#that possessiveness after her abduction. and her laying her whole body on him at the end of demons.

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

msr as a sheep/guard dog dynamic, but they both think that they’re the guard dog and the other is the sheep.

[almostatomicperfection]

Coast

Here's a little short story I wrote after watching the movie, I hope I gain enough inspiration here to write many more *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Haiti.

The sky was always unbroken above Shuri's head here, the air dense and nourishing.

It would have felt something treason to articulate this thought out loud, but Wakanda started to affect her the opposite way. Her homeland started to suffocate her until she felt like a foreign body that was ejected and spit out on this remote island.

It did not matter that her people were waiting for her return, that Oyoke was sending messages nonstop. This was bigger than all of them, a wrongness of the universe that impaired her. With the passing weeks, the thought of returning home felt more and more unbearable, the work that awaited her there, for the first time, felt what it maybe always should have felt; a burden.

She did not make a point of avoiding water. She was living on an island, after all; it would have been an absurd objective. But she couldn't take comfort in it either as she used to. The ocean's murmuring seeped through the walls, gently rustling her little house situated deep into the island, the smell of salt so clean and crisp that it made her head hurt.

Then she grew used to it.

It must have been around the twelfth week of her stay when something woke her up in the middle of the night. She was laying with eyes wide open for a few seconds, trying to get rid of the vivid, painful colors of her dreams. She dreamed so intensely these days that her dreams did not feel like dreams anymore, but the continuation of an alternative reality, infested with the unsought visits of N'Jadaka, sitting on her throne, eyes closed, head dropped between his shoulders, silent.

He took reign and peace in her tortured mind, abducting her dreams.

Shuri never for a minute assumed that someone like the Killmonger would find peace in the afterlife, but his unwavering attachment to her also felt uncalled for. With a shudder, she threw her blanket off and stepped outside into the twilight, a ticking anticipation building up in the back of her mind without realizing it.

It was the water.

The thought emerged and dipped under in her mind like a tumbling message in a bottle and froze her whole body, awareness prickling her skin.

Him.

Despite the keen sense of fear that tightened her muscles, she smiled.

She could feel this smile sitting on her lips, dark, expectant, hungry. Her arms lifted and she touched her skin, gripping her own arm for a sense of comfort. This was deeply unsettling, how her own body reacted in a way she had no control over. She should probably go back to the house. 

But this thought already found her at the edge of the water and crouching down she slowly held her palm out above the silky surface.

"Are you trying to summon me?"

She sharply jerked her head to the side from where the mocking voice came from.

"I do not travel like that. Although I might not mind it, if I were able to," Namor brushed his wet hair back with imperial impatience and with that specific self-containment that only gods possessed.

"I am sure you would feel really comfortable being tied to my words," Shuri locked eyes with him, unable to take her gaze off of him. It was probably wise that she did not.

"Not comfortable, but maybe pleasantly constrained."

"I do not particularly feel like laying a claim to you, K'uk'ulkan," Shuri broke their eye contact, sinking back to her earlier melancholy.

"You do not feel like laying a claim to many things these days, are you, Shuri."

The sound of his heavy steps followed his words and Shuri consciously had to still her body when he lowered himself next to her. She did not like him this close to her, his physical proximity brought something out of her that was just as much attraction as resentment.

He took up so much space, his measurements scaled to fit a species different from the rest of the Earth's population. 

"If you came to discuss governance, with anything political you should seek out M'Baku. I heard he is the one currently parading as the king of Wakanda."

"So you know," Namor nodded to himself. "I was not sure you even bothered to listen."

"Why are you here, Namor?"

"Because I would rather talk with you."

"Why?" she frowned, watching him from the corner of her eyes.

He did not answer right away, but stretched out his body on the sand, staring up at the night sky.

"It is hard to put it into words. You bring clarity to me. It is the most peculiar thing. I see my goals and my aspirations with a sharper focus. I am less divided when I am around you."

His accent grew heavier with the drawled-out words, to the point of barely being understandable.

"I have been none of those things you've just described, for months," Shuri murmured, the intimacy of his confession breathing some warmth into her lungs. It came from the most inconvenient place but she couldn't help basking in it for a couple of minutes.

"No clarity. No focus or aspirations."

"I know," Namor tilted his head in her direction, his profile emerging sharp against the sand. His beauty always took Shuri aback; it was so unexpected, so compelling. 

"That's also a reason why I came here. You need help."

"I really don't. And if I did, I have all the help in hand's reach I could possibly want."

"And it's clearly not coming from the right source, otherwise you've reached for it a long time ago," Namor shook off his languidity abruptly, making Shuri flinch, his responding smile biting in the dark. "You exiled your own self, and now you're decomposing here, slowly dissolving into sand."

"Your metaphors are a little too strong for me to stomach," Shuri sneered at him and he moved closer, his hands hovering above her face before fleetingly touching her cheekbone.

"That is good. You need to be rattled," his hand dropped to his side. " I want to see you on Wakanda's throne, Shuri. Next time I visit this island it shall be deserted by you."

"Do you have some authority over Haiti I am not aware of?" she arched a brow.

"You're surrounded by water, babe."

"I will give it a thought," she shrugged, consciously ignoring the pet name, and now it was her turn to stretch out on the sand, arms linked behind her head. She felt lighter as if Namor's appearance helped things shift into focus. She would never admit this to him though, ever.

"Aren't you supposed to slide back into the water now and mysteriously disappear?" she squinted at him in confusion when he joined her, his body thrumming with life so close to hers.

"Slide? That somehow sounds derogative."

"It was intended to do so," Shuri said contentedly and the ocean carried her laughter as he got up with an irritated, growling sound and a wave rose for him, swallowing his body.

"One day, I will stand up again and become Shuri, Queen of Wakanda. But for now, I need to rest," she murmured to herself and fell asleep on the beach, feeling comforted and safe for reasons she would've rather left undiscussed.

[marvelwritings]

A piece of me has disappeared

Summary: By day three, the first doubts set in. He’s convinced Tony is still out looking for him, but putting in the effort doesn’t always guarantee results. These people that abducted him are clever, and they know about his spider abilities. 

or: Peter get's abducted and Tony goes to rescue his son 

Everyone’s sleeping, their breaths loud in the evening quiet. Morgan is in her bed and there’s no doubt that tomorrow at seven am she’ll be up and at ‘em to wake Peter up. Tony and Pepper are across the room of his, their frantic work attitudes finally put to the sleep they so desperately need. Peter is blinking up at his roof in his bedroom, feeling fine, good even, peaceful and sated and most importantly, safe.

Everyone’s sleeping, their breaths loud in the evening quiet. Morgan is in her bed and there’s no doubt that tomorrow at seven am she’ll be up and at ‘em to wake Peter up. Tony and Pepper are across the room of his, their frantic work attitudes finally put to the sleep they so desperately need. Peter is blinking up at his roof in his bedroom, feeling fine, good even, peaceful and sated and most importantly, safe.

Everyone’s sleeping, their breaths loud in the evening quiet and …. The repeats stops working once Peter’s stomach gnaws again, the hunger he’s so gravely experiencing has switched to a whole new level. No longer the petty grumbles of an empty stomach, instead it’s replaced by the need to eat anything, despite Peter’s rationality telling him he can’t. He’s been locked up for at least seven days, but he’s still to sceptic to eat anything his captors offer him. He’s very close to breaking.

He tries to hold on by imagining that he’s at home, but he’s so tired, yet so fitful he won’t close his eyes for more then 10 seconds, and the constant torture is so jarring it hurts worse to imagine home, then be woken up in reality, than to just to be present. Peter wonders if Tony is every going to find him.

The first day, he had no question about it. Tony is scarily determined and protective to anyone who dares come after the people he considers family, Peter got a first row demonstration when some journalist tried to bad mouth Spiderman and he got clocked in the jaw, so Peter knows it’s just a matter of time.

By day three, the first doubts set in. He’s convinced Tony is still out looking for him, but putting in the effort doesn’t always guarantee results. These people that abducted him are clever, and they know about his spider abilities. So much so that they keep him sedated at all times, just enough sedative to keep him conscious, but not too little that he can tap in his superstrength. Peter will never be able to escape on his own.

Maybe if the avengers got called in they were close, but Peter’s not sure Tony would call in people he hasn’t spoken to in a few months, purely to find him. He can hold out hope though.

The third day is also the day his captures, he hasn’t seen any faces so far and the sedative contorts their voices too much to match them to somebody he knows, start with the emotional manipulation. So far, they had stuck to electrocution by tazers and punches applied to any sensitive area of his body, but Peter must not have been broken fast enough for them.

‘You know, you remind me of the stereotypical bad guys in movies, like in kids movies? Do you like kid movies? My favorite is Frozen’, Peter had once babbled in between punches through bitten teeth, trying to keep up his high spirits.

They didn’t like that one bit.

They claim all sort of ridiculous things, like that the Starks paid money for them to have kidnapped him, that Tony never started searching for him, that he might as well give up because no one was coming to fetch him. Peter laughs in their face, witty even in the face of extreme danger. It was still funny to him then. Now, on the evening of the seventh day, he stares unblinking at a wall, only moving when the physical pain becomes too much and he needs an outlet to scream.

‘Please’, he pleads sobbing. If he wasn’t so starved as he was, so mentally vulnerable, he would have been embarrassed. As it stands, Peter’s just so incapable of resisting, he simply gives in.

‘Please stop,’ Peter whimpers. If he had anything to give he’d bargain, but money is tight for May and him, and he has no knowledge of anything avengers related that could be of interest to these people. Mister Stark told him it was for his own safety, so it wouldn’t be used as leverage against him, but in Peter’s warped mind it further adds proof Tony never trusted him.

‘Ahn’, a captor coos, ‘he’s begging already, how cute.’ The voice is distinctly that of a woman’s, but it hold nothing of the warm timbre both aunt May and Pepper possess. He misses them.

The woman slides a hand up in Peter’s hair, and for one confusing moment Peter thinks she’s going to start stroking it, like Tony does, but then she balls her hands into fists and pulls his head aside. The next tazer gets placed in his neck.

‘This wouldn’t be happening if your so beloved mentor would just give up the plans for the new shield initiative, but alas, as long as he doesn’t you’ll be stuck here. The tazzer buzzes to life and Peter seizes up. It’s the so many’th time today, that Peter gives up on holding back, his scream ricochets in the room.

‘Then again, maybe we went after the wrong kid. Maybe we should have taken Tony Starks real kid? The one he actually cares about?’

Tears stumbles down his cheeks and he wishes he could fall back into unconsciousness, but of course life is not that kind. No, he begs inside his head, to warm out to speak. Not Morgan, never Morgan. He’d die before he’d let anything happen to her.

‘What do you think soldier,’ she addresses the second captor in the room, ‘perhaps a phone call would speed Stark along? A sign of life and how close to it being snuffed out the child is? What do you want Peter?’ She asks sickly sweet, as if it’s a regular question and not a taunt.

Still, Peter can’t help but reach out. He longs for one phone call so wholeheartedly. Maybe, maybe he can convince Mister Stark to get him out of this mess. He could promise to do every task Mister Stark ask of him, he could even offer to work for Stark industries until he could pay back the money he’d pay Peter’s kidnappers, anything to get out of here. Peter will do anything.

‘I think he’s agreeing.’ The woman grins, pulling out a burner phone out of her back pocket. She types for several excruciating moments, in which Peter begs to every god listening that Mister Stark will pick up. That he’ll hear Peter out.

‘Hello,’ the woman greets the phone, her smirk so evil Peter’s spider senses warm him to run, fighting through the drugs. ‘I think I have something that belongs to you Stark.’

She lowers the phone to a few inches from Peter’s ear, because Peter is too tied up to hold it on his own. ‘Speak loudly kid.’

The use of the nickname causes shudders to run down Peter’s back. Why can’t he go home?

‘Mister Stark, please help me, I don’t know where I am, but- I want to go home, please mister Stark I-. I’ll do anything you want, just please.’ Peter’s whines gain pitch, until he is nothing but a sobbing mess, barely worth the name Peter Parker, let alone Spiderman.

The phone clicks shut.

‘Whoops, looks like he hung up’, The woman snickers, patting Peter’s cheek with fake compassion. Peter bellows, heaving so severely the nonexistent food he ate threatens to come back up.

He’d never find out the phone was never connected in the first place.

---

By the grace of Peter doesn’t know what, he drops unconscious after the failed phone call to Mister Stark. The sleep is fitful at best, but at least it helps restock his powers. When Peter comes too, there are loud sounds just outside of the room he’s captivated in. He thinks there’s screaming and pleading, but he’s so exhausted he can’t bring himself to care. His hands drop uselessly by his side, his head turned away from the door as he squeezes his eyes shuts.

Why can’t this be over yet?

The door busts of his hinges, the door falls inwards. Immediately, the yellow and red armor, belonging to the iron man suit, rushes in, with the faceplate down. Now that the door is open, or gone more like, It’s clear that all the sounds Peter had been hearing where the scream of his captures. There are many of them, but they’re being taken down one by one.

Peeking aside the Iron man armor, Peter sees a flash of red and blue, and captain America’s shield knocking someone out cold.

‘Kid, kid’, Mister Stark draws his attention in a panic. The faceplate is still down, which means that Mister Stark is either not here, like he wasn’t when the vulture first dropped him into a lake, or he’s assessed the situation and deemed it too dangerous to lower his defenses.

‘You’re okay underoos, we’re getting you out of here.’ With very little effort, Mister Stark snaps restraints on Peter’s wrist and ancles, all the while murmuring under his breath. He’s trying to reassure Peter, but it’s not having any type of effect.

Instead, the comfort causes Peter to burst into tears once more, his body begging for food and pain medication that will make everything stop hurting. He doesn’t care that Mister Stark is doing this out of rightfulness, or maybe out of debt out of some kind that he’s trying to even out, Peter just wants to go home.

Once the restraints are all loose, and Peter is free of them, Mister Stark waits for a tense second, maybe expecting Peter to hob off the table and join the fight or something. That doesn’t happen. Peter lays motionless on the table, looking intensely at the glowing eyes of the iron man suit, maybe trying to convey a message that Mister Stark can’t decipher.

‘Come on Pete, we have to get out of here before they bring backup. I can only hold them off for so long.’

‘Back up?’ Peter ask nonsensical, his spider senses blaring danger at him.

‘Yeah, they’re big fans of the avengers, they’ll all be swarming in here for autographs soon, but we’re kinda busy so we really have to go now.’ Mister Stark turns frantic, his hands carefully, oh so cautiously, gripping at his shoulders.

Peter allows his muscles to turn limp, pliant under strange hands. They belong to his mentor, to one of the only touches he has ever felt that don’t originate from people who are trying to hurt him, but he’s so very terrified, it doesn’t register. Peter holds still, submissive to whatever is about to happen because the pain always seems to end faster when he doesn’t struggle.

‘Peter’, Mister Stark anguished voice insists, his faceplates lifts up, and the dull eyes of who Peter has come to think of as a father gaze upon him with despair. Mister Starks hair is greasy, his mouth is pulled down in a grimace, and his eyes are, for a lack of better word grief stricken. He’s so much older then he was before Peter was taken. ‘Please buddy, we have to go.’

Mister Stark’s calloused finger strokes Peter cheek with the utmost care, barely even pressing firm enough for Peter to feel it. He does though, and traps the touch between his check and his shoulder.  The dam breaks, and the barrier of terror that clouded Peter’s judgment lifts with it. He gasps, coming up for a breath of fresh air, and the moment between mentor and son brings at least a sliver of clarity, before he sinks back under the enormity of his panic.  

‘I can’t walk’, Peter rasps, his throat torn from all the screams. He refuses to let that stop him, he’s so close to safety, he needs to push on further just a tad longer. ‘Please Mister Stark, I can’t walk.’

‘It’s okay Pete’, Tony soothes, pressing an unyielding kiss to his forehead, and if at all possible, Peter see the rage harden his face even more. ‘I’m going to get you out of here, but it’s gonna hurt, I’m sorry.’

Before Peter can begin to process that statement, Mister Stark puts the weight on his knees, the iron man suit helping to lift Peter as if it’s no trouble at all.  Tony is no liar, Peter finds, as his body begs to be placed back on the uncomfortable bed. Even places that had been relatively unharmed ache, and Peter feels like a broken doll.

‘It’s okay Kiddo we’re almost there, just a minute longer.’ Peter clings to Mister Stark, using every ounce of strength to hang on, despite the fact that Tony has a tight grip on him as well. Iron man isn’t fighting alone, as the avengers are here to back him, them, up. In any other situation, Peter would be gushing. Not only is he seeing his heroes in action, but they’re in action for him, to help him, but now, Peter only turns his head to burrow it into Mister Starks chest plate.

‘Please, please’, Peter whispers the entire way to the jet, not even realizing he’s begging for something.

‘I got you Pete’, Tony assures, one hand briefly leaving Peter’s back to shoot at a capture that’s standing in the way of the jet. Other than that, he doesn’t interfere with the fight one time, but he must itch too. Peter hears him bark orders at captain America, telling him to take some of them alive.

‘Please don’t leave me here, I’ll be good, I’ll be good.’

The Jet is nice and warm, something Peter relishes in, but when Tony tries to lower Peter on a medbed, that’s objectively much more comfortable then the bed he was on before, Peter screams. No words are spoken, but the scream startles Mister Stark just the same.

‘Stark, the base is cleared, get him strapped in, Banner is coming’, Natasha ushers, ignoring Peter’s cries and running to the cockpit. Stark has him, she argues, and it does the kid no good to have more prying eyes on him.

‘What is it, are you in pain?’ Tony asks franticly, without responding to Nat, hands hovering over Peter’s body to check for injuries, the light dims when he spots just how badly he was treated in captivity.

Peter screams again when Mister Stark pulls away too far for his liking, latching onto the suit so rigorous it creaks in protests.

‘Please, I’ll be good, don’t leave me, please. I- I know… I’m sorry, Morgan- I’, Peter can’t talk with how much he’s weeping, there are so many things to say and all of them are fighting one another to be said first. Eventually, after everyone has already touched base, the jet leaves and Doctor Banner urgers Tony to place him on the bed, Peter settles for; ‘Don’t leave me here.’

‘Peter’, Tony spits, so harsh that Peter snaps to attention, letting go of the armor and limply following where mister Stark wants him. He gently grips Peter’s chin, mindful of the bruises, and with glistening eyes, he conveys; ‘I’m never leaving you here, do you understand. I don’t care what else you have in your head, but right now, all I need you to know is that I’m not leaving you. Ever.’

He waits for the conforming nod, which Peter only gives when Mister Stark clasps his hand into his. ‘Beside, May would kill me if I came back without her nephew, and I don’t want to be the one to receive her wrath.’ Tony laughs faintly.

He wants to cry at that, good or bad he’s not sure, but instead he allows himself to be lowered, giving in only because Tony is crouching down with him, shielding Peter’s body with his own. It’s unsensical, there in the jet and there’s no danger, but if Peter feels protected Tony will do it, no questions asked.

As soon as he’s in a horizontal positions, Doctor Banner injects him with pain medication, and within seconds, Peter has floated away, dreaming of the lake house with Morgan, Pepper and tony and May at the end of the hallway.

---

Peter knows he’s in the medbay before his body has even fully awoken. He’s been here before, perhaps one to many times for it too be so familiar, and he can recognize the atmosphere from anywhere. The smell of disinfectant lingers around the room heavily, but so does the smell of motor oil, coming from Mister Stark’s lab the floor below the medbay. Usually he’s not alone when he wakes up either, accompanied by Mister Stark or May, maybe even both, and so despite the room having a different connotation, it holds security for Peter.

When all his senses click into place, with an almost audible snap after being out of commission for a week, the burning anguish joins it. It’s almost worse than during the torture itself, because it’s hitting him all at once now, and after stewing for a day his body is one big bruise, but it’s also better, because no more hurt can be added.

Blinking his eyes open, Peter glances around the room and notices that he’s by himself. He hasn’t made up his mind yet whether that’s a good or bad thing. Despite being alone, Peter very nearly cries out for the pain medication he’s sure Tony has at hand. His metabolism runs through painkillers faster than a normal body, but Mister Stark has experience in that department thanks to captain America, which is why Peter never wakes up in the medbay feeling sore.

He’s hoping to snatch some of the good stuff before he can sink away in sleep again, until a dark thought pops up in his head. What if Mister Stark purposefully didn’t give him enough medication so he wouldn’t stay asleep? What if Peter is expected to pay of his debt starting this very moment? It would make sense. Mister Stark is a man that likes to get a move on things, and this is probably no exception.

He bites back a loud whine. He’s so tired and sore, and if he could be anywhere in the world right now he’d choose the lakehouse and rest on the back porch, while looking over Morgan and ensuring she’s safe.

Still, it’s heaps better then what was waiting for him before, so Peter sucks in a deep breath and lifts himself up. He’s dresses in a hospital gown with socks on his feet, the only reprieve of the cold of the tiles that he has. His body fights in protest against the jolting movements, and Peter sinks back into bed three times before finally managing to stay upright. He swallows back bile, and blinks away the disorientation woozing its way through his head.

‘Friday’? He whispers, voice cracking on every syllable.

‘Yes, mister Parker, the AI replies easily, as chipper as a computer can possibly be. ‘It’s good to have you back,’ she adds, when Peter takes too long to reply. It’s not out of rudeness, but the words take a while to be processed in Peter’s hazy mind.

‘Can you tell me what Mister Stark wants me to do?’ Peter finally asks after coughing to clear his throat. Pride flows through his bloodstream when he manages to sound fine.

‘Mister Stark has not given me any directions, but by the distress and elevated heartbeat he experienced whilst at your bedside last, I hypothesize that he would like you to rest Peter.’  

Confusion laces Peter’s next move. Rest? But if that was the case why wasn’t the man here, ensuring that he does like all the other times he’s been in this position?  Deciding not to ask the AI anymore questions, while simultaneously ignoring her advice, Peter focuses on setting one foot in front of the other. If he can’t get a direct answer out of Friday, he’ll just get started on cleaning up in the lab.

The last few times Tony and Peter worked in there, Mister Stark had jokingly grumbled that the lace was getting to disorganized even for his taste, which definitely means something. Peter limps his way to the door, already breathing more heavily and deciding to take a rest against the still closed door. His foot throbs, so Peter switches to put the most weight on the side of his foot, instead of on the balm.

The small trek has left him bone tried, and the lab still seems so far away. Peter tries to calculate how far the lab still is, and agrees with himself to divide the length into smaller stretches. His next stop is at the elevator, so Peter shuffled along the floor, ignoring the black spots that dance before his eyes and threaten to have him collapse.

The extortion reminds him of the time that Toomes dropped a building on him, which is just plain ridiculous, this shouldn’t be half as tough. Peter scolds himself to man up when about halfway to the elevator he bumps into a cart and whimpers.

After finally finding support on the elevator beams, Peter allows himself a twenty second break to cry. At this point, the exact reason for crying is unbeknownst to him. All that he does know is that he feels like a mess, like someone took all the spiderman away from him and left him as a pile of uselessness. He shouldn’t have the right to complain however. Mister Stark rescued him from a fate much worse, the least he could do is help him out.

‘Friday’, Peter pauses to gulp in more air, and to force his tears back. ‘Open the elevator.’

‘Mister Parker I would advise-‘

‘Please’, he begs, voice barely louder then a whisper. The AI complies without further disagreement. The elevator begins to move the floor bellow it, soundlessly passing Peter along. The theme song, a little joke that Tony had installed after they made a song about spiderman, which plays during every elevator ride when Peter is present, stays off. The doors open, and Peter stumbles out, cheering up a dash when the mess doesn’t look as bad as he had imagined it. The clean up should be doable within two hours, even in Peter’s injured state. Most of the mess comes from scattered papers and documents that Tony tosses aside and never bothered to do anything with, and of mechanical parts that are ready to be thrown out.

All in all, not a lot of weight that Peter has to pick up. He has barely started on five pages when the elevator behind him opens again. Peter hadn’t noticed it going to a different floor in the first place.

Lister Stark burst out of the room like the devil himself is after him. He pauses for one second to observe what Peter’s doing -he’s in the middle of bending down at a very lateral pace- and then he’s off again, cursing under his breath.

‘Jesus Christ Peter what are you doing?’

He pulls out a rolling chair from behind his work bench and rushes it to Peter side. ‘Come on, sit.’ He says already clenching a hand around Peter’s bicep to guide him down. In his confusion, Peter follows his instruction.

‘Mister Stark?’ He questions, eyes tracking his mentors movement as if he’s afraid he’s done something wrong and punishment will follow.

There is none, all that Tony does, is fall down on his knees in front of Peter, so they’re making direct eye contact. Peter gulps at the sight. He’s sure those jeans cost more than half of what May ears a month, and if Peter is expected to repay those too, he’ll never be able to pay of his debt.

‘Kiddo, what are you doing?’ Mister Stark asks incredulous, his hand never leaving Peter’s arm. His eyes sweep over Peter’s form, noticing the ailments that he aggravated by walking all the way down here. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’

‘I thought you wanted me to get started already.’ Peter admits shyly. He can’t understand why he’s being treated with such kindness all of a sudden.

‘Started on what Pete? I don’t understand.’ Mister Stark shuffles closer, one hand coming up to cup Peter’s chin, sweeping gentle circles that are meant to calm himself down as much as Peter.

‘Paying of my debt.’ Peter replies confused, wrapping his arms around his stomach area and bending downwards in an order to self sooth. He needs to get up soon, are Peter’ not sure he will be able to. Now that he’s granting his body some rest, the pain he forced to the back of his mind is rushing back in.

‘What debt kid, you need rest and you need it right now. Stay here, I’m going to go get you a gurney so you don’t require any more walking.’

Right as Mister Stark gets of his knees, Peter’s hand shoots out, gripping the older man’s wrist.  The action was pure habitual, but now that he’s initiated contact he doesn’t know what to do.

‘When will I have to start working then? I’d rather get started as soon as possible, to thank you for everything Mister Stark.’ Peter’s voice pitches even lower, letting his head hang down in shame. He really doesn’t want to offer his suit back, Spiderman is what gives him purpose, but the sooner he no longer has a debt, the sooner he can start working to provide May with an extra income as well. He has no choice.

‘I can give you the suit back if you’ll accept it.’

Tony regards him with perturbation for several long lasting moment. Then, he gasps, finally clicking in his head what Peter is going on about.

‘Oh kiddo, that’s the concussion speaking. Listen to me,’ he sinks back down in front Peter, taking his hand in his. ‘You have done so much for me. If anything it’s me that should be in debt to you.’ Peter pens his mouth to argue, but Tony hushes him softly.

‘You’re not thinking straight buddy, that why spider baby’s need their rest. But truly Peter, you don’t owe me anything. Well except maybe you owe it to  be safe, I think I’ve earned that much.’

‘Really?’ Peter asks optimistically, his whole body filling up with a feeling he can’t name, but it chokes him up until he’s bursting with the urge to give a hug to his mentor.

‘Yeah Peter of course. All I want is my kids to be safe.’

Kids. Tony sees Peter as his kid, as equal to Morgan. A person to love unconditionally without needing any favors, without having any debt. Of course Mister Stark won’t ask that of him, despite his front, the man has a heart that’s made of gold. Mister Stark, his mentor, and his father figure.

‘Dad,’ Peter sobs, almost falling out of the chair in his rush to get to Tony. The man immediately returns the hug, holding Peter up in a way that he hopes will be the least painful for him.

‘You’re okay Peter you’re okay.’

‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking’, Peter confesses, deeply ashamed of how low he thought of his dad.

‘It’s okay Kiddo, like I said it’s the concussion. Of course you were scared, I can’t blame you. I promise that I tried so hard to find you bud. I’m sorry it took me so long.’

Peter says nothing, he’s had enough encounters with Tony now to sense that the man wouldn’t believe him if Peter told him it’s okay. Instead he just nuzzles closer, accepting all the love and affection radiating from Tony, and giving back what he hopes is just as much.

‘Can we go back to the lakehouse?’ Peter asks softly, burring his head in Tony’s neck. It might be a weird question coming from him. He liked the beach house enough, but he has never actively asked to go there when they could stay at the tower as well. But now, Peter won’t feel safe unless his down there, in the cabin hidden behind threes, where the environment is quiet that he can hear everyone’s heartbeat, and can confirm that everyone is safe.

‘Sure kid.’ Tony responds, a tad bewildered, but happy to provide anyway. ‘We’ll leave as soon as you get check out okay. I want to make sure you didn’t rip anything.’

‘Okay’, Peter mumbles, a bone deep tiredness washing over him, and letting him sink down into Tony. ‘Thanks dad.’

If Peter were more awake, he would have noticed the silent tears of happiness streaming down Mister Starks cheek at the name. As it stands, Peter just hums contently when a kiss is pressed at the top of his head, and Tony strikes a hand through his hair.

‘Anything for my son.’

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Whumptober 30 + 31: Internal Injury and Left for Dead

CW: Blood, just like a whole lot of violence, organ removal, more than mild arson, whumper turned whumpee, character death, dissoci@tion, mild vampirism, some brief threatening pet whump and dehumanization + a noncon reference

TIMELINE: Begins immediately following Possession, end of the Bad Arc. One year after Danny is abducted for a second time.

Nate tastes blood on his tongue, thick in his mouth, but he’s tasted blood before. Bram’s skin is cold but it is always cold, and his panting breaths are heavy against Nate’s ear but he knows Bram’s breathing better than almost anything else, better than he knows anyone’s breathing but Danny’s.

Abraham Denner has been breathing in Nate’s ear, down his spine, inside his mind for seven very long years, and Nate is about to ensure he can never do it again.

Bram groans in pain, like so many other sounds he’s made against Nate’s ear before, whispering, I love you, you’re mine as Nate cried and fought and screamed and didn’t cry and moaned and gave in to him, to his eyes and his love, again and again and again-

Nate pulls back, his teeth and tongue black and red, blood smeared thick like oil around his lips and down his chin, and Bram’s eyes meet his, wide with rage. 

Nate isn’t scared of Bram any longer.

His wrists burn from tearing free of the ropes, the scent of new and old blood is thick in the air around them. His hands close around Bram’s neck, a collar of skin, and he closes his grip slippery-red, thumbs pressing down on the windpipe of a man who will not die from this, because he already died centuries ago.

Ryan is in his mind and in his hands, guiding their strength, Ryan is darkness and white teeth sharpened to points. Ryan is glowing yellow eyes that stare out from Nate’s own. He is not alone inside himself, and they are the same, and if Danny is dead then Nate will make sure Bram follows him-

He’s not dead, Ryan’s voice whispers inside of him, and Nate bears his thumbs down harder just to hear Bram’s gurgling, rasping chokes, to feel his hands press against Nate’s bare chest and then claw there, digging in but Ryan is between Nate and the pain, pressing up against his skin, a barrier between Nate and true sensation. He’s not dead. We can still save him.

Nathaniel Vandrum’s life has been narrowed, day by day, month by month, year by year. He spent years under Bram’s spell, eight months a hunted animal. He spent four years keeping Danny alive, he spent a year and a half helping him learn to be human again, spent a year watching Danny suffer from a place too far for him to follow.

He has spent a year watching Danny bleed, and scream, and cry, and slip away inside himself with only Ryan there to bring him back out.

He is tired of watching Danny suffer.

He is tired of this.

He is so fucking tired.

He feels no pain from his broken right hand - Ryan stands between him and the pain there, too. He can feel Ryan twisting inside him, pushing him to close his hands tighter around Bram’s neck, staring down into his eyes. The things that move there thrash with desperate desire to survive but Nate has no mercy left in him.

He should be horrified by someone else being inside his body with him but he can’t be, he can’t let it sink in that he is moving as two people working together inside one skin, or he’ll slip. It takes one mistake and Bram will have him again, and if Bram gets him again he’ll be done, he’ll die before he’ll hurt anyone, but Bram would make him hurt so many people.

“N-Nate-” Bram’s voice is husky, but the anger boils inside it, and he grabs Nate by the shoulders finally and throws him off. Nate slams to the ground on his side, groaning and moving to scramble to his feet just as Bram, blood still pouring in thick black waves from the wound Nate tore open, stands and kicks him hard.

Something snaps in Nate and Ryan isn’t fast enough to take the pain. There’s a burst of it, an ache that overrides him, and he’s still for too long. Only a second... but too long. 

Bram drags him to his knees by one arm and slaps him, his palm slamming into Nate’s cheek sending him back to the ground. Back up to slap him again, the other side. Kicked again and Nate coughs out air before he can find more to inhale.

Ryan is gone from inside him, collapsing onto the ground where he’d been standing before he stepped inside Nate’s skin, dark skin glowing faintly with the same yellow as his eyes.

Somewhere, Bram’s sister runs from her own mistakes, but Nate stares up as Bram walks towards him and thinks that Bram has never needed his sister to keep his puppies in line before, and he doesn’t need her now.

“You would… refuse the gift?” Bram’s voice is laced with his disbelief. He raises a hand to touch the uneven skin torn apart at one shoulder, looking at the blood there with something like wonder. “You’d try to kill me? After everything I did for you? After everything I gave you?”

“After-...” Nate coughs again, trying to get back on his feet, but as soon as he’s on all fours Bram kicks him again and sends him back down. His eyes move to Danny - limp on the ground, blood welling up around the blade buried in his back. Danny’s eyes are open, wide and so so blue.

So blue, and so empty.

Danny’s gone.

“No.” The voice is from Nate but it’s not his voice. It’s a whimper. A whine. Barely a protest.

Too late.

“I gave you the puppy,” Bram says, stepping between Nate and Danny, blocking him from the sight of the man he loves most in the world. The only thing left that he loves in the world. “Now I’ve taken the puppy away.”

Nate’s heart does not twist with fear. He doesn’t let himself grieve yet. Instead… he lets his head drop to the ground, into his arms, and he starts to weep. If the tears are anger, not sadness, Bram doesn’t notice. He chuckles, satisfied, and pulls Nate back onto his feet again. One hand gripped tightly around his arm, the other hand cups Nate’s cheek, gently pressing his jaw to tilt his head up, get him to look Bram in the eyes.

“I w-wanted to save him,” Nate whispers.

Too late, Vandrum. Always too late.

“I know,” Bram says with unnerving tenderness, and when he leans in to kiss Nate, the man doesn’t fight him. Bram’s lips are cold. 

He spent half a year, once, being the perfect lover. He can do it again, for just a few minutes. 

For long enough.

Bram licks his own blood off his lips when he pulls back, smiling now. There’s blackish red on his teeth, staining his pale pale skin. “You can’t save anyone, Nate,” Bram says, reaching up, running his fingers back through Nate’s hair. “You’re mine. Mine, forever. For the rest of fucking time, Nate, you’re mine. Mourn him if you want, but you were never meant for the puppy. You were meant for me.”

“Yes,” Nate says, and pitches his voice to be slightly faint and empty, the voice he used when Bram would wipe him away from himself. He looks into those colorless eyes and, like every day since Bram once forced a muzzle on Danny for months and nearly took him from Nate for good, he feels absolutely nothing.

“Bring Faerie Boy inside,” Bram commands with effortless certainty. “I know how to take care of his kind, too. Then we’ll decide what happens next.” Bram looks carelessly over at where Danny lays crumpled in the dirt. “Faerie Boy can bury the body.”

The body.

Nate has to steel himself with every ounce of willpower not to make a sound in response. He only nods and, making his expression blank, he limps over to Ryan, dragging Danny’s brother to his feet. Ryan’s skin feels like an open flame under his hand, far hotter than human skin ever should be, but the glow in his eyes is dulling. He’s too tired, too new at this. His strength is already waning, Nate thinks, he pushed himself too far.

“Danny’s n-not dead,” Ryan says in a croaking, cracking voice. “He’s, he’s not-”

“I know,” Nate responds, forcing him to move. He knows Danny is dead, though, and that this is just Ryan trying to convince him not to give up, give in, and let Bram rebuild his family - with his true love and his dog - with Ryan in Danny’s place. Bram is behind them, ensuring they go where into the house, and Nate half-drags Ryan up the steps. “T-trust me. I h-h-h… I’ve got a plan.”

Ryan laughs, dry and hopeless, but he allows himself to be moved. His neck is a ring of bright red agony, his wrists look the same. He’s skinny, after a year earning bites of food with obedience to torture, bony under Nate’s hands. His hair is dull and brittle, dried and tangled frizz instead of curls. “Sure… hope so.”

“When I m-m-move,” Nate whispers, barely loud enough for Ryan to possibly hear, just hoping he understands, “grab his l-l-legs to s-slow him down, and then c-c-come back… I’ll l-let you in.”

Nate deposits him on the floor next to the kitchen table without waiting for a response, letting him drop more roughly than necessary, pretending he is still in thrall as he pulls out a chair and sits. 

He’s going to have one chance at this.

Bram pulls out a chair and sits across from him, giving Nate a smile. Brilliant, and shining, and loving, even as the love of Nate’s life is bleeding to death in the front yard. Nate might not be able to save Danny, now - but he can save Ryan, he thinks.

He hopes it’s enough for wherever Danny will be after he’s gone.

He hopes it will somehow settle Danny’s soul, to know Nate gave everything to save his little brother, after watching Danny break himself again and again to hold Ryan together.

If we’re damned for loving each other like they told me, Nate thinks with an all-consuming grief and conviction, I’ll see you in hell soon enough.

“We’ll have to go somewhere new,” Bram says, gripping Ryan by the hair, jerking him backwards. Ryan bares his sharp, inhuman teeth, and Bram snorts, ramming his head directly into the edge of the table, making Ryan cry out and slump.

Nate doesn’t flinch.

“I’ll dedicate you. Make you one of us. I’ll finish the dedication and then you’ll understand.” Bram’s hand is still gripped in Ryan’s hair, tightening on the curls until he hisses in pain, but it’s a faint and faded sound. “We’ll take the puppy with us and go find my sister. You know I never like to leave a puppy, Nate.”

Those eyes are back on his, and Nate gives Bram a slight smile - as if pulled out of him unwillingly, as if he’s falling into the depths of his eyes all over again. As if, without Danny to fight for, he has no fight left.

Danny might be dead - Nate’s mind skips from that truth, runs from it as fast as it can, circles around it endlessly - but Ryan isn’t. Danny would want his brother saved, and Nate… 

He can do this.

He has to do this.

“Y-yes, Bram,” Nate says, soft and as empty as Danny’s open eyes. “I c-can help t-t-take care of Faerie B-Boy.”

At his feet, Ryan lets out a choked-off sob. Whether he’s only playing the part, or drifting into pure hopelessness, Nate isn’t sure. He can’t risk a look, can’t risk giving anything away for a second. Instead, he moves to lay his hand over Bram’s on top of Ryan’s head. Bram’s hand is cold under his.

Danny’s hands get cold, too, his long fingers feel like ice sometimes in the morning when he wakes Nate with a hug. He pulls his hands into the sleeves of his sweaters, tugs them constantly down to cover the scars on the backs of his hands. His eyes are warmer than his hands can be, as Nate holds one of his hands in both of his, rubbing at them to warm up those cold fingers while Danny smiles-

Danny’s dead. You can save his brother. Focus.

“I l-love you,” Nate says, softly. He knows how to twist his tone just right, to make his voice foggy like the power of Bram’s eyes has once again papered over Nate’s will, his very self, to remake him in Bram’s image.

If there is a heaven, it will be Danny that I beg for forgiveness, not God.

“I love you, too.” Bram smiles, letting go of Ryan to hold Nate’s hand. Cold dead fingers. Nate forces his smile to widen, softens his expression. “My black-haired prince. Red got in our way. But it’s just us all over again, isn’t it? Just you and I.” He smirks, pale lips smeared with drying blood. “And the puppy.”

Nate nods, and pulls Bram’s hand up, to press a kiss to the back of it. Smooth, scarless.

Not the hand he wants to kiss at all.

“That’s why you had to watch it all, you know.” Bram sighs, content in this moment. There’s still blood running from the wound in his shoulder but he doesn’t seem to notice it, and the wound is closing before Nate’s eyes, skin knitting itself together. He won’t die, even if Nate kills him he won’t die. There’s only one way to be sure. Only one way to keep him from coming back.

“Wh-what? Why?” Nate tilts his head, closes his eyes so Bram won’t see he’s disgusted by his touch, plays it off as shivering desire, maybe. Somehow, somewhere back there, he gained the ability to hide some of his unhappiness from Abraham Denner.

They lost with their first attempt.

There’s only one more chance.

“So you would get used to it again.” Bram pulls his hand back and away, lays it palm-down against the back of Ryan’s neck, and Nate tries not to watch Ryan shiver where he kneels on the floor. Bram scratches his fingernails through the red, irritated skin, reopening old wounds from the iron collar. Ryan whimpers, whines with the pain, and Nate fights the memory of Danny’s scream behind his muzzle, jaw straining as the wire mesh cut in deeper and deeper. 

Bram took the muzzle off - the new one remade, but it might as well have been exactly the fucking same - before Ryan and Ora came out. It’s still out there, isn’t it? Lying in the dirt, bloodied. 

Nate almost loses his iron grip on his own emotions at the thought of Danny’s body in the dirt so close to the tool of torture that hurt him the worst. Not from grief, no - he still has that locked up inside his head, he will mourn Danny when he has saved Ryan, when it’s over, when it’s done. But the fury that comes with the realization that Danny’s eyes, still open and unblinking, will be staring right at the muzzle.

He catches himself. Holds the anger down. Gives Bram a soft, sweet, loving smile. “Used t-to it?”

“Right. Used to it, and… maybe a little bit appreciative.” Bram laughs, his high-pitched hyena’s laughter, smacking the wound he reopened on Ryan’s neck just to hear him cry. His eyes glow such a brilliant, bright yellow they turn nearly white, like staring into the sun - and then falter again, fade and go dull. 

He needs to be strong enough to do one more thing, and Nate isn’t sure if he will be. But he’s going to try, anyway.

“I’ll l-learn,” Nate promises, and runs his own hand through Ryan’s dirty, greasy curls, catching in the tangles. He looks down, cold green eyes locking on Ryan’s dulled yellow, back to the color of old, cloudy honey, and uses his good left hand to tilt his chin up, rubbing his thumb over his lower lip. “You’ll b-b-be good for m-me, puppy, won’t you?”

Ryan’s eyes widen, just a little, flicker in the dim kitchen lit only by the light coming through the window over the sink, and through the open inside door. Outside the closed screen door, down the steps, fifteen feet away, Danny lies in the dirt. 

“Oh, that’s good,” Bram says, rubbing at Ryan’s back. “What do you say, Faerie Boy? Can you be as good between us as you’ve been for me so far?”

Ryan’s lip trembles under Nate’s thumb. Nate smiles at him, the same soft loving look he’s been giving Bram. He is the personification of what Bram can do. He is the perfect vision of Bram taking control and making him someone he’s not, as he did for years with power, manipulation, and threats. “Bram asked you a qu-... a question, p-puppy,” Nate whispers. “Wh-what’s the r-r-rule?”

Ryan’s eyes well with such human tears. “Al-... always answer Abraham’s questions, never hes… hesitate and neh-... never lie.”

“So wh-what’s your answer?”

Ryan looks up at him, pleading, but Nate keeps his eyes, his face perfectly steady. I’m sorry. Just a few more minutes...

“I...” Ryan’s voice catches. He’s exhausted, struggling to pull threads of himself together. Whatever it is Ryan is, whatever it is he can do, it takes too much out of him. “I c-can be good for you,” He whispers.

“B-B-Both of us?”

Ryan’s eyes close tightly. “Both of you.” He has to spit out the words.

“Good b-b-boy.” Another rub over his lower lip, his skin is rough and chapped against Nate’s thumb. “Do you w-w-want a d, a drink, Bram?” He raises his eyes, lets his hand drop, but not before he taps twice on the front of Ryan’s neck next to his Adam's apple, deliberately spaced apart to make it clear it’s a message. “I th-think I remember how you l-like it.”

Bram smiles, twists a curl around his finger, yanks on it until Ryan winces. “Sure. Whiskey sour. Red made sour mix, it’s in the fridge.” He sighs, mournfully. “I suppose Red won’t get to make me my drinks anymore. Pity, he was always better at it than Faerie Boy.”

Nate swallows. He won’t cry for Danny yet. 

Not yet.

He pushes himself to his feet, walking away and moving to the fridge. Slow footsteps, careful and solid. He feels strange, as though he’s far away from himself, watching his body go through these motions from a distance. Open the cupboards until he finds a glass, pull it down and add some ice cubes. Find the whiskey in a different cabinet, expensive small-batch distillery in Portland, he notes absently, pouring a shot, and then two, into the glass.

He pulls the sour mix, stored in a pitcher, out of the fridge and tries with every ounce of strength he has left not to think about how Danny’s fingers were the last to close around the handle, and now they never will again.

Not yet not yet not yet.

Cry when Ryan is safe. Until then, be for Ryan what Danny cannot be any longer. He owes Danny that much and more, he owes everything he could ever give. He pours in the sour mix, adds a cherry from a jar in the fridge. Picks a lemon up from a basket, staring down at it, and then his eyes move to the knife block, but he’s careful not to turn his head to make it obvious. 

One chance.

He picks up not the chef’s knife but the smaller, sharper paring knife, and he feels Bram’s eyes on his back as he cuts three identical lemon slices, struggling to do it gracefully with his broken hand throbbing again, fighting him with every step. He drops the lemon slices into the drink, gives the whole thing a quick stir. Closes his eyes and breathes.

I’m sorry, Danny.

He turns around and throws the drink in Bram’s face.

Ryan is moving before Nate has even finished his own motion and he grabs Bram around the legs as he starts to stand up, slamming the man into the ground as he’s knocked off balance, pale eyes widening in surprise as Nate falls on him with his teeth bared and the knife in his hand, bringing it down over Bram’s heart.

There’s resistance, and pain, and Nate doesn’t care about either anymore.

Ryan’s eyes flare, glowing brilliant with one last spark of energy, and the shadows press like velvet against Nate’s back, overtaking all the light but Ryan’s. The kitchen is pure and perfectly black as Nate feels Bram’s blood bubble up cold around the handle of the knife as he forces it down.

Cold hands grab onto his like a vice, and he opens his mouth to scream-

Let me in.

Ryan is in his skin in his heart in his head, pressing the knife down harder, dragging it back towards himself, cutting into Bram’s skin as he fights them but Ryan is stronger than Nate and the two men working in one body open the emptiness inside of Abraham Denner and Nate shoves his hand inside.

It’s cold, like everything about Bram is cold, and it has a little give under his fingers. He grips as tightly as his hand will allow and Ryan is gripping alongside him as they pull backwards. Bram screams, the first true scream Nate has ever heard from him, high-pitched. Windows crack around them as the scream carries on and on and on, Nate’s head is pounding but he can’t feel it. Ryan takes it for him, presses himself along the length of Nate’s body, underneath his skin, against his eardrums, layers himself over Nate’s mind.

He is protected.

He uses the blade of the paring knife to cut the veins and arteries. Cold black blood coats his hand as he pulls out Abraham’s Denner ancient heart.

The shadows recede - or Nate can see through them now, he doesn’t know, the whole world seems strange and disconnected from him - as he pushes himself to his feet.

Nate-

“It’s not d-d-done,” Nate says to the voice inside his head of his dead love’s little brother, and he turns, dragging one leg as he moves out into the sun outside.

Danny hasn’t moved, but Nate didn’t expect him to. 

Dead people usually don’t, unless they’re Bram or Ashley.

He is nothing but blood now, and the heart in his hands is still beating. Soft contractions of muscle with nothing to push through, no blood to rush through old veins. But still the heart beats. It’s not over.

There’s a burn pile over by a shed, covered with sticks and trash, and Nate walks to it with Ryan still inside him. The two of them look out of one set of eyes. 

Burn it?

“B-burn it,” Nate confirms in a fierce whisper.

There are no tears.

Not yet.

He lays the beating heart down in the burn pile and walks away from it, moving to a shed to open the door. He stares, blankly, at a skeleton that faces him against the back wall, rotted away by now. It’s been a year. Death is still in the air but neither of them can smell anything any longer but Bram’s blood. Nate ignores the skeleton and finds a can of gasoline - Bram is predictable, always predictable - and carries it back out to toss about a third of the can into the sticks, taking special care to ensure some of it splashes over the disembodied, beating heart.

Left here, Bram’s body would eventually reform and wake back up.

Like Ashley.

Nate will not lose anything else to them ever again.

“I’m not your b-b-black-haired p-prince,” He says to the heart, and lights a match.

The gasoline catches immediately, flames rising with the sharp pungent smell. Nate doesn’t wait - he picks the can up again, sloshes it around to see how much is left, and looks to the house. “Go s-s-say goodbye to your b-b-brother,” He says. “I’ll come, t-too, when this is o-over.”

Danny-

“Go s-say goodbye.”

Ryan is out of him in a flash, and Nate is oddly lonely inside his mind as he makes his methodical way back to the porch. Ryan kneels next to his brother, hands out but not quite touching, as Nate moves inside. He passes Abraham’s body without looking at it. He lets the gasoline trail - a little here and a little there, splashes on the curtains, splashes on the rug.

With his leg throbbing, he moves upstairs with gasoline trailing on the steps. He pours a little on the bed, staring at the bloodied ropes tied to the headboard a little too long. Outside, he starts to hear the crackle of the fire catching outside. Good. The heart will burn.

Just like his.

More gasoline for the curtains - he’s getting low, he needs to conserve. He has to be sur the whole house will burn.

Then he stops in front of a room with no door, a room he’s seen in Bram’s texted photos and videos, in a few of the livestreams he watched. He watched them all, desperate for clues. Danny and Ryan had managed to tear the paper that covered the window once and before Bram had cut the video, Nate had been able to pause - and see beyond the rolling fields to a water tower in the distance.

One of his first clues.

In this room there are manacles attached to the wall, a broken chain of iron on the floor, pools of drying blood. Nate pours a little gasoline into the pool, watching the change in texture as it thins and goes oddly shimmery.

In the closet, he finds half-drunk bottles of cheap high-proof alcohol. He lets the trail of gasoline lead to those too, and opens them all.

Done with his work, he drops the now-empty can and walks through the house, reeking of gasoline and blood, and goes downstairs and past Bram’s body one more time without looking down or looking back.

His heart beats steady and calm inside of him as he lights a match and lets it fall onto the porch, to find the first thin trail of liquid.

He stands long enough to watch the flames lick into the kitchen, over Bram’s body. He stares long enough to watch Bram’s long wavy pale hair begin to darken and curl. He watches the flames find their way from kitchen to living room. He watches the curtains burn.

Then he turns and walks down the steps.

His hands have started to shake.

Ryan, kneeling on the ground next to his brother with his wrist torn open and pouring blood, pressing it against Danny’s mouth, speaks to him but Nate doesn’t hear it, turning from Danny’s body - too late too late too late too late - and going back to the other fire, to see Bram’s heart burning, turning black. It will be ash soon, and nothing else.

Nate doesn’t cry, no.

Still, he doesn’t cry.

Not yet.

The wind blows warm over his face and Nate takes in a breath. The world is blood and smoke and his failure to save the most important person in his life. The world is the empty feeling underneath his skin. The world is the grief trying to claw it way back up his throat to make him scream-

“Nate!” Ryan’s voice is right next to his ear and he jumps as Ryan grabs at his arm, spinning him around. The yellow eyes are dull, shadowed, bereft of power - but they still dance. You can’t torture the beauty out of Ryan Michaelson.

You can’t kill the light inside him, or the things that live there.

He smells like green hills and a rainy season over waving grasslands. He carries the scent of a predator that hunts at dusk and at dark. Blood soaks the hills, pours down the river, threads into the homes of sleeping people at night.

He’s smiling.

“Nate, he’s not-... Nate, listen to me!”

Nate jerks back into himself, blinking rapidly as his strange disconnect ends. There is fire all around the two of them, and Nate realizes for the first time that the shed will burn, too. It’s already dangerously close to catching. The air is starting to heat around them. “What? Wh-what, Ryan, I-”

“Danny’s not dead! I-I can’t-... but he’s not dead! He’s still breathing! We still have time!”

In the distance, the first faint sound of sirens. Nate raises his head, staring. “Who c-c-called the c-cops?”

Ryan lets out a peal of wild, half-hysterical laughter, and the sound is beautiful. “Whoever saw that bigass cloud of fucking smoke, Nate! Someone’s-...” He swallows, suddenly, sways as his knees buckle, and Nate catches him, arms around him, keeping him upright. “Someone’s... coming for us. Someone’s coming to h-help, someone’s... someone’s coming...”

“Someone’s c-c-coming,” Nate agrees, softly.

Ryan turns to look at him, then slides his arms around Nate, hugging him, burying his head in the side of Nate’s neck.

“Someone fucking came,” He whispers. “And Danny’s not dead.”

Nate’s eyes move over to the tall, thin body sprawled out on the ground, and watches as empty blue eyes blink once, slowly move to meet his.

He’d seen emptiness and thought it was death, but it was someone else buying Danny - buying Nate - some time.

He gently pulls away from Ryan and moves to the muzzle, picking it up in one hand. Someone else is still watching him, blue eyes following his movements, and he holds it out. “Never ag-again,” He says, softly.

Someone else doesn’t move. Just keeps watching as Nate drags himself to the fire and throws the muzzle in.

But when he turn back again, tears are running down Danny’s face, his lips twisting with the agony, and he whimpers, “Nate, h-hurts-”

Nate and Ryan both run to him at once.

When the fire trucks arrive, they find the three of them together on the ground, Nate and Ryan each holding one of Danny’s hands.

---

@slytherynjolras, @whump-it, @bleeding-demon-teeth, @finder-of-rings, @burtlederp, @whumpywhumper, @18-toe-beans, @pumpkinthefangirl, @special-spicy-chicken, @swordkallya, @astrobly, @slaintetowhump, @moose-teeth, @untilthepainstarts, @whumpiary,  @lave-whump @raigash @cupcakes-and-pain

[inevitably-johnlocked]

hi steph, I hope you enjoyed your break and are looking after yourself! if you’re back and feeling up to it, I was wondering if you knew of any affectionate sherlock fics or ones where john calls him pet names? just that lovey dovey vibe w a cuddly sherlock :) again, thank you for everything you do ❤️

HI LOVELY!!!

AHHHH You are in luck!!! I actually have a Pt Two list that I’ve been just WAITING for someone to ask for, LOL. I hope you enjoy what I have for you today!!!! And as always, add your own fics, my lovelies!! <3

PET NAMES Pt. 2 

See also: Pet Names Pt 1

“My / His John” / “My / His Doctor”

New World, Old Words by thedeafwriter (G, 641 w., 1 Ch. || Deaf Sherlock, Sherlock Whump, Pining Sherlock, Marriage Proposal, Fluff, Always John) – It was disconcerting to experience. One second, he was laying on the table, breathing in the gas that would make him sleep, the next, he was dragging his eyes open to look around the bright room, trying to wake up.

Possessive by Fang323 (T, 850 w., 1 Ch. || John Whump, Hospitalization, Possessive / Protective Sherlock, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort) – His John did not belong. Not here. Not in this blasted hospital. It simply was not logical.

Concussions And Good Old Fashioned Awkwardness by Belldere (K+, 894 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Hospitals, Mild John Whump, Misunderstandings, Platonic Relationship, Concussions, Not-Gay John, Possessive Sherlock) – When John lands himself in hospital... again, all he wants is to just get out of there as soon as possible, too bad his doctor has other ideas about where John may be getting his injuries. Good thing concussions make everything strangely funnier.

Burn Burn by Jenn1984 (K+, 925 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TGG, Angst, Worried / Panicked / Possessive Sherlock) – A week after the events of "The Great Game", Sherlock returns to 221B Baker Street to find it empty.

Loved. by inevitably_johnlocked (G, 1,231 w., 1 Ch. || First Sherlock POV, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Nose Kisses, Morning After, Love Confessions, Morning Cuddles, Emotional Sherlock, Sentiment, Bed Sharing) – Sherlock reflects on his relationship with John. Part 5 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

Lost and Found by jaradel (G, 1,750 w., 1 Ch. || Post-HLV, John Whump, Est. Rel., Hurt/Comfort) – He's honestly not sure what's worse, right now - being where he is, the beaten kidnap victim, or being where Sherlock is, trying to rescue him before it's too late. Unwillingly his mind offers up the image of Sherlock in a video message, tied to a chair, bruised and bloodied. John squeezes his eyes shut to hold back tears. No, he decides. That would be so much worse.

The Video Footage by bitchinblackframedglasses (K, 1,894 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Friendship, Fluff, ASiB Missing Scene) – What exactly DID Lestrade film Sherlock doing in A Scandal in Belgravia? Sherlock wants to know, and John tells him.

Husband by jinglebell (E, 2,003 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., PWP, Anal, Multiple Orgasms, Fluff) – Sherlock orgasms when John refers to him as 'husband'.

Sherlock Holmes and the Mysterious Piercing by Lorelei_Lee (E, 4,130 w., 1 Ch. || Travelling, Sherlock is Loud, Secrets, Genital Piercing, First Time, Licking, Coming Nearly Untouched) – John discovers by chance that Sherlock has a piercing. To his surprise John can't stop thinking about it...

The Oolong Disaster by unicornpoe (T, 4,151 w., 1 Ch. || John’s Beard, Fluff, Humour, Frustrated Sherlock, John Takes Care of Sherlock, Case Fic-ish, Pining Sherlock, First Kiss, Possessive Sherlock) – John has a beard. Sherlock has a panic attack.

The Haunting of 221B Baker Street by earlgreytea68 (M, 10,388 w., 2 Ch. || Post TRF, Halloween / Ghosts, Pining Sherlock, Ghost Sherlock, Stroppy Sherlock, Sherlock POV, First Kiss/Time, Angry Sex, Ghost Sex, Love Confessions, Open / Ambiguous Ending) – In which Sherlock Holmes is a ghost.

To be loved by Strange_johnlock (E, 12,436 w., 8 Ch. || Post S3, Established Relationship, First Person POV Sherlock, Pet Names, Soft Sherlock, Mild ADHD, Protective John, Captain Watson, Body Appreciation, Bottomlock, Rough Sex, Travelling for Holidays, Introspection, Sherlock Loves John So Much It Hurts) – John is so deeply integrated into the work, both as my conductor of light, and as a great shot with a vicious right hook who tackles men -and women- no matter their size all in my defense. He protects me with all he can without question, and this loyalty is surely more than I deserve. Or: Sherlock is counting his blessings.

The Palmyra Atoll by elwinglyre (E, 16,609 w., 3 Ch. || TSo3 Divergence / Episode Fix-It, Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapped John Watson, John Whump, Evil Mary, Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Toplock, Limited 3rd John POV) – As John's preparing for the wedding, Sherlock is preparing to have his heart broken, and Mary is prepared to do the unthinkable. Intervention required. Enter Sherlock. Set before Sign of Three with a far different outcome. John is drugged, kidnapped, and left on an island, but not just any old island.

A Home for Us by sussexbound (M, 30,581 w., 12 Ch. || Scars, Bedsharing, Grief, Doctor John, Hurt/Comfort, Post-TRF, Implied/Referenced Torture, Sherlock POV, Pining Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation, Heavy Emotions, Clingy Sherlock, Hallucinations, Disassociation, Emotional Turmoil) – He has been on the road for two years, and he is exhausted. He’s almost accepted that he will never see London (John) again—almost. But then there are nights like tonight, where he is weak, and all he can think of is the warmth of the flat they once shared, the crackle of the fire in the hearth, the teasing smile playing at the corner of John’s lips, the boxes of half-eaten Chinese takeaway balanced precariously in their laps. He aches at the memory of it, at the realisation that it is something he may never experience again.

Turn Left at the Park by Glenmore (NR (E), 37,409 w., 28 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting / ASiP Divergence, Case Fic, Depression, Suicidal Ideation, Loneliness, No Mary, Possessive Sherlock, Fluff & Angst, Nightmares/PTSD, Sherlock Saves John, Sherlock Whump-ish, Doctor John) – So what would have happened if John hadn't walked through the park and met Stamford?What if, instead, he walked around the park and just went home?

Guidelines by WithLoweredVoices (M, 43,018 w., 15 Ch. || Winglock || Angels, Fantasy, Angst, BAMF! John, War, Jealous Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Jealous John, Falling in Various Ways, Needy Sherlock, Wings) – The Good Soldier, one of the oldest and strongest of the fallen, is offered a bargain: to live as John Watson and to Guide a fledgling archangel so that he will stay on the path of good. Of course, Sherlock Holmes has different ideas about his destiny. Fantasy AU. Warnings for violence, occasional gore, and a whole load of hurt and angst.

Repairing the Broken Things by BakerTumblings (M, 75,252 w., 15 Ch. || S4 Compliant, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Trauma, Hospitals, Big Brother Mycroft, Misunderstandings, Realizations, Severe Accident, John Whump, Pneumonia, Medical Procedures, Bed Sharing, First Time, Healing, Happy Ending) – "I'm calling today to notify you that there's been an accident."

The Thing Is by TSylvestris (E, 56,743 w., 21 Ch. || Case Fic, Dev. Rel., Anal/Oral, Blow Jobs, Meddling Mycroft, Drama, Romance, Humour, Casual Encounters, Pining Idiots, Possessive Sherlock, Orgasm Delay, Rough / Alley Sex, Public Sex, John Whump, Drugged John, Emotional Love Making, Awkward Relationship, Marriage of Convenience, Switchlock) – The problem with living with Sherlock, John thought, was that you never, never, ever knew the significance of anything. Like your flatmate's nose buried in your hair. Whilst you're in bed. Part 1 of Nitroglycerine

One Little Change by jadztone (E, 58,312 w., 12 Ch. || ASiB Divergence, Fake Relationship, Bed Sharing, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bi John / Gay Demisexual Sherlock, Switchlock, Alternating POV, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, Case Fic, Angst with Happy Ending, Emotional Love Making, Butt Plugs, Cuddles) – Our story begins right after John and Sherlock's first meeting with Irene Adler in September. It splits off into an AU that imagines them taking a case where they act as bait to hook a killer targeting closeted gays in secret relationships. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, many things happen that have our boys wondering if maybe they have a chance with each other. Then Irene fakes her death on Christmas Eve, and things get a lot more complicated - especially since they still have a killer to catch.

Gold Rush by ShirleyCarlton (E, 71,783 w., 17 Ch. || Post S3 / No Mary, Friends to Lovers, Mentions of Past Sexual Abuse, First Kiss, Case Fic, Slow Burn, Alternating POV, Switchlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Marriage Proposal, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Abduction, Anxious/Insecure Sherlock, Miscommunication, Emotional Lovemaking) – John has divorced Mary and pops round to 221B one evening to find Sherlock in the middle of a case. As Sherlock tries to find the identity of a young woman’s stalker, John realises he can no longer deny his feelings for Sherlock – which then, to their befuddlement, turn out to be mutual. Shy kisses and tentative embraces ensue. But will Sherlock be able to cast off a shadow from his past that he thinks might prevent John from wanting to stay?

The Adventure of the Silver Scars by tangledblue (NR [M], 142,458 w., 41 Ch. || S3 Fix-It, Post-HLV/ Post-TAB / Canon Compliant, Case Fic, No Baby, Angst, Humour, UST, Slow Burn, Angry John, Reconciliation, Not Nice Mary / Leaving Mary, Dependent Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Caretaker John, Fist Fights, It’s An Experiment, Virgin Sherlock, Dancing, Drugging, John Whump, Pet Names, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Scars) – It’s been thirteen months since Mary shot Sherlock and John finds he’s still pissed off about it. Sherlock had thought everything was settled: John and Mary, domestic bliss. But when John turns up at Baker Street with suitcases, the world’s only consulting detective might not be prepared for the consequences. A new case. Some old scores to settle. Certain danger. Concertos, waltzes, and whisky.

Against the Rest of the World by SilentAuror (E, 151,714 w., 20 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Hiatus Fic, POV First Person Sherlock, Present Tense, First Kiss/Time, Big Brother Mycroft, Escaping from Capture, Soft Sherlock, Toplock, Insecurity, Infidelity, Travelling, Introspection, Pining Sherlock, Depression, Fantasies, Yearning for the Past, PTSD Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation) – Sherlock has been away from London for nine hundred and twelve days and counting, and has no idea what sort of reception to expect when he finally returns.

“Love” / “My Sherlock”

I Knew You Loved Me by inevitably_johnlocked (T, 743 w., 1 Ch. || Morning Cuddles, Fluff, Clingy Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Slice of Life, Morning After, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Declarations of Love, Pet Name, Bed Sharing, Snuggles) – John and Sherlock share a lie-in the morning after their first time. So fluffy and gross your teeth will fall out. Part 4 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

Hell or High water by bluefire301175 (E, 2,250 w. || PWP, Frottage, Alley Sex, First Person POV John, Case-ish Fic, Mutual Pining, Bed Sharing) – John wants. Sherlock wants. Plain and simple.

A Study in Lace by KarlyAnne (E, 2,320 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Crafty Sherlock, Tiny Lace Panties / Lingerie, Domestics, Experiments, Oral, Masturbation) – “Why do you suppose he was doing that?” “Why do I suppose who was doing what?” “The room. The lace. The secrecy. He was playing with fire in everything he did, and didn’t care one bit. But he had a secret chamber, carefully concealed, solely for the purpose of making lace lingerie. Obviously for personal use. Why?" Part 1 of The Unintentional Crafts of Sherlock Holmes

Tell Me a Secret, Sherlock Holmes. by DaringlyDomestic (NR, 3,880 w., 2 Ch. || Love Confessions, Truth or Dare, Smut, Gentle Explicit Love, Microscopic Angst) – John's voice is low and seductive, sending a shiver of want crackling through his stomach. Sherlock's heart beats frantically against his ribcage, and his breathing grows fast as he feels John's lips flutter against the sensitive skin of his neck. The kiss, if it could really be called that, is so quick and so light that Sherlock is almost convinced he had imagined it. Part 9 of Tumblr Drabble Challenge

Applied Linguistics by what_alchemy (M, 4,837 w., 1 Ch. || Possessive / Anxious Sherlock, Introspection, Bed Sharing, Past John Whump, Est. Rel., Marriage Proposal, Sherlock Loves John So Much, Word Play) – “He wants to shake John by the shoulders, wants to open his mouth and swallow John whole. Wants to marry him.” Sherlock searches for the right words.

My First, My Only, and My Forever by vintagelilacs (E, 6,220 w., 1 Ch. || Post-ASiB, Virgin Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock’s Bum, John’s Scar, Sherlock POV, Body Worship, Fingering, Bottomlock, Promise of Forever / Proposals, Misunderstanding, First Kiss/Time, Loss of Virginity, Virginity Kink, Seduction) – Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He was missing a vital piece of data, he was sure. John had been looking at him oddly ever since they left Buckingham Palace, and the ensuing incident with Irene Adler had only exacerbated his erratic behaviour. What was it? Why would he care that Sherlock was a virgin? There was nothing reminiscent of mockery or pity in his gaze. And then it hit him. John Watson was aroused.

Talk by illwick (E, 6,364 w., 1 Ch. || Dirty Talk, John’s Giant Junk, PWP, Light BDSM, Size Kink, Oral / Anal, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Rel., John Calls Sherlock Love) – Sherlock was never much for dirty talk... until an unexpected visit yields unexpected results. Part 20 of Unwind

Survival Instinct by shirleyholmes (T, 7,162 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TRF, First Kiss, Schmoop, Nightmares, Fluff & Angst, Grief, Idiots in Love) – After Sherlock's "comeback" John starts obsessing with constantly making sure he's alive (checking his heartbeat etc.)

Of Razors, Pipes, Red Notebooks and Rugby Jerseys, Or: Sherlock Doesn't Like His Doctors Clean Shaven by allonsys_girl (E, 7,313 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., PWP / Porn With Feelings, John’s Beard / Beard Kink, Roleplay, Love Declarations, Banter, Rimming, Anal, Domestic Fluff / Bliss, Idiots in Love, Emotional Lovemaking, Pet Names, Obsessive Sherlock, Sherlock POV, Bottomlock, Cranky Sherlock) – John grows a beard. Sherlock really likes it. Part 1 of Consulting Husbands

The Invocation of Saint Margaret by Ewebie (E, 15,831 w., 1 Ch. || POV John, Crossing Timelines, Light Angst, Fluff, Series 3 John / Series 1 Sherlock, The Matchbox, Mushy Romance, First Time, Bisexual John, Pining John, Bottomlock, Love Confessions, Sensuality, Emotional Love Making, Snippets of Time) – When Sherlock Holmes opens the matchbox from The Sign of Three and John finds himself years in the past, back to that first dinner at Angelo's with a much younger Sherlock Holmes. Is he dreaming?

The Burning of the Leaves by blueink3 (M, 15,915 w., 3 Ch. || Post S4, Angst, Reichenbach, Parentlock, Past Jolto, Idiot John, Sherlock’s a Mess, Puppies, Fluff, Possessive / Jealous Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock POV, Matchmaker Sholto, Melancholic Feelings, Emotional Sherlock, Domesticity, Love Confessions in the Rain, Kissing in the Rain, Pet Names, Panic Attack) – After the events of series 4, Major Sholto invites John and Sherlock to lunch one day. It nearly proves to be too much for their tenuous relationship as the past haunts the present, putting the future that Sherlock so desperately wants at risk.

26 Pieces by Lanning (E, 28,236 w., 1 Ch. || H/C, Torture, First Time, Happy Ending, Schmoop) – Mycroft gives Sherlock the apparently simple task of solving a puzzle box containing a stolen microchip. It isn't simple.

The Winter Garden by Callie4180 (T, 31,213 w., 13 Ch. || Post-S4, Retirement, Christmas, Slow Burn, Grown-Up Rosie, Parenthood, Rosie’s Cat, Angst with Happy Ending, Holidays, Beekeeping, Magical Realism, Sherlock POV, Sherlock’s Violin, Future Fic, Sussex, Honey, Magical Healing Honey, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Scar, First Kiss, Touching) – As Sherlock nears the end of his career, he's given the gift of a cottage in Sussex. The honey from the beehives out back is amazing. Almost...magical.

Guidelines by WithLoweredVoices (M, 43,018 w., 15 Ch. || Winglock || Angels, Fantasy, Angst, BAMF! John, War, Jealous Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Jealous John, Falling in Various Ways, Needy Sherlock, Wings) – The Good Soldier, one of the oldest and strongest of the fallen, is offered a bargain: to live as John Watson and to Guide a fledgling archangel so that he will stay on the path of good. Of course, Sherlock Holmes has different ideas about his destiny. Fantasy AU. Warnings for violence, occasional gore, and a whole load of hurt and angst.

Anchor Point by trickybonmot (E, 49,856 w., 80 Ch. || Truman Show AU || Psychological Drama, Suspense, Slow Burn, Dark Characters / Fic, Alternating First/Third Person, Protective John, Anxious/Worried Sherlock, Tender Moments, Love Confessions, Hand/Blow Jobs, Cuddling, Jealous John, First Kiss/Time) – The world tunes in nightly for Sherlock, the ultimate in reality TV: Sherlock Holmes, a real person with a legendary name, unknowingly lives out his life in a staged setting contrived by his brother. Things get complicated when a retired army doctor joins the show to play the part of Sherlock's closest friend. This fic borrows its concept from the 1998 film, the Truman Show. However, you don't need to have any knowledge of the movie to enjoy this story.

One Little Change by jadztone (E, 58,312 w., 12 Ch. || ASiB Divergence, Fake Relationship, Bed Sharing, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bi John / Gay Demisexual Sherlock, Switchlock, Alternating POV, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, Case Fic, Angst with Happy Ending, Emotional Love Making, Butt Plugs, Cuddles) – Our story begins right after John and Sherlock's first meeting with Irene Adler in September. It splits off into an AU that imagines them taking a case where they act as bait to hook a killer targeting closeted gays in secret relationships. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, many things happen that have our boys wondering if maybe they have a chance with each other. Then Irene fakes her death on Christmas Eve, and things get a lot more complicated - especially since they still have a killer to catch.

Gold Rush by ShirleyCarlton (E, 71,783 w., 17 Ch. || Post S3 / No Mary, Friends to Lovers, Mentions of Past Sexual Abuse, First Kiss, Case Fic, Slow Burn, Alternating POV, Switchlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Marriage Proposal, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Abduction, Anxious/Insecure Sherlock, Miscommunication, Emotional Lovemaking) – John has divorced Mary and pops round to 221B one evening to find Sherlock in the middle of a case. As Sherlock tries to find the identity of a young woman’s stalker, John realises he can no longer deny his feelings for Sherlock – which then, to their befuddlement, turn out to be mutual. Shy kisses and tentative embraces ensue. But will Sherlock be able to cast off a shadow from his past that he thinks might prevent John from wanting to stay?

The Summer Boy by khorazir (T, 94,706 w., 6 Ch. || Post S3/Post TAB/Alternate S4, Friends to Lovers, Flashbacks, Sussex, Bullying, 1980′s Kid Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Inexperienced Sherlock, Grief/Mourning, Pining Sherlock, Background Case Fic) – About half a year after the fateful events at Appledore, Sherlock and John embark on a private case in Sussex. For Sherlock, it’s a journey into his past, bringing up memories both happy and sad that he has locked away for almost thirty years. For John, it means coming to terms with the present – and a potential future with Sherlock. Part 1 of the The Summer Boy series

Northwest Passage by Kryptaria (E, 95,157 w., 27 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Canadian AU ||  BAMF!John, Canadian John, PTSD, Anal / Oral Sex, Rimming, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Drug Rehab, Falling in Love, Pining Sherlock, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Violin, Panic Attacks, Switching, Anxious / Protective Sherlock, Hugs for Comfort, Suicide Mentions, Healing Each Other) – Seven years ago, Captain John Watson of the Canadian Forces Medical Service withdrew from society, seeking a simple, isolated life in the distant northern wilderness of Canada. Though he survives from one day to the next, he doesn't truly live until someone from his dark past calls in a favor and turns his world upside-down with the introduction of Sherlock Holmes." Part 1 of Tales from the Northwest

The Wedding Garments by cwb (E, 105,390 w., 36 Ch. || Alternate Future AU || , Alternate First Meeting, Dating / Arranged Marriages, Romance, First Kiss/Time, Heavy Petting, Cuddles, POV Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn / Falling in Love / Dev. Rel., Nervous/Anxious Sherlock, Jealous/Cranky, Hiking, Vacation Homes / Honeymoon, Sherlock’s Family, Horny John/Sherlock, Patient John, Massages, Hand Jobs, Assassination Plots, Hand Jobs / Oral Sex) – This is the story of a young consulting detective who wants nothing to do with marriage and an army doctor who wants to find true love. It's 2020 post-Brexit England and the British government is encouraging arranged marriages. Candidates meet through state-run agencies and date in hopes of finding love (and tax benefits). Sherlock doesn't need or want a spouse, at least not until John Watson shows up. Hesitant to give in to his more carnal urges because of the way they derail his mind, how will Sherlock progress toward the more intimate aspects of a relationship? The answer lies in a very special wedding gift.

The Bang and the Clatter by earlgreytea68 (M, 137,049 w., 37 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Baseball AU || Slow Burn / Dev. Rel., Possessive/Obsessive Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Mutual Pining, Body Appreciation, Depression, Closeted Sexuality, Family, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Ogling Each Other, Anxious Sherlock, Panic Attack, Drunkenness, Talk of Forever, Big Feelings™) – Sherlock Holmes is a pitcher and John Watson is a catcher. No, no, no, it's a baseball AU. Part 1 of Baseball

The Adventure of the Silver Scars by tangledblue (NR [M], 142,458 w., 41 Ch. || S3 Fix-It, Post-HLV/ Post-TAB / Canon Compliant, Case Fic, No Baby, Angst, Humour, UST, Slow Burn, Angry John, Reconciliation, Not Nice Mary / Leaving Mary, Dependent Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Caretaker John, Fist Fights, It’s An Experiment, Virgin Sherlock, Dancing, Drugging, John Whump, Pet Names, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Scars) – It’s been thirteen months since Mary shot Sherlock and John finds he’s still pissed off about it. Sherlock had thought everything was settled: John and Mary, domestic bliss. But when John turns up at Baker Street with suitcases, the world’s only consulting detective might not be prepared for the consequences. A new case. Some old scores to settle. Certain danger. Concertos, waltzes, and whisky.

OTHER PET NAMES

A Christmas Holiday by consultinggalpals (sansa_undergrind) (G, 1,076 w., 1 Ch. || Tooth Rotting Fluff, Christmas, Honeymoon) – "Come on, Sherlock. Just take the picture already.”

Unquantifiable by 221b_hound (M, 2,799 w. 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Sherlock/Sally Friendship, Grumpy John, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Pet Names, Texting, Sweet Sherlock, Princess Bride References) – John remains a terrible and foul-tempered patient, but he does try to make up for it with pet names and text message silliness. In the meantime, Sally Donovan visits Baker Street for a hint about the Milverton case, and has to deal with a Sherlock Holmes who can't find words big enough to thank her for saving John's life at the warehouse. For afters, there's a viewing of The Princess Bride. Part 33 of the Unkissed series

Pillow Talk by scullyseviltwin (M, 5,183 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S3, Angsty Fluff, PIllow Talk, Bed Sharing, Worried John, First Time Morning After, Soft Sherlock, Sexuality Discussion, Love Confessions, Kisses and Cuddles) – John has been looking at Sherlock for ages, it feels like.

One Little Change by jadztone (E, 58,312 w., 12 Ch. || ASiB Divergence, Fake Relationship, Bed Sharing, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bi John / Gay Demisexual Sherlock, Switchlock, Alternating POV, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, Case Fic, Angst with Happy Ending, Emotional Love Making, Butt Plugs, Cuddles) – Our story begins right after John and Sherlock's first meeting with Irene Adler in September. It splits off into an AU that imagines them taking a case where they act as bait to hook a killer targeting closeted gays in secret relationships. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, many things happen that have our boys wondering if maybe they have a chance with each other. Then Irene fakes her death on Christmas Eve, and things get a lot more complicated - especially since they still have a killer to catch.

A Study in Winning by Jupiter_Ash (E, 106,658 w., 11 Ch. || Tennis AU || John POV, Dirty Talk, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Happy Ending, Sherlock Speaks French, Switchlock, Wimbledon) – John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything? Part 1 of Tennis

[johnkrrasinski]

ℑ𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔚𝔬𝔬𝔡𝔰

Chapter 4: False God 

full masterlist // series masterlist

Pairings: dark!Steve Rogers x female!reader

Word count: 3,117 

Warnings: smut, kidnapping, stalking, slight bondage, dub-con, non-con. (MUST BE 18+)

Summary: after the death of your mother, you decided that you were going to do something new to honor her. You chose a perfect camping spot somewhere down South. You thought it was going to be the life-changing vacation that you never had in your life, until Steve Rogers, a man existed in roughness and control all his life, found you.

a/n: finally finished chapter 4 folks! i wanted their relationship to move forward not only sexually and physically but also, emotionally. steve shows that he doesn’t see her as only a sex object, despite wanting to take full control of her but rather, he will actually care for her as a good dom should. hope you enjoy! please leave a like and comment. 

After the steamy session you encountered with Steve, he decided to give you a little break. Amid your post-coital bliss, Steve went upstairs to bring you a glass of water to calm your raging nerves. The experience sent you jolts of pleasure, bewilderment, and pain. You had never felt such extreme pleasure before, it awakens every nerve inside your body, striking a flash of lightning down your spine.

On the other brain, your brain is terrorizing you; you had lost control of your body and you had allowed a man to trespass your most personal territory. A man that your mother had warned you about. A man who was perilous enough to abduct you, strip you out of your rights and rob away your will.

The sickening feeling in your stomach resurfaced, to remind you that threat was imminent, and you can't protect yourself from it. You searched for ways of how to repel him enough to let you go. Would it even be possible for you to manipulate him? You've watched enough movies to draw a plan, on how you learn his weakness and then maybe enervate him so you could make an escape. The stake is high, and there's a probability that his sturdy legs might outrun you, and he might make you suffer the consequences.

If you were going to risk your life, you'd rather die trying than serve him as a sex slave for the rest of your life. Would you even know the road back to where you parked your car? Which made you wonder, what happened to your belongings? Did Steve take those too? Or did he just leave it there in the woods? If he had done the latter, there's a high chance that someone might try to find you, the foresters might try to find out whom they belong to.

Or other campers who might make a visit at the woods, they might wish to get rid of the belongings and that would coerce them into trying to figure out who had camped here before. They might search for clues by checking your phone, driver's license... Hold on, your phone, your driver's license, etc... Could they possibly still be in the woods? Or did Steve take them too? From less than 24 hours of observing him, it doesn't seem like Steve would be reckless enough to leave traces behind now, would he?

Your jumbled questions were quickly disrupted by his entrance through the door. Stepping down the staircase, with a glass of water in his hand. He walked towards you and sat on the bed, he put the glass on the bedside table and untied you. Then he lifted the glass to your lips carefully not to let it spill all over the corners of your mouth.

"Here, cool yourself down."

You took a big gulp and drank down the full glass. The water felt icy washing over your tongue. After the perspiring activity that left you flaring up, you needed something to ground you.

"Enough?"

"Yes, sir."

He put the glass back on the bedside table as he stripped himself out of the sweatpants he wore. "Good girl. Now lay back down."

The sight before you left you agape. His member that had been extricated, sprung free before you, leaking with pre-cum, as it wobbled with each slight movement. What left you jarred, wasn't what it was drenched in; but rather the length and the girth. He really was sculpted by the Gods themselves.

You were subdued by the thought of him being inside you. How was he going to fit? You had never seen a man's shaft up-close. It trembled you knowing what he was likely going to do to you shortly.

He kneeled on his knees between your restrained legs, as he bent down to unleash them. He instantly lifted them and placed them on his shoulders. He paused for a moment to brush his thumb over your lower lip and shoved it inside your mouth. Your frightened eyes pleasured him even more.

"Suck it." You began sucking like a baby and its pacifier. He dragged it in and out as it got wetter each time it retreats out of your lips. Once he felt satisfied enough, he lifted his cock and inserted himself inside you, passing through the thin skin that covers your entrance.

You screamed in pain, not a single hint of pleasure emitting out of you. You tried to stop by pulling down your legs but he was too quick to keep you in place.

"Stop, please. It hurts."

"Shh, it's okay. I know it does, but it will feel better once we get past it."

"No, no, no, please just pull out."

"You don't get to make that wish here."

He didn't hesitate in pushing inside of you even farther until he reached his limit. He sighs as he was fully seated. On the other hand, you were shrieking in pain, the tears in your eyes were flowing uncontrollably, as you tried to block out the view by contorting your place to the side.

He began thrusting at a slow pace, letting you adapt to his size. He knew that one way or another, you were going to have to get past this to experience a whole 'nother level of pleasure and he would gladly take you there. But first, you must give into him as he takes care of the inception of your training.

"Fuck, little girl, you are so tight."

You squealed as you tried to push him off by kicking his face, but he grabbed your ankles and stopped his invasion.

"Hey, hey!" He warned you. He slightly bent down to grab your jaw and made you look into his eyes. It was full of ultimatum. "Remember what happens if you continue to misbehave. I will not tolerate it any longer."

You were breathing harshly, as the tears obscured your visions and the feeling of his size still clogging you full caused you discomfort at a great expanse.

"I- I can't... Please."

"No. You are going to keep your mouth shut and submit to me. The more you fight, the more it's going to be painful for you."

You could only continue to cry, hoping that he'd yield at your tears. But no, softness wasn't a trait this man possessed.

"Now, are you going to behave?"

You hesitated for a second, knowing the only answer he demanded contradicted your wish. But you didn't want to face much worse than what was already happening. You didn't wanna face the consequences of your futile resistance. So with a heavy heart, you opened your mouth; "yes, sir." Your voice was meek.

"Good girl."

He thrust harder than before, as he poured his disappointment on your body. He made you feel each puncture as he drew out pleasure out of your misery. At first, it felt horrible, like you had been shot at your most vulnerable part, but as he kept going, you started to feel good; unspeakable and mystifying.

Eventually, the fight in your body slowly departed as you welcomed this newfound bliss. You moaned as he hit the sensitive spot you were never aware of its existence before. You closed your eyes and let his hips to work over your body.

He stared down at you from above, knowing that once again, he had broken down your wall. He knew you began to allow the pain to introduce you to the pleasure you had never known before. He thrust faster and the bed squeaked from the pace. You moaned harder as your breasts jiggled with his vigorous movement.

He kept going until your climax hits you. You spilled your cum all over his hard-rock member that was still moving in and out of you, prolonging your release. It outpoured of you and merged with pre-orgasm wetness. You gave in to the euphoria, as you laid there, presenting your body to be used to get him off.

Shortly, he reached his own climax and he threw his head back as he growled due to the bliss. He spilled his cum inside of you as he stayed a little longer to make sure every drop was kept within.

He pulled out of you as he saw a droplet of blood mixed with the flowing juices your body produced. He neglected it so t wouldn't scare you. You were frightened enough already, he wasn't going to ruin the moment.

He leaned down and pressed a passionate kiss on your lips. He panted into your mouth and pressed his forehead on yours. "You're mine. All mine."

And you were... Not like you had a say in it anyway.

You dozed off after the post-release euphoria took over your body. It had drained your energy and you couldn't resist the urge of closing your eyes. Steve left you after your first session to let you take a break. He took a dampen cloth from your tiny lavatory and cleaned off the remnants of your release dribbling all over your thighs.

He tenderly wiped your skin, trying not to wake you up. He was aware of how in shock your mind and your body must've been. He then took the used cloth with him and went upstairs. He tossed it in the dirty laundry basket then cleaned himself off.

The day was still young so he decided to break a few sweats. Steve works as a wildland firefighter and a part-time photographer. He doesn't always have to be at the local fire department. He works 4 days a week and gets 4 days off. Usually, during his time off, he would wander around the woods to photograph some scenery himself. But for the past couple of days, he's been a little occupied.

Steve went to his backyard to lift some weights. His thoughts couldn't stop reminiscing the last 24 hours. The first time he saw her exposed body, the way she tasted and the sound of her whimpers... It sent current straight to his cock. It had barely been an hour since he fucked her but he was starting to get hard already. He couldn't get enough of her.

Steve drew the scenarios in his head of tonight's training. He made up his mind and it made him impatient to wake her up. He had to endure it though, he vowed that he was going to be patient with her and he was going to keep his words. He smirked as the bead of sweats ran past his forehead to his body. The fire in him fueled his hunger for her and his zeal to pull a muscle. He groaned as he reached his ideal count and put down the weight.

God knows how many hours later, you woke up in a cold sweat. You just had another nightmare. In your dreams, you were imprisoned in a cage, the steel bars that were keeping you a hostage felt cold under your palms.  

Your vision was hazy and your mind was foggy, it's like you had just crashed yourself onto the fence and went comatose. The walls confining you in this insufficient penitentiary were murky grey, only a shed of light coming through a narrow window up above. You called for help but no one answered.

And then, suddenly, the lockup was on fire. The flame was getting close and closer, and you tried to rattle the bars. And before the fire caught up to you, you woke up in a fizzy daze only to realize that a part of your dream wasn't entirely, merely a nightmare. You were still locked up in another confinement, unable to escape.

You moved your hand to rub your forehead as you realized that your hands were no longer tied. Your excitement was soon repealed as you sat up only to see that your feet were still bound. At least the gag in your mouth wasn't holding you back anymore now too.

You could call for him in case you need anything, but you pondered, what did you need, really? He certainly wasn't going to set you free and nothing he could give to enhance your mood. Your contemplation was soon cleared out by the sound of the opened door and footsteps following it. To say you weren't scared anymore would be a hastened overstatement, but you no longer felt the shivers ran down your spine or the irrational fears overclouding your brain.

He brought a tray with him, with a pot roast and a glass of wine on it. The smell was tantalizing. He greeted you with a warm smile, a rare one that you hardly got to see. He put down the tray and sat beside you.

"How are you feeling?"

You paused for a moment before you answered. Him worrying about how you feel was strange. All this time, he had taken you as a captive, never once did he ever selflessly care for your being. "As best as I could, I guess..."

"You did really well today, you trusted me to take care of you and you gotta keep it up. We can go to the next lesson, once you've got the hang of it."

"I'm not sure how much more I can take..." You hugged your knees as if you were trying to shield yourself from this beast. You softly shook your head and averted his piercing gaze.

"I'll take you there. We'll take it as slow as you need, but I need you to be able to keep up. I promised not to hurt you, didn't I?" His hand reached your face, and cupped your cheek, directing your eyes onto his.

The deep blue eyes that were usually sharp and lust-blown, were now warm and... assuring. Like he meant every word he said, every forgotten promise that he made amid fiery moments.

You shrugged off his question. "Can I eat? I'm a little hungry."

He removed his hand from your cheek and answered, "of course. You need some fuel before we start anyway."

You knew that should've jarred you, but slowly, you felt yourself giving into his control, letting him take the wheel. Just for now, you were going to let him have the upper hand, you'll find a way to utilize your submissiveness later when you know the time is right.

You dined with your brain swirling with questions, a lot of them. If he swore that he wasn't going to hurt you, surely it wouldn't hurt to ask for some explanation, would it? You gathered all the bits of bravery inside you... The ones that were left anyway, and paused your chewing.

"I have a question..."

"Go on."

"Why am I here... Really?" He contorted at that. He sighed as if he was dreading this circumstance.

"I know you promised not to hurt me and I trust you, but... I can't trust you fully if you keep me in the dark." You paused, the look on his face and the shift in his body were warning you to turn back around.

"I wanna be able to work through whatever this is we are doing, based on mutual trust. And that means I wanna trust you not only in not hurting me but also, knowing that I'll be able to prepare myself for whatever plans you have for me next."

He exhaled once more and this time, he turned his face back to you. "You are here because I wanted something to keep to myself. We, men, have needs and sometimes those needs must be fulfilled immediately."

You didn't know how to respond to that. You stayed quiet and let him carry on. You hugged your knees tighter than before and drooped.

"Tell me, were you happy?" That made you lift your head and glared. What did he mean by that?

"What...?"

"Before this, were you happy with your life?"

"I don't... I don't understand..."

He inched his face closer to you. "I looked through your phone, and from what I learned, you came all the way here from New York to run away for something, didn't you? What was it? Was it your mother?"

And just like that, one trigger word alarmed all the cells in your body; your anxiety spiraled, tightening your chest, your breathing became labored, and the perpetual agony the death of your mother had left you with, came rushing back, flooding your lungs like you were drowning in the middle of Pacific ocean.

"How do you know about that?"

"I looked through your phone, and I saw pictures of her on a hospital gown and your recent texts indicated that you were mourning."

You stared at him in disbelief, how could he do that to you? Not only did he take you against your will and violated your body without your consent, but also invaded your privacy without asking for your permission.

You closed your eyes and bowed your head down, suddenly feeling like you were on the edge of having a meltdown, "stop. Just stop." You blocked your ears from listening to him any longer.

"What? Baby, what's wrong?"

"Stop talking about her, please." You had never felt so cramped before. The pain from missing your mother, the anxiety of being kidnapped, and the void feeling of not knowing what the future holds for you are piling up.

"Okay, then I won't talk about it anymore. But I need you to know that, as your caregiver, I'm not only here to guide you through sexual activities, but you can count me to be a shoulder to cry on." He paused. "You told me not to keep you in the dark, and I won't. But trust works both ways, sweetheart."

You averted the ambush to get any further by making something up, "Can I get a rest tonight? It's been a really long day."

Steve stayed silent for a moment, uncertain of your bold request, but he was a man of his words, if he pushed you any further, exceeding your limits, he might end up hurting you, so he learned to cut you some slacks and granted you the rest you needed tonight.

"Alright, we can move our next training tomorrow. Get some sleep." He got out of the bed and lifted the tray with your unfinished meal, due to your loss of appetite.

"Goodnight." He pecked a kiss on your forehead and exited the room. He switched off the lights and left you in the dark, the gloom once again guards you.

You queried; when did the monster under your bed had chosen to walk in plain sight and spook you even under the broad daylight...

[emmy-writes-sometimes]

Running Up That Hill

           You were kidnapped for two months before your dad, Andy, finds you. 

-

           You had been missing for approximately two months when you were found. It was like every other missing girl story; you’d just disappeared, the only traces of you your phone and your open car with the key in the ignition. Your family was heartbroken, especially your father. He often said that he loved you more than anything, and when the police stopped searching, declaring you a lost cause, he fell off the rails. He changed into a completely different man, citing your disappearance, and every day he went looking for you still.

           He was conducting a raid when it happened. This guy was absolutely sick – he’d already been charged with kidnapping but gotten out three years ago on a loophole, he was a registered sex offender, and he’d been charged with possession of child pornography twice. He was a terrible man. Andy couldn’t lie – as he sat in the car, waiting, he thought about you. He knew there was a possibility that this guy could have been responsible for multiple kidnappings like yours, but never did he think you were just inside the house.

           “This guy is fuckin’ sick,” his co-worker said, shining a flashlight into the house.

           “Yeah,” Andy said absentmindedly. “I’ll go look for anything that might be violating parole. You just check over the house and make sure our guy’s not hiding before we send more units out to look. The last thing we want to do is spook him into running again.” His co-worker nodded, taking the three police officers that had broken down the door with her. Andy proceeded down to the man’s makeshift office, starting to look through papers for anything that might lead to a conviction. He must have been there for five or ten minutes before he got the call from his co-worker.

           “Andy, we need you to come down to the basement.” Andy cringed, hanging up the phone. He prepared himself to see a body, maybe more than one. He walked to the kitchen and down the stairs to where the flashlights were focused on something specific. You. Alive. It was obvious that it was you; you were his spitting image, right down to the pleading blue eyes. You were tied up on a cot by the far wall, your knees forced up to your chest and your arms tied around them. There was a cloth laying beside you and one in your mouth, keeping you from talking. Your voice was too hoarse to do anything anyway. Andy saw you and his heart started beating faster than it ever had before. He ran forward, pulling the cloth off of your mouth, and he kneeled in front of you. Your wrists were raw from being held together, blood covering the cloths you were tied up with.

           “Oh my God, Y/n, baby,” he said, touching the side of your face. You were so pale. You were so skinny, you always were, but your shirt that wasn’t yours hung off your chest. You barely reacted at first. Maybe you were dreaming. But when your dad started un-doing the ties that bound you, you started to realize. You were free. This was your dad that was here, and the cops, and people who couldn’t hurt you. Your dad brushed your greasy hair behind your ear and you could feel that he got the ties away from your wrists. You could move. You reached out toward his neck and even though you were too weak to hold on, he picked you up.

           “Dad,” you tried to say. You couldn’t speak. You could feel him say something about an ambulance as he carried you up the stairs. The open front door was the first sunlight you’d seen in two months. It hurt a little, but the heat felt good. You were so cold. Your father’s massive hand pulled your hair back and off of your face as he held you. He was still then, until more sirens rang in the air. You tried to grab onto him and hold him, but he did all of the work for you. You couldn’t imagine how you looked – a sixteen year-old girl being carried by your father because you couldn’t walk yourself. Or could you – you didn’t know. You didn’t know what you could do. You only knew that you were too weak to be considered human.

           “Hey, baby, they’re just gonna take you and check you over, alright? I’m gonna call Mom and Jake, let them know where we are, alright?” You nodded. “Okay. I won’t be far.” He wrestled his jacket from his arms and placed it around your shoulders, big enough to be a blanket on you, and he sat you down in the back of an open ambulance. He kept looking behind him even though he walked away, calling Laurie.

           “Andy? What’s up?” She asked him. She could hear that something was wrong.

           “I found her. In the raid. Y/n. She’s alive,” he said. “She’s alive.”

           “Oh, my God, is she okay?”

           “They’re checking her out right now. I don’t think I’ll be able to take her home right away, the police are gonna wanna talk to her before then. But she’s okay. I’m not leaving her.”

           “Okay. Tell her I love her.”

           “I will.” Andy hung up the phone and called Jacob, who answered right away, too. That was right – he had a free lunch period. “Jake. I need to tell you something, but you can’t tell anyone yet, I don’t want news getting out yet.”

           “What?” Jacob asked.

           “I found your sister. She’s alive. I don’t know how bad she is yet but she’s alive.” Jacob didn’t know how to respond at first. He didn’t know what to say or think or do.

           “Will she be okay?”

           “Maybe not now, but she will be. I don’t want you to tell anybody, just, um, when you get home can you change her sheets for me? And put a load of her laundry in?”

           “Yeah, anything.”

           “Alright. I love you, Jake.”

           “I love you too, Dad.” Jacob hung up and Andy immediately turned back to you. The EMT’s were looking at your arms and your legs. That was the worst – the cuts because of the way you were tied up. There were no other signs of external torture except how tired you were, but when they asked if you’d been touched you nodded yes. Your dad walked back over to you, watching them.

           “I’m her father, how does she look?” He said. One of the EMT’s, a woman in her twenties or so, stood up and took him aside.

           “She looks alright on the outside. But she’s definitely malnourished, we’ll need to get her on some fluids in an IV. We found some signs of sexual assault that we want to check out at the hospital.”

           “Can I take her home tonight? She needs to be home, with her family.”

           “I think you should be able to. She could use some family right now. But who am I?” The woman left him to go to the front of the ambulance as they started to carry you onto the stretcher. Andy sent a text to his co-worker, explaining that he was going to be with you. He was Assistant District Attorney, but he was your father first. Especially now. He climbed into the ambulance right before they pulled away and shut the doors.

           “They’re just gonna give you an IV right now, okay?” Andy said when he saw that you were looking around, your eyes unable to focus on anything. He grabbed onto your violently shaking hand, steadying it. One of the people in the ambulance started giving you an IV, but you were so lethargic you didn’t even notice. You just curled up next to your father and let them prick your arm until they found a vein. You almost fell asleep, but not quite. When they got you to the hospital the IV was done and you could feel it taking effect. You felt better, your cheeks were returning to their normal color, and you felt like you had at least a little energy. You let them do whatever to you – you let them inspect you, head to toe, and you wore some clothes that had been donated so the police could take your clothes for evidence. You were good. And finally they told your dad he could take you home.

           “Are you hungry?” You tried to speak, but nothing came out. Your dad took that as a yes and got you some food, sitting in the parking lot so you could eat all you wanted, and after a full meal you were done. You felt like you were going to throw up because it was the fullest you’d been in two months, but you didn’t care. You were grateful for the food. And you were grateful for the way that your dad held your hand the whole drive home. You tried not to fall asleep – you wanted to see your mom, your brother, and you wanted to remember what it was like to exist.

           “We’re home, honey,” your dad said softly. “You think you can walk? You could a little earlier.” You nodded and swung your legs out of the door, your feet on the solid ground of the driveway for a minute. The house didn’t look different, but it felt different. Everything felt different. Your mom’s hug when she greeted you at the door felt different. Your little brother’s hug felt different. You wanted to accept it, but you felt the food swimming in your stomach and ran to the downstairs bathroom.

           You were fine, you insisted your mother as she walked into the door and rubbed your back. You were just overwhelmed, and even though you couldn’t say it, she saw it in your eyes. She helped you get up the stairs to your room, where Jacob had done your laundry so you had clean clothes and changed your sheets and un-made your bed for you. His room was right across the hall, your parents’ room right next door, and you felt safe enough there.

           “Do you want to sleep now? Or take a shower first?” You couldn’t really answer her, so you nodded your head at the latter. She brushed her hand through your hair before telling you everything was the way it had been before. Before. Before the absolute hell your life had become. Before you were abducted from a parking lot because it was the one time you left your car unlocked. Before you had died on the inside just to stay alive on the outside.

           “There’s my girl,” your dad said later as you walked down the stairs, dressed in an old t-shirt and your favorite sleep shorts, your hair so wet that it was dripping onto the hardwood floors. It was something they normally would have yelled at you for, but right now they didn’t care. You walked into the living room behind your dad to see that there were two cops and two men in suits, and you knew what they wanted to hear.

           “No,” you said. That was the first time you’d been able to speak, and you grabbed onto your dad’s hand and shook your head. You didn’t want to talk about it. You didn’t want to talk about anything. You just wanted to exist.

           “I know, honey, but you need to. They need a statement. The sooner it is the better, alright?” He didn’t push you into the room, but you knew that he wouldn’t have let them in if he thought it could wait. So you sat down in the same armchair as your dad, leaning on him for support, and you started talking. You told the room full of men everything. Everything – even when you felt your dad shift uncomfortably. Even when you realized there was a video camera in there, recording everything that you’d been saying. You thought for a minute that Jacob and your mom were listening, but they were gone. You could tell because her car was gone from the driveway. It was getting dark outside, too, by the time you got up to the point where your dad had found you.

           “I’m sure she’s exhausted. So if you could save any questions for another time, that would be great,” your dad said to them when he saw your eyelids drooping. He was right – you were so tired. At least before you’d had a little bit of adrenaline inside of you. Now you had nothing. You were warm and safe in your home.

           Your dad eventually got the men to go away and leave you alone as long as you promised to come by the police station the next time you woke up. You slept for almost two full days, only waking up to go to the bathroom, take sips of water, or throw up. Someone was always with you, sitting in the armchair in the corner of your room or watching you from across the hall, so that you were never alone. Half the time they just couldn’t believe that you were back home. And they knew it was you, you knew it was you, but you also knew that you were different. You’d seen things and been through things that Andy had literal nightmares about.

           They used everything – the video of you at home talking, your clothes, the marks on your skin, the evidence they’d collected around you, to prove that this guy was a monster. He already was a monster, but that he’d kidnapped you from your car and intended to keep you. Your dad was on the case, on your side, doing everything in his power to make sure this guy never saw the light of day again. And then the day came that you were supposed to testify on the stand, just to get it to go to trial. You were one of three girls he’d kidnapped in the past, and your dad had them testify, too. But they were the hardest on you.

           Your dad had given you his pendant that morning, he one he always wore. Always. It was St. Christopher. You knew he was raised Catholic, but you’d never thought of it beyond that. But when you pulled it over your neck, you felt protected. Even through all of the questions that would haunt you for years and years to come.

           “How would you say your relationship was with your family before you left?” The other guy’s lawyer, a known shark, asked. You hated his choice of words.

           “I didn’t leave willingly.”

           “Answer the question, Miss Barber,” the judge said to you. You looked up at her and then back over at your dad, who was nodding.

           “Happy. But strained. My dad and I were really close. My brother and I fought sometimes and got along other times. But my mom and I almost never saw eye to eye, on anything.”

           “There are multiple records from fellow students at Archer of nights when you would engage in risky behavior at parties. Would you say that the relationship with your family led to your behavior on those nights?”

           “I’m bipolar,” you responded. “I wasn’t on the right medication and sometimes I just did stupid things.” You hated saying it out loud, but your dad had told you that you had to tell everything, answer all of their questions, and there was no possible way you could lose.

           “Your medical records show that you were on multiple controlled substances for your bipolar disorder, all of which you had taken on the day you disappeared.”

           “Yeah.”

           “The same ones that influenced your behavior on those nights. You were on that specific set of medication for six months.”

           “Are you saying that you think my medicine and my relationship with my family made me voluntarily go with that man?” You asked. You could tell that was what the lawyer was getting at, even if he wasn’t saying it directly.

           “Why, was that a possibility?”

           “No. I got in my car that I’d left unlocked and some guy grabbed me out of it. If I went voluntarily, I wouldn’t have left my car and my phone like that.”

           “Miss Barber, we’re not asking you to explain the evidence. This is a question for you to answer.” You looked at your dad when the judge spoke.

           “No. I didn’t want to leave my family. My medicine wouldn’t make me do that.” Your eyes teared up just at that statement. They kept asking questions, some of which were to your advantage. But they were making it seem like you wanted to leave and eventually that was what broke you down. You shook your head, drying tears as you looked around the room and saw almost nobody on your side.

           “We’ll reconvene in half an hour,” the judge finally said when you were fully crying. You stood up and your dad walked over to you, pulling you into a hug, as the rest of your family walked over to you.

           “Come on,” your dad said. He led you into the room you’d been in earlier, a meeting room, where your lawyer was standing.

           “Why are they trying to make it look like I left?” You asked. “Why are they trying to make it seem like it’s my fault?”

           “Sweetie, that’s just their angle,” your dad explained. “It’s the only thing that they could dig up. They’re just trying to deflect.”

           “They’re making me look crazy. You told me to tell them everything,” you told him, crossing your arms over your chest. Your brother was holding a bottle of water and handed it to you, looking over at you.

           “You don’t look crazy,” he said quietly. “You look like someone hurt you.”

           “Thank you,” you said.

           “They’re going to put your family on the stand, most likely. And then this will all go away when they confirm that you aren’t crazy,” the lawyer said. You sat down in one of the big chairs, pulling your feet up to your chest, and tried to calm down.

           “I didn’t run away,” you insisted to your father as he sat down beside you. “I wouldn’t. I told them that.”

           “Everything’s gonna be okay, babe. I promise. If they try to fight with us, we’ll just fight back twice as hard. I need you to believe me when I say that this guy is going to go away. Whether it’s because of what he did to you or someone else, he’s going away. And he’s never gonna be able to hurt you again.” You nodded, doing your best to believe him.

           “We got your back,” Jacob put in.

            “If I could trade places with you, I would. In an instant. But I can’t. And I need you to be the strong girl I know you are.” You looked at your dad again, seeing nothing but pride on his face. Your mom just smiled at you – you’d been getting along so much better now that you were having to talk things through.

           You went back out there, sitting up tall, and answered every question they asked you. They tried to fight you, but you didn’t back down. You weren’t going to. And the jury decided to indict the guy who did it. The trial was set for six months ahead, and even though it was a long time, there wasn’t a day your dad wasn’t trying to figure out how to make sure this guy pay for what he did.

A/N: This has to be one of my favorite requests yet! I loved writing this so I hope you like it too! 

[darkpoisonouslove]

“New Warmth to Weave in Your Garden of Shine”

Summary: New year is coming hand in hand with the cold of the season and the responsibilities even a celebration brings for a king and queen. Amidst the chaos and strict decorum it's Erendor and Samara's concern to find the time to welcome each other in their shared future.

I had to write one last fic to send off the year and since this one was the only one that cooperated, you get New Year on Eraklyon. I like the way this turned out as I feel like it is a peaceful (while sufficiently dramatic) ending to a very frantic year and also incorporated some of my wishes for a better next year. Here's to hoping!

Samara's body begrudgingly stumbled after him in his misstep slipping into an unnatural disruption of her graceful and calculated movements. Losing balance not his own would have dragged him down and left him splayed out on the floor if not for her dignified posture becoming the spine holding him above the stream of panicked shame spilling out of him under the pokes of the crown everyone's gazes drove in him like a sheaf of spears. A weakness was only fully fledged if you let it take root. Much like a weed, it was something to pluck out on sight.

"Erendor," Samara's voice emptied the ballroom in his mind to leave them twirling to the sound of her words, "tomorrow morning is already buried under unfavorable circumstances to stack too many glasses on top of it as well." She was ready to eradicate the perceived environment spawning the weeds in her garden even if her grip didn't change in gentleness. It was her teeth that always broke his ego like she were a tiny dragon his gear couldn't protect him from when she was already on the inside. She was the only one who'd witnessed him fighting the battles there was no armor for.

"I've only drunk enough to hold my warmth against the chill that wrapped my bones like vines today." Indulgence had long relented to duty but it had been tradition that had stranded him out in the cold for the better half of the day. Even his attire hadn't saved him from the bite of the weather outside the impenetrable walls of the palace that would fail to protect him too now that the damage was done and the endless heat of her proximity.

"Dancing ought to have taken over that function," Samara leaned closer – for his benefit or for the words' unclear but her hot breath hit his neck in a wave so pleasant it flooded his body with shivers inappropriate for the current venue. "Nobody says we have to put an end to the activity outside the ballroom." It was her own benefit she was after but that had no negative bearing on him without space between them.

"I would love to take this to the bedroom," a murmur had the strength to reach her even over the lively music that could have resonated through the whole kingdom if not for the vicious howl of the winds roaming the land outside like it was their own, "but the celebrations will carry well into the night regardless of the impending countdown." It was the last dance before the minutes left for his voice to segue the end of the year into the booming display of fireworks luring into colorful visions of the upcoming days. "Even a new year only brings the same old issues." They could dance to fill the hours stolen from their night but breakfast wouldn't move down the line because of the demand on their time or the sleep tugging at his body so harshly in contrast to her mellow touch.

"We'll have a whole new year to catch up on what we miss tonight and tomorrow," Samara looked at him as if to hold his gaze off the touch of a smirk to her lips that was almost shy in its presence. Almost probing enough to shoot down his spine a shiver from the cold metal covering her fingers like armor.

"Could I hope it would take you less time to relinquish your dominion over the covers?" She always cocooned herself in the heavy blankets like she wanted to hibernate outside the body heat next to her that wouldn't be there the following night. Coupled with her knack for transforming him into a careful heart within a paralyzed body when she'd wake up from a shift in his breathing, it left him sleeping with a whimsical force like the nature stone and glass strove to keep outside. "Say, once dancing isn't an option for preserving body temperature anymore?" The only difference was that Samara was much more terrifying in the dead silence she could turn her presence into unlike the wailing of the winds banging against the shut-off palace. Yet, she was the one he welcomed willingly by his side to shield him from the void of cold she filled effortlessly.

The smile widened on her lips to welcome her voice into the cool air of publicness around them and him inside the sound soaking his mind to the core. "Just keep your hands on me at all times and you should be fine." She adjusted her hand in his to ground him in the lightness of her softened grip now that she didn't need the gold on her head or fingers to hold her in his arms.

"I wouldn't argue with that but I have to make a toast in the near future. One I hope you will honor with me?" he didn't drop her gaze even for a moment as he dipped her in an end to their dance. The last few minutes of the old year were slipping between their fingers, the last few touches, the last few words they'd get to exchange before responsibility possessed their lives. It could be nothing but bad luck to shatter that by misdirecting his attention to the slap in the face she could deliver with his hands full of her instead of his own protection.

"I will," Samara's answer glided over the puff rushing out of her to reach him as he brought her back up into the proximity of their faces. "You already indulged me."

His gaze slid to the necklace outlining her delicate throat in the lack of her usual high collar and the silky gown that hugged the curve of her breasts tightly only to leave a generous amount of cleavage for the jewelry to contrast with, and, of course, the crown radiating light upon her head to make her the center of attention despite the companion piece he was wearing. It was the gift she'd given him that played in his mind, however.

Gravity pulled on the jewelry box in his pocket with every step as if to weigh him down and slow him on top of the time he'd already lost on changing out of his parade uniform and into his royal attire and stopping by the safe to get her gift. The echo of his hurried step drilled into his mind with the undeniable anxiety he couldn't pin on one easy to dismiss thing. His only chance was to hide behind the shine of the brilliance in his pocket until he could anchor himself in Samara's presence in the queen's chamber and avoid getting carried away by the memories rocking his being.

The history of the monarchy and his own family had been stained with a kidnapping that had cost the kingdom much more than his carefulness with Samara ever could. His mother had been abducted from the palace during his own birthday to leave an imprint on every future celebration. He had never forgiven his father for the helplessness he'd associated their family with in the eyes of the public and his own heart. It had been so easy to take the queen–a living woman and mother of children–let alone the crown meant to lay on his head and poking their affection away.

Every step was like the prickle of the needles he hadn't witnessed starting an embroidery that afternoon that he'd have to recapture in the next mosaic from the Path of Eraklyon. He'd doubled the guard like any other time they were all swallowed in the distractions of an official event but tradition still hadn't been in his favor. Samara had been left with her ladies-in-waiting while he'd been out on the obligatory gemstone hunt.

His dragon only hadn't thrown him off its back due to the long years of training it had undergone while it had been Samara's face in front of his eyes instead of the dragon's reactions to lead him to the largest diamond he could find without infringing on Isis' territorial claim to bring back to her.

She'd endured the ceremony of "capturing" the wild dragons that would be tamed into joining the palace's resources–they had been captured already a couple weeks ago and put through basic training to ensure safety during the official event–even though it prickled her the same way worry did him. Her knuckles had turned white from gripping the railing of the royal balcony so hard it had been visible from the arena below but to anyone without inside information it would have looked like concern for him and the soldiers attending to the dragons. His confidence in his skills and the performative nature of the ceremony left the truth shining from underneath the mask of rouge concealing the burn in her blood.

Taming was a word her dictionary was extremely unreceptive of and the sweet scent of the flowers blooming all over the reins the dragons attempted to melt off could have had bile rising in her throat if it could have reached as high up as the smoke did while the animals thrashed in dramatic attempts to breathe fire through the vegetation suffocating them with every new flare of heat. It was an ancient tradition and one she found quite distasteful as she watched the blossoms that were already doomed to withering away–they'd been plucked and fashioned into elaborate harnesses of winter turned spring by the smallest of sparks–being forced into their most beautiful. The hunt for jewels would have been more her speed but her schedule had been occupied with embroidery of the event he'd picked to mark the year they'd just left in Eraklyon's history. He'd had to leave her to it, alone in the palace with nothing but his planned defense against unexpected events to keep her safe while he was in pursuit of fulfilling a tradition as valuable as the gemstones he found would be without her waiting to receive them.

The wood of her door was hard and cold under his knuckles. It was like knocking on a block of ice, except it wasn't transparent and it left his pulse hammering in his ears to shatter the heavy, tense silence ready to bury him right there outside her bedchamber.

"Enter," Samara's voice was like warm water that unstuck him from the floor and had the frost crunching under his fingers as he pushed the handle and cracked the door open.

The sight streaming through the passage in her chamber he'd opened stopped him dead in his tracks in the doorway as if to plate him like a painting in a golden frame despite the fact that he'd returned to the palace with a ruby bigger than his fist. The bed was strewn with her jewelry, displayed for her to choose from. He'd expected a different chaos in the face of her maids catering to her high standards for her personal appearance and the glimmer of reflected sunset rays coming from her orchard of precious gemstones almost blinded him.

"Harvest time is over." He didn't bother elaborating what she was perfectly capable of deciphering when a diamond wouldn't be able to cut through her mind. Instead, he focused on putting one foot in front of the other and closing the door behind his back to settle in the self-created illusion that he was welcome in this shimmering kingdom obeying her will rather than nature's.

"I'm choosing the plant for next year," Samara confirmed his standing, not employing her energy into a warning glare that he was on thin ice. He was on solid ground and could breathe freely without fear of white crystals bursting his veins to pieces from the inside.

She reached into the sea of sharp splendor in front of her to pluck out a ring and slip it on her finger. The one with the two sapphires–a shade darker and more lasting than the evergreens poking the horizon outside to make space for them–he'd given her on their first anniversary was already on her hand. It was an exception for her not to wear it but it was always good to see it where it belonged. Even if the solid gold drew his attention to the prick in her delicate flesh above the ring's imperviousness.

The wound was so small that it would have disappeared in the expanse of skin around like a missing feather on a peacock but instead, it stood out like a gunshot in the intense red of blood on white marble. She must have pricked herself on a needle while creating the basis of an embroidery, depicting a success history would remember as his even if she had more claim over it than he did. It was her duty to draft on fabric the image he would later have immortalized in stone regardless of how skilled she was at it.

Her mother hadn't bothered to teach her what every girl in the kingdom could do in too common a craft to be considered a talent worthy of a beauty queen. Yet, the queen of Eraklyon was bound to it in tradition and she'd had to learn in the few months before her coronation. He'd watched her unravel as she'd failed to master it as if to use her own threads and make it easier for herself by manipulating her own matter to sew into the fabric. She'd bleed out if all the times she'd prickled herself and had yet to do it again were put together.

"I would've thought that is something you would have taken care of already?" Combining patterns was a second nature unlike creating them and jewelry was a passion she carried around with herself at all times. It was unthinkable that something as simple as a few drops of blood drawn from her could make it slip through her fingers.

"Normally, I would have but this is a little tradition of mine I keep to on the last day of the year," Samara pried his jaws open with strength that had slipped his notice to keep him from eating his own mind and put hers between them instead. It could be another diversion born out of the blood she'd smelled as well.

"What kind of tradition?" He hadn't had the chance to learn the previous years when the privacy of his bedchamber had provided her frame and her honesty but not the environment in which she thrived, hidden in the shade from his gaze.

"I lay out all my jewelry and pick to wear the most valuable pieces the year has provided." He'd seen her put a lot of work in admiring her ever growing collection so that wasn't hard to believe. It didn't much help to comprehend it, though.

"How can you tell which are the most valuable ones?" He'd grown up with both crowns in sight if not straining his sensibilities with their weight and he still couldn't tell their worth upon just looking. The dragons wouldn't be able to pick out the more precious stone between two just by sight. Maybe there truly was something more than just natural beauty to her.

"That was easy back in the day," Samara slipped away from him, diving after the sun that had set the sky on fire. If her life had been a day, he would have never seen a sunset caught in her irises, much less a sunrise. He would have met her in the dark hours preceding midnight to witness her beauty only in unnatural light or under the weak glow of the stars on a dusty sky at most. That was if the clouds hadn't swallowed her whole like she was made of fractured light unable to pierce its way out of their intangible mass. "I just had to remember how unbearable an experience had followed receiving each one of them."

"I don't follow." Not just because he'd drifted off into the void she'd outlined as her past. She'd practically tied her words to the strings of his mind as if she'd been born to do that. Maybe he could rewrite tradition to replace embroidery with tapestry to spare her from ever prickling herself again on anything that wasn't his crown. And that he could always take off himself to remove the last thorn in her way.

"The harder a role you need to play, the more intricate the mask you need to wear. And the more intricate the mask is, the more it demands – both in its making and its usage," Samara's voice was deceptively light as she glided on the surface of whatever depths she avoided broaching in her mind to keep them both dry in the freezing cold of the settling night. "The brightest jewelry I always got at the threat of the mask cracking right when it needed to be as impenetrable as possible." What had her mother put her up against on all of those stages she'd pushed her?

"Why would you need more reminders of that?" It had already gripped his mind, too, from where it had taken root in hers as she'd talked without being there with him. She'd spoken from the distance where she kept her gaze as well to not paint pictures of the past over the present regardless of them still haunting every image her eyes captured.

"I didn't. It was a statement of worth to others not to forget just because the reminders I already had were embedded where no one could see." Considering all the wealth they'd redistributed once she'd stripped her family of it, she'd failed. Her mother hadn't made it worth her troubles with everything she'd still had hoarded. But she didn't need the cold bucket of water on her nerves any more than he did. "It was also an invitation for the next year to bring something better," her hand balled into a fist as she grasped at the chance to run her thumb over the two sapphire beads adorning her finger before her palms slid over the skirt of her gown littered with dark blue gems that could have been cut from the lit sky above the palace as if they couldn't shred her fragile skin. Just scrub off the remains of her maiden name from her being. "But that is no more. Now I have no idea which ones are the most valuable. There are no masks attached to the gems, just pure sentiment." Her voice picked up to keep up with the speed of her gaze running over the precious display on her bed. "It disrupts my process almost to the point of resentment."

He'd need something to steady himself as well if she kept the words crashing into him like waves of rich honey. Only, he wasn't certain he'd make it all the steps to where she'd just clutched at the bedpost before bending over for a closer inspection. He'd fall over and at the foot of the bed if she pulled him a little closer with another almost in a covert confession.

"What do you think?" Her eyes on him snapped his attention back to the material world he'd bought for her but all he could see was the invitation in her insistent gaze to be a part of her future. "Which ones should I wear?" It wasn't something he could normally help with but this time he had an answer. As long as she'd take it.

"Can I ask you to break tradition?" He pulled out the red velvet box under the anticipation in her stance to have her leaving the bed where all her old jewelry rested to come within reach now that he was giving away the weight that had kept him in place.

A whole garden of diamonds was in his hands to hang on her neck and live for as long as she wanted it to, as long as she welcomed it on her skin. The jewels were whiter than the clouds of breath forming in the harsh temperatures outside and small like the grains the kingdom fed on and she didn't eat but still shined like mirrors bathed in the light of her smile.

Samara turned around, urging him silently to clasp it around her neck in a hold even the crown didn't have on her as it could slip off at any moment. Her hand was running over it before he'd even fastened it in place, the motion sending him off balance as it shook him with relief amidst the quietness of her admiration. He had to rest his palms on her shoulders to find his way through the rhythm the day was spinning to.

Samara covered his hand with hers to pull it off and allow herself to face him instead of the mirror. "I wouldn't mind breaking an old tradition for the new year but since you fit right in, there's no need for such drastic measures. It could use some reshaping, though."

He was still stuck on processing the meaning of her words when she leaned in and pressed her lips against his. Just a quick peck that ran through his body like fire as fast as she was out of his reach and settling in front of her vanity. It was just the softness of her naked lips against his and the still palpable warmth of her fingers where she'd held his hand that lingered behind like a gem for him to stash in the depths of his mind where no weight–physical or not–would be able to leave it in angry shards blazing with fire.

"Didn't you switch to a new lipstick just a couple of weeks ago?" he asked once she was already applying the burgundy over her lips, his brain taking longer to react while collecting the memories she was weaving the last day of the year into.

Samara paused to return the effort he'd put in paying her the due attention even though it had only been natural to note the different shade of the marks her kisses left behind. "Yes, I did. But I always open a new make-up kit on New Year's Eve." And she'd already applied all the rest of her beauty products before he'd arrived. Almost as if she'd been waiting for his visit or at least hoping for it. Either that, or she'd just wanted to keep the lipstick as fresh as possible before heading to the ballroom for the long night ahead. Yet, there was no trace of the silence she used to distance herself in contrast to the quiet life of a kiss between them.

"Another tradition?" That was clear but he needed an excuse for her lips to breathe more color into their conversation.

"Don't you have some?" she shot back at him but her intonation wasn't sharp enough to point to exasperation, even if she was too quick for his scattered attention that was in more pieces than there were on her bed.

Did he?

"I pick gifts for my wife."

Another pause as Samara's lips parted to a frozen moment–she must have caught herself from licking off the lipstick–before she spoke. "That is not a New Year's Eve tradition if you do it throughout the rest of the year as well."

"Then I suppose I'm boring." He was lucky to have come up with an answer at all while transfixed with the shimmer of her eyes not warped even in reflection. It'd be a crime not to give her jewels to put next to it for them to pale in comparison with the real beauty she'd grown in the dark.

"Consistent, I would say." Her gaze slid over the room in the mirror and he followed it, unable to turn to the real one if it meant letting her out of his sight. It was still clear as day where her mind treaded even in the shadows creeping around the room with each second they remained too preoccupied with each other to get the lights.

All the leftover illumination from the day and the shine of the space bodies just coming into view was captured by the jewelry he'd given her to turn each piece into a lighthouse of its own in the waves of silk on her bed. He'd gifted her quite a high number in the couple of years they'd been married but they still weren't enough to replace electricity or even the glow of fire.

It was him that was doing the impossible – counting jewelry instead of coins when the monarchy was as stable as Samara's taste for precious gemstones and noble metals. Nothing was shaking under his feet or threatening to crumble on his head in the quietness of her bedchamber. Not even the weight of the earrings dangling from his palm could throw him off balance as he brought the long stemmed calla lilies to her attention and she let him add their tender white and gold to her look.

The music ended just as Erendor found his footing in the dance with exhaustion. He didn't let go of Samara's waist for another couple of seconds until he could steady himself outside the rhythm of her body swaying with his. There were just minutes still from the year they were leaving behind their backs and he had to let go of her on the precipice and risk separation in the name of an obligatory speech and toast. It was so trivial it would have brought out tears if he allowed it but she was queen because he was king and his only choice was to obey the law that had brought them together.

He held her hand until the armrest of his throne was within reach to numb the emptiness of letting go. His reluctant fingers almost retreated from the coolness of the glass with champagne when he would much prefer her company over that of the alcohol sloshing around in its confinement without grace. Especially when the smooth coldness of the glass reminded him of his chase of hard gems outside in the freezing weather and made him feel like the first idiot but the diamonds shining on her neck and the metal warmed up by her skin that had been pressed in his fingers not long ago burned the thought away. They brought the speech to his lips when it had been her touch weaving it in his mind all year in a way that he'd never been able to before. In a way she'd never been able to before with the heavy jewelry dragging her heart and hands into the depths to drown her grace in the spillage of her own blood.

There was nothing but her own decision holding her tongue now to free her from the image of the dragons harnessed for someone else's purposes. And he could tell the story of their monarchy now that they'd pried it free from everyone else's control. It was theirs so there was nothing stopping him from leaning towards her during the cheer of the guests and the thumping of his own heart in unheard applause for her kept promise to meet the new year together with him.

"What a shame to see such waste of lipstick on your glass." She'd barely sipped enough to leave the shape of her lips on the glass and his mind rendering him incapable of noticing anything else.

"I have plenty of lipstick left to spare, remember?" Her tradition made a lot more sense now. "And there is not a force in this kingdom greater than us that could take away our first kiss of the year." He could count on her promise regardless of how long it would take them to keep it.

"Happy New Year," he took her hand again to feel a warmth even the dragons didn't have to offer.

"Happy New Year." She smiled again to blind him to anything the world could serve them next – even the sun crashing on their heads.

The fireworks exploded outside the windows to change the pattern of the light streaming through but even in the lack of consistency, his brain recognized one heat signature like it was the center of the universe.

[lalainajanes]

KC + 5. “I’m stuck in the Mars colony, and you came to rescue me. Oops, I just kissed you, but it’s totally because I’m grateful, not because I love you and thought I’d never see you again… Ha… Ha… Maybe a little.” AU

Floating In A Most Peculiar Way

Her cell is bare, made of a plain grey stone that she can’t identify. It smells musty and she thinks she’s underground, the walls rough and curved. It holds nothing but a cot and toilet. A tray of food sits just inside the door.

Caroline’s stomach growls, hungry enough that even the unappetizing lump of lab grown protein she’d been given seems like a mouth-watering meal. She can hear nothing from beyond the thick metal door she’s locked behind, has no idea what time it is. She doesn’t even know what planet she’s on or who abducted her.

She’s seriously regretting leaving Othea.

If only she’d never found the picture.

She’d been making breakfast, had been delighted to find the tiny, cramped kitchen in Klaus’ rented quarters well stocked. He’d had real fruit, actual bacon. She’d rummaged through his kitchen to orient herself, then gone searching for something to tie back her hair.

A faded photograph, creased and seemingly forgotten in a drawer, had obliterated her good mood.

The Klaus in the picture had been younger, clean shaven and dressed in finery that was a far cry from the heavy boots and body armor she was used to seeing him in. She’d recognized two other faces. Front and center, sneering and superior, had been Mikael, the wealthiest and most ruthless merchant in the galaxy. He’d had his arm around Finn, his son and favorite minion.

Mikael had killed her father, had her mother tossed into a prison Caroline’s never been granted permission to visit. Her step-dad and his daughter had been to a harsh belt of mining planets. He’d ruined her life and Caroline had spent her entire adult life working to return the favor.

Seeing Klaus with him, in what looked very much like a family photo, had left her chest tight and her eyes stinging.

She’d told herself it was anger. At him, for being so persistent, for teasing and taunting and for seeming like he cared. He brought her gifts – pretty things, practical ones. A bracelet of pale blue stones, a tiny laser cutter that was just as powerful as something ten times larger. She’d tried to refuse them, of course, but he’d somehow always manage to slip them onto her person. She’d find them days later, in the bottom of her bag or tucked into a pocket when she went to wash her clothes.

She’d written him off the first time he’d walked into the bar she worked at. Bounty hunters were always, in Caroline’s experience, unbearably cocky. She smiled and flirted with them, for the tips and in hopes she could glean information or an opportunity from their drunken loose lips.

Klaus had turned out to be different.

He’d been a little more polished, well spoken, distractingly handsome. He’d kept coming back. Until bantering with him between customers was one of her favorite things. He’d made a point to let her know when he’d be off planet. She’d worried when he didn’t turn up after a job.

When he’d strolled in to the bar, three days after she’d been expecting him, with a black eye and a bit of a limp, she’d leaned across the bar and yanked his mouth to hers before he’d managed a greeting.

She’d closed up early that night.

They hadn’t slept much but she’d woken up with a smile, half buried under Klaus’ lean frame, pleasantly sore and sated.

Her contentment hadn’t even lasted the hour.

Hesitations led to injuries, sometimes death in Caroline’s more clandestine line of work and so she’d acted, slipped back into Klaus’ room and retrieved her boots and pants. Had been out the door and sending Kat an SOS before he’d even stirred.

She tosses another disgusted look at the lumpy grey substance that’s supposed to be food, deeply regretting that she hadn’t taken breakfast to go. Even if she wanted to eat it she can’t risk being drugged into docility.

The list of people who’d kidnap her, or pay to have her kidnapped, is shorter than it used be. Several of her enemies are dead (or worse) but she’s got more than her fair share.

She needs to keep a clear head.

Caroline paces, learns the parameters of the cell. She has no weapons, no means of calling for help. She’s been snatched from a transport ship, and no one will know she’s missing until she fails to turn up at Katherine’s. She hadn’t been due to arrive until next week.

The odds aren’t in her favor but that’s never stopped her from eking out a win before.

She feels the ground move before she hears the rumbling.

The floor shakes, seems to roll, and Caroline’s tossed into a wall as muffled crashes rock her cell. An attack, a vicious one, she’d guess, steadily moving closer.

She’d retrieves the cutlery she’d been provided with. The set’s made of flimsy metal but, alone underground in enemy territory, under attack, she’ll take any weapon she can lay her hands on. She tucks herself into a corner, and fervently hopes she won’t be forgotten.

She’d heard her guards muttering while she’d come up from sleep. They’d been paid handsomely - two warships, and weapons enough to outfit half a dozen more - to transport Caroline across the galaxy. Surely her captor would not allow her to die alone and waste such a hefty investment.

The lights in her cell flicker, then go out, and her cell is rocked again. The explosions feel like they’re just outside the walls that trap her, their impact more extreme. The stone against her back vibrates hard enough to jar her. Caroline clenches her teeth against a shout when she’s showered with debris.

She’s lurching across her cell, planning on squeezing herself under the meagre protection of her cot, when everything goes still. She pauses, squints in a futile attempt to see in the pitch blackness of her cell. She changes course, darts as quickly as she can towards the door and yanks at it.

Somehow, it’s still solidly sitting in its frame.

“Come on!” Caroline yells, putting all her weight into jiggling the handle. When it won’t budge she rests her ear to it, straining to make out any sounds on the other side.

Nothing. No footsteps or any sign of a captor coming to check on her. She resists the urge to kick the door – she’s woken up stripped of her boots, jacket, and anything useful that might have been in her pockets – and instead runs her fingers over it, searching for an edge.

Hopefully, the blunt knife they gave her is up to the task of taking apart the hinges.

Her fingers ache, have become slick with sweat and blood from the nails she’s ripped in her efforts. She’s ignoring the crumbling of the roof, refusing to look when she hears bigger and bigger chunks fall behind her.

Caroline flat out refuses to die alone in a cell, the victim of a cave in. She’s got too much left to do. Starting with ruining whoever had decided kidnapping her was a good idea.

The scrape of metal startles her and she straightens, backs away from the door warily. The turning of the lock is loud and she changes her grip on the knife, preparing to fight.

She cries out and has to turn away when it opens, the bright blue light her visitor carries hurts her eyes after hours in the dark.

She hears curse, then the light is lowered and a pair of hands, familiar though she’d only had one night to get acquainted with them, briskly run over her, checking for injury. Klaus seems satisfied that she’s whole, sinking a hand into her hair and covering her mouth with his.

It’s a possessive storm of a kiss. He angles her head with a tug of her hair, groans roughly at the first hot glide of his tongue. He’s frantic, sucking her lower lip harshly and tasting her deeply. Caroline doesn’t even think about discouraging him. She’d been thinking she’d never see him again and, with her fate looking dire, she’d acknowledged that she wanted to. She parts her lips and pressing up onto her toes, just as eager, plastering her body to his and relishing the need between them.

He’s warm and solid, his stubble scraping against her skin. The sting convinces her he’s real and not just a comforting figment of her imagination.

A loud, exaggerated cough startles Caroline and she shoves Klaus away. She wipes at her mouth, reality a harsh intruder. “What are you doing here?” she snarls.

He blinks, like he’s confused by her harshness. And maybe that’s reasonable considering she’d just had his tongue in her mouth.

“Rescuing you,” he offers, like it’s a question.

“I find that hard to believe.” Caroline shoves passed him, stops short when she spies two more men in the doorway. One’s wearing the same uniform as the guards who’d snatched her, the other isn’t, has a gun pressed to the guard’s head, but there’s something familiar about him.

He bows at the waist, “Kol Mikaelson, at your service. Rescuing damsels is not my specialty but if they’re all as tasty as you, darling, I might have to reconsider my line of work.”

“Shut it, Kol,” Klaus snaps. He grabs Caroline’s hand, sets a pack into it. Positions his body between her and Kol, who she suspects is his brother. “Your things. Get your boots on, we’re going to have to climb our way out.”

She takes it, because she’s not an idiot, and backs away. “Tell me why I should trust Mikael’s sons.”

Klaus’ eyes narrow, “How do you know Mikael?”

She laughs at the ridiculousness of that question but it’s high pitched and derisive. “I’ve never met him but I’ve been planning on killing him since I was about 15.”

She expects Klaus to be angry, or maybe incredulous, to accuse her of being insane. Instead he smiles grimly, “Me too.”

“What?”

She hears a grunt, then a clatter, looks passed Klaus to see that Kol’s standing alone now, the guard crumpled at his feet. “Nonsense, Nik,” he drawls. “Your patricidal tendencies started years earlier.”

“It’s not patricide. He’s not my father.”

“Lucky you.”

It’s Caroline’s turn to be confused, she’s got at least a half a dozen questions on the tip of her tongue. Klaus shakes his head, reaches for her again. He cups the back of her neck, presses his forehead to hers. “Later. I’ll tell you anything you want. But we have to go now. The building’s heavily damaged.”

Caroline knows he’s right, “Okay.” She drops to one knee and digs into the bag Klaus had given her. “You’ve got a way off planet?”

“And a safe house. They’ll be looking for us.”

“God I hope the walls are thick,” Kol mutters. “I need my beauty sleep and I don’t want to hear you too rolling around and moaning all night.”

The withering glare Caroline shoots him is probably lost in the darkness. Klaus sighs from above her, the huff of air conveying a wealth of aggravation.

It kind of makes her want to mess with him.

“Who says I’m sharing a room with him?” she asks, fingers flying over her laces. “I ditched him before breakfast a couple days ago.”

She hears a laugh, a thump that sounds suspiciously like a fist hitting a stomach, and then a wheeze. “I’m a bit puzzled about that, love. I thought I was quite hospitable.”

“I found a picture.” That, she now realizes, is where she recognizes Kol from. He’s been in it too, tie askew and clearly inebriated. “A family picture.”

“You couldn’t have asked me about it?”

Maybe she should apologize for snooping but, since she hadn’t actually meant to invade his privacy, Caroline’s not going to. She strives to seem casual because she’d rather he not know how much it had hurt to leave him. “When a girl finds out the guy she’d spent the night with is closely connected to pure evil gut instinct takes over. I figured it was safer to run.”

Klaus turns, stalks towards the door, the set of his shoulders stiff. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that he’s pissed.

She stands slowly, just in time to catch the light stick Kol tosses her way. “Just so you know, no one hates Mikael more than Nik.” He’s friendly enough and when she glances his way she finds he’s watching her with a great deal of interest.

“Mikael killed my father.”

“Another thing you and Nik have in common.”

Kol leaves while she’s still trying to process that and Caroline scrambles to follow, shouldering her bag and carefully picking her way over the debris that litters the floor. Klaus is just outside the door. He jerks his head to the left, “This way. Be careful.”

Kol goes first and then Klaus waits for Caroline to follow. He stays close as they work their way down the corridor. She stumbles once and his hands are there, saving her from going down. He doesn’t touch her otherwise and Caroline finds she’s a little disappointed.

Kol’s last remark has quadrupled the questions she has.

Maybe it’s only practical to share a room.

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Michael After Midnight: Hereditary/The Tall Man

Modern horror movies have a lot of problems. Any horror fan will tell you this; things just aren’t the same as they were in the 70s, 80s, even the 90s, and the 90s was really where the major decline started to set in as everyone tried ripping off of scream. But in the decades after, horror films started relying far too much on jump scares, cheap CGI, and just a lack of care to the point where the genre was something of a joke.

Thankfully, things have started to look up. Films like Get Out, A Quiet Place, Don’t Breathe, these sorts of acclaimed, well-liked horror films are getting a lot of attention. And one of the most interesting of the lot is probably Hereditary, a contender for the best horror film of the decade… it just has one glaring problem, a problem that ALSO has begun cropping up lately: overexplanation.

It seems a lot of the time nowadays horror directors feel the need to beat us over the head with a logical explanation for the horrors before us, and oftentimes it sucks us right out of the experience. Perhaps the film that was hit worst with this was Jordan Peele’s Us which, while still a good film, loses something towards the end when the movie lays out everything. And while this trend seems to be cropping up a lot recently, I think the shining example of how bad it can get occurred earlier in the 2010s with the awful horror thriller The Tall Man, which features an ending that overexplains and does in the compelling elements for a tacky, tasteless reveal.

I bring it up because I’ve been thinking about how it compares to Hereditary, and how the two films have a very similar problem and similar flaws. Hereditary is a film that builds up an incredibly compelling drama that blurs the line between the supernatural and the mental trauma derived from a crumbling family, delivering an intense and uncomfortable narrative that ends up clumsily dismantled in the third act for a big demonic reveal. The Tall Man sets up a chilling supernatural force that stalks people and whisks away children, never to be seen again, only to reveal the titular Tall Man is a fabrication for a secret underground society of child traffickers who kidnap kids from poor families to give to rich families in a sort of screwed up reverse Robin Hood situation.

But where The Tall Man falls flat on its face, Hereditary still stands tall. Why is that?

I think it mostly has to do with the execution. Let’s look at Hereditary, as it is by far the better film. Hereditary spends the vast majority of its runtime with most of the supernatural elements in the background, or at least less of a focus than the mental anguish of this family in the face of the ultimate tragedy: the death of a child. The movie turns its lens to the uncomfortable atmosphere created between the mother and her son as she has to cope with his culpability in her daughter’s, his sister’s, death, eventually leading her to latch on to seances and lash out at her remaining child, her poor husband acting as a beleaguered referee.

I think the movie mostly remains consistent until the final act, when hints of a demon-worshiping witch cult begin popping up, but things don’t really jump the shark until the father is immolated in a nonsensical violation of the established rules, seemingly just to torment the wife further. After that, the movie turns into every other demonic posession movie ever for a bit before ending with the son being possessed by the demon king Paimon in a scene that is highly evocative of the final scene of Rosemary’s Baby.

Now, I already hate Rosemary’s Baby, so this scene was never going to fly with me, and it comes off as silly and ridiculous, the gnarly Paimon statue that utilizes the bug-eaten corpse head of the guy’s little sister notwithstanding. But despite that, the movie still has more of a leg to stand on than Rosemary’s Baby, or The Tall Man for that matter. The reason why is because even if it stumbled in the finale, it has an incredibly strong foundation. Think of the ending as a very ugly roof on an otherwise sturdy and perfectly fine house; yes, it’s unpleasant, but you’ve still got a great house here.

The Tall Man, on the other hand, constructs a decent foundation and then starts whacking at it with hammers as soon as that foundation is built up. As soon as we get to the twist that our protagonist who we have been following is actually a kidnapper who has abducted a child from an impoverished woman who is now desperately seeking her child back, this house is starting to shake at the foundations. And once we get to the end, well, the house just falls in on itself. You see, the issue isn’t even that they squandered a really interesting supernatural concept; the idea of a child-kidnapping boogeyman is not exactly new or anything. The problem is that even after the twist we are expected to see the kidnapper as a sympathetic martyr, and her organization as a bunch of people who have to make the tough choices to do the right thing.

But Thanos this organization is not. They are not noble, or kind, or sympathetic in the slightest. Their modus operandi is to kidnap children from impoverished families and hand them over to rich people who will give that child whatever they want and, as far as the organization is concerned, a better life. When the main character is caught, she straight up tells the grieving mother who spent the film chasing her down that her child is dead, and she will never find the body. Her child, who is very much alive and now being cared for by some wealthy family, was taken from this poor woman just because our main character felt she couldn’t provide for him. I really don’t think I need to tell you that this entire film is just disgustingly classist, and the fact that the movie to the end tries to garner sympathy for these reprehensible human traffickers is bogus.

You’d think, maybe, if they had this massive secret organization, they could try and utilize their power to help the impoverished reach levels where they could adequately take care of their children, like actually help these families instead of kidnapping and dealing in human trafficking because they believe in some sort of eugenics-esque bullcrap about how the poor are unfit to raise children and only the rich deserve the right to rear offspring. This message was deplorable back in 2012, and it certainly hasn’t gotten better with age. And see, this is where the film truly fails: it did not build up a solid foundation where something this stupid could be acceptable – not that any foundation could make this acceptable, mind you – as the whole “child-stealing boogeyman” would have at best made an entirely passable, mostly forgettable horror film that might have developed a cult following but otherwise been ignored. Instead, it veers off into the most wildly offensive territory possible, delivering a wholly unsatisfying and downright offensive experience that just boggles the mind as to how anyone ever thought this was a good direction to take the film.

Two horror films with similar structures building up in one way, but one still manages to be good in spite of itself while one manages to be one of the most repulsive films I have ever seen… frankly, this is one of the reasons why I love the horror genre, because you can find movies with all kinds of extremes like this. Hereditary is a film I heartily recommend to anyone looking for a good horror film, because it is undoubtedly fantastic even if I don’t much care for the ending. The Tall Man? Leave it. It’s not worth your time, and I don’t want anyone to be subjected to such repugnant morals. If you really want to see it, don’t pay for it; don’t give the hacks who made it any money. The only value I can see being gleaned from that film is to see just how ass-backwards and callous a filmmaker can be.

[ikesenhell]

Blaze

“The Taste Saga”: Part 14. Find all chapters here.

Mitsuhide laid out his tools and pretended he didn’t see the look of dawning horror. It was so much more effective that way. Absently, as if bored, he worked his fingers across the instruments, arranging them this way and that. 

“I won’t talk.” His prisoner affirmed out loud. Mitsuhide glanced up to ensure the weights were still in place. They were--his hapless victim crouched on a series of uncomfortable wooden ridges, weights tied tight to his thighs, hands behind his back and tied again to a wooden pole. As much as the man was sealing his resolve, Mitsuhide could also see it cracking. He kept trying to shift. 

“Hold still, or your legs might break faster.” Mitsuhide turned his orange gaze back to the series of knives before him, barely contemplating them. “Or you could stop feeding me obvious lies and start talking about your master.”

“I have no master save Buddha.”

“Yes, which is clearly why you were trying to slide poison into Azuchi’s water supply and your head is unshaven,” the white-haired man sighed lazily. “Buddha’s infinite grace clearly flows through you. Perhaps you ought to think of your divine patron and tell me about your Abbot instead?”

“Mitsuhide!” 

He turned his head to see Ieyasu standing on the stairs, holding his robes slightly aloft to keep the damp from his hem. What an unexpected surprise, though he supposed Ieyasu was one of the few that wouldn’t be perturbed. 

“Yes?”

“Letter for you.” He held it out, scowling. “It’s from the Uesugi.”

Kenshin? Mitsuhide frowned and accepted the missive, turning it this way and that. How unexpected. He could barely fathom a reason for the God of War himself to correspond with him and not Nobunaga. “My thanks.”

“Whatever,” Ieyasu glanced at the prisoner before turning his back and stalking up the stairs. 

“Bend your head,” Mitsuhide commanded, going to the prisoner. When the man failed to comply, he shoved it forward, unsurprised by the sickening crack from one of his legs. To the prisoner’s credit, he only yelped. “I told you to bend it. See what happens when you don’t listen? Be a good writing desk, will you?”

Ripping open the letter, he unfolded it and scanned the contents. What? Someone had tried to take the Chatelaine? Mitsuhide felt all his sickening fears coalesce into a very tangible truth: she was in danger, and eminent danger at that. It was barely a question of who was responsible. 

He had to be with her. 

Folding the letter up and tucking it in his robes, he stepped away from the man and headed to the stairs, his mind solely occupied with his new mission. Behind him, the ex-monk sputtered. 

“And you just leave me here?”

Mitsuhide paused in the doorway and turned his head. “Did you know of the attempted abduction of a particular woman?”

The ex-monk said nothing, but his eyes said everything Mitsuhide needed to know. Slowly, he returned to the prisoner and lifted his short sword. 

“It says here that her fingers were all that were scraped. With that in mind...”

Mitsuhide emerged from the dungeon only a minute after a sickening scream and shook his short sword clean. The prisoner didn’t need all ten of his fingers, after all. Four would have to do. 

Kenshin wasn’t exactly surprised at Mitsuhide’s response. It read simply: I’ll be there in three days time. Of course he would be. In the meantime, Kenshin had all the Chatelaine’s things moved into his own chambers. 

“You could always put her with me,” Shingen noted, though his eyes and grin admitted to the teasing the redhead himself would never confess. A withering gaze from the God of War was all it took to end the conversation. “She must have a good swing. Her sewing box completely shattered, and it was a good, solid piece.” 

“Noted.”

He took her that day to the training hall, borrowing Yukimura from his duties with Shingen to accompany them. Once there, he turned on his heel and picked through the armory, selecting a Naginata her size. “Come here.”

“What?” She stared owlishly at him, but complied. “What is that for?”

“You don’t have a sewing box to wield anymore. It seems appropriate that you learn something that makes more sense.” He compared it to her arm, then pushed it into her hand. “Take a swing. See how it feels.” 

The Chatelaine just shook her head violently. “I don’t want to fight anyone.”

“It’s not a matter of if you want to fight anyone, dummy,” Yukimura snapped, “they’re going to kill you if you want to or not.”

“I don’t think I could!” She retorted. “It makes no sense to hand me this and train me when I don’t think I could kill someone, not even if they were going to kill me!”

“Do you really think most people really want to kill someone?” Yukimura scoffed. 

Kenshin took the naginata back, sliding it back into its holder. “Yukimura, I won’t need you for this.”

The man looked suspicious, but bowed and took his leave anyway. Kenshin selected a short sword instead, tossing it to her. She caught it with relative ease, which was a good sign. “Draw it.”

“No.” She shook her head violently. He drew his own wakizashi, moving purposefully toward her. 

“You were spared last night from certain death or capture by two things, and two things alone,” he started. “My own interference, and the inexperience of your assailants. Do you flatter yourself charming enough to talk everyone down?”

She stepped back and finally drew the short sword. Her form was terrible, but that was at least a start. “No.”

“What will protect you, Princess? Do you expect me to be by your side always?”

“I...” Her voice faltered. “I don’t think I can kill anyone.”

He swung toward her; she leaped back, shock etched on her face. 

“I am your enemy, and I am here to kill you,” Kenshin announced thinly. “Now stop me.”

“What!?” 

He took another swing and she scurried out of the way, but he just turned and caught the edge of her short sword. It went flying across the room. The Chatelaine backed up against the wall, her eyes wide. 

“I don’t know how to fight at all!”

“You’ll have to learn.” She dashed out of his reach again, circling around the room. He just advanced, slow and steady, barely breaking a sweat. “No one is coming to help you. You have to either stop me, or you will die. Do you understand, Princess?”

“I get it! Just stop!” She crumpled against the floor, covering her eyes. “Just stop it!”

A wave of hot regret washed through him. Sheathing his wakizashi, he crept to her side and crouched down, putting a hand on her head. “Princess?”

“Stop,” she whimpered, drawing her knees to her chest. “I get it. I get it.”

“Move your knees.”

She obeyed, and Kenshin watched the tears roll down her cheeks. He’d upset her. No, he’d terrified her, and that had been his purpose, but the shame and self-loathing struck him like a knife. Quietly, he brushed them from her face. 

“I’m sorry.”

The Chatelaine shook her head, sniffling. “You sh-shouldn’t b-b-be. It m-makes s-sense.”

“I want to be there,” Kenshin breathed at last. “I want to be there at all hours. I want to protect you. I want to make sure no one ever, ever, ever lays another finger on you again. If I could cut down the whole of Kennyo’s forces to see you safe...”

Her eyes were on him, luminous and wide, searching him. He felt so exposed under that stare. All of his feelings rose to the surface, a blazing surge of emotion. 

“I would,” he affirmed. “I would destroy the whole army myself to keep you whole.”

“Why?” She whispered, and the tenderness of her voice nearly broke him. He cupped both of his hands around her cheeks and just looked at her. What could he say to that? What could he admit--what could he lay forward--what could he lay bare to her that wouldn’t destroy him?

But it was too late for him to stay himself. He wanted her. He needed her. She was all he’d thought about for months, all he could envision. Just the thought of her kept him sane and undid his reason; just breathing the same air as her now was slow, terrible torture, the most beautiful agony he could imagine. Like a man possessed, he wrapped an arm around her waist and lowered her to the floor. He nearly expected resistance, but no. 

Quietly, he pressed his lips to hers. 

She was sweeter than he’d expected. The tang of her tears was salty on her mouth, but when he came back for another kiss, it was gone. Her breath hitched, and it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. 

“Kenshin,” she murmured against him, and his insides seared, “Kenshin, why?”

“I want you.” He pressed his mouth hard against her throat and felt her moan through his lips. Lower, lower, lower still he kissed, his hands feeling every curve and swell of her hips and thighs, his world nothing except her voice and the topography of her body. “No one can take you from me. I won’t allow it.”

Brushing her kimono aside, he cupped a hand around her knee and lowered his lips to that. She writhed, but didn’t resist. Pausing to give her an opportunity to protest and hearing nothing, Kenshin trailed a thin line with his tongue along the inside of her leg, stopping only at the center of her thigh. Her gasp was intoxicating; he bit in on impulse and sucked hard, leaving a dark imprint there. She was his. 

“Kenshin!” She gasped, and he released her leg, sliding up her body to reclaim her mouth. Over and over and over again he kissed her, sometimes tender, sometimes hard, sometimes as if she would disappear when he stopped. Her arms were around his back and her hair spilled everywhere and she smelled of his bed and thread and cherry blossoms...

At last he withdrew. Pressing his forehead to hers, he waited until they’d both stopped panting for breath. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” she half-laughed. A heady rush of ownership shot to polar ends of his body. 

“You have Mitsuhide.”

“Mitsuhide, I’m pretty sure, saw this coming. Stupid psychic Mitsuhide.”

“I can’t bear the thought of being second.”

“Whoever said you were?”

He mulled that over in his head, trying to reconcile the thought and failing for the moment. “I’ll think on that.”

Gently, he pulled her back to a seated position. The quiet around them was nearly suffocating. It was as if the whole world held its breath for whatever happened next. 

“Maybe you can show me how to use a short sword,” the Chatelaine agreed at last. “I don’t know if I could actually do it, but maybe if it looks like I know what I’m doing, they’ll be less likely to take me?”

“Maybe.” Probably not. But it was a compromise he was willing to make. He helped her to her feet and recovered her short sword for her. “First, stance. Yours was awful.”

Kennyo frowned at the fire. 

Four of his operatives were dead. Another, captured. The only surviving man from Kasugayama’s failed infiltration stood before him, his head hung in shame. 

“Be not ashamed, brother,” he advised gently, “I am only glad that you live still. Your life is precious to me.”

“But we failed, Abbot.”

Kennyo nodded, slowly, considering this. They had certainly kicked a viper’s nest. Now the God of War himself was involved, and this meant trouble for them all. 

“Yes,” he answered coolly. “But we may yet succeed.”

“And how is that, Abbot?”

He glanced up at the sky, but the trees veiled them. It felt fitting. “Fear not. I have plans yet.”

[rocky-alex]

A Hunter’s Life For Me

Word count: 2507

Warnings: Traumatised character, slight paranoia

Pairings: OFC(Jules) x Dean, Reader x Sam

A Hunter’s Life Masterlist

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Chapter 7: Don’t you say, don’t you say it

Jules POV

A whole fucking week in that motel room, and I was going crazy. I barely had the guts to leave, even to get food and something new to wear. Stepping outside the door, over the salt line, I felt so exposed, like everyone was watching me, even people I couldn’t see. I couldn’t sleep, instead I stayed up pacing the room, lying restless on the bed or looking out the window. Figuring out what to do next was easier said than done when all kinds of questions were floating around in my head.

What had Crowley meant when he said he’d thought I’d get out of there faster? Why had the demons kidnapped me? What did they want? Did it have something to do with what I’d ended up doing to Crowley? And why hadn’t Sam and Dean found me?

I was pacing the room, again, pulling at my hair, ignoring the food I’d bought and put on the table five hours ago, when there was a knock on the door. It scared me so badly I screamed and tripped myself on the carpet. I lay still on the floor, waiting for the door to burst open and demons come rushing in. Nothing happened. I sat up, keeping my eyes on the door, and the window next to it. Another knock. I stood up and slowly walked across the room. My hand rested on the doorknob, the other holding the safety chain like a lifeline. Deciding that if who- or whatever was on the other side really wanted to get in, they would have by now. I unlatched the chain and turned the knob. And got a huge surprise.

“We need to talk.”

Reader POV

This was some bullshit. You had barely managed to get the Winchesters to leave you alone when Crowley showed up in your room with a new “mission”. He was so full of it. You’d had no idea that it actually was him who’d had Jules abducted. And now he’d lost her, because of course he had, and needed you to find her. Your one consolation in all this was that that was all he’d asked you to do, nothing else.

“I don’t see what this girl has to do with me, Crowley.”

“Darling, I thought we’d been over this. It’s not your place to ask questions.” He was right. You hated to admit it, but he was.

It wasn’t as hard as Crowley made it out to be. In fact, it was so easy to find Jules you started to wonder what the fuck Crowley was actually up to. He seriously couldn’t find her only two hours away from the house he’d held her at? More to the point, why hadn’t she left yet? Why was she still here?

You walked up to the door, seeing the lights were off in the room. Before knocking you stopped and listened. You could hear her in there, she was pacing, mumbling to herself. Fucking hell, she must be in a panic, demons after her, not knowing who to trust.

Knowing that you were only prolonging the inevitable, you raised your hand and knocked. From inside the room you heard a scream and a thump. You waited a beat before knocking again. This wasn’t the time to be sensitive. Even though Crowley hadn’t given you specific instructions you were sure he wasn’t going to be pleased if you half assed this, and you’d been wracking your brain the whole drive here to find a way around the rules without breaking them. Jules couldn’t fall back into Crowley’s hands, but she couldn’t go back to the brothers either.

The door opened and you were faced with a girl who locked severely freaked out.

“We need to talk.” Her eyes flicked around.

“How do I know you’re you?” So she wasn’t completely incompetent. You pulled out a flask of holy water and a shotgun shell filled with rock salt.

“Know what salt and holy water do to a demon?” She nodded. Here goes. You opened the shell and poured it’s contents into the flask. Then you took a deep breath before raising it to your mouth. Fucking hell, that’s nasty! You looked at Jules.

“See? No burns, no screams, no smoke. All human.” She looked relieved but didn’t open the door to let you inside.

“Why are you here? Where’s Dean? And Sam?”

“Like I said, we need to talk, and while I may not be a demon I can’t say the same for anyone else. Will you please let me in?” She looked around, panic back in her eyes. Then she gestured for you to hurry and slammed the door as soon as you’d stepped over the threshold. You heard the lock click and the chain slide into place.

“Wow,” you said, looking around the room. Devil’s traps and sigils lined the walls and floor, and salt lines ran all along the walls, windows and doors. “Where’d you learn all this?” You turned back to look at her, only to find her sitting on the floor, hands in her hair and shaking.

“Hey,” you murmured in a soft voice, squatting down infront of her. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, and how this must be, but I need you to get it together, okay?” She looked up at you.

“I don’t know what’s happened, or why. And the only two people I have to rely on haven’t come for me. I don’t even know their phone numbers. So please don’t talk to me about keeping it together.”

“Listen, Sam and Dean have tried their damn best to find you. They even came to me, asking if I knew anything. At the time I didn’t. I only found out where you were an hour ago. I don’t even know why the demons want you. But…” you bit your lip, hating that you had to say this part. You had no guarantee that you’d be able to keep your word. “I’m here to help you.”

Jules POV

I didn’t know whether to believe Y/N or not. I didn’t know her, although Sam and Dean seemed to trust her, at least they used to. What help could she offer?

“How?”

“First things first.” She held her hands out and pulled me to my feet. She guided me to a chair and we sat down at the table.

“The most important thing you need to know is that if you stay here, the demons will find you, no question. As I said, I don’t know why they want you, but I can promise it’s nothing good. But because they want you, you have to stay away from the Winches-”

“No! No fucking way!” I flew up from my seat and started pacing again. Y/N stood up as well, like she was prepared to take me down if I didn’t listen to her.

“You don’t get it, Jules, if they find you, they find them. And I can’t let that happen. If you care about them you’ll understand.” I stared at her, feeling my eyes bugging out.

“That’s rich! Dean told me what you did, and I have to say, that was some stinking horse shit. They loved you, and you just up and left them behind, never looking back. And then you had the nerve to show up at the bunker? Hah!” A flash of movement and she was standing right infront of me, seeming to tower over me, looking pissed as hell.

“You don’t know half the reason I left. You don’t know why I did what I did. And you certainly don’t know what leaving them did to me. So don’t go acting all high and mighty, pretending to know them, or me for that matter.” I stood stock still, the chill in her voice freezing me on the spot. It took a few moments before I had the nerve to speak again.

“I trusted them to find me… I thought I knew that they’d fight tooth and nail, and succeed. But they didn’t, and I had to get myself out.”

“I know.” Her voice was softer now, but she didn’t back down. “And now I need you to know why you have to stay away from them.” Tears were forming in my eyes.

“So I have to go at this alone?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You said you’d hep me.” “I can only do so much, Jules.” A moment of silence.

“Can I at least call Dean?”

Dean POV

“Jules?” His voice barely held up after hearing her voice.

“Yeah, it’s me…”

“Where are you?” He tried his best to keep the panic and anger at bay. If she’d been hurt-

“I can’t tell you.” Her voice was soft, shaky, like she was crying. Dean’s hand was trembling, resisting the urge to hit something, and he wanted to scream at her and demand to know where she was so he could come get her. But he didn’t.

“Why?”

“Because of you Dean. What happened to me… It would happen to you too. So I need to be alone.”

“Jules…” She was kidding herself if she thought he wouldn’t find her. “What did they do?” His voice was strained, trying to keep his emotions in check. He heard a sob on the other line, faint, as if she was holding the phone away from her head, hoping he wouldn’t hear.

“I have to go, Dean.”

“No, Jules-” The line went dead.

Jules POV

I let the phone fall to the floor, my mind a haze. Somewhere in the back of my senses I felt Y/N move beside me to pick it up. Then hands were moving me through the room, sitting me down on the bed. Her face appeared infront of me, catching my attention.

“Jules? I need you to focus.” I shook my head to clear it, and nodded to show she had my attention.

“Good. So here’s the deal. I need to leave soon, but there are a few things I need you to do.” Another nod.

“First, I need you to leave this town. You already know about protection against demons, use it. Don’t stay in one town for more than a couple of days, and always use cash.” She stuffed a wrinkled piece of paper in my hand. “Learn this by heart. It’s an exorcism, should you need to use it. On the other side is a drawing of a pentagram. I want you to get it tattooed somewhere on your body, it’ll prevent possession.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small gun. “Last thing,” she said, putting it on the bed next to me. “Learn to use this.” She turned and walked to the door, and after a moment I stood up to follow.

“That’s it? You’re just leaving?” Y/N shrugged on her jacket and opened the door. Before stepping outside she turned back.

“I don’t think this will be the last time we ever meet, Jules. But I have to ask you to keep this to yourself.” The door closed.

As it turned out, the only perk to Y/N’s visit was my phone call. Nothing else seemed to be working out for me. Wherever I went there seemed to be demons on my heels. I’d gotten the tattoo as soon as possible, and so far it seemed to be working, as no one had tried to smoke their way down my throat yet. But the demons were still there, lurking around every fucking corner.

I’d also become a thief, stealing cars left and right, but never keeping them for long. I must have slept in nine different beds the past two weeks. I never left my motel room during the night, and barely walked outside even during the day. Was this my life now? Was this what I had to look forward to? Living in isolation and on the run? Some life that would be.

I couldn’t help but think that some serious paranoia was setting in. I saw eyes watching me all the time. I didn’t trust the motel managers, or the clerks at the gas-n-sips. I wore discreet clothes and tried my best to hide in plain sight. It was driving me crazy. I wanted nothing more than to go back to Sam and Dean, and find out why this was all happening. I felt so fucking cut off from the world and there was nothing to distract me, even for a moment, to let me forget the situation I was in.

Y/N hadn’t shown up again. I didn’t know whether to be grateful or suspicious or panicking about that fact. True, she couldn’t very well babysit me, and I’d decided to believe her when she said she didn’t know why the demons were after me. But the solitude had given me more than enough time to think how weird it was that she’d found me so fast after I escaped, when Dean and Sam hadn’t. It was all eating me up, and I couldn’t see the world in a straight perspective anymore.

I was walking from the nearest grocery store, back to the motel, when I felt it. I was being followed. Nowadays all my senses were dialled up to eleven, and it didn’t escape my notice that the same sound of feet hitting the ground had been behind me for a solid ten minutes now. All the way from the store. I sped up slightly, and the steps behind me kept up. My heart was pounding so hard my head started to hurt. I could do this. One more turn and it was only a short sprint back to the motel and the safety of my protection. I rounded the corner and took off, dropping the bags of food on the sidewalk, hoping to slow down whoever was following me. Not looking back even for a moment I strained my muscles as much as possible and ran as fast as I could. I got to my room and slammed the door behind me, barricading it with whatever I could find, checking all the salt lines and traps before collapsing in a heap on the floor. When the pounding on the door started I wrapped my arms around my head and squeezed, trying to tune out the sound that could mean my death.

The crash of the door breaking open had me jump up and back as far into the room as I could. Someone had gotten inside. What the hell? What demon could cross a salt line? And not get stuck in the traps? I saw a shape moving behind the glass divider between the bed and the door and pressed my back against the wall, trying to become as small as possible. In the pocket of my jacket I felt the gun digging into my hip and immediately grabbed it. When the person came around the corner I raised it to fire. Only to drop it just as fast.

“Dean?!”

@carryonmyswansong

Note: I couldn’t sleep, this chapter kept nagging at me so I had to write it :P

[calendarofanxiety]

November 9, 1888 KELLY Mary Jane Kelly also known as Marie Jeanette Kelly, Fair Emma, Ginger and Black Mary is widely believed to be the final victim of the notorious unidentified serial killer Jack the Ripper who killed and mutilated several women in the Whitechapel area of London from late August to early November 1888. She was about 25 years old and living in poverty at the time of her death. Barnett (the man she had most recently lived with prior to her murder) visited Kelly for the last time between 7:00 and 8:00 PM on 8 November. He found her in the company of Maria Harvey (a friend of hers). Harvey and Barnett left at about the same time. Barnett returned to his lodging house where he played cards with other residents until falling asleep. Fellow Miller's Court resident and prostitute Mary Ann Cox who described herself as "a widow and unfortunate" reported seeing Kelly returning home drunk in the company of a stout ginger-haired man wearing a bowler hat and carrying a can of beer at about 11:45 PM. Cox and Kelly wished each other goodnight. Kelly went into her room with the man and then started singing the song "A Violet I Plucked from Mother's Grave When a Boy." She was still singing when Cox went out at midnight and when she returned an hour later at 1:00. Elizabeth Prater had the room above Kelly's and when she went to bed at 1:30 the singing had stopped. Labourer George Hutchinson who knew Kelly reported that she met him at about 2:00 AM and asked him for a loan of sixpence. He claimed that as Kelly went on her way she was approached by a man of "Jewish appearance". Hutchinson later gave the police an extremely detailed description of the man right down to the colour of his eyelashes despite it being the middle of a dark winter night. He reported that he overheard them talking in the street opposite the court where Kelly was living. Kelly complained of losing her handkerchief and the man gave her a red one of his own. Hutchinson claimed that Kelly and the man headed for her room that he followed them and that he saw neither one of them again laying off his watch at about 2:45. Hutchinson's statement appears to be partly corroborated by laundress Sarah Lewis who reported seeing a man watching the entrance to Miller's Court as she passed into it at about 2:30 to spend the night with some friends. Hutchinson claimed that he was suspicious of the man because although Kelly seemed to know him his opulent appearance made him seem very unusual in that neighbourhood but only reported this to the police after the inquest on Kelly had been hastily concluded. Abberline (the detective in charge of the investigation) thought Hutchinson's information was important and sent him out with officers to see if he could see the man again. Hutchinson's name doesn't appear again in the existing police records and so it's not possible to say with certainty whether his evidence was ultimately dismissed, disproven or corroborated. Some modern scholars have suggested that Hutchinson was the Ripper himself trying to confuse the police with a false description but others suggest he may have just been an attention seeker who made up a story he hoped to sell to the press. Cox returned home again at about 3:00. She reported hearing no sound and seeing no light from Kelly's room. Elizabeth Prater who was woken by a kitten and Sarah Lewis both reported hearing a faint cry of "Murder!" at about 4:00 AM but didn't react because they reported that it was common to hear such cries in the East End. She claimed not to have slept and to have heard people moving in and out of the court throughout the night. She thought she heard someone leaving the residence at about 5:45 AM. Prater did leave at 5:30 AM to go to The Ten Bells public house for a drink of rum and saw nothing suspicious. On the morning of 9 November 1888 (the day of the annual Lord Mayor's Day celebrations) Kelly's landlord John McCarthy sent his assistant ex-soldier Thomas Bowyer to collect the rent. Kelly was 6 weeks behind on her payment owing 29 shillings. Shortly after 10:45 AM Bowyer knocked on her door but received no response. He reached through the crack in the window pushed aside a coat being used as a curtain and peered inside discovering Kelly's horribly mutilated corpse lying on the bed. The mutilation of Kelly's corpse was by far the most extensive of any of the Whitechapel murders probably because the murderer had more time to commit his atrocities in a private room rather than in the street. Dr Thomas Bond and Dr George Bagster Phillips examined the body. Phillips and Bond timed her death to about 12 hours before the examination. Phillips suggested that the extensive mutilations would have taken 2 hours to perform and Bond noted that rigor mortis set in as they were examining the body indicating that death occurred between 2:00 and 8:00 AM. Bond's notes read "The body was lying naked in the middle of the bed, the shoulders flat but the axis of the body inclined to the left side of the bed. The head was turned on the left cheek. The left arm was close to the body with the forearm flexed at a right angle and lying across the abdomen. The right arm was slightly abducted from the body and rested on the mattress. The elbow was bent, the forearm supine with the fingers clenched. The legs were wide apart, the left thigh at right angles to the trunk and the right forming an obtuse angle with the pubis. The whole of the surface of the abdomen and thighs was removed and the abdominal cavity emptied of its viscera. The breasts were cut off, the arms mutilated by several jagged wounds and the face hacked beyond recognition of the features. The tissues of the neck were severed all round down to the bone. The viscera were found in various parts viz: the uterus and kidneys with one breast under the head, the other breast by the right foot, the liver between the feet, the intestines by the right side and the spleen by the left side of the body. The flaps removed from the abdomen and thighs were on a table. The bed clothing at the right corner was saturated with blood, and on the floor beneath was a pool of blood covering about two feet square. The wall by the right side of the bed and in a line with the neck was marked by blood which had struck it in several places. The face was gashed in all directions, the nose, cheeks, eyebrows, and ears being partly removed. The lips were blanched and cut by several incisions running obliquely down to the chin. There were also numerous cuts extending irregularly across all the features. The neck was cut through the skin and other tissues right down to the vertebrae, the fifth and sixth being deeply notched. The skin cuts in the front of the neck showed distinct ecchymosis. The air passage was cut at the lower part of the larynx through the cricoid cartilage. Both breasts were more or less removed by circular incisions, the muscle down to the ribs being attached to the breasts. The intercostals between the fourth, fifth, and sixth ribs were cut through and the contents of the thorax visible through the openings. The skin and tissues of the abdomen from the costal arch to the pubes were removed in three large flaps. The right thigh was denuded in front to the bone, the flap of skin, including the external organs of generation, and part of the right buttock. The left thigh was stripped of skin fascia, and muscles as far as the knee. The left calf showed a long gash through skin and tissues to the deep muscles and reaching from the knee to five inches above the ankle. Both arms and forearms had extensive jagged wounds. The right thumb showed a small superficial incision about one inch long, with extravasation of blood in the skin, and there were several abrasions on the back of the hand moreover showing the same condition. On opening the thorax it was found that the right lung was minimally adherent by old firm adhesions. The lower part of the lung was broken and torn away. The left lung was intact. It was adherent at the apex and there were a few adhesions over the side. In the substances of the lung there were several nodules of consolidation. The pericardium was open below and the heart absent. In the abdominal cavity there was some partly digested food of fish and potatoes, and similar food was found in the remains of the stomach attached to the intestines". Phillips believed that Kelly was killed by a slash to the throat and the mutilations performed afterwards. Bond stated in a report that the knife used was about 25 mm wide and at least 150 mm long but didn't believe that the murderer had any medical training or knowledge. He wrote "In each case the mutilation was inflicted by a person who had no scientific nor anatomical knowledge. In my opinion he does not even possess the technical knowledge of a butcher or horse slaughterer or a person accustomed to cut up dead animals". Kelly was buried in the Roman Catholic Cemetery at Leytonstone on 19 November 1888. Her obituary ran as follows "The funeral of the murdered woman Kelly has once more been postponed. Deceased was a Catholic, and the man Barnett, with whom she lived, and her landlord, Mr. M. Carthy, desired to see her remains interred with the ritual of her Church. The funeral will, therefore, take place tomorrow [19 Nov] in the Roman Catholic Cemetery at Leytonstone. The hearse will leave the Shoreditch mortuary at half-past twelve. The remains of Mary Janet [sic] Kelly, who was murdered on Nov. 9 in Miller's-court, Dorset-street, Spitalfields, were brought yesterday morning from Shoreditch mortuary to the cemetery at Leytonstone, where they were interred. No family member could be found to attend the funeral".

[kog0ruhn]

The End Pt. VI - Sixth House

The Sixth House had a bad reputation.

It was understandable, he supposed, but in all of his experiences with them it seemed completely unfounded. Every time Mange ventured into their lair, they were far more welcoming than their neighbors and hospitable to a fault. They carried themselves with dignity and poise, honored the etiquette of the old world, and were quite generous with their help. Of course, that was all on top of their rather bizarre behavior in private, settled in an abandoned mine with claustrophobic, black walls that reflected the bright red glow of the thousands of crimson candles that lined every passage, sat upon every outcropping, and adorned every rock. Ragged tapestries emblazoned with a jagged beetle emblem billowed in the cold winds that whipped through the winding corridors. The sound of bells, haunting and deep, made the very ground vibrate.

Red Mountain was the most average of the lot, a stocky Snapper glowing with liquid fire that evaporated as soon as it hit the ground. That one oddity made him a useful guide as he hobbled ahead of Mange, rocks and crystal crunching beneath his feet as he meandered this way and that in the labyrinthine passages. From the darkest corners of the lair, he could hear singing, a beautiful hymn that rang out like an angel choir. Snippets were spoken in a dark, dead language. The bits he understood narrated his arrival right down to every time he stumbled.

“Everyone else safe?” Red Mountain called over his shoulder. Mange snapped back to reality, answering with a dull, “Huh?”

“I asked if everyone else was safe. You said that Goetia’s lair is compromised. Is Bifrons okay? Ophie?”

“Y-yeah. Bifrons is fine. Ophelia’s fine. I hope, at least. When things went south, I sent Shatter to the council hall to deliver the news. Claws crossed that our esteemed high priest has enough common sense to know not to run into a demon’s den.”

“He doesn’t seem dimwitted. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

The further they walked, the warmer it became. Beneath clumps of bloody fur and his thick mane, Mange could feel his skin struggling to breathe, his tongue lolling out of his mouth in a desperate attempt to keep himself cool. The singing grew louder, Red Mountain twisted in what seemed to be a circle, and a soft orange glow bubbled from somewhere in the distance, brighter than any candle. Dancing on the walls, he could see the shadows of long, graceful dragons with massive, torn wings. He heard a flirtatious, girly laugh and knew what lay ahead.

“Lord Dagoth, we have a visitor.”

Red Mountain’s voice was calm, but the silence that followed was eerie. As the narrow tunnel widened into a large, lavishly decorated room covered in bone and silks, Mange felt what seemed like a hundred eyes fall on him. The hymn was now silent, everyone still, Mange trapped in a circle of towering Imperials. He stared at his feet and realized the rock beneath him was covered in vandalistic scrawling, messages of madmen and monsters and sigils he’d never seen.

When he worked up the nerve to look at his audience, he saw Red Mountain shuffling into the middle of their lot. Dagoth was nearly lost in a dark corner, gembond gleaming as bright as his red eyes in the flickering glow of an oozing pool of magma at the center of the room. Beside him, perched on what seemed to be a massive altar and surrounded by troughs of offerings, was his favorite wife, Kogoruhn. Her scales, once brilliant and gold, had begun to fade into sickening, pale colors. Her wings were alive with dozens of ruby red eyes.

She tilted her head and smiled, the least of Dagoth’s wives barely sparing him a glance as she worked to groom her “sister.” Another wife, seemingly drunk off of the bloodwine gripped in her talons, looked up from where she was flopped at their feet.

“Mange of Goetia, here to talk to you about a pressing matter,” Red Mountain continued. “He--”

“The demon.”

Kogoruhn’s voice was strangely even, perfectly calm. She turned to Dagoth and flashed a winning grin.

“The shadow of the priest, she stirs in the darkest night. From Arcanist’s mistake, weaving a tapestry of poison. Sing loud, Lord Dagoth, for she whispers our names on toxic lips. The un-dragon sees beyond sight and moves beyond boundaries.”

Mange blinked. He almost understood that. Judging from the look on Dagoth’s face--satisfied, curious, and smug--the Imperial knew good and well what it meant.

“As long as we’re all on the same page?” Mange offered with a weak smile. “I think?”

“Come for help,” Kogoruhn continued, craning her head down as the dragon grooming her reached for the tufts on her cheek. “Dark against dark, the black-red versus the consuming void. Come as a friend, for which we are honored. Are we not, my lord?”

Dagoth smiled wanly. Mange was still confused.

“Do I get to talk, or does she talk for everyone?” he asked, confused. Kogoruhn chuckled as Dagoth stepped forward.

“My apologies. Most of The Abandoned do not invite themselves into our lair.”

“Er, I-I’m sorry, it’s just--”

“No. No need for apologies. We are not angry. Kogoruhn is true. We are honored by your presence.” With a shake of his head, he nodded the least wife away. “Telasero, drinks for our visitor. If what your sister says is true, then we have a problem most pressing.”

Immediately, she dropped her comb with a clatter and scampered away. Kogoruhn nudged it toward her drunken sister with her tail, though she seemed less than thrilled about the idea of doing anything more than taking a nap. With a flick of her claws, she sent it sailing into the lava. A breathy laugh huffed out of her nose as she settled her head on the ground and shut her eyes.

“Kogoruhn will be quiet now. You’ve come to us as a friend, and friends of the Sixth House will know our mercy and power. What do you need?”

There was no hostility in Dagoth’s voice, but Mange found himself choked.

After Bifrons had left Goetia’s lair, he had heard Flauros as clear as day. She spoke in a language Grimoire had taught him, celebrating her freedom, taunting him that he was alone. Then, she listed the evils she had committed, every painful detail of the abductions, the murders, the possessions. The blasted creature even tried to explain her nature, but it was well beyond his ken. All he could translate is that she was bad, the whole situation extremely bad.

And the rest of Goetia? Gods, the mess. Bifrons and his mate were away and safe--fortunate, to be sure--but the only dragon he could save at the lair was Shatter. The Guardian had always hated Flauros, too dim to understand what exactly she was, so to see she had resisted her temptations was no surprise. Corruption and Azimuth, however? He had always had his suspicions about them, and now everything he feared was confirmed.

Flauros was to be Goetia’s undoing, but wasn’t that their problem? Standing in front of a patient, smiling Dagoth, he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly would come of asking for help. They had been the first ones he had thought of, saturated as they were in dark and forbidden arts. He became convinced mid-stride while fleeing that they, of all dragons, would know how to set things right.

But if he involved them, if they did decide to help, then Flauros...

“Fears unmaking, tongue tied by doubt. A heart of light whispering of branches growing from time, spreading outward toward sun and ash.”

“Huh?” Mange muttered as a bowl of wine was placed at his feet. Telasero bowed deeply before offering her husband a sip of her own.

“Kogoruhn’s calling you out for stalling,” the drunken Imperial on the ground groaned, rolling onto her back. “You’ve got yourself in deep and you’re having second thoughts about asking for help.”

“I, uh...”

“Because you’re concerned,” Dagoth finished, taking a lap of drink. “You’re thinking of how many paths our interference could take, and you worry we’ll be dead by the end of it.”

“Well, it’s about Flauros and--”

“Half-pint ghost dragon with an attitude problem. Yeah, we know her.”

The drunk dragon again. Dagoth scowled, glaring daggers at her as she lounged, snarling, “Falasmaryon, that is enough.”

“I’m just saying. We could take her.”

“No, you can’t,” Mange snapped, and his sudden brashness certainly caught everyone’s attention. “You think you can because every time you’ve seen her, she’s been contained in some way. Bifrons did it before me, and I have her chained with every ounce of magical know-how I have at my disposal. Or at least I did.”

“Did?” Dagoth echoed. Mange’s body tensed.

“Somehow, she’s... free. I-I don’t know how. I was asking Bifrons about it this afternoon, I sent for Grimoire this morning, and by the time dinner rolls around I’m hearing voices in my head and Goetia’s ripped in two. She can disconnect from her body now. She told me what she did. She--”

“Daughter of the warrior,” Kogoruhn began to sing. “Daughter of the matriarch. Gone, gone. Lover of the daughter. Gone. The tender of the gardens. Gone with his savior, erased from the annals of time. Gone is the gatherer, mourning is his wife. Far-traveler, flung from grace and haunted by ghosts, mad with purpose. Flown away, to darkness. Children, children, children. Gone.”

Suddenly, everything seemed uncomfortable. Falasmaryon raised her head, Telasero clasping her paws over her face in horror. Kogoruhn’s eyes looked moist, as though she threatened to cry. The expression on Dagoth’s face was stern, but otherwise unreadable.

“Who else?” he demanded of his wife. She choked and shook her head.

“Who else?”

“Many to come, two and seven by end. Twice dead, master yearning to be free. The one at the end of the one-three-and-three. Cliff-walker, far-seer, the one who draws with light. The one who met her once before, and fire bursting. The air, the energy, the one who gives it life. Oh, sister! Sister, no!”

She broke into sobs and collapsed, hands clasped over her ears. Mange was shaking. Dagoth was silent. Telasero and Falasmaryon eyed each other curiously, worriedly.

“This... is bad,” Telasero offered, her first words of the evening.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Mange replied. “I’m sorry. We should handle our own problems and--”

“From the sounds of it, she’s everyone’s problem now,” Falasymaryon quipped. Dagoth turned his attention to Mange and growled.

“How long?”

“What do you mean?”

“How long has she been awake?”

“A-an afternoon. Why? I didn’t catch a word of what that girl just said, and--”

“You have our aid.”

Mange blinked, Dagoth approaching him with a tentative but brotherly pat on the shoulder. The dragon’s hand was as big as his own head, and he swore he heard his shoulder pop, regardless of how gentle he was trying to be. Searching for some sort of answer, his eyes darted around the room before coming to rest on Red Mountain. The Snapper, equally clueless, only shrugged. What help he was.

“What did she say?” Mange demanded, glancing up at Dagoth and then at the sobbing Kogoruhn.

“That we should help.”

“I... I don’t think that’s what she said. What did she say?”

“That you need to leave,” Falasmaryon barked.

“I find that hard to believe. What did she say?”

“What does it matter? You have our aid,” Dagoth continued.

“But what did she say?”

“Go, Mange,” Telasero offered with a soft, comforting smile. “The Followers are charitable and their den is much more comfortable than our caves. Go to them, but do not go home. Worry not. We have you.”

Falasmaryon nodded.

“Until our dying breath.”