#this boy is neck deep in vengeance and grief

[soaring-trash]

Ishta the summit blade

[shebeafancyflapjack]

Moments of lucidity come rarely to Dutch in his last few years. What happened on Mount Hagen, slaying the rat, that was supposed to be the end of it. That was supposed to be what silenced the voices in his head, what repelled the ghosts clawing at his neck, every night for the best part of a decade. It should have been simple. It would have been, if not for John. Why John? Why did he have to show up, on that same day? That boy had always been his pride and his curse. Seeing him brought back all the doubts, all the paranoia, still never sure how deep that boy's treacherous nature had run and for how many years. Micah was a rat, the undoing of his community, but that didn't mean John was fully innocent. His wife had taken the key for the money, that much he knew...and John had chosen her over him, the man who raised him, who gave him everything! He could never forgive that...Never.

He'd nearly shot the wrong one. If John had shot Micah first, if he had taken Dutch's own rightful vengeance, he might have pulled the trigger (before turning it on himself, he knows). Then he said Arthur's name. The snake dared to dismiss it, what happened, what he...They...Dutch kept his eyes on John, searching for the truth, while the boy begged him to speak. And for only the second time in his life, words had failed Dutch Van Der Linde. He'd seen too many of his sons lay dead at his feet. No more, not that day. He shot Micah. He let John and his damn family have the money. That was supposed to be the end. He just wanted to rest.

The years only brought more voices. More shadows in his sleep, his own anguished cries waking him in a cold sweat. A bloody cough followed by a gunshot. A hand crunching beneath his boot. He gave him all he had. He did. For god sake, he knows he did, he believes him, now please go away!

John is easy to track. Dutch finds him after less than a year. No doubt Uncle Sam will too. The fact he's still alive doesn't bode well for Dutch's convictions. But little John is a good and law-abiding man now, an upstanding husband and father, so much better than the filthy streetrat he once was, let alone the lowlives that took him in and fed, clothed and raised the ungrateful brat.

All Dutch does is watch. He sees his boy carry the hay to the horses. He sees Jack play fetch with Cain...No...Not Cain, that's him now. The wanderer. He sees Uncle drinking hooch before snoozing against a tree, and for a moment merry songs around a campfire while Sean makes a heartfelt yet slurred speech threatens to drown him in sweet nostalgia. He touches his own hand and imagines it's Hosea. They did it. They...No. Only John. The only one. Grief rears its head again, and his brain is an endless cycle of giddy cheer as he remembers the old days, to reliving each heartbreaking loss, to aiming his gun at John from that hill and fuming at what HE chose...and then wanting to claw out his own heart with regret. With shame. And on and on it goes.

He never gets too close. The Marstons never know he's there, that their own sponsor is watching over them...contemplating if they were deserving of his generosity after trying to stab him in the back. God damn snakes!

Then one day, he's passing by after hearing news about a new group of native boys stirring up trouble, and he decides to look in on them. On his snake of a son. Even that whore wife was looking big the last time he saw them. It's so much easier to let the poisonous thoughts speak the loudest these days.

They suggest burning the ranch, like he once did to that inbred crone. Its his, truly, paid for by his money! It all meant nothing. And all because that small-minded child of a man could not understand the truth. Because he could not keep his faith. That was all he asked. Faith. Loyalty.

He wouldn't have let him swing, never...But it would have been easier to let him rot. He should have.

The boy, Jackie, he's not playing with the dog today. He's standing oh so still. He's in black. Even the who...Abigail. Her name is Abigail. She's not big anymore. How long ago was that now? Two years? She's...also in black, face veiled. The wind carries her cries. For a moment Dutch assumes this is for Uncle, his time having finally run short, until he spots him too. No drink. Stood upright, his arm around Abigail.

And then comes John from his front door. He's carrying something large...No. Not large, not when Dutch realises what it is. They shouldn't make things like that so...small. Tiny. And they should never be carried alone. But John does. His feet look weighed down with a grief so crushing that Dutch feels it suffocating him from all this way. He can't see his face all that clear...but he knows him. He knows how that boy never cries, just lets his eyes shine with a lifetime of sadness.

"John...My dear boy...I'm sorry." He mutters, useless as always.

All the hatred, all the accusations, all the deceipt and lies shrivel to nothing. They're blown on the wind like ash. Dutch can only watch as John lays the coffin in the freshly dug earth. He takes off his hat...that familar black hat with the rope...and holds it to his chest. His wife goes to put something in, but her hands are shaking too hard and she nearly collapses. So Jackie lays it down in the pit. A pink blanket? Maybe even a tiny dress? A daughter. He had a little girl. Oh John.

It's a pain he knows, that he can share in, wishing that he could take it all from his son onto himself. The loss of a child. The sense of failure that you couldn't save them. No matter what took that sweet young thing from this world, he has no doubt John blames himself.

It's not your fault, he wishes he could tell him. He wants to hold his son. He wants to have the words again, words John can believe in like when he was young, words that tell him "I'm here and it's okay." He wants to...be...

It fizzles out as fast as it came. The voices return and dig their talons in deep before shredding his rotten carcass of a mind away.

He doesn't belong there. He isn't wanted. He...He let them down. Let them all down, left them for dead, let that snake seep his venom into his thoughts. Money can't make this right. Money meant nothing next to death.

A shell hardens over what little remains of Dutch's heart. John chose this life, he needs to take it for what it is, good and bad. Joy and pain. The best thing Dutch can do for his son is leave him be and pray that they never have to set eyes on each other again.

Because if they do...it will mean the end. For both of them.

[bloody-viscera]

you're perfect, and lovely,

and everything i want.

but i'm stupid, and fucked up,

and everything you're not.

i'd rip my body in two, my love

and give you the unblemished parts of me--

but even those are grotesque;

full of bugs and hatred and--

a little boy crying alone in his room,

broken body trapping him.

and he's dying to get out,

this kind, crying child inside of me,

but he's gone forever,

lost amidst my grief and rage.

i killed him long ago:

on the day my father died--

i took my hatchet and hacked at his body,

carved out his insides;

now, i wear them as a trophy

so there will be no more crying boy.

but i forget, my darling,

that his spirit lingers,

clawing at this twisted, anguished husk;

his nails are dulled from the weight of my shame--

no, no blood is ever drawn--

but, somehow, they hurt worse than any pain i've ever felt.

so, i push him further down,

in between my protruding ribs,

until he is a mere whisper against my lungs.

in his place, there's a terror:

this man you've come to love.

this wraith of guilt and injustice,

this torrent of charred thoughts and insatiable bloodlust.

how can it ever love you properly

when love is trapped in that space inside my ribcage?

how can i give you what you need

when your nights are already spent fantasizing of death?

i will only hinder you,

leeching from your every sense,

and burrowing my way into your skin

so my teeth will glisten with the blood i asked you to give me.

and you'd give me everything right now, i know.

that is why i cannot sleep,

why this haunting creature smiles in delight

when he presses his lips to your neck.

because you are warm and soft, pliant and yielding

and he finds pleasure in trust--

he will take it and he will shatter it.

he is not kissing you, he is feeling for your heartbeat--

searching for that comforting sign of life

so he can destroy it.

because he is vile and dark

and he is me.

with his gaunt face and sunken eyes

that stare into the core of your purity:

he wishes for nothing more than to strip you of it.

he wants to fuck you and break you and hear you sob his name

so he can fantasize about carnage while buried inside of you.

your every smile makes him dream of innards twisted around his neck, cutting his air supply off--

and every kind word evokes a deep-rooted sense of rage, til his vision swims with red.

the crying child loves you so,

he wants to grow with you--

show you the world and hold your hand with his cold, broken ones.

but, a reminder, darling:

that i slaughtered him,

ripped his throat out with

my teeth sharpened by every bruise and cut.

and i yearn for vengeance,

long for justice for this weak boy.

because i care for him as i care for you.

but he had to die, he just had to.

so run while you can, my dear,

before the wretch i've become

saws your legs into tiny slivers

and feasts on the fear in your eyes,

inhaling the broken trust straight from your lungs.

i will only hurt you,

and as much as i want to,

i will never show you the boy--

even this abhorrent entity wouldn't survive if he was hurt.

only i can kill him--me.

and i will kill you, too,

suck the very life from your pierced lips

unless you go right fucking now.

so leave me,

drive me mad,

because this is all a front, anyway.

and my mask is slipping.

i did not kill the lonely boy--

his beating heart is my own.

i only covered him with a glamour

of a ten-foot-tall devil

who will hurt you.

i am the crying boy, even now,

and i smile at the mirror

when it shows me i am strong:

capable of hating someone i could never hate.

of hurting the love of my life.

i smile when my reflection twists more

into the vile man

that will hurt you.

i want you to leave,

to hurt me,

because i, this broken boy,

could never hurt you,

no matter what else i proclaim to be.

[onyour-right]

Grief

Summary: A fic based on the aftermath of episode 3. 

The last episode hit me with a lot of unexpected feelings and this is the product of it. RIP to Hank though. Comments are always welcome! 

Word count: 1.6k

Kory waits up for him long after everyone has disappeared to their rooms for the evening; the air in the manor too raw and stifling in the devastation and grief to linger in it for too long.

Dawn had been inconsolable when her and Dick had eventually made their return, with her face that was tear-stained and blotchy, and had barely been able to utter a word in midst of her denial and sorrow – as if there were any words to truly express the magnitude of what it meant to unknowingly pull the trigger on a loved one – and Dick, he had only stayed long enough to see Dawn to her room, change out of his Nightwing suit and then leave the manor altogether.

As for Connor and Gar there had been a deathly silence that had struck them all immediately after. One filled with disbelief, as if it was a nightmare they would eventually wake from, and with guilt that if only they had been just that more quicker. Krypto, the treasured gift that they had never truly expected but appreciated all the same, had gone sniffing around each of them in turn, had nudged his body against theirs as means of offering comfort.  

A key turning into the lock pulls Kory away from her melancholy, and she stays where she is in the armchair as she waits. Quick, light footsteps sound against the wooden panelled floor, and Kory can tell the exact moment Dick realises she’s in the lounge because his steps falter just outside the door and he shifts from one foot to the other like he’s unsure whether to stay or go.  

“You’re still up?” he says from the door, his voice and expression a mixture of concern and tiredness. 

The corners of Kory’s lips twitch softly and she glances up at him.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

His nod is full of understanding, and he must come to a silent decision because he enters the room and settles near her on the couch, a distance between them but one they could easily breach should they simply reach out. At first he says nothing and Kory is quite happy to leave him be, it allows her time to inspect him closely for any injuries in a way he might not allow if she were to ask. She thinks that he might realise what she’s doing anyway though, because by the time her green eyes reach his he is already focused on her, a curious intensity to his gaze that she can’t quite figure out.

She tilts her head to the side questioningly and slowly he averts his gaze.

“How are the others doing?”

It’s safe. Typically and frustratingly so.

Kory lets out a faint huff, licking at her lips.

“They’re devastated, Dick. That Hank died and it was Jason who had orchestrated it. Connor more so because he was so close to reaching him in time. Dawn has refused to come out of her room ever since she got back.  I-” she breaks off, her eyes closing as she gathers her thoughts and runs a hand through her hair, she opens them again and lets out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know how we’re going to get through this.”

Dick shuts his eyes and scrubs a hand over his mouth, his body wound so tight his fingers tremble. It makes her think of the spot on his neck she knows will loosen him up if she were to press her lips against it, but then they haven’t known each other intimately like that in quite a while and she doesn’t want to overstep. There is a weight on his shoulders that the others will truly never understand or recognise, so many expectations and demands of him that she’s half surprised he hasn’t turned out another way, and the last thing she wants to do is pile on to that in any way.

“What are you feeling?” she asks instead, her voice gentle and coaxing.

He looks to her instantly and in that second of a moment he appears so vulnerable and unsure, she sees an echo of a younger him – the little boy, afraid and broken, when he lost his parents tragically, who sought proper care and guidance and got given violence and vengeance in return - it lasts no longer than a heartbeat, but that he should feel comfortable enough to let his guard down in her presence, even just for a moment, makes her heart ache in the best way.

Dick shakes his head with an exhale, a deep furrow set between his brows. Lost in his own disbelief.

“You should have seen him, Kory, there was no remorse. None. I mean I know he had his problems, but I never thought…”

He trails off at the end but she still hears what he hadn’t been able to say. She also doesn’t miss the fact that he hasn’t actually answered her question, but she won’t push him too much just yet; she understands him better than he realises, knows that pushing at him will only make him retreat or get defensive, besides now isn’t the time for it.

“Do you think he could be on something?”

At the questioning look that passes across Dick’s face she continues.

“He was dead and now he’s not, for all we know he could have been brought back by a procedure that has skewed up his judgement somehow, made him thirsty for chaos somehow.”  

He’s sitting up straighter by the time she’s finished, his expression contemplative as he mulls over everything she’s just said, a bit more energised now that they might have struck out against something significant.  

“Maybe it happened before he died and his death just exacerbated it.”

“Maybe,” Kory agrees. “But then what could be responsible for doing such a thing?”

“We’ll have to check in with Barbara, she’s the only one who might be able to get us access to his medical records. If we get those then we’ll be able to figure out.”

She nods, a surge of pleasure flowing through her at the way he had implied her involvement, at the idea of the two of them working together in a way that they haven’t for quite some time. As much as it delights her however there’s also a sting there at having to close a certain kind of door on the Jason they used to know. Or perhaps they never did, not really.

“It won’t in any way change what he’s done or make it forgivable, but maybe it will influence how we deal with him from now on.”

“I know,” Dick replies in a let out breath, and like she saw in Connor she sees the guilt in him now, except his is born of a completely different kind. His guilt from this will shape his decisions and thoughts through this moment in time and way after it too. It hurts now but he’ll be all the better for it.

She leans over then and takes his hand in hers, their palms brushing against each other as her thumb strokes the back of his hand lightly before pulling back. Or at least trying to. Dick refuses to let her go, instead interlacing their fingers and squeezing her hand with just the right amount of pressure.

It’s a feeling she wants to bubble wrap and keep safe so that in the moments where she’s at her weakest she can take it out and relive, can bask in this new level of intimacy that they’ve stumbled upon.  For a long while its just the feel of his hand in hers, the sound of the fireplace crackling in the distance and the tick of the clock while minutes pass on by.

“I never asked how you’re feeling,” Dick says, watching her with a gaze that is penetrating, that is as comforting as it is exposing.

Kory hums gently in thought, feeling a lump in the back of her throat and tears pricking at her eyes when she tries to sum up what the loss of Hank means to her. She finds she can’t and gives a little shake of her head.

“I’m tired of losing people I care about.”

Dick squeezes her hand again, and it is an act of comfort just as much as it is one of agreement. His gaze is on their joined hands when he speaks, a frown on his face as the words fall from his lips like he’s startled by the sincerity, or that he’s still figuring out just exactly how he feels.

“I couldn’t do this without you, Kory.”  

I don’t know what I’d do if it were you.

Her lips curve upwards into a smile at his words, and for as sad and angry and scared as she feels they are like balm to her wounds. Similar thoughts had entered her mind at several points of the day, but she had tried not to entertain them for too long, knew that if she had she wouldn’t have been able to remain as strong as she has, so that he should feel that way and be so open with it too…

She rests her head against her shoulder and watches him, tugging on his hand when he won’t meet her gaze so that he’ll look up and over at her. For as much as Kory knows she can’t make such a promise, that none of them are given to prophecy and have no idea how the twists and turns of their lives will go – especially with the irregular episodes she suffers from that she has no control over but knows deep down that they’re a forewarning of something more, she feels an urgency to offer him whatever reassurance she can. Perhaps though it’s for herself, so that she can say she gave herself fully to someone no matter the consequences. 

“You have me, Dick Grayson.”

[liam-cadmus]

A/B/O dynamics. with a twist.  — i’m done seeing omegas as the ones rare in a/b/o. how about alphas. Konoha is full of omegas and betas, as the current norm. Alphas are quite rare, depending on the clan. Omegas lead the village more than the other two secondary genders, using 60% of the population. The rest, 35% of the village are betas, with the staggering number of 5% for the alphas, from any clan.  Alphas have unnatural strength, making the elders prone to keep them in the village, and stop them from fleeing. Some are respected, and some are feared, the members of the village hesitant in being with an alpha, in case they get controlled by the alpha voice. Mikoto made sure to remind her youngest to always, always keep his scent blocker on at all times, and made it their mission to hide his gender. Sasuke presented as the second alpha of their generation. That isn’t the reason why she wants him to hide it, aside from the backlash he’s going to receive. She doesn’t, and will not, allow her child be another weapon, a tool to the village. She knows it, seen it, the way people regard Uchihas as aggressive, emotionless, and unsympathetic people.  She knows, he’s gonna be used, controlled. They would use him against the clan...And they would get crushed to the ground with accusations of Sasuke controlling others. She wants to protect him from the rest of the world, to let him be his happy, loud self without being judged by the stereotypes.  Sasuke is a bright child, with grins as wide as the sun, blinding. He has the darkest eyes, like the night sky. With fair skin as light as the moon. He’s lean, without the usual bulk his father has on his shoulders and legs, leaning into his mother’s features with big doe eyes and lanky limbs. Splitting image, with his father’s attitude and mother’s looks. He was told to be an omega like his nii-san, looking so similar.  His mother made it a mission, making sure to teach him manners. He grew, being polite and civil in important gatherings, how to talk smoothly with respect. To bow with grace and smile with acknowledgement, to praise and to appreciate. He knew the responsibilities he too, carry as the son of the clan head, even if he was the second. He knew, and learnt. Became to be his mother’s gentle child to his father’s kind child, Itachi. Their Uchiha temper is still there, but he managed to control, to dull it under a facade, a mask. His eager and curiosity hidden behind his quiet, patient eyes, even if all he wants to do is ask without thinking about the consequences. Shisui would always look at him with a genuine smile, “I know you’ll bring peace.” His cousin would say, the only other alpha besides his father in the clan. Shisui would encourage and teach him, becoming his other older brother, than Itachi’s ‘maybe next times’. He smiled emptily once, looking more like a grimace. His Mangekyou ability reflected on his secondary gender. ‘I can cast a powerful mind-controlling genjutsu on victims so that they obey me without realizing. I can change their thoughts and future decisi—‘ Shisui stills, before gagging, leaning to the side, horror filling his face, blood red tears flowing down. ‘I won’t ever use it. Never.’ He said it with so much conviction and honesty, that it brought Sasuke to tears. Shisui is the most caring, affectionate, good-natured, understanding man ever, and even if he didn’t say that, Sasuke knows deep in his heart, his soul, that he still would never use that. Shisui and Itachi would always steer him away whenever Danzo is near, Shisui even opting to body flicker just to hide him. ‘Danzo would take Sasuke if he could. You’re already being watched, Shi.’ Itachi murmured one time, his rose and honey scent turning metallic and strong. Shisui’s pheromones tip over like a wave, the salt of the seabreeze and pine cones. He learnt not to trust the council man, and the suspicious bandages covering his arm.  Pack. ‘It is something you care for. You protect it with all of your heart.’ Mikoto Uchiha once said. ‘They’re the ones that will be with you for life. You protect. You do not control. You protect.’ she says, when he was missing Itachi. He learnt he had a strong, high alpha instincts, on how protective he can be. ‘You can hide it, but you can never keep it away. ‘  Sasuke knew independence. He became one with it when he was alone. When all of his loved ones disappeared in one day. They went alongside his voice, and emotions, leaving him blank as a slate, his burnt cedar and mint scent dull and bland. Silence. He became quiet, unnaturally so, his past shell of smiles and grins disappearing. His pack was killed, by his own brother, and he wasn’t even there. He wasn’t there. He failed. He failed to protect his pack. Protect. He allowed the hatred, the vengeance, the loss, grief, pull him to the darkness. He let it settle deep in his heart, weighing down on his shoulders. All he wanted was to scream, and scream. He wants to know. Why.  He tries, tries so badly to hate his brother. Uchihas love deeply, fiercely. In a way that is like no other. Deep to the bone and staining the soul. He tries to find the will to hate his brother, and force it to intensify, but it doesn’t work. He loves. He protects. He can’t hate his brother, even if he tried. He tried, he promised, he tried until he cried tears, until his Sharingan whirled widely in front of him. Until his scent spiked and his chakra thrashed, until he passed out.  A silver-haired man kneels over him, shaking him. Worried lone, black eye stares at him, mask covering his face. The scent of dogs, puppies? cover the man, with the ashy charcoal undertones. He stares back blearily, exhaustion marring his bones, making them heavy as lead. His Sharingan involuntarily activates, chakra pathways protesting as he scrambles back, panicking about his scent uncovered. The jounin coos, before his scent intensifies, covering him. Alpha. Sasuke frowns, dazed, aching, unmoving on Kakashi’s arm.  One thought crossed Sasuke’s mind when he sees the eye underneath the hitai-ate. Not traitor. Kin. Pack. Family.  Kakashi takes one look, before hugging the boy close, he will not lose another Uchiha in his life. They both lost their packs? They’ll be their own pack. Without others judging them.  Kakashi adopts Sasuke. It might’ve been an impulse decision, or maybe he’s poisoned. He didn’t know why, but he wants. For once, he wants. He wants to keep a kid from being alone. Wants the boy to have someone when he needed it. Wants the boy to not burden his clan’s death. Wants the boy to be protected from the village elder’s greedy hands. To keep, the boy from being a weapon. So he doesn’t turn to be like Kakashi.  Gai laughs, relief flooding him to see Kakashi dropping off Sasuke on the Academy, with a lazy half-salute and eye-smile before body flickering away. The Uchiha scowls, before pocketing his hands, and strolling lazily to the doors. Same dry humor, posture and antics. Sasuke has lightning affinity, similar to Kakashi, to his amusement. Lee hops brightly beside him, before the kid runs to Sasuke, declaring becoming ‘eternal rivals’. Sasuke’s jaw dropped, and wide, panicked eyes is too amusing for the people around them, the stoic Uchiha for once a loss of words, and startled.  ‘A shinobi looks underneath the underneath.’ Kakashi-nii— sensei tells them, lone dark eye calculating as he looks to the three genin in front of him. Underneath the underneath. Just what are you hiding, nii-san?  Sasuke groans, hand moving to rub at the sore muscles of his arms, the prickling wounds around his chest and arms burning. Sakura is gentle in healing the pierced skin, nerve endings on fire from the onslaught of senbon. He breathes a sigh of relief when he touches the scent blocker still secure on his gland, wearing the high collar shirt back on after the bandages. He winces at the fabric grazing the sensitive skin, before his nose wrinkles at the overwhelming scent of citrus and brown sugar attacking his nostrils. Loud, worried voice shouting ‘Teme.’ echoes through the clearing, making him raise his hand in assurance. Sakura’s faint cherry blossom scent wafts to his sensitive nose, her chakra muted as she lay on the ground motionless, Naruto’s prone from by the tree fraying his senses. Adrenaline courses through his body as he stands on wobbly legs, tongue bitten enough to draw blood. His gland itches at the blocker tight on his neck, as he moves his limbs to carry Sakura. He lets his strength appear, as he hops down silently to the ground, finding a cave to lay Sakura securely. He hisses through his teeth as he buckles to the ground, pain lancing his shoulder. He moves, willing himself not to stall as he crawls to Naruto, carrying him over his back. He sits cross-legged by the entrance, weaving a genjustu over them as he stays up for watch.  ‘You have a curse seal, and extremely chakra exhausted.’ Shikamaru observes as they break the genjustu, Ino scurrying over to Sakura. ‘What’re you doing risking your life like that?’ he hisses in worry, the Uchiha pale as a sheet, limbs shaking. ‘What happened?’ he asks, as he holds Sasuke’s face in place, forcing him to look directly on his eyes. ‘Orochimaru. Messed Naruto’s seal. Bit me. Had to protect. Pack. Been 5 hours since. On guard in case.’ Sasuke croaks weakly, before passing out. Sasuke tries to awkwardly become closer to Naruto and Sakura, even if he’s hesitant in touching. Sakura rolls her eyes before hugging him on the front, Naruto jumping on his back to circle around his shoulders, with Kakashi’s hand ruffling his hair. He will protect his pack. He will not leave them.  He became a chunin, and an ANBU with Kakashi as his captain. Moved through the ranks quickly, eventually turning to a jounin in couple months’ time. Naruto and Sakura became apprentices of the sannins, having them as mentors, which they tease him about. He huffs, before smirking smugly, ‘Who’s the jounin here exactly?’ which gains him disappointed pouts, a beta and omega ignoring him. They offer him more physical touches, Sakura linking their arms, or Naruto letting Sasuke have an arm around his shoulders. ‘Touch-starved bastard’. Kakashi making sure that he has control on where Sasuke is going to, knowing that his genius/prodigy status will lead him to dangerous situations. Added to the alpha secondary gender? no. He and Shisui already suffered, alongside Itachi on the village’s bad decisions. He will not let Sasuke become a bad decision nor a mistake. They will prove themselves worthy. Tsunade giving him a mission to go undercover for 3 years, striking a deal with Orochimaru. He does it without questions, knowing that Orochimaru needs to be killed, and he would gladly do so. He goes through day by day, sitting through experiments with the intent to kill Orochimaru at the end. Desperation clawed at Orochimaru, having a test subject that is an Uchiha, one of the last ones to exist, an alpha nonetheless.  Sasuke made a promise, to never use alpha voice, unless necessary. He doesn’t see the need to use it, since it only ruins Izuna’s name, being a descendant. He doesn’t want to taint their line, doesn’t want to be seen as his great grandfather, Madara. A rare thing, deep growling as his eyes turn cobalt blue, that makes his instincts go haywire and his movements shaky. A ability that he resents, because he never wants to see gold-eyed omegas and emerald eyes reflecting back to him.  So he doesn’t use it against betas or omegas. He uses it against alphas who dare hurt them, using his alpha voice to push alphas back from his pack. Aggressive and relentless, when alphas try to control his pack, dusty burning cedar reeking his hunched form, chakra venomous and crackling, burning like a thousand embers, his Uchiha blood reflecting his rage. Sasuke can be seen sitting down beside Shisui after he uses his alpha voice, hint of alpha pheromones still oozing from his form. (Sasuke and Shikamaru. Please. Sasuke knowing that Shikamaru is fully capable and independent. That doesn’t stop him from pampering or spoiling him. He keeps his protective nature from interfering but they both know that Shikamaru likes it even if he doesn’t wanna admit it.) Iruka adopted Naruto. 

[speechlessxx]

Bring Him Light - xiv (King!Steve Rogers x Reader)

Chapter Summary: When one threat is resolved, another makes presents itself. 

Warnings: character deaths, reference to sexual assault, ptsd, implied smut, shitty writing but we’re not gonna mention it ok, time jump!

Word Count: 2.7k

<- Last Part -=+=- Next Part ->

Confused, angry, annoyed murmurs filled the courtyard as people were ushered outside by the kingsguard. The summer sun had already risen and beat down unforgivingly on the crowd that began to form. An eerie feeling clung to the air – similar to the early morning sunrise when Sister Mary was beheaded. The people had not forgotten about the large army that gathered outside their castle gates this morning. They wondered in fear – had their king been overthrown? Or perhaps… the king was prepared to be a widow once more?

To their relief, King Steven stood at the platform. He was rather calm with his brows furrowed, lost in his thoughts. To their surprise, you weren’t dressed in the traditional execution black, nor were you cowering in the crowd in fear of your husband. Instead, their queen stood tall with her husband’s hand clasped in hers and a crown on her head, reminding them of who you were – reminding you of who you were: an angry queen seeking revenge.

The stoic expression on your face unsettled them. The last time you made a public appearance as queen was when you were struck by your husband. After then, the only time you had been relevant was when guards were storming the castle early in the morning in search of their runaway queen. Though they knew you were back and rested, they had expected your duties to be minimal – that you were to be hidden away, locked in the castle as a crowned prisoner.

They were wrong.

Behind you, stood your father, the invader from this morning. Though he did not seem to pose a threat to you or the king, his army was still sprawled out around the courtyard. Any attempt would be thwarted with ease with both Brooken and York standing together like this.

“Bring them forth,” Steven called out. The crescendo of the people’s chatter became louder and louder as the two criminals were finally revealed.

Brock Rumlow and Alexander Pierce trudged through the crowd, being led by guards. Shock was expressed on many noble’s faces. Confused muttering shook the crowd as they stared on at the two men who wore black.

“What is he doing?” “Has he finally lost his mind?” “That’s his cousin!” “That’s his father’s sister’s boy!” “Pierce has been an ally to the crown for decades!” “It’s the queen’s doing!” “She’s manipulating him.” “She’s made him a monster.” “No… He’s already been one for years.” “That’s his cousin, his father’s sister’s son!” “He wouldn’t dare.” “He’s a monster.”

The whispers didn’t stop. It felt as if the people were turning their back on Steven, losing hope, respect, and trust. He had yet to say a word that was heard by the crowd. Their mutterings became louder and louder, drowning him out, calling him a monster, saying he shouldn’t wear the crown. They called him mad and cruel, saying he lashed out – disguising his insanity and using treason as an excuse to blindly kill.

It wouldn’t stop. The vile accusations against him were deafening. You stared at the crowd, listening to every word spat out. It sounded like a long continuous scream.

The wails bringing you back to the violent sways of the boat. The nausea induced by the mercenary’s poor command of the boat. Seeing the man on top of Wanda. Hearing her screams of pain and pleads for help. The sticky blood on your hands as you stabbed him. You remembered the sharp shove he gave to your stomach – to your child. The ripping of your dress as he spat, “I should’ve raped you first” with his hands wrapped around your throat. The metallic taste of blood after Wanda slit the man’s throat open. You remembered her falling to the ground and the haunting lifeless look on her face. The terrible cramping pain in your stomach and the discomfort in your back. You remember the blood pooling underneath you as you lost your child.

Everything hitting you all at once. The anger. The hurt. The betrayal. The loss. It all spiraled together, morphing into one hideous feeling that you couldn’t describe. It bubbled in your throat, demanding to be let out.

“SILENCE!” You didn’t even recognize your own voice that bounced throughout the kingdom. It was so loud that you were sure your mother could’ve heard it in York. Maybe the true Mad King heard it from wherever he was.

The entire crowd fell into silence, surprised at your outburst. Steven looked over to you. His own frustration and anger melted into pure concern as he watched your shoulders rise and fall with every breath you took. He called your name but you didn’t hear it, basking in the silence as you wordlessly commanded the respect and attention of everyone in attendance.

Steven couldn’t help but smirk proudly at his queen as you stepped forward from your position, glaring at the crowd.

“You want to call your king a monster?” You asked them. “You have no idea what he has done to protect this kingdom… He has done nothing but protect each and every one of you. Whether the threat be my own father or foreign invaders,” you glared at the two bound men in black, “or lords who plot and conspire for his demise. He’s on the frontline of every battle when he could simply cower in the castle along with the rest of you. And you want to call him the monster?”

You gestured to the chained men. “Brock Rumlow and Alexander Pierce are the true monsters. They’re the shadows that lurk in the dark. Their the ghosts that haunt the castle. They prey on your fears, they isolate you, they manipulate you.”

You walked to the de-tongued Pierce, a shell of the noble he once was – thanks to your father. “Alexander Pierce brought King Steven two wives. Both from the same house. Both who have died. Everyone’s quick to tell the story that the king murdered his wives. They refused to give him an heir, so he ridded himself of their incompetency, right? I believed that story, too. But no one tells the truth of how Pierce deliberately chose wives of a house who swore allegiance to King Thanos.

“Brock Rumlow manipulated his way into my circle. He fed me lies of how Steven murdered his wives, confirmed untrue rumors – all to turn me against my own husband.” You looked over to Steven, who had a proud look on his face as he watched his wife take control of the situation. “I should’ve believed you, my love. For that, I am truly sorry.”

“These two men orchestrated to have me and my ladies murdered. They posted as people I could trust, promised me protection from a man they said was a threat. They arranged for my friends and I to be murdered on a boat. They hired a mercenary who rap – “you stopped yourself. The word had a foul taste that you could not stomach. “They hired a mercenary who murdered Lady Wanda Maximoff before my eyes. They’re responsible for the death of my child, the heir to Brooken.”

That fact alone stunned many. They were all quick to resent their queen because you had spent months childless… Little did they know they lost their heir they were so desperate to have.

“They’re monsters and if you cannot see that for yourselves, then you, too, will be on this platform next. Call me a killer. Call me ruthless. Call me the monster. I’ll accept it all. I’ve lost a friend and I’ve lost a child. And if their executions and your spiteful rumors are what I must pay for a moment of vengeance, then so be it.”

The crowd remained silent as they took in every word. They may never know what fact is and what is fiction, but everyone can agree that the hurt and the pain in your voice was completely genuine. No one could feign that type of grief.

Steven took a step forward, grabbing your hand and rubbing soothing circles onto the back of it. He brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles before turning towards the two men.

“We needn’t relive the torment you’ve brought upon my wife. You both are guilty of treason, and everyone knows it,” Steven told them, directly. “I, King Steven Rogers of Brooken, with the witnesses of my wife, Queen (Y/N) Rogers and King Anthony Stark of York, sentence you to death for your treason.”

Brock had called your name. He begged for his life. He begged for mercy. He stared into your eyes, pleading for a shred of empathy or compassion. He knew you had it in you – he saw it when you defended your friends fiercely, when you tried to stop your husband from executing the old crone. But he was met with angry, cold eyes as he heard his cousin call for his sword.

Pierce was the first to go. He was brought to the executioner’s block with no hassle – he did not fight. He knew when he had lost and he would lose with any dignity he had left. Steven’s blow was quick and neat. The head fell into the basket with a soft thud as the body was removed from the block.

Rumlow thrashed in the guards’ arms. He begged and he called for your name. He sputtered out apologizes for his crimes in hopes for any ounce of mercy that could be thrown his way.

“Stop.” You said before your husband could lift his sword. “Get him on his feet.”

“(Y/N).” Steven warned, but you repeated your order. The king sent you a weary look before gesturing for the guards to lift his cousin.

Steven watched as you marched over and gave Brock a kind smile. Relief flooded through Rumlow as you fixed the black collar of his shirt.

“You don’t deserve a fast death.” You told him. Though your voice was soft, it was heard throughout the eerily silent courtyard.

Before he could process your words, you gave a swift, deep cut to his throat with a dagger no one knew you were hiding. After the attempt on your life, you always ensured that you had some form of a weapon on your person.

He choked on his own blood as the crimson spurted out from the deep gash. You watched with little remorse as he fell to the ground, clawing at his neck. You didn’t shift your eyes away as you did when Sister Mary was beheaded. No. You wanted to see your enemies fall.

Once he laid lifeless on the platform, you turned and made your way off the platform and back into the castle.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Your farewells with your father were bittersweet and fast. You wished him safe travels as you gave him a sword – specially made for your little brother’s name day. You noticed the saddened look on your father’s face upon hearing Harvey’s name, but you decided not to press him about it.

You watched from the balcony as he and his army disappeared into the horizon. Your hands were still shaking – something you hadn’t thought would happen once you took Brock’s life. Though you have bathed – and re-bathed – immediately after the executions, your hands still felt sticky even if you only had a few splatters of blood on them.

You were too lost in your thoughts that you didn’t hear Steven slowly walk over to your position. You jumped when his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him as he pressed a kiss onto the crown of your head. “Are you alright?” He asked you. He noticed how you were still trembling.

“I killed him.” You said. “I looked him in his eyes and took his life.”

“If you weren’t shaking, I would ask myself if I had married a coldblooded killer.” He joked lightly, but you scoffed at him. He kissed your temple. “But I know you are not a murderer.”

“As I know you are not a monster.” You whispered. “I couldn’t stand there and listen to them whispering anymore,” you shook your head. “I do apologize for thinking such things.”

“You had reason to believe it. I do not blame you.”

“You should be angry.”

“I am not.” Steven assured. “I love you.”

“As I love you.” You responded, leaning into him. “Is it over? Is this unrest finally over?”

“It never is.” Steven sighed. “But now, everyone knows… They can’t turn us against each other. We stand together. King and Queen. We are a force to be reckoned with. We are taking strides to a brighter Brooken. Together.”

You smiled at the thought. You basked in Steven’s arms. The security the bring. The feeling of home.

You turned to face him and pulled him down for a kiss. Sweet and passionate. Lips melting together as if they had always belonged there. You pushed Steven backwards towards the room. He broke the kiss as he watched you close the balcony doors. You smiled at him before you cupped his jaw with your hands to reconnect the kiss.

You kept pushing and pushing until the back of Steven’s knees hit the back of the bed. He pulled away from you, combing the loose strands away from your face before placing a chaste kiss to your lips. “We needn’t do this if you aren’t ready.” He told you. He was afraid that his desire for you would overwhelm you. Though some time had passed since the incident, he did not want to make you feel pressured in any way.

You shook your head. You tried to bring his lips back to yours, but he thwarted your attempt. “Steven…” You whined.

He chuckled, cupping your face with his large hands. “You needn’t give me an heir… Not yet. Not if you’re not ready.”

“Steven…” you frowned. “I want this. I want you.”

He shook his head. “We don’t need an heir… Not yet. I am happy with just you.”

You groaned at him. “If we have a child this night or the next, it makes little difference to me. I’m not trying to have an heir. I want to make love to you because I love you.”

He smiled. That warm smile that sent butterflies to your stomach. He kissed your lips once. Twice. And a third kiss one from an eager husband ready to make love to his wife. 

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Six Months Later…

You let out an erotic moan, one that quite possibly awoke the entire castle. Not that you nor your husband minded as your hips rutted against his as you both came down from your highs. Exhausted, you slumped down to his chest and allowed his arms to wrap around you. He pressed a kiss to your glistening forehead as you both tried to catch your breaths.

“I love you.” You whispered.

“I love you, too.”

Three sharp knocks were stamped into the wood of your bedchamber’s doors. You and Steven frowned at one another. It was late at night, who could it be?

You quickly got off your husband and wrapped yourself in a robe as he did the same. He walked over to the door to find Lord Barnes, who was supposed to be vacationing in his chateau with his new wife, Lady Natasha. “What’s wrong, James?” Steven asked the obviously exhausted lord.

“Your majesties…” He said, winded. “There’s an emergency. Please. Come to the throne room now.” Steven asked for privacy so that you both may properly dress.

Your bare feet padded against the tiles as you hurried walked hand in hand with Steven. “What’s happened?” You asked Lord Barnes as he rounded the corner towards the throne room. When he didn’t answer, you asked again. He pushed the doors open and you gasped. “Mother?”

“Oh, my sweet child,” your mother sighed out in relief. She held baby Morgan in her hands, the infant had grown in your time away. You rushed to her side and gave her a hug, cooing at your baby sister who babbled happily as she recognized your voice.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Your husband asked.

“Always great to see you, Steve.” Your mother smiled.

“Pepper,” he greeted, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “As much as I find your company a delight, it’s in the middle of the night… It’s winter. Travel is rather troublesome in the north, even for a three-day journey.”

“Where’s father?” You asked. “And Harvey?”

Your mother sighed sadly. Your face dropping. You looked to Natasha who stood with her husband and the guards you recognized belonged to your father’s kingsguard. “What’s happened?” You asked.

“York’s been invaded by Thanos.”

[aliwritesfic]

Our Black Hearts (F!Reader x Jack 'Whiskey' Daniels)

Summary: Jack Daniels had long given up on avenging his murdered wife, instead choosing to travel west through the ruins of the United States to a small town called Deepwell. It's a fresh start, where nobody knows him. The thought of vengeance was almost out of mind until he found out about the towns book club and the gossip trade that happened there. So he joins, and figures it can't hurt to keep an ear out for news of the man who killed his wife.

Overall warnings: Death, violence, a lot of swearing, drinking, trauma, PTSD, angst

Warnings for this part: Drinking, mention of dead loved ones, smut, P in V sex, oral (F & M receiving), somewhat rough sex

Wordcount: 2.4k

Tags: Post-apocalypse AU, casual lovers, revenge

Part 2 (coming soonish)

The book club was a group of the only twelve people in the town who could read more than the few basic words that were usually taught. It wasn’t like an old-world book club, were people would gather to discuss the books they read – it was more of a book exchange, but the members preferred the word club. Of course, there were discussions, but they were seldom about books. They met once a week, usually on a Wednesday but sometimes on Fridays, and mostly talked about news they had heard from passing traders, letters given by couriers from family. This was how Jack got most of his information.

Jack Daniels was the newest member of this club. He was the newest resident of the Deepwell township, having come through one scorching hot Tuesday afternoon on the back of a trader’s caravan. He had taken one look at the dingy little town with its long-abandoned homes and decided that this was as far as he was willing to travel. Of course, he had to speak with the self-appointed Mayor, Lucy Jonas-Green, so she could assess his “suitability”. The interview had been a short one, consisting of only four questions, the grizzled old woman glaring at him through narrowed grey eyes.

“You good at shootin’?” Question one.

“Best I know.” It wasn’t a brag if it was true, Jack reasoned.

“Got any skills?” Question two.

“I’m good at buildin’ shit, I can stay awake for two days if I need to, I can read and write some stuff . . . I’m pretty good with a whip.”

“Why here?” Question three.

“Got sick of travelling.”

“What’s your name?” Question four.

“Jack.”

Lucy Jonas-Green had deliberated for exactly one minute, during which time Jack grew increasingly uncomfortable under her gaze. He felt like she could see directly into his soul, like she was deciding exactly how shit-stained it was. The only indication of her approval was a slight nod of the head. At that, a young boy, probably no older than thirteen, rushed over to greet him. The kid was chatty, but harmless.

It was through this kid that Jack first found out about the book club. He hadn’t been interested at first – just because he could read didn’t mean he liked to read. But at the mention of it being the towns main source of news from across the Fallen States, the chance of hearing something about the group that attacked Black Ridge was too good to pass up.

So now, he sat with the book club, a yellowed, mouldy copy of 1984 in his hands, ears pricked for any mention of a merc group led by a man with one eye and eleven fingers. A few months before he had finally settled in Deepwell, he had given up on his search and his quest for revenge. There had been no mention of him anywhere along the eastern townships, so Jack had headed west, deciding to leave the cruel memories of his wife behind. Now, he figured it couldn’t hurt to just listen.

But for weeks now, nothing. Whatever hope had rekindled itself in his chest was dying away, making room for cruel acceptance. Another meeting concluded, and Jack tucked the book carefully in his jacket. As much as he didn’t enjoy reading, he had a healthy respect for the leader of the book club and the threat of slitting his throat should something happen to the books she shared with the group.

The sun was low in the sky as he stepped outside, casting long shadows on the cracked pavement. People were beginning to move as the sunset, the harshest of its rays now dulled by the horizon. Electric streetlights slowly flickered on; the entire town was powered by recommissioned solar panels that someone much smarter than Jack had rigged up a decade ago. Jack considered his options for the night: either he could go back to the house he shared with a small family and scrounge up a meal of whatever was left in his room before a trader came through town tomorrow night, or he could go to the only bar in town, order several of whatever alcohol was in stock and a bowl of the ‘stew of the day’ which was usually just a root vegetable and some unidentified meat. Jack chose the bar.

The bar was the largest building in Deepwell, three stories tall and enough beds to sleep the entire population of the town twice over. The place smelt of stale booze and dust, a smell that seemed to be common over the entirety of the Fallen States. A jukebox in the corner played old world tunes on a loop.

“Evenin’, Jack.” The owner of the bar, Marcus, nodded his head in Jack’s direction. Jack nodded back and took off his hat – an old-world style that someone had once called ‘cowboy’. “Just the usual?”

“Yep, and keep the drinks coming,” Jack sat down at a small table close to the exit, his body always slightly angled to run at a moment’s notice, an old habit that he couldn’t seem to shake. A bowl of steaming stew was set down in front of him, along with a glass of murky amber liquid.

That’s when he noticed he was being watched. A woman sat in the corner, staring at him over a half empty glass of whiskey. Jack raised a brow and realised his recognised her. She was in the book club, too, but he didn’t remember her name. Everyone seemed to call her Chase. Jack was surprised she didn’t break her gaze when his eyes met hers, and against his better judgement, he put his hat back on, picked up his bowl and glass and walked over to her.

“This seat taken?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he set his food down on the table and sat.

~

Something about Jack Daniels intrigued you. Maybe it was the hat, or the facial hair he somehow managed to keep contained to a thick, neat moustache. Or maybe it was just the most annoyingly handsome person to ever come through Deepwell. Now he sat across from you, sipping on bathtub whiskey.

“Chase isn’t it?” he said after downing his glass.

“That’s what they call me,” you said. “What do they call you?”

Jack smirked. “Depends who you ask. Some like Dirty Bastard, others Motherfucker. For a while I was known as Whiskey. But you can call me whatever you like.” He finished with a wink.

“Jack it is,” you said with a roll of your eyes, but you would be lying to yourself if you weren’t a little charmed. “So, what brings you to book club, Jack?”

“Why, my love of old-world literature, of course.”

You leant back in your seat and tilted your head. He was lying, that much was obvious. But why? What was the point of lying? You looked into his eyes, a deep brown, and wondered if he was worth the trouble. He might be worth it for the night, you thought.

“Let’s pretend for a moment that I believe that,” you said, and Jack looked mildly surprised. “What’s taken you so long to come up and introduce yourself? You’ve been in town what now? Three months?”

“Two and a half,” Jack corrected, “and what gives you the impression I don’t care for literature?”

“Answer my question and I’ll answer yours,” you countered. Was this flirting? You hadn’t done it in so long, and the most practice you had was when you were working in the town garden, daydreaming about the heroes of the romance novels you kept in a safe in the corner of your room.

“Well, well, well,” Jack leant forward on his elbows, his gaze unreadable underneath his ridiculous hat. “I don’t have a reason for you, doll, but if it makes you feel better, I haven’t introduced myself to most people here.”

You settled for this explanation, knowing that Jack had been somewhat of a recluse around town since he had arrived. You decide to answer his question. “I know you don’t give a shit about books. It’s obvious you care more about the goss. Your ears practically twitch. What are you listening for?”

Jack deliberated for a moment; you could see on his face that he really was conflicted about telling you. He finished his mystery stew and finally speaks. “I’m looking for a man, have been for a few years now. He killed my wife, and I wanna kill him.”

“A simple revenge,” you said. “What makes you think you think news will turn up in Deepwell?”

“I didn’t,” Jack said, “I’d given up when I first came here. Figured it was best for my soul to do so – but then I heard about this club, and I guess it can’t hurt to keep an ear out for rumblin’s of a man with eleven fingers and one eye.”

“Eleven fingers?” Your stomach dropped, but you kept your face neutral.

“And one eye,” Jack nodded.

“Did you find out his name?” You asked. Maker don’t let it be Elijah. Don’t let him be alive. Jack shook his head.

“Naw, but eleven fingers and one eye, how many people could be runnin’ ‘round the Fallen States like that?” Jack shrugged, something akin to grief flittered briefly across his face, and you realised he was right. Having only one eye wasn’t unusual, a lot of people were missing some body part or another, but eleven fingers . . . you couldn’t deny the coincidence.

“Anyway,” Jack smirked at you, “you haven’t asked the most important question of all.”

You raised a brow. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“Are we takin’ this back to yours or mine, doll?”

~ Jack’s body is hard against yours, a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips. His shirt is off, discarded on the floor of your small bedroom. He kisses hungrily down your neck, his tongue darting along your collarbone. A moan escapes your lips as he slides his calloused hands along the bare skin of your stomach, roughly tugging at the frayed waistband of your jeans. His fingers find your wetness, easily finding your sensitive clit with his thumb. You groaned, head lolling forward into his sweaty neck.

“You like that?” he whispered into your ear; goosebumps raced along your body. His thumb made careful, slow circles along your clit. “Tell me you like it.”

“I like it,” you whined, bucking your hips in pleasure. A low groan escaped Jack’s throat at your words, spurring him on. He forces your pants off completely and discards them in the growing pile of clothes on the floor. He drops to his knees and pulls you closer, lips trailing delicately along your inner thighs. Then without warning, his tongue is lapping up the wetness of your clit, two fingers pumping your tight hole.

“Jack,” you whimper, the need for more sending you crazy. His dark eyes met yours over the top of your stomach, his tongue still working your clit. You’re hungry for him, the look of pure lust in his eyes spurring you to places you had never thought about. You sit up and place a hand on his shoulder, shuddering as another wave of pleasure rippled through your body. The look in your eyes must’ve told him what you want to do, because he stood and stepped back, allowing you room to get on your knees in front of him.

He undid his belt buckle with fingers still slick from your pussy and pulled his pants down. His cock sprang forward, making your mouth water with how fucking big it was. The head glistened with a bead of pre-cum. You leant forward and licked it off, before taking as much of his length in your mouth as you could. He groaned, his fingers tangling through your hair.

“Fuck, deeper,” his voice was husky with desire, and you happily obliged, taking him so you could feel him almost at the back of your throat. His fingers in your hair tightened, a pleasant pain on your skull. He groaned and pulled your head back, staring into your eyes. “I need you.”

You tugged him towards the mattress, pushing him on his back. You climb atop, feeling strangely dominant. His cock slid against the wetness of your hole, head entering before you pulled your hips away, a teasing smile on your lips. You go on like this, letting him enter a little further in you each time, enjoying the tortured look on his face, enjoying it even more when his eyes snapped open as you let him in completely. He moaned loudly, holding onto your hips tightly.

“Doll,” his word was muffled by his mouth on your tit, teeth latching onto your nipple. You rocked back and forth, clenching around his cock as an orgasm threatened to rip you from your body. Jack seemed to realise this, and flipped you both so you were on your back and he was standing, still inside you. He pulled you so your ass was off the mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist.

“Maker, you’re so fucking sexy,” he fucked you hard and rough, his dark gaze never leaving yours. His thumb was on your clit again, teasing you as an orgasm ripped through you. You moaned his name, your pussy clenching tightly around him. He grinned devilishly down at you, leaning forward to kiss you as he continued to thrust. He tasted of you, driving his tongue into your mouth. You met this eagerly, whimpering against his lips as yet another orgasm moved you.

“I can’t hold on,” Jack groaned, and before you could say a thing, he pulled out of you, hot cum spurting onto your stomach. He slumped next to you, obviously spent.

“Holy shit,” you muttered, scanning the room for something to wipe the cum up with.

“Holy shit is right, doll,” Jack said. Sweat beaded along his brow and he cracked open an eye to watch you wipe up with a shirt that was so full of holes it was unwearable. Silver moonlight filtered through the dirty window, casting shadows across his beautiful face. You laid down next to him, feeling a small shiver run through you as he curved his warm naked body against yours.

You would tell him, you decided. You would tell him you knew who he was looking for, and that you might know where to find him. But in the morning, so as not to mar the beautiful just fucked haze that enveloped your mind.

Tagging @sharkbait77 because she's lovely and I'm nervous about this one.

[halla-hunts-the-wolf]

A short-story preview.

Set in a story where years down the line, Fen'harel has yet to destroy the Veil, but his plights are making all of Thedas weary of the modern elves.

Four Dalish elves band together to avenge a massacre. Will they inflict Justice or Vengeance on those responsible? And what secrets will they uncover along the way?

Warning: Violent acts & Character Death.

----

On the outskirts of Ansburg, a Dalish settlement had been destroyed. 

They had been camping beside the coast, where a river drained off from the ocean. 

They’d thought that the lack of freshwater would make the paths less favorable towards merchants or humans in general.  Their aravels had been pitched and their halla let loose to graze. 

They lasted three days. 

On the fourth day, when two cloaked riders closed in on where the Dalish were meant to be, the stench of death still remained, carrion birds harvested bodies, and a started fire had laid waste to everything.  

Blood ran the river red by the time the two riders reached the desolate camp.

Their movements became slow and they approached with caution; anticipating an ambush, but all they were met with was the silence that the massacre left behind. 

“Maker,” one of the riders mumbled, bringing his arm up to cover his nose.  “Who could have done this? Do you think it could’ve been Fen’harel?” 

“No,” the other rider says, his voice somber and distant. “No, these elves were not his enemies and they did not deserve his wrath.”  As he spoke, he would have abandoned his mount, an older Dracolisk, beside the river. Carrying on by foot, he would assess the carnage.  Bodies lay to waste around him, many of which were missing their pointed ears. It was sickening, deplorable, and a byproduct of fear.  “Even so, this act is unforgivable.” His voice would crack, overwhelmed by anger  and grief. “There are so few of our people left, and the only thing they have done is chosen not to take a side in this foolish war.” 

“The war that we are fighting.” 

“Yes, because even though it is foolish, it can not be ignored.  Not when innocent people are being slaughtered like this.” The second rider would crouch down, to close the eyes of an elf who was staring up at the sky. “Falon’Din enasal enaste.” 

“What are we going to do now, carry on to Tevinter?” 

“We are going to bury them, and find those responsible.” 

The first rider lets out an exasperated sigh. “Lavellan, we don’t have the time-” 

“- Then we make time.” 

The first rider says nothing more, hanging his head in silent compliance. 

They spend their evening in this way, gathering bodies and offering them final prayers. They didn’t have the means to do a proper ceremony, but they would do their best with heavy hearts.  

Nightfall had soon come and gone, and as a new dawn broke across the sky, the two men sat across from each other, swallowing down their rations despite lacking a proper appetite.  

“So you didn’t find your dalish contact amongst the dead?” The first rider would ask, his bright green eyes were growing red, as he fought the  need to sleep.  Only in his mid-twenties, and a recently freed slave of the Tevinter Imperium, he was not used to the constant traveling and combat he had to endure while shadowing the former Inquisitor.  He rubs at his face, hands running across his mutilated vallaslin.  The branches that spread over his cheeks had been cut into and burned by his former master, when he was only eighteen and freshly kidnapped from his own clan. “Perhaps he went after those responsible?” 

“No,” Lavellan would shake his head. “Ryland would have waited for us, had he still been alive and of his own free will.” The older elf  would be fiddling with a string around his neck. He clutched at the sending crystal as if it was his life line with one hand, while the other, a prosthetic, would be clutching a potion. “This group was made up of smaller dalish clans, ones that were left abandoned by their clanmates when they joined Solas. Ryland was traveling with them, to bring them to another encampment on the other side of Nevarra.” 

“That was very noble of him.” 

“Yes, and I’m the one who asked him to do it.” 

“You can’t blame yourself for what happened, and drink your potion.” 

Lavellan would stop fiddling with his necklace, taking to unscrewing the cork of the bottle in his hand. “If we had gotten here a day sooner Ma’hallian, we may have prevented this from happening entirely.”  He would down the bottle in one go, guzzling it’s dark purple liquid, looking as if he’d just bit into a lemon afterwards. “This thing could be a poison.” 

“A poison that keeps you from keeling over in pain.” Ma’hallian would remind him gently, before reaching out to take the empty bottle from the other man’s hands. “And we didn’t get here a day sooner, so we have to keep moving forward.” 

“We will, as soon as the person responsible is brought to justice.” 

The white-haired elf would lean forward, fixing the former Inquisitor with a narrowed gaze. 

The older elf was on the cusp of fifty, with silver streaks in his long chestnut hair and wrinkles overtaking his darkened skin.  These days, his hands shook whenever he lifted his sword, and his amber eyes always smoldered with conviction. “Is it justice you are after, or is it vengeance?”

“The two are not so different, when faced with a situation like this.” 

“We both know that they are.” 

Lavellan hated being shown up by his assistant, someone who could be so callous and shy towards the rest of the world. The boy had spent the majority of his life either in solitude or servitude and yet, he still managed to come out of it with a remarkable sense of responsibility and level headedness. 

“I-” He does not get a proper sentence out, as a distant sound causes his ears to twitch. Ma’hallian hears it too and they rise to their feet.  

Ma’hallian draws a dagger from his belt and Lavellan pulls free his sword from its sheath.  They approach the source of the noise with silent steps, until they are looming over the site of a destroyed aravel. It’s red fabric and splintered wood had made a heavy pile, and something dared to move beneath it. 

“Careful,” Lavellan murmurs, “it may be an abomination that’s risen.” 

Leering forward with one foot, the elf  would kick the debris away, his sword poised to strike down, but he would stop just short of skewering another elf. 

An elf also nearing his fifties, with deep red hair that was coated in soot and streaked with soft greys. His face, while well defined, was covered in laugh lines and scars alike. They danced along his vallaslin for Ghilan’nain, etched in blue to match his eyes.   This new elf stares up at them, as a cough rattles throughout his chest and past his lips.  “Well, hello your highness. I survived then? Unless you managed to finally kick the bucket too.” 

“No, Ry, you’re just that lucky.” Lavellan would put his sword away before holding out a hand, hauling his former partner from the aravel. Eyeing him wearily, in search of any wounds that could prove fatal. 

“Ah well, what can I say? The universe loves me.” Ryland dusts himself off, wincing as he does so, but seemingly unharmed save for a few aches, bruises, and perhaps a concussion after being crushed beneath one of their landships. “How bad is it?” 

“You’re the only survivor.”

 The red-head takes in a sharp breath. “That can’t be right. Where are the bodies?” 

They take him to the people who they had wrapped or covered, ready to be buried, as time permitted them.  He looks them over, with blue eyes watering, before he shakes his head.  “There were younger elves here, children, and a mage. None of them are with the dead.” 

“Perhaps they perished in the fire that ravaged the camp?” Ma’hallain offers, supervising Ryland as Lavellan wanders off to their mounts. “Or animals picked off their remains?” 

“You are  a grim young man, Ma’hallain, but no. The only scavengers in this area are the birds, and they wouldn’t be able to devour  a body within a day, let alone a dozen or so. The person responsible for the siege must have taken them.” 

“And who was responsible?” Lavellan had rejoined them, bringing a fresh pair of clothes to Ryland from his carry on.

“There’s a human settlement nearby, Ansburg? They’ve recently come into new leadership and the man appears to be terrified of us knife-ears.” Ryland would strip there, pulling his otherwise tattered shirt over his head and tossing it to the ground.  Lavellan would hand him the clean one and Ma’hallian would have the decency to look away as he took off his pants as well. “When the local militia arrived, I told them that we had no ties with Fen’Harel or the Qun. They said that they were under orders and at the end of the day, all elves were the same.” 

“Yet they would never claim that all humans are murderers, would they?” 

“Fear is bred by ignorance, highness. They’ll get what’s coming for them.” 

Lavellan would grumble, “Did you at least scout Ansburg when you first made camp?” 

“Course I did, seemed like a normal shemlen village. Smelt of rotten fish and wet dog. There weren’t any elves, but I didn’t find that odd. There aren’t many flat ears left in the smaller settlements.”  

“Did you find where this new leader lived?” 

“It was the first thing on my list, but something seemed off about it. The whole village was sort of dreary, but his estate was shimmery, almost. Like the stones were reflecting the light.” 

Ma’hallian snaps back to attention, his ears drooping just so. “That sounds like warding, and a very obvious one.  I bet he is using it to scare others away, people do that in the Magisterium. Either to scare the already fearful, or to make a spectacle out of something valuable.” 

“So we’ll need a mage?” Lavellans asks. 

“Unless warriors suddenly know how to dispel things? Rogues most certainly do not.” 

“Oh,” Ryland would croon, “Do you know what it sounds like to me? It sounds like a call to Dorian. Tell him I said hello, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to know that I survived.” 

Rolling his eyes, Lavellan would turn away from the other men. Knowing that Ma’hallian was glib due to his many years living in darkness and Ryland was only using humor to cope with the carnage around them. 

[bellatrixobsessed1]

From Chin To Yon Rah (Part 38)

Being sick is very different in a small village than it is in the palace. Illness is never comfortable but it is even less pleasant when the pillows aren’t as plush and fluffy and when she doesn’t have the security of physicians to monitor and care for her nearly every minute.

In Wujing she has to walk to see Min-Min. She is lucky that Hajime is willing to make that walk for her. But while he is gone, there is no one to tend to her, no one to make sure that she is still breathing. No one but Atsu whose idea of helping is occasionally feeling her forehead and declaring, “mmhmm, you’re still sick. I dieg-nose you with not healthy” before springing off the bed to fetch her soup. Soup that is lukewarm at best and clumsily delivered--she now has several wet spots on her sheets to add to her discomfort. He stands on his tiptoes and pushes the bowl onto the nightstand, spilling even more of the broth onto it. He takes the spoon and holds it out to her, dripping broth on to her collar and nightdress.

Azula bites her tongue, it takes all of her will power and then some to not snap at the boy. The boy who is only trying his best to care for her. She parts her lips before Atsu can splatter soup all over her face. She has to admit that he isn’t such a terrible cook. If only he didn’t make great messes while doing so.

“Did I do good!?” He shouts, putting an even deeper pounding into her head.

“You did fine, Atsu.” She coughs. With each cough comes a throbbing like the strides of a soldier, heavy of armor and step. She massages her temples as Atsu holds out the spoon again. This time he holds it too far and she has to crane her neck to reach it. This is how Azula endures the better part of an hour until Atsu hums to himself and declares, “maybe I should hand you the bowl!”

She wishes that he had handed her the spoon or a pair of chopsticks to go with it. Instead--desperate for the soothing warmth and the favors it does for her sore throat--she drinks straight from the bowl. She can practically see father, Zuzu, Mai, TyLee, and everyone she had ever known balking at the unbecoming sight.

She puts the bowl aside and lays her head back all while the spills on the dresser and on her skin drive her mad. She longs to fetch herself a napkin but, spirits, she is so weak. Her pounding head is spinning faintly and she thinks that just trying to stand will leave her feeling entirely nauseous.

She knows that this is it. That this is where she will meet her end. The mighty and proud Azula will have her demise at the hands of an apparently common Earth Kingdom cold.

She bunches in on herself, her stomach does all sorts of flips and flops and she swears that she is going to throw up. She doesn’t even want to move an inch. This is how Hajime finds her. He sighs, apparently noting the mess on the dresser and her skin. “Atsu, you made a big mess!”

“Sorry dad.” He mumbles from the other room.

“Don’t apologize to me!” He rolls his eyes. “You git in ‘ere and ‘pologize to Rikka.”  He shakes his head with a small laugh. “Sorry about Atsu, he was just trying to help. He used to do that to his ma…” he washes away the splotches of soup.

Sometimes Azula wonders about Hajime’s old wife. He talks about her often enough but has never once mentioned a name. She can never bring herself to ask. She doesn’t want to open old wounds. She can’t imagine what it would be like to have a lover die. She can’t imagine that she will ever have to, not when there is no face to picture. At least there is one perk to being unlovable, she will never know that kind of pain.

And yet, Hajime makes her feel like she isn’t unlovable. The way he dabs at her forehead with that wet cloth. The way he smiles at her and brushes her hair out of her face. The way that he assures her that it wouldn’t bother him if he caught her cold while taking care of her. The way that he takes care of her.

It is very different to have someone other than royal physicians to tend to her. She finds that it is significantly less indifferent and methodical. Hajime holds her hand while checking her temperature. He strokes her hand while she drinks her medicine down. He reads to her as she struggles to find sleep.

He is not there when she wakes though. And neither is Hajime. What she finds instead is a prepared meal, her medication, and a note reading, ‘taking Atsu to school and heading to work.’

She understands but wishes all the same that she wouldn’t have to endure this alone. Her stomach isn’t quite as delicate today but the pounding in her head brings tears to her eyes. Involuntary tears, but tears no less. To think that her own body is betraying her like this…

By mid afternoon she is certain, this time for sure, that she will die. That Hajime will find her corpse, still warm, in the bed when he gets back. She sits up to take her medication and the nausea comes back with a vengeance. She doubles over, just barely making it to the sink before heaving.

Yes, this is definitely what death feels like. She slumps to the floor, mouth dry, stomach still queasy, and head still beating. Her body shakes.

She knows that it has been at least an hour, possibly longer than that even. She can’t just stay on the bathroom floor, but every time she moves she feels sicker still. Even so, she forces herself up onto her hands and knees. She takes a deep breath and tries to fight off the dizziness.

Spirits, just what kind of sickness has she contracted? WuJing isn’t exactly a peasant town--well it is in that it is a village for commoners, but it isn’t the dirty, disease riddled variety.

She feels arms under her shoulders. Arms that help her to her feet and a body to lean on. “Hajime?” She inquires weakly. But the body is too small to be Hajime. It is too large to be Atsu. “Seukhyun?” But no, it is too small to be Seukhyun too.

“Not quite.”  Replies the man.

If her nose weren’t so backed up she could have easily smelled turnip on him. Ojihara helps her into bed and uncorks the medicine bottle for her. “Your food’s all col’. I’ll fix you somethin’ new to eat.”

“Okay.” She says, her voice has been reduced to little more than a hoarse whisper.

“You got it bad, don’cha?” He clicks his tongue. “‘S a good thing I came to check on you.”

She can’t disagree. She nuzzles her face against the pillow and clutches her fingers around the bed sheets.

“I have a special remedy that my own grandfather passed down from me. S a secret one…” Ojihara calls from the kitchen. “But it works e’ry time. Seukhyun would cry like a baby when he got sick, this stuff fixed ‘im up good as new.”

Azula decides that she will have to remember to bring that up next time she sees Seukhyun. Not that she hasn’t been doing a decent share of crying herself. He doesn't have to know that.

“Thank you, Ojihara.” She mumbles as she curls her fingers around the cup. She sure hopes that this remedy tastes better than it smells.

She feels absolutely horrible and, by all means, the medications and treatments aren’t as effective in Wujing. And yet, somehow, she thinks that she would rather fall ill here than at the palace. The warmest blankets at the palace aren’t as warm as the company that cares for her here.

That day she learns that a moment of vulnerability will strengthen her in the long run.

.oOo.

The icy howling of the wind alone is enough to drive her grief out and freeze her guilty conscience. There isn’t much room to think pessimistically when the only thing on her mind is how painfully and aggravatingly cold it is.

“How do you people live like this?” She shives, wrapping her arms around herself.

“We bundle up adequately for one thing.” Sokka chuckles. “Here.” He holds out a heavier parka.

“I’m already wearing one.”

“But you’re not used to this weather. And where are your mittens?”

“In my pockets, I was having trouble picking things up.”

“You’ll have more trouble picking things up if you lose all of your fingers.” He snatches her hand and shoves it into a mitten. “And pull your hood up!” He doesn’t give her the chance, instead he tugs it over her head. So far that the fur obscures most of her vision. She slips the second mitten on and moves the hood to a more optimal resting place.

“For someone so smart you sure are…”

“I’ve never been to the Tribes before. I didn’t realize that it would be this cold.” Until now such biting weather has been entirely unfathomable to her. She had always thought that the sun was radiant enough to cast heat everywhere. The sun in the Tribes seems so much weaker than it is in the Fire Nation where it beams down upon her with the same merciless brutality as the people under its rays. “I don’t think...it shouldn’t be possible for a place to be so cold.”

Sokka laughs again. “It can’t be sunny everywhere.”

And in most places in her life, it isn’t. Most things in her life are somehow colder than even this. Than even the sort of weather that has her locks stiff and tinged with frost. She shivers. She wants her world to be warm and cozy again. She wants such in every conceivable way; physically and emotionally.

Sokka cups her cheeks, at the very least, his hands are warm. It puts a tickle in her tummy. A tickle that grows in intensity at the dull reminder that she can be warm and cozy again if she lets herself be. “Can we go inside now?” She mutters. “This snow is up to my knees and I’m tired of walking in it.”

Sokka nods. “That’s what snow shoes are for.” He gestures to his feet.

“Those look hard to walk in.”

“Harder than trudging through mounds of snow that are taller than you?” He quirks a brow.

She fights to keep a pout off of her face. He laughs and ruffles her hair before scooping her into his arms. She hadn’t imagined that, that would be the first thing that Katara has seen of her in several years. And she isn’t sure if it is a good impression or not.

Her eyes lock upon Azula. They follow her across the room to where Sokka sits her down in front of a fire.

“Where’s dad?”

“He’s out fishing with Bato. What’s she doing here.” Katara nods in her direction.

“Wweeell...I was hoping to reintroduce her to you and dad.”

Katara’s brows furrow. “You’re not serious, Sokka! I don’t want to talk to her again.”

“She’s different now, she…”

“I don’t care how different she is!” She practically spits the word care.

“You didn’t care how different Zuko was either…”

“Zuko didn’t kill Aang.”

“He tried to.” Azula points out, quite unhelpfully in the grander scheme of things. At the very least, the woman will be speaking about her to her instead of to Sokka. At least that was the hope…

“Zuko...he was confused. She knew exactly what she was doing.”

She wishes that the same could be said now. Sokka comes to stand beside her and rests an arm on her shoulder. She wonders if he can sense her unease through touch alone. She already feels like a monster, she doesn’t need more confirmation of that.

“Just give her a chance, Katara.”

“She’s already had one and she spent it trying to kill her own mother.”

Azula cringes.

“Well this time she’s ready for another chance.”

But she doesn’t think that she can ever be truly prepared. Not for something like this. It doesn’t matter how hard she tries nor how she arranges her deck. Briefly she wonders if it would be better to chance freezing to death than speaking to Katara a moment longer.

“I’m not ready to give her one.”

“Katara…”

“Why do you care about her all of the sudden, Sokka. Remember what she did to Suki?”

“It isn’t really sudden.” Sokka rubs the back of his head. “I’ve been talking to her for a while now and she’s…” he trails off. “She’s actually kind of a sweet person.”

“I am not.” She grumbles.

“Believe it or not, she’s pretty good with kids.” Azula is certain that he has sensed her discomfort this time because he shares a half truth. “Ursa, ya know, her mom…”

“I know who Ursa is, Sokka.”

“Ursa has this kid…”

Katara rolls her eyes, “I was there, Sokka.” She folds her arms across her chest.

“Well Azula gets along with Kiyi and Kiyi’s, uh, friend, Caihong.” Sokka nods, seemingly pleased with his white lie. “Azula really like Caihong and Caihong is an earthbender. And that’s good because Azula used to only talk to earthbenders if they were Dai Li agents…”

Spirts, she can’t remember the last time she had felt such an intense secondhand embarrassment. She wonders if Katara would buy that the color on her cheeks is the product of cold alone.

“Why do you care about her?” Katara asks again.

“Talk her and find out.” Sokka musters up a smile. “You’ll understand why, if you do.”

[queen18xo]

Loki’s Sacrafice

The sight that greets Thor upon his arrival within the dungeon is Loki stood impassively staring out at the destruction left in the wake of  Kurse's escape as well as the multiple other prisoners, all except Loki. Loki may lack remorse, and his behaviour is questionable at best however Loki loved their mother, while Thor became Odin's favourite Loki became Frigga's. Frigga was the one to teach Loki all he knew about his Seidr. It was the knowledge of Loki's love for their mother that allowed Thor to see through Loki's well-constructed illusion. Loki did not love many people but those he did he loved fiercely.

"Well if it isn't my brother the mighty Thor, why are you here, brother?" Loki spits venomously, his illusion holding steady in the face of his grief and hurt. Loki may not admit it, but Thor knew he was hurt, They were brothers and Thor betrayed their bond, locking him away to rot beneath Asgard. Thor wished he'd made the trip to see Loki sooner; Thor yearned to change a lot of what had transpired between them in past years, although it was too late for that now and there was no use in dwelling on past errors.

There was once a time Loki loved Thor more dearly than any other in the Nine Realms; Thor had taken that love for granted expecting Loki to fall at his feet like the rest of the Nine Realms. It wasn't until he lost his brothers love due to his idiocy that he realised he loved Loki just as much if not more. In his youth, Thor had been arrogant and brutish often teasing Loki for his smaller frame; he watched as Loki began to drift from him, watched as he began to sequester himself, losing himself in dusty forgotten tomes.

"No more illusions Loki" Thor stated, blatantly ignoring Loki's question, Thor would not divulge sensitive information to the younger man while still faced with an illusion. Loki was a master of deception, but he had never been able to mislead Thor. Thor saw past all of Loki's carefully constructed words and facial expressions. Loki may have forgotten how to read Thor, but Thor had never lost the ability to see through his brother's deceptive ways.

Thor squinted against the bright green glimmer of light as Loki's Seidr receded. Thor's heart constricted painfully in his chest as he took in Loki's dishevelled appearance. The god of mischief sat curled in on himself on the floor his face pale with an ashen grey tone to it, his cheeks sunken in body thinner then Thor remembered. Loki had always been lithe; however hidden beneath his clothes Thor knew there was corded muscle, the version of Loki sat before him was merely skin and bone previous muscle mass lost due to malnutrition. Anger burns hot in Thor's veins seeing his once-proud brother treated so severely.

Loki had various bruises and cuts adorning his body, his cell a mess, his meagre belongings smashed and thrown around the room, Loki met Thor's gaze his eyes burning with defiance. Thor stared heartbroken at the sight his brother made, how could their father allow Loki to be treated this way, he may be a prisoner, but Loki was still a prince of Asgard. "Now you see me brother" Loki stated confidently his usual arrogant facade masking doing little to mask the pain Thor could see simmering beneath the surface, Loki looked ready to break. Still, Thor knew Loki was stronger than that, and he had undoubtedly faced worse.

"I always see you brother," Thor spoke with difficulty, valiantly fighting to keep his voice from wavering as his heart breaks watching as Loki masked his pain uncomfortable being seen vulnerable in front of Thor. Not for the first time, Thor finds himself longing to reach out for his brother, to pull him into an embrace. Thor craves to hold the smaller man in his arms, to push away all the hurt shrouding his brother. Loki shook his head, huffing a bitter laugh, a wry, mocking smile gracing his delicate features.

"Enough of your foolish sentimentality" Loki spits rising to stand, with a wave of his hand he is bathed in a brilliant green glow his armour appearing in place of his previous tattered garments. "You did not come here to share in our grief so tell me what does the mighty Thor Odinson need of me" Loki seethes his eyes distant and haunted as he speaks as if reliving past memories. Thor himself could remember many occasions in which he'd asked Loki for favours and yet never thanked him, often brushing him off once he was satisfied as if Loki was no more than a servant.

Thor stood shocked, watching as his brother fought down the pain wrought by past slights. Loki had always appeared to brush off taunts and teasing effortlessly, however, stood here before Thor the older man could see through his well-controlled facade he could see the insecurity and the despondency swimming in Loki's usually glittering green eyes.

"I need your help, Lo" Thor released the cell door standing before Loki as he waited for the man to respond.

Loki stood rage, burning in his darkened eyes. "Do not call me that" Loki seethes, violently shoving Thor aside as he exits the cell. Loki pushed a few stray strands of misplaced hair from his face as he turned to settle Thor with an impatient glare, arms crossed defiantly across his chest. "Well spit it out then brother, what is it you require of me this time?" Loki asks observing his nails as he feigns indifference, Thor saw it for what it was, Loki attempting to mask any true feelings he may have.

"The Ether is consuming Jane, Malekith will return for it, and he will lay waste to Asgard. I wish for you to help me travel to Svartfelhiem so I may defeat him there." Loki tutted in disbelief as he listened to Thor, their mother had just been brutally murdered trying to protect the useless Midgaurdian woman.

"You wish for me to help you protect the woman responsible for our mother's death?" Loki asked incredulously "you were a fool to ask this of me; I will not do it." Loki refused.

"Then brother do it for vengeance if you won't do it for me, do it for mother!" Thor exclaims desperately trying to reason with his brother. Loki concedes his thirst for vengeance outweighing any protest he may have had.

"Lead the way then dear brother" Loki smiled mockingly as he gestures for Thor to lead him. Loki follows close behind his long strides appearing graceful and effortless; however, Thor could see the subtle winces of intense pain marring Loki's features when he thought Thor wasn't Looking.

Loki began needling his brother as they walked, changing his form and making irritating commentary as Thor tried to concentrate on not being detected by the guards. Loki was desperately trying to bate Thor into a meaningless fight. Thor refused to give in to his growing irritation, trying to avoid giving Loki the satisfaction of riling him up. Loki was like an itch he could never scratch, a frustration that never ceased.

Thor gripped Loki firmly by the throat another one of his substantial hands wrapping around his mouth, effectively pinning Loki to one of the ancient golden pillars, his heavyset body pressing Lokis delicate frame into the hard surface. "Enough of this brother" Thor growled under his breath; keeping his voice down to avoid alerting any of the castles guards to their presence. Thor can feel the fast flutter of Lokis heart rate beneath his hand; he can see the shock in Lokis eyes. Thor may have been aggressive, but he had never been one to initiate violence with Loki. Thor startled as he felt the wet glide of Loki's tongue as it brushed gently across his palm as he licked his lips nervously. Beneath his palm Thor could feel as Loki swallowed, the movement drawing Thor's gaze to the long expanse of Loki's pale neck. Thor watched as his brother internally fought himself to keep from melting into the warmth of his older brothers touch.

"Just, enough Loki" Thor whispers removing his hand from Loki's mouth his hungry gaze unable to leave Loki's as he stares down at his brother his body flush against Lokis smaller one. Loki painted a tempting picture, pinned beneath Thor his face flushed, hair falling in loose messy strands over his shoulders, his eyes blown wide with shock. He can feel the hard planes of Lokis torso pressed against him, one of his large thighs slipped between Lokis legs keeping the shorter man stood on his tiptoes. Loki's warm breath ghosts over Thor's lips, making an unwanted desire curl in his gut.

Thor had never seen Loki in such an enticing way, the way Loki looked when genuinely caught by surprise was enchanting. Thor desired to see Loki in this way more often. He found himself overcome with lewd images of various ways in which he could see his little brother truly flustered and lost for words, none appropriate for their relationship.

"Brother" Loki whispers, his voice low and gravelly in a way unfamiliar to Thor, he pushes gently at Thor's chest even in his weakened state Thor did not doubt that if Loki truly wished to push him away, he was capable. However, Thor looking down at the intimate way he held Loki's body against his knew it would be wise to follow his brother's advice and move. The air between them was charged, crackling with Thor's power, in the distance thor could hear the low rumble of developing thunder. Thor startled staring at Loki astounded; he hadn't lost control of his powers since they were boys, Loki appeared to be troubled as he carefully extricated himself from beneath Thor's body.

Thor watched transfixed as his brother righted his clothing, taking in deep lungfuls of breath to regain his composure, he muttered vulgar curses beneath his breath. Thor bit back a smile, in all the years he'd grown up alongside his brother he had never seen him in such a way. Loki was always carefully put together, never allowing people a glimpse beneath his well-maintained facade's however in this rare moment, Thor was allowed to see Loki in a way no one else was. Thor cherished the moment, wishing for the chance to see more clandestine sides to his brother, hoping to share more of these private moments. Thor craved to be the only one to see Loki unpolished, a surge of possessiveness roaring through him, the thought of others glimpsing Loki, the real Loki unsettling.

"We must hurry" Thor declared fighting down the unwelcome desire to hold his brother close once more, his announcement making it clear to Loki he had no desire to discuss what had just transpired between them. Loki was quick to agree with a stilted nod of his head, trailing unhurriedly behind Thor as they made their escape from Asgard. ~~~ Loki released a pained groan as he laid sprawled across the wooden floor of the boat he was unaware had been flying alongside the ship they had stolen. He heard the loud thump of Thor's feet as he landed alongside Loki in the vessel, Loki stared up at him anger brimming in his eyes. "You brute!" Loki exclaimed, rage burning in him, the sight of Thor's mirthful smile agitating him further.

"I see your time in the dungeon has made you no less graceful Loki" Loki chuckles the sounds of Fandral's deep jovial voice bringing a warm smile to Loki's face. Loki looks up from his sprawled position, eyes settling on Fandral where he stood at the head of the ship keeping them on course.

A lighthearted chuckle escapes his lips as he pulls himself up, moving to stand beside Fandral. "I see my time in the dungeon made you no less charming Fandral" Loki teases with a warm smile enjoying the innocent banter they shared. Fandral was a notorious flirt and a scoundrel, but there was no heat behind his words, Loki had become accustomed to the good-humoured nature of their improbable friendship.

"Its good to see you again Loki" Fandral professed as he eyed Loki worriedly, observing the younger man's state he gently pulls him into his side for a soothing embrace, Loki melts unworriedly into the intimate contact. Thor watched in disbelief as Loki allowed Fandral to tuck him protectively against his side. Loki was not found of physical contact; he had never been and yet there he stood taking comfort in Fandral's touch. Thor quietly seethed, unwilling to cause an argument as he was unsure as to why seeing Fandral hold Loki evoked such a vigorous response.

Thor had never seen the two men act in such a way and he felt an unusual pang in his chest, almost as if it were a physical pain. He was unable to tear his gaze from the embrace his oldest friend held his younger brother in. He knew the two's relationship was none of his business and yet he desperately wanted it to be. He hated watching as Fandral held Loki and worse yet was the soft smile on Loki's face as he nuzzled gently against Fandral's neck. But why did he hate it so much, Loki was his brother he held no claim to the younger man nor did he wish to. At least he didn't think he did, he had Jane, after all, Jane, who was currently laying in his arms dying. Loki was his brother, his brother who had betrayed him on countless occasions. Loki was nothing more to him, so why was this so painful to watch.

Palace guards began shooting at them, shaking Thor from his troubled thoughts as they continued their escape to Svartalfheim. "I believe this is where I must depart." Fandral nods his goodbye to Thor before turning to Loki. He takes one of Loki's slender hands and laces it with one of his own larger hands " Come back safe Loki" Thor has to turn away as Loki leans in to place a gentle kiss to Fandrals cheek their gazes meeting Thor could easily see Fandrals concern.

"Do not be an idiot Fandral; please be careful" Loki pleaded one of his dainty hands pressed sweetly to Fandral's cheek as he spoke, Thor was wholly unprepared for the intimacy shared between the two, he had never seen such an unguarded expression of love on Loki's face, it was jarring to see.

"When did that happen?" Thor questions wincing as his tone sounds icy as the question passes his lips. Thor watches as Loki bites back what was no doubt about to be a scathing remark instead choosing to remain focused on the treacherous task of helping Thor and his Midgaurdian pass into the realm of the Dark Elves.

Once they begin sailing through the charred skies of Svartalfheim, Loki responds. "Not that it is any of your concern but to save your friendship, I shall dignify that ignorant question with an answer."  Loki pauses his striking green eyes filled with barely concealed fury as they meet Thor's. The familiar action was bringing fond memories of Loki as a boy teaching Thor to see through his illusions. Loki had always said that if Thor wished to know the truth, he must simply look at the eye's as they could not hide emotion. "Fandral is merely a good friend and the only person in all of the Nine Realms to visit me while I was in the dungeon which is more than I can say for you brother." Loki looks away quickly. However, Thor didn't miss the flash of hurt in his eyes as he finished speaking.

"Why would Fandral visit you if you are not in a relationship?" Thor asked genuinely confused; he could see Loki seething with anger before him; however, his brother took calming breaths, keeping his eyes resolutely trained on the terrain before them.

"You are my brother Thor. Therefore you have no right to comment on who I would choose to be intimate with" Loki declares glaring at Thor angrily.

"So you are intimately involved with Fandral" Thor jumped from where he had been previously sat beside Jane, he moves like lightning stood before Loki before the younger man could comprehend his movement. "Fandral will not treat you as you deserve Loki" Thor whispers dejectedly as he stands close enough to feel the heat emanating from Loki's body.

"Fandral is kind to me, and he treats me better than you ever have."

Thor stumbles back the weight of Loki's words causing him to feel off balance. "Lo..." Thor murmurs sorrowfully his heart aching in his chest. He knew he had never been kind to Loki, but in truth, he had always been able to handle Loki. The confidence the younger man possessed terrifying to Thor, Loki was beautiful in an unusual way; he did not look like most Asgardian men and Thor had always found the sight of Loki peculiarly appealing. Loki was his brother and deserved to be treated as such; Thor had spent so long forcing any unwanted attraction for Loki away that he had inadvertently pushed Loki away in turn.

"I will not tell you again Thor, do not call me that. Fandral and I are not intimate, we have never been and never will be." Loki's tone is firm, leaving no room for argument. Thor ducks his head in shamefully; he had not intended to offend Loki by insinuating he would be intimate with Fandral.

"Go scout the area; I will protect your human," Loki announces as he pulls their vessel to a halt atop a lifeless mound of ash. Thor hesitates to eye his brother distrustfully "No harm will come to her brother." Loki states his eyes divulged how much Thor's distrust wounded him. Thor met Loki's eyes his own features brimming with unvoiced apologies as he leaves.

As he wanders across the barren terrain his eyes flick back worriedly to observe Loki carrying Jane in his arms, her head was laying against his shoulder as one of his hands carded through her hair gently soothing her distress. A fond smile graced Thor's lips as he watched the gentle way Loki cared for Jane, a woman he had no care for, Thor was amazed by Loki's capacity for softness.

From a distance, Thor could see as Loki's face darkened his eyes setting with a mix of steely determination and a protective rage. Confused by the sudden change in demeanour Thor turned to follow Loki's eye line, watching as Malekith and Kurse descended their ship landing meters from where Loki stood with Jane cradled protectively in his arms. Thor hastily made his way towards them, his eyes trained on Loki, he watched the man whisper unheard words against Jane's forehead gently placing her on the ground behind him. Thor sped across the ash-covered ground he could feel in his gut he would not make it, he cursed himself for wandering so far, leaving Loki to face a threat alone. He worried for his brother realising that his worry had been concentrated on Loki, forgetting the woman he claimed to love.

Loki's daggers appeared in a flash of striking green light, his stance dropping ready to attack. Loki had always looked mesmerising poised for a fight, his eyes ferocious shining with unbridled wrath his agile body as dangerous as the daggers he wielded.

Thor stood frozen mere meters behind Malekith taming his ragged breathing as he attempted to remain unseen by the Dark Elf. A quick flick of Loki's eyes in his direction informing him that his position had not escaped his brothers notice. Thor worried his bottom lip with his teeth as he watched the situation unfold before him.

"You can try and take her Malekith, but you will not succeed," Loki called out across the barren space, separating them. Loki flicked his eyes to Jane worriedly, he was not fond of the woman, but he would protect with everything he had, even after all these years he still couldn't bare to disappoint his brother.

"Why do you protect this mortal young prince?" Malekith asks, he motions for Kurse to hold his position as he gradually closes the distance between himself and Loki. "How would your brother feel if he knew the truth?" Malkeith shook his head; his mouth turned up in disgust. Thor watched as Loki flinched, Thor watched in disbelief Loki was not one to allow his emotions to intervene in battle and yet as Malekieth spoke, Thor watched as Loki's resolve began to crumble. Loki's eyes flicked to his unsure, sadness swirling in them as he locked eyes with Thor, he caught as Loki mouthed the words 'I'm sorry.'

"You can not bate me Malekieth"

Malekeith chuckles darkly his black eyes meeting Loki's "You would truly give your life for your brothers mortal?" Thor swallowed harshly, his stomach filling with dread as he waited for Loki's self-preservation instincts to kick in.

Loki's eyes met Thor's a soft smile on his lips. "Yes I would and if you know me as well as you seem to you would already know that." Eyes flicking back to Malekeith Loki hovered a hand over Jane's still body his fingertips flickering with the familiar green light of his seidr. Thor watched as the Loki extracted the Ether from Jane, her body convulsing on the ground, the Ethers red glow melding with the green of Loki's Seidr. A tear slid down Thor's cheek as Loki screamed out in pain, his face contorted in agony as the Ether merged with his Seidr.

"I will have the either young Loki" Malekith advanced on Loki with inhuman speed, Thor fell to his knees unable to do more than watch fear freezing him to the spot. Malekith grabbed Loki by the throat, slamming him to the ground. As Malekith landed beside him on the ground, Thor saw a trickle of blood emerge from his mouth before he fell to the side, one of Loki's daggers protruding from his chest.

Thor slumped in relief with a heavy exhale, Loki sprung from the ground his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath his fingers sparking with a mix of green and red light his knees bent as he readied himself for Kurse's oncoming attack. Loki struck him one of his daggers implanting itself in his stomach the weapon bearly slowing his attack.

Kurse pulled the dagger from his stomach gripping Loki's hair with the other hand; he raises Loki's blade above his head, Loki's hand spark red where it connects with Kurse's chest, the impact a fraction too late as Kurse buries the blade deep into Loki's chest. Loki drops to the floor, Kurse dropping beside him Thor watches in horror as they lay lifeless beside each other.

"LOKI! Loki, no" Thor runs to his brothers still body dropping to his knees as he pulls Loki's body into his arms, tucking him against his chest. "No, no, Loki please" Thor begs tears streaming from his eyes as his hands clumsily push Loki's hair from his face.

"I will be fine brother" Loki whispers brokenly, blood painting his lips red, Thor stares down at his brother incredulously as he coughs and splutters droplets of blood falling from his mouth. Jane falls to his side, pulling one of Loki's hands into her own.

Loki looks to Jane a small smile on his face "you're okay" he says his struggling to remain open. Jane grips his hand tighter, watching sadly as his eyes flutter shut.

"Heimdall" Thor screams in anguish his head thrown up to the sky, tears falling in hot streaks down his face. He buries his head in Loki's hair as the rainbow bridge envelops the three of them.

Thor feels strong hands tugging him from Loki's lifeless body he struggles and fights screaming, but the hands do not yield. "Thor my friend, please, let the healers work" a solemn voice he distantly recognises as Fandral's breaks through grief-stricken screams. Thor falls heavily into his friends embrace, watching as the healers carry Loki's body to the healing rooms.

~~~~

Thor, Fandral and Jane all sit solemnly waiting in Loki's bed chambers for the man to wake. Fandral paced the floor, unable to stand still any longer, anxious for his friend to wake up. "I have never been inside Loki's chambers before; they do just scream Loki" Fandral speaks desperately trying to break the tense silence of the room.

"There is a good reason as to why you have never been invited into my chambers Fandral" Loki's voice is rough from disuse as he speaks, everyone's heads turning to where Loki lays his eyes dull and glazed as he looks over the people crowded around his bed.

"Loki" Fandral exhales dropping to sit on the mattress beside him. "I thought I told you to come home safe my darling" Fandral speaks gently pushing Loki's hair from his sweat-dampened forehead. Loki's eyes flit to where Thor sits watching as Fandral cares for his brother, his eyes brimming with a mix of relief, hurt and anger Loki attempts to catch his attention subtly, but his gaze is trained on Fandral's movements.

"Fandral" Loki sighs in fond exasperation over his friend's antics. "Jane I am glad you are well" Loki gives her a brief smile before turning back to look at Thor. " If you two wouldn't mind I would like a private word with my brother." Loki states.

Thor watches nervously as Jane and Fandral exit the room leaving him alone with Loki. Thor had spent the multiple hours waiting for Loki to wake up thinking over Malekeith's words to his brother. Loki had always been one for secrets, but the disgust on Malekeiths face was burned in Thor's mind along with his words.

"Speak your mind brother" Loki rolls his eyes; he had never been fond of people shying away from confrontation no matter the circumstances.

"Are you truly okay?" Thor asks shelving the oncoming conversation until he can be sure his brother is sufficiently healed. Thor moves to lay beside Loki on his bed something he had not done since the two were boys, Loki bites back the smile threatening to form over the action.

"I am fine, Thor. Truly I am" Loki sits up, his back pressing to the headboard, turning his head to face Thor, finding the man already looking at him. Thor sighs heavily, a large hand moving to cup his sleep warmed cheek, Loki nuzzles into the touch smiling gently up at Thor.

"What did Malekeith mean Loki, what secret are you keeping?" Thor asks his eyes worried, Loki tries to pull himself from Thor's grip however the man is unwilling to let him go using his free hand to tilt Loki's face up until their eyes meet once again. "Loki, please" Thor pleads.

"I love you, Thor" Loki professes tears swelling in his green eyes as he holds his brothers gaze, Thor's mouth slackens in shock. "It's disgusting, and it's wrong and before today you never much cared for my presence, but I loved you, I always loved you." Lost for words Thor does the only thing he can think to at that moment, he tangles one of his hands in Loki's hair, his eyes trained on Loki's tear-filled ones as he leans in his lips brushing gently against Loki's.

Loki gasps as Thor's lips brush his, Thor takes the movement as an invitation, his tongue beginning its exploration of the warm heat of Loki's mouth. "Thor" Loki whimpers into the kiss, Thor can feel the tremors coursing through Loki's body he pulls away worriedly, his eyes searching Loki's face for what is wrong.

Loki traces his bottom lip with his finger; Thor is captivated by the sight, the feel of Loki's lips against his forever burnt into his memory. "Loki" Thor whispers awestruck, replacing Loki's finger with his own, he gently brushes the pad of his finger against the soft swell of Loki's bottom lip.

"Thor, why?" Loki whispers nervously into the small space between them; he searches Thor's eyes, finding them brimming with unshed tears. Loki reaches a shaky hand up placing against the side of Thor's face, the coarse hairs of his beard brushing his wrist.

"I love you Loki; I don't know how long I have loved you, I wasn't even aware I loved you until I nearly lost you." Loki smiles up at the brother tears of his own threatening to spill. Loki closes the gap between them his inexperience showing as he attempts to keep pace with Thor.

"Loki have you never?" Thor asks shocked, Loki's cheeks colour pink from embarrassment.

The door creaks open slightly "the answer would be no, you were his first kiss, not for lack of trying on my part." Fandral's jovial voice breaks through the silence. Loki buries his face in his hands, embarrassed beyond reason by his friend. Thor releases a menacing growl as he glares at Fandral.

"Thor" Loki groans lifting his head from his hands levelling his thick-witted brother with a glare. "He has never tried, the idiot was joking." Loki groans, turning his glare on Fandral who simply smiled in return.

Loki throws one of his numerous pillows, hitting Fandral's face the man laughing good-naturedly "I shall leave you now, my prince's" Fandral smirks as he takes his leave.

Thor wraps Loki in his corded arms, holding the younger man close, he buries his face in the top of his hair as Loki melts into the contact his head nestled against Thor's chest. " I love you, brother." Thor murmurs into his hair, Loki smiles content as he drifts off to sleep against the firm muscles of Thor's chest.

[obiwon-shenobi]

I write btw

This goes out to my SasuSaku fans

Paring: SasuSaku

Genre: supernatural

Rating: none yet but strong language/no cursing tho

Words: 1662

Chapters: 🏃🏾🏃🏾🏃🏾

“There once was a queen so powerful they called her ‘God slayer.’ The ones closest to her knew better than to call her that, to them she was ‘The One Who Swallowed The Daystar.’ Her enemies only knew cool steel pressed to their hot necks and bolden bloody eyes willing death to take them to hell’s gate. A champion worshiped among mortals, gossip to the heavens, a beauty feared nonetheless. She who wrestled god and won. Even she had her Achilles.

Mortals. The starts and ends of many wars, devastators of great lands. The ones like The Queen insisted the humans were impure, unjust beings, they were to be kept at the base of the mountain, never to gaze upon those specially gifted. Lower life forms. Cattle moo loudly, but they are still cattle. And yet…

The moment their eyes met that fateful day, god herself could not separate her from him. She lavished him with gifts, spun precious compliments, bathed him in sunlight. She let him drink from her, birthing him in powers unknown to his human soul. Of all the gifts he cherished his swords most. Kusanagi, a valiant, vivid bronze broadsword created in the image of Valor. Mars, a sword unlike any found on Earth created in the image of God. Excalibur, a long sword of steel and water, the image of Balance etched into the gold handle. And his most treasured of all: Damokles, said to be Mars’ complete foil. A sword never used, the blade unknown, powers yet to be released. Each sword had a purpose— Mars’ protected the realm of the specially gifted, Kusanagi oversaw the human, Excalibur brought both to harmony. The Mortal King once inquired of Demokles, why he had never seen the blade, why it stays wrapped in silk cloth untouched when it’s his? A king cannot wield a sword who’s powers lay unknown.

‘Damokles, my love. Is what Mars is for you to me. The only way to kill a God is this one sword. Forged deep in a cavern volcano, pressed with my very own blood, you my dear, hold the power to Kill a Mage.’

The specially gifted took up arms at the Mortal King, cattle are still cattle and cows do not belong in the palace. They devised a plan. On the fourth night of October, just before the rising crimson moon, a spell was to be placed on the Mortal King. In a week, he would carry out a task most heinous. On the forty-sixth year of her birth, The Queen would meet her end, and The Mortal King would be the culprit, Demokles his damning weapon. Upon waking from his haze, overcome with grief, the Mortal King hid away his three precious swords (The Queen and Demokles being stolen in the fray) and withered to ash, carried east by the Wind.”

A slew of hands shoot up, eager round faces bouncing in place, all curious, all perplexed. The most intriguing is a blond boy, a hybrid fox boy, who’s stark incisors draw blood from the left corner of his mouth.

A soft sigh leaves the teacher, the talented mage he is, Iruka never had all the answers to Naruto’s ten thousand questions. Every field trip, every lesson, even during breaks, the boy always had stars of wonder in his azure eyes. “Yes, Naruto?”

“So if the Mages were born from swallowing a daystar, whatever that is, why was she called the ‘God Slayer’ and ‘She Who Wrestled God?’ And what exactly is a ‘daystar’ and why don’t we have to swallow them, and—“ if it weren’t for the breath he had to take, Naruto would have surely asked questions the entire class had.

“They don’t know where Mages come from, actually.” Sasuke, a boy with little magic infinitive, mutters. Although his starless irises bear the mark of unimpressed, Naruto and Sasuke were never far from one another. Sasuke may even call him his best friend if they’re alone. “Pay attention during lessons.”

“Then what’s a daystar, Sasuke? Huh?” Iruka sighs again. “See even you don’t know, don’t interrupt Sensei like that.”

“Thank you, Naruto. And Sasuke.” They carry on further into the exhibition, a timeline of Mages from as early as 300 b.c, eroded and tattered memories of the past. “The Daystar theory is,” Iruka stops in front of an illustration of the day sky over the Hokage Castle, a bright star sits just above the highest tower. “There was a star so bright you could see it even when the sun was shining, or it was raining, The Queen one day observed it fall from the heavens. She then picked up the star and swallowed it, gaining powers from God.” The class moves to the next picture, a man of gold and a woman more beautiful than they’ve ever seen in a crater. “The God theory comes from the same origin, but rather than a star, it’s a God, and this God is a god of war. He challenges The Queen, and when she wins, he gifts her her powers. The Queen then in turn blesses that power onto her subjects. And that’s where we think Mages come from.” The class gives a resounding ‘Ah’. “We don’t have to swallow stars or fight gods, our ancestors did that for us.”

Another hand goes up, another hybrid boy, a snow breed, “if the swords are hidden, then how can we and humans live in peace?”

“Preceptive, Kiba. We have a treaty and due process in place for that, and...” Iruka leads them to another room, this room huge but empty, only one artifact lay on display, one wrapped in blue silk cloth. “The only sword to ever be recovered was Damokles.” The class erupts, angry shouts and chaos descends over the twelve-year-olds as a few cry they don’t want to die. “Ah, no, children! No I didn’t mean to frighten you, please.” Some stressed into changing forms, others magic exploding like dynamite in their pockets, a few crying to go home. Iruka knew it was futile, he’d have to let them calm down on their own, this wasn’t the first class to have a meltdown over Damokles’ existence, hence the barren room.

What Iruka did notice, however, was how none of the panicking kids were Sasuke or Naruto, who were standing closer to the sword now, leaning towards it. They’re speaking, but whatever it is goes lost to the noise. Sasuke looks more invested in the swathed blade than his friend's words, it’s only when he reaches out for it does the teacher strode over. “Uchiha Sasuke.” Both boys jump, the room settles down, a few scattered whimpers can still be heard. “I know it’s fascinating but you can’t touch the artefacts.”

“But Sensei, it told me to.” Everyone is thrown immediately back into tears and oblivion. The only human in their class can talk to a demon sword, they wailed. “Well not like that you guys! It just… beckoned me to touch it.” That did so little to quell his classmates, Sasuke’s shoulders sag in defeat.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Naruto admits when Iruka’s raised eyebrow and honey glare meet him. “But Sasuke isn’t a liar.” A determined face washes over the blond, throwing his right arm over his friend in comfort. “No harm in touching and nothing happening!”

Ino, another blonde but an elemental mage, shudders. “Or he touches it and we all die!” Hinata, another elemental shrieks.

“Come now kids please. Sasuke won’t touch the sword, we aren’t going to die, they aren’t even sure this is the actual sword Damokles. It was found while excavating under Hokage Mountain, so they suspect it’s The God Slayer Blade, but there’s no evidence.”

“Has anyone tested it out?” Choji, a skilled kitchen witch, is peeking from behind Ino, who is hidden behind Shikamaru, a telekinetic. “Like on a Mage?”

“Well no.” Iruka leads the class to the hieroglyphs on the wall. “To ensure fairness, Damokles could only be wielded by The Mortal King and his heir, but because they had no children, there’s no one alive who can wield any of the four swords if real. So no, Sasuke isn’t going to kill us if he touches it.” Although quelled, this field trip ensured Sasuke’s life was very hard up till graduation. In the real world no one cares if you’re human, Mages, hybrids, and spirits alike congregate harmoniously in Konohana, and after finding that out, Sasuke lived his life quietly running a bar at twenty-five.

School might’ve been hell, but the real world still had Naruto in it, even Kiba had warmed up to him, often the pair coming by for a drink. Naruto does coaching at the college, Kiba an outdoor guide of some sort, both very welcomed patrons.

Occasionally they joke on the day Sasuke almost murdered his classmates, Sasuke not finding it to be such a sore spot, but one of his most powerful moments. No one fears humans, especially not Mages, hybrids are more enamoured than intimidated, and spirits find joy in their inconveniences. Sasuke still insists he heard the sword, but whenever they insist on going back to the museum, he’s first to deny. That one day would be enough.

~~~

He stabbed her… in the chest. With a sword she had gifted to him from her own blood she bore a blade only for he who stole her life? Her head was reeling, this place— what was it again? Not heaven, absolutely not hell. The weather is nice and it’s bright, the stream she floats on has carried her for centuries. She had an inkling, something terrible happened in her life, something truly awful brought her here. And now she knew. The blood still pours from the closed sore, she’d have vengeance, on him, on the Mages, on the Earth. All those who betrayed her will meet their end in time, for now she drifts on the endless stream.

So you can find me here

And here

[justjessame]

Dr. Tali Sullivan

The first time I met the Winchesters, I was far too young for them to make an impression. I was around two years old, and if I struggled and pressed my memory that far back, I could ALMOST make out the couple’s only son, Dean, keeping me occupied with my set of wooden blocks. Almost.

The second time I met the Winchesters, I was four. This time I do remember, because my dad was helping John, the father cope with his overwhelming grief at losing his wife. I heard the words I would be destined to hear over and over from the entirety of my life. ‘Demon’, ‘vengeance’, and of course ‘hunter’.

My mom and dad both came from prestigious hunting families. And I’m not talking about big game or seasonal hunters. No, Mom and Dad were hunters of a completely different sort. They hunted all the terrors that regular people would think were tall tales or ghost stories. I was their only child, and while they expected me to learn to defend myself against the forces of evil, they didn’t press me to take up their cause. Since their families were so important, I had plenty of aunts and uncles that could take up any slack my leaving the ‘family business’ could possibly cause. Then there were the latecomers to the cause, men like John Winchester who lost a loved one to the terrors and vowed to end them.

And so, after a few more visits from the Winchesters- when I was seven, Dean had teased me for being so boring with my nose in a book the entire time. At twelve, when Sam kept asking me to borrow one book or another, vowing to adhere to all my rules about their care. At sixteen, when John blinked at me wondering out loud how could I possibly have gotten so big. Memories of the three Winchesters were scarce, but memorable.

Now here I was, twenty nine and had finally achieved my goal. Dr. Tali Sullivan, Professor of Lore and the Occult, with a side of Ancient Dialects and Historical Significance. I was shocked, when in the second week of my second year of teaching, I looked up and saw the eldest Winchester man looking down from a top row seat. I nearly lost my place in the lecture. Nearly, but not quite. I swallowed my reaction and went back to explaining how, even within various different cultures and countries, the myths shared and circulated, all seemed to have a single thread back to one story. And that one story, branching out and circling the globe, would mean what?

“Your assignment, which is laid out in your syllabus, is to explain how that one thread untangling and branching out, would do what?” I smiled at the faces that proved they’d all been listening, almost hearing the gears churning in their heads. “Impress me, prove you’ve done not only the reading, but the deductive reasoning. Now go enjoy the long weekend!” I dismissed the class and walked to the desk provided beside my lectern. I was shuffling my notes and speaking to a few students when John approached.

“Wow, Tali,” he breathed, looking me over in my comfy and casual clothes. Skinny jeans, dark band t-shirt, and a loose button down with a pair of knee high boots. My dark red hair piled up on my head in a loose knot, with my much needed glasses covering my strangely light green eyes.

Since he was openly assessing my appearance, I felt free to do the same. John was aging like a fine wine. Salt and pepper hair, rugged scruff hiding a jaw that I knew from the years was this side of chiseled. His hazel eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement, that damn dimple deep in his cheek. And flannel covered henley paired with well worn jeans and a pair of lived in boots. Damn, when did John become so fucking sexy?

“John,” I answered, leaning back in my desk chair. “What brings you around for a visit?” I was smiling, but I had to wonder.

He leaned his hip on the side of my desk. “I’m having some issues with a case, it’s not far away, and I called your dad. He mentioned you wrote your thesis on what I think I’m after-”

“I wrote my thesis on the Barghest,” I said, staring at him. “What would be hard to understand about a huge ass dog who eats people in the dark?” I was testing him, of course, making sure he was certain that was what his case entailed.

“I think we both know there’s more to them than that.” He sighed and ran his left hand through his hair. His wedding ring flashed in the overhead light and I lost the rush of lust had felt when I first saw him. “This thing, it’s searching out a particular type of victim, and it’s attacking-”

“Acts as an death omen first, marking the victim, daring it’s victim to come out and play, and when they do.” I made a chewing motion with my mouth. “The fun things left out of Harry Potter.” I sighed, and closed my eyes, blocking John from my sight. “What do you need to know? Or better yet, what did Dad say I could offer?”

I heard him chuckle. “For one, is there a way to stop it, without being given the omen of death?” I nodded, and he went on. “What is it? And your dad said you are a font of information on all kinds of rare shit, darlin’.”

I rolled my closed eyes. “You stop it by hunting it without actually crossing its path.” I heard him writing my words down, so apparently he had a journal with him. Good student. “Don’t cross its path by getting behind it, of course. Killing it? That’s a little more difficult. Here’s the ingredients, and how to put it together, don’t fuck it up, John. I’d hate for the boys to end up without you.” I rattled off the weapon and the ingredients that it had to be soaked in, the order, the time frame. “So take that, get behind it, and aim for the back of the neck. Not the heart, not the head, the back of the neck.” I opened my eyes to him watching me. “What?”

He shook his head, but when he spoke his voice was deeper and huskier. If I didn’t know any better- “Nothin’.” He put the tattered journal in a pocket of his jacket that I hadn’t noticed before, that was laying on the top of my desk. “What do I owe you for the information, Tali?” I smiled. “Free of charge. It’s something I can give even if I turned my back on the ‘family business’.” I leaned forward to finish packing my notes away in my leather messenger back. “Be safe, John.” I was dismissing him, just like I did my students.

“Let me take you out to dinner.” His offer startled me. “Least I could do, and I do have to soak the weapon at least overnight.” He stood silent, waiting for my answer.

And a stalemate ensued. I contemplated all the reasons I could give to not accept. How could I explain that dinner would be a terrible idea, since apparently he was sex on a stick and still hooked on his dead wife, or remarried for all I knew? “I think that’s a bad idea.” I said instead, the pregnant pause finally killing me. “Papers to grade.” Netflix to watch, food to nuke I included silently.

“Thought you said there’s a long weekend?” He replied, raising his eyebrow in challenge.

Well, fuck, Tali. He actually paid attention to the end of class. Shit. “Yeah, it is, but I have other classes, other papers. Can’t get behind, you know.”

He chuckled. “Still gotta eat, right?” I shrugged. “So eat with me. I promise to get you home as quickly as possible.” He put his left hand over his heart in pledge, and that ring flashed again.

I swallowed. It was dinner. Nothing more. And I was a grown ass woman, with a fucking PhD after all. It wasn’t like he was flirting. He just wanted to have company for dinner. “Sure.” I answered, pushing the last of my notes in my bag. I scribbled my cell number on a Post-It note and handed it to him. “Call me when you’ve gotten the weapon ready for its marinade, I’ll give you my address then.” I stood and yanked my bag across my body. “See you later, John.” I tossed my parting over my shoulder, hoping I wouldn’t regret agreeing.

 HOURS LATER~ COMING HOME FROM DINNER

We were both laughing. I had told John about a really strange spell a witch had cast on my parents when I was a teenager, and while mortified at the time, found it funnier later on.

“So I walk into my house after school, and there they are, tearing their clothes off on our dining room table.” I closed my eyes and tried to calm my giggles to finish. “Like fucking teenagers, horny, gross parent aged teenagers.” His laughter was contagious. “I couldn’t eat in the dining room until I came back last Thanksgiving.” I gave a dramatic shudder.

John was walking me to the door of my house, and his chuckles were more free than they’d been when we first saw one another in my class. His hand rested on the small of my back, like a gentleman seeing a lady home. “God, I’m gonna have to riff him about that the next time I see him.” We reached my door and I pulled my keys free from my pocket. “Guess I should-”

I shook my head as I opened the door. “By my estimation that blade needs another twelve hours to soak.” I said, squinting in remembrance of the instruction I gave him. “Come in and have a cup of something-” He chuckled again, “I don’t drink coffee, but I have some instant, just in case.” I shrugged, and he nodded his agreement.

Over the threshold, I moved further into the house, listening as John shut and locked my door. I made my way to the kitchen, yelling back for him to make himself at home. I tossed my jacket and keys on the counter in the kitchen and made peace with John checking over the house. He’s a hunter, so I knew he was looking around with curiosity. He’d be checking entrances, exits, and probably just looking around to see what kind of research material I had on hand. I made a cup of instant coffee, heating the water in the microwave as I grabbed a glass and filled it with ice for a glass of soda.

When I walked out to the living room, John was sitting on the sofa. He’d tossed his jacket onto the wingback chair, and he looked comfortable. It was almost unnerving how comfortable he looked in my space. “I hope I made this right,” I offered him the coffee cup and sat down with my feet tucked under me on the other side of the sofa. Taking a sip of my soda, I sat it down on the coffee table and sat back. “Why aren’t Dean and Sam with you?” I asked, burning with interest since I saw him all alone in my classroom, but waiting until we were in a more private setting than the college or dinner afforded.

John took an appreciative sip of his own drink. “Not bad, Tali.” He mirrored my move and sat his own cup on the table in front of us and looked over at me. “Dean’s on his own hunt, with Bobby. Sam, well Sam’s away at Stanford.” I raised an eyebrow, surprised not by Sam’s aspirations, but because John entertained them. “It wasn’t pretty when he asked to go, not by a long shot, but I guess seeing you, here, outside of the business makes it more understandable.”

I nodded and asked the next obvious question. “What’s he studying?” I sank into the cushions of my sofa and studied him as he answered.

“Law,” he chuckled. “Might come in handy, especially where Dean’s concerned.”

I gave my own muffled laugh. “Guessing Dean hasn’t gotten his crap together yet?” I reached for my soda and felt John’s eyes on my every movement. Taking another sip, I chose to keep the glass in my hands. “I got lucky, I guess. Studying lore and history, that made it simple to move on from the family business, but still be able to help.” I sighed, and leaned back. “Keeps me from feeling too guilty for taking my parents up on the offer to choose myself over the greater good.”

John’s gaze hadn’t left me. “You shouldn’t feel guilty at all. Even if you’d chosen some other path.” He offered his own sigh and reached for his coffee cup. “The longer I do this, the more I realize that I’ve been an asshole for making the boys follow me.”

I scoffed. “Dean idolizes you, John. He has since the first time I can remember your visits fully.” I thought back to the golden haired boy and how his green eyes were always watching his Dad, mimicking his posture, his gestures. “In fact, I bet I could tell you what he’s wearing just by what you are.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Paid a lot of attention to my boy, did you?” I bit my lip and laughed at his expression.

“We’re the same age,” I shrugged. “Since you and Mom and Dad insisted that we socialize, it was hard NOT to pay attention to Dean.” I thought back to Dean’s not so subtle attempt, when I was sixteen, to try to get in my panties. “He was a bit much, if you know what I mean?”

It was his turn to laugh. “That’s Dean, alright.” He glanced over at me as he took another drink of coffee. “So did you two-”

I nearly spit out the drink I had just taken of my soda. Coughing, and trying to swallow around the shock of that implied thought, I took a moment to calm my shock. “NO.” I answered, loud enough that he knew how wrong the very idea of Dean and me was. “We didn’t have ANYTHING, John.”

His laughter shook my end of the sofa. I glared over at him, daring him to make me choke on the sip I was taking. “Sorry, honey, it’s just your face when I asked. It’s one of the few times I’ve seen a girl your age act like Dean was the plague.”

Girl my age? I snorted, having swallowed my drink. “Girl?” I raised an eyebrow at the older man. “I’m nearly thirty. Then again, a man YOUR age, isn’t that when the memory goes?”

It was his turn to choke on his drink. He sputtered and I giggled, watching him glare at me. “You insinuating that I’m old, little girl?” The tone he was using was dangerously low, but instead of frightening me, I felt a twist of lust building.

I shrugged. “You’re insisting I’m a little girl, aren’t you?” I smirked at him as he put his cup carefully on the coffee table.

“I might have to prove just how good my memory is,” he took my glass from me and sat it carefully down too. “Like,” he moved closer so I could feel the heat from his body. “The last time I saw you, you’d just turned sixteen. You came down the stairs wearing that little sundress with cherry blossoms all over it.” He leaned in, his nose sliding along my jaw. “And your perfume smelled like vanilla and cherry mixed together.” I felt his lips ghosting over my neck, not touching, not yet. “I remember that scent, because you hugged me and told me how happy you were to see me again. Not Dean, not Sam, but me.” His lips brushed against my pulse. “I knew at that moment, you’d be the ruin of me, Tali.”

I turned, and his lips found mine. I moaned into his kiss, feeling like I was on fire. His hands gripped my hips and pulled me from my seat and over onto his lap. Straddling him, I let my fingers slide through his hair. The stubble on his face was gloriously rough and burning against my skin. One of his hands gripped my waist the other pressed into my back, pressing me tight against his chest. My hips rocked against him, feeling his arousal grow.

Breaking the kiss, our faces inches apart, breath mingling, I could see how dark his eyes were. His chuckle rocked through me, and I smiled. “My ruin,” he muttered, standing up with me locked in his arms. Before I could point in the direction of my bedroom, he’d pressed me against the nearest bare wall. My legs wrapped around his hips as his lips found my neck. His body was hard against mine, and I moaned as he nipped the curve where my neck met my shoulder. “Fuck, Tali, we’re not even naked and I swear you feel like fire.” I rocked into his hardness and he groaned.

“It’s not that I,” I had to stop when he sucked at my pulsepoint to gather my wits to continue my thought. “Not that I don’t love how this feels.” Another roll of my hips and he growled into my skin again. “But my bed is right there.” I tilted my head toward the hallway next to us. I felt the curve of his lips against my flushed skin.

“I’ve held back for so fuckin’ long, baby girl,” his mouth was hot against the skin he could taste. His hips thrust into my covered need. “If you insist on a bed, though,” he sighed, “then my princess gets what she wants.” He carried me down the hallway and through the open door of my bedroom.

My fingers reached out and flicked on the lightswitch that controlled my side table lamps. Soft light filled the room as John’s mouth claimed mine again. I felt him lower me to my feet, but then it was a rush of clothes falling, mouths, tongues, and teeth tasting and kissing exposed skin. Fingers brushing against skin, mine teasing the muscles roped through his body, his the softness of my curves.

My eyes drunk him in as he lowered me onto my bed. He was gorgeous, sexy and being far more sensual than the wall fuck he’d been going for earlier. As his lips met my breast, I gasped and arched upward toward his mouth. His tongue flicked against my nipple and my fingers gripped his head. “You taste so fucking good, darlin’.” His breath fanned against my skin, and I felt a tightening in my stomach. “God, there’s so much I want with you. So much I want to do-”

I pulled his hair, drawing him up so he was hovering over me, face to face. “Kiss me, John.” And he did as my legs wrapped around his hips and forced him to lower further into me. “I can’t wait. Don’t make me wait,” I pleaded, and he took the demand in stride. He nodded, his forehead against mine. “Later, then,” he promised, himself and me. Then his hips lurched against me, our bodies joining FINALLY as though I were made for him. “Oh, Tali,” he moaned as I rolled my hips against him. “That feels-” And then words stopped, everything stopped except for him and me. Our bodies took over. Clutching one another, as though there shouldn’t even be air between us. His thrusts, my rocking hips, sweat and moans. Everything crashing over us all at once. Not overwhelming, not splintering our focus, just keeping us going and going.

It could have been seconds, minutes, or even hours, but we both felt the climb begin. The feeling that started when he whispered his memory of me, the feeling of our lips touching for the first time, the feeling of everything coming together exactly how it was supposed to. And then fire and stars and explosions. I’d always thought that was ridiculous writers imagining what sex and love were, but then I had it. And all I could think, as we held each other in the aftermath was how much I wanted it over and over.

We had the entire night, and John and I made sure we took advantage of the hours. We tasted one another, dipping back to foreplay once we’d recovered from our first round, then more and more and more. We finally fell exhausted in a tangle of limbs and kisses mere hours before dawn.

I didn’t expect him to be beside me when I woke. He had a job to do, after all, but I was surprised by the note. The promise of his return after the hunt. And when he followed through I nearly exploded by the mere sight of him at the front door. We had the entire weekend. Two full days, and three explosive nights before he had to go. This time I saw him off, kissed him goodbye and had another promise from him. That he’d be back. He had to, he swore, because having the nights we’d stolen weren’t enough. For him or for me.

 Months passed. He’d text or call. And then nothing. No texts, no calls. His voicemail, when I bothered to call, advised to contact Dean if there was a problem. I didn’t worry. I understood how hunters lived. I knew that they lived hard and on the go. I knew that he’d come back, call again, text again when he could.

I was in my classroom giving another lecture when I looked up and saw Dean sitting with Sam in almost the exact same place their father had sat. My heart clenched. They wouldn’t be here, Sam wouldn’t be here if it were good news. I managed, through sheer force of will and the fact that my lectures were practically memorized by now, to finish the class. I barely noticed the other students file out, I had eyes only on the two Winchesters.

“Tali,” Sam greeted me, smiling the same awkward smile I remembered from our youth. “You look right at home at that lectern.” Dean's eyes were burning into me. “Have you heard from Dad?” That was Dean, not an ounce of tact in his entire body.

“Not for a couple of months,” I answered, smiling and moving back to my desk. Feelings of deja vu washed over me as I pulled my notes into a tidy pile. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair, so reminiscent of his dad. “He’s missing in action, Tal.” He looked down at me. “We found the last hotel room he was staying in and you were mentioned in his journal.”

Ah, yeah, the work I helped him with. “Yeah, he came to me about a Barghest. I helped him with the right weapon and the right place to shove it in to kill it.” Shrugging, hoping that was all that John put in his journal, I glanced at Dean.

“He mentioned that, and also,” he pulled the battered journal I’d watched John tuck into his jacket in this very room. I saw a sticky note with my phone number on it in my writing. “Her eyes are still so light that they look straight through me, and those lips-”

I stopped them with a raised hand and felt my face blush. “Yeah, about that.” I swallowed hard and looked up to two far too interested Winchesters. “Look, John and I, we had a-” World changing connection that I hoped would turn into something, but he’s a hunter and I’m a professor. We settled for a weekend of passion and love, and now he’s gone? Yeah, try harder. “We made the most of a long weekend.” That damn blush was so hot I felt like I was on fire. “I haven’t heard from him in a month or so.”

Dean was looking at me like I’d grown fangs, or another head. “Our DAD?” He also looked a tad green around his gills. “You and Dad?” He tried to wrap his head around it, but shook it off. “And he stayed in touch?”

“Yeah, we’d text and call almost daily.” I said, putting my papers away, feeling my shame die out. What the hell? I loved John, there wasn’t anything wrong with that. “Unless he was in the middle of a hunt. That was the last text I got, actually.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened up my messages. Clicking on John’s number I pulled it up. Handing it over to Sam, I finished gathering my stuff together.

Sam read the last message, respecting my privacy, but Dean took a turn and I saw a swipe. “Hey!” I admonished. “You never swipe another person’s phone,” I yanked it from his hand, and put it back in my pocket. “The last message was the only one you needed to see.”

Dean was licking his lips, fuck, I knew exacty which text he saw. “Well, we need to be thorough. Dad’s missing after all.”

I glared up at him. “Sure.” I brushed past them, and shook my head again. “Well, now what you’ve been THOROUGH, you know I don’t know where he is.” I waved a hand to show them I was finished with the conversation.

Of course they weren’t. I’d barely gotten comfortable at home when I heard the knock. Fuck. Opening the door, there they stood. “What now?” I asked, exasperated. “You saw what you saw. I don’t know anything else.”

Dean pushed past me into the house, Sam waited to be invited. Rolling my eyes I gestured for him to come in too. We stood awkwardly in my entryway. I waited for one of them to break the silence. Sam was the first.

“Look, Tali, we get that you don’t think you know anything, but you might.” He was trying to calm my irritation down. Irritation and worry. Worry that John was hurt or worse. “Can we sit?”

I nodded and walked them into my living room. I took the chair and they sat on the sofa. A sofa that months ago John and I had started on. Shaking the image away, I considered all the talks and texts we’d shared. Nothing strange or concerning came to mind. “I’m sorry, John and I, we were talking normal hunting research, when we discussed it.” I refused to blush again. “He mentioned only that he might be out of touch for a while, but not where he was going. And then when I felt that too much time had passed, I tried to call, but-”

“You were told to call me,” Dean finished. “Why didn’t you?” He sounded almost accusatory.

“Because,” I sighed. “I figured that maybe John started to regret it. Us. Me.” I looked up and saw that he was uncomfortable. “If there’s one thing I’m not, Dean, it’s a clingy ex.”

“You said you talked about normal hunting research,” Sam picked up the conversation. “Do you remember what cases?”

I nodded and went to the desk in the corner of the room. “I keep records of all of those types of things. I help a lot of hunters with the more obscure demons and do bads.” I grabbed my planner. Flipping back to the first day we’d met at the college, I handed it over to Sam. “It starts there,” I used my finger to point out the shorthand I used for John, “and if you flip through it, you’ll see when and where he called from, and what hunt he’d discussed.” I sat back down as they flipped through it. “Not every contact is in there, since not all of them were work related.”

Sam nodded, but Dean’s mood seemed to grow worse. “Do you have a calendar to keep track of those too?” He snarked. I glared at him and shook my head. “Isn’t that disappointing.”

I snorted at his demeanor. “It wouldn’t help you find him. They overlapped. Usually it was a call before he got the next case, and a call after to make sure I knew he was safe.” I raised an eyebrow to match the one he had, daring him to make another comment. “Can I keep this?” Sam asked, drawing my attention back to him. “Or copy it?”

“You can copy it, but I have to keep it. John isn’t the only hunter that I help with research. That’s the record I use to keep track of it.” He nodded. “If you follow me back to campus, I can get you one, or if you want me to, I guess I could scan it here and give you those copies?”

“Email it,” Sam offered, and I took the planner back and moved back to my desk to start. I hadn’t realized he’d followed me until I felt him sit in my chair. “Was he happy?” His voice was quiet, and I knew that Dean was still on the sofa.

“Yeah, he was.” I smiled, remembering how playful John had been when I’d said goodbye on my porch. “He was also coming to terms with your future, though it would seem that’s on hold now?”

He swallowed and I finally realized how tired he looked. “Something like that.” He glanced up at me and I saw such pain. “I just really need to find him, Tali. We both do.”

“I hope this helps then,” I said, as the last page scanned. “Here,” I unlocked my desktop and opened my email. “Just type in your email, and the pages are there,” I pointed at the icon. I turned back to see that Dean was still watching us, me. I sighed. Then I went back to the chair I’d taken when we got to the room. “What happened to him?” I asked, almost whispering, and gesturing with my head at Sam.

“The same thing that happened to Mom.” He barely moved his lips and I closed my eyes. “I don’t understand you and Dad, but we have to find him, Tali.”

I nodded. “You’ll have the pages, and I’ll make some calls.” I offered, knowing that the Winchesters would always be surrounded by pain and death. I just hoped that John wasn’t a fatality already. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

Sam was back and they finally left after I assured them one more time that I’d try to learn something for them. My back was pressed to the closed front door as I listened to them walk down the steps. I felt the tears that I had been feeling build since I saw the two of them at the top of my classroom finally break free. Sobbing, I had to hope that John was alright, that he would be found. That he’d come back to me.

[stanskzseungmin]

Operation Miroh | Stray Kids Mafia! AU ~ Chapter 8

Sorry this one took a while. I was trying a different more disjointed writing style to try and create the imagery for this chapter. Took a while because I trashed and redid this chapter like 4 times lmao. Hope you enjoy it <3

~Masterlist~

Chapters:  0.1, 0.2, 0.3, 0.4, 0.5, 0.6, 0.7, 0.8, 0.9

1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7

The atmosphere was tense.

The heavy stench of death lingered.

There were so little activity yet it felt as if the dead were back with a vengeance.

~

Heavy panting can be heard as a pair of hands grab at the screen before them.

~

The pristine beach is now a mass grave.

The beautiful clean sand that almost seemed to glow and glisten breathtakingly under the hot sun on a clear yet cloudy day.

~

Somewhere else in the meantime.

It was dark and silent. There were barely any lights. The only lights presents were blinking and on the verge of dying.

The air that once permeated with mutual content and comfort that a family shared, was now tense as a chill traveled up all of the building’s inhabitants' spines. There was no loud yelling. No laughter. No pitter pattering of feet. Just a dark and silent home where ten lived in harmony. 

But of the ten, two were not present: one on the verge of death.

~

The sea sparkled a brilliant blue hue, The dark color perfectly complemented the clear blue sky.

~

The silence was distrubed by a loud metal clattering. There were loud exhales and gasps of disbelief. The medic/engineer collided with the metal cart of supplies behind him as his hands frantically grabbed at the cool metal to maintain balance. His eyes were blown out in shock as panic and fear wracked through his system as it got harder and harder to breathe.

~

The clean beachside front is now polluted and littered with rubble and residue, The tan grains of sand now dyed and stained a brilliant red. The pristine clean and clear water is now filled with lifeless corpses, the bodies floating and swaying with the waves as their faces remained frozen in a silent scream and dead eyes. 

An explosion can be heard in the distance. A demolitionist was in full sprint towards the so called “Paradise.” As he ran, he was pursued, but the pursuers were quickly disposed of by the demolitionist dropping homemade pocket C4 like breadcrumbs.

~

The medic/engineers stared at the third screen down on the left column in horror. The once vibrant green screen signifying excellent health now glowed a menacing red. A sharp contrast to the eight greens surrounding and a singular almost as worrisome orange. 

The red screen.

리노

The heartbeat monitor displayed with a brilliant flashing red orange light has a singular word displaying on the lower left corner of the screen. 

DANGER

With haste, the medic/engineer barrelled out the room and down the hallway. The name of his leader erupted from his throat repeatedly as the inhabitants of the rooms past sprung out of the rooms appearing in the doorways ready, alert and worried. 

~

The demolitionist stood before two unconscious bodies. A pool of blood surrounded the pair as his shoes stepped into the darkening pool staining the dirt beneath him. 

He delicately pried the smaller body off the toxin specialist and very carefully slung both bodies over either shoulders.

||

“Seungmin! Put me down!” You exclaimed lightly hitting his back lightly with your balled fists. 

The chemistry student merely smirked at your immature antics.

The two of you weren’t friends per se, but you wouldn’t go as far as to call the both of you enemies. You were a bit of a goody two shoes and always go out of your way to report all suspicious activity on the campus. You had caught Seungmin picking on Jisung again and went up to the chemist to write him up. As per usual, Seungmin wasn’t having it. He never would.

And here you are now, pathetically slung over his shoulder as he carried you away. You knew where he was taking you. He took you there every time.

Seungmin pulled open the door of one of the more deserted janitor’s closet. It was so out of the way that it’s hardly any janitor’s first choice and it most definitely have a lack of nearby students. Hardly any students passed by here due to the shady and creepy atmosphere.

Even though the walled in city was safe, the paranoia of the dangers outside still lingered. The deserted hallways felt as if it had a distorted reality. There was no present danger but any who walked by without the proper constitution would get so wracked by paranoia where the imagined dangers seemed real. 

In the dark dusty room with a singular hanging bulb, Seungmin would toss you onto the ground. Your bottom met the floor ungracefully as Seungmin closed the door behind him quite harshly. The impact sent vibrations through the walls that would unsettle the dust as vision would slightly get hindered by the particles. You let out a small whine from the stinging pain radiating from the impact. Before you can protest or chide him, Seungmin would kneel before you and pull you into a bone crushing embrace and nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck.

Your arms protest, grabbing and pushing at him and sometimes digging your nails into his shoulders in a dire attempt to make him let you go. Seungmin would let out a small puppy whine and pouted. You felt your defenses weaken at the sound and wanted nothing more but to let him in. Before you even had a chance to raise your arms to return the embrace, Seungmin would pull away with a shit-eating smirk as he brought his index finger to his lips ordering your silence. 

Seungmin was already out and gone with the door shut as he left before you could properly register what just happened, your mind still puddy from your lowered defenses. 

A soft click echoed through the silence.

Every time.

Seungmin got you every time.

And everytime you still lowered your defenses to let him in.

Only for him to leave you alone like a deer in headlights.

~

You swore Seungmin only existed to make your life a living hell. You always thought it was a waste of talent for a practically math genius Seungmin to pick on people. You knew blackmail when you see it.

Doesn’t mean you had immunity towards it. Not towards Seungmin at least.

You noticed how Seungmin and two others hanging around one of the campus’ empty buildings. You recognized the two being top students in their respective subjects.

They were definitely doing shady stuff.

Today however, looks as if it was only Seungmin that’s present. You never saw the other two from your not so discreet hiding spot under the shade of a tree with your nose pressed into a book. 

You rushed to follow Seungmin into the building once you see him disappear behind the closing door. 

You didn’t take that long to enter after the boy. You made it in before the door closed completely, but it seemed as if Seungmin vanished into midair.

Sighing to yourself, you began walking down the dimly lit hallway and peeked into every passing door’s window pane. You noticed how the hallways cameras were all facing down, the led next to the lens were off.

Why were the cameras off?

You also noticed the smoke detectors were also disabled. 

Your thoughts were cut off when you heard a loud explosion ripped through the silence. Your ears rang lightly as it seemed as if the world was moving.

“Seungmin?” You breathed out. Panic bubbled deep within your chest. “Seungmin? SEUNGMIN!”

“Wow, you can’t leave me alone, huh?”

You whipped around to see Seungmin himself in the flesh perfectly fine and uninjured just his attire and visage covered in dark soot. You let out a loud sigh of relief as you ran up to him wrapping your arms around his frame in a bone crushing embrace.

“Alright, dummy,” Seungmin chuckled patting your back lightly. “Did you really have that little faith in me that you genuinely thought I was hurt?”

Seungmin rubbed your back in circles as his other hand rested gently on your waist. You mumbled softly into his shoulders. “Absolutely not. Not at all. You’re totally bonkers, insane. You’re going to scale this building and I’m going to have to write you up. Or worse, writing an autopsy report.”

“Thank you,” Seungmin whispered into your ear resting his chin on your shoulder.

“I wasn’t serious.”

“I was.”

You pulled back slightly in confusion to see a genuine smile on his face with his eyes show a loving and touched emotion. You felt your lips twitch upwards upon sight of him looking so vulnera-

“Now stop stalking me, dummy creeper.”

You would most definitely hear a pin drop from the silence that followed.

You fell for it again.

~

“Wow [by 3RACHA], you actually came,” you perked up from the bench you were sitting on.

“Of course I did, dummy,” Seungmin smiled, putting his hands into his black hoodie pocket.

“No fucking with Felix?” you jested with a smirk playing on your lips.

“Do you not realize who I am?” Seungmin scoffed. “Let’s just say Felix won’t be leaving detention without being griefed.”

“You customized an exit denial device didn’t you?”

“Ooooh yea,” Seungmin chuckled. 

“It’s not an ice bucket above the door is it?”

“Lame.”

“Oh dear,” you hand went up to your cheek in worry for the freckled Australian.

“So how am I going to get up there?” Seungmin pointed to the roof, his eyes never leaving yours wearing a face of disbelief.

“Uhh… parkour?”

Seungmin quirked an eyebrow.

“Sorry, I didn’t think that far ahead...” you looked off to the side rubbing the back of your neck nervously.

“You give me a boost and launched me up there?”

“Bad idea.”

“I stand on your shoulder and you stand up?” Seungmin suggested slinging his arm around your shoulders while pointing upwards with his index finger.

“Even worse,” you shrugged off his arm.

“So what do you suggest?” 

“Just get on my back, I’ll carry you up.”

“Your noodle arms can carry me?”

. . .

~

“I hate this place,” Seungmin mumbled. His arms were loosely wrapped around your shoulders with his legs finding purchase hooked onto your waist, his chest flush against your back. 

You let out a loud exhale as you gripped on the window sill. You looked back to see Seungmin gazing longingly at the wall. That damned wall.

“What do you want to do?” You whispered as you continued your climb.

“I want to destroy the wall.”

Your hand reached over the edge of the roof one after another as you pulled the both of you up.

“You do know what is out there, right?” you settled down on the cold roof, bringing your knees to your chest,

“Yea,” Seungmin sat next to you pulling you into his lap as you both gaze at the wall. At your vantage point, you can see beyond the tall concrete walls lined with barbed wire at the top. 

“The walls protect us from dangers outside. So many mafias and gangs. So much corruption. That doesn't include all the murders and kidnappings.”

“But what if the true dangers aren’t what is out there? But in here? Those mafias exist for a reason. What if they’re rebelling against something from inside? The people here are hardly people anymore. They’re sheeple that can be herded by the shepherd called the government.”

“I don’t want to become like them,” you whispered. “What if the schools existed only to turn us all into sheeple, brainwashing us into the same system. Schools only exist to condition people to work 8 hours a day. I don’t  want to be like them. I don’t want to lose my humanity.”

“You won’t. I promise,” Seungmin whispered into your hair. “You see past the wall, right?”

“It’s dark and empty.”

“I know. Dark, so we won’t be attracted to the government’s light like moths only to discover it’s a flame and empty, so we could be free without any restrictions.”

“Wait, we?” you whispered, shock evident in your voice and you broke free from his embrace to face him.

“Of course, dummy,” Seungmin smiled genuinely. “I promise.”

Seungmin thought to himself right then and there, ‘I’ll get you out of here, I promise.’

“This better not be one of your stupid blackmails again, Shit-min.”

. . .

[sasorikigai]

100 days of headcanons:

Day 32: Death

He is the only dead mortal even before the inception of Mortal Kombat, as Scorpion, the Spectre of the Netherrealm, previously Hanzo Hasashi, who was once a member of the Japanese Shirai Ryu ninja clan (a General, the second-in-command next to the Grandmaster in my headcanon). Given the name Scorpion for his blindingly fast and deadly fighting skill, his life was blessed with glorious kombat in the name of his Grandmaster. But when he, his family and his clan were brutally exterminated by Sub-Zero and the Lin Kuei, Scorpion's existence became eternal torment (the first Shirai Ryu extinction). 

Resurrected by the malevolent necromancer Quan Chi, he entered the Mortal Kombat tournament to slay Sub-Zero and avenge the murders of his kin. Even after taking in the survivors of the Netherrealm War (which had him, as Scorpion, killed once again by Sindel), not only he would continuously relive the deaths of his family and his clan, but he would of his own as well when Forrest Fox gets corrupted by the Kamidogu blade, then poisons Hanzo with one of his own mixtures and bounds him by his own spear and chain, forcing him to relive his worst moments while Fox kills a majority of the Shirai Ryu (the second Shirai Ryu extinction). Hanzo hallucinates of his past during the Lin Kuei's massacre of the Shirai Ryu. Though he fights through the Lin Kuei with ease, Hanzo falls to his knees in grief when he happens upon the frozen bodies of his wife Harumi holding their infant son Satoshi.

Throughout this ordeal, Hanzo Hasashi fights with both desperation and sole paternal protectiveness towards Takeda, even subduing and overpowering Raiden in the process to steal the dagger and pursue the tracks of the culprit. Once Chaosrealm’s cleric Havik reveals that he was the one who corrupted Raiden, Sub-Zero, and Forrest Fox, and states Scorpion is the next to be corrupted without Takeda around to save him, Hanzo is Infuriated that Havik killed his clan simply to provoke him, He gives into his Scorpion persona and ruthlessly attacks the chaos cleric with hellfire covered kicks and punches, culminating in breaking Havik's neck before punching his head into bits of bone and burning flesh. 

His vengeance fulfilled, Scorpion begins to walk away when he whirls around in shock to see Havik staggering back up, burning and smoking but regenerating from his wounds before launching a counterattack that sends Scorpion flying through the chamber doors. Havik then reveals Takeda in a possessed Shujinko's grip, the Chaosrealm Kamidogu held at his throat as Havik threatens to make Hanzo's apprentice his slave. Havik reveals he desires Scorpion's "friendship" so that fire and blood will "liberate" the realms from order under the Elder Gods rule, saying he only wanted Takeda as leverage, not caring what Hanzo does with the boy once he gives into his true nature. 

Hanzo hesitates to act, allowing Havik to begin ruthlessly attacking him, unable to fight back without risking Takeda's life. As Havik demands to know how much farther he has to push Hanzo before Scorpion takes over, Hanzo tells him "All...the way", much to Havik's delight. Havik then begins ripping Hanzo's arms from their sockets, and while the Shirai Ryu nearly gives into his hellfire, he refuses, looking to Takeda with a single tear in his eye as he tells his apprentice that he will always have a choice. With that, Havik punches Hanzo in the chest with enough force to puncture his flesh and collapse both of his lungs. Hanzo collapse in a pool of his own blood, and Takeda rushes to his teacher's side. As Havik eagerly awaits Scorpion's rebirth, Hanzo uses the last of his strength to tell Takeda to run, before succumbing to his wounds, dying in his student's arms. To Havik's disappointment, Takeda reveals that Scorpion was never another personality within Hanzo and as such, the hellspawn will not be reborn. Hellfire may dwell within him, but his life is more than the infernal destruction of the Netherrealm’s essence as Hanzo refutes, for the fire is his heart beating. Proclaiming that he has something to live for, 

This is one of many recounts of such intimate relationship Hanzo has with death, also excruciatingly struggling with his own anger, residing in the demonic form of Scorpion, as there are recurrent thoughts that take over his subconscious. In MKX story ending, Hanzo wanted to commit hara-kiri because of his complicit role in resurrecting Shinnok with his vengeance and wrath. Guilt-driven anger has always been Hanzo’s pitfall ever since he was resurrected back to life in MKX, just before the events of the comics. Even as he has significantly matured and developed in MK11, it’s something he has to purposefully and consciously be mindful, because he knows his temperament will always gravitate towards plunging in the depths of infernal, everburning embers of Netherrealm’s hellfire. 

Once again, when Scorpion later arrives to confront his present counterpart (Grandmaster Hasashi), who was restored to his human form, after the latter defeats D'Vorah, who was torturing Kharon for refusing to assist Kronika. Scorpion believes that Kronika can restore the Shirai Ryu to their true potential and original bloodline, viewing the present Hanzo's Shirai Ryu as tainted and imperfect. The two Scorpions clash, resulting in the victory of the present Hanzo, who knows that his past self only sides with Kronika just to restore their wife Harumi, and their son Satoshi, not including other original Shirai-Ryu clansmen. Hanzo tells Scorpion that one of Kronika's goals would be to resurrect Shinnok, the very being responsible for their family and clan's demise. When Hanzo is ambushed by D'Vorah, who poisons him with her venom, Scorpion, convinced by Hanzo's words, slices off her pincers and forces her to retreat. Scorpion's poisoned counterpart tells him that the Shirai Ryu are defined by their heart, not blood, before dying in Scorpion's arms.

Death isn’t something Hanzo Hasashi fears, lest he feels the excruciating torment of pain and suffering. He knows, as long as the Netherrealm exists and the fire in his heart burns, he will always resurrect back. Scorpion (the inner demon inside him) had been long been defeated, and all he has to do is to let the eternal glow of his magnanimous sun bask the world as he would see the evil and darkness burn ablaze. 

In the past, Kuai Liang took on his brother's colors and codename, Sub-Zero, and fought his killer, Scorpion, in Shao Kahn's tournament in Outworld. Sub-Zero defeated Scorpion and was ordered by Shao Kahn to finish him. Kuai made it clear he would not kill for him, but for his brother and prepared to finish Scorpion when a group of cyborg Lin Kuei appeared around him. Sub-Zero screamed in defiance that he would not be turned but was captured and put through the cyborg process without his volition. Kuai eventually regained control of himself but was shortly killed there after by Sindel. When he next regained consciousness, he was in the Netherrealm before the arch-sorcerer Quan Chi. 

Sub-Zero was confused by the fact his friend Smoke was restraining him along with Jax Briggs and Quan Chi explained their souls belonged to the Netherrealm, as Kuai's now did as well. Quan Chi told Kuai his army needed resilient souls for the coming war, and while he defiantly declared he would not be his slave, Quan Chi retorted he would be his puppet and used his magic to lift Kuai into the air before destroying his cyborg body, freeing what little remained of his organic body and making him back to a mortal being, using his dark sorcery to regrow Kuai's human body, reviving him as one of his revenants and forcing him to serve the Netherrealm.

In the final hours of the Netherrealm War, Sub-Zero fought alongside fellow revenants Scorpion and Jax Briggs against a squad of Special Forces soldiers in Quan Chi's fortress. Sub-Zero was ordered by Scorpion to protect Quan Chi but was too late as Sonya Blade defeated the sorcerer, allowing Raiden to finish his incantation, knocking Kuai unconscious. He would awaken months later, confused and believing himself in another hell. When a voice called out to him, he lashed out in anger with an ice blast, but Raiden easily deflected it, telling Kuai he was safe in the Sky Temple. He was confused about being truly alive again and Raiden explained his restoration to life was due to his power combining with Quan Chi's and the thunder god welcomes Kuai back. Kuai expresses his deep remorse over the actions he committed under Quan Chi's control, asking Raiden how he could live with himself.

Shortly after this, Sub-Zero gets possessed by the Kamidogu, Kuai pleads his innocence to Hanzo in desperation as they battle for inevitable death of one another, but Scorpion refuses to listen, only kicking Sub-Zero back while following up with his swords, all the while mocking Kuai for blaming his actions on the Kamidogu before shattering his kori blades. Kuai declares that the dagger possessed him while firing an ice blast at Scorpion and kicking him over with a slide. Kuai promises to return with Scorpion to Raiden to explain his actions but Scorpion only rages about how Kuai's brother denied the Lin Kuei's involvement with the destruction of the Shirai Ryu. Angered by Hanzo's inability to let go of the past, Kuai shouts at him to move on and proclaims that there are no more Lin Kuei, revealing the cyborgs killed all those who would not convert, with Kuai claiming he is all that is left of his clan. 

Scorpion summons two demonic minions to hold an off-guard Sub-Zero in place, declaring they will finish their feud before impaling Kuai Liang with both of his swords. Spitting blood, Kuai weakly tells Hanzo he is not a monster and pleads with him to remember the horrible things they both did in Quan Chi's service and asks him to remember the agony of being controlled by an evil spirit. Left for dead by Hanzo, Kuai futilely tried to struggle to his feet when a voice called out to him, telling him to stop or he would bleed out faster while telling him to ask himself what his life has meant up to this point. The stranger then treats Kuai's wounds as Kuai explains his story up to that point, and tells the man who saved his life, Bo' Rai Cho, that he will never be free, saying he will always be forced to kneel before sorcerers and demigods. As Bo' Rai Cho helps Sub-Zero up, the cryomancer contemplates hara-kiri, but Bo' Rai Cho laughs this off and tells him Raiden owes him a favor, which confuses Kuai.

The honorable death is something he had sought after, specifically after the Kamidogu endeavor, but he continues and trudges on, eventually taking over the role of the Grandmaster and reforming the clan to get rid of the criminality and being complicit in involving themselves to bring about the Earthrealm’s extinction. His role always had been to make amends for his unwilling service, bidding evil’s deeds by serving as the solemn protector of the Earthrealm and reform the Lin Kuei. He relentlessly fights against the forces of evil, as in the events of MK11, never putting off his duties and responsibilities as Sub-Zero and his allies immediately goes to Netherrealm where Kronika’s Keep is, guided by Kharon, and joined by Earthrealm’s surviving armies of the Special Forces, the Shaolin and Kitana’s reformed Outworld army to thwart Kronika’s schemes. 

Numerous deaths Kuai Liang experienced only made him strong and optimistic, as his cryomancy burned hotter than the sun as he vowed as his enemies will fall like snow. Even as a half-human who has seen and threatened to be consumed under the mortality and rigidity of death multiple times against evil, Sub-Zero has always fought to ensure the Earthrealm’s safety and sustenance, and fight until his last breath. 

[agateshot]

"Hawthorn… is dead."

Meadowsweet can hardly stomach to say the worlds, but… Such is the life of a Blade of the Dark Moon.

Had they remained Silver Knights, this would have never happened. Being apart of Lord Gwyn's forces during the war against the dragons should have been enough. It should have sufficed for any man's life.

But Hawthorn was never one to quit when he had his teeth in something. Never. He was still angry, still upset at what happened to their mother. Still wanted revenge. Something they couldn't get from the Boreal Valley.

Their mother, Rose, hadn't wanted them to fight, but what did she know? She had been a human, puppeted along by a dragon, believing herself to be in love. Hawthorn and Meadowsweet had ruined her body, and when age had wilted the beauty of her youth, their father lost interest. Left her to care for his sons, left her to go mad.

Hawthorn had always been the stronger of the two sons, Meadowsweet always his shield while he was their blade. Twin brothers, twin dragonkin fighting with one heart, one body.

Meadowsweet always knew that if he failed to go along with what Hawthorn wanted, he would fight regardless. He would die, no matter how often Meadowsweet told him to watch his side.

And he did. Their father had died with Hawthorn, but that was no consolation. His father had a moment where he had apologized for leaving them, but Hawthorn would not be soothed. The memory of Hawthorn leaping at the old, crippled dragon, tail streaming out behind him, and the sick, cold sound of claws slicing open armor. Meadowsweet had frozen, watching his lifeless brother being gulped down onto the maw of the beast, only the sound of his heart ringing in his ears so sharp that all other sounds were drown out.

He wishes he could say he took his father's life, that he was the one who sliced off the head of the beast, but… it was Hawthorn. Not even fatal wounds could cause him to drop his sword, his last ounce of strength, stuck in the throat of his father, was to slice through the muscles, sinew, and scales of the terrible old thing. The look on the face of the ancient dragon was of perplexion, like a cat about to throw up. Like a flash of lighting, Hawthorn's blade appeared, sweeping out into a circle, dropping their father's head to the dirt.

Hawthorn did not live long after that. His last wish was that Meadowsweet take his own and their father's tails to the Nameless Moon, to tell him of what happened.

To explain how thoroughly Meadowsweet had failed to protect his brother.

There's no way… There's no way he can continue to fight. He had only taken up the banner of war for his bother's sake. The only reason he had become a Knight was for his brother, and again, the only reason to become a Blade, was for his brother. Without him… what point was there to fight? He wants to believe in the justice that the Nameless Moon espoused, but… he can't. He doesn't see the point to doing all of this in a world where his brother no longer breathed.

He leaves three tails at the mist wall of the Nameless Moon, his father's, his brother's, and his own severed tail, symbolic of the covenant he had severed with the God of Vengeance. His penance for lying in his devotion. He would have given anything, even his own life, to no longer follow the path that he and his brother had walked for such a long time.

Even though he leaves Anor Londo, his pain and regret follows him, his new companion. The ghost of Hawthorn dogged at his side.

In his travels, regret turns to sickness. It starts off nothing more then a cough in the back of his throat, a persistent ache in his back, (like the stump of his tail calling out for its return), a lethargic feeling that hangs over him like he has scales of his own weighing him down. He knows that if he were to return to the Nameless Moon, his ailments would be banished. But… he embraces them. This agony was at least present, and thicker in his bones than even his grief.

Should he die to sickness, then he still has lived longer than his brother.

Meeting her…

Meeting her felt like a side note. An event so unimportant in his life that had she not returned, he would have forgotten it. She had given him her handkerchief, told him to shut up if he was going to die already, and then promptly fell asleep without giving him her name.

She was gone in the morning, the cloth she left the only sign he had met the woman.

The next time he had met her, she was neck deep in a horde of undead, nothing but a sword by her side. She wasn't doing well, leaving her flank open, and as clumsy as the hollow soldiers were, they were going to take her life. He can't-- not again!

The shield he uses still had the arm of the undead he ripped it from attached, the flimsy thing threatening to crumble to pieces under the blows, but it was enough. His strength wasn't what it use to be, but it was enough to knock the hollows back, the woman sending them down for another death.

"I didn't need your help." She says, turning to look at him prying out the arm in his new shield. "I had it under control."

"I didn't say thank you for the handkerchief." He replies, looking up at her, his eyes glittering in the light.

She meets his gaze for a long moment, before sheathing her sword, holding her hand out to him.

"My name is Sasha," She says, "You're welcome to come die at my house."

"Thank you, I'm sure." Meadowsweet says, agate eyes rolling as he takes her hand.

She was funny. Sharped tongued, witty, and quick. Harsh, sometimes, but kind and brave. Unafraid to be herself, fearless of the hollow haunted wilds. Her hometown wasn't much, but she was one of their strongest defenders.

He finds himself falling easily into their community, listening to their stories, their histories, and finds himself lockstep with Sasha when she heads out on patrols into the wilds. It was different than fighting with Hawthorn, but he finds that even though he had left it, the desire to fight still sings strong within him. He delights in fighting with Sasha.

He forgets, for a time, that he is sick. Sasha loves him, and he loves her. When she was heavy with their child, she still insists on going out and fighting, even when he promises to take care of it. Their son is born in a den in the woods, Meadowsweet guarding the entrance from any stray beast that may come their way. She is healthy, and their little child is healthy. Sasha calls him Petya.

Try as he might, Meadowsweet can only form the name of his brother.

In his mind, he clearly sees that the child is his son, and he knows that his name is Petya, and he loves his child very much. Smart. Blonde like his mother. Blue eyes ringed in gold. His eyes. The eyes of his brother.

Every time he calls for his son, the name of his brother appears instead. Every time his brother is called, the shadow looms larger over the world, and whispers of the eternal flame rise. It's going out, the world is dying.

Meadowsweet, the dragonspawn who had shunned the Nameless Moon, is dying as well.

"Do you love me?" Meadowsweet had said one day.

"Yes." Said Sasha.

"We need to go home." He tells her. "We need to take Petya home."

"My village will die without me." Sasha says, taking his hand, "You're asking me to let them die."

"I've seen it." Meadowsweet whispers, "I've seen you die. I've seen our boy die. We need to go home, Sasha. We need to save him. Your village is lost, I can't lose you too."

He can see her struggling with the thought, her loyalty to her village-- for what? The ramblings of a dying old man? The whispers of some long hidden god? Surely she can't leave everything she's known, just to go to some distant land that may not even be real.

"Will the life Petya live be worth it?" She asks, "Can you promise me that?"

"Have our lives been worth it?" Meadowsweet asks, "Every moment we draw breath brings something new. I want him to have the chance to breathe many breaths."

She chews on her lip for a long moment, and then hesitantly agrees.

He hopes he isn't making a mistake.

[fundeadasylum]

Fiery the Vengeance, Hate Will Drain Me

Hey kids, it’s time to feel fuckbad.

Micoverse belongs to @mushroomminded

Title from “The Cage” by Sonata Arctica. 

Content warnings: mentions of physical and verbal abuse, implied drug and alcohol abuse, purple prose bullshit, vague inhuman concepts, lotsa headcanons

xxxxxxxxxxx

He’s no stranger to bruises and breaks, scrapes and scratches. He has an unfortunate familiarity with broken bones, concussions, and floating ribs. He knows very well how cruel the world can be, how heartless people are, how selfish and ignorant and nasty they really are under their polish and their smiles. It’s a knowledge that once drove him nearly mad with anger, the injustice of it boiling him from the inside out, spewing curses into song lyrics and screaming at the world to listen, damn it, listen to me! Everyone’s sick! This world is sick and people are awful! Look at what they’ve done! There’s nothing good in this life, can’t you see that!? Why won’t you listen to me!?

            Don’t you ignore me, brat! I know what you do every night! Filth!

Jake Pierly knows intimately how a few minutes of trauma can congeal into an ugly, sticky film of loathing and despair.

It’s something you never really shake off.

So when Milo comes home and tries to sneak past the kitchen where Jake is unpacking things to make dinner, he knows something is wrong. He can sense old fear and tastes cold iron in the back of his mouth and he’s in the hall before he can stop himself.

“Milo.”

It’s not a question and something in his voice makes the teenager freeze. Jake feels a gut-wrenching sensation and for a moment his vision is smeared and he sees himself standing there, a tired and broken teenager with dark hair and clumsily hidden bruises. Then he blinks and Milo’s staring at the floor, hunched into his hoodie. He’s desaturated, drained. Someone’s been feeding off him and Jake feels that barest spark of that old rage deep in his belly.

He’s crosses the short distance between them and puts his hand lightly on Milo’s shoulder. It still elicits a flinch and Jake was to swallow down the agitated puff of smoke clawing up his throat from that old flame. Instead, he steers Milo down the hall and up the stairs, ushering the boy into a shark-filled room and letting him settle onto his bed before Jake perches beside him. Milo’s still not looking at him, curled around his sharks and sea creatures, hiding among the things he loves and trying to find solace, trying to find stability, in the things that have never and will never hurt him. He’s pushed his face into the belly of a whale shark, exposing the back of his neck. And the blue-purple marks of worried flesh that are revealed as his hair falls away.

Jake wants to snarl but he bites his lip hard until he can stamp down the embers trying to burn themselves to life again.

“Milo, who’s hurting you?”

Wide eyes look up at him sharply, fear and anguish and hate and the beginnings of that awful, sticky anger staring back at Jake.

“You...thought we didn’t notice,” Jake says and Milo looks away, guilt writing hard edges into his posture, “If you told anyone, it’d get worse, right?” A stiff nod into the belly of the shark. Jake feels like cold fire and his next words taste like ash as they spill over his tongue,

“They make you feel like it’s your fault, don’t they?”

Milo starts crying.

Milo starts crying and Jake feels something nearly forgotten in him crack and flake away, like a scar being picked at until it bleeds again. He gathers the boy into his arms, holds him gently, allows him room to get away if he needs to. But Milo just leans into him and cries and Jake hopes that those tears can wash away the hate and rage before Milo’s coated in it too much to escape. He doesn’t want Milo to be

             drowning in the sour taste of alcohol and stale pretzels, bass beat ripping at his ears and thudding against his ribs so hard he thinks they might break, doing anything and everything to white out his brain and just forget

    tangled in the stench of cigarette smoke and the burn of hard drugs scraping the back of his throat, muscles begging at him to get off his feet, breath rasping in tired lungs that have been screaming, screaming, howling at senseless crowds all night

like him.

------

He cries.

Quietly, alone in his room, Jake lets himself cry.

At first it’s for Milo. Poor Milo who deserves so much better than this. Poor Milo who’s been cursed and doesn’t even know it. Poor Milo who he loves dearly but also hates because he sees his old friend there and just wants things to go back to the way they were. Poor Milo who is suffering for no fucking reason.

So at first, he’s crying for the

                     man trapped and forgotten in a boy’s body

boy carrying the burden of bruises and abuse that someone his age shouldn’t even know about.

But those thoughts tear open wounds he thought had long healed and the tears of grief turn into tears of anger. He shoves his face into his pillow, biting back a scream and settling for a whimpering growl, fingers clenched so tightly that his arms ache. The anger is hot in his chest, lances of barbed wire that burn white-hot and scald his insides, digging into dusty memories, prying open scars that he’d ignored, reminding him of things that fill his mouth with a sour taste of bile and a stinging bite of metal.

           Jacob Pierly you get back here this instant!

                       You’re just like your good for nothing father. Worthless.

                                 Take your shirt off and hold still, brat. I’m going to teach you a lesson in respect!

His back stings and he breathes hot air out between clenched teeth.

This can’t go on.

This won’t go on.

He’ll make sure of it. He’s not going to let anyone hurt Milo.

--------

Her name is Birdie.

It’s a disgustingly sweet name and Jake’s lip curls, stomach churning with raw dislike when he hears it.

Birdie.

She acts like a bird of prey but Jake can see her for what she really is; a rotten, hollow carcass, festering with disease and ruining everything she touches. Still, if she wants to play with the big boys, Jake will indulge her.

She started it.

She kicked the hornet’s nest.

She attacked the cub and now the lion is angry.

-------

Jake’s nothing, if not patient.

So he waits.

He waits and he counts each and every bruise and mark and scratch Milo comes home with. He lets it fuel his anger, adding coals to the slowly building fire inside. He feels it blistering against his ribcage, licking at the bones, hungry to escape. But he restrains himself. Saves it. He’ll need it.

He consoles Milo when he can. If he can. It’s getting harder and harder to wipe away the tears and the slimy film of hate slowly coating the boy. Jake wants to tell him to breathe, wants to tell him to ignore the hatred. Don’t be like me, he wants to beg, don’t be afraid of everyone. Don’t let that fear stem from a deeply rooted hatred that was planted by someone you thought you could trust. Please, Milo, please, be stronger than me. You deserve better than me, so please, keep holding on for just a little longer.

It’s almost over, Milo, it’s almost over.

--------

Jake watches Milo stumble away from the girl who’s watching him with a hungry, triumphant, sickening smile.

He wants to go to the boy and hug him and tell him how loved he is, how important he is, how much people care about him. But he can’t right now. So he lets Milo limp home with a bruised shin, knowing Dan will be waiting for him, and he waits.

He doesn’t wait long.

Birdie cuts through the overgrown trail in the back of the park every so often and that evening is no different. Jake stands directly in her path, arms crossed and head tilted slightly to one side, his expression carefully blank. There’s a storm in his eyes, though, and they burn brightly.

She stops, eyes him with the look of a hunter, dismisses him as an already broken toy, “Can I help you?”

It’s all Jake can do to keep from yelling at her, jaw clenched as he grinds the words out between hatred and anger, “Stay away from Milo.”

The cool smile she’d been wearing falters for a half a second before it’s back, coy and smooth and full of arrogance, “Sorry, I don’t know what you mean. We’re just friends. I help him.”

“You hurt him.” Jake growls and his breath is hot, simmering in the air. Something smells like smoke and hot pavement.

Her smile turns sour and dangerous and this is what Milo must see before she lays hands on him. A viper behind a smile, poison masked by honey and sugar, sweet touches that bite hard and chew and tear until there’s nothing left except ruin and a rot that’s as foul as she really is on the inside.

Jake hates her.

Birdie dismisses him with a cock of her hip, tilting her head so her ponytail swings behind her, “You have to know how this looks, right? A grown man cornering a teenager in the woods? Suspicious.Imagine how much it would hurt Milo to find out one of his dads is stalking his friend.”

Jake grinds his teeth, heart pounding, fists clenched and shaking at his sides. He wants to wring her neck, dig his fingers into her throat until the bones grind and snap, wants to inflict upon her every hurt she put upon Milo. His anger burns so harshly he could taste it, feel it cooking him from the inside out, boiling his blood in his veins. But he sucks in a tight breath and holds back. Not yet. Not here. Not now.

Her time would come.

“Go ahead and tell him,” Jake breathed out, the words hot but his voice cold and steady, “But let’s be honest, Birdie,” He spits her name like a curse and relishes silently in the way it makes her eyes narrow, “I’m a tired, 40 something with a heart condition and Milo knows it. I can’t exert myself without risking my life. So who would really come out looking like the victim here?”

The silence that follows is dangerous. The world holds its breath as the two stare each other down.

Birdie breaks eye contact first. She turns away with a shake of her head and a roll of her eye, brushing off the hidden threats as if Jake is no more consequence that a twig in her path. She stalks past him, nose in the air, choosing to ignore his presence completely. As she brushes by him, Jake turns to watch her walk away.

“Oh, and Miss Birdie…”

She actually deigns to send him a bored looking scowl over her shoulder. He just smiles, showing his teeth, and

       If you ever speak to me like that again, I’ll make you regret being born!

               Freak! Just like your rotten father!

                             Disgusting.

                                                         Awful.

                                                                              Filth.

“I meant it when I said to stay away from my son. Just think about it.”

He leaves before she can get the last word in. But the stink of her follows him home and he stands for too long in the shower, trying to wash off the rot and hatred and pain. All it seems to do is make his open sores bleed more.

-------

She doesn’t heed him. Not the he expected her to. After all, what threat could he pose aside from a stern lecture? There was no proof about what she was doing and Milo, well, Milo would never talk. He knew where that would get him. Jake knew where that would get him.

So he would protect Milo. It was a parent’s duty to look after their child, even if that child was an old friend whose life they’d ruined.

Old habits are swimming to the surface with Jake’s bubbling temper. His fingers twitch for a lighter, lungs aching for that old burn of cigarette smoke, his lips chewed raw by a fix he can’t have. The liquor store is looking awful friendly these days. His gaze snags on the bottles of cheap vodka and even cheaper mixers, making his tongue curl with the memories of

                straight shots one after another, acid burn and sweet fruity flavor tangling down his throat, sticky fingers on a half empty bottle, laughing into the dark alleys of the night, wandering down street they own because no one else will

                                      chasing cigarette smoke with rum and lukewarm pepsi, kicking vending machines until they spit out old chips, screaming half remembered lyrics from rooftops and hurling glass bottles into the dark, listening for the shatter, laughing because what you really want to do is cry but fuck that, fuck them, fuck this entire sick and stupid world, you’re all out of tears so you break and you destroy and

fuzzy headaches and strained hangovers, the taste of sick still clinging dry and crusted to his mouth.

He keeps walking.

Dan knows something is bothering him. Tries to ask but Jake just murmurs something about stress and difficult clients and makes vague gestures in the air. Dan’s kind enough to realize it’s a subject not to be prodded and leaves well enough alone. But he hovers, trailing after Jake and trying to coax smiles from him. He dotes on Milo and manages to drag them both to the aquarium and it’s nice because for a day they can forget about all the bad and sour things in the world, all the rot clinging to their heels and the dirt under their nails from trying to keep their heads above the ground so they aren’t buried alive by all the shit piling on top of them.

Milo comes home from school the next day bandages on his arms and a raw red scratch on his cheek. He says he fell on the cement outside the school. But when Jake helps him clean up and change the bandages before bed, he knows it’s a lie.

Falling on the cement would not leave precise and vicious lines across his pale skin like that.

They get a phone call from the school, they’re worried about Milo’s mental health and his situation at home. Jake has to hand the phone off to Dan because he’s holding it so tightly it creaks against his palm and the anger inside him wants to spill out like an erupting volcano. He settles for sitting next to Dan on the couch and furiously bouncing his leg, chewing his fingertips raw as he glares at the carpet and listens to Dan explain that they’ve got everything covered, Milo’s just dealing with a lot right now, asking a lot of questions about his missing dad, and they’re doing their best, thank you for your concern, and no, no we don’t need a psychologist recommendation, thank you, no, goodbye.

Jake’s done. Enough is enough. And this has been too much.

He feels bad about it but he gets the number from Milo’s phone. He makes a call. Then he makes a different one.

He asks Kathy for a favor. She says it will cost him. He says he knows, asks her how much, is told she will collect later and he probably won’t like it. He growls; he’d do anything for Milo. The silence that answers him asks why he hasn’t tried to turn him back.

Jake hangs up and swallows his tears with coffee so hot it scalds his mouth. He almost wishes for the burn to be alcohol instead.

-------

When Birdie walks into the room, she stops because there’s only Jake inside. Only Jake sitting at a small, round topped cafe table with a cup of steeping tea and a teapot as white as the rest of the room. It would be almost peaceful if not for the strange, white blankness of this oddly large room in the back of the magic store no one can find unless they need to.

Kathy shuts the door and Jake catches her eye before it closes all the way. She looks troubled. She looks almost disappointed. She looks like she’s giving him permission. Jake returns his attention to Birdie as she sits down across from him, distrust in her eyes but a small smile on her face.

“Weird place for a chat,” She says, folding her hands on the tabletop, ignoring the teacup in front of her.

Jake blows on the surface of his drink and sips it carefully. Peppermint and spice fill his mouth and soothe his throat. He sets the cup down and meets Birdie’s gaze with an unimpressed look, “I’m going to ask you one more time: please leave Milo alone.”

She cocks an amused eyebrow at him, two steps down from mocking, salt and soured things dripping from her words, “Oh, I get a please this time, huh? I see where Milo gets his rudeness from.”

               You rude little shit! Don’t you dare speak to your mother that way!

“Last chance, little bird,” Jake’s voice is the rumble of distant war drums, the tremble of a bass guitar tuning its strings, “Swear to stay away from Milo and you can walk out of here, no hard feelings.”

Birdie doesn’t so much as frown as let some of her true rotten nature slip through her mask, “Are you actually threatening me now? Wow, no wonder Milo thinks he’s hot shit, his scrawny dad does too. You said it yourself, you’re nothing but a wheezing heart condition on legs. I’m not afraid of you.” She leans back, tilts her chin up, authority she doesn’t truly have heavy in her voice as she sneers at him, daring him to just try, just try it Jacob Pierly, and it will be the last thing you ever do as a free man.

Jake sighs and pushes his tea away, “What do you know about magic, Miss Birdie?”

She scoffs, “Are you serious?”

He keeps going because if she’s not going to play along, let alone play nicely, he’ll just try and make her understand the hard way, “I’m not talking Harry Potter, wave a wand, say a magic word kind of magic. It doesn’t work like that anymore. Times change, magic changes. Kathy could explain it better. But words have power,” He glares at her and there’s something creeping across her face now, something that might be understanding though she’s fighting to keep her mask up,

“Words have power and every foul word you’ve said to Milo has hurt him just as much as every bruise or cut or hit.” She opens her mouth to protest the accusations but Jake doesn’t give her the chance, “You’ve been feeding off my son, draining him, like a fucking leech, like the rotten, hollowed out bitch you are. And I’m not going to put up with it anymore. I warned you. I told you to lay off. But like a parasite, you wouldn’t let him go.”

“What the hell is your problem?” Concern laces her voice, the first trickles of what might grow into fear, “All I ever did was help him see how damaged he really is. He’s broken and he knows it. His own father didn’t even want him. I’m the only one who does.”

Jake seethes, lets the anger he’s been restraining lash free, feels it flare to life in his chest, a meteor crashing into his self control. He stands up from the table, fury spitting smoke from between his teeth and digging his fingers into the tabletop,

“You’re just like the rest of them,” Jake doesn’t sound quite human anymore. His voice is a grinding snarl, the screech of guitar strings and the crash of a bass drum, that thrum in the chest from the amps that pump out bass sounds until you feel it rattling your organs, “Just as greedy, just as nasty, just as unwilling to change. Selfish and destructive. You take and you take and you take until there’s nothing left. And I hate all of you.”

Birdie trips over her feet, backing away from the table as Jake allows the festering pool of destructive rage inside him to boil over. He feels skin stretch and tear, muscles pop, and bones snap. It should hurt, logically he knows it should hurt. But the pure anger that pumps hot iron through him burns more than anything else, drowning out all other sensations.

It’s been well over twenty years since Jake has given in and let the music and rage control him. There’s a reason he hung up his guitar and hasn’t picked it up since.

“You hurt so many people,” The screech of feedback through a microphone, the chitter of drumsticks, the rumble of a bass guitar, “And you don’t care because you think it’s fun. You make me sick. I hate you all.“

Steel and black lacquered wood warp the thing that used to be Jacob Pierly. Spikes of metal, strings of shimmering silver, the image of something bestial and full of teeth and rage and the screaming music of the trampled and downtrodden fills the room. This is no mere monster, this is a god, a deity of song and fury and it has its sights set entirely on Birdie. And for once in her life, she cowers before something and feels weak and helpless.

“You make this planet hell,” The thing that is Jake says and its voice is a harmony of a thousand choruses and the riffs of a million guitars, “You’re the reason the devils are here. You stuff your ears with cotton and you bathe in all our tears.” It could almost be a song, the breath of the great beast the crash of cymbals and its movements the rolling mosh pit in front of the stage. Its eyes are the flickering stage lights, its melody almost lost in the scream of its own voice, “You’re the reason why we suffer, you selfish, ugly thing. You’re the reason children cry. And the reason why we scream.”

It leans its head down, down, down until it’s inches away from the cowering human girl who is just now realizing that she’s in way over her head. She reeks of fear and rotten things and the beast snorts, a gust of wind and the faint cheers of a crowd following the hot breath.

“It would be so easy to crush you,” Says a voice that almost sounds like Jake, the words trailed by haunting sing-song notes like lost souls, “The way you have crushed so many others. But music is not about destroying. It is about making you see what you wish to ignore.” Those razor sharp teeth of glinting steel draw nearer and Birdie whimpers through her tears, pressing herself back against the wall, shaking from head to toe at the expanse of the creature before her,

“And you have ignored so much. All the agony you have inflicted upon others will be reflected onto you. Maybe you will understand once your are suffering too.”

And then there is screaming, very human and very afraid, and the roar of an angry band, shouting lyrics into a rowdy night crowd, the last show, the last song, the end of hate and rage and suffering.

And then there is silence.

-------

“I thought you were going to kill her,” Kathy says later. They’re alone in the shop and Jake is nibbling on a bar of chocolate, letting the warmth and sugar rejuvenate him. He looks more exhausted than ever before.

“Wanted to,” He says to the floor between his bare feet. He’d remembered to bring spare clothes but had forgotten shoes. He knows better than to ask Kathy. The drive back to the house doesn’t require footwear anyway. He pushes himself up on wobbly feet, swaying slightly before he stabilizes,

“But no matter how angry the music is, I don’t...I’m not…”

“I know,” Kathy says, “Now get out of here. I’ll call in your debt later.”

Jake feels a twinge of fear at the words but makes his way shakily for the front door of the magic shop. As he steps into the darkening evening, Kathy calls after him,

“You shouldn’t bottle up your feelings so much, Jacob Pierly. One of these days you might not be able to keep them inside.”

“I know,” Jake tells the balmy dusk of the parking lot, “I know…”

-------

Dan asks him why he came back without shoes and Jake

               tries to cover up the smoke stench with candle and cologne, only drinks hard and heavy when he knows he won’t be going home, washes the smell of vomit and old sweat and other nightly escapades off with a hose in his friend’s backyard

tells him they were chewed up by a dog or something. While they were still on his feet. And, no, Dan, I’m fine, I’m just really tired, it was a long day, can we do this later?

But when he’s laying in his bed, Jake stares at the palms of his hands, tracing long healed calluses and the faded white scars from guitar strings with his eyes and he can imagine

                massive claws like guitar picks, steel and shiny and flawlessly dangerous, muscled body of abyss black and rippling silver strings

blood on them.

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe.

Rage and music are a powerful beast and they makes their homes in the hearts of those who are hurt the most and cannot fight back. Music has a power to it, words have power, and fueled by emotion they are all the more dangerous.

Milo has already been cursed once. Jake will not see him cursed again. Jake will not see Milo carrying the same burdens he has.

There’s already enough scars between them to last a lifetime.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Basically vent fic where I live vicariously through Jake.

Also I was totally think of Orgamgoden from Brutal Legend while I was writing monster Jake. But I left his exact description purposefully vague. Concepts are beyond the human ability to quantify into words.