, bleeding wounds, a wailing soul.

I’ve changed, repeated the immortal abomination. I’ve changed.

You had held his cold cheek firmly and told him things you alone cannot remember– only a man who had lived so mundanely could recall the very words you had uttered.

But at the merciless hands of death, who can blame for one to forget? Even those who have lived with such purpose and ambition cannot remember every word they have spoken on their deathbed.

Your deathbed was his lap, your pillows were his trembling hands, and your last breath was just as shaking as his. Your vision faded, coming into focus to see blades ugly ass eye sigh this is shit

I bring misery, he says, his voice sounding like a cry heard from the other side of a wall. I have brought this upon you.

“Do not blame yourself,” you whisper, and he begins to cry– it's a mourning howl. He’s wailing; there are no signs of him stopping, as his tears come down upon your face like rain. A scarred, quivering hand clutches yours, and your heart breaks– as much as you wish to squeeze back reassuringly, there is no strength left in your body to reciprocate his gesture. No more energy to dispel his worries.

Blade tires himself out by crying; he lets out a choked sob, having lamented so hard his voice is broken, scattered like his essence. He had been begging for death just then; why did he wish for life now?

“Blade,” you whisper weakly, and it brings another wave of sobs. Blade doesn’t know he torments you with his sorrow. You lie in his arms helplessly as the man strangles himself with his cries.

Oh, it sounds so sad. So terrible, to know that you are about to pass on and he, immortal as he is, can do nothing about it– can do nothing about his death, nor yours, and can only watch as time flies by; to wait for a person who will never come back, nobody to answer his calls. Nobody to return to; nobody to look for in the bustling crowds of the Xianzhou.

Nobody to confide in, love, protect– Blade brings your hand to his lips– a gentle kiss placed on your knuckles as you manage a weak smile, lifting your hand to hold his cheek. He so desperately presses into your touch, tears trickling down his cheeks, barely able to hold back his grieving cries.

“You…” Swallowing thickly, you try to form a coherent sentence. “You haven’t changed.”

Not one bit? Blade asks sadly, pressing his lips against the palm of your hand. The shake of your head answers him, and Blade breathes in deeply, but it hitches, and he shakes with an effort to control his silent crying.

“Not one bit,” You reply with effort, and it's surprising how such a simple phrase seems to take the breath from you. Blade nods, and you exhale resignedly, bits of the world blurring into one. They say death is peaceful, but the man looking at you tells you otherwise.

“Remember me,” You say finally, and the last fragmented vision of Blade’s face blurs into nothing. Your body scatters, fading to ashes of what remains:

You are the ghost of a memory– sometimes Blade will see your figure standing in the midst of a parting crowd– there are times when you are there and moments when you aren’t. As Blade gazes at his empty, bloody hands, he begins to wonder if you were merely a fleeting dream.

But there is nothing he can do to change about it. And so his piercing wail reaches the sky, the rumble of thunder in the rushing of gray clouds, the rain purging the very essence of what made up just a fraction of his life.

Never has Blade felt so insignificant, as he recalls the words you had whispered once before.

I’ve changed, he’d repeat. I’ve changed.

You are just the same, you had said. When one’s life changes, the soul remains as is. You are better now– better, but just the same.

Blade kneels in the dirt.

Just the very same, Blade thinks, but without you, I feel truly different.

[greetingfromthedead]

Mayfly of Love (Vash x GN!Reader)

Plot: Vash is tormented by a nightmare of losing you and his guilt for causing the Great Fall.

Series: Tempest Wind, but made to work as a oneshot

Pairing: Vash x GN!Reader

Rating: Everyone

Tags: no use of "y/n", nightmare, angst, violence, blood, injuries, death, worry, hurt / comfort, tenderness, cuddling

Word count: 1.8k

Author's Note: Another chapter of my large series made into a oneshot cause I am still proud of what I wrote so I am making in accessible to those too who don't want to read the whole thing.

You have been separated from Vash's side as the people pool into the streets. Vash pushes back, trying to reach you; your outstretched hand is snatched away from him as the grasps of the people pull back on you and grab hold of him. The voices are shouting and wailing so loudly that they drown out yours; all Vash sees are your lips moving before you disappear completely. Vash's hand still uselessly reaches out to where he had seen you, but the bodies carry him further away.

"Mayfly!" he shouts out.

"Murderer!" A voice stands out from the crowd, and as he looks for it, he sees a familiar little boy pointing at him. "Murderer!"

"It's all your fault!" More voices become clearer. "You did this! Demon! Devil! Murderer!"

The hands are just grabbing at him, pulling, and pushing him. He is at fault for their suffering; if it wasn't for him, they wouldn't be here fighting for their lives. The children wouldn't be starving, and the citizens wouldn't have to drink dirty water from the next town over just to survive another day. They could live in a better place, in paradise.

"You pave your way with the corpses of our people! You monster!"

The hands get more aggressive as they force him to his knees; he feels them clawing at his skin. Vash accepts his punishment; he can't fight back against all these people like this; he can't hurt them; he has caused too much pain already. He hears the voices cry out, some to God, some to their loved ones. The sky above Vash gets hidden behind the heads of people towering over him. He curls up, covering his head, ready for the onslaught. But he feels teardrops on his skin instead, and as he raises his eyes slowly, he sees the crying faces, blame in their eyes.

"You killed our future! You killed our children and our mothers! You monster! You don't deserve happiness! You don't deserve relief! Nobody loves you! You deserve to suffer!" The cacophony of voices in the crowd speaks as one. He realizes that the hands are letting go, no longer tugging and clawing at him. "You don't even deserve the relief of death!"

Slowly, the people in front of him step back; more and more of them start retreating until a path is created through the crowd. His eyes trail upwards along the ground. He doesn't see the people or their faces; they are just walls of bodies.

"You don't deserve happiness. You don't deserve love." The voices quiet down; they sound like whispers as the last people move aside and reveal a red form on the ground. Vash's eyes refuse to see the truth, but his legs already try to find traction and move him forward. He doesn't even get to stand up properly, staggering towards you. He sees you lying in a pool of blood, your limbs bent unnaturally, and your skin covered in wounds. Vash falls down over your mangled body, his hands reaching out to pull you into his arms, but you are so limp and lifeless that it doesn't feel like you; his arms refuse to believe it could be you. His eyes track along your body, looking for signs that you'll be alright, but the blood continues to trickle out of the wounds, your skin is still broken, and the light in your eyes has gone out.

"Suffer! You deserve to lose everyone! Everything you love shall turn to ashes!" The voices around him keep chanting, and they fill Vash with rage like he has never felt before. This is injustice; you don't deserve to suffer for what he has done. Is this really what people are like? Taking out their anger on others? Part of him wishes he had enough bullets for everyone surrounding him—for everyone who would do something like this to you. It feels like his mercy died with the flame in your eyes. His face twists in a hateful frown.

"Mayfly..." his voice breaks as his forehead gently leans against yours, still bruised and with a gash leading into your hairline, "Come back to me."

He won't kill them. It would destroy both Rem and you; it would betray everything he stands for. But this is nothing but a conscious choice, as the rage flows through him like a river. He lifts his head, and his fingers push your eyes closed. He looks around, but he doesn't see the people anymore; they are just faceless beasts to him. Instead, he focuses on some sheets flapping in the wind, and he gets up, his movements rigid and stiff. He pulls down the white fabric to return to you and wrap you in it, covering your mutilated body with it, to hide you from the eyes of the townsfolk.

"I'll keep you safe till you come back to me. I promise." He whispers gently as his arms scoop you against his chest. Your feet dangle limply as he picks you up, and you feel strangely heavy in his arms; it's not the weight of you but of Vash's guilt. One of your arms slips out of his grasp and hangs loosely out from under the sheet covering the rest of you completely, your face included.

"Suffer, monster!" The voices continue, but they are nearly completely drowned out. Vash starts moving through the people; they part as he moves, a neutral expression on his face, a mask of denial he has forced onto himself.

Come back to me... He keeps thinking, knowing full well how selfish that is of him.

The sheet around you stains with your blood. You just need time. He will give you a hundred years if he has to. He will wait a millennium for you to return. As long as he remembers, you will live. He has to believe that, or he loses himself too.

He faces forward, the people moving to fill the gap behind him again. His steps are forced; only one thought is hammering in his head. Come back to me. The voices are drowned out; they are just background noise like the wind. The wind. It ruffles his hair, strokes his cheeks, and whispers into his ear. The wind blowing through the street whispers his name.

Vash...

He stops in his tracks at the familiar voice and looks around; the people are gone. It's just him in the empty ghost town.

Red...

The same voice swoops past his ear, grabbing the linen from his arms and blowing it up into the sky. He realizes his arms are light, your body has disappeared, and all he finds as he looks down is a singular blue iris in his hand. He twirls it between his fingers as he watches, enchanted.

Love...

The wind whispers again, but this time much closer. It doesn't disappear into the empty desert; its breath lingers for a while longer, and he gets to focus on it. What he sees first is a dark sky dotted with stars, but right in front of him is a silhouette he knows well, breaking that view. As his eyes focus better, his hand reaches out. He feels your warm, soft skin under his hand as his palm finds your face.

"Mayfly," he exhales with relief. "You came back to me."

"I would always come back to you," you say with slight confusion in your voice. You hadn't left; you laid right beside him under the blankets. Your hand had been resting on his bare chest when you felt his racing heart and erratic breathing. He mumbled something with sorrow in his voice, but you didn't make out any of it. You decided you would relieve him from the probable nightmare by waking him; you had said his name, but that didn't help. You had to sit up and actually shake him lightly, still calling out to him for Vash to open his eyes.

He sits up, supporting his weight on his elbow. He is still holding your face, his gaze so tender that you wonder what he had dreamed about. You see the reflection of the night sky in his eyes. His red coat slips off his shoulder, and he doesn't seem to notice the cold air against his skin. Your hand traces gently over his chest.

"You can go back to sleep. I'll keep watch, both over the desert and over your dreams. No more nightmares. I'll keep them away." You smile at him, gently pushing him back onto the mat. He still looks dazed, as if he saw a ghost.

"Lay with me. Please." His voice is pleading as he relents to your push and lays down.

"Of course," you say gently. You would be with him anyway, but it seems like the nightmare truly shook him. You tuck him in with his blanket before pulling yours a bit more over both of you. You slip under his blanket and settle partially on his chest to keep him warm. Your head rests close to his shoulder, his arms wrap around you, and his cheek snuggles against your hair for a moment before laying back onto the pillow. Silence falls over the desert again as his breathing calms down. All that disturbs the fragile quiet is the buzzing of some worms around you.

"At this point, I don't know what I would do without you." His voice is quiet. "How strange it is. I feel like we were never strangers, not even for a moment. You've always been in my heart; I can't explain it. You are so familiar to me that it has felt less like getting to know you and more like remembering you. Maybe in another time or a different place, we existed together once before, hand in hand.

I never want to lose you; it's selfish of me, but we've already gone over our selfish sides. Still, I don't want to cause you pain either." He stumbles with his words, not finding quite the right ones to describe his thoughts. "I want you to be happy and I've never loved anyone quite like this, so I might not be good at it. But I will try. I will try to keep you safe and make you happy. And I will learn every way to love you the way you deserve. My sweet Mayfly."

"I love you too," you whisper.

Vash has a light and tired smile on his lips. He said what he said because he wanted you to know that you are loved by him; he didn't expect you to say it back. He didn't even expect you to quite pick up on all that he was laying out to you, but of course you would; you have always been able to see right through him.

"I love you." The three simple words he has kept back cross his lips, unable to be contained anymore.

Read more Tempest Wind HERE.

Did you like this? Go check out my MASTERLIST and drop a follow for any and all future projects!

[saltandfire-blog]

if you keep killing me how can i keep absolving?

update!

chapter two: claw marks pt.1

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Years passed, and the slashed open flesh across Aemond's face eventually scarred. 

Grandmaester Orwyle told him time healed all, but Aemond had to disagree. Wounds remained. And the ones that don’t show on the body are the deepest and most hurtful than anything that bleeds. 

Aemond learned to pretend like he didn't see the blood across the floors anymore and the heads stacked atop the spikes that ran along the dry moat. He ignored the ash that fell like snowfall from the throne room, and he didn't even turn his head anymore when he heard children shrieking and wailing that resided nowhere in the Red Keep. Aemond did his best to distract himself throughout the years, desperate attempts to escape things he saw and the sense of insupportable loneliness from a dread of some strange, impending doom. He took to the sword as Helaena took to her needlepoint to cope with the things no others ever could, and after Lucerys, he didn't know what was premonitious and what was… derangement . 

Because he didn't just see what could be, but what things that had already happened. 

When Aemond dreamt of a man who wasn't his father sat atop the Iron Throne with his throat and wrists gushing blood that ran down the melded sword steps, he stood beneath it and knew he was seeing what had already been. As Aemond stared at Maegor's head that was unable to fall with the sword that had pierced through his jugular, holding him up like some grotesque marionette, he had to ask himself, were these images from events that had happened long before his birth, or just conjured up from his mind from all the stories he’d been told? Was he really seeing Maegor grab Alys Harroway from her bed with her slain sister strewn at her feet? Did he really see the Cruel King push his Queen out a window that now belonged to his sister?

Aemond was treated as sickly and unstable for years after he lost his eye, but he determined that would not keep him weak. With the support of Ser Criston, his champion when Aemond's mother was against him picking up a sword so soon when he still struggled just to write, he swung every aggression against every grievance against him with a practice sword.

Though Aemond did not only dedicate his time to swordplay but to his studies as well.

Learning to stop drawing attention to the things that happened around him that no one else saw, he turned his eyes down to the pages of books and also fought his nightmares and frustrations with a quill and parchment. Aemond would not admit to his disturbance any longer, no matter how many times his mother and Orwyle asked, and poured himself into his studies to find out what had happened to him. He studied human anatomy, combed through the entirety of the Red Keep's textbooks and diagrams that had anything to do with a person's head. He considered if Luke's blade hit a nerve so deep, or maybe even the fever had boiled him so hotly it had damaged some part of him that could explain the hallucinations he now suffered. But all this wouldn't explain how his sister Helaena had experienced no such trauma or damage to her head, but still sometimes looked up from her embroidering when the walls would glow red and begin to melt like wax from a candle, assuring him he didn't suffer these alarming occurances on his own.

Orwyle tutored him for years, and his mother had even invited reputable scholars from Oldtown and across the realm to visit the capital when Aemond's appetite grew too large for their Grandmaester to attend to on his own. 

Studying in the Citadel, he checked in every morning, the librarians and archivists recognized him easily enough by now and were always attentive to whatever he needed from the indices of their archives and catalogues. They were most generous in their own suggestions, some worth noting and some not, and were most charitable in letting him take notes from certain texts that had more restrictive rules on copying passages. There were a fews maesters he studied under, but with his royal status he was tutored more privately under Archmaester Crey and Archmaester Umbert, both renowned researchers in their areas of expertise that consisted of mathematics and healing.

When he first arrived, people stared. Even with the patch covering his mutilation, it was like everyone could discern who he was at a glance and knew just what was under the dark leather he hid behind. Nothing. All he was in the eyes of everyone, was a victim. Flayed open by his own kin, left to endure the mark permanently across his face. Some people stared with pity, but most were horrified.

Cont. on AO3

[tired-truffle]

Something’s Gotta Give

A CullenxLavellan fic

Chapter Word Count: 6.4k

Part 12 - Two Steps Forward

"I don't know what's going to come out of me," I told her. "It has to be perfect. It has to be irreproachable in every way." "Why?" she said. "To make up for it," I said. "To make up for the fact that it's me." - Suzanne Riveka

Masterlist

Flames licked hungrily at Ash, their fiery tongues lapping along her skin. A primal scream fought to flee from her lips, but she could only choke on the thick smoke that filled her lungs. The acrid stench of burning flesh assaulted her senses, making her gag.

Through the suffocating haze of agony and terror, Ash strained to make out the looming shape of the Archdemon. Its massive form towered over her, its obsidian scales reflecting the hellish light of the inferno it had unleashed. As she lay paralyzed with fear, she could feel the intense heat emanating from its body, searing her flesh and scorching her lungs with each breath. The beast's demonic eyes glowed with pure malice, savouring her suffering as it held her in its grasp.

Ash's mind reeled, thoughts scattering like ashes on the wind. She had to get away, had to run from this nightmare, but her body wouldn't obey. Her legs were the roots of an old, gnarled tree, rooted in place even as the conflagration roared around her. Blistering, bubbling, blackening skin sloughed away to expose raw red muscle. She was melting, dissolving, disintegrating to nothing under the Archdemon's attack.

It couldn't end like this. Rae, she had to protect Rae. Ash willed her arm to move, to summon ice or water to douse the blaze. But her magic flickered feebly and sputtered out, powerless against the flames. Helpless as a child.

The Archdemon's maw split into a hideous facsimile of a grin, baring dagger-like fangs. With a bellow that shook Ash to her core, it lunged, Voidfire spewing from its gaping jaws.

White-hot, blinding, blazing agony. Too much. Ash threw her head back and howled, an animalistic shriek torn from the depths of her being. The world shattered around her, falling away in a torrent of embers and shards.

But the scene shifted, melted, reformed itself into a different horror. Gone were the flames and the Archdemon's bulk. Now there was only a yawning chasm of darkness, an abyss that left her disoriented, unable to tell which way was up or down. Spectral forms emerged from the shadows - twisted, emaciated things with hollow eyes and gaping mouths. They circled her, clawed hands reaching, grasping.

Whispers filled the air, the words strange and distorted. Ash strained to make out their meaning but it remained just beyond her reach, the voices overlapping, entirely gibberish. Louder and louder they chanted, battering at her mind. She clapped her hands over her ears but it did nothing to block the maddening susurrus.

It built to a fever pitch, hundreds of ghostly throats wailing, the force of it driving Ash to her knees. Something inside her snapped, a thread of control fraying apart. All at once, wild magic burst from her in a concussive wave. A soundless roar filled her head as the surge of power rushed outwards, slamming into the spectres and hurling them back into the void.

Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, the energy abruptly deserted her and she crumpled. The ground seemed to turn to quicksand beneath her, dragging her down into its depths. Deeper and deeper she sank as her vision narrowed to a pinpoint of light, then winked out entirely. The last feeling was the cold press of oblivion folding itself around her, and then…nothing - only the fathomless dark and sweet silence.

“He passed beneath the stone gaze of the cormorant statues flanking the gates and nodded to the guards on his way to the barracks. No one noticed his ragged, bloody clothing, which disappointed him as much as he benefited from it. Recruits these days. Always slacking off.”

Grey stone walls greeted her, a pale light shining through the thick glass window. Her body itched and ached as it had for…days? Weeks? She had little concept of time anymore, though it was clear that she was no longer in her tent. Had they made it to Skyhold? 

Varric’s raspy baritone voice was easy enough to recognize, even in her groggy state. He continued reading, quiet and slow like a soothing bedtime story - but with a little too much violence to tell to children. 

“Donnen bypassed the Captain's office and went looking for Jevlan. By now the kid ought to be rested up, and Donnen suspected he would need backup if his large, suspicious shadows decided to pick a fight. But Jevlan's bunk was empty.”

“Is he dead?” Ash turned her head towards Varric, his feet propped up on the side of her bed - a real bed and not a cot, its mattress lumpy but still cozy - as he leaned back in a rickety-looking wooden chair. At her side, Sweetpea lay curled up, purring and kneading her thigh.

His lips curled into a devilish smirk. “No need to be hasty, you’ll find out in good time.”

Ash huffed, a childish impatience clattering through her that came from, well, however long she’d been stuck in bed. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, eyeing her with a strange amount of scrutiny. Though he tried to appear relaxed, Ash caught a glimpse of the tightness of his shoulders, and how Bianca sat propped against his chair, ready for use. 

“Like I got half my skin burnt off by an Archdemon.”

Varric chuckled, his finger drumming absent-mindedly against the book. “Yeah, I figured as much. But I meant more up here.” He tapped his forehead with his index finger. “No sudden urges to throw me against a wall?”

She furrowed her brow and cocked her head to the side, her lips pursing in confusion. He raised his hands in a gesture of nonchalance.

“I had to ask. The last time you woke up you threw the healer across the room while screaming bloody murder.”

Oh. Her heart sunk into her stomach. Fuck. Had that been the whispers in her dream? Simply the healer trying to do her job?

“Hey, no need to look like you strangled the life out of a kitten with your bare hands.” Varric removed his feet from her bed, placing his elbows on his bent knees and leaning forward. “Other than a few minor bruises and a touch of shock, she wasn’t seriously harmed.”

Ash gritted her teeth. “I still hurt her.”

Varric was silent as he studied her. “Was it you or…?”

Her heart continued to sink lower. “It was just me,” she confirmed, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased. “They sent you here to babysit me?”

“I volunteered.” An affectionate light lit up his eyes, and despite her desire to berate herself until she was blue in the face, she felt herself relaxing. 

But it didn’t last long. 

“I need to apologize.” Ash attempted to push herself off the bed, but she made it no farther than an inch before she collapsed onto the mattress, a guttural groan pulled from deep within her throat. 

“I wouldn’t suggest that,” Varric said a beat too late. “At least not without help.” He leaned back, opening his book once more. “And I’m afraid I don’t have the height to assist you, Frosty.”

Varric's voice washed over Ash as he resumed the tale, the cadence of his words lulling her into a sort of trance and cutting off any further protests. She let her eyes drift closed, the image of the stone walls around her fading away as her mind conjured the scenes he described. But try as she might to focus on the tale he wove, her mind kept wandering, thoughts skittering away like insects beneath a rock lifted by a curious child.

She stared up at the wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling, tracing the swirling patterns in the knotted grain with her eyes. Dust motes danced in the pale sunlight slanting through the window, glittering like tiny diamonds. She would spend much too long in the coming days staring at that ceiling, until finally - Creators, finally - the healers began to help her up. Sitting came first, and with it came new aches and pains, but Ash was determined to grit her teeth and force her way through it. And that was exactly what she did, much to Rae’s chagrin when she was sparred a moment to check on her sister. It irritated her to the point that she’d assigned Solas to be in charge of Ash’s movement. Ash had almost exploded in a ball of fury when she’d heard this. She didn’t need to be coddled by her sister’s object of affection.

But she should have known better than to expect Solas to coddle her. If Ash was determined to walk through the pain, Solas was perfectly content with this, as long as it didn’t undo all the hard work he’d put into keeping her alive. To her surprise, he offered gentle but firm encouragements, and soon, she’d made it to the window and back while leaning heavily on the elvhen apostate. She wondered briefly if she could put enough weight on him to topple him over, suppressing a giggle at the image of a flattened Solas beneath her plump form.

Rae had other plans for Ash than just sicking Solas on her; she would provide a much-needed haircut. Rae's nimble fingers worked through what remained of her once-luscious locks, trimming away the singed and frayed ends. Ash fought to keep her eyes from straying to the pile of golden strands accumulating on the floor, each discarded piece a painful reminder of what she'd lost.

"You know," Rae mused, her tongue poking out slightly as she concentrated, "I always wondered what you'd look like with short hair. Guess the Archdemon did us both a favour."

"Yes, because that's exactly what I needed. A makeover from the Void."

Rae chuckled, moving to stand in front of Ash and eyeing her handiwork critically. "Don't be such a grump. It's not like you were using all that hair for anything useful."

“A rude assumption.”

Rae ignored her, making a few final snips. "There. All done. Want to see?"

Ash hesitated, her heart thumping nervously in her chest. Did she want to see? To confront how much had changed? Steeling herself, she nodded.

Rae produced a small hand mirror from seemingly nowhere - a trick Ash had long since given up trying to figure out - and held it up.

The face staring back at her was both familiar and foreign. Her hair, once flowing past her waist in golden waves, now barely brushed her shoulders. The left side was noticeably shorter, the burns having claimed more there. But Rae had done an admirable job evening it out, giving it a tousled, almost stylish look.

Purposefully, Ash did not let her gaze wander to the bandages covering her burns.

"See? Not so bad, right?" Rae's voice was gentler now, a hint of concern creeping in. "It'll grow back, you know. And in the meantime, think of how much easier it'll be to wash."

Ash reached up, running her fingers through the shortened strands. It felt strange, lighter. Like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders - both literally and figuratively. "I suppose it's not terrible," she admitted grudgingly. "Though I'll miss being able to braid it."

Rae's face lit up. "We can do little braids along the side, or maybe some fancy pins. Ooh, or we could shave one side completely and-"

"Don't push your luck," Ash warned. And though Ash was sure Rae was tempted, she backed off. For now.

Ash had a few visitors over the days of her recovery, most wishing her well briefly before disappearing, their duties calling them away - Bull had been almost too big to fit through her doorway, and she’d laughed harder than she had in much too long as she watched him struggle to fit his horns into the room. Dorian, however, had taken it upon himself to have tea with her every morning without fail. He would sweep into the room with a flourish, a silver tray laden with a steaming pot of fragrant tea and an assortment of delicate pastries balanced expertly in his hands. His presence was a welcome respite from the monotony of her convalescence, his witty banter and tales of his exploits in the library soothing her restless mind.

Ash was surprised, then, when both Leliana and Josephine separately stopped by her chamber. Leliana arrived first, silent as a shadow, her hood pulled low over her face. She stood at the foot of Ash's bed, her piercing blue eyes seeming to see straight through to Ash's soul.

"I am glad to see you are recovering well," Leliana said, her lilting Orlesian accent softening her words. "We were all quite worried."

Ash shifted uncomfortably under the spymaster's intense gaze. "Thank you.”

Leliana's lips quirked into a small, enigmatic smile. "I have heard reports of your incident with the healer." Shame flooded through her. But Leliana continued, "It is understandable, given what you have been through. Do not let it trouble you."

Ash blinked, taken aback by the unexpected absolution. Before she could formulate a response, Leliana leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I would, however, suggest speaking with Commander Cullen. He has been rather concerned as of late." With that cryptic statement, Leliana straightened, inclined her head in a brief nod, and glided out of the room as silently as she had entered.

Ash stared after her, mind whirling. Cullen was concerned? About her? The thought sent a strange flutter through her chest. But if he truly was concerned, why had he not stopped by? It wasn’t like she could go to him. He was busy, she was sure, but if what Leliana said was true, surely he would have sparred a minute of his time.

She was still pondering this when Josephine arrived, a vision of gold and blue silk, her clipboard clutched to her chest. The ambassador's warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled down at Ash.

"It is wonderful to see you awake," Josephine said, her voice as smooth and sweet as honey. "I have brought you some lemon cakes, would you care to share them?”

Ash found herself smiling in spite of her melancholy thoughts. "I would love to. Please, join me." She gestured to the chair beside her bed.

Josephine settled herself gracefully, arranging her skirts and setting the silver tray on the bedside table. The scent of the cakes wafted over to Ash, buttery and sweet with a hint of lemon. Her stomach rumbled appreciatively.

As Josephine portioned out the cake, Ash studied the other woman. She had seen the Ambassador around Haven and, of course, had exchanged polite greetings in passing. But they had never really spoken at length. Josephine always seemed to be in motion, flitting from one task to the next with an air of harried purpose. Yet here she was, taking time out of what was undoubtedly a packed schedule to check on Ash's wellbeing. It was touching, and Ash found herself warming to the other woman.

"I must admit, I'm surprised to see you here, Ambassador," Ash said as she accepted a slice of cake. "Pleasantly so, of course. But I would have thought you far too occupied with important matters to waste time on me."

Josephine tutted, shaking her head. "Nonsense. Checking on the health and comfort of the Inquisition's members is never a waste of time." She selected a piece of cake and placed it on a napkin, eyeing it with a poorly concealed eagerness. "And please, call me Josie. I think we can dispense with formalities, don't you?"

Ash took a bite of the cake, the rich buttery flavour melting on her tongue. She closed her eyes briefly in bliss. Josephine certainly knew how to choose her pastries. Swallowing, she replied, "I would like that."

The two women settled into a comfortable rapport, chatting amiably as they savoured the delicate lemon cakes. Josephine regaled Ash with tales of her diplomatic exploits, painting vivid pictures of grand balls and tense negotiations with recalcitrant nobles.

In turn, Ash shared stories of her own upbringing amongst the Dalish, describing the lush forests, ancient ruins that had been her playground, and the more popular Dalish dishes. Josephine listened with rapt attention, keen to glimpse into a culture different from her own.

As the last crumbs of cake were brushed away, Josephine glanced out the window, noting the sun's position with a small frown. She sighed, setting her napkin aside.

"I'm afraid I must take my leave," she said, genuine regret colouring her words. "There are a dozen letters that require my attention before the day's end." She stood, smoothing her skirts.

Ash felt a pang of disappointment, having enjoyed the ambassador's company more than she had anticipated. But she understood the demands of duty all too well. "Of course.” Ash offered a small smile. "Thank you for taking the time to visit. It was nice to have a friendly face to talk to. Well, a woman, that is. Dorian would be beside himself if he thought I’d described him as unfriendly.”

Josephine's smile softened, warmth suffusing her features. "It was my pleasure, Ash. Truly." She reached out, giving Ash's hand a gentle squeeze. "I will try to visit again soon. In the meantime, do not hesitate to send word if you need anything at all."

With a final smile and a swish of silk, Josephine left Ash to her solitude.

That was, until one Altus mage barged into her room the next morning with little care for her privacy and suspiciously lacking the tray of tea he’d taken to bringing as of late.

“A little birdie told me you were in need of a human crutch,” Dorian announced, a teasing grin tilting his perfectly groomed moustache. How would Solas feel about being called a little birdie, she wondered.

Ash was seated in a chair at her bedside, a plush but lopsided cushion placed beneath her to keep the weight off the burns on her rear end. Carelessly, she flung the book she’d been blankly staring at for hours onto the bed. 

“And you’ve come to offer your services?” 

Giving an overdramatic, flourishing bow, Dorian held out his hand. “I have and you may thank me later. Shall we?”

When she’d been walked by Solas, his quiet observation had left her with nothing to focus on but her stiff, achy limbs and the tight pull of her burnt skin, pain racing all over her body as it struggled to process the input from her fried nerves. But with Dorian, Ash did not have to worry about silence. 

Dorian looped his arm through Ash's, supporting her weight as they slowly made their way out of the room and down toward the gardens.

"It’s about time you saw it - Skyhold is positively bustling! We've got pilgrims and recruits pouring in from every corner of Thedas. The courtyard is packed with tents and training dummies. I've never seen Cullen so harried, the poor man is run ragged trying to whip them all into shape."

Ash huffed a laugh, picturing the Commander's exasperated grimace as he barked orders at a gaggle of green recruits. She felt a twinge in her chest at the thought of him, remembering Leliana's cryptic comment. Shaking it off, she focused on Dorian's animated chatter.

"Bull and his Chargers have set up shop in the tavern, of course. I swear, that Qunari can sniff out a cask of ale from a league away. He's become quite the local celebrity - the barmaids are all aflutter over his rippling muscles and 'rugged charm.'" Dorian sniffed disdainfully, but Ash caught a sprinkling of fondness beneath the snark.

They sat down on a bench and Ash pushed down the frustration that arose that she had only been able to make it a few steps into the garden. It was more than she’d managed yet, she should be proud of her progress, and she would have been for anyone else. But for some reason, she couldn't shake off the feeling that she should be meeting an impossible standard of recovery. It gnawed at her like a persistent itch, unrelenting and frustrating - or perhaps that was the twisting scars off her burns.

"Sera has claimed a tavern room for herself - apparently she's been pranking the guests by loosening the floorboards. Poor Josephine is at her wit's end trying to placate the victims."

"Sera's incorrigible. I'm surprised Josephine hasn't strangled her with one of her many sashes."

"Oh, I'm sure our dear Ambassador is sorely tempted," Dorian chuckled. "But she's far too diplomatic for such a scandalous display. Unlike a certain elven mage, I could name." He shot Ash a pointed look.

She swatted at him playfully. "Watch it, Tevinte."

"Speaking of scandals,” Dorian spoke out of the side of his mouth in an exaggerated aside. “You'll never guess who our dear Varric has been hiding from us."

Ash's eyebrows shot up, curiosity piqued. "Do tell."

"None other than the Champion of Kirkwall herself - Marian Hawke!" Dorian announced with a flourish, looking entirely too pleased with himself for delivering this bombshell.

Ash's jaw dropped. "Hawke? Here? But I heard that Varric swore up and down he had no idea where she was."

"He was lying through his teeth, the sneaky dwarf. He's been in contact with her all along, and now she's on her way to Skyhold to lend her aid to the Inquisition. Apparently, they’ve encountered Corypheus before." Dorian settled back against the bench, crossing his legs and smoothing his mustache. "I must say, I'm rather looking forward to meeting the woman behind the legend."

Ash snorted, a wordless agreement. Trust Varric to pull a stunt like that. She couldn't blame him for wanting to protect his friend, and it soothed a piece of her soul that he was able to so capably keep a lie, even under pressure, if he wanted to.

While Dorian’s chatter was a great distraction, soon even sitting on the bench became too much, and with great pain, he helped her back to her room. But he returned later that day, and then the next day, and the one after that, until their strolls became routine.

In the early days, Ash's walks were limited to the rundown gardens just outside her room, too exhausted from her pain and sedentary time. Yet, slowly but surely, she was able to make it further. It helped soothe the restlessness rattling her bones to make her rounds of the Skyhold courtyard.

Ash leaned heavily on Dorian's arm as they made their way into the bustling tavern, the raucous laughter and clinking of tankards assaulting her ears. The scent of stale ale and unwashed bodies hung thick in the air, making her wrinkle her nose. But beneath it all was the mouthwatering aroma of roasting meat, making her stomach rumble insistently.

Dorian guided her through the throng of patrons, his aristocratic bearing and immaculate robes drawing curious glances. He paid them no mind, his focus solely on maneuvering Ash to a relatively quiet corner table. She sank onto the rough wooden bench with a barely suppressed groan of relief, her legs trembling from the exertion of the short walk.

"I'll fetch us some refreshments, shall I? Don't go anywhere." Dorian winked, then disappeared into the crowd.

Ash leaned back against the wall and let her eyes drift shut. The tavern's racket washed over her, voices and laughter blurring into a strangely soothing white noise. She had agreed to this test, to see how she would fare in such a crowded and noisy environment, and so far, she was surprised at how well she was managing. After her lengthy convalescence, she would need time to get used to being around others again.

As Dorian took his sweet time, she felt herself starting to drift, her exhausted body eager to slip into a restful state.

"Look who's up and about!" A deep, rumbling voice jolted Ash from her doze.

Ash cracked open one eye to see The Iron Bull looming over her, his massive frame blocking out the light. A wide grin split his scarred face as he plopped down on the bench across from her, the wood creaking alarmingly under his weight.

“Bull," Ash greeted, mustering a tired smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Bull chuckled, the sound like distant thunder. "Just wanted to check in on you. Make sure you weren't getting into any trouble."

"Trouble? Me? Never." She shifted, wincing as her scarred skin pulled taut. "I'm afraid I'm not up for much excitement these days."

Bull's single eye glinted with mirth. "That's not what I've heard. Word is you've been terrorizing the poor healers."

Ash grimaced, shame coiling in her gut. The last she’d heard, the healer she’d tossed against the wall had been assigned to the barracks - far away from her. "Not intentionally." She picked at a splinter on the table. "It's hard being cooped up for so long. I feel like I'm going stir-crazy."

"I get it,” he said, and Ash had the feeling that he was being genuine, not simply placating. “It's tough, being out of commission. Feels like you're letting everyone down." He leaned forward, resting his massive forearms on the table. "But you gotta give yourself time to heal. Pushing too hard, too fast - that's a good way to end up right back where you started."

Ash sighed, knowing he was right but hating it all the same. It was what everyone had been telling her after all. Her restless energy felt like a living thing, crawling beneath her skin and driving her to distraction. She needed to be doing something, anything, to feel useful again. But her battered body had other ideas, betraying her at every turn with its weakness.

As if sensing her darkening thoughts, Bull grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dim light. "Tell you what - when you're back on your feet, you and I can go a few rounds in the training ring. Help you work out some of that frustration."

Ash perked up at the offer. "You're on," she agreed readily. "Prepare to eat dirt, Qunari."

Bull threw his head back and laughed, the sound booming through the tavern. "That's the spirit! I like a woman with fire." He winked roguishly, though there was no true desire behind it.

Before Ash could muster a retort, Dorian materialized at her elbow, two tankards in hand. He slid onto the bench beside her, eyeing Bull with both wariness and reluctant intrigue.

"Making friends, are we?" Dorian asked archly, pushing a mug of water towards Ash. She accepted it gratefully.

"You know me," Bull rumbled, his gaze raking appreciatively over Dorian - now that was a look of desire. "I'm the friendly sort."

Dorian sputtered into his ale, a flush rising on his high cheekbones. He dabbed at his mouth with an embroidered handkerchief - Ash hadn’t seen him take it out, where in the Void had he been keeping it? - glaring at Bull over the fabric. "I'm sure," he said dryly, though his voice held a telltale quaver.

Ash watched the exchange with growing attentiveness, her eyes darting between the two men like a spectator at a particularly engrossing tennis match. Bull's flirtations were about as subtle as a charging druffalo, but Dorian's flustered responses were the real entertainment. The normally unflappable mage was practically squirming in his seat, his wit deserting him in the face of Bull's blatant interest. It wasn’t long before Dorian made a poor excuse to depart - citing Ash’s exhaustion, despite how she had perked up - and all but pulled Ash out of the tavern.

As the week progressed, she had traversed through crowds of familiar faces and caught up with old friends, Dorian always by her side. Even Vivienne had taken a minute to stop her for a chat while she walked with Dorian, unexpected as that may have been.

"Miss Lavellan," Vivienne purred, her gaze sweeping over Ash with calculated precision. "I see you've finally emerged from your sickbed, a feat I wasn’t sure would ever come to pass."

Ash couldn’t figure out if it was meant as an insult, and before she could retort, Vivienne continued, "Those bandages simply won't do. I shall find you some robes that compliment your scars."

Taken aback, Ash covered her startle to the best of her abilities. "I don’t know, I think the white bandages suit me. Besides, the healers said I have to keep them covered, don’t want the sun re-burning them."

Vivienne's perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. "I said compliment, darling, not cover. One must always present one's best face to the world, regardless of circumstance."

She circled Ash like a shark scenting blood, her critical gaze taking in every detail. "Yes, I believe I have just the thing in mind. A deep emerald silk, perhaps, with gold embroidery to draw the eye. We'll need to adjust the neckline to accommodate your bandages, of course, but that's easily managed."

Ash wasn’t keen on being her doll, though she did like the idea of a pretty robe for when she was feeling better - it would be wasted now. "I appreciate the thought, but I'm not exactly in a state for fancy dress."

Vivienne's laugh was cut crystal, sharp and glittering. "Darling, that is precisely when one must make the effort. Your current state of dishabille may be excused due to your injuries, but it cannot continue indefinitely. The Inquisition must present a united and polished front, even in times of crisis."

Dorian, who had been watching the exchange with poorly concealed entertainment, finally chimed in. "Come now, Vivienne. Surely you can allow our dear Ash some time to recover before subjecting her to your exacting sartorial standards?"

Vivienne's gaze snapped to Dorian, her smile turning predatory. "And you, Lord Pavus? Shall we discuss your penchant for buckles and straps? One might think you were advertising for a very specific sort of attention."

Dorian sputtered indignantly, his mustache bristling. "I'll have you know this is the height of fashion in Minrathous."

"Yes, dear," Vivienne said, her tone dripping with false sympathy. "And that speaks volumes, doesn't it?"

Ash had to pull him away before they spent hours bickering over fashion. She wasn’t interested in spending her limited walking time fighting Vivienne when she knew she wouldn’t win.

Yet, even as everyone greeted her and wished her well, one person was always missing - a certain Commander who had been on her mind more than she would admit. She’d caught a glimpse of his back once as he stood at a run-down table out by the healers’ tents, but he’d been engrossed in conversation and she hadn’t wanted to interrupt. Or rather she had wanted to, but had decided against it for reasons that were still unknown to her - unacknowledged. 

“You’re looking a bit more stable on your feet today,” Dorian commented as they made their way around Skyhold. 

“Worried I’ll be able to replace your support with a crutch?” She was still too prone to dizziness to be able to walk on her own, but the more they walked, the less it happened. Solas had informed her that he would be moving her to crutches within the next week. The healers were also set to remove her bandages then as well. She was looking forward to removing the restrictive fabric and ending her daily dressing changes. Thank the Gods it wasn’t Solas who provided that service.

Dorian laughed, though it was more of a guffaw. “You’ll never be able to replace me with something so simple. I’ll of course accompany you even when you no longer require my steadying presence.”

“You’re right.” Ash leaned more of her weight than was necessary on him, laughing as he stumbled before he caught himself. “I would be lost without your guidance.”

“Then allow me to guide you towards the training yard.” 

Ash found herself wary of the sly grin that appeared on Dorian’s face as he steered her towards the exit of the main courtyard. “Why the training yards? You know I haven’t used my magic since Haven, I’m not exactly in sparring shape.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of observing our dedicated troops. Make sure they’re hard at work, protecting the innocent and ensuring no dastardly demons descend upon us.”

“Is that all?” She didn’t believe him for a second. “No ulterior motives? You didn’t hear a rumour that Bull would be practicing there?”

Dorian raised his nose in the air and sniffed indignantly. “I haven’t a clue as to what you are implying, I assure you my intentions are nothing but pure.”

Ash hummed her disbelief, but acquiesced. She wasn’t opposed to watching the soldiers train - the sight of sweaty bodies grappling and clashing with wooden swords was always entertaining, if nothing else. 

Ash gritted her teeth, stifling a groan as they neared the training yard, her hip tightening in protest. The healers had been correct, she’d lost feeling in patches across her burned body - the worst parts where her nerves had been burned away entirely. However, that didn’t stop the rest of her body from protesting the increased exertion. She could feel the telltale ache building in her muscles, a weariness that seeped into her bones. Perhaps this hadn't been the wisest idea.

She was just about to suggest to Dorian that they turn back when a flash of golden hair caught her eye. Her gaze snapped to the source, and all thoughts of fatigue fled her mind. There, in the center of the training yard, stood the Commander, demonstrating a series of intricate sword maneuvers to a group of fresh-faced recruits. His movements were fluid and precise, each strike and parry executed with a self-assured grace. He was sure of himself, confident and calm, like it cleared his mind.

But it wasn't just Cullen's swordsmanship that had her heart stuttering in her chest. No, it was the way his white linen shirt clung to his sweat-dampened skin, outlining every ripple and plane of his muscular torso. The fabric was nearly translucent in places, offering tantalizing glimpses of what lay beneath. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing corded forearms that flexed with each powerful swing of his sword. She'd never seen him without his mantle and armour before, and her mouth went dry at the sight, her tongue darting out to wet her suddenly parched lips.

A low chuckle at her side had Ash startling, her head whipping around to find Dorian watching her with an infuriatingly knowing smirk - one perfectly groomed eyebrow arched in a silent question.

Ash’s cheeks heated under Dorian's far too perceptive gaze. "Shush," she said with contempt, tearing her eyes away from Cullen's glistening form with difficulty.

"I didn't say anything," Dorian replied, all wide-eyed innocence belied by the wicked curve of his lips.

"You didn't have to," Ash grumbled. "Your face says it all." She shifted her weight, wincing as her burn twinged. Fuck, everything hurt. The dull throb she'd been ignoring in her lower back flared to life, and she had to grit her teeth against a pained hiss.

Dorian's hand on her elbow steadied her, his teasing expression morphing into one of concern. "Perhaps we should head back," he suggested gently. "You're looking a bit peaky."

Ash shook her head stubbornly, even as her scarred leg twitched. "I'm fine," she insisted. Her gaze drifted back to Cullen of its own accord, taking in the flexing muscles of his back as he lunged and parried with a recruit, a practical education. "Besides, I think you're enjoying the view as much as I am."

"Maybe," Dorian allowed, tilting his head to better appreciate the spectacle. "The man does fill out a pair of breeches rather well, I'll give him that much.”

“Mhm,” she responded distractedly, her mind only half on the pleasing sight before her. As she watched Cullen put his recruits through their paces, a nagging thought wormed its way to the forefront of her mind, refusing to be ignored any longer.

Why hadn't he come to see her? She’d spent much too long dwelling on the question, and still, she didn’t have a good answer.

The silence from the Commander was conspicuous, an absence that gnawed at Ash's insides like a hungry rat. She tried to tell herself it was nothing personal, that he was simply too occupied with his duties to spare a moment to visit her - it wasn’t like they’d been friends right? And the Inquisition's forces wouldn't train themselves, after all. Surely that demanding task consumed his every waking hour.

And yet a small, insidious voice whispered in the back of her mind, an insistent lingering of doubt. Perhaps it wasn't duty that kept him away, but discomfort. Unease. Regret.

Ash's stomach twisted into knots as the thoughts burrowed deeper, taking root like poisonous weeds. Her mind spun back to the tent, when Rae had been called away and Cullen had taken her place at Ash's bedside.

She'd been so sure in the moment, riding high on the rush of their verbal sparring, and making such a proud man blush. The soft smile as he’d held her hand, careful not to squeeze too hard - she'd been certain it meant something. Though she wasn’t sure why she wanted it to.

But now, with the clarity of distance and the ache of absence, doubt hounded her like a hunting dog. Had she misread the situation entirely? Projected her own foolish desires onto his reactions, seeing only what she wanted to see? The thought made her stomach churn with embarrassment and self-recrimination - sickening.

Perhaps Cullen had simply been humouring her, too polite to pull away when she'd taken such liberties. What reason would he have to welcome her touch, her teasing? She was a mage, an outsider, a wild Dalish elf with no regard for propriety. Hardly the sort of woman a man like him would look twice at, let alone entertain such flirtations from.

“Should we head down so you can give him your praises in person?”

Ash tried not to let her sourness show in the tightness around her eyes, tried not to dampen the mood with her silly feelings, but Dorian was not so easily fooled. His teasing grin softened, and she scoffed, irritated at the concern swimming in his gaze. 

“You’re thinking so loud I can practically hear it.”

Ash bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted iron. It didn’t matter that Cullen didn’t see her in a romantic or lustful light, nothing could come of it anyway. It was easier if he didn’t care for her. “It’s nothing. I just doubt he’d want to see me is all. He’s…busy.”

If Dorian wore glasses, they would have been halfway down his nose with the exasperated look he was giving her. “Fascinating. Tell me, how did you come to this astounding conclusion?” he drawled, a heavy dosing of sarcasm lacing his tone. 

Ash scowled at him, and though she knew he would judge her for her answer, she said it anyway. “If he wanted to see me he would have chosen to already. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.” 

Dorian laughed like she’d just said the funniest joke he’d ever heard. She debated elbowing him in the side again, but decided against it - she could only rain so much physical harm down upon him before he made her regret it. “My dear, sweet Ashvalla.” He patted her cheek with a patronizing smile, to which she only scowled harder, her pointed ears flattened against the sides of her skull. “Did no one tell you that he’s been asking for updates regarding your well-being almost daily?”

The scowl slipped off her face and she blinked rapidly. “What?”

“The Commander is many things, but overzealous and invasive in his affections is not one of them. He is a private man, and therefore attempts to provide privacy in return, a show of respect, if you will.” 

That was…an astute observation of his character. She had been so consumed by her own desires that she hadn't stopped to consider that there was a positive reason behind his absence. Leliana had said he was concerned, but without understanding why, she’d assumed it was over-exaggerated. There was no doubt that he was busy and that would have limited his time to see her even if he had wanted to, but now she felt silly. Like a young girl with a crush on an unattainable man. 

“Fuck,” Ash mumbled, her ears dropping. “I hate it when you’re right.”

"Best not to doubt me, I am usually correct," Dorian quipped. "Now, are you going to continue ogling our dear Commander from afar, or shall we go over and say hello like civilized people?"

Ash hesitated, her gaze flicking back to Cullen. He was correcting a recruit's stance now, strong hands guiding the young man's arms into the proper position as they set up for mock battle. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, tracing a path along the sharp line of his jaw. Ash's fingers itched to follow that trail, to feel the rasp of stubble against her skin.

As if sensing her stare, Cullen looked up, amber eyes locking onto hers across the training yard. Ash's breath caught in her throat, her heart stuttering at having been caught.

She had been such a fool to think he was disgusted by her - no man would stare at her with such rapturous attention if he hated her.

Slowly, deliberately, she raised her hand and wiggled her fingers in a coquettish wave, her smile widening as a flush crept up Cullen's neck, staining his cheeks a becoming shade of pink.

So focused was he on Ash that Cullen failed to notice his sparring partner taking advantage of his distraction. The recruit lunged forward, wooden practice sword arcing towards Cullen's unprotected side. At the last second, the Commander twisted away, but not fast enough to avoid a glancing blow that had him wincing and snapping at the overeager soldier.

Ash couldn't help it - she laughed, the sound ringing out bright and clear across the yard. Cullen's head whipped around, his blush deepening as he watched her laugh at him. He scowled, the twist of his lips more chagrined than angry.

Cullen turned back to his troops, barking out orders with renewed intensity. But Ash didn't miss the way his gaze kept straying in her direction, almost hopeful in its shyness.

"Well, that was entertaining," Dorian intoned, the picture of nonchalance even as he barely suppressed his glee. "Shall we quit while we're ahead? I'd hate for you to be responsible for any training accidents."

Ash snorted inelegantly. "Please, as if any of them could get the better of Cullen in a real fight."

"Hmm, I'm sure you'd love to see just how forceful he can be," Dorian teased.

Ash pinched his arm and he yelped. "Hush, you. Now take me back to my room before I drop dead.”

"As you command, my lady.” He began to steer her away from the training grounds. "Let’s make our escape before you swoon from exhaustion. Or lust. Whichever comes first."

Ash made a rude gesture in his direction, but allowed herself to be led, her legs growing heavier with each step. But she made it, she always did. Like a cockroach Voidbent on surviving the end times, even a little heart racing over a gorgeous man couldn’t stop her.

Next Chapter

A/N: I love writing for Dorian and Ash, two emotionally incapable bitches surviving together <3

[soapppp]

CW: ABO, extreme past sexual assault and abuse

Soap who assumes that Ghost is just like every other Alpha. He’s arrogant, rude, mocking, so why wouldn’t he be prejudice? What reason was there to assume that Ghost would revel in the idea of taking Soap with or without his choice? He makes fun of Soap for being short, for flirting with others, but the only good thing he does is what he doesn’t do, which is bring up sex in any way. Not heats or ruts, nothing. It’s one of the reason Soap Jose to actually get to know him, allowing his inner Omega to have a ally in him. But never would he trust Ghost with the vulnerability of a heat.

But, then they get stuck in a snow storm. The mission was simple and they’re safe in the well built cabin, but Ghost had expected to be home in time that he could take leave and suffer his rut in peace.

Soap wakes up in the middle of the night to see Ghost on the wall, panting as he holds himself up by his elbows. His mask is off, his shirt clawed open with a few drops of blood sounding like gunshots through the storm.

Soap picks up that Ghost is rutting instantly and feels dead in his spine, knowing the other will want anything he can fuck and that Soap is basically a neon sign in a desert to him. Soap is taking note of where his weapons are, making a plan to survive out in the storm and call for help when he hears it.

A loud, heartbreaking sob.

Ghost was crying. Worse, he was weeping like a child lost from his ma. His cries are deep and pitiful, full wails breaking out like screams and through it Soap can hear him pleading, saying things like,

“Please, stop, I don’t want it!”

“Don’t make me please!”

“Don’t touch me, not again!”

“Please, I want my ma…”

Soaps dread shifts to pure grief as he processes his words, releasing what had to have happened to his Lt.

Soap feels sick nonstop for the next few days as he helps Ghost into the only bedroom and routinely feeds and waters the broken man, listening to him sob without break. He tries hard not to cry when Ghost screams, loud and full of fear, whenever Soap accidentally touches him. He tries to smooth him with calming words, assuring him that Soap won’t make him do a thing and whispering promises of Simon’s Ma coming to see him soon.

Later, when Ghost explained how she had been killed but his rut makes him forget, Soap swears to protect him during his rut whenever he needs.

Not just for Simons sake, but his Ma as well.

[syringesyrup]

Heyya! Can you write something about Dew and angst? Idk about the topic just need to suffer I guess?

well. u asked!

Erm? tw for panic attacks and mention of abuse?? kinda….tread lightly 🧐

So maybe punching Swiss in the face after a heated argument wasn’t his best idea. It wasn’t like the two of them hadn’t gone toe to toe before. It was pretty much the only time they interacted with each other when they weren’t fucking. But the look Swiss had given him when he saw the blood drip from his own nose scared Dew. When it came to fight or flight, Dew rarely chose flight.

There was just something in Swiss’ eyes that made him choose flight this time.

“You fucking cunt.” Swiss growls as he approaches Dew, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and reeling his arm back. His bloodied hand balls into a fist and Dew jolts at the gesture. He yanks himself away from Swiss, clawing at his arm as his knees give out and he stumbles to the ground. He balls in on himself as he scampers away from Swiss and back into the corner. His hands are over his head now, claws digging into his scalp as he tugs at his hair and wraps his thorned tail around himself. He can’t look at Swiss. He just waits until the blow lands on him. He’s sure to put up a fight once Swiss’ fist collides with his body, but right now he just can’t. He can’t find the courage to fight tooth and nail with the multi ghoul.

Dew starts shouting out as he hears Swiss’ heavy footsteps approach him. His body jolts and the spikes of what once were beautiful fins on his body spike up defensively.

“No, no, no!” Dew shouts before a sob breaks through his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He tugs hard at his hair. He’s not sure why. “Don’t hit me! Do-don’t! Please don’t fucking hit me! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry!”

He continues to babble and wail as he feels Swiss’ weight on him. He’s going to pick Dew up and slam his head against the wall or choke him or something-

Swiss picks Dew up and that’s when it all shatters. Dew screams, loud and high. He hasn’t called for help like this in so long. Not since they lost Terzo.

“Adiuva me!” Dew shouts as he flails against Swiss. “Let me go! D-don’t!”

He can’t even hear himself anymore. He’s acting like a child right now. Sobbing and flailing and kicking his feet. He feels himself get dragged out from under the stairs and into a room, despite his screams and begging. Swiss really is going to fucking kill him.

He hears the door lock as he’s set onto the floor. It’s cold. Tile. A bathroom, maybe. He curls back in on himself and tries to find the nearest corner to crawl into, but then Swiss is on him again and Dew sobs harder. He can’t make out Swiss’ bloody face through his tears, but he can imagine the murderous look on his face.

His feels thumbs press into his eyes and sobs. Swiss was seriously going to gouge his fucking eyes out for this.

But he doesn’t. He only rubs Dew’s tears away and clears his eyes, his hands impossibly gentle on Dew’s face. Dew freezes as he stares up at Swiss with wide and red eyes. Swiss stares down at him, his eyes shiny and glazed. Dew didn’t think he hit him hard enough to make him cry.

“Baby.” Swiss sobs, sucking in his lip as he looks down at Dew with teary eyes. “I’m not gonna hit you.”

Oh.

“Huh?” Dew mutters shakily. Swiss is still holding his face gently, rubbing circles behind his ears with his fingers. If Dew wasn’t so upset, he’d be purring at the sensation.

“Fuck, Dew.” Swiss sniffs. “What the fuck?”

“I-I’m sorry.” Dew says, knowing he’s done something wrong. Swiss sounds too upset.

“Shut up.” Swiss cries. It makes Dew jolt and Swiss whines at his reaction. “A-are you scared of me?”

Dew stares at him. No. Never. It’s Swiss. It’s fucking Swiss. He’s unserious and funny and charming and unbelievably calming despite Dew constantly banging heads with him.

“Yes.” Dew says. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the truth.

Swiss frowns and backs away, standing up and backing towards the door. Dew whines loud and panicked, scampering on the floor like a kit.

“N-no! I’m not! Don’t leave!” Dew sobs. It gets no reaction from Swiss as he grabs hold of the doorknob, twisting it before it pops and Swiss opens the door. Dew panics. His blood runs cold and he crawls towards Swiss on the floor reaching for him.

“No, no, no! Not again! Ifrit, don’t leave!”

The air runs cold. Colder than Dew could ever handle, even as a fire ghoul. He shoots back against the wall, hands flying to his mouth as new tears drip down his face. Swiss spins his head around so fast that Dew hears his neck crack. Dew stays impossibly still and silent as Swiss stares at him. His eyes never leave Dew as he slowly shuts the door again and locks it.

“What?” Swiss says so quietly Dew can almost barely hear it.

Dew doesn’t speak. He can’t. He can’t fucking speak.

“Oh my fucking God.” Swiss says. Blasphemous.

Dew only shakes his head. He removes his hands from his mouth and shakes them. He’s trying to speak, he swears he is, but nothing is coming out. He’s trying so fucking hard to explain himself. Why can’t he just fucking talk?

Swiss kneels in front of him and grabs hold of him. Dew flails for a moment before Swiss pulls him in against his chest, holding him tightly. Dew resists for a moment longer before melting against Swiss, sobs wrecking though him as he digs his claws into Swiss’ back and holds him. Swiss adjusts the fire ghoul in his lap, letting him sit there instead of on the cold tile. Dew wraps his legs around his waist and squeezes, trying to communicate something. Swiss doesn’t expect him to be able to. That’s fine with him.

“I got you.” Swiss soothes. “You’re safe.” His hand, large and warm even for Dew, presses against Dew’s neck and rubs soothing circles into his skin. He feels Swiss pull his hair back and tie it up out of his face. How strangely thoughtful of him.

Dew whines against Swiss’ shoulder, trying to get a word out. His body still refuses to let him get a single sound out. It’s so frustrating. It’s infuriating.

“Stop trying to talk.” Swiss says. “It’s not gonna make it get better, firefly.” He runs his hand down Dew’s back, soothing and gentle. Dew gives up and gives in. He’d rather be doing this with Aether. Aether has seen this side of him. Hell, Mountain has seen this side of him. But Swiss? This is weird. It’s uncomfortable and new and Dew hates it. He’d rather be anywhere else.

“Can I carry you upstairs?” Swiss asks. “Can I give you a bath?”

Dew stills. That’s awfully kind of him. What’s the catch? What’s he trying to get out of Dew?

“Stop thinking.” Swiss scolds. “I just want to fucking help you, okay?”

Dew doesn’t need help. He can bathe himself. He’s not some stray kit who has bugs who needs someone to clean him and care for him.

“Let me take care of you. Just tonight.” Swiss says, leaning away from Dew slightly. “Please stop denying yourself some fucking kindness already.”

Dew stares at him for a moment before looking down. His brows are knit together tightly before Swiss places his hands on his face and lifts his head. He watches Dew with sad eyes as he sighs, brushing a stray hair out of his face. It falls back immediately, making Swiss smile sadly.

“I’m just gonna run the bath for you and make sure you’re okay. I’m not asking for anything else, Dew.” Swiss reassures. Dew stares at him before slowly nodding. That’s fine. He’s okay with that.

“Okay?” Swiss checks. Dew nods again. Swiss nods back. He lifts Dew up, letting the fire ghoul adjust himself as he presses his face into Swiss’ neck. He really doesn’t want to be seen like this right now.

“There we go.” Swiss sighs. “I got you. I’ll take care of you, baby.”

Dew would really like that.

[worlds-okayest-fag]

THE ULTIMATE SHOWDOWN OF ULTIMATE DESTINY

written for the @favcharacterpoll , kipps vs. kermit round.

(co written by @krash-and-co because I can't write fight scenes, so thanks krash <3)

here's the fic on ao3

From the dark of the night outside, Kipps knew there was no way he would be seen.

The night was dark, his footsteps silent, bag heavy with the weight of chains, duct tape and rope. Lucy and Tony had offered to come with him, but he knew this must be done alone. As he stepped up to the front door, he tested the handle only to see that it was unlocked. 

He was expected, then.

He heard nothing from inside the house, saw no lights on, nor any other indicator that there was someone home, but he knew better. 

Goggles in place over his eyes, he crept inside, careful to keep his rapier from bashing against the doorframe or the walls of the entry hall. He walked down the dark hall until he saw a thin ray of light coming from a door that had been left ajar.

Quill stepped closer to the door, stopping just outside the room, but before he could lay a hand on the dark-painted wood, it creaked open on tarnished hinges, revealing a thin figure sitting behind a warn dark wooden desk.

“So,” Kermit the Frog started, in that high creaky voice. “You're the loser who thinks he could take me down. What makes you think that a nobody like you, Quilliam Kipps, could defeat someone like me, beloved by all old and young, older than time itself?” 

“Oh, you know, maybe the fact that I'm 3 feet taller than you and have a sword.” Kipps replied smoothly, not at all terrified of this glorified sock puppet. He reached behind his back, finding and door handle and locking it. 

It was now or never.

Kipps strode towards Kermit, dropping his bag to the floor, he rolled his shoulders to release the tension built up and slowly drew his rapier from its sheath.

"Ooh, little guy thinks he's tough, huh?" Kermit taunted.

 He stood up in his chair. The shadows on his face made him look eyeless, one smiling, huge, gaping mouth.

Never mind that. Kipps was surely stronger. He had real arms.

"I think I'm gonna kick your non-existent arse--" Kipps took a step forward-- "all the way up to your mouth hole."

Kermit chuckled. "It's nice to have dreams, Quill."

And whatever Kermit said next was lost to Kipps, for at that second the puppet launched himself directly in Kipps' face.

Before anything else was heard, there was the sound of the clang of metal hitting the floor.

His only defense.

Kipps scrambled to free himself. The puppet clung harder. Kipps felt himself hit a desk, a wall, something unidentifiable; he grasped desperately at empty air to find something to hold on to.

He was going to fall.

"We're making such a connection!" said Kermit, voice strained.

"Mhh-mhhh-mrrff!!" said Kipps. He clawed at the muppet clung to his face like a barnacle. "Fight fair!" he managed to get out.

"Oh, Quill." Kermit did not loosen his grip. "You don't fight fair."

"What would Miss Piggy say?" Kipps yelped, shaking his face like a wet dog.

'"Get his ass, mon chéri!"' Kermit made direct eye contact with Kipps while saying this, which was not only oddly unsettling but distracting enough to send both of them sprawling to the floor.

Coincidentally, right next to Kipps' rapier.

He groped at his side, felt the familiar charms and gems.

Held it tight for dear life.

"Hey, uh, what are you doing?" asked Kermit.

"Animal control," Kipps replied snarkily.

Kipps flung his rapier in the air.

It arched beautifully, although barely seen in the dark room. Yet Kermit's eyes widened.

With a soft poke, it's metal tip punctured his back.

"Oh, agony!" Kermit wailed, leaping from Kipps. "Agony, suffering, death! Oh, oh, oh--"

He suddenly froze and gave Kipps a look. He removed the sword from his body.

"I'm full of fucking stuffing, dipshit."

Kipps gave a battle cry and lunged for the frog. He grabbed him by the arms and shook him.

 "If we promise to end this now," he panted, "I won't kill you like I want. If not..." Kipps mimicked cutting his throat in the typical gesture for 'I'm going to murder you.' "And I mean that literally."

"Hey, hey, we aren't animals here!" Kermit stammered frantically. "We didn't agree to--"

Kipps slammed him against the wall. "YES OR NO?" he shouted.

Kermit wavered for a second, and Kipps took this opportunity to pull Kermit from the wall grabbing a tighter hold on Kermit, and he dragged him toward his bag. 

Kipps threw Kermit to the ground, pinning him down under his knee. He unzipped his bag grabbing out the rope and duct tape, and within seconds, Kermit had his mouth taped shut and his limbs tied together.

Kipps shoved Kermit into the bag and was walking back out the door before Kermit could even start screaming again.

Maybe he should have bacon and eggs for breakfast.

[inkwell-and-dagger]

The lab was all Ruaridh knew.

Not even their own name. They were only called "Subject" here, not that. They supposed that should've been a bad thing, to not have a shred of autonomy in this painful, horrid life, but.. to them, it was normal. In fact, they were used to it. The constant whirring of scientific devices helped them sleep at night, and they loved the foreign feeling of paper beneath their fingertips, the gentle sound of pages turning as they delved into another book. That was really the only thing they had to keep themself occupied.

They'd never been outside. The unfortunate test subject was taken early enough that they couldn't remember anything of their old life; only the lab remained in their memory. Sure, they'd read plenty of books about all types of fauna and flora, and a tiny window in their cell confirmed that there was life outside of this mundane laboratory. But the window was far too high up to see anything but the sky, changing from blue, to white, to grey depending on the day. Sometimes, they'd hear a gentle patter of something on the roof of the hidden lab, and it frightened them for a while — but they were used to it now. Apparently, it's called rain.

Surprisingly, they'd never, ever thought of escaping. You would think they would've, considering they spent countless days being injected and experimented on, dragged from room to room in this endless labyrinth run by one, horrible being, to be cut open and examined, assessed meticulously for 'changes'. Sure, it was painful, but they thought that was normal. That all of this was normal. Being chained to the corner of a dark, dingy cell, having to make a little nest in the corner out of blankets to sleep in at night, hardly even knowing what the feeling of sun on his scarred, almond skin would feel like — it was all normal.

Until it wasn't. Until their beliefs began to change.

Until they began to change.

At first, it was just a general aching. Their limbs hurt, and no amount of rest would fix it. Their gums seemed to pulse in pain, to the point they couldn't stand eating for a couple days. Even then, their appetite seemed to diminish, and suddenly they weren't very interested in being fed whatever 'nutritional' bullshit the scientist gave them. Everything hurt; down to their fingers, they felt stiff with discomfort. The scientist would just scribble something down in a notepad when they tried to ask for some kind of relief.

Then, their senses grew more sharp. It was painful, to say the least. They began to see every little crack in the walls of their cell, every speck of dust on the little window, every dried drop of blood still remaining on their loose hospital gown. The poor lab rat could hear everything, from the aggressive rustling of documents and files, piles of pages dedicated to their suffering, from outside of their cell. Their own shallow breaths in sync with their captors. It was sickening.

But nothing would've prepared them for the actual process. The sound of the fragile bones in their frail body cracking and moving, arms elongating and bending backwards until Ruaridh was sure they'd crack. Fingernails growing into claws, fangs replacing their canines. They weren't used to this body — this monster that had replaced them. Their legs were too weak to support their own weight, having to use all four limbs to move around. The tail— oh God, the tail. A searing pain penetrating their senses, a pulsing agony in their lower torso and forehead, until blood coated the floor as new appendages sprouted out of their very skin.

They couldn't help but wail for the first few days after their change. Every movement was agonizing for them, every attempt at talking was met with only small noises. The floor felt too hard under their skin, the hospital gown too itchy for their liking, but they still possessed enough dignity to keep it on.

This wasn't normal, the remaining part of their conscience would scream. It wasn't normal to put an innocent human into this sort of torture, to turn an innocent human into a husk of their former self, a broken monster that would just be thrown out onto the streets. And that was exactly what had happened to them.

The foreign concept of rain pattering steadily down on their skin as they grew accustomed to their new body, they spent months trying to survive on the streets of this new, frightening place. Strange devices and 'vehicles' made them wince as they screeched past, unfamiliar voices and faces staring down at them in disgust or fear. They kept to alleyways, narrow places, just so they wouldn't be seen. The rain wouldn't stop.

Ruaridh couldn't remember the last time they ate. The last time they'd looked into someone's eyes and hadn't felt fear, or shame, or embarrassment. The last time they smiled. The last time they slept peacefully. The last time they walked only on their two feet. The last time they were in a warm, albeit dingy, room. The rain wouldn't stop.

The alley was, what one would call, a home. Sure, it was cramped and dark and sometimes people would pass them and be afraid of this frail, disfigured monster, but it was the only place they had. The only place they felt was even somewhat safe. The rain wouldn't stop.

They were used to the footsteps. Used to the laughing, or the alarmed sounds of fear, or being ignored entirely. But one pair went closer than the others.

The rain stopped. They heard it pattering, but they couldn't feel it on their skin, on their head, soaking their hair and hospital gown until they were a shivering mess. No, they were being covered. An umbrella, perhaps.

Yes, an umbrella.

"You poor thing. Let's get you inside."

° • ^ ° • ^ ° • ^ ° • ^ ° •

just a quick little rundown of my new OC'S lore, Ruaridh Mullen!! I love them so much <33

[aquinnix]

Hermit-a-Day May 27 - Grian

“Don’t look at me like that.” 

“Like you care about me.” 

“Liars!"

Grian threw his fist through the air, striking uselessly at nothing. He continued to flail, tears blurring his vision. Pain erupted up his arm as his fist hit the wall, hard. 

He jerked back, flexing his fingers and wincing at the sting. 

“I’m not pathetic!” 

He was screaming now, his throat raw and torn. He wiped his bleeding knuckles on his sweater before whipping back around and punching the air yet again. 

“I would rather die than do anything with your…” 

Grian cut himself off by tripping over his own feet, landing roughly on his shoulder. He wasn’t bothering with words anymore, screeching a whole host of unintelligible noises as he stared daggers into the ceiling. 

“You’re the ones who don’t deserve any of this you monsters!” 

He scrambled to his feet, kicking wildly in the air. 

“I will never let you hurt them ever again.” 

The words were stern as slow, nearer an animalistic growl than human speech. 

“Grian?” 

“Don’t think you will ever have the right to call me that.” 

He stumbled forward, crashing into the wall in front of him. 

“Grian? Are you alright?” 

“I said…” 

Grian spun and ran blindly in the direction of the voice. 

“Don’t call me that!” 

He punched, this time meeting a soft yet firm surface. Grian wailed on his newfound target, clawing and biting and beating. 

“I’m going to make you suffer! Just like I did!” 

His throat was raw and the words were painful but he didn’t stop until his body gave out from under him. His bruised and battered form fell to the ground, exhaustion finally pulling him down. It was then that he realized he was covered in blood, his skin red and sticky. 

He checked himself for any open wounds, finding nothing but minor cuts and scrapes. 

Grian turned to see a broken figure lying beside him. 

He rushed to kneel beside the body, his own eyes no longer glazed over, truly seeing what he had just done. 

And a single tear fell down his cheek.