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seiyasabi · 4 years ago

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A Shifter’s Dream

(This is a Yandere Bunny-Shifter N’Doul x Female Reader story :P Plz proceed w caution

TW: !Noncon!, breeding kink!, hella cum!, he holds you down onto the mattress!, kinda sus bc u just turned 18, he deadass bites you, !pees on u in rabbit form, mounting!, mentions of euthanization of animals at the beginning!, etc..)

“-Mama, Mama!” Your voice echoes throughout the kitchen, as you hurry inside, hands clutching something protectively. Your mother turns, startled by your sudden appearance and anxious sounding voice.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen? Did those neighbourhood boys bully you again?” Ever the mother hen, she frets over you, grabbing you gently by the shoulders and taking a good look at you.

Shaking your head, you lift your hands, showing the older woman a taupe coloured rabbit, “Look! Mrs. Ruitz next door is selling bunnies! She says this one is blind, so she hasn’t sold it, so she said she’d give him to me if you say yes! Please, please, please say yes! She said she’d put him down if he wasn’t sold,” Tears bead your eyes as you practically beg your mother, who doesn’t seem to have the heart to tell you ‘no’ at that moment.

She sighs, weighing her options. You’re already ten, so you should be able to take care of him with minimal effort on her part…

“I suppose that’s alright. You just have to promise me that you’ll take care of him!” You instantly perk up, a bright smile on your face.

“I promise! I promise!” You hold the bun closer to your chest, practically rocking it in the process, “Thank you, Mama!”

The older woman smiles once more, patting you goodnaturedly on the back, “Good. Now, let’s go talk to Mrs. Ruitz- we have no idea how to take care of it.”

Walking across the street, your mother and your neighbour talk about your bunny’s proper care. It turns out, your bun is a male, who is previously named N’Doul. Not wanting to confuse the bunny, you decided to keep his unusual name, chattering away happily to him as you sat in the grass, barely listening to his care requirements.

The bun listens intently to what you’re saying, relishing your gentle hold around him.

He must be lucky, he thinks, to have found someone as lovely as you for a mate.

Eight years later, and you and your bun are still going strong. You’d recently moved into your own apartment, trying out adult life as you start college.

Today is your birthday, officially making you an adult.

The day was filled with festivities: your mom made you your favourite breakfast in bed (scaring you half to death- apparently she has a copy of your apartment key), your friends took you out shopping, and your mom took you to a birthday dinner. All in all, it was a great day!

But, a certain bun was seemingly more excited than you were for your birthday, because he seemingly peed himself in excitement the moment you picked him up. Lightly scolding him, you set him down on his rabbit bed that you made him, “‘Doul, what the heck man!” You laugh a little, remembering back to when he was but a teeny kit, “You’re not a baby anymore, bubs, you can’t just pee on me!” The bun is surprisingly smart, allowing you to let him mosy around your house (now your own apartment that you saved up for for years). After he figures out the layout, he’s able to figure out where his pee pad is, along with his grass bed, actual bed, and food/drink area. He is also able to hear where you are, allowing him to cutely hop after you if you’re not already carrying him.

Going to the bathroom to wash your hands, you hear his barely audible pawsteps behind you, “It’s okay, ‘Doul, I’m just gonna clean myself off, okay?” Flipping on your faucet, you get your hands nice and wet, before you pump some soap onto your hands, and start scrubbing, “Maybe I should shower now, since I’m already here…” You trail off when you feel you bun settle himself on your foot.

Glancing down, you catch him just in time, as he starts to hump you. Gasping in surprise, you try to gently shake him off, but that seemingly just gets himself off faster, as you feel a foreign wetness against your skin, “What the fuck? Are you serious, N’Doul?!” Annoyed with the way he’s suddenly acting, once you finish washing your hands, you reach down, and scoop the bun up, “That’s not cool, bro. Because of that, you can wait in my room while I shower.”

Plopping him in his bunny bed, you turn on your heel, and hurry back into the bathroom, closing the door before he can follow you inside.

Stepping out of your shower, you wrap yourself securely with your plush towel. Not bothering to wipe off the steam from your mirror, you bust out of the bathroom, only to be greeted with your now empty room. The door leading to the hallway is wide open, and your bunny is nowhere to be seen. Completely stupefied, you have no idea how to respond. Did the bun hop up high enough to hit the handle? That should be impossible! A Holland Lop is big, but not that big!

“N’Doul? Bun? Where on Earth did you go?” Deeming your bunny’s safety higher than you changing into clothing, you quickly move out of your room clad in only your towel.

You go room by room, searching frantically for your beloved pet. He has to be here somewhere!

So, when you finally make it to your living room/kitchen, you let out a yell of fear. There, on your couch, is a naked, bunny eared, buff man who’s humping into your previously used panties, “Who the hell are you! Get the fuck out of my house!” Reaching for the baseball bat in the hallway, you hold it up with one hand threateningly, the other currently holding your towel.

A deep, rumbling laugh is heard from the mysterious man, who then tosses aside your soiled panties, “Don't be like that, Love. Your N’Doul only getting myself ready for you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? And what did you do with my bunny?” He chuckles, relishing your cute reaction.

“I’m your bunny, (Your Name). I’m N’Doul.”

“The hell you are! Get out, before I bash your skull in!” He stands to his feet, completely towering over you. Gulping in fear, you move backwards, but then you notice his eyes. They’re the same milky white your bun has, “I-I’m warning you! Stay away from me, you creep!”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, showing how large his hands are compared to yours, “I’m not going to hurt you- I wouldn’t be a good mate if I did.”

Without thinking, you chuck your baseball bat at his bunny-eared head, before turning and running to your room. You hear the metal bat make contact, along with a yelp of pain. Locking your door behind you, you search your room for your car keys. Not long after you dump out your purse in pursuit of your keys, you hear loud footsteps thumping towards you.

A loud bang echoes throughout the room, as the man’s hit practically shakes the foundation of the wall, “Open the door, (Your Name)! Open it right now!” He sounds angry, and when you don’t respond fast enough, he starts trying to break down the door, his muscled body practically bending the thin wood with each body slam.

Screaming in fear, you start to cry. Thick tears drip down your face, as you plead with him to stop, “I-I don’t want to! Get out of my house!”

With one last mighty slam, the humanized N’Doul breaks into your bedroom. His nose is bleeding from the bat hitting him in the face, but other than that, he’s completely unscathed. Hearing you cry, he immediately goes to shush you, “Don’t cry, Love. Now that you’re considered an adult in your species, we can finally begin our life together.”

To his chagrin, you continue to sob, completely scared out of your mind, “No! Get out! Stop pretending to be my bunny, it’s weird!” He approaches you slowly, his much bigger form slightly bumping into a few pieces of furniture. This gives you enough time to make a break for it.

You try to round his form, almost making it to what’s left of your bedroom door, only to be stopped by a meaty arm practically slamming you onto your bed. Trying to get up, you quickly realise that escape is impossible, as his muscular legs practically trap you against your mattress. He uses his weight to hold you down, as he bites into your neck, trying to make you submit.

“Shh, stop resisting me, my Love. I promise that I’ll take care of you for the rest of our lives,” He continues to bite at you, as your screams are muffled into your sheets.

His large hands rip your towel off of you, exposing your slightly wet body to his prying fingers. The rough pads of his fingers rub at your erect nipples and unprepared slit, trying to get you as wet as possible.

“You’ll be a wonderful mother, I can tell you were made for this,” His cock head bumps against your tight entrance, forcing itself in as you scream.

He starts a breakneck pace almost immediately, relishing how your walls massage him so sinfully- as if you were made for only him, his inexperienced fingers rub at your clit harshly, trying to make this as pleasurable for you as possible,

Whilst this was happening, a bolt of pure pleasure shot up your spine, as he hit a certain gummy patch in your pussy, causing you to gush uncontrollably. Loud keens escape your gaping mouth, as his harsh ministrations are enough to almost make you cum immediately.

“Fuck, your body accepts me so perfectly, Love. It’s like it knows I’m going to pump you full of kits,” He lightly slaps at your clit, causing you to seize up in orgasm, quickly throwing him over the edge as well. Hot, virile cum overflows your womb, his swimmers quickly inseminating you. But it’s not enough. N’Doul, moments after orgasm, bucks into you even harsher than before, wanting to push as much of his cum as possible inside of you, “My perfect mate, I love you so much! I knew you were the one for me from the first time I met you! Only the love of my life would accept me even with my blindness!”

Still sensitive from before, the both of you hustle over the edge in mere moments, your release squirting all over the both of you.

“We’re not stopping until I know that you're pregnant, my love. Our wonderful kits are such a good birthday present, no?”

#yandere n'doul #yandere n'doul x reader #n'doul x reader #jjba x reader #yandere jjba #yandere jjba x reader #yandere jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo's bizarre adventure x reader #yandere jojo

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earnestly-endlessly · 4 years ago

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Cherik angst!

Ooooh the angst!! The cherik fandom has an abundance of angst fics and I could probably make a list of hundred fics to recommend, but these are some of my favourite angsty cherik fics. I should warn you though, some of these require tissues.

Cherik Angst

Everyday Love in Stockholm – tahariel

Summary: Magneto is the ruler of the posthuman world.

His only secret? Charles Xavier, the human he's kept locked in his bedroom ever since his right-hand woman, Mystique, came to him pleading for mercy for her stepbrother, who accepted her mutant form and protected her as a child. The human he started fucking after Mystique was killed in battle, despite the guilt he feels at contaminating even this last promise to the woman who was integral to his life's work and happiness.

Boden’s Mate – kaydeefalls

Summary: "Shaw has information that we need, and we need him alive to extract it," Moira says, and there it is: the job is on the table. Extraction.

XMFC/Inception fusion AU. Erik is an extractor, Alex is his point man. They're assembling a team to go after the most dangerous mind in dreamsharing: Sebastian Shaw. But unless Alex and the team can keep him in check, Erik's desire for vengeance might just rip the whole job apart around them -- and then there's the shade that haunts his dreams...

Ritual Self-Torture – TurtleTotem

Summary: Shaw is King, Charles is his royal consort and Erik is a Knight/Lord. Shaw is sterile but his kingdom can't find out, so he asks Erik to impregnate Charles.

He doesn't know Erik and Charles are in love.

The Winter of Banked Fires – Yahtzee

Summary: Charles Xavier has returned from the dead -- but is lost within his own mind. Rogue has cast aside her own power and doesn't know where she fits in the world any longer. The production of synthetic Cure means mutantkind itself is newly at risk. And Magneto, turned human against his will, is in despair until the day he feels a familiar consciousness tugging at his own

Us – Pangea

Summary: “Charles,” Erik says, and if his voice hits a pleading note then who can really blame him, “Charles, it’s me.”

It takes several longer moments before Charles musters up the strength to answer, breath stuttering horribly as he tries to breathe. He’s shaking, entire body trembling.

“Erik,” Charles says, his voice cracking, “Erik, I want to die.”

Enigma – Yahtzee

Summary: Erik dies, or finds a reversey-time mutant, or a magical time travelling device, and wakes up in the past. This time, though, it's before he ever met Charles - in fact, it's before his mother died.

He can save his mother that one time (thanks to his mastery over powers carrying back), but what does Erik do after that? Does he stick around, or escape and run to find Charles again (and hope everything doesn't go wrong)?

By Faint Indirections – kianspo

Summary: Erik is in his ~50s, and lonely and bitter. He survived the Holocaust and was only ~14 when the war ended; and even ~40 years later, living in a country that helped to end WW2 and the Third Reich, homosexuality is still a taboo topic. Then one day, he stumbles over Charles, who is young(early 20s) and bright and smart and cheeky and full of energy and beautiful. And moving in the same street where Erik lives.

Lonesome on the Shelf – ikeracity

Summary: After three years of marriage, Charles has to admit that his relationship with Erik has significantly cooled off. These days, they're barely ever home at the same time and it seems like every conversation they have turns into an argument. Charles misses the way they used to be, misses the spontaneous dinner parties and the surprise morning sex and the wake up calls in the early mornings to catch the sunrise. But it's going to take two of them to fix this marriage, and some days, it seems as if all Erik wants is to be rid of him.

A fic about rekindling marriage.

When the Spell Breaks – kianspo

Summary: Erik, a high-profile lawyer with a successful career, meets a 21-year-old grad student in a bar, and within a few short months marries him. He and Charles are blissfully happy, until Erik's boss runs a background check on Charles and discovers he's been cheating on Erik. Charles denies everything, as there was no affair, but Erik doesn't believe him and throws him out. As Charles tries to figure out how to survive and stay at school that he can no longer afford and makes a lot of bad if not plain dangerous choices, Erik has to fight his own battle of discovering the truth and winning Charles back.

The Tower and the Hurricane – dreamlittleyo

Summary:(Post-movie AU.) Five years after Shaw's death, Erik's predictions prove painfully accurate. Violence rages on both sides of the human/mutant conflict. In a world ravaged by war, it doesn't really matter who's more at fault. Charles struggles to teach his students a better way, but what choices will he make when peace really isn't an option?

The Attempt – Yahtzee

Summary: Charles knows everything about Erik, knows how obsessive and self-destructive he is, how Erik would do anything, give anything, in his quest for vengeance against Shaw. But he also knows that Erik loves him in ways that aren't exactly platonic.

I'd like to see a completely straight!Charles, out of pure love and care of Erik, initiate a romantic relationship with him. It can be because he wishes to give Erik something positive in his life or because he thinks it might help change Erik's mind about Shaw, the reason is up to author. Also, while Charles finds intimacy with Erik strange and awkward, he does enjoy the new, non-romantic layers that have developed in their relationship.

Apple Seeds – pprfaith

Summary: Charles, Erik, apple seeds and Shakespearean love affairs.

Ashes, Ashes – winterhill

Summary: Post-apocalyptic AU — When the bombs fall, and mutually assured destruction occurs, it turns out that Shaw was right and radiation does enhance mutant powers. Snapshots of the XMFC main ensemble in the time after the bombs: Erik decides to stay, Moira thinks she might be the only human left, Raven is having trouble sleeping, and Charles is losing his mind.

Warnings: nuclear holocaust: death (death in general, not a specific character), cancer, burns, medical procedure, mutant powers gone awry

Five Bullet Points – Sperare

Summary: It was supposed to be Erik locked away in a prison one hundred stories below the ground.

Charles was never supposed to be there with him.

Tequila on a spaceship – faerie_ground

Summary: In 2014, Charles Xavier gets brutally murdered and Erik Lehnsherr spends the rest of his life mourning his death.

In 3014, Captain Lehnsherr and CMO Dr Xavier are colleagues, best friends and maybe a little more besides that aboard the Magneto I.

The Tower and the Hurricane – dreamlittleyo

Summary: Post-movie AU.) Five years after Shaw's death, Erik's predictions prove painfully accurate. Violence rages on both sides of the human/mutant conflict. In a world ravaged by war, it doesn't really matter who's more at fault. Charles struggles to teach his students a better way, but what choices will he make when peace really isn't an option?

Simple and Uncomplicated – Pookaseraph

Summary: Erik and Charles had been fuck buddies for some, but when Charles is in an accident he figured their relationship would be over. Erik's visit to his bedside in the hospital changes his assumptions even as he has trouble believing Erik is sincere.

Lazarus – Clocks

Summary: Erik is 19 when he says ‘I love you’ for the first time.

It would take five long years before Charles says it back.

Broken Eternity – CractasticDispatches

Sumnmary: It starts with being alone. It shouldn’t, perhaps, but it does because, of course, alone is what no one ever wishes to be.

Shout it Out Loud – dreamlittleyo

Summary: (Movie-Concurrent AU.) When Charles forges a telepathic link between himself and Erik, the two men find themselves bound together by more than just destiny. With the world on the brink of war, Charles and Erik struggle to cope with a psychic connection that may well be permanent.

Call Me By His Name – sinuous_curve

Summary: Charles wakes from the absence of noise.

There is an empty space in his room, beside his bed. Not quiet as in an abandoned room, but utterly, featurelessly blank. Like a box made of unblemished, impenetrable metal and Charles knows before he opens his eyes.

The Longest Word – septicwheelbarrow

Summary: "I'm Charles Xavier," he says, smiling from ear to ear. Then he gestures to his wheelchair. "Terminal spinal osteoblastoma, reaper due to collect in a year."

After some time, the man gestures at himself with a sardonic smile. "Same, one year. Lung." And then, reluctant, as if trying to keep his name to himself, "Erik."

I reject your reality and substitute my own. Doesn't really work that way, both ways.

Copy – chantefable

Summary: Charles wakes up without his memory. His sole caretaker, Erik, claims to be his husband, and tells him he's recovering from a car accident on their honeymoon.

Slowly falling for Erik again, Charles begins to regain his memories. He starts to notice strange things about his body, Erik, and their secluded mansion.

Myosotis – SomeCoolName

Summary: When Charles got back from Cuba, he lost the two things which made him stand: his legs and the love of his life, Erik Lehnsherr. Charles can get used to the wheelchair but he won't ever be able to get pass the loss of Erik.

"I wish I never met him" is something Charles says one night, maybe a bit drunk, absolutely wrecked for sure. It's a bit silly but Charles figures out his only solution is to use his own powers to erase Erik from his mind, progressively.

Except one day Erik comes back to the Xavier mansion to win him back. And even if Charles doesn't want to stop forgetting about him, Erik will do anything he can to convince him otherwise.

Das Haus am See – sareyen

Summary: The Lake House AU:

Erik is an estate planning lawyer who takes some time off to get away from the big city after his marriage fell apart. He lives in a picturesque lake house by Chautauqua Lake for almost two years, before moving back to New York City. This is in 2019.

Charles is a famous but very private author stuck in a creative rut, and moves to his lakeside estate for a short while to try and find a reason to write again. This is in 2017.

By magic or fate, Charles and Erik discover that the letter box at the lake house has the ability to send letters through time, between Charles in 2017 and Erik in 2019. Through letters that transcend the barriers of time, Charles and Erik fall in love. Charles vows to find Erik two years in his future, and Erik promises to wait for him. Two years - just two, meagre years.

But, fate is fickle, and time waits for no one.

Appropriate Boundaries – Yahtzee

Summary: Charles has been having serious problems with back cramps in the year and a half since he's been in a wheelchair. His doctor prescribes massage therapy. But when Charles meets his masseur, Erik, in some ways they begin to heal each other. So how do you cross the boundaries between professional touch -- and the personal?

Unbound – Cesare, helens78

Summary: Thousands of miles apart, Erik Lehnsherr and Charles Xavier form a soulbond. But when that bond is severed five years later, they have to spend the next ten years trying to rebuild their lives alone.

Do You Love Me – cgf_kat

Summary: Charles and Erik have been married for 25 years, thrown together by a mandatory post-apocalyptic pairing system attempting to increase and strengthen the population. They have seven children. They have never spoken of love, but change is on the horizon.

A Quiet Riot – cloudstroke (aQuired)

Summary: Erik can't stand the fact that his father has brought home a boy less than half his age.

But mostly because he's madly in love with Charles Xavier himself.

#cherik #cherik fic recs #fic recs #angst #asks #earnestly answers

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sylverstorms · 4 years ago

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Mother Miranda x Lawyer!Oc ----Tilted Scales

Hello guys :) This is another commission I wrote for the amazing, wonderful @saltwatereulogies

Your support has been insane, I can't thank you enough. Hope you enjoy the story ❣

Three days.

That is how long you've been in the village, after years of studying abroad, before everything turns to shit.

As you slowly blink focus back into your eyes, you try to clear the haze from your mind. It feels as though you've collided with a truck. Your body hurts, your wrists protest in their iron cuffs, stuck to the wall as they are, having supported your weight while you were unconscious.

Desperately, you try to recollect the events that led you here...

A grey sky. A bleak day. One moment you were making coffee for your mother, excited to be able to sit down with her in the mornings again... and the next you heard the echo of screams.

Overcome by adrenaline, you bolted out of your house, only to witness a scene straight from a nightmare; humanoid monsters ripping villagers apart, cries and blood and animalistic growls all blending together into one mad mix.

And before you could even warn your mother...

Damn it all, what the fuck happened!

You suddenly struggle against your bonds, hard enough to rattle your whole frame. Your wrists burn from the grind against metal, but you don't care–

“Stop that. It is pointless and you will only injure yourself.” A cold voice, strangely familiar, says from far to your right.

You peer deep into the shadows, searching for the only other person in the empty room... until you see her. A mask advances on you, gold and shaped like a crow's visage, then wings folded into a cloak come into view.

You would be a fool to not recognize her. The local saint. The village's prophet. The very 'saint' your mother prayed to, for your safe return, all these years. Mother Miranda.

The sound of her heels bounces off the walls until she comes to stand directly in front of you. Looking past the openings of her mask now, you realize....

This isn't possible.

She hasn't aged a day. Not a single day, since you left the village. The years should show around her deadly blue eyes, somewhere, and yet they don't.

“I see you remember me...” she says, while you're still trying to find your voice. “Miss Warren.”

“What is going on? Mother Miranda, what happened to the village?!” you demand.

Her expression shows nothing. “The village is in need of... renovation.” she speaks, even, regal. “Repopulation, even.”

You stare at her with wide eyes.

“Now, don't give me that look. You would not be here if you weren't of the ones I chose to keep.” she continues. “You see, from now on, every single person in my domain will make themselves useful in some way, or they will be replaced. And you... you have been abroad studying law for a while now, yes?”

“I... yes.” you reply, still not fully having wrapped your mind around your situation.

“Excellent. What I need from you is simple. You will make the village independent from the state’s taxes as a religious organization... and you will keep foreign investors out from that point onward.”

What... what part of that is simple?!

“Do that for me and in return I guarantee your mother and you will go back to your house safe and sound. You will have no shortage of Lei for as long as you live, Miss Warren.” Miranda promises.

But it is not the sweet part of the deal your mind stays glued to. “And if...” you gulp. “If I can't work around the law to do that...?”

Miranda blinks slowly at you, like you shouldn't even ask such a basic question. Like the answer is obvious.

“Well. Then I have no further use for either of you.”

It is in this moment that it dawns on you.

This woman is no angel and no saint.

She is a devil.

You spend countless sleepless nights pouring over every single paragraph, every little opening or ambiguity in the law you can use to free the village of taxes.

To keep your mother in the dark about this, you work in the office Mother Miranda has provided for you, in her very stronghold.

Although technically it's her home, you don't see her nearly as much as you initially thought. She is gone throughout the day and returns late at night, not even sparing you a glance before heading for her chambers, at the upper sections of the building.

The days she does come into your office to inquire on your progress are few and far-between, your conversations always short and cold.

This evening is different.

“How is your work coming along, Miss Warren?” the prophetess asks with her aggravatingly nice accent, seating herself like a queen on the chair in front of your desk.

Your eyes are tired, but you force them on hers, through the mask obscuring her face. “I think I've got it. I'll be sending the necessary papers tomorrow and the answer shouldn't take longer than a month.”

“Very good.” she nods, a miniscule curve to her lips.

Icy eyes then drop to the wine in the whiskey glass at the corner of the desk. You think she will make a comment about drinking at work, but instead she says;

“Pour me a glass, will you?”

You will your hands steady as you comply, then carefully slide her drink over.

Miranda takes her mask with claw-shrouded fingers... and soundnessly sets it on the wooden surface. Then she pushes the veil at her hair back, shaking long, platinum locks free.

You do a double take you hope she doesn't notice. Because what the actual fuck.

You didn't think her hair was that long, or that straight, or that it would fall over her shoulders like she's staring in a shampoo ad. You didn't think her lips were shaped like a cupid's bow or that her skin was this flawless and radiant.

The helplessly lesbian part of you could begrudgingly admit she was beautiful before... but now you arrive to the painful realization she's drop-dead gorgeous.

“So. I've heard you won cases others would describe as impossible.” she begins.

“Nothing's impossible. You just need to know where to look.” you reply. Law is your comfort zone and she is not that far above you here. “But how do you know that?”

“I have my sources.”

"Nobody truly leaves this village, huh.”

“Not without my consent, no. But I knew you'd come back.” At your slight frown, she elaborates, “You would never leave your mother behind.”

She's right. There was a whole world of opportunities waiting for you out there and yet... here you are.

“Good work, so far. You can take the next two days off. Your eyes could use the rest, Miss Warren.” Miranda speaks, finishing her wine.

“Sarah.” you say. 'Miss Warren' is for clients and she is your boss.

Miranda's lips give a slight quirk that may or may not be a trick of the light.

“I know.” she replies and exits the room, long hair billowing behind her back.

The taxes were only the first challenge. Now that the village is free of them, investors are flying in circles around it like vultures over meat.

In the meantime, Miranda comes to talk to you more frequently.

Lately, it seems she has more free time. You wish that was a good thing, but...

“So... are you like... going to stay here?” You ask after reading the same sentence five times to make sense of it, because her gaze on you is distracting as fuck.

“I'm not getting in the way of your work.” she says. You want to argue she is, but can't quite do that in a way that won't get you killed.

“I'm simply not used to working with company. Isn't this boring for you?”

“No, actually. I find it interesting, even though science is my field of expertise.” she answers. “And the way you take notes is… amusing.”

You try not to blush as you look down at your notebook, filled with different colored markers and post-it squares with tiny stick figures pointing to the more important paragraphs. You have been doing this for so long to sort out information you didn't even realize you were keeping it up in her presence.

“What is this supposed to be?” she asks with a small smile, the first of its kind you've seen.

To your horror, her clawed pointer aims at a particularly silly doodle, barely the size of a pencil's eraser.

“A... bird.” you grimace like you've been stabbed.

“Ah, of course.” Miranda holds back a chuckle but you can tell she's dying to make a comment.

Studying becomes hell for the rest of the time she's there with you, those sharp eyes picking apart every little move you make. At the same time, though, the hours you spend with her make you realize...

She's not a saint, though she may look like one. She's not completely a devil, either, even if she may act as one, at times.

She's human.

Miranda shares nothing about herself when you chat, but she seems to like it when you speak about your time abroad and all the things that left an impression on you there.

Your conversation over wine is cut short, however, when you receive a call from a number you learned means nothing but trouble, lately.

“Sorry, I have to take this.” you tell her.

The one calling you is none other than this month's rival lawyer, trying to dispute your claim over the land for his own boss. He's lost to you before, so it's also personal, but you are confident you have cornered them good with the latest papers you sent them...

And you are proven correct, when, a few seconds later, he is all faux polite on the other line, resorting to offering you money for you to withdraw your arguments.

Miranda comes to stand next to you, listening in to what he's saying.

The problem with that is, the second her arm brushes yours and you catch a whiff of her perfume –which always lingers in your office long after she's left— youare the one who stops listening to him.

Your attention flies to other things, like the inches she has on you, the exact color of her pale blonde hair, the little glint of victory in her stunning eyes.

Oh, no. God, no...

You know what this is, the feeling in the pit of your stomach. Alarm bells go off in the back of your head, as though your own mind is telling your body how foolish it's being.

There isn't a worse thing you can do to yourself than be attracted to Miranda.

Over time, familiarity with the prophetess brings higher levels of difficulty into your 'try to ignore your crush on her' game.

Miranda joins your side and leans over your shoulder, sometimes, to peer down at what you're doing. You don't move and don't breathe until she's within a safe distance again.

Then there are the wayward 'reward' touches, when you turn another investor away from the village. She may pat your back or leave her hand on your shoulder, or even scratch your nape with her claws as a job well done.

You hope your poker face hides the fact you feel her touch on you for far longer than you should, after she's gone.

Tonight, the situation is the toughest it's ever been for you.

There is a rainstorm going on outside; the waterdrops are tapping against the windows of your office as though they're trying to break it. Miranda has pulled her chair next to you so you can talk easier, without having to shout over the cacophony.

“And basically the judge's decision was that—”

You are interrupted by a blinding flash of lighting, during which your mind lets you know the stronghold is easily the tallest structure in it's vicinity—

When thunder cracks down the sky and strikes the building, you nearly scream. Your body tenses and you jump; but Miranda's hands come to your biceps and hold you steady, against herself and your desk.

Another flash comes before you really have time to think about your proximity. She covers your ears with her palms before the thunderclap can send you into overdrive again.

“You are with me and you're scared of a little thunder?” she teases when things quiet down and your heartbeat eases.

It's true; Miranda is the more terrifying force of nature. At the same time, however...

You feel oddly safe to be this close to her.

“Well... I'm not scared right now...” you quietly admit.

Her pointer comes underneath your chin and lifts it so you are looking straight into her hypnotic blue eyes. How is this color even real...

“And why is that?” Miranda asks, her wings coming around you both. They're curtains of black, cutting out some of the storm's sounds.

You want nothing more in this moment than to run your fingers through each individual feather.

You lick your lips. That's...not a question you can answer if you want the balance in your arrangement with her to remain.

Perhaps, though, the scales have tilted for you long ago. You just haven't been brave enough to admit it.

You have the courage to face it now when she leans down and covers your lips with hers, warm in a manner you never imagined she could be.

Her wings pull tighter around you and your mouths slide more firmly together. Lipbalm and creamy lipstick mix, tongues brush, tasting of wine. You are shaking so bad on the inside from how much you want this, more of this, the rumbling of the thunder be damned.

Miranda's palm cups your flaming cheek when she pulls back, perfectly composed and staring at you with a little smirk in place.

You dare to turn a little, lay a tiny kiss on the inside of her wrist, beyond her rings and accessories.

You aren't very fond of storms, but...

You willingly walk right into the eye of this one.

#mother miranda x oc #mother miranda #resident evil village #resident evil 8 #fanfiction #creative writing #commission #thank you so much :')

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alpacaparkaseok · 4 years ago

Text

Lost & Found

Pairing: Park Jimin x soulmate (oc)

Warnings: Insecurity, anxiety, abandonment

Word Count: 1.6k

a/n: *long sigh* finally. This story has been haunting me for months now. I was so tempted to just go crazy and start uploading it because I love it so much. But If I’m uploading this, it means that we’ve made it to the promised day! Yay! You guys, I think this may be one of my favorites. Which, if we’re being honest, all of my works are my favorites. But this is everything.

That is all. Please read and enjoy. Let me know your thoughts, I’d be overjoyed to hear from you.

Chapter 1. Unbreakable Bond

It was easier than I thought it would be; breaking the bond. Perhaps I was just desperate enough. Practically begging on my knees as I stood outside the dingy apartment building, knowing that this was irreversible.

Wanting it to be irreversible.

The woman’s name is Christina, and she gives me a wary look as she explains the cutting process. Her own severed thread is a testament to her underground business. I trust her.

“I need you to be absolutely positive about this,” she warns. “There's no going back once I cut the thread. It will be nearly impossible to find your soulmate.”

That’s the least of my problems. I know that it’ll be all too easy to check in on the whereabouts of my soulmate; after all, he rarely goes anywhere without it being broadcasted to the entire world.

“Burn it.”

Warning me about the impending heat as she pulls out a blowtorch, I hear her sigh. Christina gathers up my thread and places it delicately atop a metal slab.

The little warehouse attached to her apartment offers little distraction; there are a few scattered tools laying about and nothing else but dull gray walls. In a time like this, a distraction would be nice.

“Do you ever regret it?” I ask, an uneasy turn of my stomach pushing the question out. Christina pulls her faceguard down, gesturing for me to look the opposite way. My shadow takes up the entire wall as she fires up the blowtorch.

“Me?” I can feel the heat of the fire, but I refuse to flinch. “Not really. But I do feel a bit bad for my soulmate.”

I frown at the gray wall. “Why?”

Christina shifts to get a more direct angle on the thin red thread that hangs from my finger and extends to disappear under the door. “You’re not the only one who is about to lose a soulmate today. At least it’s your decision.”

Staring at the unforgiving gray wall, I have plenty of time to mull over her response. However, the second I begin to worry or feel sorry for my soulmate, I remember the sweaty palms and crippling anxiety from earlier.

As Christina takes a step back after nearly thirty minutes, turning the blowtorch off, I turn to assess the damage. Frowning at the still intact thread, Christina snorts.

“Don’t move.”

She takes a lofty hammer in her hands, bringing it down hard on the thread. I gasp as sparks fly into the air, my thread tightening around my finger and pulling. Grabbing my hand, I struggled to remain upright on the stool.

“We’re almost there!” Christina huffs, bringing the hammer down again and again. Sparks continue to fly, one landing on my shoulder and burning a small hole in my shirt. My hiss of pain is cut short as the pressure on my finger suddenly loosens, nearly causing me to fly backward since I was straining against it.

My breath comes up short as Christina removes the hammer from atop the thread, and I see what happened.

The formerly vivid red hue fades to a dull color, almost a brown-red like dried blood. I watch as the frayed ends begin to retreat, one end slipping off the table and disappearing under the door.

I push off the stool, ripping the door open just in time to see the red thread glinting under the moonlight, drifting away on a breeze. Retreating to its other half.

Glancing down at my hand, I hold up my finger where the other frayed end stops just a few centimeters away from the base of my finger.

“Yeah, it’ll stay like that,” Christina says as she comes to stand beside me. “Unless you want me to burn your finger off…?”

I give her a dry chuckle. “No, thanks. It’s alright like this.” I tilt my head, marveling at the fact that I’m looking out into the world without my thread obscuring my view. “So...will his thread just disappear?”

Christina shakes her head. “Your threads, while cut, still mirror each other. So his will look like yours in a few minutes when it catches up to him.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

She invites me back inside, offering me a salve for my aching shoulder that was burned, frowning as she tells me that it will most likely scar.

“I’ll just consider it a souvenir,” I mumble. Christina laughs.

“That’s the spirit.” She passes me a mug of apple cider, sitting across from me at the same metal slab she calls a table where my thread was severed. “So, do you know who your soulmate is, then? Is that why?”

I take a long sip of the cider, my mind instantly replaying the scene from hours earlier. “I know who he is. Although, I wouldn’t say that I cut it because of who he is. He’s a great guy, actually. Top notch.”

Christina raises her brows at me. “Really? What makes you say that?”

I pause to look at my frayed thread, the string of fate loved by the world over. The thread that I always thought would bring me joy beyond belief, but made me realize that it would be better to let go.

For him.

“Do you know BTS?”

Christina sets her mug down with a loud bang. “Do I - of course I know who they are. Why?” Her expression turns to horror. “Why?”

I wince, taking another sip of my cider. Holding my hand up to display my severed thread, I wiggle my finger. “Park Jimin.”

✂

Jimin is in the middle of his dinner when he feels a sharp tug on his red thread. Chuckling at it, he holds his hand up for the thousands of fans watching his live to see.

“My soulmate is acting up, I think.” He watches as the comments flood in, most everyone mourning the fact that they are not his soulmate. A few people tease him about it being them on the other side of the thread, and while he knows that they’re simply joking with him, he can’t help the increase in his heart rate.

If only.

The thread tightens around his finger, making him hiss in pain. “Ouch,” he mutters, pulling back against the thread in order to sit still. “Sorry, everyone. What were we talking about? Oh, right. The concert today -”

Jimin whines as the thread pulls even harder, nearly causing him to spill his drink. Pulling back as hard as he can, he gives the camera an apologetic smile.

Then, his eyes widen as an idea strikes him. “Do you think I should follow it?” He asks excitedly. He hasn’t ever heard about people’s threads pulling them in the direction of their soulmate when they’re not even in the same room, but maybe she’s here, staying at the same hotel-

“I’ve gotta go!” Jimin shouts, blowing a kiss with his free hand before promising to visit everyone again soon. “Thanks guys!” Ending the live, Jimin shoots out of his chair, barely remembering to grab his room key before bursting out of his room and into the hallway.

Following the pull of the thread, he grins as he follows it to the elevator. Punching the button as hard as he can, he jumps from one foot to another as he waits for the doors to open.

“C’mon, c- bingo!” Sliding into the elevator with a gleeful shriek, he ponders for a moment before deciding to hit the ground floor.

Jimin’s cheeks are red with excitement by the time he reaches the lobby of the hotel, not even noticing when a couple of the bodyguards that escorted them to the concert venue today see him and immediately start following him.

“Mr. Park!” One of them calls. “Mr. Park! You can’t just leave without some form of security!”

Jimin hardly spares him a glance as he bolts for the exit where his thread continues to pull him. “Then follow me!”

The bodyguards chase after him into the night, exchanging concerned glances as Jimin follows after his thread like a convict on the run.

They nearly tackle him as they round a corner he just turned a few seconds prior, stumbling to a stop as they see Jimin standing still in the middle of the empty road.

“Mr. Park,” one of them pants. “Where are you going?”

Jimin stays completely still, the sudden lack of tension from his thread causing his heart to stop. Glancing down at where it’s wrapped around his finger, he feels the exact moment his heart stumbles to a stop.

Floating on a breeze, he sees the other end of his thread. Skimming along the ground like a plastic bag tossed about by the wind.

“What is it?” Jimin breathes out, the question leaving his lips without his consent. “What is it?”

There’s a chill that settles over him as the thread comes closer and closer, making Jimin retreat almost as though he could stop it from reaching him.

“No!” He yells, taking another step back as the end of the thread now arrives at his foot. “No! Not like this!”

The bodyguards watch on with disbelief as the thread works its way up to Jimin’s hand, slowing to a stop just below his finger. They’re continually glancing down at their own threads, making sure that they aren’t about to stumble upon the same ugly fate.

But it’s just Jimin with the cut thread. It’s just Jimin, who falls to his knees with a dull thump. Staring down at the thread, raising his shaking hand and grasping the frayed edge.

“Are they…?” One young bodyguard asks. His senior shakes his head.

“No. The thread turns gray when they die, remember?”

“Then what happened?” He asks again, eyes wide.

His senior sighs heavily, heart breaking at the sight he’s only ever heard stories about. “They must have found someone to cut it.”

The young bodyguard gasps. “Cut it? Is that even possible?”

Jimin’s sobs answer the question for him, the sound echoing off the buildings. One by one, lights turn on in the surrounding apartment buildings as people wonder what the commotion is all about.

Jumping into action, the bodyguards swarm Jimin, picking him up and supporting him between the two of them. Jimin’s body is weak and limp as he shouts and sobs.

“C-come back to me.”

taglist is open, just let me know and I’ll add you, or click on the link in my navigation tab!

masterlist

taglist: @taylorroe3 @dreamcatcherjiah @thecaffeinatedscribbles @onewoneman @moon-write @marianeamine @missseoulite @preciouschimine

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jubilantwriter · 4 years ago

Text

Of Blood and Static

Chapter 7: I hope to see you soon one day.

(AO3) (First) (Previous) (Last)

Word Count: 7059

////

She despises the loops. The memories never seem to be wiped clean anymore, and her awareness only grows stronger as they continue to tear the cycles apart. So of course the world would start lashing out violently. Mono comes to rescue her from the Tower as he always does - bag missing and tinier than she remembers. But he also seems… more different than usual. Twisted and broken as she is, even her monstrous form can see the obvious signs of harm.

A severe limp. Hand clutched to one side. And blood. Blood on the corner of his mouth, an ever growing haze clouding his eyes as he struggles to stay upright and conscious. Brows furrowed in pain as the last of his adrenaline drains away. He staggers forward and collapses against her form, almost comically sliding down her raincoat as she cries out in her broken voice.

The music box is her treasure, her one comfort in this room- but no, no that's not true. She pushes it aside for the moment and carefully cups the boy in her hand. He's hurting, he needs help, he can barely move. Thoughts and thoughts push through the haze of her mind, her moment of escapism fading away as she stares down at his broken body (a girl in yellow is falling falling falling into the ocean never to be seen again until a boy in olive is falling falling falling as he’s dropped into the abyss by her hand just as a man in blue is falling falling falling until he's broken into pieces, broken and mangled and bent in all the wrong ways and she screams screams screams-).

Reality is always a harsh wake-up call, but it's the wake-up call she chases. Safety means nothing if the little boy with the paper bag isn't safe with her. The music box continues to play, but she pushes herself forward. It plays and plays and plays and coaxes her to stay, won't she stay? Please, please stay, it's so nice and safe here with no monsters in sight (except for her), and she’ll never have to worry ever again. She’ll have everything she needs and more!

It's tempting. So very tempting. But the little boy gives a harsh wheeze, and her mind turns to Mono Mono Mono Mono he's hurting he's dying why why why why-

She breaks down the door with ease and shuffles her way out into hallways and doorways and more hallways with brightly colored lights, and she's lost, so very lost and Mono is dying, she has to get him out of here-

"Th-there." He points feebly towards a door, and she follows his directions without a second thought. The Tower shakes around her, annoyed by her attempts as they try to escape. Each exit morphs the Tower around them as the walls turn to Flesh with eyes bulging out to watch their every move. More hallways lead to more Flesh Walls protruding through the cracks. Mono gives a wet cough as the Tower shakes around them until the walls become nothing more but Walls.

Her shuffling grows frantic as the Tower collapses around her, intending to trap them in this prison covered in ever-watching eyes (eyes, always eyes, always always always eyes watching, mocking them, and she hates them, she wishes they’d leave them alone, leave them ALONE-). There's a bright light ahead of her and- the exit! So close! She forces her bent limbs to move faster, holds Mono closer, and she can feel the Walls closing in on her, grabbing at her and trying to pull her back even as she crawls ever closer to the exit-

But reality is harsh. Just as she's about to make it through, the Walls collapse around her, pulling and dragging at her limbs as she screams and thrashes against it as Mono yells and feebly struggles and-

-disgusting, slick and fleshy, audible wet blinks that stare and convey a smugness she wants to destroy, the Walls pulse and slide and separate him from her grasp and she screams and fights as that tiny warmth-

No!

Give him back!

She's spat out, gangly and monstrous and twisted with empty hands into an apartment too small for her size. A music box follows after her like a taunt.

Play with this instead of the boy.

It's not the boy.

It's not Mono.

It’s nothing but a beautiful lie.

She screams as she smashes the music box with her bare hands, metal splintering with a wretched laugh, and it hurts, it hurts so much, like she’s being smashed into pieces, but it doesn’t hurt as much as having him ripped from her hands so easily, so she slams her fists down over and over and over again and she screams give him back, give him back-

Metal cuts into her hands as she screams. The contraption is bigger than her now, her anger and rage cutting her out of the fantasy completely as she stands before the remnants of that saccharine dream. And what does she have to show for it? Only cold hands and broken sobs.

As she hugs herself, her Shadow appears before her, morose and quiet and a reminder that she has to keep going. Her stomach growls, and her Shadow looks down at a poster by its feet before nodding to her.

Move forward and satisfy the Hunger. It disappears without a word as Six approaches the poster with heavy, mechanical steps.

The girl travels and becomes a woman. She becomes the Lady with her right hand man, the Caretaker. He stands besides her, watching anxiously as she presses her palm uselessly against the glass.

Memories upon memories upon memories never prepared her for this. The Tower did something to her Thin Man. Did something that turned him more into a monster than he'd-

("...they took control of my prior iteration and turned him into more of a monster than he was ever meant to be. Or perhaps, what he was always supposed to be, but could never fully realize.")

"...Caretaker."

"Yes?"

"How close are you to working things out with the Ferryman?"

"Well," he flips through his notebook quickly, fingers twitching nervously as he scans the pages, "it looks like he's confirmed the island is habitable, but he's unsure how safe it'll be and for how long-"

"It'll have to do." Her voice trembles with an unrestrained emotion as her fingers curl on the screen. She misses him terribly, so how dare they, how dare they. "I will do what I can to bring back our dear friend."

"...Odd that he's our friend when I didn't get to meet him this time around."

“Yes," she says through gritted teeth, "a true shame."

"...Six?"

"Yes?"

He rests a hand on her shoulder, eyes glinting from under his bangs. "Don't let them win."

Quietly, she removes her mask just enough. Just so he can clearly see the fangs in her smile as she feels a familiar hunger for vengeance dig its claws into her being.

"I don't intend to."

The cycles end as they are to continue. Mono is viciously, horribly, violently taken from her each and every time, and the Thin Man is no longer a familiar silhouette in the television screen who offers companionable conversation and eager hope for a change to come. The Tower laughs at her efforts, laughs at how she tries to save the boy that had her imprisoned over and over again, laughs at her efforts of trying to take him back over and over again.

It laughs when she claws at the Flesh with broken nails, struggling and tearing at disgusting meat with bulging eyes as she tries to protect her friend, only to have him ripped away again and again and again.

It laughs when she pounds at the television screen with monstrous fists, distorted screaming shattering windows and destroying the device to pieces before she turns her rage onto the object that was supposed to calm her.

It laughs when she lashes out with her powers, too far away to harm the Tower itself, but still trying to somehow warp the television in her quarters and forcing it to work for her like how her friend once willed it to work, glass shattering and smoke curling into the air as she howls with anguished frustration.

The laughter is agonizing, echoing and repeating as she feels the lingering leers from the Eye, judgmental and chastising as if to accuse her, claiming it to be her fault. If only she’d stay in her role, continued these torturous cycles without trying to escape like frantic rats trapped aboard a sailing ship. If she were a lesser woman, she would have succumbed to the jeers aimed at her.

But she’s not. She has no room for misplaced guilt when revenge quickly fills in the gaps that her anger and grief cannot. A new goal arises besides their goal to escape, and she’s determined to see it through.

(They made a promise, and promises aren't made to be broken like this.)

When brute strength fails to work, when her hands are covered in too many scars to justify her failures, she turns to the plethora of books in her bookcase. Pages and pages are turned at terrifying speeds as she searches for answers that the various grimoires may hide. The Caretaker comes in with meals and reminds her to eat, to calm her Hunger lest it overtakes her, but she refuses in the midst of her research. There is her cursed Hunger, but there is also her hunger that takes precedence over most everything else. She will eat once she sees his face again, his silhouette, his familiar words rolling across the screen. Her hunger motivates her to keep searching, keep looking, keep hunting.

The only time she pauses is to make time for her Caretaker, pausing to speak with him and his discoveries, drinking in his presence before she loses him too. They both make progress, inch by little inch, cycle by cycle. Even with all the time in the world, she finds herself growing more frantic as the cycles continue and she sees less of the Thin Man that whispers from her broken memories. Books are tossed about, left scattered on her floors as volume after volume fails to present her with the solutions she needs, the steps she could possibly take to free the Thin Man. Piles mark the passage of each cycle, books left to gather dust as she abandons one shelf for another. Her library is mostly scoured and it leaves her frantic with ever growing anxiety as the books continue to pile uselessly around her. What was the use of collecting knowledge if it couldn’t aid her in her time of need?

Hope nearly escapes her as she grabs an old, worn out book too thin to be considered part of her usual collection of tomes. She’s about to discard it, denounce it as useless as her eyes quickly skim the pages. And then.

A picture catches her eye - a description that’s so unlike what she’s used to reading fills her with a rare sense of hope.

A little breakthrough. It’s an excitement she hasn’t felt since she was a child and had (found that little hat for Mono, the dingy sailor cap that looked like it had seen so many more better days before her little fingers plucked it out from under a desk and thought ah, perhaps Mono would like this little gift of hers) explored apartments with Mono looking for edible treasures left forgotten by the previous residents. She glides gracefully to the Caretaker’s room, looking around once before kicking open his door rudely. The man inside yelps in surprise, notebook dropping from his hands as she barges in and slams the door shut behind her.

“SIX!” He’s already scolding her before she even gets a word out. “I thought you grew out of doing that! Don’t you remember the last time you did that you broke my door?!”

“Yes, and who replaced it?”

“I did!”

“Doesn’t matter.” She brushes off his offended squawk and slams down a book on his desk. Papers go flying everywhere as he yelps and runs about catching what he can. Ah, just like the good old days of pestering one another endlessly.

“Six!” His offended yelling does nothing to stop her. “For fuck’s sake-”

“Cursing already? I haven’t even shown you my antics yet.”

“Your an-” He sputters and looks at her wide-eyed from under his bangs. “What have you done now?”

“To be more precise, what will I do soon?” She quickly opens the book and flips to a bookmarked page. Tapping on a picture brings the Caretaker closer as he leans in to see it better.

“...A charm?” He leans back out and frowns. “Since when were you into charms?”

“It’s not any charm, you ignoramus.”

“That’s a big word coming from a small person.”

“Shut. It.” She ignores his giggling in favor of looking over the charm. It’s quite simple in design - a small pouch is tied up with a drawstring with patterns sewn into the fabric, the pouch holding something inside. The book claims that it holds sacred inscriptions on paper in it but…

“Hm, how old is this book?” The Caretaker takes it from her and flips to the front, only to frown in disappointment. “No year.”

“Does it really matter?” She takes it back and opens it to the selected page.

“No, but also yes.” He taps on the picture of the charm. “The description says it holds sacred inscriptions, which typically means holy.” The Caretaker glances at the shadows that curl around her feet as he continues. “I don’t think there’s anything like that in this world anymore.”

“Then we’ll just have to make our own.”

“Six.” He turns to her fully and braces his hands on her shoulders. A knowing but sympathetic gaze keeps her from brushing his hold off. “Your powers aren’t exactly like that.”

“I know that.” Still. Her eyes linger on the charm’s description, reminding her of that feeling of gentle, kind protectiveness that she’s ever been so blessed to feel not once, not twice, but thrice now. It’s a well-meaning, warm feeling that she’s terrible at creating herself. The dark arts are denoted dark for a reason, and everything about this charm is completely unlike her very essence.

Still.

("You're the spiteful spitfire who will last the longest out of all of us. And we're depending on you to bare your teeth and fight when we can't."

"Who else would be strong enough to strongarm a change like this?"

If there’s anyone who could force the impossible to happen, a small voice says within her, it’s you.)

She takes hold of the Caretaker’s sleeve and tugs in that childish way she hasn’t done in years. Begs for his attention in the smallest of actions even when she already has all of it.

“Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.” The sound of mirrors shattering echo in her memories of loops upon loops upon loops of fighting. “Maybe all I have to do is make my fire the stronger one.”

He squeezes her shoulders with a nod. "Alright, but don't burn yourself in the process."

"I will do what it takes to take him back." Still, she reaches up to give his hands a reassuring squeeze. "But I promise not to destroy myself in the process."

"Good." He smiles and pulls his hands off her shoulders. "Whatever it is you figure out, please don't test it out on me."

"No promises." Ignoring his aggrieved sigh, she picks up her book just as he pulls his notebook out and flips through the pages. Come to think of it, how much farther has he gotten with his discoveries? She teleports behind him in a single blink and tiptoes to see over his shoulder. The notebook is opened to a page filled with scribbles that look... more like entries than the usual diagrams and notes she's used to seeing. The phrase "Thin Man" catches her eye as it repeats over the page, and-

The Caretaker snaps the notebook shut with a barely restrained shriek and glowers at her over his shoulder. "Don't. Do that!"

"What are you reading?"

"None of your business."

Hm.

"You mentioned the Thin Man a lot in your entries." She tilts her head to the side. "Were those past ones? You haven't gotten the chance to meet him yet-"

"Yes I was rereading old entries for very important, specific reasons related to- you know, to our freedom, so stop being a bother and get out!" He points to his door as she giggles behind him. "You have your... tasks to do that I’m sure are just as important!"

"You're blushing." A guffaw nearly escapes her as she pokes his cheek. "Please tell me, why are you blushing?"

"Hhhggh- out. Now!" He grabs her by the back of her kimono as she squawks in protest - he's wrinkling the fabric! - and practically tosses her out of his room. "Shoo!" The door slams in her face as she straightens up with a prim "hmph", the book safely tucked under her arm as she makes her way back to the quarters. Whatever secrets he keeps in his notebook, she'll be sure to suss out later when she has the time.

For now though.

For now, she needs to go through her collection of old kimonos and fabrics in hopes of finding something suitable for her charms. There's no telling how many she'll need to make before she gets it right, but she's willing to dedicate as many loops as possible to make her plan work.

Time has never been one to run out on them. This she knows from experience. But as each day drags on, as each moment passes with no change, the anxious feeling builds and crawls under her skin. The buzz of static that should be familiar no longer sounds in her quarters. Instead, the snip-snip-snip of scissors takes up the empty space as she carefully sews and stitches and creates these little pouches meant to hold blessings. It's a shame they cannot do what they're meant to do.

It would have made her life easier if she truly could make a ward to fend off evil spirits and energies, or even to just cast a protective spell. But the nightmarish world they live in fails to allow such liberties to exist. She takes up a brush and tries still to make some sort of protective inscription. She takes up the needle and tries to sew a pouch to hold such hopes and well wishes. She takes up an art that was never meant for her, still trying and persevering.

Despite all her hard work, despite replicating the pouch and its design to near perfection, the charm refuses to work as intended. No matter her intentions, no matter how hard she tries to dampen the darkness inside her, dark magic will always be dark magic. Her power taints the paper and instead houses a destructive force that would rather harm the holder than protect it. But still she tries and tries and tries. Against all odds, she fights to work with cards dealt to her.

Dark magic cannot be used to protect - it works better to destroy, to manipulate, to change. But such things have workarounds. For instance: those nomes that shamble about her ship. True, they never will resemble the little children they used to be and are doomed to a life where communication is near impossible, forced to labor away until a paradise is found for their hopeless little lives. But there’s a little twist to their story - they will never be hunted by adults ever again. Otherwise ignored by the forces that would have killed them at a single sighting, these little creatures can live an otherwise safe life, so long as they stay out of the way.

A twist. It's all she can depend on as she imbues the small sheet of paper with her power. The power to drain the lifeforce of anything around it. This tiny sheet is dangerous - it could drain the holder's lifeforce if she's not careful. Her little Guests are proof of that as she watches them writhe uselessly at her feet, charm clutched in their disgusting, meaty hands as she tests it out on them. With each fallen Guest, she adjusts the potency of her little “charm” and tries to make it focus on a specific type of energy.

The Signal Tower works on frequencies that are otherwise untouched by her. But the insides are just as fleshy, just as meaty as any other living creature. It is both alive but not - a paradox she can exploit, much like how the loops have constantly exploited herself and the Thin Man. One little charm won't be enough to kill an entire building, but it may be enough to weaken the surrounding area enough to prevent whatever brainwashing or mental torture it could inflict on her Thin Man. The next problem she has to fix is the duration - it has to last for as long as possible. Past the midlife of a loop, until the end of their lives. A quick drain, one she's accustomed to, won't work.

It needs to be a slow, gradual drain. And it needs to be focused on one particular entity to keep it from harming the children. There's no way of knowing if it will work unless she tosses one of her Guests into the Signal Tower's domain, or if she somehow manages to attach it to one of the Viewers in the Pale City just before they are sucked in. But it feels like she's running out of time - each minute passes by her like a haunting whisper, a silent taunt that she may never save her dear friend from his fate, and that they will forever be stuck in the loops as a result.

Her final product is nothing short of simple - made from the brown fabric of her kimono, the golden thread she manages to find is used to very carefully stitch in the characters that she's seen in her books. "Safety" is what she hopes it denotes. The back of the pouch has her mask embroidered in. Whether it can heighten the power of her charm, or simply to show the Tower just whose power is slowly draining it from the inside, she doesn't care. All that matters is that the little boy is protected to an extent. Perhaps the life force or energy taken by the Tower will be directed to him; perhaps it will help in keeping him lucid enough to fight off the Tower's influence. Or perhaps it will help in building some form of resistance against the Tower if he has some of her power within him. No matter what, all that matters to her is that the boy grows into a man who can keep his wits about him.

Of course, the charm is big for a child, but she accounts for this and makes the little drawstrings into straps of sorts so that he could choose to wear it on his back (under his coat, if he has the sense to do that), keeping it like an extra layer of protection. The little charm sits innocently on her palm.

Perhaps this will do it.

The last thing she needs to do is find a way to actually get the charm to the boy. Pocketing the tiny thing, she finds herself once again barging into the Caretaker's room without a care. He startles with a yelp, notebook juggled in his hands before he catches it with a relieved sigh. The old thing is tattered around the edges, but the leather bounding looks carefully maintained, almost lovingly so. If she could count all the tallies he's made, would she be able to figure out how long they've been at this impossible task already?

"Six?" Irritation drops from his posture as he looks over her form. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm at an impasse." She presents him with the charm and wonders if she needs to give him context. How many loops have passed? Just a few? More than that? Less than? Keeping track was never really her thing. "I don't know how I'll get this in the hands of the boy."

"Hm." The Caretaker steps forward and takes the charm from her hand. "A charm? Ah." He keeps it looped on a finger as he quickly flips through and scans his notebook. With a nod, he closes it and puts it away. "It wouldn't be easy for us to simply go on land and hand it to him."

"If only."

"But." He smiles as he hands it back to her. "We can certainly try mailing it out."

"To the boy?"

"No. To Roger."

"Why him?"

"My notebook tells me that the Thin Man once told me a story of how he, as a child, handed a package to a resident in the Pale City. It was one of the few times a resident didn't try to kill him. Likewise, when I am working with Roger, he's ah, said to me, so to speak, how he got here. A little messenger gave him a package from the Maw that told of his accepted employment."

"Oh I do recall sending a package out to him long ago." Replacing employees she killed as a child was always quite the surreal feeling. "Even with you around, we still need a Janitor. Or maybe I should mean, especially with you around." She gestures to his disorganized room with a poorly hidden chuckle.

"Uh huh." He rolls his eyes at that before turning back to his desk. "I suggest we keep the charm with the package and leave a note for Roger. Tell him to hand the charm to the little messenger as a tip for his services."

"Do you think it'll work?" She wanders over to the Caretaker's side as he sits down to write the note.

"I don't see any other option." He takes out his brush and quickly writes it out. After the ink dries, he folds the letter up and puts it in an envelope. She places the charm into his waiting hand and watches as he drops it in with the letter. "Only thing we can do now is hope it works. And if it doesn't, we try again."

She takes the letter from him and holds it against her chest. All bets were on Roger now, and if the monster was anything, he was at least... reliable, to put it simply. The Caretaker quickly scribbles something down in his notebook before waving her away.

"I suggest getting that package made ahead of time before our time's up." He looks up from his writing and smiles. "Methinks the clock's already begun to tick on my end."

As his words sink in, her heart sinks as well. Her glide forward has her embracing him close, mask buried in his hair as she sighs.

"How can you be so calm about your death?"

"How can you be?" Always like him to deflect. Still. She hugs him closer and refuses to let go for as long as she can.

A few days later, after she has the package ready with a note to her future self to mail it, she sees a familiar blue blur fall past her with a chilling scream. A glimpse over the railing has her finding his broken form splayed out in a growing puddle of blood. She'd think that after experiencing loops of the same tragedy, she'd have run out of tears to shed.

But things always manage to surprise her as her hands reach shakily under her mask to feel the moisture that gathers underneath it. Soon enough, her loop ends without a whisper from her Thin Man as she closes her eyes in tears.

The loops continue as they are wont to do. Very little changes as they go on. Mono still gets beaten and bruised beyond what his little body can cope with. The Thin Man still remains silent and unreachable beyond the screen of her quarters. But Six notices the differences.

Or at least, her Shadow does. The little thing whispers in the Lady's head as she continues about her business, fashioning a new charm as per the notebook in the Caretaker's hands, as well as the Shadow's little guidance.

Bits and pieces of memories help guide her hands through the motions, her sewing fervent and desperate as she bites her lip. Each attempt is aided with a little change the Shadow had noticed - he walked without a limp, he could drag the hammer, he could manage a single sentence.

Small victories, but not enough to make it end. Still, the Shadow continues to list each accomplishment.

"He managed to walk by himself to the bridge this time," the Shadow whispers, filled with childish hope and confidence.

The memory of a boy holding her monstrous hand as his staggers fill her mind, and nothing of the scene fills her with that same amount of hope and confidence. Instead, it fills her with a heartbroken pain as she recalls how his hand slipped from hers, how he tried to push and save the monster that she was with a pained smile before the Walls claimed him again. The Flesh had crashed down on him, stealing him from her yet again even as she cried and screamed for him, hands desperately clawing at the Flesh before she was tossed out unceremoniously. He hadn’t even tried to reach out for her, didn’t even ask for help. As always, Mono’s main goal was to protect her and never himself. How the Shadow cries with excitement at such a scene leaves her wondering how much it has seen to find this cause for celebration.

"It's working!"

"But not enough," she mumbles to herself, mask removed so that she can bite the thread off. The pouch is put aside as she reaches for the paper and ink. As soon as the writings are inscribed, she focuses all her energy and power and spite into the sheet, teeth bared and gritted in anger as she channels all that rage into the sheet. Take her friend away from her, and she'll take more from the Tower. More and more and more until the boy can grow into a Man, a Thin Man who can fight back against whatever torture the Tower puts him through. Shadows dance and swarm around the page as she forces the essence into the paper. More and more and more. She puts more and more into it until she can practically feel the cursed energy that drips from the paper. Quickly, she folds it up and slides it into the pouch. As she's about to tie it off into its signature straps, she grips it tightly in her fist and imbues it more with her dark magic.

Just in case.

Another sheet of paper is grabbed as she quickly scribbles out the familiar note for Roger, setting up the letter and package necessary for the Janitor's employ. It's gotten to a point where the motions of setting up the package are as familiar to her as going through the motions of killing the Hunter, or being caught at the school, or burning the Doctor alive - now it's preparing the package for the Janitor she will later kill as a child. A weary sigh escapes her as she slumps undignified in her seat.

How long must they keep this up without him? The thought of leaving him behind in pursuit of their freedom disgusts her and feels too unlike the guilt that still lingers in the back of her mind. Even without asking the Caretaker, she knows he’ll refuse the concept as well despite having never met him in loops. But how long can they keep this up? What if they run out of time before the Eyes try to disrupt them more aggressively? What if they have more to contend with than the Maw jostling itself violently, or the Tower destroying and manipulating a boy into a monster? Whispered memories from repeated conversations with children whose names she will never know remind her of the other monsters that still linger out there in the world. What if they come to ruin everything they’ve struggled to prepare so far? What if, in the name of survival, in the name of their sought after freedom, they have to-

A loud bang startles her out of her reverie however as the Caretaker howls with excitement. She quickly covers her face with her mask as the Caretaker closes the door behind him.

"Six!" He practically barrels into her as he grabs her by the shoulders, pulling her out of her slump and onto her feet. "Six, I think I will die today!"

"Could you not be so enthusiastic about your death?!"

"I think I'm allowed to, given the news I have for you!" He pulls her away from her desk and drags her towards her bed. Once he sees her seated reluctantly, he pulls out his notebook and plops down next to her. With a wild speed, he flips through pages before settling on a rough sketch of an island. Bushes and trees that look to be laden with fruits grab her attention, but more so is the sketch of the monster- man, who continues to take her younger self to the Maw. The same man that the Caretaker has taken detailed correspondence with. The Caretaker jabs at the sketch enthusiastically. "We found it."

She straightens up as the soft voice in her mind coos with excitement. "The safe haven?"

"More or less." He shrugs as though it can't be determined, but the hopeful gleam in his eyes says otherwise. "The Ferryman finally found the island. A place for children that is safer than whatever it is the Maw has to offer."

No adults. No monsters. Food for as long the little ones may need.

"Home," the little voice breathes out like a saving grace, "a real home."

"What about shelter?" She hates to rain on his parade, but she knows that even with food and the lack of adults, the children can only manage so much on their own. "It's a bare island with only so much."

"I'm going to try and smuggle items down to the drop-off." He turns to another page where a list is compiled among the tallies. Blankets, pillows, tarps, buckets, even spare basins- "Children are clever. I'm sure they'll be able to figure something out with these."

"It can last for only so long," she murmurs, and she recalls the books in her library that are otherwise untouched. "Perhaps, a few of the books may have something about survival in the wilderness."

"I've checked." The Caretaker shakes his head but lacks any disappointment despite his declaration. "Nothing in your library except the dark arts and manuals for running the Maw, books of old traditions long since gone-" He pulls torn out pages from the back of the notebook and reveals diagrams of baskets and techniques for weaving. Her eyes quickly glance over the pages, her excitement still bubbling despite the words of doubt that pour from her mouth.

"But there's no guarantee that the children will have bamboo-"

"They can improvise. See what they have and do what they can." He stows the papers and the notebook to take her hands, squeezing them tight. "Everything is set. All I have left to do is try and sneak as much as I can off the Maw before I die. And while I do that, you focus on the Thin Man." His eyes soften at the mention of a man he's never gotten to meet in… so many loops. "You always talk so highly of him, and my notebook has pages and pages of entries that make me wish I could remember those conversations I once shared with him. He sounds kind, funny.” A sad smile crosses his features as he fails to grasp the kind of nostalgia the Lady carries. It’s unfair, truly. The two men must have gotten along before in the past - apparently when she wasn’t around to witness it much to her chagrin - but having to read about it and never really know what it’s like to be graced by a presence they both yearn for… “I'd really like to meet him again one day."

She squeezes back, her mind set and determined as she meets his gaze. "I'll ensure it. I just need to keep trying. We're so close, I can feel it."

"Good." He pulls her into a hug and digs his fingers into her kimono. "I want to finally be free of all these tragedies."

She buries her face into his shoulder and clings just as tight to him. "We'll make it. I want to know what it's like to live."

A sigh escapes him as they remain like that. Precious minutes tick away, and she takes the moment to reeducate herself of his warmth, his scent, the way he huffs when he doesn't want to let go, a habit he's never grown out of since they were children. Hugging always seemed to soothe him, and letting go was always something he loathed to do.

No wonder the children took so quickly to his comforting presence.

Ever so reluctantly, they pull apart, and he reaches over to readjust the pin in her hair carefully. "There," he says with a huff, "now you look as regal and elegant as you should be."

"Try not to let the Maw kill you off so soon." She takes his sleeves and tugs on them lightly. A soft chuckle escapes him as he pulls her into another embrace, tucking her head against his neck with a sigh.

"I'll try not to." He rocks them back and forth on the bed, humming lightly as they take in each other's warmth. How did she manage to survive these loops without the Caretaker's comfort nearby? There is no doubt in her mind that being so close to him has made her softer, but.

Perhaps this softness is what changed her from wanting to stick with that sorry excuse of "survival", and made her crave for something more.

Something just as soft as the Caretaker's smiles and warmth. Something that could be shared with another person.

She closes her eyes and hums with him. Whatever time she has with him, she'll take.

The clock ticks on, and the loop continues.

He falls, as he always does.

But not before she notices that the nomes have diminished in number.

A little girl in yellow stands above her, anger radiating from her as she screams and roars at the Lady in tears as blood drips from her mouth. The Lady smirks, and hopes that the anger festers in the little girl as a boy in blue drags her away, a power newly inherited within her soul.

The loop ends as it begins, and the new Lady of the Maw comes across a package so drenched in dark magic that she nearly drops it from the sting. Still, at the behest of that small voice in her mind, she sends it out and continues her task of growing stronger, more powerful, pieces of memories falling together quickly as she recognizes the picture for what it is.

More and more and more. That's what she does until her fingers bleed from how often she still manages to prick herself on the needles. Scraps of fabric litter her room, kimonos snipped to pieces as mannequins lie bare in another room. The stench of ink permeates the air as her brush continues to write character after character, stroke after stroke. Her motions move with a remembered fluidity, nothing like the mechanical actions she took to arrive at the Maw. There’s an importance to what she does, a quiet desperation that pours into her work as she puts her hopes and prayers into this tiny little thing she creates over and over again. Her fingers sting, little drops of blood mingling with ink as she carefully makes the straps for a charm that is yet to be sent out. Dark magic flows into it, flows until it overflows, flows until she grits her teeth and growls, flows because she won’t stop, can’t stop, not until he’s safe again, not until he’s safe with them, and she pushes and pushes and pushes until-

Suddenly.

In the corner of her quarters, where a television is left almost forgotten for decades and decades and decades.

It turns on. And an unfamiliar but familiar hum of static greets her. The charm falls from her grasp. It barely makes a sound as it hits the floor, the Lady rising up slowly from her work area with shaking breath. A wordless cry escapes her as she rushes over and presses her hand against it as familiar habits resurface.

Wait. Wait and watch as the signal tunes itself. The static turns and straightens out into an image. She holds her breath as the screen twitches and stutters, as if threatening to end this little moment before it can begin. But of course, her old friend is oh so very stubborn. The screen refuses to shut off, continuing to persevere as the image fights to straighten itself out. With a low, tuning whine, the screen makes a soft pop as finally the television does as it is supposed to and.

And there. In the middle of the screen.

There sits the familiar silhouette of a familiar man.

A sob escapes her as she presses her masked forehead against the glass. Fingers curl in a half attempt of grasping a hand she's only felt in her childhood. No hand presses back against the screen, but warmth still radiates from the screen as the figure straightens with awareness. Alert. Present.

Words pop up beneath the figure, and she nearly collapses from pure rapture as she shrieks her ecstatic sobs.

"Hello, Six."

Warmth. So much warmth.

"Mono...!"

She has her beloved Thin Man back.

#little nightmares #little nightmares 2 #ln lady #ln thin man #ln runaway kid #ln six #ln mono #YOOOOO WE GOT ONE MORE CHAPTER (?) LEFT TO GO #man can you believe i almost posted this as an entire #chapter by itself #just one whole one shot #i have more words but i'll save it for the finale

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skiitter · 4 years ago

Note

That ask you hot about jealous Johnny made me think of a situation where Johnny (with a body) tags along with V on a mission where she has to be diplomatic with a guy and if (when) the guy gets flirty Johnny can’t do anything or he’d fuck up V’s mission. He gets all possessive after the gig and fucks V sideways.

Oops my hand slipped.

(this is Smut so like, you’ve been warned)

“S’fucking bullshit s’what it is.” ‘

“Quit whinin’, Silverhand. You wanted to come along.”

“Good thing I did. Look at him, practically fuckin’ drooling.” Two sets of eyes, one via camera, track the overly-dressed blond man as he struggles to gain the attention of the bartender. V scoffs and turns back to her empty plate. From his vantage point, cycling through the cameras positioned around the hotel lobby and bar, Johnny bites back a snarl. He’s sat in the Excelsior, parked in the alley behind the hotel, V’s aging laptop perched on his knees, and being forced to watch while his merc schmoozes up this fucking corpo dog.

“I can hear you seethin’ out there. Tad jealous, perhaps?”

“Of this fuck—”

“Shut up, he’s coming back. Eyes on the guard?”

“Insulted you felt the need to ask, honestly.” But V’s already slipped back into her dreadfully believable role of hot and stupid client (it’s all an act to get the guy’s guard down and Johnny is beside himself with how well she works it) and says nothing in return. The lapdog—Chad—saunters his thin-shouldered, no ass having self-back to the table and slips her a drink. Even though he is sure she’s already checked, he scans it’s temperature for any weirdness. Barely needs a reason to break the fucker’s neck, at this point. V and Chad go back and forth for a bit and Johnny busies himself imagining all the ways he could cave the blonde’s face in when the conversation takes a turn.

“Preem thing like you, Lara, bet you get all kinds of offers, hmm?” Chad leans closer to V than is good for his mortal safety and Johnny trembles. V, to her credit, laughs lightly and leans away.

“Oh well, y’know how it is. Anyway, as I was—”

“God I’d love to take you out after this, get some drinks. Bet you look fucking nova out of that dress.” Red. His vision is fucking red and its through sheer power of will he doesn’t crack her laptop beneath his metal clutch. V chuckles softly, clearly uncomfortable but unable to brain this gonk because she’s on the job and fuck, didn’t he tell her this was a stupid fuckin’ gig? Chad’s slimy corpo hand darts out to caress her shoulder and Johnny’s teeth are clenched so hard they creak. Who the fuck does this piece of shit think he is?

“You’re too kind, truly. But really, we should—”

“I eat pussy, you know.”

“Ex-excuse me?” She sputters out in the same breath as his “What the fuck?” snaps in her ear.

“I know you ladies; you love it when a dude eats pussy. I can go for like five minutes, if you can believe. Been told I’m fucking excellent—”

“As wonderful as that sounds, Chad, I’m fine just—”

“You got an output? I bet he doesn’t lick your pussy.” Johnny would eat her out right fucking there if she’d let him, if only to show Chad “2 Inches Hard” Dickhole what a woman looks like when she’s properly devoured. Fuck, if he were there he’d—

“I do; he’s the one picking me up in fact. And I can assure you he wouldn’t appreciate this little chat so if we could just get back to the deal, that would be fantastic.”

“He satisfy you? ‘M just saying, I can rock—”

“Wakako assured me you were good for this data shard. Are you?” Chad looks pissed at her dismissal and if he wasn’t so overcome with jealousy, Johnny’d be proud. The scumbag gives her a once over before looking away and nodding. “Lovely. I do believe I’m about ready to call it a night so, if you would be so kind.” V sticks out one perfectly manicured hand and Lapdog takes an unfortunately long time lingering as he places the shard in it. “Preem.”

Johnny has Delamain pulling up to the front of the Hotel before she can even stand up. It’s not part of the plan, but he’s always been fuckin’ terrible at following orders and is out of the car, marching into the lobby. Every single thing in him is screaming at him to stalk into the bar and beat Chad Corpo to the ground, but she’d fucking kill him for ruining this gig, so he settles for leaning in the entrance way, feral and cold like a self-assured street cat.

V’s leading the blonde cum stain away from their table when her eyes meet Johnny’s. His sunglasses are a nonentity in her discerning exactly how pissed he is. Perks of sharing a body once upon a time is it keeps you in tune long after you separate. As they approach, a dark shadow flickers across his merc’s face and his stomach muscles clench. She better not—

“Well Chad, here’s my ride. Thank you so much for dinner, I’m glad we could make this deal work.” And she fucking leans in, tits on display for god and fucking everyone, and kisses Chad on his baby-faced, smooth skin fucking cheek. Johnny cocks an eyebrow to keep from howling.

“No problem, babe. Remember what I said, yeah?” Chad has the balls to wink at her before walking off, shoulder checking Johnny as he goes by. Without hesitation, his metal hand is pulled back to swing when V’s warm touch stops him. He turns to look at her and the satisfaction on her face is enough to make him crazy.

“Ready?”

He rips her dress trying to get at her cunt the moment they are inside the car. It was ludicrously expensive, and its destruction only makes him harder. Mouth busy bruising hers, he is pleasantly surprised to find her nude underneath, not a stitch of underwear to be found. She’s so wet it’s pooling beneath her perfect ass. He slips three metal fingers into her cunt’s warm, inviting heat, knowing how much she loves the cold, and fingers her at a brutal pace. Her body keens at his touch and they’ve barely pulled away from the hotel.

“Johnny, fuck—”

“Don’t fucking speak, kitten. Just scream.” Kneeling on the seat before her, he drags her legs up over his shoulders. His organic hand holds her in place while he keeps the other inside her, maintaining a constant rhythm. Johnny pulls her clit harshly into his mouth and she yelps in delight. If it doesn’t hurt a little, what’s the point? V’s fingers find his hair and weave into it, pushing him further into her cunt. He’d feel bad for the wet sounds Delamain is being forced to endure but he is a man on a mission, his goal spread wide before him. And besides, the AI’s used to it by now.

Johnny can barely breathe; she’s fucking his face so hard. To die, suffocated by her perfect pussy, is the only way he ever wants to go. She’s close, her movements losing rhythm and he maintains his, knowing just the way to push her over the edge. With a shudder, and a gasp, V cums, her cunt clenching and pulsing around his tongue and fingers. It’s so quick, she can’t even get out the first syllable of his name. She must have sat there, in the bar, drenched at the thought of how jealous he was.

Without a word she shoves him into a sitting position and straddles him. Deft hands have him out of his pants and into her waiting cunt within seconds and she rides him into oblivion. Metal hand wrapped tightly around her throat, he whispers “mine” over and over again as he spills himself into her. That’s how she walks back to the apartment, cum dripping down her leg, and the name Chad fucked completely from her mind.

#cyberpunk 2077 #johnny silverhand #this is just shameless smut #and i guess technically a prompt #anyway #here is some hastily written jealousy fueled oral sex.#dont come for me if its Rough i literally wrote it in 20 minutes #Anonymous #Skitterpunk

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cicada-bones · 5 years ago

Text

The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 31: A Call for Aid

This one is a little bit different - but I really hope you all enjoy it! (I certainly did!)

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Gavriel’s sword hand shot out, the sleek metal shrieking through the air as he sliced and chopped, his feet carefully marking their set pattern over the packed earth. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of other soldiers practicing; grunts and shouts and sharp clangs echoing over the practice fields as they went through their daily routines. The faint morning sun lit the mists all around them, a golden haze.

Gavriel wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel, the familiar ache just beginning to start in his muscles. He sighed, then made to leave the practice fields, finished for the day.

He’d been coming here more often lately, and was staying for longer and longer stretches of time. Following his return from the post in the northern mountains, Gavriel had been different, slightly off. He knew that his queen and his fellow warriors were attributing that difference to grief, to the guilt at the loss of his men. To the three new markings that just barely peeked out the side of his leather jerkin when he raised his arms over his head. But that wasn’t the reason for the change.

No matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he worked, how tired he was, that face wouldn’t go away. The girl with the face of the woman. His lost love. Tamalina, the second princess of Wendlyn.

Gavriel’s feet pounded into the earth as he walked, dirt and rock scattering in his wake.

He turned the memory over and over in his mind – the image of the princess, bearing a tray of stew and bread. Rowan’s snarl of rage as she edged into the room, the shock and hurt that filled her scent. The overwhelming blankness behind her eyes. The golden head of hair that so matched his own.

The possibility grated on him, itching and scratching. A splinter in the back of his mind, that refused to be removed. His daughter.

The girl might be his daughter.

He’d spent the last weeks wrestling with this fact, trying to eliminate it, or at least subdue it. Trying to forget. But his efforts were in vain.

So instead he stormed through the castle, surly and distant. He knew he was beginning to irritate Fenrys, but he didn’t care. The young male could get in line.

Gavriel didn’t want to admit it to himself, but really he was just waiting. Waiting for Rowan to appear, the girl in tow. Waiting to see if his suspicions were correct. To see if it were possible that time had stretched and morphed his memory of the girl until she fit the picture of his love. To see if there was a chance he was wrong.

Even if, deep down, he was sure that he wasn’t.

But it felt shameful to just wait – to not act. Even if there wasn’t anything he could do. He wasn’t even sure that the girl was his responsibility. But still, this waiting…it was going to drive him completely mad.

Gavriel reached his rooms, shutting the door behind him with a loud thud and striding over to sit at the desk that straddled the far wall. A window was set into the stone above it, providing a small view of the city. A gray frame surrounding its expanse of blue rooftops and white cobblestones. The great river flowed idly by, casting up great lots of mist that drifted over the many alleys, buildings and plazas. It was picturesque. Gavriel didn’t see any of it.

He didn’t mind his fate, not all that much. The rewards of his life still outweighed the trials. Nor did he hate Maeve, for all she put them through. She was his Queen, and she would always be. So despite everything, he was glad of his position – both for the responsibility and honor it provided, and for the purpose.

Gavriel was the linchpin, a connector between warriors who otherwise might have ripped each other to pieces. He kept the peace between them, and made sure that they didn’t fall apart. Lorcan was their leader, with Rowan as his second, and Gavriel stood mostly in the background, hidden in the shadows. But he knew he was essential.

But for the girl...he wouldn’t wish this life on her. He wouldn’t wish his life on anyone. And yet she was coming, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Gavriel hoped that the princess would just fulfill her bargain and go – that she would be allowed to leave, unscathed and unburdened. But still, he worried. The power he had felt in her...it was greater than any he’d ever felt before. Only Queen Maeve could match it.

He couldn't imagine his queen just letting the girl go, not when she could be such a useful tool. Not when the princess might be powerful enough to beat her.

Maeve must have a plan, must have some leverage on the child. But for the life of him, Gavriel couldn’t figure out what it was. The only thing that seemed remotely possible was…Rowan.

Their Queen had chosen him for this task, chosen him specifically. And the feelings Gavriel had sensed in the male, the changes…they hinted at something more. An attachment of some kind. He couldn’t speculate about the princess, but still – something had shifted in the Prince while in Mistward. And Gavriel was sure that it marked change.

Perhaps the girl would join them, and perhaps she would instead be sent out to retake her throne. Maybe they would even help her. Maeve had long coveted the western continent, perhaps she now thought to conquer.

All their spies indicated that war was coming. Adarlan was poised to attack Wendlyn, seeking to stretch their empire eastwards. So no matter what, soon Maeve would send them into battle. The question was – which side would they be fighting for this time?

All Gavriel knew was that he would do all he could to keep that child safe. Whether she was his or not, he owed as much to her mother. To Tamalina.

But he had no idea what he could possibly do to help the princess. He was forced to obey his Queen, to bend to her every wish. All he could do for her was keep her secrets, and his silence. For as long as he could manage it.

Gavriel sighed, and turned to the papers on his desk. He knew there was a report from Vaughn that needed looking at, as well as a dispatch from the eastern border and one from the admiral commanding the fleet currently guarding their western flank.

While Lorcan was still traveling up from the south, and Rowan was stationed in Mistward, Gavriel was the highest ranked member of the blood-sworn in the capital. As a result, he had to deal with much of their mail. He had just begun to sift through the papers when an unmarked letter fell through the pile.

It was light, and hastily closed, the wax seal clumsy and misshapen. But still – Gavriel could just recognize the symbol embossed in the wax. It was a bird, its wings extended in flight, its beak curved and sharp. A hawk.

A frown twisted Gavriel’s face as he used a letter opener to slice open Rowan’s message, and unfolded the paper within.

Gavriel –

I can only hope that this will reach you in time.

Adarlan has sent a company of two hundred soldiers and three demons to attack Mistward, and capture or kill the demi-Fae housed here. There are barely thirty demi-Fae soldiers who have seen battle, and as you know, the fortress is not properly outfitted for war. We have called for assistance from Wendlyn, but I have no hope of victory.

Come to our aid.

I know that I have no right to ask this of you, that I have no right to expect this of you. But I have no choice. I must.

I beg you, please come to our aid.

I will fight and die alongside these men. If you choose not to come, remember me well. If you choose not to come, I will understand.

But if you choose not to come, you doom these men to death.

I beg you, come to my aid.

With you at my side, we have a chance at survival. With you at my side, perhaps these people can live. Have a future.

Please, come to my aid.

Our lives are in your hands.

– Rowan

The paper crumpled between Gavriel’s fingers. That face was still fixed in his vision, only now the eyes were empty, her face white as death. Aelin, dead or dying. Her fires waning.

Gavriel’s chest was a hollow space, empty and still. Thoughtlessly, he stood and walked from the room, his blood spiked with shock. Within seconds, he reached a courtyard and transformed. His lion’s paws thundered on the stone as he raced down the castle hallways and out into the city beyond.

He ran, without needing a moment to reconsider. Without a moment of doubt. Ran for

···

Fenrys was dreaming. He knew it, and yet he still longed for it to be real. Still longed for his dreams to leap from the ether of his mind and out into the world.

In the dream, he was running. His paws digging into the earthy loam, bits of grass catching in his claws, wiping them clean of the blood of the deer he’d just eaten for lunch. Its sweet meat lined his stomach and weighed him down in that comfortable, satisfying way that only a good meal could.

In the dream, the wind whipped through his fur, its fingers flowing over his coat and making it ripple like water. In the dream, the sun warmed his limbs and flashed in his eyes, a bright discomfort. In the dream, there was no catch over his heart, no chains or locks or ropes tying him to a dark queen. He was free.

But he wasn’t dreaming anymore.

Now, he was lying on Maeve’s bed. Hating himself. And everyone else under the sun. Drunk, but not sufficiently so. A glass of red wine rested in one of his hands.

Maeve had left a while ago now, but he couldn’t quite remember why. It didn’t really matter.

Fenrys didn’t know whether to be glad of the moment’s peace, or to hate it. It was so much easier to just hate everything. To hate this prison, and to hate the moments of freedom he was given. To hate his pitiful, despicable life, with every single ripped-up piece of him still left.

Maeve didn’t call him every night. In fact, she rarely called him more than once or twice a week. But it was enough. His body didn’t feel like his own anymore – it didn’t feel like it belonged to him. Probably because it didn’t. It belonged to her, just like everything else.

Fenrys shoved those useless thoughts down deep. He knew damn well what a waste of time it was to dwell.

Instead he took another swig of wine. Perhaps if he drank enough of it, he might just forget. Not only everything he’d been forced to do last night, but also the dream that he’d woken up to.

For it was the dream that was the real torture. Without thought of freedom, captivity would not be so great a burden to bear. So Maeve made sure that freedom was always nearby, just close enough to taste.

Like with that trip to Varese, where he had to watch as Rowan took for granted every single thing he held dear. His ability, his autonomy. His independence. And then Fenrys had to watch Rowan leave, with the knowledge that he would never be able to follow.

It was the freedom that tore at him, not the imprisonment. Cages were rather boring, after all. Even ones made of words and blood and darkness.

Even so, Fenrys didn’t think he regretted taking the blood-oath. He fought it with every breath in his body, and would do anything to be free of it – suffer any torture, break any bond. But were he given the option to go back and change his mind, he didn’t think that he would.

Fenrys had taken it to protect his little brother, and nothing more.

Well, maybe a little bit more.

All Fae males were drawn to power, and Maeve was the most powerful Fae living. They were all drawn to her, no matter her darkness. They had all wanted to serve her.

And maybe just a tiny, minuscule little piece of him had been jealous of his brother. Didn’t like being surpassed and overshadowed by him. It was a piece that Fenrys didn’t particularly like looking at, but he saw it nonetheless.

He thought Connall might see it too. They didn’t speak of it.

Fenrys didn’t even know if Connall was grateful for what he had done. For what he protected him from, night after night after night. Didn’t know if his brother even cared. They didn’t speak of that either.

They were still close though. As close as they had been growing up, running through the alleys and markets of Doranelle, play-fighting on the practice fields. They shared the same power, the ability to slip between the folds of the world. And they had learned it together, had figured out each of its valleys and ripples and tears by each other’s sides.

Each time they jumped, slipping through an invisible crack in the universe, they could feel the other pressing in on them, the whole of the world becoming the warmth of their embrace. And then they would fall out into reality – the open air feeling as empty and lonely as the space between stars.

It didn’t matter how far apart they were, didn’t matter where they were coming from or where they were going, that pressure was there. And it was a comfort, especially when they’d been young, and the power felt far more like a burden then a gift.

Once, when they’d been only eight or nine, Connall had forgotten how to get back. For hours, he’d been lost in the space between spaces, trapped by that crushing pressure. But eventually, Fenrys had managed to coax him back out again – by singing him one of the songs their mother sang while hanging the washing.

Oh the blue skies above, they mark the cloth stark white

Back and forth, back and forth

The moon pulls the sea, the green from the earth

As day folds into night, and the children run free

Back and forth, back and forth

Connall had returned, and their mother had scolded him for being so reckless. But it had just made them realize that no one else would ever understand. Realize that their powers were a part of one another, just as they were a part of one another. Inseparable.

And nothing, not even Maeve, could change that. Fenrys wouldn’t let her.

Right now, his brother was probably up in his rooms, reading. That shy bastard almost always had a book in his hands. When they were boys, it had been like pulling teeth to get him to go outside to train.

And he was such a goddamn know-it-all. It was infuriating. Mostly because Fenrys rarely knew what the fuck he was talking about. I mean, he loved the little guy, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hear about the fellowship circles and fertility cycles of freshwater selkies day in and day out, for weeks on end. Or at least until the idiot moved on, pursuing some other esoteric piece of knowledge.

Fenrys had actually been quite surprised that when Rowan wrote, asking for information about his weird little demon problem in Wendlyn, Connall hadn’t known anything about it. Fenrys was sure that the ignorance frustrated him. His brother had spent a whole week in the library after they received Rowan’s letter, searching for anything that could possibly solve the mystery. And he found absolutely nothing.

Fenrys had found it a bit difficult not to gloat as he watched his brother stalk about the castle, a scowl fixed to his brow. It was nice to see him stumped over something, for once.

Fenrys couldn’t help but wonder how Rowan was doing at Mistward, wonder what the princess of fire was like. He’d only seen her briefly, a quick look between the walls of an alleyway in Varese as Rowan led her through the city to collect the horses Fenrys had left for them.

It hadn’t been a good look. She’d been well hidden underneath a dark cloak, though Fenrys still caught the edges of dozens of blades beneath her heavy clothes. Her face had been obscured with dirt and grime and sweat, her hair matted together. And the smell, ungh. Overall, not the most remarkable showing.

What had really impressed itself on him had been the sheer weight of her power. A writhing mass of flames, all bunched up and twisted in on themselves, forced within her small frame. Her power was so massive that even untrained, it had actually overwhelmed the icy wind of the Fae male leading her. Rowan’s power was great, but next to hers…the maelstrom of power felt more like a light rain. A drizzle, if you would.

And Fenrys hadn’t been able to get the feeling out of his head. The touch of the princess’ flames. It burned through him, making him wonder just how wild she would be. But it wasn’t like Maeve would ever let him near the girl.

Fenrys sighed and turned over on the bed. No matter how much he might want to, getting drunk before nine in the morning probably wasn’t one of his best ideas. He should get up and face the day.

He groaned.

But still, he got to his feet and made his way out of Maeve’s private quarters, bare feet padding on the cold stone. His muscles were stiff, and not in a good way - he was looking forward to his morning training session. But first he had to return to his rooms to grab his gear and wash his face.

Fenrys didn’t pass anyone in the halls, for which he was grateful. Everyone in the castle knew of course, but still. Having to start his day with some page boy averting his eyes as he walked past, usually barefoot and in various states of dress, was far from great.

Fenrys pushed open the door to his rooms, and was already shrugging off yesterday’s clothes and reaching for clean ones when he noticed an unmarked letter resting on his worktable. The couriers usually went through the palace rooms each morning, dropping off the day’s mail, but it wasn’t often that Fenrys received anything. Particularly when a higher ranked member of Maeve’s blood-sworn was present.

He walked over to the desk and ripped open the envelope, absentmindedly pulling out the letter and beginning to read.

His eyes skittered over the black ink, and as he read, his fingers tightened their grip on the thin paper, his knuckles whitening. The bottom fell out of his stomach.

Mistward was under attack. Rowan was under attack.

He was calling for aid.

Fenrys felt strangely panicked. Not once, in all the years he had known him, had Rowan ever come close to writing something like this letter. The male was near-invincible – it had never even entered Fenrys’ head to be concerned about him.

But here he was, needing Fenrys’ help.

Would he answer?

Fenrys wanted to be the type of male who ran into danger, heedless of the consequences. Who came when he was called. Who always helped when asked.

But then a deeper, more personal fear joined the panic choking his throat. Maeve.

If he left without permission and without warning, she would not take it lightly. Unimaginable horrors would be waiting for him when he returned. Except, Fenrys could actually imagine them - they had been inflicted on him already, time and time again.

The question was – did he care? What more could she do to him that she had not done already, twice over?

The freedom teased at him, tantalizing, just out of his reach. Only this time it was fear that was holding him back. His own fear. And all he wanted, all he had ever wanted, was to be fearless. To be free.

And the princess...she was at Mistward. She was in as much danger as Rowan. Perhaps if he went, he could see her again. Could save her.

Fenrys wanted to do something good, for once. To do one good thing.

With an invisible twist, Fenrys slipped out of time and space and reappeared in his brother’s rooms.

But they were empty – Connall wasn’t there.

Fenrys made to leave, to check the library, or perhaps the training fields, when something caught his eye. A familiar-looking envelope lay open on the desk, the letter inside nowhere to be seen.

A wry grin curved Fenrys’ lips as he vanished once more.

···

There was a small clearing, hidden behind a spur of rock just outside the palace grounds. It was unremarkable in every way, other than the fact that it happened to lie right at the limit of the distance the twins could jump - and was invisible to the palace sentries.

In short, it was a perfect rendezvous point.

Fenrys appeared out of nowhere, a slip of gold against the sun-warmed rock. By contrast, his brother was a shadow lounging just out of sight, easy to miss in the dappled forest.

Connall’s voice was droll. “I was starting to think that you weren’t going to show.”

Fenrys let out a snort. “Touché. I half-expected you wouldn’t be here.”

He frowned. “Me too.”

Fenrys’ own brow furrowed, the question slipping out. “Why did you decide to come?”

Connall shuffled his feet, his face dark. “It felt like…a betrayal to stay. I owe him too much to abandon him like that.”

Fenrys nodded. Connall was quiet, but he was fiercely loyal to those that were close to him. And he had always looked up to the powerful male, ever since they were in training. He wasn’t about to just stand by while his mentor was fighting for his life.

Fenrys opened his mouth to say something when the sound of an approach rippled through the nearby trees. Fenrys immediately drew his weapons, fear icing over his muscles. If Maeve had already discovered them…if Connall had lied and this was a trap…

But the crunch of leaves and brush of undergrowth spoke of something different, not a person, something else. Something familiar…

Fenrys relaxed his stance as Gavriel shouldered his way past the pine boughs and into the clearing, his lion’s coat bright in the warm sunlight. The male’s eyes were focused and intense, his warm scent filled with a wrinkled tension and fierce determination.

Without a word, Fenrys transformed into his wolf, his muscles stretching and filling with anticipation. He felt that strange ripple behind him that indicated Connall had shifted as well.

Gavriel turned and began to run, his claws ripping into the dirt, his heavy bulk pounding the earth. Fenrys shot after him, flowing into the male’s right flank even as Connall moved to his left. Together, the three of them pierced through the undergrowth, the sun warming their backs as they shot into the west.

The breath in their lungs came sharp and cold, their stomachs empty of everything but the desperate, pleading hope that they would make it in time. That they wouldn’t be too late.

···

Lorcan lifted the tankard to his lips, wincing slightly as the sour beer coated his tongue. The tavern was busier than he would’ve liked – filled to the brim with laughing, hungry people out for an evening of drink and merriment.

He’d spent the whole day running, his first after leaving the rest of his crew with the fleet on the southwestern coastline. He should be back in Doranelle within the next few days, and he was looking forwards to his return. He didn't love being away from the capital for so long. Being away from his Queen.

Usually, Lorcan would’ve kept running through the night, only stopping to catch a few hours’ sleep in some hollow or cave. But after only a few hours of travel, he’d passed a familiar scent. A trail leading north.

Vaughn was also traveling back to Doranelle, and Lorcan had caught up with him by midafternoon. The male was in desperate need of a bed, a hot meal and a drink, so Lorcan had (somewhat unwillingly) capitulated to his plan to stay at an inn for the night.

Now Vaughn was over at the bar, chatting to some human female. She’d begun their conversation with clipped answers and dour looks, but now Vaughn had her giggling away, her cheeks touched with happy red dimples.

Lorcan frowned into his drink.

For a moment, he’d considered joining him over there, to see if he could also find someone who might warm his bed tonight. But in the end, he’d decided against it. Far too tired. And too lazy.

Just then, a maid wandered over to his booth, her arms sagging under the weight of a heavily burdened tray of drinks and food. But she carried them easily, her footsteps light and nimble through the lively crowd. Obviously familiar with this type of work. Lorcan was just beginning to reconsider his earlier assertion, to see if this lithe, muscled female might be amenable to him, when the woman pulled a crumpled letter from her apron and dropped it on the table in front of him, with the words, “This just came for ya, from the evening post up from the coast. Seems like its been a long way, searchin’ for you.” Then she turned, moving to carry her tray back to the kitchen.

Lorcan’s eyes followed her for a moment, then turned back to examine the letter. It was unmarked, which was strange. And the very fact that someone was going to such lengths to contact him, instead of waiting until he returned to Doranelle, was also strange.

Lorcan tentatively ripped open the envelope and pulled out the paper within. What he read there was astounding.

The words took a while to sink in, but when they did, Lorcan found that he was absolutely furious. That he was murderously enraged.

How dare he?

How dare Rowan ask this of him, ask this of all of them? How dare he presume to be above the word of their queen? Presume that Lorcan would betray her for him?

Mistward was under attack, and the lives of the demi-Fae there were in danger, but why in the gods' names did Rowan care? Why wasn’t he leaving them to their fate, and bringing the princess back to Doranelle?

That’s what Lorcan would’ve done. And that certainly was what their Queen would expect. What she would require.

So why, by Hellas’ scythe, was he staying? Why was he protecting them?

Lorcan couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer. He supposed that it didn’t really matter. Rowan was staying. And he would give his life to protect those people. The demi-Fae. His people, Lorcan supposed. Even if he had spent the past four hundred years distancing himself from them.

Lorcan’s teeth clacked together, his jaw tightening. Rowan was staying, and he was asking Lorcan, and presumably the rest of the blood-sworn, to join him. Rowan knew the consequences for deserting, knew what they all would be facing for disobeying Maeve’s orders and coming to his aid. Rowan knew, and he was asking anyways.

Lorcan’s eyes narrowed. That didn’t sound like the Rowan he knew, like the Rowan he had fought and trained and worked beside these past two centuries.

That Rowan leapt at death with an indifference even Lorcan did not possess. That Rowan would’ve always made the hard choice, regardless of the consequences. This didn’t feel like that Rowan at all.

But still - this was Rowan he was talking about. The male he had relied upon for hundreds of years. The male who was probably - though Lorcan was loathe to admit it - the Fae he was closest to in all the world. Even closer to than Maeve.

And he'd laid out the facts, bare and unguarded. Mistward was weak and defenseless. They were facing a lethal army, and a battle that they would not win. All of those demi-Fae were going to die, Rowan alongside them.

Rowan was going to die. And Lorcan was fucking furious about it.

He slammed his fists into the table, pushing it out of his way, the beer spilling over onto the floor. Then Lorcan tore up the letter, got to his feet, and moved towards the bar to collect Vaughn.

···

They ran through the night, and the following day. Ran through bracken and field and marsh. And finally, through mist.

They ran until they met up with Gavriel, Connall, and Fenrys, and then they ran some more. There was no time for words, no reason for them. They had all come, and the dice would fall where they would. They would face the punishment they justly deserved without complaint.

They ran until they fell into darkness, until the forest around them went quiet. Ran until they reached the crest of a hill, and the fortress appeared below them, wrapped in darkness and chaos and power. Until they saw a lone female standing before the ward stones, the only thing keeping the castle from being overcome.

...

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Im so sorry for that cliffhanger! (but also not sorry at all lmao) Please let me know if you would like to be added to this taglist!

@aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @booknerdproblems @queen-of-glass @westofmoon @morganofthewildfire

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cajunquandary · 5 years ago

Text

Whispers of the Desert

Pairing | Reader, Sam, Dean

Summary | When the reader takes time for herself in the mountainous desert of far-west Texas, the last thing she expected was to have to fight for her life.

W/C | 6100

Warnings | Canon-level violence, blood, drowning and nightmares. It’s angsty.

A/N | Several years ago, I took a trip to Big Bend State Park, which is the setting for this tale. While there, my better half shared some folklore from his heritage. This was written in part for @supernatural-jackles SPN Bi-Weekly Writing Challenge. Prompt is in bold. Happy spooky-season, y’all.

The can of beans bubbled gently over the open fire. You stirred them carefully, as not to spill the contents or allow them to burn on the bottom. Little else is worse than burned beans. Using a well-worn cotton kerchief, you reach quickly to remove the can from the flames, cussing to yourself as the smoldering metal burns straight through the thin cloth to your fingers. The can lands next to you on the ground in a whap, a few rebellious beans jumping overboard as the can tipped and wiggled to a stop. You place the burned digits in your mouth one at a time in an attempt to suck the zinging pain away quickly then give up, wiping them on your dusty jeans with a sigh of resignation.

The sleepy spotted hound to the left of you continued to snore, exhausted from the heat of the day and the journey thus far. You’d been hunting for months straight without so much as a full night of rest and decided to take a weekend to yourself, far away from humans and monsters. You smile at the dog, glad to have such a loyal companion. Training him had been surprisingly easy, you reminisced while blowing on a spoonful of dinner-in-a-can to cool it.

You don’t quite remember when you stopped being a “normal” kid, if ever you were, and became a hunter. There was no dramatic intro, no amazing story—only a few ghosts and some salt. You sniggered at the thought, recalling how you’d been hooked on the Supernatural books as a kid, reading well beyond your grade level. So, when the time came that you actually confronted the supernatural in real life, you already had the answers. It was easy. You still weren’t sure about all the larger plots, like apocalypses and the Winchester boys, but the basic lore was solid.

Just a few years ago, you remembered being so lonely that it was throwing you off your game. Even though you craved human contact, you could never give more than a one-night stand on occasion. Loving me is a death sentence, you replayed over and over in your mind.

After a not-so-great hunt, you limped into a shelter, asking for the dog least likely to ever find a home. A puppy was unceremoniously thrown into your arms, the staff begging you to take it and go, as they were already struggling and couldn’t afford to keep a dog like this for long. Walking back to your old blue truck, you looked down at the small, fragile thing. Spotted all over, ears floppy and forlorn eyes that broke your heart. “A mutt,” they’d called it. One that just wouldn’t be wanted in that town. A runt and only surviving pup in a litter from a mix of a large, skinny hound dog and an even bigger, meaner pit bull.

As he’d grown, you trained him to hunt as well, bringing home bits of monster so he could learn the different scents and be able to tell you what may be approaching before you were caught off guard. The mutt grew up strong and confident with a huge loving heart.

On the rare occasion you make a public appearance in a town—any town—young children would come running to him, pulling on his ears and shoving their hands down his throat. He loved the attention. You couldn’t help but to smile, thinking that he would have been the perfect family dog, then sink into heart ache, realizing that the life you led would never allow for such a thing… that the two of you would likely both perish bloody at the hands of beasts.

You were scraping the bottom of the can now, grateful for the nourishment, when a shadow crept closer, curious of this new thing in its home.

Mutt sensed you stiffen and slowly turn your head to the midnight intruder. His hackles raised as he sniffed the air, a low, nearly inaudible rumble beginning deep in his chest as a warning. The waning light of the fire cast short, fleeting glimpses of the visitor. You dropped your shoulders and relaxed. It was only a coyote. Most people would be frightened by the animals if confronted in such a way, but you were familiar with them and with their mannerisms. You gently laid a hand on Mutt to reassure him that all was well. He trusted you fully, hackles lowering slightly, standing down.

The coyote lowered his head, sniffing towards your discarded can. You locked eyes with the scavenger, mirroring its movements. Its jowls drew back slightly, revealing short, sharp teeth in a smiling sneer. You drew back yours as well, baring your teeth and adjusting your features until your brows furrowed and eyes dared it to move closer. After a moment, the wild dog went back to a resting face, blowing from its nose and licking the air in peace. On swift, silent paws, it turned and trotted away in defeat, using the light of the Milky Way to guide it to its next meal.

You smiled and shook your head. Though during the day, the mountainsides and valleys looked barren and empty except for cactus and an occasional pile of wild grasses, the nights were always vibrant and teeming with life. Off in the distance, a chorus of howls echoed off of the cliffs and across the canyon below, rising and falling, sounding off in one direction, then another, then both. Cool winds of night lifted the solemn song through the air, carrying it for miles as if it were a raptor weightlessly gliding over the terrain.

Mutt released a tired huff, a bit of caliche dust stirring in a small curling puff in front of his nose. You killed the now flameless glowing embers with a swift kick of dust and your boot, smooshing it until the ash was cool. You climbed into the front seat of the truck, Mutt right on your heels. He laid next to you on the faded carpet as you sprawled across the bench seat and kicked off your boots. Folding your arm under your head, it was merely seconds before your mind fell to black.

The largest owl you’ve ever seen haunted your dreams. It was persistent and aggressively following you, swooping and diving towards your head. As if being shrouded in a spell, where you could only move sluggishly as if in water and your mouth could fall open but emit no sound, was terrifying enough, the owls face would morph continuously between that of the animal and of a young woman whose face twisted in unnatural ways. More than anything, you were angry—angry at the being, angry at yourself. Frustration pushed at the seams of your sanity as your mind and body fought each other when they should have been unified and fighting against the feathered behemoth. The shape-shifting head seemed to whisper a steady string of words you couldn’t understand.

The more you labored, the heavier your limbs grew and a thick fog began creeping at the edges of your brain, poisoning every thought and emotion until there was almost nothing left. Nothing but absolute, bone-chilling, illogical fear. Quick, panicked breaths drew fire-hot air into your lungs, but you could not longer even writhe in the pain with your body completely paralyzed—suspended high above the black silhouette of desert. Every cell in your being began to swell and pull, tearing apart. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head and you felt it being ripped from your body.

Your soul.

With the last bit of strength left within you, you forced your eyes open.

Mutt whined as you came to, suddenly upright and back in the safety of your truck. The first rays of sunrise were creeping up over the horizon. You looked down, feeling coming back to your body in waves of numb tingles. You were soaked in sweat and nausea overcame you. Barely opening the door in time, you leaned out over the step and released your stomach violently, heaving for some time until there was nothing left. Right then and there, you swore off canned beans for the foreseeable future. Mutt laid his head on your shoulder, licking the beads of perspirant off your temple in concern.

When the retching and trembling stopped, the stars had been all but chased away and replaced by the soft, subtle rainbow hues of morning. You groaned and rolled over, staring at the cab roof and planning your recovery quickly. Starting a day out here already dehydrated and weak could be a death sentence.

The wind kicked up, blasting a sweet relief of fresh air into your lungs. Whistles and other unexpected noises on the breeze were fairly normal, especially during daylight exchange, but you could swear you heard the distant hoots of an owl. Mutt didn’t seem to hear anything, so you shrugged the spooky feeling off and put the keys in the ignition, ready to head into the nearest truck stop for a shower and a sports drink.

About an hour later, you pulled your sputtering, rattling truck into the stop and parked next to a shiny black car. With windows rolled down for Mutt, you stepped out and around to get a better view of the old beauty. It was an Impala, probably a ’67 if you were to guess. You loved old cars, always wanting an El Camino for yourself one day. Even your truck was old—a faded and mildly rusty baby blue Ford. Your eyes traced and admired the curves of the car, the shine of the chrome and the matching leather interior. Everything was in perfect condition, as if it just come off of a show truck. You knelt down until you were on hands and knees, peeking up under the front of the car, taking note of the lack of rust underneath and original suspension. In all, you were impressed.

You straightened back up on your feet, adjusting your wide-brimmed hat back in its place. You went rigid, suddenly feeling a presence too close behind you for comfort. You spun on your heels, feet spaced and ready to defend yourself. It wasn’t often you had to, but once in a while, a particularly ignorant man would try to get a little too fresh with you—the small woman travelling alone.

You weren’t prepared for this.

Only inches away, a very tall, very handsome man in flannel stood cockily, a bag of donuts in one hand, beer and jerky in the other. You slowly lifted your gaze from his chest up to his face. Shaded green eyes caught yours like a spider would a fly—you were ensnared and unable to focus on anything else around you. The rest of the world fell away bit by bit as you performed in this staring contest. He slowly popped a little donut in his mouth, the pastry filling his cheeks and dusting his lips and collar with white powder. He chewed slowly with a poker face.

“Nice car,” you managed to choke out.

The tension between the two of you was palpable now. The freckle-dusted man continued to chew, responding with a throaty, mumbled “Mhmmph.”

The door to the building opened with a ring-ding, startling you from the awkward competition. You took a step back, breaking the stare and following the alert towards an even larger man walking towards you, face buried deep in a local map. “Hey, Dean, get this—”

His eyes snapped up, assessing the standoff before him, and he shook the hair out of his face. His eyes were nothing like the other man’s—they were softer, drawn together inquisitively, the sun highlighting the different shades of green, blue and brown folded and swirled around black pupils. He stopped next to the passenger door and cocked his head to the side. “Uh, Dean. Everything alright?”

Without so much as wavering his intense regard, Dean answered the taller man. “Yeah, Sammy. She’s just admiring the car.”

Sam rolled his eyes and huffed. “Dean, we don’t have time for this. Let’s go.” He waved amicably in your direction and settled into the Impala. You crossed your arms and turned back towards Dean after shooting a smile at Sam.

A little more confident now, you returned back to your game of glares. “Can’t take a compliment, Dean?”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Yeah, it’s my baby. I put a lot of work into her. Thanks.”

The man continued to stand there, looking you up and down and eyeing you warily as if you were about to explode. You shrugged off the strange encounter and turned away, throwing a “have a good day” his way before you entered the welcome air conditioning of the store.

As you pre-paid for your shower and sports drink with the clerk, you could still see the man standing there out of the corner of your eye, watching you cautiously through the window.

You took the key and headed off towards the back of the building, ready to wash away the night terrors and bizarre encounter.

When you reached your private bathroom suite, you closed and locked the door then set down your backpack and turned on the hot water in the clean, sand-colored tiled shower. Steam started to fog the mirror, but you glimpsed yourself before it went completely white. Horrified, you wiped at the mirror. Your eyes were bloodshot and there was dried blood, almost black, that had trickled down your nose. Your veins were prominent and unnaturally blue, spiderwebbing across the thinner areas of skin. Your pupils were blown wide. You reached up to touch your face, confused, but your hand wandered to an itch under your ear. You leaned in closer and angled your head to see that blood had seeped from your ears as well.

You hastily stepped into the drumming water and tried to scrub away the knowledge that the nightmare may have been more than just that.

Back at the Impala, Dean watched you through the window, unmoved from the spot he’d caught you sneaking around the Impala. When you were out of sight, he slipped into the driver’s seat, hinges protesting with a squeak.

“You okay, dude?” Sam asked.

Dean set his snacks down between them. “No, Sam. Did you see her face? I found her creeping around the car. I didn’t see any hex-bags, but I think she’s a witch.”

Sam shook his head in disbelief. “Dean, she just looked like she had a few too many last night and maybe got in a fight.”

Dean shrugged, not willing to argue with his brother. One of his favorite things about Sam was also the worst—he always saw the good in people and, all too often, was blinded by it.

He turned up the music and peeled away from the truck stop, ready to put some distance between them and you.

You walked back to your truck, fully refreshed and looking much more like your normal self. Mutt stood up in the front seat, tail wagging and you couldn’t help but grin back at him. As you popped up next to him, you pulled out your phone to search for the nearest library. It was time to figure out what the hell happened last night.

The library wasn’t too far—another town over about a half hour away. It was a relatively small place, with only two computers and a few rooms. What it lacked for in size, it certainly made up for in quality and quantity for the research you required. Mutt walked silently by your side through the long, narrow passages between bookcases. Just before you reached the end, one book caught your eye.

Folklore of West Texas

You pulled it from the shelf, a familiar green eye arresting yours once more where there should have been another book on the opposite shelf. Startled, you took a stumbling step back, spine crashing into the full bookshelves behind you and digging in uncomfortably. Mutt stood at attention then, low growl emanating from bared teeth towards the stranger on the other side. You dropped your free hand to him, knowing that if he made a ruckus, you’d both be kicked out. He quieted, but still leaned into you, rigid and on high alert.

Dean rounded the corner quickly, looking down at the hackled dog and drawing his hands up quickly, as if mildly scared. “Mind calling off the attack dog?”

“Only if you tell me why you’re following me.”

“Following you—what? You’re following us!” He hissed, barely above a whisper.

Sam trotted up behind you, footfalls heavy on the old hardwood floor.

He looked from you to Dean to Mutt then to the book you were holding. Ignoring his brother’s strange demeanor, Sam asked kindly, “Hey, uh, mind if we borrow that book from you? The librarian pointed us towards it. It for research—important research.”

You gripped it tighter, suddenly feeling quite cramped in the small space and wanting to run the other direction, away from these crazy people. “Sorry, uh… Sam, is it?”

He nodded, small, thin, friendly smile coasting his lips.

“Sorry, Sam, I need it urgently. I uh… I have a paper for my college class due in like four hours and I haven’t even started. Maybe come get it tomorrow?” You hoped they would accept your lie and let you be.

Sam sighed. “Maybe we can share? There’s seating over by the computers. You can write and when you’re not using the book, maybe we can?”

You had to hand it to him, he was thoughtful and it would have been a good compromise. Unable to think of another excuse, you nodded in agreement.

After a few hours of searching through the book and the internet, through the library computer, you found a promising lead. Something called a Lechuza bruja, a type of witch or spirit well-known around the Texas-Mexico border.

The whole time, you could feel the eyes of the men as they bore into you, watching your every move.

You stood quickly, numb legs stretching and ready to carry you away from the situation. You smiled and tipped your brim at the men and quickly walked back through the maze of shelves and to your truck. The afternoon heat hit the parts of your face not shadowed by the black hat. Once in the vehicle, you opened the cooler to check your provisions. Hmm, running low. Next stop—the market.

Sam and Dean whispered with each other, huddled so close that their heads were nearly touching.

“A lechuga?”

Sam huffed. “No Dean, a Lechu-ZA. We aren’t fighting lettuce.”

Dean hung his head in his hands, dragging them across his hair and back down, rubbing his temples. “Frickin’ witches man,” he mumbled. At least for Dean, lettuce and witches were held in the same regard—both revolting.

You were glad to be back out in the wide-open human-less landscape. You cracked open a cold beer from the cooler and let the fizz glide down your throat, both cooling and warming you in delightful ways. Sunset was fast approaching and painting wildfires through the sky. Atop your plateau, you could look down and see Texas to the North and East, Mexico to the South and West, and the Rio Grande snaking between them, forming an oasis along its banks. You were close enough to hear the constant, deep rumble of water. You closed your eyes, imagining people from a thousand years ago listening to the same sound.

Letting the peaceful daydream fade away, you set the beer on the hood and went to rifle through the tool box in the bed of the truck. You pushed aside the smaller items of necessity and heaved a large bag of salt over your shoulder with a grunt. You painstakingly dug a shallow trench with your heel all the way around the vehicle, filling it with an unbroken line of salt along the way.

After you prepped the truck for a sleepless night potentially fighting away ghosts and witches, you climbed into the bed of the truck with the cooler and opened a bag of jerky. Mutt enjoyed his kibble and curled up next to you, happy and relaxed, innocent of the danger that would likely find you tonight.

As the temperature dropped and the familiar refrains of coyotes filled the air with music, your eyes grew heavy. You curled into yourself, pulling the rough blanket over your shoulders. You looked up at the stars, trying to tally the larger ones to keep yourself awake. There were so many that the dark sky was not truly black anywhere—everywhere you looked there were more. Every time your eyes adjusted and focused on a dark spot, you could count even more of them as they appeared.

Everything was true black and silent, as if you’d gone blind and deaf. This was not the desert you knew. You turned and felt the ground with your feet, trusting that your tall boots would block any cactus or unfriendly critters. You shuffled forward and tried to call out to Mutt, but the words caught in your throat. It began to constrict, as if something had you in a vice grip, crushing your windpipe from the inside out. You reflexively tried to breathe deeply, but fell to your knees, scratching at your throat, panic rising. Your eyes bugged and strained, desperate for any miniscule bit of light. You blinked hard, just to verify that your eyes were indeed open. Gasping for breath, your lungs burned and you fell onto your side, convulsing as if drowning. As numbness creeped its dark tendrils through your body, and you began to sense gravity fall away.

You continued to struggle, allowing fear to set in. Off in the distance, a light appeared. Like a shooting star destined to destroy worlds, it hurtled towards you. In mere seconds, the bright, glowing owl was there, once again sporting the glitching face of a woman contorted in sickening ways. The owl dwarfed you, calmly flapping its wings and whispering those strange incantations that drew such agony from your breaking body.

It floated closer to you, and in the light, you could see your hair suspended as if you were fully submerged under water. When the monstrosity got within arms reach with open beak, you reeled back and punched it right in the eye.

You woke with a start, Mutt pawing at you and barking violently. Urgently.

Shaking off the nightmare, you could taste blood in your mouth. Tears had run down your face at some point, and you hurriedly wiped them away.

The blinding light of the full moon revealed otherwise—blood. You were bleeding tears?

You withdrew a kerchief from your flannel pocket and wiped your face as you scanned the salt line. The wind had blown away several areas. You looked up at the sky and tried to calm Mutt, who was trembling for the first time since he was a small pup. The full moon snatched the breath from you, and your chest heaved. It looked exactly like the eye you’d just punched in your dream.

The night was far colder than you’d expected, the chill reaching down to your bones. That was it.

It was time to leave. This was not something you could fight on your own. You jumped from the bed of the truck and Mutt joined you in the cab. You tried to start the truck, but the engine just sputtered. You tried a few more times, then nothing—as if the battery had died.

“No no no no no,” you cursed, hitting the steering wheel with both fists.

Time seemed to slow to a stop, Mutt frozen mid-bark and facing the windshield.

A large gray owl landed on the hood and its striking yellow eyes sent shockwaves through you—overwhelming pulses of anguish. You screamed, mouth falling open and eyes shutting against the spell, trying to break its hold. A vision of a small child drowning in the river filled your mind. It was screaming, choking, begging for help.

When your eyes opened, the screams of the child urged your feet forward faster, now running full speed through the desert.

You were not in control of your body anymore, but merely a hapless passenger. Your feet betrayed you and you went tumbling down the side of the cliff, catching every sharp rock and thorn on the way down. If you had your wits, you wouldn’t have been able to move, too broken to continue. The rush of the water nearby caused your veins and arteries to constrict and pulse at a dangerously high rate. Adrenaline coursed along with your blood and you rolled and stumbled towards the river once more. In a kicking leap, you crashed into the frigid waters searching for the screaming child. The shrieks were so loud that they rattled your brain and hurt your ears, threatening to consume you. You thrashed against the strong current.

The owl screeched and swooped down, tearing at your drenched hair. The freezing black water helped ground you enough to realize that there was no child—only the horrid cries of the bird.

The Lechuza, you reminded yourself. Just as you reached for the vial of salt in your pocket, the witch-owl dove into the water, catching the back of your collar in its sharp beak, dragging you to the depths with it. Its eyes glowed, the only visible thing in the dark waters.

Dean pulled the Impala slowly up to your truck, eyes locked on the salt circle. “Shit!” He shouted as he threw Baby into park. He bounded from the car towards the abandoned vehicle. He whipped back around towards Sam.

Sam picked up the blood-soaked kerchief in the bed of the truck and gave it to Dean. “I think we’re too late,” Sam noted, his voice faltering with the worry rising in his throat.

“I didn’t know she was a hunter! How did we not know?! The signs were all there!” Dean cursed and kicked the tire violently, throwing firsts in the air as he gripped the soiled kerchief. Of course, he blamed himself. In fact, the only reason they were out there was to gank you. Until this moment, they’d had no idea that you were another victim and not the bruja herself.

Mutt whined and cried a high pitched imperative. Dean ran back to the Impala with a long string of creative curses, retrieving two shotguns and extra witch-killing bullets. Sam opened the truck door and Mutt spilled out.

“Here boy, here,” Sam called to the frantic dog. “Take her to us. Go get her!”

Mutt seemed to understand and took off towards the southwest, nose close to the ground and paws practically levitating across the rough earth. Dean tossed the extra gun to Sam and they raced off, following the dog’s brays. They carefully descended the cliffside, sliding partway down and narrowly missing a large crevasse. The men watched in horror just as the large owl drug you beneath the waves.

You thrashed violently against the authority of the currents and the essence of pure evil leeching into you through osmosis. Once you were fully saturated in the foul concentrate, the Lechuza Bruja reared its ugly head back, screeching at a decibel that whales would envy, resounding through your entire being and threatening to shred you to pieces. Whether it was the spell or hypothermia kicking in, your limbs grew stiff and immovable. Your lungs screamed for air until you couldn’t fight it anymore.

In that moment, you felt your very soul being stripped away, and in the void, water filled your lungs. The pain only lasted a moment more before you started to sink towards the rocky bottom, bits of freshwater weeds outstretching soft, welcoming arms. You blinked slowly one last time, looking up at the disappearing monster above you as it emerged forcefully from the opaque waters. With the fading light, you closed your eyes, ready to greet your reaper. Your limp body fell to rest with a soft thud into the bed of river grass.

Sam dove into the water immediately, shoes and shirt flying off in a frenzy along the way. Just as he submerged, Dean angled the shotgun full of salt pellets and hit the fleeing bruja like a game of skeet. The nasty beast crumpled at his feet but did not stay still long. Dean dropped the shotgun and withdrew his pearl-handled pistol. The man-sized owl stood and flared its wings, beak agape in a blood curdling scream. Without hesitation, Dean aimed carefully and shot it center mass twice then between the eyes once in rapid succession.

The creature exploded in a ferocious affair, leaving only dust and feathers behind. Dean held his arm up, coughing into the crook of his sleeve. When the particles settled, he rushed towards where Mutt dug at the bank, barking and whining, careful not to touch the water.

“C’mon Sam,” he prayed, pacing impatiently. Just as he thrust off his own shirt and shoes to rescue both of you, Sam broke the shallow waves with a loud gasp. He held you in one arm, treading towards shore with the other. With a waterlogged body, you were more than a typical deadweight. Dean grabbed onto you when he was close enough, about waist deep in the river, feet sliding on the slippery stones. He traded a glance with Sam to make sure he was okay. Sam nodded between coughing fits.

He would be alright, but he couldn’t say the same for you. Your eyes were half open and far away, likely lost on this plane. Dean set you down on a sandy patch devoid of sharp protrusions and slammed fists on your chest. You were cold and blue.

“No no no, shit! Come on!” He yawped into the waning night. He started CPR. In desperation, he rolled you on your side and slapped your upper back hard. Your lungs rejected the water, projecting it up to a few feet away. Shallow, agonal breaths shook you furiously, your limbs going into straight, fixed positions. He sighed a minor breath of relief then picked you up and slung you over his shoulder, hoping more water would drain that way. The boys scrambled back up to the plateau where they reached the Impala in record time. Your body still racked and spasmed, trying hard to intake oxygen but still unable to expel all the water on its own. Dean handed you to Sam and jumped in the driver’s seat, breaking his “no dogs in the car EVER” rule as Mutt joined him in the front. Sam slid into the back, still pumping your chest when needed.

Dean grimaced as he flew as fast as he could down the winding, bumpy excuse for a road through Big Bend. He checked his phone, waiting anxiously for a bar of service since the nearest hospital was almost three hours away by car. “Sam, is she—?”

“Drive faster, Dean.”

The car gained air a few times, until at last Dean slammed the breaks to a sliding halt, atop a peak near the park exit. He dialed 911, pleading with the operator to send a helicopter to them like yesterday.

Minutes passed.

Dean paced outside the car, searching the sky and spinning in circles, the first rays of morning shining in his eyes. Sam pulled you from the car to the ground when you stopped breathing again. This time, he started CPR and you didn’t react.

Ten minutes.

Sam sang the Bee Gees under his breath, struggling to hold tempo and arms shaking in exhaustion. Mutt lay by your side, eyes closed and whining softly.

Dean kicked and punched at the world around him, screaming curses into the sky and towards himself, tears coming freely now as he felt the full weight of his guilt. He’d allowed another hunter to die because he couldn’t see past his own pig-headedness.

Fifteen.

Sam collapsed, arms shaking with exhaustion. Dean picked up where his brother left off with torturous thoughts raging rampant through his mind.

The long-awaited sounds of a helicopter in the distance graced their hungry ears. Sam jumped to his feet, waving wildly. He helped guide the crew to a clearing just a few yards away. Dean shielded you from the flying debris.

Two medics quickly wrapped you and continued CPR. In seconds, the helicopter was pulling away towards the rising sun.

Dean’s hands were clasped together atop his head, but internally, he was imploding.

Your eyes opened slowly, blurred vision confusing your already muddled mind with distorted images. You winced against the cool, damp cloth brushing against your temple. You groaned as your body woke in stages, each one more painful than the last.

A solid, warm hand wrapped around your forearm. You clenched your fist in response, a sharp sting in the top of your hand. “Shhh, shh shh. You’re okay. You’re at the hospital,” the soft yet gravelly voice whispered reassuringly.

Bringing your other hand to your eyes, you roughly wiped and rubbed until you could see more clearly. You started to gag and heave at the tubes connecting your lungs to a breathing machine. You pulled and flailed, panic striking fight or flight into you once again. Nurses rushed in and your eyes followed them wide open and wild. They carefully withdrew the apparatus and strapped your limbs down, replacing it with a much gentler nasal cannula, and lastly lifting the bed so that you were sitting up slightly.

You tried to choke out questions, but the more you tried, the more it hurt. You gave in to frustrated silence and took in your surroundings. Dean was there, hovering closely, tears at the corners of his red-rimmed eyes and an apology already spilling from his mouth.

You shook your head, confused, and motioned for something to write with. He handed you a small whiteboard and expo marker.

Who are you?

“Dean Winchester.”

You looked at him, unbelieving that it could be that Winchester—the one from the Supernatural books. It was only a story, right? Yet it was all right there—the character description, the car, and even Sam. Erasing your last question, you sloppily wrote a new one.

‘The’ Dean W.? SPN Legend?

He chuckled lightly. “Yeah, that one.”

You took in the view of your body—wrapped nearly head to toe in bandages, some of them still bloody.

What happened?

“You don’t remember?”

You shook your head no.

He recounted his version of the night, looking over his shoulder to make sure there were no prying ears.

You could tell it aggrieved him—the whole thing. You didn’t blame him of course; you’d almost wondered the same about him and Sam, suspecting that they may have been the evil bewitched spirit.

Sometimes, hunters die.

He placed his palm over the scribbled words, eyes cast down. “No. Not like that, not when we can stop it.” You squeezed his hand then shoved it away lightly.

I forgive you.

The words brought the large hunter to his knees. When he found the strength to lock eyes with you once more, you gave him a thin, strained smile. Looking at the band on your wrist, it was obvious he’d guessed your name and age. You jotted the correct information down and showed it to him. He smiled back.

“Nice to formally meet you, Y/N.”

You, too. What now?

Making sure the room was still clear, he leaned in. “Now, we get you out of here. Sam has your dog back at the motel. You owe me a deep clean for my car, by the way,” he quipped.

Teaming up with the Winchesters wouldn’t be the worst thing, you considered. It sure as hell beat living this empty, lonely life.

Mutt could finally have a family.

As Dean expertly snuck you out of the hospital, you weighed the pros and cons of associating with the two most wanted men on the planet. Your decision came when the Impala pulled up to the door of the first-floor room where Sam stood out front, Mutt by his feet looking happy and well fed.

Through everything, we found each other. That’s all that matters.

Come Heaven, Hell, or Beyond. You owed them your life.

FOREVERS:

@carryonmywaywardcaptain @manawhaat @supernatural-jackles @jensen-jarpad @wheresthekillswitch @bummblebeeblue @nothin-after-79-blog @docharleythegeekqueen @fangirl-writing-fiction @inmysparetime0 @impala-dreamers-mainfrigginblog @impala-dreamer @arryn-nyxx @idk-life01 @attorneyl @deathtonormalcy56 @xwing-baby

ALL ABOUT THAT DEAN:

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Tags Open

#SPN Bi-Weekly Writing Challenge #Whispers of the Desert #chris writes things #reader insert #supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #spn fanfic #no pairing #yet

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impala-dreamer · 5 years ago

Text

Between Scenes

SPN FanFic

~Jensen and Y/N's make out scene really gets him going and it's really hard to stop...~

Dean x Andi / Jensen x Reader, Rich

1,874 Words

Warnings: NSFW. Masturbation. Oral Sex.

A/N: Written for @welcome-to-my-little-world, who requested Masturbation with Jensen for kinktober over on Patreon. Hope you all enjoy!

My Masterlist ~ Become A Patreon

“Dean. Don’t leave.”

Andi’s eyes draw him back and Dean is helpless. There’s something in the way she says his name, something in her breathless plea that holds him captive. He stops in his tracks, boots thudding against the hard ground.

“Please.”

Her voice barely carries across the field, but he hears it. He feels it in his soul. He can’t leave.

Dean drops his bag and spins, dark green eyes trained on her lips. He rushes forward, closing the space between them in a few long strides, reaching with both hands to grab her cheeks and pull her to him.

They kiss beneath the full moon, clouds sweeping high overhead, cool October breeze chilling their skin. He holds her close, putting everything he has into his kiss, giving her everything. There’s never been another woman for him, nor would there be, but the fear of letting go rips him apart inside.

He pulls back for a breath, thumbs caressing her jaw as his hands slide down her throat and around, sensually locking around the nape of her neck. She looks up with utter trust and love, apples of her cheeks lifting as she smiles.

“Dean,” she gasps in disbelief, having waited forever to be in his arms. “I...I love-”

“Don’t,” he sighs, shaking his head gently before diving back in, every cell in his body screaming for her. He can feel his blood rushing, brain cells firing, skin tingling, and it’s all because of her. “Don’t say it.” He licks into her mouth, humming at the sweetness.

She presses a hand against his chest. “But I do,” she says simply, honest eyes wide and taking him in.

Dean closes his eyes and presses his forehead to hers, arms wrapping tight around her. “I know, Andi,” he whispers, hoping the autumn wind will steal his words so they don’t come back to hurt him. “Me too.”

It happens too fast.

Dean presses her into the hood of the Impala, moon shining down upon the metal, reflecting back his own lust filled gaze as she leans back and spreads her legs. He lifts her up to sit on the edge and gets lost in her kiss again, shifting his broad hips between her thighs. He moans as her tongue traces the thick muscles of his throat, teeth scraping gently while her fingers tug at his jeans.

“Want you Dean,” she huffs, working his belt as best she can.

He jerks his hips forward and drops a hand to cup her breast. “Want you too, baby,” he growls, sucking at her bottom lip. “I’ve wanted you since the moment we met.”

The belt gives way, leather slipping from the metal clasp and Dean hisses as she slides her hand downward.

“Then take me, Dean,” she says with a smile, lying back against the hood and reaching up for him. “I’m yours.”

His head swims with right and wrong, promises and consequences, but the passion wins over. He covers her completely and rolls his hips into her, moaning at the blissful sigh she releases.

“And, cut! I think we got it!” Rich yells from across the set, barely looking up from the monitor as he halts Jensen and Y/N’s love scene. “Looks great, guys. Good work!”

Y/N squirms a bit beneath Jensen and looks up with a smile. “So… that was fun.” She laughs awkwardly and Jensen joins her.

“Yeah,” he smirks, leaning on his forearms on the hood, still locked around her head, pelvis still pressed against hers. He looks down and his smirk softens to a gentle smile and the urge to kiss her again overtakes him.

Y/N turns her eyes away before he can make a move and tries to stretch her back. “Um…Jensen?”

“Yeah?” he whispers, caught up in how warm her soft body feels beneath him.

“You wanna get off?”

He startles, cock twitching at the invitation. He’s already half hard from their scene and the blood is flowing freely. His cheeks glow pink as he leans his lips a millimeter closer to hers. “What?”

Y/N laughs and shoves at his shoulders. “Get off me!”

“Oh!” Jensen rolls and sets her free, trying to play it off as a little joke, but the hard line in his jeans has no poker face. “Sorry,” he grins with a shrug and Y/N shakes her head in jest.

“I’m gonna go get some food,” she says over her shoulder, walking away with a secret smile.

Jensen lays back against the Impala for a brief moment, trying to calm his body, but as soon as his eyes close, she’s there; soft and sweet and beautiful. His dick pushes against his zipper and he hops up before anyone can see.

“Fuck.” He groans as he leaves the set, cock still hard and aching. It’s been a few days since he’s yanked one out and that scene with Y/N flipped some kind of switch inside of him. He can tell he’s not going to be able to think this one away.

‘Please…’

‘Fuck, it really sounded like she meant it,’ he thinks, rushing behind the faux walls into the empty walk way. ‘She’s a fucking great actress.’ His jeans rub almost painfully against his erection; mind filled with the taste of her mouth, the feel of her hands on him.

He stops and bites his lip as he mentally calculates the distance to his trailer. “I’m not gonna make it,” he murmurs and then doubles back until he finds the door he’s looking for.

Dean’s room isn’t being used this week, but it’s still set up. The lights are off and it’s eerily dark, but there’s a door that shuts and a bed with memory foam.

Jensen makes sure the door is closed and perches on the edge of the bed. The mattress moulds around his ass and he lays back, groaning in relief as he finally unzips his jeans.

‘Want you, Dean... so bad…’

He fists his cock and slowly rubs up and down, shoulders shaking as he imagines her legs wrapped around him again. She was so fucking soft, so much give, yet firm when he pressed into her.

‘Dean...I love you…’

Her voice swam in his head, all the things she said and all the things he could imagine now. It was like honey flowing through his brain and trickling down into his bloodstream.

‘Fuck me, Dean. Hard…’

He pumped his fist faster; jaw clenching to hold back his moans. God, but her lips were so sweet, her kiss so hungry and inviting.

‘My hero...Need you, Dean...Need you so bad…’

“Fuck!”

The door creaks open, but he doesn’t notice. His mind is flooded with memories of her smell, her touch, the heat of her tongue as it pushed against his.

“Oh, god, Y/N…”

He feels the swell, the pressure build.

“Fuck.”

‘Please, Dean...Come in my tight little pussy...Need you to cum all over me.’

He holds his breath and rubs the tip of his cock, jerking quickly, hips lifting off of the bed.

“Fuck…”

This time the curse isn’t his and Jensen’s eyes pop open as his shoots up from the bed.

Y/N’s in the doorway, a hand held up to her lips as she watches in shock.

Jensen scrambles to cover up, yanking the hem of his flannel down, but she’s already seen too much. “What the fuck!”

She balks, pivoting on each foot, unsure of what to do. “I’m sorry, I thought I heard something and…” She stops and bites her lip. “Do you want some help?”

Her question is soft and alluring and Jensen’s body tenses.

“What?”

She takes a step, careful to close the door behind her. “I asked,” she said, slowly coming towards the bed, “if I could help you.”

He swallows hard, eyes glued to her lips as she speaks, over enunciating each word so that the plump pillows jut out deliciously. “I…”

Y/N reaches the bed and stops between his bowed legs, looking down with a lustful gaze. “I just figured since I put you in this predicament…” Slowly she kneels down, hands dropping to his denim covered knees to brace her descent. “...it’s only fair that I help you out of it.”

Jensen’s heart races and his dick pulses. “I can’t...ask you to do that,” he breathes, heavy exhale dropping his voice an entire octave.

“You’re not asking,” she says with a coy smile as she slides her hands firmly up his thick thighs. “I’m offering.”

He stares for the longest moment, watching as she inches closer. His stomach is tight and his brain is mush; there’s nothing he can do but give in. “Please.”

She smiles as her lips press to the tip of his cock, fingers gently pushing the layers of cotton up to reveal his soft belly. The hair on his tummy is sparse and pale, deepening to auburn as it reaches his thick shaft. Y/N presses her left hand into the down and circles the base of his cock with her thumb and index fingers, pulsing in time with his racing pulse.

Jensen’s head falls back as she licks the hard vein and swirls her tongue over his head. “Fuck.” His voice is harsh and raspy, he’s already so gone it won’t take much.

She can feel him twitching and tightens the ring around him, wanting to keep him from cumming as long as possible. They don’t have much time, but she wants to enjoy every second.

Jensen’s soon lost to the rhythm of her mouth as it slides up and down, so tight, so wet, so hot. He grabs at the blanket, fingers contracting as she edges him, taking him so deep he isn’t sure how she’s breathing.

“God damnit, Y/N… your mouth… fuck!”

He bucks his hips up into her and she gags around him, swallowing and pulsing her tongue against him. She hums as she works, moaning at the heavenly weight of his cock pushing down her throat, and finally loosens her fingers from around the base.

“Fuck!” Jensen grits his teeth as he cums, holding his breath as he spills onto her tongue.

She swallows every drop and eases away, lovingly petting his cock as it softens. She rocks back on her heels and smiles. “Thank you.”

Jensen pops up on his elbows and looks at her in shock, his head still fuzzy from the lack of blood flow. “Thank you?” he laughs. “Thank you! Jesus.”

He sways a bit as he sits up and grimaces as he tucks his sensitive flesh away. “That was… wow.”

Y/N stands and takes a tiny bow. “You’re welcome.” There’s a proud grin in her eyes and she extends a hand to help him up. “So anyway,” she says casually. “There was a sound issue on the last take, so Rich wants us back on set.”

Jensen’s knees are still weak but he makes it up. “Wait, what? When?”

She laughs at the goofy look on his face and shrugs. “I don’t know, like ten minutes ago.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, but worth it.”

She winks and he about dies all over again.

“Definitely worth it.”

2019 Forever Tags:

@akshi8278 @amanda-teaches @arses21434 @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @because-imma-lady-assface @burningcoffeetimetravel @colagirl5 @cosicas-cuquis @cosmicfire72 @courtney-elizabeth-winchester @covered-byroses @crashdevlin @dean-winchesters-bacon @deansenwackles @deansgirl215 @deanmonandnegansbitch @dolphincliffs @dubuforeveralone @emilyshurley @emoryhemsworth @ericaprice2008 @eternal-elir @feelmyroarrrr @flamencodiva @focusonspn @gayspacenerd @hella-aj-the-trickers-son @herbologystudent252 @hobby27 @ilsawasanacrobat @justcallmeasmodeus @katymacsupernatural @lastactiontricia @maddiepants @mariekoukie6661 @meganwinchester1999 @missjenniferb @mrswhozeewhatsis @mysticmaxie @onethirstyunicorn @our-jensen-ackles-love @peridot-rose @risingphoenix761 @roonyxx @roxyspearing @sandlee44 @shadowkat-83 @spnbaby-67 @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @spnficgirl @supernaturaldean67 @supernatural-took-me-over @thehardcoveraddict @tmiships4life @wegoddessofhell @winchesterprincessbride

#spn fanfic #jensen x reader #smut #one shot #jensen ackles x reader

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rapunzel-withthegoodhair · 5 years ago

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everythingsheclaimed asked you: Top 5 Daimon Helstrom moments :)

PUT “TOP 5” ANYTHING IN MY ASK AND I WILL ANSWER OK GO

Top 5 Daimon Helstrom moments...according to CJ Wingrave

(listen while reading) // (google doc link for easier viewing)

The air across Portland shifts firmly, as if a warm front just pushed its way in across the frigid morning cold. Not slowly, but all at once. For a moment, the friction crackles in the air. As Daimon glances up from his office desk, a flash of lightning splices through the campus. Roaring thunder soon follows and the rain that he wouldn’t know how to live without begins to splash heavily across the windows.

Storms in the pacific northwest aren’t unusual. On average, it rains 164 days out of every year in Portland alone. But it wasn’t supposed to today. Just moments ago, the sky was clear.

Across campus, students are already chattering about how typical it is for Oregon to flip moods on a dime. But Daimon knows the truth. The change in energy across the city is undeniable.

After seven whole months...CJ is back.

~~~

The circle of candles in her room flickers to life just as her body appears within it. Rings of salt and iron guard the flames, ensuring nothing crosses over with the young witch. Blonde hair covers her face and for a few long moments, CJ just lays on the hardwood. Every muscle feels like rusted metal. As if her body was burned to ashes and then baked back together all over again.

It’s never The Fade itself that fucks with her. It’s the process of travelling between dimensions. The process of ripping open the dense fabric of space-time and shoving herself through. It’s gotten a bit easier over the years. But her body is still made of simpler things than magic. Flesh and blood and bone is never meant for a thousand rebirths in one life.

Everything inside of her wants to get up and stagger towards her phone right this very moment. But there’s simply no way. She needs rest.

Eleven hours later, she wakes with a start. The candles have burned themselves out. And her mind is narrowed to one thought: Daimon.

Her legs wobble like jelly beneath her as she leans heavily against her queen-sized bed. All she wants is a shower and some food and him.

He answers on the first ring (he always does, for her). Sitting in his home office grading papers, he’d been fighting to focus on anything that wasn’t her return home.

“How long was I gone?” She can never tell. CJ can’t stand to be away from Daimon for longer than a week. But traveling through the fabric of space-time warps everything. The farther she travels between dimensions, the longer she’s gone, even if it only feels like a few days for her.

Immediately his laptop is closed. Rubbing at his tired eyes, Daimon pushes himself up. His spine screams in protest, neck stiff from staring down at a computer screen all day. Wincing, he pushes stubbornly through the pain.

“Seven months.” The words are heavy. With relief. With exhaustion. He’d wait the rest of his life to see her again if he had to. But damn if the waiting doesn’t take its toll. After all, abandonment was all he really knew before her. “Can I come see you?”

The rain that began earlier begins to pound harder outside. Tugging his coat on, he grabs his keys without even looking for an umbrella. Nothing can keep him out of her gravitational pull. Even if she says no he’d be content to sleep in his car in the looming shadow of her apartment building. To feel what tiny seeds of her energy he can soak up now that she’s back in his atmosphere.

“Yeah…” Gripping the doorframe to her bathroom, CJ barely makes it to the bathtub without injury. Their connection is so intense, she swears she can feel him all over her already. Strong chest pressed to the skin of her back. His delicate fingers tracing her throat. His cold nose along the back of her ear, drinking in the milk and honey scent that lingers strong after a trip to The Fade. “Yeah, I need you.”

For the first time in seven months, a smile pulls at his stoney features and light flickers back into his stormy blue eyes.

II.

She appears without warning.

One moment, the classroom desk in the far corner of the back row is empty. Next, CJ is soaking in the beam of sunlight falling through the windows. Sunlight is hard to come by in Portland. But CJ likes to play with the weather to fit her mood. Apparently, she’s feeling bright today. Playful.

Eyes falling on her for just a moment, Daimon doesn’t allow his lecture to skip a beat. Though a tiny smirk tugs at his mouth.

“The Greeks believed that goodness and beauty were interwoven. They were inextricable. And hey, maybe they were right. Isn’t beauty just chaos given order? Isn’t order what allows us to survive?”

“Or maybe that’s just what we tell ourselves to justify hitting on the same girl every one else is eyeing at the bar.”

The class turns to glance at her. No one has the spine to ask where the hell she came from or what her name is. But they’re all thinking it. Particularly the boys.

Arching an eyebrow, Daimon’s posture straightens slightly. He pushes away from his desk, eyes locked on her own as he responds carefully. Few students have ever dared to interrupt him during lectures. If she were anyone else, they’d be sorry for trying. But CJ’s mischievous side is his greatest weakness.

“It’s interesting...we’re always so arrogant to assume beauty is about us. Isn’t...a neatly pruned orchard beautiful? A well built house?” Glancing casually across the sea of students, he shrugs. “Do we not crave order? Is this not what keeps us alive?”

“Keeps us alive for what? If not to enjoy the chaos of passion. If beauty is the key to passion, how does the argument stand? How can beauty be both order and bring chaos at the same time?” A smirk twitches over her pretty mouth, eyes dancing with his as their mental waltz dizzies the rest of the class.

For a moment, Daimon allows her words to hang in the air. He mulls them over, then ultimately shrugs.

“Clearly Miss Wingrave isn’t Greek.” A low rumble of laughter disperses the tension in the room and the two of them exchange amused smiles.

After class, she waits patiently for the other girls to finish coming up with excuses to talk to him. Stupid questions and cliché compliments, their bouncy curls twisted around manicured fingers as they giggle while he isn’t even trying to be funny. But his eyes have trouble staying away from the long legs CJ has crossed at the knees while perched on a desk in the front row. He can feel her eyes dragging over his skin, as hungry as her teeth when they’re in bed.

With a flick of her wrist, the door locks behind the last girl to leave.

He closes the space between them with purposeful steps, slowly tugging her thighs apart so as to stand between them. Cold hands hooking under her knees, he pulls her closer. Nuzzles over her forehead, into the warmth of her hair.

“You’re a brat.” His words are a breathy laugh against her skin as a gentle kiss is dropped to hairline. Feeling her this close is to him, the same sort of relief a morphine addict feels as they finally get a needle to the arm. “And you’re so full of shit. I know you don’t believe a word you said.”

“Of course, I do.” Smirking softly, her fingers brush through his short hair, then down his shoulder. “I’m my own best evidence that beautiful doesn’t always mean good.”

“You’re plenty good.” He shakes his head in disbelief, amusement twitching at his lips. Slowly his fingers tug her ponytail undone so he can have the luxury of feeling her long, silky hair fill the spaces between his fingers.

“Only to you.” She has to admit, she’s softer with him. Softer than she even knew she could be. Anyone who only saw the side of her that Daimon brings out would never guess what she gets up to in The Fade. Or how rebelliously outspoken and impatiently abrupt she can be here.

“Yeah, you’re right.” He sighs through a soft mumble over her skin, nuzzling into her neck, searching out the pocket of warmth there. “You can be a little bit of a monster. Like when you apparate into my classroom mid-lecture just to interrupt me.”

His words pull a laugh out of the girl as she drags a hand up and down along his spine. “I just like to watch you teach. It’s what I miss the most when I’m gone.”

Carefully, Daimon untangles himself to pull back. His brows knit together in a disbelieving (and slightly offended) look. He works hard to keep her satisfied in bed. Very hard.

CJ’s head tips back as she gives up a theatrical sigh. “Okay, the second most.”

“Better.” Playfully nipping at her lower lip, he gently curls his fingers into her hair and tugs just firmly enough to fit their mouths together in a deep kiss.

III.

It’s late when he knocks at her door. But CJ feels him the moment he enters her apartment building. His energy is low, dialed down with exhaustion after a night spent fighting and ultimately descending a particularly nasty demon. But the connection between them is like a tethered cord. The slightest tug always ripples through her body.

Reaching up on her toes, she pulls him into a warm hug. His body is colder than usual in her arms as it fights to heal from expending so much energy. She loves Louise, but this bullshit is going to get him killed. Why the woman insists her replacement be a powerless human so completely out of touch with their world of witchcraft and demonology, CJ will never understand. She’d be lying if she said being passed over for the position hadn’t stung. Though in fairness to the older woman, she’d never given Louise much reason to hope that Daimon could always rely on her presence in this realm. A month or two at home and CJ is always back to flitting between worlds.

Pushing the troubling reminder of Gabriella away, her thoughts narrow to the simple task of making him tea. She turns to head into the kitchen and Daimon trails after her quietly, like a stray puppy in want of a home.

She cups his cheek as they stand by the stove, dragging in a slow deep breath while waiting for the kettle to warm. There are fresh lines on his face, a map of all the stress he keeps balanced on his shoulders. Guilt tries to knock at her heart. If you wouldn’t leave him to bear the earth alone like Atlas, maybe it wouldn’t weigh so much. But she knows it’s bullshit.

She loves him. But she can’t cure Victoria or bring Ana home or turn back time on what his father did to him. Worse than any of these, she’ll never convince Louise to send Gabriella back to The Vatican. Tracing the pad of her thumb over the dark circles beneath his left eye, her features soften.

“You need sleep, baby.”

A wrinkle finds his nose. He can’t stomach the thought of wasting time sleeping while she’s home. When she may leave again tomorrow and take ten months to return. Or ten years. Or ten centuries.

“I’ll sleep when you’re gone.” His voice is soft and stubborn, but so vulnerable. The cold tip of his nose nudges into her shoulder as he curls against her. CJ’s slender arms wrap around his larger body and she tries so hard to push away the guilt his words dredge up. She tries to just hold him and love him and be here and let that be enough.

IV.

She’s the only one who ever gets his coffee order right. Double brewed, black with cinnamon stirred in.

When he comes back to his office after class and finds the cup of Starbucks waiting on his desk next to a wax paper bag of fresh apple fritters, he knows she’s gone again.

Leaving gifts behind like Santa is the only way she knows to stomach a goodbye. She’s never looked him in his eyes and said it. He almost wishes she would, even though he knows it would rip his heart out to hear the words aloud. At least he’d be able to see her eyes and know without a doubt that leaving hurts her too.

The water around them swirls with CBD oil, hot enough to steam up the windows of her bathroom. Her clawfoot tub easily fits both of them and a smile pulls at his mouth as he rests back against her. No one else ever lets him be the little spoon and it never fails to take the weight off of his shoulders in seconds.

Slowly, CJ scoops up handfuls of warm water, pouring each one down over his shoulders and chest. She rubs the back of his neck carefully, thumb massaging at the tight muscles there. The candles lighting up the room flicker lightly as she pulses healing magic through his skin and down into his bones. He’s not even injured right now, and even if he were, his demon blood allows him to heal faster than her magic could ever knit muscle tissue.

But he hasn’t been able to reach Victoria in over a month and he’s broken from the effort. She can feel it hanging heavy in his skin, making each breath feel like he’s trying to kick to the surface with rocks tied to his ankles.

He’s tired of being alone. He’s tired of shouldering Victoria’s demons alone. He’s tired of fighting demons alone. He’s tired of dealing with family trauma that isn’t his cross to bear alone (since Gabriella seems to think it’s morally abject of him to turn those he’s helped over to her for counseling). And he’s tired of waking up in an empty bed, alone.

Brushing a hand along her thigh, he tries to find the words. To beg her to stay. To convince her that he needs her more than any Fae or Spirit or Goddess.

Carefully, he drags in a breath, summoning his courage.

“I’m going to stay.” Her words are soft but clear. “I want to stay here, with you. If you’ll have me. If you promise you won't grow sick of me.”

Her arm wraps across his shoulders and she holds him close.

“Careful...” Slowly, a tiny smile tugs at his mouth. “ I may not let you go again. Ever.”

He’s trying so hard not to have real hope. He trusts CJ with every fiber of his being. To catch him when he falls. To fight on his side. To hold her ground when hell comes knocking. But the part of him that’s been left behind too many times is never sure if this is the last time she’ll come home. Still, he wants to believe it so badly it aches in his bones.

“Good…” She smiles into his neck, pressing a soft kiss there, words down to a whisper. “I won’t let you go again either.”

#daimon helstrom #daimon helstrom fic #helstrom #c: cj wingrave #my writing.#my graphics.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 6 years ago

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Broken Protocol

Sequel to Breach, The Cell, Corrupt, Surrender, and Seed

Warnings: non/dubcon sex, mention of blood, self-harming thoughts.

This is dark!Winter Soldier/Bucky and explicit. 18+ only.

Note: This is a Winter Soldier POV chapter. I hope you all enjoy. There is also a little smut too. Um, remember this is an AU going forward and so our timeline will no necessarily line up with that of the MCU, but I have an interesting idea going forward for how it will pan out :) I love you all and hope you enjoy. Please let me know what you think and reblog if you can :D It would really help as I move forward with the series (also I wrote this chapter super fast because you all responded so nicely to the last and I was just ecstatic and flattered, and oh! thank you)

The siren never stopped wailing. The whine intensified when he awoke. When he was unleashed upon the world. Buildings crumbled and bones cracked under his boots. That was when it was most deafening. When it became him. When he became death. His hands worked without thought. Blood tainted his vision, the scent of it filled his nose, the heat cooled on his fingertips. When the light went out, his mission was complete. As he watched the life drain from their shrinking pupils, the siren called him back.

The Asset didn’t feel much. Could not feel. Could not remember. The life beyond his cell. Beyond his duty. He only did. Only knew what he must do. Kill.

Until her. She was the only thing he remembered. The only who made him feel. When they read the words to him he forgot everything and awoke anew. Everything but her. She was always there; in the back of his mind. Her wide eyes staring up at him in fear. They reflected his own. Even as his hands wrought destruction, that fear was always there. That which he could not explain. The strand he tugged on but would not unravel.

And she was warm. Soft. He had been ready to dispose of her as he did so many. His hand on her throat as she hid from him. Her eyes hadn’t seen the monster staring back; they had seen his blood, his torture. She had touched him as no other had. She didn’t want to use his body but she had it anyway. He wanted her to feel what he did. He wanted her.

When he returned this night, a word remained to him. “Ours.” He repeated it to himself. His throat strained against his ill-used voice. He said it anyway. “Ours.” The darkness shrouded him beneath the moonless sky. The metal door shuddered as he ripped it open and stomped down the corridors. She would be there as she always was. As he was. A prisoner. A tool.

He came upon the lab and looked around. Two men in white coats. They approached him and gestured to the room. The one which he had found empty before. He tilted his head curiously. They had moved her again. He had thought they had taken her from him. He had raged. The siren had blared as he shattered the glass with his fist. It had been since replaced with a board. He could not see within.

He marched towards them, ready to throttle them. “In there,” The taller man pointed again. He stopped before he could seize them. He was confused. Why had they moved her again? They were playing games. He turned and headed for the door. His boots echoed the few steps to the room and he turned the handle, the lock broke. He entered and looked around. A dark mass waited for him in the shadows.

He flipped the switch to the right of the door. The fluorescent line burned his eyes. He reached to remove his mask; she didn’t like it. But it wasn’t her. He left it in place and lowered his hand. This was not the woman he expected. She was taller, skinnier, colder. Her blond hair was combed neatly and she wore red silk. She gazed back at him with shallow desire. A lust manufactured like everything else in this place. He growled and turned back.

The men in white coats were in front of the door. He shook his head. They stepped closer together and blocked him from his exit. His metal hand balled into a fist. “She is yours,” The shorter man said. “She is ready.”

His jaw clenched. ‘Not mine,’ he thought. He glared at them. He didn’t want this one. She was not his. The men waited. He turned back to the woman and stormed towards her. She flinched as he reached out to her. He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her to her feet. She stumbled as he spun around and pushed her towards the men. She collided with the taller one.

“Ours,” The soldier rasped. The men held the woman away from them, as if she were contaminated. He neared and they tried once more to deflect him. He shoved the shorter man into the wall and the taller one grabbed his shoulder. His metal fist broke the man’s jaw as he shrugged off the strange woman. He left them in agonized groans. They were not so loud as the mangled screams he had inspired hours before.

He remembered the way. He could hear her heartbeat as he stopped before the door. He knocked gently but knew she could not answer. She was locked in. A caged animal. They were nothing more than that. This lock was harder to crack but it shattered beneath his grip. He entered and a light was already aglow. She was on the bed, her back against a pillow, her eyes tired.

He looked to her hand as it rubbed a circle on her stomach. She was bigger. He noticed that the last time, too. Every time he came, she was rounder. She moved awkwardly across the bed. Her nightgown hung from the bump as she stood, barely covering her thighs. She moved differently. Her legs slightly wider apart as she touched her lower back. He closed the door softly as she neared.

He got to his knees and she watched him with her curious eyes. He undid his mask and tossed it aside with a clatter. Next he peeled off his gloves one at a time. He lifted the hem of her nightgown and the hand that was really his spread over her stomach. She was warm. He pressed his lips above her belly button and leaned his head against her. Her fingers combed back his filthy hair. He could feel her nerves. He wished she were not still afraid. Beneath her tenderness, she feared him the same as all did.

He wanted to make her forget her fear. Make himself forget. His hand slipped down along her vee, he traced the line of her legs. She shivered and he pushed his fingers between her folds. Her hands were on his shoulders as she parted her thighs for him. He kissed her hipbone as he played with her bud. She liked that. Her body responded to him even if her mind did not.

He dipped his head lower until they were closer to his fingers. He bent as he held himself up with one hand on the floor. Her fingers danced along his shoulders as she gasped. He had never done this before. Never tasted her like this. He could feel her trembling. He lifted her leg over his shoulder and she clung to his head to keep her balance. He explored her; she was sweet.

Her moans filled his ears as he brought his hand up to feel her stomach. She spread a palm over his metal hand. He buried his head deeper and she held him there. She moved her pelvis against his face, her stomach firm against him. The last time he visited, he had been too afraid to take her. Since the life had bloomed within her, he had been careful. She carried a part of him; the human part of him. The sliver she had found within him.

She spasmed and whined as she came. He loved the taste of it. For so long he had been numb that she plucked his senses to entirely. She reminded him of a past he couldn’t grasp. A blur in the back of his mind; a flutter deep in his chest. He hadn’t always been this beast, but he just couldn’t recall what had come before. Only the emotion and only with her.

Her dusky breaths surrounded him. He lowered her leg and stood before her. He lifted her easily and she let him. He sat her on the bed and tugged at her nightgown. She raised her arms and he swept it over her head. His eyes took in every inch of her. Her breasts were swollen and heavy over her growing stomach. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since she had told him. It must’ve been some time. He stroked her stomach with his fingers and hummed.

He was surprised as her hands came up to the straps of his jacket. She undid the buckles one at a time as he lowered his arms and watched. Her eyes revealed her thoughts; she wanted to say something. He wanted to hear it. He helped her slide the jacket down his arms. Finally, she found her courage.

“A few more months,” She said, “Not long…” He nodded but it was hard for him to speak. To form the words himself. He wanted to talk to her so bad. He had so much to say but he couldn’t possibly put it to words. “I’m....” She hung her head as her voice died.

He blinked and watched her as she pulled the bottom of his tank top from his belt and rolled it up his torso. He let her. It felt nice; as if she were stripping him of the soldier. “Afraid?” His voice surprised even him. She looked up at him and nodded. He was scared too but that he couldn’t tell her.

He stood and she undid his belt. He realized then that she was as desperate as him. She needed his touch as much as he needed hers. They were bound together in their mutual suffering. By the child within her. He pushed his pants down himself and roughly removed his boots as he untangled the fabric from his ankles. His sock caught in the boots and came off as swiftly. She grabbed his wrist and led him to lay beside her.

He gave himself over to her. Let her control him. It was a different sort of control than he was used to. He laid across the bed as she climbed over him. Her hand ran the length of his hardened cock. She rubbed the head along her slick pussy as she angled herself over him. She sank onto him with a sigh and she lingered at her limit. His hands went again to her stomach. She looked down at them and gave a bittersweet smile.

“Ours,” He said and she nodded. She echoed his word and began to move her hips.

She rode him slowly. He helped her. His hands slipped down to her hips and she rocked on top of him. Her walls were firm around him. He groaned as her clit rubbed against his pelvis. Her juices smeared along his flesh. Her thighs twitched and she threw her head back as she whined. Her breasts bounced as she quickened her pace.

She squealed and leaned forward suddenly. She brought her hands to his shoulders and grinded even harder. She was breathless as she chased her orgasm and her walls pulsed around his cock. The bloom spread from his loins to his stomach and he grunted as he watched the ecstasy twist her features. He came with a grunt and she slowed until he emptied himself within her.

When she raised her head, he saw the trails along her cheeks. She was crying, still grasping tight his shoulders. He dragged his hands from her hips, along her stomach and chest, and wiped away the streams with his thumbs. She sniffled and tried to hide her face. He held her head up and stared at her until her eyes met his. His chest felt heavy. He had caused all of this. He had trapped her in this place with them. With him.

“Sorry,” He uttered in a low tone. So low he wasn’t sure she heard him.

She lifted herself from him and crawled up next to him. She fell onto her side, her hand on her stomach protectively. Her tears had stopped but her misery remained. His eyes grazed her figure. He felt a sudden urge to hold her. To protect her. He reached out to her and she rolled over so that her back was to him. He rescinded his arm and let it fall to his side. He couldn’t blame her. How could she feel anything for a monster like him.

tags will be added in a reblog

#bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier x reader #dark!bucky barnes #dark!winter soldier #winter soldier #bucky barnes #fic #series #mcu #marvel #captain america #au #dark!fic #dark fic #dark!verse #darkverse #dark!bucky barnes x reader

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fuckingthefictional · 5 years ago

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Cross my heart- Part 14

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x OFC, John Shelby (platonic) x OFC

Warnings: sexual assault, mention of sexual assault, swearing, weapons, probably not proofread properly

A/N: Quite a heavy chapter folks, here are some helplines if you are in need of help and support if you have suffered from experiences like this one, which you can find here.

Please don’t feel like you have to read this if you are affected by these topics- your mental health is more important.

Previous//Next

Eliza didn’t leave her room for the next two days, fearing of the world outside of her bedroom. It was lucky that those two days had been over the weekend- as she knew she’d have to go back to work when the sun rose again.

She looked a mess, her eyes rimmed red and her hair a matted clump.

Eliza knew she was probably overreacting, but she couldn’t help but feel like she was being targeted again and again by some higher being.

And it wasn’t even that Eliza was feeling particularly betrayed after finding out that Tommy had read through her files and records.

She just felt as if he had pushed the boundaries (that much was clear)- although she was thankful for taking the man taking a file full of personal information away from a person like Grace.

But it still felt like someone had prised into something that was personal and that she had her control ripped away from her.

Eliza was angry, what and who at- she wasn’t too sure. Everything was becoming too much to handle, and this just happened to be the needle that broke the horses’ back.

It was a confusing time in her life.

She had feelings for Tommy, she’d been fighting with Tommy, She’d had too many mental breakdowns to count, Her leg was becoming weaker with each day and of course there was the whole Grace fiasco.

Eliza knew that Grace and this Irish copper held a bigger part of the picture, she had a burning feeling that the worst was yet to come.

She just needed to clear her mind, empty her head and let everything go for a few minutes.

Getting up and dressing in warm clothes was easy, as was sneaking out considering Harry was a deep sleeper.

Eliza just needed to get some air, stretch her legs and get out of her damn room.

It was only after she had wandered aimlessly for 20 minutes that Eliza realised that she had no plan on where she was going.

Reality kicked in minutes later, she was walking around Small Heath in the dark looking vulnerable and wearing nothing but a dress, heals and a thick coat.

She wasn’t carrying any weapons and was almost completely defenceless.

Shit.

She put her head on straight and started her journey to John’s, it was maybe 10 minutes away at least. And she knew she would be safe there.

“Oi sweet’eart!”

A gruff voice slurred across the street, him and his friends called and whistled at her.

Eliza just put her head down and began to walk faster.

“Where yer goin’ pretty gal?”

Her heart hammered out of her chest, she prayed for it to stop.

But they persisted on, the sound of shoes on cobbles came up from behind her as a harsh grip caught her wrist.

There were 3 men, each had a devilish look in their eyes.

Eliza attempted to pull away, she ripped her arm away from the man and spat at his feet- this only made them angrier as the pulled at her hair harshly dragging her into one of the many dirty alleyways.

The other two jeered and smacked at her hind as the young woman attempted to escape.

Eliza felt her body squirm in repulsion as she felt the alcoholic breath touch her ear lobe.

“We’re gonna ‘ave fun with you love.” He grunted, as he fiddled with his belt.

“Stop!” Eliza pushed against him, trying to get passed and carry on to John’s. To safety.

But instead she felt cold metal press up against her head.

“You ain’t in the position to make commands girl.”

Eliza was panicking more and more, her fear spiked as the rough hands groped at her torso and ripped her stockings.

Sloppy kisses were placed on her chest and collarbones as she cried out for help and struggled away from her attacker - only to be backed into a grimy brick wall and silenced with a large hand over her mouth.

The young woman cried, her whole body shook and she couldn’t do anything but wait until it was over.

But she didn’t have to, the sleazy man’s heavy body was ripped off of her body. Eliza felt her body drop onto the filthy floor as she curled into ball and sobbed.

She felt scared- she felt out of control, she felt in over her head.

She heard the 3 men struggle and cry out in pain as they begged for their lives to be spared.

Eliza wanted nothing more than to fade away from this moment.

“Liza?” The familiar brummie accent called out into the darkness.

It was Tommy.

He stretched a hand out, trying to comfort her. But Eliza just flinched away and cried in fear.

“Eliza I’m here to help,” Tommy softly explained, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Eliza’s eyes met his, they were blue and showed he was telling the truth.

Her body was trembling and could barely stand.

She sobbed, “they- they tried to-“ her voice broke and she couldn’t finish the sentence. It was too fresh in her mind.

“I know Eliza,” Tommy took a cautious step forward, trying to keep the woman comfortable with his presence, “I’m going to take care of you- you just need to trust me.” He spoke with apprehensiveness.

She fell forward into his embrace, her body quivering and her chest heaving with uneven breaths.

Eliza held on for dear life, afraid that this one familiar person would suddenly disappear and leave her alone in the dark.

All previous anger towards him had been erased, she was just so thankful for his presence and that he arrived just in time to step in.

Tommy lifted the girl up bridal style and began to walk her back to Watery lane, he needed to get her patched up and to some place she felt comfortable and safe.

In all honesty Tommy had never really looked after someone like this. Sure he had helped raised his younger siblings and occasionally patched up Arthur or John after a brawl, but nothing like this.

But still, he felt the need to care and heal for Eliza. To see her get better and recover- and he wanted to be apart of that. Support her and watch her return to her normal self.

He just wanted to be there for her.

“Thomas why the fuck is there a girl sleeping on my bloody sofa?”

Tommy looked up from the small stack of papers that were on the kitchen table in front of him, Polly was towering over him, her hands on her hips and her usual disapproving expression glowered at him.

“Don’t wake her up Pol,” he mumbled, his cigarette in between his lips as he continued to scan the pages in front of him.”

“I’m sorry did you tire the whore out last night?” She huffed, “what have I told you about bringing prostitutes into the house with Finn around?”

Tommy just looked up and blinked lazily, “I think you’ll find that the girl is not a prostitute but in fact John’s best mate and Harry’s younger sister.”

“So this is Eliza Fenton ‘ey?” Polly walked to the kettle on the kitchen counter, “Still doesn’t explain why she’s slept on the sofa.”

“She was nearly raped Pol,” he rubbed his face, almost not wanting to think about the events of last night, “I found ‘er held at fuckin gunpoint and cornered by three cunts, while she struggled to get away.”

Polly looked horrified to say the least, “Please tell me you pounded them into the bloody ground Tommy.”

“One of ‘em has no hands to touch a woman like that ever again.”

Usually Polly would have scolded her nephew for doing something like this, but in this case she felt that the men responsible for the young woman’s pain deserved it.

Especially since the young woman was this Eliza who was spoken highly of by John and Arthur.

“Does John know what happened last night?” She questioned, knowing either way that the outcome was not going to be good.

“No.” Tommy sighed again, “I haven’t, it’s not my place to tell.”

“Is that a heart beating inside your chest that I hear Tommy?” Polly spoke softly, she was all too familiar with what Tommy was starting to feel, “You’re falling for her aren’t you.”

Tommy glanced behind Polly to where Eliza’s sleeping figure lay on the sofa, despite the dry tear stains and knotted hair- he still felt his breath be taken away at the sheer beauty, “How could I not Pol?”

TAGLIST:

@annabethgranger123 @marvelschriss @peachy-aisha @eternallyvenus @captivatedbycillianmurphy

#peakyblinders #peaky blinders #peaky fookin blinders #tommy shelby x oc #thomas shelby x oc #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinder fanfic #cross my heart

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zahra-kha · 5 years ago

Text

Sing Me to Sleep

[This is the dream Zahra had the night after journal entry 6 that she can’t remember].

There was silence in the yurt. Gone were the familiar scents of home. The lingering sharpness of grass, mama’s garlic and other assortment of herbs hanging above their makeshift stove. The distant smoky scent of seasoned meat being cured in the smoke house. Even the soft but unpleasant scent of unwashed animals were being overpowered by the acrid and metallic tang of blood.

In the dimly lit room resided a larger than normal storage bin. A thick, heavy lock kept it closed. Goosebumps prickled her skin and ice ran down her spine as an annoying prickle at the back of her mind told her she knew what this was. What it symbolized.

Go ahead and open it.

Zahra took a few tentative steps forward, but nothing jumped out at her, only silence continued to greet her. The bin before her remained completely silent and for some reason she found that unsettling. Wrong.

♪Wait a second let me catch my breath Remind me how it feels to hear your voice...♪

She approaches the bin and kneels down, reaching for the lock. Despite how heavy it looks, upon closer inspection she realizes it’s old and rusted. Upon her touch the hook nearly crumbles to dust, leaving the rest to fall to the ground with a heavy thud. Zahra looks around and suddenly the yurt is empty. Gone is the stove, the bedding, the rugs that had decorated what had made their (who is they?) yurt feel like home. There’s only the walls and now this bin.

With trembling hands, Zahra reaches and lifts the wooden bin. The stench hits her before the sight of the child does. Urine, feces, and blood intermingled for a noxious combination slam her senses. Completely unprepared, she can’t fight back the urge to gag and turns away. Somehow, she manages to fight down the urge to empty the contents of her stomach and turn back to the bin. Blinking through the tears, her burning eyes catch onto a figure inside.

Knees pressed against their chest, the child could not be much older than four or five. A little xaela girl whose hair had once been cut in a beautiful pink bob was now dull, matted, and horribly tangled. She was covered in her own filth, likely unable to escape due to how small (no wait, hadn’t the bin been bigger earlier?) the bin was. Zahra could see one of the child’s hands and started - the fingernails had been ripped off and her fingers were raw and bloodied. Had she been...clawing at the inside?

Slowly, as if deliberately, the girl’s head rose and their gazes met. The silence turned into a deafening roar as Zahra’s heart pounded in her chest. She knew this child, she knew those eyes. Vibrant amethyst glowed with a heated wide-eyed stare that was filled with so much unbridled hatred and fury that it made her second guess herself. This was her, but it wasn’t...she’d never...seen herself like this. The child’s cracked lips parted, her hands clenched against her legs and Zahra wanted to - she wasn’t sure. Leave? Get away from this...child that looked like her but clearly wasn’t?

♪Your lips are moving I can’t hear a thing Livin’ life as if we had a choice...♪

A piece of the yurt became black. It was as if an entire strip of reality had been consumed by darkness. And while Zahra found it difficult to look at this...feral child, not once did the young girl’s gaze waver from the older version of herself.

<“....hate...me...”> the voice came in cracked and hoarse, as if she was no longer used to using it. And while it was clearly xaelic, for some reason Zahra could suddenly understand it. <”They hate me...”>

“What?” Immediately, Zahra fought back every instinct against approaching the young girl, be it from the stench or from the child’s intensity, and leaned in. “No, that’s not true. No one hates you.” with a shaky smile she reached in, lightly patting the girl’s matted hair. “No one could hate a cute little girl like you.”

Another sliver of the yurt was engulfed in darkness.

<”Mama locked me in here.”> the child’s voice trembled, she could hear the watery notes in her tone, but Zahra saw no tears. <”She told me to be quiet, and I was. I listened, and Mama never came. Papa never came. Jargal never came. Even when I cried and cried, kicked and screamed. Mama locked me in here. In the dark. They all hate me.”>

Why didn’t that feel right? Yet, she didn’t want to argue it. A powerful part of her didn’t want to argue this child’s logic.

They left me in the darkness.

Still, it broke her heart to see a child tormented. She tried to comfort the child, pushing back her hair. “I’m sure that’s not true. Let’s get you out of that bin, okay?”

<”NO!”> she slapped Zahra’s hand away, putting her hands over her horns. <”They hate me, they hate me! They left me here! I HATE THEM I HATE THEM I HATE THEM I HAT-”>

The moment their skin touched Zahra was assaulted with images, sensations, and emotions. Memories.

<”Let’s play a game, alright Odval? Can you do that for mama? I just need you to wait here and don’t make a sound. It’s very important. You’ve been so good so far, I’m so proud of you.”>

<”Sorry little sapphire, you can’t come with me. You have to stay here with mom and dad.”>

Images of a young xaela boy. Older than her, with rich red hair and piercing amethyst eyes. There’s a deep sense of love and affection. He dotes on the child. Another image of a woman, strong and loving, she gives little Odval kisses and tickles. They play games and she helps with house chores. She always tells Odval she’s a good girl and she’s proud of her.

But those images are frayed, torn and fragmented beyond repair. What remained and overpowered those memories was the gnawing of overwhelming hunger eating at a young child. The sensation of one’s tongue feeling as if it was swelling so much she could barely swallow. Flesh scraping against wood, cracking as nails shatter and break in futile efforts to escape. There is nothing but pain. Gnawing pain that tears at the insides, rips apart the mind, destroys all sense of rationality, until there is nothing left but rage and primal instinct.

♪Anywhere, anytime I would do anything for you Anything for you...♪

Zahra is snapped out of the child’s mind and brought back to herself. Trembling, her breaths come in great gasps of air. She reaches for her stomach but no, there’s no sensation of her stomach feeling as if it were about to collapse on itself. Her throat is fine, it doesn’t feel like parched sandpaper. And while she does feel dizzy, the sensation of darkness...

Of darkness....

The yurt is almost completely gone. There is only a small section remaining, a piece just behind the bin that leads to the outside. Everything around her is pitch black. Zahra fights down the rising panic threatening to grip her throat in a vice and focuses on the child. Her memories, their memories, this is what was being locked away. Reaching down, she touches the lock. Had the spell done this? Was this little girl the manifestation of her past that she had forgotten?

♪Yesterday got away Melodies stuck inside your head A song in every breath...♪

<”They abandoned me...”>

<”They hate me...”>

<”It hurts...”>

<”I’m so hungry...”>

<”Please save me...”>

<”I’ll be good, so don’t leave me alone. I’m scared.”>

The child-like voices rang from all over, spoken throughout the darkness. Odval was still screaming her mantra of hatred, shaking her head as she sobbed. Angry tears rolled down her dirty cheeks, but Zahra understood it was fueled by confusion and pain, it wasn’t actually hatred.

“Come here.” she reached for the child and this time was not turned away. Zahra collected the tiny version of herself into her arms, wrapping her arms tight around the sobbing girl and cooing softly. “You don’t hate them, we just didn’t know any better. We were hungry, hurting, and scared.”

Zahra waited. She waited, rocking slowly while stroking dirty matted hair until the child’s sobbing calmed into soft hiccups and sniffles. When little Odval had finally calmed she pushed back her hair and pressed a kiss upon her forehead.

“It’s okay not to remember this.” Zahra finally says. “One day, a beautiful family will come and break you out of this darkness. You’ll have a wonderful life, you’ll meet wonderful people. You’ll fall in love a few times, go on adventures, join a dance troupe, get hurt, laugh, cry...it’ll be a full life. So you don’t have to remember this painful part of the journey. It’s okay to close and lock this box. Odval is gone. You’re Zahra.”

With a nod, the girl hugs Zahra close as she reaches over and closes the storage bin. The yurt disappears, leaving only Zahra’s voice to ring out in the darkness.

“♪Sing me to sleep now Sing me to sleep Won't you sing me to sleep now? Sing me to sleep...♪”

(Lyrics: Sing me to Sleep by Alan Walker)

#ic #zahra's dream

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trashmenofmarvel · 6 years ago

Text

Devil’s Backbone - Chapter 21

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x S.H.I.E.L.D. agent!Reader

Summary: With your team dead and your mission failed, you’ve been taken by the assassin to an unknown location and are at the mercy of your cruel tormentors. (This fic is explicit, 18+ only, dubcon in earlier chapters)

Chapter Warnings: Violence, death, blood, self-dehumanization

Word Count: 2.4k

AO3

Bucky dragged himself out of the flaming wreckage that used to be the Quinjet he’d been piloting. Black smoke trailed from the ignited engines, obscuring his vision and making his lungs twinge with agitation.

For once, he wished he had that smothering muzzle HYDRA had forced him to wear.

As soon as his boots hit the Helicarrier runway, Insight crewmembers began to fire on him. Word must have spread he was no longer on their side. Bucky ducked back behind the smoldering Quinjet and pulled the grenade launcher from his back.

He slipped out from behind cover and fired, causing the huddled agents to disappear in a shockwave of force. It was all too easy to slip back into the other part of him. The one that killed and maimed and destroyed, all for the mission.

The mission might have changed. His tactics had not.

The airstrip was cleared of enemies before he had even emptied his clip. The smell of blood and gunpowder should have turned his stomach with disgust. The screams of the dying should have horrified him. He knew these were the normal responses, but he felt nothing, his mind singularly focused on his goal.

The weapon that HYDRA had created was still close to the surface, and he would use it to his advantage.

“Alpha lock,” Rogers said over the comm channel. Wilson had already taken care of the Bravo lock. Bucky had blown a hole into the side of the bridge dome to give him access right after he had shot down the Quinjet chasing the flyer.

Bucky had felt an unexpected surge of satisfaction from being able to help his new comrades, especially when Wilson had yelled, “Thanks, man! You’re all right.” High praise considering the last time they’d met, Bucky had ripped the steering column out of his car and Wilson had dive-bombed him with a boot across the head.

Bucky knew he was far from redemption, but he was grateful he had the opportunity to undo some of the damage he had wrought. The last targeting module was up to him, and the sooner he set it in place, the sooner the Helicarriers could be destroyed. Only then would Williams would be safe; Bucky had no doubt she would be on Project Insight’s assassination list, or soon would be if HYDRA decided she wasn’t worth the effort to recapture.

“Charlie carrier is the last one left,” he heard an unfamiliar voice say in his earpiece. “Six minutes.”

“I’m onboard,” Bucky informed the woman, assuming she was an ally of Rogers’. “The Quinjet was destroyed, so I’ll need a new exit strategy.”

Bucky ducked back out of a doorway as bullets rang off the metal next to his head. He pulled a grenade from the back of his belt and tossed it inside. The resounded explosion silenced the gunfire.

He kept moving.

“I’m heading to the control hub now. But HYDRA figured out what we’re doing and they’re going to do everything they can to protect the carriers.”

“We’ll come to you!” Rogers yelled, sounding as if he was in the middle of a fight himself. Bucky didn’t think he would make it in time, but that didn’t worry him. He would have the targeting module inserted within six minutes. That’s what mattered, not Bucky’s extraction plan.

“I’m gonna need some help!”

Williams’ voice in his ear, frayed and on the edge of panic, broke his steady stride. His singular focused slip and he came to a standstill, torn between two directives.

The mission or his S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

“On my way!” Samuel Wilson yelled in return. “I got you!”

Bucky released a held breath. Gunfire erupted. He blinked, too slow to step aside, and several rounds hit him in the torso.

Grunting, Bucky pulled up his carbine and shot the STRIKE member in the neck. Before he hit the ground Bucky shot another in the chest, and then another in the head. He cleared out the entire front entryway before stopping to assess the damage, leaning against the wall and lifting up the edge of his vest.

The tac suit had deflected the small caliber ammunition, but he could feel tacky blood under the vest from where the bullet impacts had ripped open his old gunshot wounds. Even now, he could see it start to seep out from under the thick fiber. She was going to be pissed at him.

A small smile curled on his lips. His agent had different shades of anger for different circumstances, and there was one in particular that made him feel, well… something. It was the one where she wore the mask of stern annoyance to hide her concern. He had first seen it in the prison yard when she had been trying to protect him. To save him. It had pulled at a thread within him, unraveling a tight coil around his mind. His thoughts had come easier after that.

She had done that for him, and now he was stuck on the carrier, unable to protect her. Bucky listened at the banter exchanged between his agent and Wilson. It came easily, friendly almost, and his throat felt oddly tight. He had a strange feeling, like he was looking in from the outside at something he could never have himself.

Bucky forced himself to focus and brought his mind back to the present. He held his hand to his side and pressed down, hoping to stop the bleeding before it leaked down his pants again. The last thing he needed was to slip in a pool of his own blood at a crucial moment.

“Bucky, where are you?” Rogers, again.

He pushed off from the wall and grunted at the pain that flared throughout his left side. He had to keep moving.

“I’m almost… to the bridge.” Bucky winced as he reached over his shoulder and pulled the machine pistol from the harness on his back. He discarded the rifle, nearly out of ammo. “Ran into some more resistance.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately. “Is it your injuries? I told you it was too soon.”

He pressed his lips together. She was too observant for her own good.

“Goddamnit, Bucky.”

He opened his mouth to respond but kept silent, wincing as he felt the surgical glue on his leg wound break apart. Warm blood trickled down his outer thigh, doing exactly what he had feared would happen.

“They’re fine,” he said with a tightening jaw. He didn’t enjoy lying to her, though he did like the way she was concerned over him. He was stronger, faster, and could take a lot of damage that could easily kill her, and yet she was constantly trying to put herself between him and the threats, as if she was invincible and he was the breakable one.

He didn’t know what the feeling was, but it made his chest warm and his stomach tingle strangely. It was also distracting, and he made an effort to ignore the responses of his body. Distractions led to failure, he knew that.

“Almost there,” he announced. The bridge was straight ahead and he had a clear shot.

“Wait,” Rogers protested, “I can catch up to you. We can do it together.”

“Not enough time.” He didn’t see a point in denying it. Why were they so concerned with meeting him at the last target? Did they think he couldn’t do it on his own? No, more likely, they didn’t think he could really be trusted with such an important mission. He couldn’t blame them, not after everything he’d done.

“Hey, man,” Wilson responded in a low tone. “No need for any of that. We can all get out of this alive.”

Bucky didn’t respond. His status at the end of the mission was irrelevant as long as he completed the objective. He walked forward into the glass dome.

On the catwalk his boots caused the metal to creak and jolt to announce his presence. Three STRIKE members were waiting behind the control console, but he was ready for them. As they fired on him, he brought up his metal arm and deflected the bullets, sending them ricocheting across the room.

Bucky didn’t fire on them—he couldn’t without risking damage to the control hub. So he stalked forward at a rapid pace, keeping up his arm as a shield.

They had nowhere to go, trapped in the center of the glass dome, and once he rounded the corner he fired on them. Point blank range. He kicked aside the first body and pistol-whipped the second soldier. He grabbed him with his metal arm and spun him around, holding him as a living shield when the third soldier fired. The bullets impacted his teammate’s body, and Bucky threw him forward, hard enough to force them both off the platform.

Bucky peered down, saw the third man broken but still moving, lying against the glass dome as blood pooled around him.

He pointed the pistol downward and fired two shots. The man stopped moving.

“The mission is what matters,” Bucky replied in a flat tone. He felt unusually cold.

“Damnit, Buck, just wait!” Rogers shouted. “I’m not going to lose you again!”

“I have to make this right.”

He would. Bucky owed it to her. He knew he should have been doing it for the people he hurt and the lives he took, but he couldn’t feel them yet. There was no impact from the things he was beginning to remember having done under orders. Maybe that would change, but for now, all he wanted to do was protect her. Act like the person she thought he was.

The war hero in the pamphlet.

Bucky turned toward the center console.

“One minute,” announced the woman, Agent Hill, over his comm. He had to do it now.

Bucky pressed the button to lower the chip carousel. He pulled and tossed the old one and reached into the padded pouch on his belt.

Two shots rang out at the same instance he felt brutal impacts slam into his back. High caliber ammunition. They had gone through this time.

His hands dropped to his sides and he pulled out the dual pistols, spinning around and slamming his back into the console as he fired. The STRIKE soldier in front fell sideways off the railing, his heavy rifle going with him. The crewmembers behind him were exposed, barely a threat even as they raised their pistols towards him. The Insight pilots weren’t well-trained or disciplined like STRIKE—they had crowded onto the catwalk in a line, setting them up to be taken down with the ease of a carnival game. He cleared out all five of them before they could fire another shot.

Once the last of the enemy had fallen, Bucky’s footing slipped and he sagged to the ground. He reached back to the pouch, his breaths harsh and uneven. The pain was enormous and difficult to compartmentalize. He knew that was a bad sign.

Bucky wasn’t getting out of here, but he would complete the mission.

“Thirty seconds!” Hill shouted.

He dragged himself up the console, struggling to breathe through the throbbing agony of his back. Bucky caught the edge with his right hand but his fingers lost their grip on the edge, slippery with his own blood. He snarled and replaced his right hand with his left, hooking the metal fingers in. He pulled himself up, the servos in his arm whirring at the strain of lifting his dead weight.

Bucky reached into the pouch. Grabbed the chip in his blood-slicked fingers. Raised it. And inserted it into place.

“Charlie… lock,” he gasped. Bucky stumbled as his legs lost strength and he sunk back down onto the metal platform.

“Okay, get out of there,” Hill instructed him. Even over the comm he could hear how tense she was. It must have been close.

“Fire,” Bucky said. Each drawn breath was shallow, the back of his head against the cool metal soothing through the heat along his spine.

“But you’re not clear—“

“Do it now.”

She didn’t respond, but she didn’t need to. He knew she would do what had to be done. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were capable, more so than he ever could have anticipated. Fortunately, HYDRA had underestimated them as well, and it would ultimately lead to their downfall.

“Agent… Williams.” He spoke her name with a slight quiver. He wanted to say… something. He wasn’t sure what. He just needed to hear her voice while there was still time.

The voice that finally responded wasn’t hers. It was Hill’s.

“She turned off her earpiece.”

Fear roiled through his gut like a wave.

“Rumlow.” He paused to gasp for air, gritting out the words. “One of you must get to her. She cannot fall into HYDRA hands again! Please!”

Wilson cursed loudly. “I shouldn’t have let her go alone. Shit, shit! Okay. I’m flying around the building now, but I don’t see her yet.”

Bucky closed his eyes, forcing down the lump in his throat. If Rumlow got to her… The bastard must have known what the Director had planned for Williams. Bucky felt a tide of fear followed by revulsion and disgust. The things HYDRA had planned for her, for both of them—

He opened his eyes as he heard heavy footsteps jogging onto the catwalk. He looked up and blinked several times, disbelieving. Steve Rogers stood across from him, his blue eyes wide as he took in Bucky’s position on the floor.

“Buck,” Rogers said in a soft, almost inaudible whisper. Bucky heard it, even over the sound of the engines and machinery, and it filled him with an emotion he couldn’t identify. He had heard the term bittersweet somewhere. It felt how that would taste. Sadness and joy.

Rogers gave a frantic shout of “Buck, hold on!” and bolted towards him, grabbing onto the railing to leap over the bodies piled on the walkway.

He got halfway across the catwalk when the carrier gave a hard shudder as Bucky heard the impact of long-range cannons. The walkway shifted and violently broke in half.

Rogers grabbed on to the railing as his feet went out from under him, but Bucky didn’t have a chance. He scrambled for purchase, his titanium fingers digging grooves into the metal flooring, but the platform tipped downward and he slid toward acrid smoke and raging fire.

Next Chapter

#bucky barnes x reader #the winter soldier x reader #bucky barnes #the winter soldier #sam wilson #reader fanfiction #steve rogers #bucky barnes fanfiction #the winter soldier fanficton #marvel fanfiction #devil's backbone #my writing #my fanfiction #captain america the winter soldier #project insight #hydra #strike team

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