#there’s something so so intimate about slashing your hand and letting the blood pool with another’s

[guillotine-drop]

Thinking about bonds between super mutants and I think the most intimate bordering on romantic thing that SM’s (and the SoSu w Strong if Bethesda weren’t cowards) can do is forming some kind of blood pact and essentially swearing fealty to each other

Imagine a super mutant trusting you enough to sit you down and essentially say ‘I want to be bonded with you permanently’ by offering you the chance to mix blood. It’s easy enough for you to do, the skin on your palm is less than 2mm thick. You could take a pocket knife and open it up, but them? They have to work for it. They have to put some effort in to get through the skin, and that means something. It means everything, actually. You’re essentially swearing to be the hand that guides the swing if they’ll be the hammer to be swung. Swearing your loyalty as long as they swear theirs. Being their shield if they’ll be your bulwark. You’re both equals, maybe not in size or in strength, but you’re the only one they trust with their life. They’ll raze a city for you if you’ll crush an army for them. It’s beyond romance, it’s beyond pacts and creeds, it’s something even deeper. One of you may be more delicate, with skin that can be broken easily and bruised even more so, while the other is a wall of sinew and muscle that can shrug off bullets like it’s nothing, but now you’re bound by the one thing that makes the both of you the same: you both bleed, and you both bleed red.

[thirstyforred]

roderick/albrecht slash thingy

i got sorta bored halfway thru, but i guess I'll still revisit it at some time, posting now bc why not really

Looking at Roderick, actually looking at him, without the veil of pretenses, Albrecht can see why he’s like that. Sort of. It’s not that de Wett is some beauty, or has an incredibly dreamy body - he’s lean, with some muscles, just enough that you can tell he's a solid swordmaster. He’s pale, paler than Albrecht even though he’s the one hailing from the far north, but it matches well with the narrow dark eyes…

And so on and on. What actually Albrecht means has less to do with Roderick’s looks and more with the way he carries himself. The infuriating arrogance of someone well-born and capable enough to not be called a complete failure and freeloader. A mouthful, but there’s hardly a better way to describe it.

And Albrecht knows it, intimately even, considering that that’s exactly what he tried to emulate for the most part of his life. He would even carry on like that, if not the capricious destiny, putting them both in each other’s way, on both sides of someone they both needed equally bad.

(It would be much nicer to think that Jacques de Aldersberg ‘needed them’ and not just ‘had use of them’. Alas truth was never that sweet and gentle.)

For that reason, it was unimaginable for them to be anything more than rivals. Enemies in a single cause. Unwilling companions on this blessed road. Soulmates of the worst grade, if the world was truly cruel like that.

Albrecht smiled at that last thogyht…

“Stop,” murmured Roderick. His eyes were closed, mouth lax, up until he spoke one could be sure he was asleep.

“I’m hardly doing anything.”

“I feel like I can hear you thinking. A single cog running in that empty head of yours.”

“You know what wise men say: first you ought to empty your mind before you try to add any more new knowledge into it.”

At that, Roderick raised a single eyelid, scrutinizing the other man. Not friend, nor enemy, but a sacred third thing, that only the two of them could understand. No matter how much they would both prefer to pretend it wasn’t a thing in the first place. And then snorted with laughter. Something deep and true.

“So?”

“So what?” repeated Albrecht, feigning ignorance. But he reached toward Roderick and ran his hand on the naked biceps and down to the elbow. Roderick let him, didn’t even wince.

“Are you thinking about something so engaging right now?”

Albreach hummed inlay of an answer. 

Roderick blinked a few times and looked up again. He was half-lying on the bed, shoulders propped on the headrest. “What is it then?”

There was a small pool of blood under Roderick’s forearm, dripping from the cut there. Albrecht's fingers moved, ghosting the skin until he reached the exposed bone. Hovering right above the open fracture.

“I heard that bones stick to the tongue when licked. Because of their spongy structure.”

“That’s what are you thinking about? Licking my bones clean? What are you, some sort of vampire?”

Albrecht just shrugged with a lazy smile. Roderick was sweating, ridding off the big dose of fisstech that numbed the pain. But his eyes were still blown wide, deep and dark like the abyss.

Jacques told them to play nice with each other, but that left a lot of field for interpretation, what exactly constitutes “nice”. They had safewords, painkillers, healing magic even, they were both reasonable adults. Besides Roderick had a mean punch, and would start biting if Albrecht did something he didn’t like.

Breaking bones and then setting them back was easy. Childs play.

“I thought you studied monster lore with the boss? There are more flesh-eaters than just plain vampires…” However, if their beloved master was to be believed, suckers were the only ones that would be also interested in sex.

Which is something Roderick and Albrecht did a few times. Sporadically. Both are high as kites on the Salamandra merchandise. Nothing too involved or intimate, just hands and rolling hips, just enough to get off the edge. Something to pass the time.

But they fitted together, like two pieces of something… Something that shouldn’t be together in the first place, because of the danger for the surroundings. Like Cadaverine and good wine. Like rubies instead of diamonds in a megascope’s matrix. Something volatile and bad…

Roderick’s fingers, the ones from the unbroken arm, found their way inside Albrecht's waistband. Sneaky little things. “What about it,” started Roderick. Only slightly out of breath. 

Albrecht leaned closer, so whatever the other man had in his mind, he had a better grasp on it. Mindful of the broken limb Albrecht lowered his head to Rod’s chest, his warm breath causing a groan.

“You fix me up, and then I jack you off?” finally asked Roderick. A little bit more and he would start begging instead of proposing.

“But why? You already have a hand on me, don’t you?”

Roderick groaned again. There was new, red bite mark on his chest.

[ficsnroses]

Shower - John Wick x Reader

[not my gif]

❧ Prompts : First time showering together & washing their hair/body in the shower. Requested by two lovely anons 🖤

☒ Word Count : 1.8K

☒ Warnings : Fluff, slight angst. 

☒ Summary : When John comes home hurt and bruised, you help him in the shower, as a more intimate conversation about this insecurities ensues.

❧ A/N : I realize now, as I format this that I really could have made this all fun and less heavy...sorry I guess I was a little emo when I wrote this haha

“John? Baby?” You whisper, a slight gasp secreted at the bruises and cuts that litter his face. Lips parted, he lifts his weary head up towards you eventually, standing deadbeat in the bulky front door of your shared home. His bones tingle with dread, feared on subjecting you to this form of him-

this cold, stoic, damaged form that proves; he bleeds.

John bleeds deep, he hurts deep.

Bloodied fingers holding the wall for support, he sighs wearily, a forced smile upheld smile in great efforts to keep your emotions at bay; prevent you from hurting for him. He’s the love of your life, you his; and he knows this will kill you.

It is killing you.

The lines to his forehead tense, before relaxing; a breathy exhale in exchange for words. “I’m okay, sweetheart.” His deep voice rasps, the blood cursive in your veins immediately chills to the sound of his agony. With a barrel limp in his move, you watch him trudge before you with widened eyes, heart shattering to pieces at the man who stands in front of you. “I’m okay.” He reiterates, gaze intent on the wooden staircase that leads to your bedroom. Your lips twitch, worry currenting through each inch of your being, yet you brave a temperate confidence for him, an assertion that you’d take none of his façade.

“Jonathan, you’re hurt. You’re bleeding and there’s bruises-” He cuts you off with his voice, deep and gruff as he comforts in attempts to ease your fear. “It’s okay, I’ll be fine.” His thumb grazes your cheek with a gentle smile offered your way. “You get some sleep, okay?”

Stunned, you shoot him a speechless look, baffled with a shake to your head in borderline aggravation. “Absolutely not.” You argue, grabbing hold of his bicep. “John,” You start, voice firm and opaque. Beneath the durable exterior that fails to let warmth in, John bleeds. And none know that better than you.

“I know you try to keep this…away from me.” His expression falls downcast, ashamed at the conversation his ears perceive. He never wanted you to be part of this; didn’t want you to live the sin his soul drenched in each and every gruesome day. “But you need to let me help you. Let me take care of you. Please.” You plead, grasping his skin tighter now, before your figure caves, and despite fledged attempts to not, a few absconding tears burn at your cheeks. Gentle cries leaving your lips, you find yourself, arms moving to him, gracious hand soft with a mild, caring cup to his bearded cheek. A few bold cuts litter his skin, a damaged, frail canvas of your mountain of a man stood in front of you; vulnerable.

In this moment, the fear creeps in. The fear of losing the only thing that truly mattered to you; him.

“Hey, hey,” John cooes, a quiet wince when his arms move to hold you. “Sweetheart, I’ll be fine.” He assures, kissing the top of your full locks. “We were going into the city tomorrow, right?” He attempts to ease the conversation into a different direction; something more normal, diverting focus from the dire scars that pepper his face. “Maybe you’ll wear that sundress I love.” He chuckles a masked wince, taking hold of your hand to plant a small kiss to your palm. “It’s going to be beautiful out tomorrow.” He sighs, desperately trying to ease your tense limbs.

Comprehending John was now taking care of you, rather than you him, you move, an ache of rhythmic pulse to your temple slowly pounding in beating pleats. Compelled, you wipe away your tears in a swift motion, a firm hold offered to his bicep. “John, not now.” You exhale, taking hold of his hand as you lead him to the washroom. “We need to get you cleaned up.” Hesitant, yet yearning for your touch, he shakes his head in disagreement, unsure of how to reject. He didn’t want you tending to his scares; it wasn’t your job.

Your job was solely to love him, and to be loved in return.

Not to carry his demons.

“Y/N, I-” He starts, yet your hand moves to his chest. “John, please.” You beg, looking down. “Please just trust me. That’s how this works.” You speak, emphatic when you gesture between your proximate bodies. “You trust me, right?” You whisper, cupping his cheek.

He nods, eyes worn out and expression ridged at your murmur of plead. ‘I do trust you. More than anything.” He mumbles in defeat, unable to hold your piercing gaze. He’s humiliated, ashamed of who he is.

What he is.

Voice thick with pain for your lover, you hold your hand to his cheek as he stares at you, blinking hurt. “Take your clothes off, baby. We need to clean your bruises.” Whispering, you feel your heart ache. His figure doesn’t move, still in the moment as he drinks you in, the way you’ve set aside everything to tend to him now, in this moment. Where his welfare is what triumphs over all, and the world around seems to cease a pause, on hold for him.

You gently remove his suit jacket as he watches, fingers delicately undoing his tie thereafter. John still is unable to move. He doesn’t say anything, and apart from the roaring rain outside that pelt upon the roof, the air around falls silent. A haze of your connection all that’s left to drown out around. Careful of his bruises, you undo his buttons, peeling his shirt off his torso. Wounded and battered, you catch sight of his stomach, a few meagre cuts slashed into his chest, deep purple bruises to his ribs. It takes everything in your being to not kiss each of them. Honey them, painted seamlessly in love.

Undoing his belt buckle, it falls to the floor in a loud clink, your hands peeling down his slacks and boxers, leaving him nude and exposed for you. Discolorations and welts shower his skin, and you feel more tears scorch in your orbs. “You trust me, right?” You blink, kissing his cheek briefly with his face held in your hands, biting back your tears.

“I do.” He replies, smoky voice confident. Allowing a gentle squeeze to his hand, you move away, stripping yourself of all of the clothes that shield your body, left nude and exposed in front of him. John and you had made love before, many times, seen each other naked as well. But you had yet to share a shower together; hadn’t been intimate in this exclusive, savouringly fresh way yet.

As you hold his hand, guiding him to the steamy shower spray, his throaty ring quietly chuckles, eliciting a small sigh of restlessness. “I always thought of showering together, but not like this.” Shooting him a curious look, he continues. “Always thought it would be as I made love to you. Not while you…” Ceasing to finish his sentence, the thoughts of you cleaning his wounds burns his mind again, defeated eyes disheartened once more.

“Hey.” You assure, a reassuring kiss to his lips. “It’ll happen for us. When you get better.” You smile tenderly, closing the shower door as the stream cascades down your bodies. You start off by lathering some mild body wash to his chest as he gazes down at you, watching the way the water blurs his vision. Expressions crease as water drips down his nose and mouth, dew drops pooling around his full lips that taut in a straight line. Gentle and discreet, you allow the water to wash away his rouge blood, deep and maroon tinted water pooled at your feet. Washing the life away from him. The spray is warm, comforting, soothing to his tensed and aching muscles, the smell of your eucalyptus wash a refreshing change.

“You’re okay, baby? Does it burn?” You inquire, pressing mindless kisses to his rosy lips as you please; whenever his eyes fall slightly downcast, whenever you feel his degradation blistering his thoughts. The water droplet taste revitalising between your joint lips, your hands smoothing over his biceps and arms, over his back, feeling him close.

“I’m okay.” He replies, quiet, intently watching you. “Thank you.” He sighs, connecting your foreheads in gratified affection. “I’m sorry you have to do this.” Lathering his chocolate mane with shampoo, you massage his scalp, making sure to gently wash away all the dirt that lingers, making sure to be gentle, careful of the penetrating headache that probably drags at his temples.

Washed away under the stream, he whispers words of affection, love, admiration for you. Words that no one would ever dream leave the Boogyman’s lips, yet for you, stood so real. So true.

And to the sound of those words, you kiss his lips again, before gently drifting down lingering kisses, tender and soft placed to his neck, his collarbone, a few more stippled lightly to his chest. You kiss each bruise, each shading trace of deep mauve to his skin, littering the pain with something sweeter, something so lovely.

Gently, John wraps his arms around you tighter, the steady stream of warm water seeping down your attached bodies, and his lips begin to explore your skin as well. Muffled, yet heard in the reservation of you, his words bliss your ears in a beautiful melody so pure, something so uniquely John;

your John, not the John that roamed the depths of the dark world of sin, clawing his chains in weary attempts to escape the grim.

Your John, knew none of that. Your John is loving, caring, and feels so deeply. He feels deeper, harder, brimmed with warm love-deeper than he bleeds. Deeper than the wounds that spatter his thick skin.

“I love you, so much Y/N” He whispers against your skin, kissing just above your cleavage, tender pecks murmured to the silky dip of your neck, your wrists, each inch of your arms. With his arms around you durable, he gentle cups your face in both his hands, your back cornered against the cold tile wall. “So much, Y/N.” His head shakes. “I don’t deserve what you are to me.” He chokes, and if there weren’t droplets of water already stippling his features, you’d swore his eyes had filled with aqua laced tears. “Thank you.” He whispers, your naked bodies pressed together, so inclined, a different type of intimacy than you’d experience before. This was deeper than making love, deeper than anything prior.

This was real, this was his barriers, his walls crumbling down around him, allowing you in for the first time ever. Allowing you to see each inch of him, each depth of his entirety that he had shielded away before.

With your voice quiet and subtle, you cup his cheek, a gentle kiss pressed to his lips. “You deserve, baby. And you’re all I ever wanted.”

➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴

My taglist will be posted in reblogs, let me know if you want to be added or removed! :)

[lost-andfound]

CARRY ON (How Supernatural Should Have Ended)

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28041390 

INT. VAMP NEST BARN. NIGHT.

A VAMPIRE has just impaled DEAN on a nail. It is suggested that he is about to die. There are two flickering light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. The barn looks uncannily similar to the barn in which Dean and CASTIEL first met.

Dean chokes, blood pooling from his mouth. His eyes are glassy and fighting to stay open. SAM’s eyes are filled with tears--he can’t believe it.

DEAN (coughing, trying to speak through the pain) I thought— dammit, man, I thought this was our chance. A chance at a real life.

SAM (truly, genuinely, painfully) I’m sorry.

Sam’s hand hovers around the wound, as if trying to cure it. Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t want to die, but he’s past the point of no return.

DEAN (gently) Sammy— everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve lost— I’m glad it was with you.

SAM (starting to panic) No, Dean, no—

DEAN (breathing slower, but doing his best to look his brother in the eyes) I didn’t wanna die. I didn’t. Promise me you know that.

Sam nods. He can’t speak. He wishes— he prays— but no one comes. Dean’s head goes slack in Sam’s hand. His eyes are empty. He’s dead. The camera PANS slowly to Sam’s stunned face.

SAM Dean. (He waits for an answer, but none comes.) Dean, please.

Behind, there is a flutter of wings. The light bulbs blow out, glass shattering on the ground. Sam freezes, hoping against all odds—

CASTIEL (firmly, as if with all the power of Heaven on his side) No one dies today.

Without further ado, he grasps Dean’s body and pulls him off the nail. Sam winces at the sound, but Castiel does not flinch. He grips Dean by the shoulder and puts his hand over the wound. An unearthly blue light— the light of angelic Grace— flows from his hands, shines from his eyes. It is not the healing we’ve seen before— this power seems to come from the deepest part of Cas himself.

A beat. Sam stares, tense, hoping. Cas steps back, and Dean gasps.

SAM (with deep relief) Thank God.

DEAN (exhausted, yet still wise-cracking) That asshole ain’t to thank for this one, Sammy.

He sways, and Sam rushes to hold him up. Dean looks at Cas, who is, as usual, unreadable.

CAS Hello, Dean.

DEAN (softer) Cas. Jesus, you’re— you’re here.

CAS (with a slight smile, hardly believing it himself) Jack. He came for me.

Dean’s smile falters. He glances at Sam— they both feel guilty for leaving Cas behind. Castiel catches this look, and is about to speak, but winces. A curl of blue Grace floats from his mouth, winding into the air and vanishing like smoke.

SAM (concerned) Cas— are you okay?

Cas stumbles, falling to brace himself on the wall. Both Sam and Dean reach out to grab his arms on either side.

CAS (looking between them, suddenly weak) I think— I think I’m falling again.

BLACKOUT.

END OF ACT TWO

ACT THREE

INT. BUNKER - KITCHEN - MORNING

With a WIDE SHOT, we see that Dean is making eggs this time, with less spirit than the last morning. He slices peppers and onions with precision, but we can tell that he is worried, his brow furrowing as he sprinkles them in the pan.

Sam sits at the table, flipping through a huge, ancient tome. A stack of books rests next to him, waiting to be studied. Cas is not at the table, a noted absence.

Dean flips the omelet off the pan and onto a plate, setting it in front of Sam, who barely looks up.

DEAN (demanding) So?

SAM (looking up apologetically) I don’t know. I think it’s something to do with The Empty— sapping his grace, somehow. Saving you probably took a lot of mojo.

DEAN (muttering sarcastically, as usual) Great.

INT. CASTIEL’S ROOM

Castiel sleeps, his face serene. Morning light spills in through the window, the drapes gently fluttering. It’s a beautiful scene, almost like a painting. The song “THANK YOU” by Led Zeppelin begins to PLAY. PAN TO Dean in the doorway, awkwardly holding a plate of eggs and mug of black coffee. Dean’s face is softer than we’ve seen it in a long time. He hesitates, not wanting to disturb his friend.

CAS (sleepily) Dean?

The music fades, but remains in the background of the scene.

DEAN (gruffly) Mornin’, sunshine.

Dean moves to sit on the bed, a respectful distance away from Castiel. He sets the plate and mug on the bedside table. Castiel shifts into a sitting position. Dean looks at Cas, and we think he is about to speak— he thinks he is about to speak— but he remains silent. Cas merely looks back at him, at the face he thought he’d never see again. The awkwardness is mostly on Dean’s side, which is not a surprise. Castiel seems content to merely look.

DEAN (eventually) So, are you… human now? For real this time?

CAS (eyes flickering briefly) Yes. I believe so.

DEAN (gearing himself up to be angry, to find a solution) Okay. Well— we’ll fix it. Find some spare grace, find a spell to restore your grace, whatever. We always do.

CAS (sighing) Dean—

DEAN (a little heat to his voice) Dammit, Cas, let us help you. You saved my skin at the cost of your own for the hundredth time and— and I won’t let you do that. Not again. No one dies this time, remember?

CAS Dean, you’re not gonna find anything. Not this time. And I’m— (he pauses, smiling slightly. He looks calm, at peace.) I’m happy. And I can say that now, without fear. I can feel. That’s all I’ve wanted, for so long.

There is a pause. Dean swipes a hand over his face and shifts closer on the bed. There is so much left unsaid, between these two, and it hangs heavy in the air.

Dean (voice ragged) Cas. What you said. Before the Empty took you.

CAS (steadily, without hesitation) I meant it.

DEAN I’ve wanted to say it back. For so long, Cas. But I— I didn’t think— I mean, you were an angel, and there was Lisa, then Purgatory, and the Mark, and Chuck, and everything against us— it was never right, and I never thought you felt— (he breaks off, swallowing.) I never thought you could. Love me, I mean.

Cas says nothing, but laces his fingers with Dean’s. Dean looks down, stunned, then back up at Castiel’s face.

CAS But I do. Against all odds, I do.

Dean kisses him. “Thank You” by Led Zeppelin resumes. Cas pulls him in, closer. It is a beautiful, tender kiss, a movie kiss. After a moment, they break apart, still holding hands.

DEAN (slightly embarrassed, yet as unguarded as we’ve ever seen him) I love you too, Cas. I always have— you’re family.

CAS (softly, as if this moment is one he could break) So what now?

DEAN (his voice opening, finally, into hope) The rest of our lives, man. Everything that comes after.

PAN OUT, as they move into a tight, intimate hug. They’re family. The camera moves from them to the window. The curtains. The soft light outside.

INT. BUNKER - KITCHEN

Sam sits at the table, hands in his hair, still poring over the books. His plate is empty— Dean is a good cook. He is unaware of the conversation his brothers are having inside Castiel’s room. There is a CRASH. Sam sits instantly alert— there are those killer instincts. He grabs a gun and creeps slowly towards the entrance, where he finds… EILEEN. She stands at the entrance, confused, looking around. Sam keeps the gun trained on her, grief and rage and confusion flitting across his face.

EILEEN Sam?

SAM (speaking with certainty) You’re not her. You can’t be her. No one ever really comes back, no one that I— that I—

EILEEN Sam, it’s me. I promise.

She pulls out a silver knife, slashes it on her arm. She lets Sam pour some holy water on her hand. She goes through every test, staring at Sam’s face, willing him to believe her.

SAM (disbelieving) Holy crap. It’s you. It’s really you.

EILEEN (smiling) Duh.

Sam sweeps her into his arms, as if he’ll never let her go. She holds onto him just as tightly. In the same moment, they both realize how lucky they are to be here, together.

“CARRY ON MY WAYWARD SON” begins to PLAY.

CUT TO MONTAGE:

Dean hunting with Charlie and Cas, watching their backs as they move through a dark tunnel.

Sam and Eileen sharing a beer as they watch a movie, the lights flickering on their faces.

Dean throwing popcorn and Monopoly pieces at Sam, chasing him around the living room as Sam raises his arms in protest.

Cas and Dean washing dishes together, bumping shoulders and hands, smiling.

Eileen holding a newborn child as Dean, Sam, and Cas all crowd around her— someone takes a picture.

PAN UP from that picture on a table to an older Sam, reading in the study while his son reads next to him, a picture of his father.

Cas playing catch in the yard with Claire, who is clearly indulging him. His brow furrows as he drops the ball again and again, Dean laughing from the porch.

An older Dean finally perfecting his pie recipe, passing the plate around the dinner table, looking pleased with himself. Contented.

Sam’s son goes off to college, and Dean takes a breath, and claps a hand on his shoulder. Smiles proudly at him.

Finally, Dean in a hospital bed, surrounded by his family. He grasps Sam’s hand, looks at Cas like he’s trying to memorize his face. They are all old. They are all satisfied with their lives. Dean smiles, closes his eyes.

BLACKOUT. Heart monitor FLATLINES.

ACT FOUR

EXT. BOBBY’S FARM - PORCH. LATE SUMMER.

The field is golden and beautiful, yet as ragged as Dean remembers it. BOBBY SINGER sits on his rocking chair, beer in hand. Dean walks up to the porch. He takes his time— he has all the time in the world, after all.

BOBBY (fondly) Took you long enough, boy.

DEAN (looking around, smiling slightly) Had a life to live.

Bobby grunts, motions for Dean to sit down next to him. He hands him a beer from the cooler.

DEAN Thought you’d be able to magic yourself one of those from thin air, up here. Service not working lately?

BOBBY More authentic this way. (pause) Heaven’s better now, actually. You saw the old version— it’s not like that up here anymore.

DEAN How’s that?

BOBBY That kid of yours: Jack. He made it so you’re not just trapped in old memories— you can go anywhere, see anyone. (another pause— he knows how much this means to Dean) Anyone.

DEAN (swallowing— this is difficult, painful) Even—

BOBBY (more gently) They’re just up the road. (He takes a sip of his beer.) You have a lot to talk out. Bad memories to work through. But you can do it, with time. Work it all out.

DEAN I hope so, Bobby. I think so.

Pause. Something catches Dean’s eye. PAN OUT to the road— to the IMPALA, shiny as the day she came off the line.

DEAN (reverently) They brought my Baby.

BOBBY (looking at him like a father looks at his son) Go. They’ll wait.

Dean smiles, as big as we’ve ever seen, like a kid on Christmas. Driving down an empty highway, with nothing to do, nowhere to go. His favorite.

Dean turns on the car, smiles nostalgically, and flips on the radio. “HEY JUDE” by The Beatles begins to PLAY.

As the song plays, Dean sees people standing by the road— old friends, old lovers, old rivals, old members of his family. There is CHARLIE, waving frantically, a grinning KEVIN by her side. There are JO and ELLEN and ASH in the Roadhouse, bickering among themselves. There are MARY and JOHN, young lovers again, looking at each other with hope in their eyes. There is PAMELA, there is JODY, LISA, JESS, countless others they’ve loved and lost. JACK even blips in to wave hello.

And then, as the song concludes, Dean pulls to a stop. At the end of the road is Cas, and Sam standing behind him, waiting. They stand on a bridge that stretches over a river. The sun is just beginning to set. Dean gets out of the car, closing Baby gently.

DEAN Miss me?

SAM (rolling his eyes fondly) Shut up.

DEAN (brief confusion) So? Where’s everyone else?

SAM They’ll be here soon.

CAS They have some more living to do.

Dean nods, and turns to gaze out over the bridge. Cas slips a hand into his, and they stand together, looking at the sunset, breaking gold and crimson rays over the water, finally calm, finally peaceful.

BLACKOUT.

CARRY ON WAYWARD SON begins to PLAY again as the credits roll.

THE END.

[redstainedsocks]

Make You The Enemy

Warnings: knives, death threats, threats of injury, escape attempt, magical whump, referenced/implied noncon, lady Whumper, intimate whumper, blood, mild violence, captive whumpees,

[First] [Previous]

It has been weeks, here, like this. Biding his time. Waiting to be trusted enough not to be restrained, or watched, or boxed in. And when small freedoms were granted he couldn’t start getting into trouble instantly or all his privileges would have been revoked before he could do anything with them. Even in the short times Adria was gone he held his nerve, and kept his cool, and pretended to be submitting.

Now he’s just standing here, in the kitchen, watching the coffee brew—the knife block within reach and no rope or chains between his wrists. Wondering, is this the time? Is this his chance? Jasper is in the bathroom, cleaning up after whatever it is she did to him last night. Not that he wants to think about that, he pushes the grotesque thought away. Pretends he didn’t hear the moans in the dark, or Jasper’s soft, pained cries.

Adria is getting changed, or preening, or whatever it is she does in her workroom. Alex hasn’t kept a close eye on her this morning because he’s in the kitchen, alone, and any one of a dozen weapons are there for the taking.

He fingers a small knife, wondering if he could slip it somewhere unseen and unnoticed. Imagines taking the biggest meat cleaver and coming out from behind the kitchen counter swinging. Both thoughts make him jittery, and also feel vindictive amounts of pleasure. He never thought of himself as violent, and he doesn’t like that his life here is bringing it out in him. But he also knows that getting an escape attempt is an act of self defence, and he clings to that thought.

In the end he settles for a middle sided carving knife, with an easy grip handle, and a serrated edge. It’s not the elegant gleam of one of Adria’s daggers but it’ll get the job done. He pours the coffee. He wipes down the bench. He puts the pot in the sink. He adds cream and sugar. He picks up the cup and he picks up the knife and he doesn’t let himself think about any of it. It’s just motions, it’s just one step in front of the other. It’s just a means to an end.

He’ll take Jasper too, if he can. But he can’t make that promise, it’s why he hasn’t said anything. He might not even get chance to say goodbye and he’s made his peace with that, as best he can.

“Coffee, for me? Aren’t you a good little friend, helping out my sweet boy,” she says, sickeningly sweetly, after all she’s done.

Alex nods woodenly, remembering to loosen his grip on the coffee cup even as he tightens his grip on the knife behind his back. “I hope it’s alright, I tried to remember how he does it.”

She appraises him, looking him up and down slowly, like she’s trying to work out some puzzle that only she can see. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t glare, just stands there and lets her drink him in. He tracks the movement of her cup, with tired eyes and a singular focus. It’s just one movement and one set of demands to make. It’s just one chance, it’s just one hope that hasn't been stolen yet.

She raises the cup to her lips, and he turns, slow at first and he thinks it’s too slow and he picks up speed and he swings. He smashes the cup into her face, hears the ceramic clash against her teeth and feels hot splashes of coffee land on his own hand. She screeches-- though he knows it’s in shock not pain, no heat can hurt her. The cup shatters as it hits the ground and as she raises her hands and steps back in surprise he lifts the knife to her throat.

She just grins.

He grits his teeth. Just hold steady, just hold on. He jabs the point of the knife to her skin and she tuts.

“What are you going to do with that, little mouse?”

He’s proud that his hand doesn’t shake, even though his voice does. “Kill you, maybe. Get out of here, definitely.”

“Do you think you can dig your way out of the earth with a butchers knife?” She laughs, like this is funny, like any of this is a joke.

“No,” he speaks through gritted teeth. “But you can, if you don’t want a knife through your trachea.”

“And if you kill me, what then? Tell me how far you’ve thought this through.” Her hands move, and he jerks out of range before remembering he has to stay close enough to do damage. He slides the knife back against her skin and narrows his eyes as she leans into the bite of the metal.

“I-if you die, maybe the curse will break, and we’ll be out of here anyway.”

“And I can see you’re prepared to make the sacrifice of taking a life.” She goes solemn, quite, her hands clasped in front of her as if in prayer. A mockery, she doesn’t believe he’ll do it. “Well you have me, don’t you. You beat me, I can admit that.” Her lips twitch and she smothers a chuckle. “What a miserable end to my magnificent life, I am entirely at your mercy Alex, do go ahead.”

‘No, wait, you just… open the portal thing, open the door and let me leave.”

“But I don’t want you to leave. So take your shot, if you’re going to.”

“I— I will do it.”

“I know.” She opens her arms wide, raises her chin. “Do your worst, I’m sure many would say I deserve it.”

It’s just a flick of the wrist, and it will all be over.

“Open the damn door and let me leave,” he hisses, jabbing the knife point against the creamy, soft skin of her throat. “Let me out of here.”

She waits a beat, tips her head forward, and whispers: “No.”

He pauses a little too long, but reacts swiftly enough when her hand moves again, he slashes the knife across her collar bone and when she doesn’t slow down he stabs forward. His arms jars and it hurts, he stumbles, eyes wide, as the blade breaks—it hardly pierces her skin it just breaks. Pieces of metal fly in all directions and he raises his hands to shield his eyes. There’s a yell from somewhere behind him and he propels backwards away from her snarling lips and he doesn’t understand.

It was just one thing that needed to go right and he doesn’t understand.

He looks at the broken knife in his hand, half as long as it was and with a jagged edge now, and he looks up and she is brimming with rage and glee and he’s suddenly very, very scared. He can feel the terrified thumping of his heart in his chest, and fingertips, and lips. “What...?”

“That can’t hurt me. You can’t hurt me. I’m immortal, cursed to live here forever, you think a pesky human toothpick of a blade can kill me?”

She advances, and he backs up, stammering, sweating. “I just want to go home, I just wanted to leave.” Not that he thinks an explanation will placate Adria, but he’s reminding himself why he had to try, why it felt worth it.

He bumps up against the table and stops, and she caresses his cheek as she moves into his space. “I know. But that’s not your decision.”

His mind spins, and he just has one thought, one question that rises from the myriad of others. “But…. why? What was with all the… all the theatrics? The chains and… and all of it?! If I can't hurt you, if I’m not even a danger to you then wh—why lock me up like that?”

“Because I can, and because you needed to learn your place. Because I want you to know that every single thing about you is now controlled by me. Your freedoms, your comfort, even how much you hope. When that hope gets to die, when you start to give up, when you realise the full extent of your helplessness. It’s all in the palm of my hand. You get nothing unless I give it to you. And because it’s fun to watch you squirm like a fish on a hook, dangling choices in front of you that aren’t even choices at all.” Her expression is soft compared to her harsh words and Alex feels tears choking him, his throat closing.

He can’t even look her in the face, not for more than a second. His eyes trail down to her shoulder blade, and the cut he made, a thin line of red that closes before his eyes, and a shallow stab wound that is barely even bleeding. But… but it is bleeding a little, which means something if he can just—

She reaches out again and he swipes with the knife, catching the serrations on the back of her wrist. She hisses and he jumps away, side stepping the table. There’s another moan from the bathroom and stumbling footsteps and Jasper says “Mistress?” From behind Alex.

Alex turns, and Jasper is naked from the waist up and there’s blood on his shoulder, and he’s holding his wrist in his other hand, blood pooling around his fingers. Jasper’s eyes go wide, caught on the knife, and Alex moves before he knows what he’s doing. Desperation drives him and he latches on to this one last hope. Alex grabs Jasper’s hand, staring at the cut on his wrist that matches where the blade made contact with Adria’s skin.

He moves, and wraps his arms around Jasper pulling Jasper's back to his chest. It’s just one foot in front of the other and he doesn’t let himself think about any of it. He clutches Jasper’s arms to his body, holds him tight, and points the knife backward—aimed right at Jasper’s heart.

[taglist: @lonesome--hunter, @whumpthisway, @slaintetowhump @untilthepainstarts @sneeze-queen @muddy-swamp-princess @i-contain-multitud-s @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi let me know if you would like to be added or removed!]

This time his voice doesn’t shake, even though his hands do. “Maybe you can’t be hurt, but he can, can’t he?”

[Next]

[mamandisla]

Did I stay up until 5:00 AM writing Nicky and Joe’s origin story fic? Why, yes. Yes I did.

Here you go!

A Millenium of All and More

Joe/Nicky | The Old Guard

Not Rated

Warnings: depictions of violence, period-typical homophobia, period-typical racism, period-typical religious chatter

1 July 1097 was the day Nicolo di Genova was sure he would die. But he did not die that day. That day would come three years later and would shock him greatly.

On the first of July, Nicolo stood on a hill outside Dorylaeum. They had made camp there and were suddenly and viciously surrounded by the Turks, who charged through their camp and cut down every man they could. It didn’t matter if they were armed or even if they were a soldier, they were relentless. Bohemod’s Crusader army had been taken by surprise.

Nicolo fought on that hill for hours that day and watched countless men fall, and every second that passed, he was sure would be his last. But it wasn’t.

And by some miracle of God, because God was surely with them for it was He that they fought for, the army of Raymond of Toulouse appeared and the Turks were defeated.

And now, three years later, Nicolo was standing on another hill, under the same brutal sun and wearing the same mail coat and helmet, clutching the same sword in his hand as he readied himself to fight.

They were deep in Anatolia now, in a place called Malatya, and the men that fought them were ferocious warriors with great, curved blades that glinted in the sun. They fought as though they did not fear death and they shouted the name of their God as their battle-cry. What Nicolo didn’t yet understand is that these men and their God, they were not so different from him, nor his God.

The last three years had hardened him, had strengthened him. And it was true that he did not fear death any more than the men he faced on this hill. But he would take many of them with him before he went.

He cut them down by the dozens, moving with agile dexterity that was surprising for a man wielding an iron greatsword. And yet Nicolo di Genova was a man like no other.

His face was smeared with sweat and blood and his hair was plastered to his neck and forehead beneath his helmet. Though, in retrospect, it was foolish to do so, he wrenched the helmet from his head and tossed it away in fury. He suddenly came face to face with the enemy.

The man could almost be called beautiful, Nicolo had thought, if he were not an enemy of God. He had dark hair that curled in tight coils and fell around his face and shoulders. His beard, too, was dark, and thick and full and shined in the sun’s rays. He had dark eyes that gleamed bright with fearlessness and he snarled, curling his lip over his teeth as he positioned himself to strike.

Nicolo smiled menacingly and shouted something in Arabic that he’d picked up in his time fighting with Ricardo di Salerno and his cousins. The man cocked his head to the side at this, a smirk crossing his lips. He replied in his native tongue, seemingly impressed in a way that surprised Nicolo.

“Are you ready to die?”

“If you are ready, then I am ready.”

Though they teased one another, they made no jest. They meant to kill each other right there.

The dark-haired man struck first, his blade met by Nicolo’s in a brilliant clang that rang out over the shouts of the other men. But they were locked in battle, eyes trained only on each other, noticing no one else, hearing nothing else.

Nicolo turned swiftly, swinging his sword in an arc over the man’s arm, bringing it down to his shoulder. He cried out in a furious howl of pain and staggered back, but he did not fall. He brought a hand to the wound that was pouring blood and he tasted iron and salt in his mouth. He spat on the ground and lifted his chin defiantly at Nicolo.

“Your God mocks you.”

“I am not dead yet. Come and take me!”

The man gathered all the strength he had left and charged at Nicolo, catching him around the waist and bringing him to the ground on his back. With a great surge of adrenaline, he drove his blade deep into Nicolo’s belly and leaned over him, watching as his sparkling eyes faded and he let out his final breath.

Yusuf Al-Kaysani could die now. His final opponent had been dispatched. He slumped over the dead man’s body, letting his head rest against the stilled chest of the man. And then he moved no more.

Until he did. It was startling. Though he had never died before, the sensation of death was unmistakable and Yusuf was sure he’d been dying only minutes before. He was sure he’d closed his eyes for the last time and felt a brief wave of calm pass over before he felt nothing at all. Yet, he was here. He was awake and he was alive, the throbbing pain in his shoulder was proof of that.

He heard a groan and quickly realized, to his utter shock, the man beneath him was stirring. The man who had Yusuf’s sword sticking out of him still, whose blood pooled the ground beneath him. What was happening?

Nicolo was having a similar experience. He was dead. But this was not Heaven. The dark-haired man was, somehow, still alive, and glaring down at him in angry confusion. And there was a blade buried deep within him. But he was not dead, at least not yet. Although he didn’t feel like he was dying any longer.

Yusuf scrambled to his knees and yanked his sword from the man’s body. He stood and panted, trying desperately to make sense of what was happening. The man rolled over and climbed to his feet as well. They’d only just killed each other, or thought they had, and now they stood face to face again?

“This time… this time, you will die.”

Nicolo did not respond. He was still trying to comprehend what he was experiencing. But the man would try to kill him again, and Nicolo very much wanted to be the one to kill him.

Yusuf lunged at him, his sword slicing into his chest. Stunned, Nicolo pulled a dagger from his belt and with all the force he could muster, slashed it across Yusuf’s neck. They stood so closely at the end that they caught each other as they fell. And there they died together, a Muslim and a Christian. Lives snuffed out by religious tyranny.

Except that they weren’t.

Again, they groaned, they stirred, they rose in shock and surprise. This time, though, they knew that something was different. They knew those had been killing blows. And neither bore the wounds, no scars, no marks. Their skin was unmarred by the sharp edge of iron.

They repeated their little dance and again they died. And then they woke. It went on like that for quite awhile and at a certain point, it became less about killing one another and more about seeing if they could actually do it. And eventually, they began to accept that they could not. Faced with this impossibility and the eerie sense of togetherness that had developed through the intimate act of killing the other and dying together several times, they finally sheathed their swords and called a truce.

They did not know what became of the other men. No one had seemed to notice when the two rose and fought and rose and fought again. The battle must have ended at some point while they were in their bizarre state of lifelessness and their bodies were left without ceremony by those they’d pledged to fight and die beside. They did not know who was the victor and they found that they no longer cared.

They didn’t say much as there was little to be said. They walked away from that field together. They wandered together. They eventually found a safe enough place under cover of darkness and sparse woods and they made camp together.

They stared into the fire for awhile and finally, Yusuf spoke first.

“You are different. From those men, the Christian men. You act different.”

“Certainly different that I am not dead when I should be. “

“That is not what I mean. All those times that you killed me, that I killed you… it was not cruel. It was not hate. I saw your eyes. Your face. I felt the way you cradled my head the last time, when I went before you.”

Nicolo was silent. It was true, the bizarre circumstance they found themselves in had created a strange attraction to this man. No one knew his secret, the desires and temptation that plagued his mind. How he felt for men, the way the world said he should feel only for women. But he felt that now, for this man. And it was different, still. More than attraction, he was drawn to him in a way he could not explain.

“What are you called?”

“Yusuf Al-Kaysani”

“Nicolo di Genova”

“Nicolo, do you understand what this means? We cannot go back. We cannot return to our armies, our homes, our families.”

“I have no family to return to.”

Yusuf straightened and looked at Nicolo’s face. Their eyes met and the strange feeling returned in force.

“Nor I.”

“Fate has turned enemies to friends, it seems.”

“Why do you fight in this war, Nicolo?”

“Why do you? Why does any man?”

“A fair question. Is it your God?”

“Is it yours? Or is this all for the greed and the power of other men?”

“The world is a dark place and I have no answers for you. But it would seem you are right.”

“Yusuf… I have to believe that this, whatever this is, is a miracle from God. And to believe that, I must also believe it is from your God. Perhaps… they are one in the same.”

“Whatever the reason, the cause… we must face this together. There is no one else.”

Yusuf felt conflicted by his emotions. He was pulled toward this Christian man from a faraway place. Despite that he had killed him, and vice versa, many times over, he believed he was a good man. Maybe even the best of men. Because when he looked at him, he saw something reflected in his eyes. A familiar pain, the same torment that Yusuf had felt most of his life.

Their faiths said that what they felt was unnatural and wrong. And yet they had returned from death, over and over again. Was that not unnatural? But maybe it wasn’t wrong. There must be a purpose. Without thinking, for fear he might change his mind, Yusuf reached his hand out and took Nicolo’s.

Nicolo looked alarmed for a moment and glanced around him, fear that someone might be near overwhelmed him. But he did not pull back his hand.

“There is no one else here, Nicolo.”

“No, there is not.”

Nicolo chose to have courage and to ignore everything he had ever been taught. He chose to listen, instead, to what his heart taught him was right. He closed the gap between himself and Yusuf and looked into his bright eyes for a moment before Yusuf brought his lips softly to meet Nicolo’s.

It was the only kiss either of them had ever had, and it was the only one that mattered. It was an earth-shattering realization and acceptance of the fact that the world they knew before was gone and this new world was one of their own making, one where they only had each other and everything else ceased to be of importance.

[ernmark]

Eldritch Abomination AU Part 3

Before I start: this fic took me for freakin’ ever. I tend to write fics in such a way that the first things I post technically work on their own so I can post them and maybe come back later if I feel so inclined, but this one just wouldn’t make sense if I did it that way. Between that, trying to work out dialogue with an anxiety-ridden Peter, trying not to make it too close to the actual episode, and a med change on my end, this took way longer than usual to put together.

Thank you for being patient with me.

Part 1 | Part 2

As I’ve said, here there be gore.

Mag’s feet slosh through the ankle-deep liquid that covers the floor of the next chamber.

The room is irregular in its shape, every inch of it covered in that same fleshy substance, all of it illuminated with a sticky red light that seems to pulse from a round… thing… in the room’s center. The way the light flashes and flickers, it seems almost like an enormous beating heart.

“There it is, Pete,” Mag says, stepping aside to give Nureyev a better view. “The reactor that powers all of New Kinshasa.”

Nureyev steps closer, his face bathed in the crimson glow.

“They were all brought here,” Mag continues. “Your father. Your friends. A hundred thousand lives, dragged to this very spot and sacrificed in the name of a hungry god. The people in charge of this city trapped it here a long time ago, to give them power over all of Brahma. But we can take it away from them.” 

Nureyev swallows. He remembers all too clearly the faces of friends who were dragged into the floating city and never seen again, the stories of a father who died trying to bring this reign of terror to an end. He’s waited all his life to do this.

Mag steps closer behind him. “It can all end right here, Pete. Right now. All it takes is cut, and it’ll all be over.” His grip tightens on the knife in his hand and he brings it to Nureyev’s throat. The motion is deft and silent, entirely outside of Nureyev’s peripheral vision. Nureyev doesn’t stand a chance.

Before he can slide the blade across Nureyev’s jugular, a spasm sweeps over his features. The hungry grin falls away, and so does the knife, landing with a splash at Nureyev’s feet.

Nureyev turns, stumbling against the beating heart of New Kinshasa as he stares in horror at his mentor. Mag is shuddering violently, his hands opening and closing too rapidly as they grasp at the knives hidden along his belt. The skin around his tattoos blisters around the ink, carrying with it the smell of burning flesh.

“Peter,” Mag chokes. “Peter, get– get out– it’s got me– it’s going to–” His hand closes on the knife, and he draws it in a wide slash. He has reach and raw power behind the attack, but Nureyev has speed.

It’s a short fight: after all, Mag’s the one who taught Nureyev how to use a knife.

Juno wishes he could look away, but he can’t.

He watches Mag go still, Nureyev’s knife in his chest. He watches those big, owlish eyes wide with terror and grief as he stumbles back. He watches him sink into the pool of what must be blood, and then keep sinking deeper than he rightfully should.

He holds up a shaking hand, beseeching. Begging. “Please…” He shudders, his expression wavering between that too-wide grin and a look of grief as that thing tries to take hold of him. “Pete, please…”

He isn’t begging for his life.

Nureyev knows that. And so he takes the knife that’s still embedded in his mentor’s chest.

Mag reaches out and touches Nureyev’s cheek. Tenderly. Lovingly. Gratefully.

And Nureyev carves through his throat,

Mag lets out a bubbling, wheezing breath as he slides down the wall, and the ankle-deep pool swallows him whole.

Nureyev steps away from him, his grip tightening on the knife, and turns to the heart of New Kinshasa and its murderous Angel.

It took everything from him. Everything.

And so he throws himself at the beating heart, hacking and slashing and stabbing, his breath caught in gasps and screams, his glasses askew and smudged with splattered blood and running tears. He only comes to his senses when he hears the clatter of footsteps and the voices of guards– and of Madam Rossignol herself– raised in alarm, and he flees. Their voices carry as he runs:

“Oh my god– somebody’s let it out–” And then their words give way to screams.

Nureyev can feel its consciousness unfurling as it feasts on its first new offerings. He can feel its satisfaction as it devours the insignificant mortals who thought they could contain its greatness, that they could appease it with paltry offerings and sacrifices.

And then it turns its attention to the boy who released it from its prison, and it laughs.

Nureyev screams– and twenty years later, so does Juno, trying to rip himself away from the million eyes of the Angel. He feels Nureyev’s arms around him, his hands on his skin, hears the distant echo of his voice, but Juno’s trapped in the past. He ducks into another memory, hours later, in the spaceport as Nureyev leaves Brahma for good. The blood and ichor are washed away, his clothes are starched and clean, and he wears an easy smile to draw off suspicion. For a few moments at a time, he can even make his hands stop shaking.

It’s all he can do not to break into a run in the crowded spaceport. Because it’s there. He can feel its eyes on him, watching him like a predator in the high grass, and if he makes one wrong move, it’s going to spring. He needs to pretend not to notice, inch away as casually as he can manage, and maybe he’ll be able to put enough distance between them to escape.

It’s a thin hope.

He’s only on the planet Lacaille for a few weeks before he starts noticing the creaking walls and flickering lights. He tells himself he’s paranoid, that he’s seeing things that aren’t there– right until the moment his tattoos burn and the walls start to bleed, and the Angel is on him again.

He leaves the Iota Normae system and makes his way to Akna. Weeks later, the Angel is on his heels.

He crosses the galaxy and takes shelter in the Perseus arm, but he might as well have gone across the street for all the good it does him. A few weeks later it finds him again, always right on his heels, always laughing.

It’s toying with him. He catches on to that pretty quick. Now that its captors are gone, the full weight of its attention is on the boy who set it free. When he dives into a war zone looking for a weapon that could kill it, he finds himself pinned down in the midst of a firefight– and then all he hears is screaming as soldiers on both sides are torn to shreds. 

He’s not sure if it sees him as some kind of high priest or favorite prey, but the message is clear: nobody but the Angel gets to have him.

And so he keeps running. He collects sacred symbols on his skin– the marks can’t save him forever, but they manage to hide him from the Angel’s eyes for a few days, and then a few months. They give him a little more sense of self when its presence bears down on him, threatening to crush the soul out of him. And always, always, they offer a warning. 

And then one day, he arrives in the Solar system. And not long after, on Mars.

“You can eat in the car. I’m in kind of a rush. Some mummy wants me dead or something.”

“It doesn’t sound like that scares you much.”

“Honestly, it doesn’t.”

Juno feels like he should pull away from these memories. What came before this was a warning. This, though? This is different. It’s too warm, too intimate, seeing himself through Nureyev’s eyes. The Juno Steel in those memories is unafraid of the eldritch monsters that lurk in the world, but he’s not an idiot about dealing with them. Nureyev feels braver beside him– and smarter– and safer, even in those moments when he’s looking up at a mass of spinning blades.

And for the first time in twenty years, he feels what’s always been there: the ache of loneliness, every time he thinks of leaving Juno behind. And for the first time in his life, he makes an offer that feels a little bit more like a plea.

And Juno – Juno sees himself from a different angle now, reflected in the shallow pool of surface thoughts. His eyes are wide and staring at nothing, the right one entirely obscured by the blood pouring down his face. There’s blood everywhere– it’s all over him– not just the runoff from his eye, but scrawled into symbols across his skin by Nureyev’s careful hands. He doesn’t know where all the blood came from– if it’s from his eye, or from the body of the masked assistant lying prone beside him, or if it came dripping from the walls.

“Juno, please, you have to wake up,” Nureyev begs him. “We’re out of time.”

Juno tries to speak, but he can only groan.

A thought crosses Nureyev’s mind: he can leave Juno here. If he makes a break for it now, he can make it to the teleporters before the Angel manifests. 

Just as quickly the thought is tossed aside, and he curls around Juno, shielding him from sight as a new wave of guards comes running, their weapons drawn. Miasma arrives moments later, walking with the unrushed purpose of a tenured academic.

“It’s alright, love,” Nureyev whispers. “Take as much time as you need.” 

Either both of them make it out or neither of them do.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Miasma growls, and she raises her voice in command. “Assistants, kill the–” And then her eyes fall on the walls. “Delay that order. Thief.” She turns her attention to the two of them without shifting her gaze. “How long has that been going on? How did you activate it?”

Nureyev looks from the walls to her. “What?”

She strides forward. “I know every inch of this tomb. I know every one of its secrets. If there were any traps in this room, I would have found it. I want to know what you did to activate it.”

“Guess you learn something new every day,” Juno groans. The one-liner isn’t worth the energy it takes to deliver it, but it gets a nice scowl from Miasma. 

“Assistant–”

And the lights die. The only illumination comes from the heiroglyphics embedded in the walls, their eerie glow stained an awful red. The power outage is accompanied by a long groan, but it doesn’t sound like settling pipes anymore. Juno suddenly doesn’t remember how he ever thought that it did. 

“I told you to fix that generator,” Miasma says, and two assistants take off. Their footsteps haven’t fully faded before they’re replaced by the sounds of laser fire, the crack of damaged stone, and then… nothing. Silence, followed by another groan. 

At Miasma’s signal, the last two assistants take off. They don’t last much longer. 

Miasma narrows her eyes and strides after them, though what she’s planning to do without a gun is anyone’s guess. Juno doesn’t really care right then. He’s more concerned with the cell door she left open behind her.

“This is our chance,” Nureyev whispers. “Please, Juno, you have to get up.” 

Juno feels like he took a swan dive into oncoming traffic, and like half the freeway is still rattling around inside his skull, but at least he’s had a chance to catch his breath. He lurches and sways, but he manages to get to his feet, even if Nureyev is the only one keeping him from crashing down again. 

But maybe even Peter Nureyev isn’t enough to keep him upright. Because while Nureyev’s dragging him away, Juno has the stupid idea to look down that hall. 

He can’t describe what he’s seeing– not because there aren’t words for it, but because he can’t comprehend it. Trying to focus on it is like trying to gain traction on an oil slick: his eyes go one way and his mind goes another, and his brain is left feeling like it got turned inside out. It’s the size of a car– no, a rabbit– no, an apartment building, so huge that it bleeds through the walls and ceiling, so massive it isn’t even standing on this floor. 

Beside it, even Miasma seems impossibly warped, too tall and with too many limbs, her face distended into impossible proportions. It almost looks like she’s wrestling the Angel, but there’s no way she can win. It’s too big. It’s too much. It’s made of fire– no, bones and fur and a dozen heads– no, black ichor and eyes– no, a tower of wings and congealed blood– no, wheels within wheels within wheels within wheels–

A door shuts behind him, blocking his view, but it doesn’t purge the afterimage  burned into his retinas. 

“Just a little further,” Nureyev whispers into his ear. “We’re almost there.” 

Juno’s fading fast. By the time Nureyev lets go of him, he can’t do anything more than collapse onto the platform of a teleporter, his head lolling to one side, his eyes fixed on the door. It’s reinforced steel and concrete. It won’t stop the Angel for more than a few seconds.

The teleporter boots up with a sound like a tornado, and Nureyev rushes to his side. It roars as it twists the very fabric of time and space to take them across Mars, but one sound rises above the chaos of sundered physics: Miasma’s dying scream.

Juno wakes up feeling like he got in a bar fight with a freight train, and maybe that’s what happened. The entire right side of his face is painfully swollen and tender, his skull feels like it’s gonna split in two, he’s starving and dehydrated, and he smells like he hasn’t bathed in a month. 

Maybe he’s just been on the mother of all benders. Maybe that’s why he woke up in his apartment, tucked into his bed and staring at that familiar spot where the plaster’s starting to flake off of the ceiling. Maybe everything that happened– the train and Miasma and the tomb and the Angel– maybe that was all just a tequila dream.

The thought hurts almost as much as his splitting headache. Because if all of that was a dream, then Nureyev was, too.

And then the bathroom door opens with a billow of steam, and there he is. 

“Juno.” He says his name like a sigh. “You’re awake. I was starting to worry.”

His hair is damp, and beads of condensation gather on his skin, making his clothes cling tight against his body. Not his clothes, Juno realizes– he recognizes that turtleneck, and the skirt that he hasn’t been able to squeeze into in years, but somehow they both look amazing on Nureyev.

He catches Juno’s stare. “I hope you don’t mind my borrowing your clothes. I’m afraid my things were unsalvageable.” 

“Keep them.” Juno’s voice is hoarse and raw. How long has it been since he’s had something to drink? How long has it been since he’s had a shower? But before he can put words to the thoughts, Nureyev is bending over his bedside, pressing a glass of water into his hand.

He marvels at it for half a second. Water, just like that. No shouting for the guards, no rationing their supply, no endless internal debate about whether he’s thirsty enough to justify letting Miasma know he’s awake. He brings it to his parched lips and drinks greedily, relishing the way it spills over his mouth and drips down his chin.

“Careful, Juno.” Nureyev’s fingertips linger over Juno’s knuckles. “No need to choke. There’s plenty more if you want it.” His eyes flicker over Juno with a strange intensity, like he’s committing him to memory, and Juno suddenly feels self-conscious.

“You done with the shower?” he asks.

It’s a simple question. It shouldn’t make Nureyev look so sad. “Yes, Juno. I won’t be much longer. I only need to make myself a new passport, and then you’ll be rid of me for good.” 

Wait. No. That’s not what he meant. “You don’t have to–” The protest dies before Juno can put it into words. Yes, he does. Nureyev only barely escaped the Angel in the tomb; it won’t be long before it follows him here, and he needs to be offworld when it does. 

He can’t stay. No matter what Juno wants, he can’t stay. But he already said that, didn’t he?

“‘Always running, never looking back,’“ Juno repeats quietly. “You know, I assumed you were talking about running from the law.”

“That too.”

“You wanted to take me with you on this…” He doesn’t even have a word for it.

Nureyev smiles, soft and sad. “I’m a thief, Juno. I am prone to my moments of selfishness.”

And it is selfish. No matter where he goes, the Angel will always be right on his heels. One day it’s going to be faster than he is, and it’s going to kill him, along with anyone who’s unlucky enough to be nearby when that happens. Asking anyone else to come along is just one step shy of a death threat.

That always was the surest way to get Juno Steel to do anything.

“So when do we leave?”

If he’s just there to keep Peter company, then at least that’s hard to fuck up. For all his flaws, he can at least be there for him.

And so what if that thing kills them? He never actually thought he’d make it to fifty, anyway. Might as well spend the last stretch on an adventure.

And it’s worth it for that look of awe and gratitude and relief on Peter’s face. And you know, Juno wouldn’t mind making him look like that a bit more often.

[sanguisx]

buried within ;

     here’s a question for your soul;      how many times can a      broken thing break?      and the gods whispered:      let’s see, shall we?

                                                                 - nikita gill

It’s to agony that he awakes, the source of his discomfort narrowed down to his hands. His fingers, broken, the bones within shattered into what may very well be tiny, unfixable pieces, trapped within the confides of his skin. Unbendable, limp, the palms useless on their own. There is no magic without his fingers, no control perfected over years of practice. Without his hands, he is all but powerless; weak, vulnerable, defenseless.

He’d like to look at them, truly assess the damage done and yet as Leon forces his eyes to open, he can not bring them to him, a burn spreading across his wrists. Bound, by a rope he imagines, tightly behind his back. A grunt of pain escapes him, the test for wiggle room only bringing forth more hurt and the gasp that begs to find his lungs in a form of coping is met with a mouth unable to open, for that too, is bound tightly closed. It smothers his lips, his cheeks, perhaps even the back of his head. Tape, grey in colour and not easily broken his jaw soon learns, the fight to simply open his mouth a feeble one.

His legs are next, looking to stretch and test them, for perhaps there’s a way he can find his feet and simply run. Yet he can not part them, his ankles stuck together by the same kind of burn that plagues his wrists, restricted and aching, the blood flowing through his body not quite reaching his toes.

To a stranger or the mundane, perhaps this would look like nothing more than a man held captive, a prisoner like one would see on the big screen. But he knew better than that.

There were many ways to trap a witch. But this?

This was how you trapped Leon.

A simple thing, for one as powerful as himself.

He blinks into the darkness, one, two, three times in a fight to adjust to his surroundings. The floor beneath him is cold, wet, the smell of blood reaching his senses, metallic on his tongue despite the gag that efficiently quietens him. Leon shuffles this way and that, looking for a break in the ropes only to be met with his body touching something else no matter how he lay, no matter where he put his feet. It was... soft, almost, undisturbed despite the contact. He tries not to think about what might be laying there with him. 

And it’s odd, really, how seemingly calm he is. Anyone in their right mind would begin to panic, would fight the restraints and perhaps attempt to call for help. But Leon simply lays there, breathing in and out through his nose in the beat of four, waiting for what he was sure would follow. It’s familiar, too familiar for his own comfort but Leon had built a kind of... tolerance to this things over the years. He’d been trapped so many times before, locked away in cages and dark rooms, small spaces with no room to breathe, bound in ways that left his body not quite right for days. See, his mother didn’t care for comfort, at least, not when it came to her pets.

He was stronger now. Braver. 

He would not break.

Or so he thought.

The sound of her humming reaches his ears first, echoing from somewhere long before she reaches the door, the handle turning with a creak. He’d know it anywhere, rusty and imperfect, out of tune with no melody. She liked to make noises for the sake of it, perhaps as some sort of announcement that she’d be there shortly. Her victims would squirm in fear, because for them, it was the sound of torture coming their way.

But Leon can not, will not, believe it, swearing that his mind had begun to crumble, to wither away and leave nothing but tricks behind, something to torment him before he and Death met once more. They were intimate, see, and Leon knew now that Death would always be waiting, Mephistopheles at their side, ready to take him down into the depths of Hell. Leon had died many a time now. He knew where his soul would eventually come to rest.

And yet, the humming continues on, louder now for she’s in the room with him. A ghost, he tells himself, nothing more. 

All too quickly, a light erupts into the room, hundreds of candles taking flame and Leon squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to allow them to blind him so easily. Footsteps approach, pass him, continue on further into the room and with some hesitance, Leon slowly opens his eyes.

And God, did he wish he hadn’t. 

For here lies Leon, surrounded by the bodies of those he loved, their blood pooling beneath him in some collective sea, limbs pressing against him regardless of which way he struggled.

He rolls left, only to be met with Helaine. She lays on her back, staring at the ceiling and though eyes are dull, the life that once lingered in them gone, the light of the candles dance within her pupils. 

He rolls left and it is Naomi curled beside him, her small and tiny form fractured and bent in nightmarish ways. She fits perfectly against his chest and if Leon closes his eyes, he could swear that she’s simply sleeping next to him, hiding away from the shadows that scare her so badly. 

He tilts his head up, blonde hair blocking his view. Violet, still draped in his jacket, looks down upon him, eyes wide with the remnants of fear. The bruises still decorate her skin, like flowers among the weeds of fresh cuts still oozing red. 

And just as he always did, unable to help himself whenever he entered somewhere new, Leon searches frantically for Zoe, a prayer in every language he knew for all the Gods he’d learned of screaming in his head that she be safe, that she didn’t lay here with him and those he’d come to love. 

Leon moves onto his front, pushes himself to his knees, looking at the graveyard surrounding him. He sees Zeke, bent out of shape with his insides spilling from his stomach. He sees Jae, dumped on his front with his eyes closed, his jaw not quite sitting right. Bryce, his fearsome form nothing more than a lump in the corner, bones snapped and peeking through skin. He swears he sees Deacon sticking out from beneath a body too mutilated to recognise. 

And then, to his dismay, he finds her.

Zoe lays among the rest in a heap, her throat slashed, crimson lingering around her mouth. Her body lacked any other wound and he knows she was left to suffer, drowning in her own blood whilst those she’d sworn to protect fell around her.

For that was his sister’s way, wasn’t it? 

To make the guardians suffer failure in both life and death.

Through his anguish, Leon counts and for every number he reaches, there is a body belonging to the group he’d promised to protect to meet it. Except... one. It’s out of place, decay already eating away at the skin and bones a life had left behind. It doesn’t sit with the group, tossed aside and abandoned as though it didn’t belong.

And it didn’t. 

Not here, not with them.

And though his hands throb in a torturous pain, Leon fights the simple bonds locking his power away, screaming into the gag that seals his voice. Not him, please not him. Not him too. A head of dark hair, soft curls at the ends, freckles adorning his nose, red dried and congealed all over him. Leon swears he can smell the snowdrops even through all the blood, a faint scent, delicate like the flower. A sign that spring was on the way. His spring. A house in the woods away from the rest of the world. A place that would always welcome him home.

And yet the body lay as still as winter.

With tears spilling down his cheeks, Leon turns in his grief to the woman who stood in silence, observing how her brother trembled. She still looked like him. They were twins, after all, though her cheeks were more hollow and her eyes, bloodshot and cruel, her long black hair still settled against her back straight and perfect.

The last time he’d seen her had been the day he’d slaughtered her without mercy within their parents home. He’d taken her heart, her head, melted it within the grasp of his blight. She was dead and gone. He’d made sure of it.

Lena smiles just as adoringly as always.

“Do you like it?” she asks him, skipping over the bodies of the fallen with glee, “do you like what I did?” She spins as she steps, arms open like a little girl dancing, giggling something manic the closer she gets. “Look at them, Leon! Offerings, to you. Their blood... their lives... they’re yours now! All yours!” She crouches before him, closing the space between them, her hands cupping his face. He recoils, shakes his head, fights to get her off of him but, Lena had always had a tight grasp. She would never let go.

Never.

“Oh please don’t cry,” she coos, rubbing thumbs across his cheeks, catching the tears as if they were children again, a sister older by just a few minutes mothering the small and sickly form of her brother. “I... I’m fixing it, Leon, I’m fixing it. You’ll be right again, I promise. We’ll get the good out. We’ll... I shan’t fail like mother did. I’ll fix you, I’ll fix you, I’ll fix you, I’ll--” Lena stares into his eyes, her own the same as his. She twitches, her laughter sitting in the back of her throat, drumming away as she combed fingers through his hair. “Shhh, shhh, I’ll make you right again. I’ll make us right again. Together forever, just like we promised... together... always... forever.”

Lena stands, pushing him down into the bodies of his loved ones as she goes. He falls onto Naomi and he gags, apologizing over and over in his head. She’s sleeping, he tells himself, just sleeping, far away in a better place. Safe from the dark. Safe from any harm. Nobody could hurt her any more.

“I understand, Leon,” Lena begins to sing, “I understand why you left. I’m not angry any more, I promise. I understand now, I understand better. You were... seeking something greater than mother could give. I know, I know. I found it too. The blood... it’s all in the blood. I understand, I understand, I understand. Mother was wrong-- She didn’t see it. Not like you... no... not like you.” She disappears from view further into the room again.

Leon forces himself onto his knees again, his chin pressing into the blood on the ground. He feels it drip from his chin as he holds himself upright, whimpering into the tape across his lips with every attempt at bending his fingers. He needed to get out, to work the knots of the rope and break free, peel the tape from his mouth and spit spells that would set them all free. 

But Lena had known, hadn’t she? To break his hands was to break his power. She knew enough to feel safe leaving him in a pool of what should be an unending power, tormenting him with the means of escape just out of his reach. The sound of something heavy dragging along a floor echoes throughout the windowless room and Leon’s fight turns rigid with fear. It’s metal grinding along concrete, like nails upon a chalkboard, cutlery on a dinner plate. 

A shiver runs down his spine.

Lena comes back into his view, her back to the bloodbath behind her. She breathes heavy, her body bending this way and that as the strength in her arms doesn’t match the weight of the thing she seeks to bring closer. She stops, moves out of the way, her hands running over their mother’s altar. 

Another scream rips out from Leon’s throat. 

He’d burned that thing with the rest of them, buried deep within the Blackwood manor. He’d set the house aflame, stood and watched it burn, the corruption rising into the sky within the black smoke that danced on the breeze. He’d waited until every last ember had flickered away, walking through the ruin to make sure he’d killed and rid the world of all the corruption, his family nothing more than a page in history, unchanging and eventually, forgotten.

Why hadn’t it stayed there within the ash? 

“I’ll fix you, brother,” Lena tells him again, drawing a ritual knife from a bag set upon the altar. “I’ll fix you. I know how. Mother was wrong, see, she tried to get the goodness out. But no... I know what to do. We have to kill it, kill it kill it kill it.” She turns to beam at him, the smile never quite reaching her eyes. Leon always had always assumed it was down to the fact the woman never knew what happiness was, that she simply copied the action, placed it where she felt it fit to unnerve her victims. 

It certainly did that now. 

For every step Lena took towards her brother, Leon fought to push back away from her. He fell onto his side, his bound feet kicking at the ground, his frantic movements finding purchase on someone. He didn’t dare check who. He whimpers, every wriggle torturing his shattered hands, the bones rubbing together in pain.

Lena catches up to him, grasps the ropes around his ankles and pulls, dragging him back through the crimson sea. Leon shakes his head, kicks out, fights with all his might, his voice trapped inside his mouth, his pleas for her to stop falling unheard. She gets him to the altar and even from the ground, Leon can see the mess leaking over the sides, dribbling down the black wood and metal his mother was so fond of. His sister lets go of his ankles and Leon returns to the struggle of trying to crawl away when he feels her weight upon his back, her knee digging into his spine. 

She hushes and coos, reaching the blade in her hand around to his face. It slips beneath the tape upon his cheek, slicing into the skin as she cuts it free, ripping the gag from his mouth. “Lena, please--” he starts to say, a meager attempt to gain his sister’s attention, to use her love for him to beg her to listen. But she shushes him and sets to work on freeing his damaged hands, cutting away the ropes that held him. She frees his ankles and stands, towering over him more than she ever had in the past. “Lena, you have to listen, I--” 

“No.” The woman shakes her head, her head tilting with observation, an intense scrutiny that pierces daggers through his soul. “You will rise,” she hisses, “you will abandon this... this... this useless light you carry! You were the best of us all... You had a fate no one else could have.” Lena stamps a foot, splashing blood all over him and Leon tries not to think about who it had belonged to before Lena had drained them dry. “I wanted it!” she screams, “I wanted to be the one to lead this family to greatness! But you... you took it from me... You and your... your... your heart!” 

Lena raises a foot and brings it down on his hands he’d so carefully brought to his chest, cradling the broken limbs as gently as he could. He yelps, rolling onto his stomach to crawl once more when a pain ripples down his back, cold and sharp against his spine, metal piercing his skin. It leaves and Leon gasps, using his elbows now to crawl when another sharp pain runs through the space between his shoulders. “I’ll kill it!” Lena shrieks, “I’ll take it away! I will fix you! We will be together, forever and ever. Always! Just like you said, just like you said!” He rolls over in time to see her raise the knife into the air again.

But he’s too slow, too weak to stop the impact, the blade driven deep into his chest. Leon kicks out in one final effort to fight back, his foot connecting with his sister’s abdomen. She doubles over with another shriek, holding her stomach as she cries.

“I won’t... be a monster, Lena,” Leon wheezes, panic rising so rapidly he swears he’ll never breathe normally again. He digs his elbows into the slick, wet floor, writhing with pain as he moves forward, passing the dead that lay in his wake. “I’ll never become what she wanted. Never.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

Around him, static fills the air. He doesn’t need to glance back to know what she’s doing and there’s a fear that perhaps, she’s right. For the spell that she begins to snarl is one he’s spoken himself over the years, one he changed to suit his needs. 

The bodies of his loved ones begin to stir, to twitch and move with a new necrotic life running through them. Someone grabs his ankle, his leg, grasps the back of his shirt and Leon kicks them off, shoves an elbow into the unfortunate soul reanimated behind him, apologizing profoundly in his head. He could promise he’ll make it right, that he’ll lay them to rest once this is all over. 

But it’s becoming all the more certain he’ll never make it out alive to see it through.

Helaine grasps his arm, digs broken nails into flesh. Naomi slips an arm around his torso. Violet grabs one leg, Jae clings onto the other. Zeke latches onto his waist. Zoe takes a broken hand in her own and squeezes it tight, the bones within grinding together so painfully Leon yells out. Her fingers do not trace his scars tonight.

And they bury him beneath them, body after body clambering over each other just to hold him still, obeying his sister’s wishes to keep him there. He chokes on every breath, blood and rot tasted on his tongue, in the back of his throat, the smell bringing a sickness up from the pits of his stomach. “It is over, brother. You will rise!” Lena screeches, “there is no other way! I shan’t let you go again, no, no no no. There is no escaping fate. You will lead us, you will rule. You will accept their sacrifice and--” 

“No.” 

With the weight of those who’d somehow wormed their way into his heart crushing him, Leon smiles. He’d never believed in fate, had never accepted that his story had been written, never to be changed, his choices never his own. He liked to defy the odds, go against the impossible if only to prove them wrong. And if this was to be his end, if this was to be his fate... Well... 

Leon returns the grip Zoe has on his hand, forcing his thumb to brush over her cold knuckles despite the pain. “I tried,” he whispers to her, green eyes staring back, lifeless and long lost. “I tried to be a better man. I... I tried.” He shakes his head, blinks back the tears. “I won’t be a monster. I won’t.” 

Sucking in a breath, Leon presses his other hand into the ground, flattening his fingers as far as they would go. He feels the bones within snap, feels them bend and protest, pierce through his skin. His palm finds the cold blood, feels it move at his will, his own blood mixing with that of those he’d lost now. Broken or not, for one last spell, it would be enough.

For once, he would be enough.

Forgive me.

The spell come easy, every syllable memorized and repeated in his head over and over for years, kept locked away for a moment such as this. He feels the air crackle with power, hears his sister begin to scream. Through the corpses drowning him, he sees great pillars of red rise. They twist and turn into something monstrous, long and sharp and they curl inwards towards the heap he’s buried within. He aims for his heart, for his lungs and his throat. He aims for every part of him. 

He aims to leave nothing behind.

And Leon closes his eyes.

It’s to agony he awakes, writhing upon the kitchen floor. He coughs violently, clutching his torso as he wheezes, dragging air into his lungs. He spits up red, splattering the titles as he rolls onto all fours, mouthful after mouthful leaving his body. 

It pools beneath him, the bodies of his friends reflected in the crimson.

And he cries.

[magiimaginationdestination]

Something Strange (Finale (V))

A/N: yes this is the final part of something strange and I'm very glad to know you all enjoyed it.

Summary: You remembered everything, but not every memory was meant to be a dream.

You rubbed your eyes as you were slowly starting to wake up, you had a slight throbbing in your head as you sat up. Out the window, you noticed it was night.

“Ugh… What happened?” You mumbled while rubbing your head. Everything was a blur as you woke up. You looked around to see yourself in an extravagant room.

You pressed your hands to your forehead, “great…” You mumbled. You just remembered the past day’s events and sighed. You already knew you were going to be stuck here for quite a bit. “I see you’re awake.”

You jumped and relaxed as you saw the same king that kidnapped you leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “You!” You yelled, pointing at him.

He smiled, “yes?” He asked politely. You grumbled and went up to him.

“Let me leave, now!” You yelled while looking up at him with a menacing glare.

His smile diminished, “no.” He stated.

Your eyes widened, “what?! You can’t just keep me here! I am not going to be a prisoner!”

You both stared at each other and glared. After a bit of glaring you scoffed, “I’m out of here!” You turned and went to open the door only for Sinbad to slam it shut.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

You turned to look at him, “buzz off! I’m leaving!” You pulled at the door only to notice that he had a strong grip.

You were interrupted by strong hands pinning you against the door. Your eyes shifted up to see intense golden hues staring into yours.

A blush rose to your cheeks, “w-what?”

Lust gleamed is his eyes, “you’re mine.” He buried his face in your neck and began trailing kisses down it.

You bit your lip to hold in a moan. You felt him smirk against your skin, “you can’t hold it in forever my love. I know all your weak spots.”

You gasped as you felt him bite down on your neck, “S-Sinbad!”

Your eyes widened, you never learned his name, so how did you know?

“Looks like you remember, huh?” He teased.

You growled and tried pushing him off, “g-get…! Mmm…”

He wouldn’t budge, he only continued to bite and suck on your skin. As he did this you felt nostalgia and a hot feeling pooling between your legs. You wanted to stop, but you couldn’t and you didn’t want to.

“S-Sin… Please, stop…”

His eyes widened and his gaze shifted to your flushed face, he bit his lip as he looked down at you. Your face was flushed and your eyes were narrowed.

Sinbad’s bangs covered his eyes, “I’m sorry.”

You couldn’t help but feel guilty as he had that look on his face, you pushed his bangs away and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"It’s okay,” you whispered as you wrapped your arms around his neck. Sinbad brought his arms around your waist and held you close as he held you heard him whispering ‘I’m sorry’ over and over in your ear.

“It’s okay… It’s okay.” You unwrapped your arms and cupped his cheeks, you gazed into his eyes and for once you didn’t look away.

At that moment all of your declined memories came back to surface. Every romantic, intimate, friendly moment came back. The day he said I love you, the day you met all your friends and most importantly…

The day you died…

~Many years ago

You parried their blows with your sword as they came charging at you. You growled and slashed at their chests, they all dropped to the ground, lifeless. You didn’t have time to think about the consequences, all you had to do was save this kingdom.

Today was going to be a grim day in its history, the day that the parthevian empire invaded your beloved’s kingdom. You weren’t going to allow those heathens hurt him or his dream.

You almost felt the light flash before your eyes as you saw a soldier sneaking up on him from behind. Bloodlust flashed in your eyes as you ran towards the soldier about to hurt your love.

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!” You cried, but as you were about to kill the soldier you didn’t notice one charging at you. Before you could even nick the threat with your sword someone else already plunged theirs through your chest.

You gasped and coughed as the taste of iron filled your mouth. You were dead the second he shoved his sword into your chest.

Sinbad turned hearing another body fall to the ground once he saw who it was, his heart dropped, there you were in a pool of your own blood.

He fell to his knees and tears filled eyes as he looked at your lifeless body. He carefully picked you up and cradled you in his arms, you were gone.

He shifted his gaze to the sky as he saw a flurry of dancing flames where his castle once was.

Just like you, his dream died that day.

~Now

Your eyes were as wide as dinner plates as the memory flashed through your eyes. You were frozen as tears fell down your face, “I died…” You mumbled.

Sinbad’s brows scrunched as he didn’t hear you, “what?”

“I DIED!” You pushed him away from you which caused you to fall to your knees. You began whimpering and wrapped your arms around yourself, that scene repeated in your mind over and over again.

You killing people and then falling to the ground like a lifeless doll, but you thought you deserved to die when you thought of all those soldiers were killed. For all you knew they could’ve had family or a lover to go back to.

You clutched your head and screamed you lungs out as the thought ran through your head. You couldn’t live like this, you began panting frantically. The memory wouldn’t leave, it was still there.

Sinbad was at your side and he held you close, “you’ll be okay. You’ll be okay… I promise…”

You gripped Sin’s robes, “kill me, please… I’m a horrible person, kill me!” You sobbed.

Sinbad shook his head disagreeing with you, “you’ll never be as bad as me.” He ran his hands down your sides as you sobbed your eyes out on his robes.

Then the moment was interrupted as his eight generals burst into the room all holding their weapons as they heard a scream.

They looked to Sinbad with expressions of curiosity. Sinbad’s jaw clenched, “…she remembers.”

The generals stayed quiet as they all now knew why she seemed so broken.

You opened your eyes and blinked, it seems like you fell asleep again. Unfortunately, you just remembered what happened last night. Silent tears ran down your face as that infernal memory came back.

“Hey. I can feel your tears.”

You immediately sat up and looked to see who it was. It was Sinbad. And he wasn’t wearing any clothing as far you could tell.

Your tears were immediately replaced by a heavy blush, “AAAAAAAHHHH!”

“AAAAAAAHHHH!” 

You scream had resonated throughout the entire castle. Alibaba, Aladdin, and Morgiana all looked at each other and then decided to run after the scream.

“Why aren’t you wearing clothing?!” You yelled, holding your sword in front you to keep him away.

“This is something that happens quite frequently.” He smiled, not caring about the situation at hand.

You growled and tightened your grip on your sword, “give me one good reason why I shouldn’t slash that off.”

Sinbad paled, “…because you love me?”

You sighed and sheathed your sword, “you’re going to give me gray hairs…”

At that moment the generals and the trio burst through the door, like yesterday their weapons were out.

"What happened?!” They yelled, once they saw Sinbad laying in your bed and you glaring at him they already knew.

“Again? Really, king Sinbad?”

“Again?!” You yelled along with Aladdin and Alibaba.

The generals only sighed and didn’t want to further explain the situation. The situation was immediately forgotten once Aladdin was stalking towards you.

Everyone’s expression turned to horror as they Aladdin jump into your chest and rub his face into them.

Your reaction was something no one was expecting. You hugged him and pat his head, everyone gasped in shock.

Your brows scrunched, “what? He’s just a little kid.” You stated.

All they did was blink and try to process what just happened. As for Sinbad he got up, with the blanket wrapped around his waist, and grabbed Aladdin by the scruff of his neck.

“Don’t. Touch. Her.”

Aladdin immediately got off and scampered to hide behind Yamraiha.  

Let's just say the rest of the day was awkward between the two.

You sighed as your presumed lover was doing his work, it was certainly hard to get used to this feeling. Besides, you had just gotten your memories back.

Sinbad put down his pen and looked to you, "are you alright, my love?" He asked, his voice was laced with concern.

You couldn't but feel slight apprehensive at the recent events, "no... Not really."

He got up and kneeled down in front of you, "what is it that ails you?" He grabbed your hands.

"I guess it just feels weird... All of this. All my memories coming back-" you cupped his cheeks- "I remember you so well, but it just feels so weird to see you again after so many years."

You pressed your forehead to his and stayed silent, as you laid your forehead against his you finally felt comfortable after a while.

"I will make sure you feel the same way you did all those years ago."

You giggled, "just being with you is enough."

Sinbad smirked, "why don't we spend more time together?" He grabbed your hand and gestured for you get up.

Once you did your brows scrunched in confusion, "where are we going?"

"Out."

"B-But you haven't finished working!" You tried tugging him back to his study but that was futile as your lover already made up his mind.

"Don't worry about it." With that said he scooped you up in his arms and jumped off a balcony.

You gripped his arm and braced yourself for a hard landing, but surprisingly, nothing came.

You sighed in relief, "I hate when you do that." You still smiled having remembered him always doing that when you were both in your younger years.

"I know you do." He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

You giggled, "I love you."

He smirked.

"I love you too."

[allstoriesforallpeople]

Jesse and Mia, Mia and Jesse (1/?)

Just a quick idea I had to write last night. I really killed myself writing this but I had to... As it is said, a writer needs to be a sadist to their own characters to make a story good :D (sort of... maybe... I’m just saying that to make myself feel better about myself)

Platonic!Jesse Mccree x OC, Platonic!Gabriel Reyes x OC

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It was always Jesse and Mia, Mia and Jesse. The two orphans of the wild west. Jesse leads the way as Mia picked up the mess he left in his track. Jesse would fight with his teeth and claws while Mia would patch up his wounds and cuts with shaky frowns. But it was always Jesse and Mia, Mia and Jesse. Never without the others, always together. Even as they were pulled into the Deadlock gang for Jesse’s mistake, she fell in right with him without fail. And the Deadlock gang didn’t bother to separate them. Though it helped the small Hispanic teenage girl was better at mending wounds than some of their doctors. Jesse would go out and earn their value with every kill, every raid, every deal and come back for Mia to make him new and tend his crumbling heart. Jesse and Mia, Mia and Jesse.

But Blackwatch started to change that. At first, in the new environment, it really was Jesse and Mia, Mia and Jesse. Neither of them wanted to let anyone else in to protect the other, to save themselves from hurt. But slowly with every welcoming touch, every proud smirk, every look of acceptance, it slowly became Jesse and Mia and Gabe. They didn’t want to invite him into their little group but it just happened. Mia noticed Jesse acted more his age when he was with Gabe. Jesse noticed Mia trying to win a fatherly pat on the head from Gabe. But they were happy and they had each other. So maybe Jesse, Mia, and Gabe weren't too bad. Maybe it could be Mia, Jesse, and Gabe. That was what they thought until it was too late.

Mia wasn’t nervous. This wasn’t the first time she went out with the team as a support, her quick hands and deadly speed having value on the occasional missions. But this time, something felt different. She didn’t understand what exactly but it didn’t stop her from twisting the zipper of her jacket as she listens to Commander Reyes relay the plan. “It’s going to be okay.” A large hand wrapped over hers to stop the fidgeting, making her look up to her brother in all but blood. His boyish grin was on his rugged face, never failing to put a smile on her face. “I’m not going to let anything get in your way. You can do this.” He gently pressed his forehead against her’s and she couldn’t help but relax and lean against him a little bit harder. “We will get through this like we always do. Nothing can stop us.” Mia nodded truly believing him as she always did.

“I know, Jesse.” The others in the plane didn’t bother to intrude a moment too intimate to interrupt. “I’ll always have your back.” She closed her eyes as she felt his warm lips pressing a blessing on her forehead. Tilting his head closer, she did the same before they stared at each other with twin smiles and a nod. Jesse and Mia, Mia and Jesse.

The mission was going perfectly, everyone was doing their job, members of the enemy mafia was falling as the team ran on strong. It was going perfectly, too perfectly. But Mia didn’t think of that, just unlocking doors, creating pathways, making entrances. She knew she was going to be okay. Gabe was protecting her from the front and Jesse was behind her checking her flanks. “Five minutes.” Gabe and Jesse took the position at the only entrance as she dashed to the console.

“Understood.” Her finger flew across the keyboard, her eyes scanning the rows and rows of code with speeds that shouldn’t be possible. But every time she made progress, something pushed her back two steps.

“Two minutes. Get this done.”

“Hold on.” She was growing frustrated, growling at the bark.

But a hand on her shoulder made her tense before she relaxed at its familiarity. “Relax, Mia. You can do this. I have your back.” Jesse’s words pushed a calm determination into her again and she nodded, her fingers flying once more with ease. Finally, progress was being made.

“Thirty seconds.” She was almost there. She could do this. “10 seconds.” Just a little bit longer. “That’s it. We need to go.”

“Wait, I’m almost there.” She shot back even as Gabe tried to pull her away.

“We need to go now.” He growled but she stood strong, shaking off his hand. She was so close.

“Almost...Done!” The moment she pulled the disk out of the computer, she ran right behind the two of them as they raced back to the dropship. It was going to be okay. She got the information and laid a trap. It was going to be okay.

“Reinforcements incoming, ETA 3 minutes. You three need to get to the ship now.” One of their teammates called through the comms, pushing them harder. Two minutes, they were out of the mansion. One minute, they could see the ship in the distance. A loud bang rang in the forest as wood splinters hit Mia’s face. “Reinforcements are here. We need to leave now.”

“Mia, get to the ship, now!” Gabe turned to shot the men running at them guns ablaze. Jesse followed suit covering her path as the three ran to the ship that was already ready to leave. But more men kept coming. Stopping in her tracks. Wielding her twin blades, she weaved through poorly executed shots and blood spurt across her face. 70 meters left. She could do this. Dashing to the next, she slipped for a moment on a stray twig but caught herself enough to slash another throat. There was a twinge on her left leg but she ignored it. 45 meters left and three more dead. 10 meters. Something flashed in her peripheral but she had no time to react as she felt her side rip apart.

“Mia!” Gritting her teeth, she pushed towards the dropship and the waiting hands. Falling into a heap the moment she felt her feet land on the metal of the floor, she gasped for air. Gripping the pain, her blood froze as she missed her body. No, that was wrong, she didn’t miss. Her whole side was gone. Staring at the semi-circle on her side, she hacked up blood just as Jesse slid to her side. “Mia! Mia. You’re going to be okay.”

“Get us out of here.” Mia barely heard Gabe barking an unnecessary order as the pilot was lifting off the moment they all got in. Her vision was blurring as she tried to take deep breathes.

She couldn’t panic now. Jesse gripped her head to his chest as the other medic tried to keep her alive as long as she could. But she’d seen enough wound to know. “Jesse?”

“Shhhh, you’re going to live, damn it.” And now he was crying. That was her only regret, making him cry, leaving him.

“I’m sorry, Jesse.” Her voice was barely a whisper, her blood pooling on the floor. The medic shaking his head and moving to the others who needed attention.

“No, you can’t do this to me. You and me, Mia. What am I going to do without you? Please, Mia. Don’t do this to me.” He begged but she knew this wasn’t going to last.

With shaky hands, she pulled out the drive, “I hope I got everything, Gabe.” She smiled up at the man she wished was her father from the start. Then maybe I wouldn’t have made Jesse cry.

Gabe looked down at the girl still smiling up at him. In the years she was under his command, the small Hispanic woman became more and more like his daughter. A lump caught in his throat as he took the bloodstained disk from her weak hand. “You did well, Mia. I couldn’t have wished for a better daughter.” He whispered. Her eyes widened at the last word before her face melted into a bright smile, one he couldn’t refuse to reply with his own. Kneeling next to her, not caring as the blood soaked his clothes, he brushed her curls off her paling face. “I’m so proud of you, mi orgullo y alegría.” A single tear fell from her face as her grip with his weakened by the second.

Mia turned back to a lost Jesse. Her brother, her partner, her companion, her second half. “It wasn’t your fault, Jesse.” She barely said, her other hand wiping the tears from his cheek, only leaving a streak of blood. “You’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know that. Who’s going to tie me back up when I can’t do it myself? I can’t lose you, Mia. Anyone but you.” His tears fell onto her cheek but she was losing strength.

“I love you, Jesse. I always will, my dear brother.” With one last angelic smile, her hand dropped. Gabe froze as the hand in his falls lax, Jesse stunned for a moment as he stared down at his sister. And it was more painful as it looked like she was just sleeping, dreaming of the next time she would wake up and tell him everything was okay.

“No, Mia. Please. No, no, no.” No one said anything as he wept, tucking her cold body against his chest, his forehead pressed against her’s just as it did just a few hours ago. Everyone’s heart felt heavy with every crushed sob from the youngest of the group, holding what was left of their resident angel. Gabe numbly sat against the wall, right next to the pair, staring at the little piece of metal in between his fingers. When had she become so important to him? When had she weaseled her way into his heart and stayed there? But it didn’t matter. Her smiles wouldn’t light up the room anymore, he wouldn’t see her running down the hall to catch up with him to tell him about her latest success, his hand will never ruffle her wavy, mess of her hair with a proud grin.

Jesse carried her numbly out of the ship, not noticing the looks of pity and sympathy. He didn’t care. It wasn’t Jesse and Mia anymore. It was only Jesse now. He lost his other half, his sister, the one constant of his pitiful life. The warm sun that never failed to shine, the moon that always lit the darkness. It was all gone.

Gabe didn’t bother changing as he entered Jack’s room, silently shutting the door. Mia never got a proper ceremony as she wasn’t supposed to exist, Blackwatch wasn’t supposed to happen. And it felt like he couldn’t do anything for Jesse. “Gabe? Still sneaking in as silent as ever.” He lost the one chance of a family because he didn’t notice the damn Omnic earlier. It was his fault. He slid against the door, crumbling into a ball as tears flowed freely. He brought them into this, forced her into this hell of an organization. It was his fault she was six feet under. “Gabe.” He barely registered the strong arms pulling him to his chest as he cried for the lost girl he called daughter. He called her daughter. And she smiled at him. That smile that made his day brighter, that made his worries float away for a blissful moment, that warmed his hardening heart. And even with all that blood, she looked amazing, so precious.

“It’s all my fault.” He mumbled to himself like a broken record. All the blood, still staining his hand. “It’s all my fault.” Gabe felt something break within himself, something died with her and he knew he would never be the same.