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morosemagick · 3 years

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Listen, Before I Go | Finan x Reader One Shot

Welcome to my first one shot/first Reader!Fic.

Be gentle, I'm trash.

Warning: Major Character Death, (its sad, okay, idk what else to say.)

Words: 3847

Tagged:

@solinarimoon @lauwrite1225

You had seen many things in your life as a traveling healer. Wounds and illnesses alike, taking you from place to place wherever people may need you. Taking care of people was in your blood. Both your parents were healers, and you planned on using all they taught you to care for people around the world. And yet, when you met Uhtred of Bebbanburg and his crew of accident-prone warriors in the aftermath of the battle at Tettenhall, something inside you told you to stay. A feeling in your heart, telling you that no one will ever need you more than they would. Over the months that passed, that feeling proved true. You healed every cut, bruise, and battle wound they would come to acquire. Each wound healed was a bond growing stronger with each man in Uhtred’s service, including your lord himself.

Osferth, the first of the Coccham boys you healed. His kindness was always warming to the heart. Sihtric, who spoke often of his wife and joked about his desire to return to her in one piece. And of course, Finan, whose laugh made your heart skip a beat and smile did things to you that was certainly ungodly. They were your family, and you loved them all dearly.

And you would do whatever it took to save their lives.

Especially now, when they needed you most.

“Sihtric!” You scream out at the sight of him, bloody and broken. The snow falls thick and heavy around you, stained red with the Danish man’s blood and Osferth and Finan work together to lift him from the ground.

“We got him, Y/N, just go!” Finan yells out, and you nod okay. The storm is picking up and though the raiders that ambushed you are dead, none of you are out of the woods yet.

Up ahead is a cave. It’s cold and dark but it’s dry, and getting Sihtric out of the storm is your main priority.

“This way, to the cave!” You call out as you lead the men forward, being sure to check for any unfriendly creatures that might be hiding out from the storm inside. When the coast is clear, you wave the others on.

As carefully as they can, Osferth and Finan lower Sihtric to the ground. The injured warrior groaned as he touched the ground, “We need to make a fire.” Finan tells the rest of you.

“Did anyone see Lord Uhtred?” Osferth questions, making you and Finan glance at each other.

You shake your head no, and then Finan looks back to Osferth, “He must be with Lady Aethelflaed.”

“Should we look for them-”

“We can’t,” Finan cuts him off, sighing, “We must stick together, make a fire, and take care of Sihtric.”

“I will tend to Sihtric,” You tell them, “Go get what you need for a fire but please stay close, this storm is only getting worse, and finding your way back might get harder.”

Finan nods okay, and the two men leave as you bend down to check up on Sihtric. He’s breathing heavy but he’s still alert so that has you at ease. Checking his wound on his side, it doesn’t seem bad but it will definitely need stitching. His skin, however, is freezing to the touch and that makes you nervous, “That bad?” Sihtric chuckles the best he can, his eyes looking so very tired.

“Not at all, you needed stitches. That’s all,” You tell him as you look through the pouch tied to your belt.

“You are a bad liar, Y/N,” He huffs, looking up to the ceiling of the cave, “Tell me, please.”

Biting your lip, you sigh and glance away, “You're freezing, you need fire or you may get sick.”

“I could have told you that,” He laughs but the motion makes his side hurt and his laughter turns to a wince.

“You must rest, Sihtric, please,” You tell him as you find your needle and thread, “Eahlswith will not forgive you if you do not make it home in one piece, remember?”

“Ealhswith,” He smiles slightly, and then grunts as you start to clean the wound, “I miss her.”

“And you will see her soon, I promise,” Glancing up, you can see fear in Sihtrics eyes, and it breaks your heart, “I swear it, Sihtric.”

He only nods, and you continue to care for him in silence.

------------------------------------<3---------------------------------------

Time has passed, and the fire has been made, but it’s small and just barely enough to keep you all comfortable so to make up for the lack of heat you all huddle close to each other. You are to Sihtric’s left, Finan is to yours, and Osferth is on the other side of Sihtric. Sihtric’s wound was cleaned well but he is still very cold and you’re trying your best not to show how worried you are. As you take a deep breath, you let out a shiver and it shakes your whole body.

Noticing how cold you are, Finan scoots closer and wraps his arms around yours and holding it tight, “You alright, Y/N?”

You glance momentarily at Sihtric, who's currently half awake with his head on your shoulder and his eyes on the fire ahead of them, and then look back at Finan, “I am.”

It’s a lie. You’re terrified.

Terrified of losing your friends, of dying to the cold, but mostly you’re terrified of not being able to keep the oath you made to Lord Uhtred and yourself to keep them all safe. It’s killing you inside.

Sihtric is shivering to your right, his cold body against yours sending chills down your spine.

“Alright there, Sihtric?” You ask him, though you know the answer. Instead of staying strong, you can feel him shake his head no. His fear brings a tear to your eyes, “It’ll be okay.”

“It will not,” Sihtric whispers, making everyone else suddenly alert to how beaten he’s feeling.

“It will be, Sihtric, we will get out of this mess like we have every other mess Uhtred has gotten us into,” Finan tries to joke in an attempt to keep everyone’s spirit up.

“Uhtred isn’t even here,” Sihtric tells him, his head still rested on your shoulder, “We might never see him again. I might not-”

“We are getting out of here,” Osferth adds, “God will see us through this.”

“He is not my God, Osferth, he does not care if I live or die,” Sihtric argues.

None of you have seen him so defeated before.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” You tell Sihtric as you turn your body to face him, forcing him to lift his head up. You can tell it’s a struggle for him to hold himself up, and it’s hard for you to keep a calm expression. You grab Sihtric by his face and put on your best smile, but your eyes are still watering and the wind outside has made it so unbearably cold; so at this point, you don’t know if you have it in your heart to lie to him. So you don’t, “I know you are cold, and you hurt, but I will do whatever it takes to make sure you get home to Coccham. To your wife, and to your son.”

Sihtric nods okay, but his eyes tell another story as he starts to cry.

Past his shoulder, you can see Osferth is also looking mighty defeated as his own eyes start to get red, and behind you, Finan’s hand has gripped your cloak and tight.

And then, to make matters worse, the fire dies.

“Fucking bastard fire!” Finan growls loudly as he kicks the still hot wood with his foot, making soot spread, “Fuck!” His scream echoes throughout the cave as he gets up and stomps around in anger, and you look away from Sihtric as you start to cry, biting your lip in hopes of keeping your fear to yourself.

On the tips of your fingers, you feel Sihtric’s tears falling down.

“Finan, sit... please,” Osferth calls out, and you can hear his voice cracking, “Being angry will solve nothing.”

Sihtrics’ crying has worsened, and now they can all hear him.

You pull him closer to you, cuddling him like a child in your arms, trying your best to keep him warm. His sobbing is enough to shake you both, but you keep your grip on him strong. Osferth scoots his body closer to Sihtrics, putting his arm around his brother, and to your left, you can hear Finan return to his seat. After a moment or two, you can feel his arms wrap around your waist and hold you tight.

At least if you die, it will be next to those you love the most.

The four of you sit this way in silence for some time, the only things you can hear are Sihtric crying and the strong snowy winds blowing outside the cave. You have never been a very religious person, but at that moment you find yourself praying to every god you can think of to save the ones you love.

A moment later you hear Sihtric sniffle, and shuffle a bit in your arms before he sighs and speaks, “Y/N?”

“Yes?”

“Can you sing for us?” He asks, and you nod yes.

If you can bring him comfort now, in what very well might be his final hours, you will do whatever he wishes.

“Take me to the rooftop. I wanna see the world when I stop breathing. Turning blue,” You rest your cheek on top of Sihtric’s head, and your eyes glance away as you continue, “Tell me, love is endless, don't be so pretentious. Leave me, like you do. If you need me, wanna see me, better hurry 'Cause I'm leaving soon,” There's sniffling in the air as you sing, you can hear Osferth shuffling, probably to get closer to Sihtric, and you can feel Finan’s arms grip you tighter. “Sorry, can't save me now. Sorry, I don't know how. Sorry, there's no way out but down, mm down.”

You move your left hand down to where Finan is holding you tight, and he moves to grab it, squeezing it as best he can. His hand is lacking a glove, and yet you can feel his warmth.

You hold on to that feeling as you continue singing, “Taste me, the salty tears on my cheek. That's what a year-long headache does to you. I'm not okay, I feel so scattered, don't say I'm all that matters. Leave me. Deja vu. If you need me, wanna see me, you better hurry. I'm leaving soon,” Finan’s head is on your shoulder, you can feel his breath on your neck. It makes you think of all the times you should’ve kissed him. You should have told him. Probably too late for that now, though, “Sorry, can't save me now. Sorry, I don't know how. Sorry, there's no way out, but down, mm down. Write my friends and tell them that I love them. And I'll miss them... but I'm not sorry. Write my friends and tell them that I love them, and I'll miss them…”

Sorry.

------------------------------------<3---------------------------------------

The men have been asleep for some now, but you’re still awake. You have been staring at Sihtric all night, watching his chest rise and fall. Making sure his chest still rises and falls. A couple of times you’ve even put your fingers to his lips to make certain that he’s still breathing. Anything to make sure he’ll survive through the night. On the other side of him, Osferth is sound asleep, you can hear the man snore just slightly, and see him cuddled against Sihtric’s side.

The inside of this cave is freezing but you know it’s better than being out in the storm.

“Y/N?” You hear Finan whisper, “Are you up?”

“I am,” You whisper back, your fingers hovering just above Sihtric’s lips. Still breathing, good. You roll over slowly to not wake him, and when you are facing Finan, you sigh, “He is still alive, thank God.”

“Do you think he’ll make it?” Finan asks quietly, his eyes a red mess.

You shrug, not wanting to lie right now, “I do not know, Finan,” You shake your head, and the tears are building in your eyes again and your next words barely make it out, “I fear the worst.”

The tears fall down your cheeks and you try your best to not cry too loudly because you fear waking them more than you do crying in front of the man who’s stolen your heart. Finan reaches out to hold you by your cheeks and you can feel how warm he is still, it’s not much but enough to feel wonderful against your cold face as you cry. He shuffles his body closer to you, and you can feel his breath on your face as you open your eyes.

You don’t want to die without him knowing how he makes you feel. How he makes your heart flutter. How he fills you with so much life.

How loved he makes you feel.

“Finan- I need to tell you something,” You get yourself ready to say the words, but he stops you with his finger on your lips.

“Tell me in the morning, Y/N,” He’s smiling, but his eyes are red and full of tears.

“But what if we don’t make it to morning?” Your voice cracks, and instead of answering Finan leans in and kisses you. It’s warm and delicious, and you want to kick yourself that it’s only happening now when you might not live to see another day because your body is cold but kissing Finan now fills your soul with so much warmth.

Perhaps this wouldn’t be a terrible way to die.

The two of you stay like that for a while, and you're trying your best to etch every inch of him into your mind as he pulls you in closer by the way to deepen the kiss. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted. It’s like coming home, and when you finally break apart the content smile on his face says he feels the same.

Finan leans back in, kissing your face over and over again. Making sure to kiss away all the tears that have stained your cheeks and then finding his way to your neck, “If I didn’t fear waking them, I’d pull my cock from my trousers and warm you with that.”

You try to bite your lip to contain your laughter, but a snicker comes out anyway, “I’m sure that is that last thing either of them would like to see now.”

“Aye, but what a sight it would be,” He smirks, leaning in for another kiss, “But If I’m going to bed you, Y/N, it will be properly I swear it.”

“I will hold you to that,” You tell him with another kiss, and as you move to separate you can see the expression on his face shift and the mood become more somber, "We should try to sleep. We need our energy."

"You sleep, I'll keep watch," Finan tells you, kissing your forehead.

"Nothing is going to hurt us here but the cold," You try to tell him, "Please try to sleep, Finan."

"I will, Y/N, let me just hold you for a while," Finan nods for you to turn around and you comply, and a moment later his arms are around your waist again and he's kissing behind your ear. Then, barely a whisper and more like wind, you can hear him say something in your ear, "Tá grá agam duit."

It's the last thing you hear before you fall asleep.

------------------------------------<3---------------------------------------

You wake from your sleep in a cold sweat, your heart racing as you rise quickly from the ground. The first thing you do is turn your body to your right to check on Sihtric, and to your surprise you find him sitting up and wide awake.

It brings tears to your eyes.

"Oh thank God," You can't help but say at the sight of him.

Sihtric smiles slightly. He looks tired, but he's alive and that's all the matters, "Good morning, Y/N."

"How are you feeling?" You ask as you lean over to put the back of your hand on his forehead. He's warmer than he was last night, which is a good sign, "Warmer? Is your wound okay?"

"Looks like you did it again, Y/N," Osferth calls out as he enters the cave with firewood in his hand, "Told you you’d be okay." Osferth drops the wood where the original fire once sat and then walks over to Sihtric and ruffles his hair, "Lord Uhtred will be pleased."

You chuckle, wiping your face of tears, and then suddenly you remember last night and Finan.

With a smile still on your face you turn to your left, where you can see his body still lying there, "Finan, it's morning-" the moment you put your hand on him your smile fades and your heart drops as you notice something very important. His fur cloak isn't on his body, but on yours and Finan is cold, "Finan?" You shake his shoulder as you call his name, the frantic sound of your voice getting the other’s attention, "Finan!"

Osferth rushes to your side just as you turn him on his back, and you place your fingers to his lips and can barely feel a thing. Osferth, however, has his hand on Finan’s forehead, "He's burning up."

"I cannot feel his breath," You tell Osferth as the tears hit you quick, and your breathing is all over the place, "Finan, come on, please-" you start to pump at his chest to get his heart moving, breathing into his mouth to help him get air. You do both this over and over again, trying not to let the sobbing stop you, "Come on, Finan, please!"

"Y/N?" You can hear Sihtric's voice question you from where he sits, the sound of fear clear.

You keep going, refusing to give up on him. Thinking about the other night.

You still haven't told him-

"Y/N," Osferth calls to you, but you do not stop, "Y/N," He tries pulling you away, but you keep going, and going, but now Osferth is pulling a little harder, "Y/N, please-"

And just as Osferth is about to tell you to stop, Finan starts to gasp for air and your heart can beat again, "God, thank you," you cry as you pull Finan close to you, taking off the cloak he gave you in the night and putting it back around his body. He's breathing lightly, but he's breathing so that's good enough for now, "You're okay, Finan, you're okay." He lifts his hand up to grab yours and you place a kiss on the top of his head.

“It seems your God is with us, Osferth,” Sihtric chuckles from behind them, making you and Osferth look back at him with a smile.

“We need to get out of this cave,” Osferth smiles, patting your shoulder as he rises to his feet.

“Why, when you’ve seemed to have made it home?” The voice from behind you has you all turning heads, a shocked and pleased look on your faces when you see Lord Uhtred has found you, “Y/N, what have you done to my men? They look awful.”

You laugh in relief at the sight of him. It seems all the Gods have heard your prayer.

------------------------------------<3---------------------------------------

You all get home to Coccham in one piece, and you’ve never been happier to see your little home in your whole life. They leave Finan with you so you can watch him recover, and you do not mind giving the Irishman your bed. It’ll take him a few days to heal, and after everything that has happened, you’d prefer to keep a close watch on him. Sihtric and Ealhswith stop by to visit, partially so you check on Sihtric and partially so Ealthswith can thank you with meals for bringing her husband home.

Osferth and Lord Uhtred stop by as well. Finan isn’t always awake so they usually sit by his side for a while. Osferth prays and you think Uhtred might too.

You are cooking dinner one evening when you hear movement in your bedroom, and the sound of something falling over. You immediately rush to the other room to find that Finan is trying to sit up, and has knocked a cup of water to the floor.

“What do you think you're doing?” You giggle as he leans back down, feeling grateful to see him awake.

“If you wanted me in your bed, Y/N, you only needed to ask,” Finan jokes as you walk closer to him, sitting at the edge of the bed, “What happened?”

“You’re a fool, that’s what happened,” You tell him as you put your hand to his forehead and he is no longer burning, which is good, “You had a fever, almost froze to death,” Your smile fades as you take a deep breath, “I thought I lost you for a moment…”

“A fever?” He questioned, looking generally lost, “I don’t remember a fever,” He reaches out and takes your hand, gently rubbing your knuckles, “But I do remember some things. You were going to tell me something, were you not?”

You smile and lean down to kiss his forehead, “I’ll tell you when you're out of this bed.”

Finan laughs, using his other hand to reach out and hold you close from your neck, “Will you now?”

“You have promises you have to make good on first,” Your smirk as you lean in closer.

“Oh and I plan on making good of them, Y/N,” Finan tells you in a low voice that makes you squirm.

You chuckle as you lean in even closer, “God is good.”

“Aye,” He smirks as he hovers over your lips, “Praise him.”

Oh, you do. You thank him later that night in bed as you ride him and Finan makes good on his promise to warm you. A bed that Finan ends up never leaving and now you share together. You praise him on your wedding day, and multiple times on your wedding night. You praise him a few months later when you find yourself pregnant with your firstborn, and again when you give birth to your first son. You thank God for every child you have after, and every moment with this family of yours; made and found, that you decided to stay in Coccham and make it your home.

You thank God, all the Gods, for every moment they bless you with.

Even once your husband passes on.

And one day, when you're old, tired, and lying in the grass surrounded by the ones you love most you thank him one last time; before you go, for blessing you with such a life.

Grateful to go out under the heat sun, taking in the world one last time.

#finan x reader #one shot #angst #we here to get sad kids #character death #the last kingdom #tlk #finan the agile #tlk finan #fanfic #fanfiction #mcloveproductions

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ashes-and-ashes · 4 years

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tw for torture.

Remus sits on the edge of the bed, hands splayed out as lines of pain started to cut around the backs of his hands. He takes a stuttering breath, something like twisted panic burning in his stomach, the cold edge of what felt like a knife slipping under his skin.

Beside him James paces up and down, his hair a wild mess as he scowled. Periodically he would turn to slam the back of his hand against the wall, a dark twin to the fire methodically crawling up and down Remus’ palms. Peter huddles in the corner next to Lily, their faces pale.

“Fuck,” James says, biting the word off viciously in his mouth. There are bags under his eyes, his face pale; he doesn’t think he’s seen James sleep at all since Sirius went home 2 days ago. “Fuck. I can’t - I can’t think - “

Remus grits his teeth. If he focuses hard enough he can almost feel the echo of a pulse in his chest, the frantic beat of Sirius’ heart. He swallows, desperately trying to force down the sick feeling inside of his stomach, the horrible burn of anticipation and the bitter acid of dread.

“What do you think he did this time?” Peter whispers. He’s twisting the frayed edge of his robes up between his fingers, the threads unraveling and pulling. “Do you - do you think she found out that you’re...“

The word hangs in the air; Soulmates. Empty vessels for each other’s pain. He remembers when they first found out, when Sirius had punched the wall and Remus felt blood blooming across his knuckes, he remembers the stricken look on Sirius’ face, the absolute horror as he whispered, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you’re bonded to me.

Remus shrugs helplessly. He bites back a groan as the pain starts to move; slipping between the webbing on his fingers and curling around his wrist, a constant thread of agony. James swears again and slams his hand against the wall; Lily’s on her feet in an instant, her arms wrapped around James’.

“Calm down,” she says. “Hurting yourself won’t do anything.”

Remus opens his mouth - to agree, to comfort James, to say something, anything - but another wave of pain crashes up his arms. He bites his lip as searing bolts of electricity snake around his forearms, digging hard into the soft flesh there. Sirius, he thinks, and he thinks he feels the heartbeat inside his chest stutter.

“Fuck,” James says again. He tries to hit the wall again but Lily grabs him. Peter gets to his feet as well. He passes the blanket to Remus who accepts it gratefully. It feels rough against his tender skin but he wraps it around himself anyway, curled up on his side in order to soften the blows of magic working through his bloodstream.

“God,” Remus croaks out, almost bent double as the pain washes over him. He’s barely aware of his own fingernails digging into his palms, bloody half-moons pressed against the flesh. It’s nothing though, compared to what Sirius was going through, a single match in the burning inferno. One of them has bitten through their lips as well - the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth though he’s not sure if it’s his or Sirius’. “Oh god. Fuck.”

Lily’s face crumpled. She’s on her knees in an instant, her hand pressed over Remus’ forehead. “Oh Sirius,” she whispers, and her voice is heartbroken. “Is there anything I can - “

James is already shaking his head before Remus can say anything. They’ve been through too many of these - Remus, curled up and crying out whenever Sirius went home. It was nothing, though, compared to the screams Sirius made every Full Moon, the agonizing feeling of broken bones and torn flesh. Remus has woken up too many times to feel that same ghost of fingernails against his palms, the only sign of the pain that Sirius had gone through. It was a small price to pay then, the magic ripping through his veins. A small price to pay for the excruciating feeling of Transforming.

“I wish we could help,” Peter says in a small voice as Remus bows off the bed, teeth gritted and hands fisted at his side. “I wish we could - “

“She’s killing him,” James breathes. Remus wants to nod - the pain is excruciating, tearing through him with the familiar crackle of magic.

“Just be thankful she hasn’t used Crucio yet,” he grits out. James’ face darkens.

“That bitch,” Lily mutters. “Her own son - “

“I know,” Remus whispers, and bites back a sob. “God, I know.”

James says something else but Remus can’t hear him now, over the roaring in his ears, the lighting in his veins and the sickly pulse of Sirius’ heartbeat echoing in his chest. He’s vaguely aware of someone offering their hand and Remus clutches to it like a lifeline.

I’m here with you, he thinks, trying to project his thoughts across the bond that tied him and Sirius together. I’m here with you. I love you. You are not alone.

He never gets an answer.

#wolfstar #wolfstar angst #sirius black #remus lupin #james potter #lily evans #peter pettigrew #wolfstar whump #sirius black x remus lupin #jily #soulmate #soulmate au #sirius black angst #remus lupin angst #sirius black whump #remus lupin whump #tw: torture

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hope-to-hell · 3 years

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Instead of working on the stories in my pending list (and I haven’t forgotten any of you, don’t worry, they are coming...eventually), I have brought you this. Dream State: Meadow. Another night, another dream, another difficult time for you both as you continue the search for August. August Walker x Reader. Angst, blood, gore, body horror. A bit of a nod to In Corolla, for anyone who’s read it.

This is the hunt, the chase, the smell of spring warm in the air and the evening is barely falling. This is the edge of the tree line and out before you spreads a meadow, vast and green with grass like water, with wind whipping through it and your eyes would sting if any of this was real.

But all of it— the green, the grass, the trees— all of it is the thinnest of veneers over death and pain. And August stands at the center of it all, arms outstretched, wreathed in vines and he is burning. Not with fire, no, nor with cold; he stands so still because the vines make him be still, but in his gaze are the flames of hell itself.

August?

(Rain is sliding down the windowpanes and through the gaps in the curtains you can see trout jumping in the lake; it’s always fucking raining and today it seems as if the sky itself is crying)

He is still and silent with the vines piercing their thorns through his skin; if he moves a fraction of an inch his bonds grow tighter and the thorns inject their poison. He is trapped, he is trapped, and in the golden light of early evening he is glowing. He is all pain and torment and

Is this hell?

No, pet. Not quite.

(Not for you, at least)

And here the trees peter out into scrub; it’s the last safe place, the balance point between death behind and fear ahead. August beckons with the barest motion of his finger; the cost is a thin line of blood that descends from his wrist to the ground in an unbroken stream.

(Won’t die, can’t die. Not here. Too bad. No way forward and no way back; all that strength and none of it can save him now)

So you go to him with every step breaking through the earth and leaving trails of bare soil wet like tar; you blight the land and here is something vast and cruel, something that turns its wide and roving eye on you and whispers little one. Little fool. You know not what you’ve awakened. Here I am and here is the lure; you’ve come so close, you’re nearly in my jaws.

Listen. Chaos is underfoot; the shell of the world is breaking open and soon this place will be a wound. It’ll swallow you whole and August too, and in the end it will all have been for nothing. He’ll writhe in darkness, tangled in vines, pained and helpless, torn to shreds again and again.

This is the dream, the punishment and pain. It’s not real; it can’t be, not with every tear and every scratch tied to the earth by a static scarlet thread of blood; he roots himself more firmly in place with every tiny movement. And when he speaks it’s a fight against blood and thorn, one eye pierced through and empty, all its humors leaking down his cheek. Vines sew his lips shut at the end of every word and tear them to ribbons with the next and

August— please. Be still, I’ll get you out.

Can’t. His breath comes wet and ragged through a film of blood and spit, muffled by the thorns that pierce his tongue. You’re not here for me.

I’m here to bring you home.

But here, up close, beneath clouds rolling in all heavy with the promise of rain, he’s not quite right, is he? There’s something in the feel of him, something bitter and broken in the way he bears his bonds. Like I said. You’re not here for me. I’m waiting for— for who? For what? But he’s lost the fight and his lips are sealed; in the empty socket of his eye there glows a single red coal: hellfire, burning low.

(Rain falls and you’re here alone, waiting for the crunch of gravel up the drive but there’s nothing and no one here, just you and the way you tip your head up to let water fill your open mouth)

August’s arms are trembling with the effort of holding the crucifixion pose; his remaining eye is wide and wild and his fingers curl to point at the horizon. The cost is this: his wrist and hand flayed to bone, rooted with bloody threads that thicken to ropes. The pull of the horizon is strong; here in this vast green sea the end of the world could be just beyond view, hidden behind swaying grass and all around is that potential last step, that long fall to a dark strange place. August knows where the limit is, he must, for how determined his face is, how fiercely he holds his pose.

For what it’s worth, I hope they find you. Whoever they are. And you follow his hand.

(Like this, pet. Watch my hand. How long til sunset? He holds his hand out horizontally, fingers together, and you follow suit.

One hour.

Good. Very good, pet.)

Every step you take away from him sinks into grass and earth and all around you is the whisper of something vile. When you turn around— because how could you not— August isn’t there.

(The last time you saw him, gold light slanted through the curtains and he was writing like the world would end)

Of course he isn’t there, something whispers.

(The last time you saw him he was bleeding from the eyes— what eyes? They were only black and bloody pits as he tried to find you by sound alone)

Did you really think you’d save him?

(The last time you saw him, his tongue was buried in you and his thumbs stroked reverently down your thighs)

Do you think he wants to be saved?

(The last time you saw him, his tread was heavy on the boards and every breath was an echo of an echo of an echo and pet. Focus.)

Who do you think you are?

(The last time you saw him wasn't the last time)

I’m the one who’s gonna find him. I’m the one who’s going to bring him home.

#henry cavill #august walker #my fic #august walker fic #mission: impossible fallout fic #mission impossible: fallout #august walker x reader #august walker x you

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walker-journal · 4 years

Text

Pyrrhic Transfiguration (Adam Solo)

Participants: Adam Walker (Hunter) Danica Vassliev (NPC Spellcaster)

Context: Adam’s strength is fading fast as cult infiltration, wounds from Bloody Mary, and Apoleia Dynamis bring him close to bodily and metal collapse. Calling in favor with one of Penelope’s covenmates leads to more questions than Adam can answer about his relationship and malady.

Follows: Into the Fold Part 1, Deep Sea Blues

Content Warnings: Body Horror (Medical Transmutation), Chronic Disease (Apoleia Dynamis), Mention of Drug Use (Elixir), Animal Sacrifice, Allusions to Physical Abuse

Sorry its long

“How long has it been since your last drink Adam?”

“Why,” Adam asked from where he lay in the exact center of a ring of river clay, the Hunter so maimed from the tender mercies of Ma’al’s cult that he could barely stir from where Danica’s assistant had set him down. One half of the circle’s interior was covered in lush grass while the other half was dead burnt ash.

“I don’t want to transmute your blood into red sugar syrup by calculating the toxicity incorrectly,” Danica pointed out as her basilisk fang stylus scratched more runic equations into the soft clay circle.

“Three months.”

Danica looked up from where she had been drawing sigils on Adam’s right wrist with Lampade blood ink. “You? Adam...you’re shitting me.”

“Nope,” the fraternity captain confided, hoarse voice a wane attempt at being cheerful, “been straight edge lately. Don’t tell anyone, I’ll lose all dudebro cred and have to go into soyboy exile.”

The sorceress took one of Adam’s bare legs in the business-like fashion of a medical professional who was too familiar with wounds and physiology to be made bashful by her patient’s state of undress. “Tragic,” she affirmed, “any other stimulants, tobacco, or…”

Adam watched as Danica painted diagrams on his calf and thigh in Fae blood, eldritch mathematics evidently meant to guide magic through his body like silicon traces channel electrical currents through a circuit board. “Well I had to pop some Elixir during those hauntings a while back..”

Danica made a guttural sound of disgust and frustration in her throat. “That’s poison Adam! It’ll rot you from the inside! Jak mogłeś! Próbuję cię utrzymać przy życiu, durniu!” Danica continued to heap imprecations on Adam in Polish for his stubbornness and general dumbassery as she smoothed some calculations on the clay circle with an iron spade. She began scribing new sigils to account for any necrophage elements that still lingered in Adam’s tissues.

“Why not ask Penelope to perform regeneration rites,” Danica asked later as she took skin, hair, and saliva samples in order to account for the specific concentration of enzymes and other proteins in Adam’s body. “I can sense her power all over you, and the connection between you both would make this easier.”

“Uh her ...what...all over me?”

Danica helped raise Adam up to a sitting position, gingerly trying to avoid the lacerations and bruises that covered the athlete’s body like livid craters. “Relax Casanova,” she teased, stylus tracing a geometric web of interconnected eye-like runes up the length of Adam's spine while trying not to wince at jagged slashes, claw marks, and yellowed contusions that lined his back. “She’s used sanguimancy to put you back together a couple times now right,” she posited, earning a nod of confirmation from Adam. “Magic like that is all about bonds, an exchange of essence that catalyzes a change in reality. It’s in your marrow now Adam.”

The Hunter thought back to that night of that cursed full moon when Nell had performed what she thought would be her last full moon. She’d used both their blood to enkindle new flowers to bloom and that evening had left Adam with an inkling of the grand unity of life her arts entailed. “Yeah, that makes sense I guess.”

“There's another connection too,” Danica began, “emotion is a higher…”

Adam’s snort of jocular derision turned to a hacking cough as his broken ribs sent shuddering spasms of pain up his chest. “Sorry, I’m shit at talking about that stuff,” he admitted.

“Well you might need to start,” Danica snapped. She pressed Adam’s head down to start on a greater symbol of cerebral warding on the nape of his neck, the closed eye surrounded by a Solomonic temple and pentacle serving as a sort of occult circuit breaker that’d stop the spell’s energy from liquifying Adam’s grey matter. “Look Adam I’m not trying to slut shame you here,” she began more gently. “But Nell’s exile now, the support structure we grew up in is closed to her. We’re forbidden from even speaking with her...”

Adam met Danica’s grey eyes and comprehended that he was the sorceress' only point of contact with the woman she had to publicly denounce as an apostate. “Nell’s more than just a good time to me,” he rasped quietly, breathing shallow. “I know I’m a piece of shit when it comes to girls but I wouldn’t lie...not about that.”

Danica’s soft exhalation of relief might’ve been a bit insulting, but Adam had never been shy about explicitly stating what he wanted and what he had no interest in. “I know Esther raised all you Walkers to survive the zombie apocalypse or whatever,” Danica sighed as she began tracing the veins and muscles of Adam’s battered left arm in symbols. “But maybe drop those defenses a little for Nell? She needs more than a soldier.”

Adam bit his split bottom lip, watching Danica’s expression with bloodshot eyes. “You’re really worried about her aren’t you,” he noted, choosing not to take offense at this butting into his personal life.

Danica brushed dark tresses of hair away from her face, bracelets inscribed with aspects of the many-faced goddess letting out a metallic click on her wrists. “Necromancy, exile, hooking up with a Hunter, and getting into ...this…” Danica held up Adam’s arm to his own face, giving him a clear view of livid lesions and fingers snapped by blunt force trauma. “Yes I’m worried!”

“I’ll make sure she makes out, no matter what,” Adam assured, before raising both lacerated eyebrows at Danica’s fervent curse in Polish that he was probably luckily not understanding.

“That's exactly what I’m afraid of,” Danica sighed as she wrote equations in alchemical script across the Hunter’s forehead and temples. “Look I’m about to rip your body apart and put it together again.” The witch nodded to the human corpse and stone slabs with struggling animals tied to them that formed a sacrificial perimeter around the clay circle, raw fleshly materials for the spell. “Even with all this? There's a good chance you won’t make it Adam.”

“I know.”

Danica met those dark bloodshot eyes, so eerily devoid of fear or hesitation. “Fuck Hunters,” she exclaimed under her breath while placing a ward on Adam’s right pectoral that’d hopefully keep his heart from suffering a corner spasm during the impending ritual’s trauma. “Whatever took your powers? It’s a wound in your psyche, your soul even, and I don’t mean that figuratively.”

“That’s a thing?”

The healer nodded as she drew an intricate branching tree of overlapping runic circle’s down Adam’s sternum, with its roots twinning around his abdominal muscles. “Whatever you and Nell are doing is making it worse...like alot worse,” she emphasized. “There’s nothing I can do for that, the soul can’t be transmuted,” the medical alchemist admitted. “The best thing you could possibly do right now is stop whatever this mission is before …”

“I need to do this,” Adam said with quiet firmness, unmoved even after realizing the cults’ attempts to break his and Nells’ will to resist were hitting deeper than he’d even thought possible. “I just need to last long enough to see it though.”

“Does that still take priority over everything,” Danica prodded, as if holding out hope that Adam would fight harder for the people closest to him rather than the abstract of humanity. “Even with your powers gone?”

Adam’s silence and thousand yard stare at the sanctum’s cold stone walls was answer enough. He didn’t stir at the shrill screams of rabbits having their throats slit by Danica’s sanctified athame. The high squeal of slaughtered swine joined the last braying of a goat rasping into silence.

Blood slid down long slanted groves in the stone floor, flowing into the alchemical equations that Danica had scribed into the circle of river clay. A hiss was followed by an eruption of viscous scarlet vapor, as if the blood had become a silken cloud. The clay began to writhe and shift of its own accord. Animal bodies and a human corpse wriggled down through groves in a grotesque parody of animation, melding into the roiling clay in a sickening crunch of bones and sloshing meat.

“Last chance Walker,” Danica said, almost pleadingly.

Adam looked at the roiling ring of earth, blood, and flesh that’d become a single promethean substance. Nausea filled his gut at the thought of whatever the hell this was getting inside of him. But Adam hadn’t been raised to flinch from duty’s cost.

“Whatever it takes,” he answered.

Bowing her head, Danica spoke the concluding sequence of the grand equation written through the room and Adam’s very flesh.

Adam watched in sweat-soaked shock as his own arm ripped open, the slick strands of nerves, veins, and tendons uncoiling like unspooled thread from his bones. Adam’s world went white as ocular nerves and muscle were torn from his skull. The ring of flesh clay rushed inward, smothering Adam’s flayed body in a glissading mass. Everything became pain, sickening warmth, and the bodily alienation of things slithering around inside of him.

Danica’s chanting rose as ambient power thrummed through air, incantation harmonizing with Adam’s agonizing screams till all was one.

#solo

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sceptilemasterr · 4 years

Text

MW Act 3, Scene 7 - The Warrior, The Pilot, The Steadfast, The Perceptive

Title: Most Wanted: The Hollywood Killer (A CIU Screenplay)

Main Pairings: Dave x Sam

Other Pairings: N/A

Genre: Full Rewrite

Rating: PG-13 for violence, blood, swearing, alcohol, and sexuality

Summary: The four unlikely heroes work together to take down Tull once and for all.

Previous Scene: Airport Battle

Masterlist: Link

INT. PRIVATE JET - NIGHT

Sam, Dave, and Rebecca sit gasping for breath on the floor of the plane’s small, dark cargo bay. One by one, each of the three inspects their weapons, and Dave slides a new magazine into his.

SAM (whispering): Alright, McKenzie. Nice move.

REBECCA (whispering): Thanks. So, now what?

DAVE (whispering): We gotta make it up to the cockpit. I’d bet anything they’ve got a second hostage. Somebody’s gotta be flying this thing, after all.

REBECCA (whispering): Yeah, I doubt Hayley or her creepy dad know how to fly a plane. C’mon, follow me.

Rebecca leads Dave and Sam toward the front of the cargo bay. The three of them move carefully, listening for any sounds from overhead. After a few moments, Rebecca holds up a hand and they all stop.

REBECCA (whispering): There’s a hatch above us. This should open up right in the front of the cabin.

DAVE (whispering): I see it. Let me take a look.

He pushes past Rebecca in the cramped cargo bay, then carefully opens the hatch and pokes his head out. The camera follows his gaze as he looks toward the cockpit, where Hayley holds the shotgun up to the head of a very terrified PILOT, tied to the pilot’s seat with only his hands free, as the radio crackles to life.

AIR TRAFFIC CONTROLLER (ON RADIO): November Six-Five-Zero, this is LAX air traffic control. You have committed an unauthorized takeoff, please respond.

HAYLEY: Don’t even think about answering that, or I blow your brains out!

PILOT (terrified): Y-yes, ma’am! I mean, no, ma’am! I mean... please don’t shoot me!

As the air traffic controller on the radio continues to try and hail the plane, Dave turns to scan the cabin, where he spots Rhea. She is tied to a passenger chair, but her gag is still missing from when Dave had removed it earlier. She spots Dave and opens her mouth to say something, but he hurriedly holds a finger to his mouth and she goes silent. He scans the cabin once more before going back down into the cargo bay.

DAVE (whispering): It’s clear. Let’s move.

The three of them cautiously pull themselves through the hatch. As soon as Dave is free, he approaches Rhea to untie her, but she starts frantically shaking her head and mouthing something.

DAVE (whispering): What?

Rhea jerks her head toward the back of the plane... and then the bathroom door swings open, and Tull steps out, buckling his belt. He and Dave freeze for a moment when they lock eyes, before Tull draws a pistol from his waistband and points it at Rhea. Dave does the same, aiming straight for Tull.

TULL: How the hell-- (snarls) You all better get OFF of my baby girl’s plane! NOW!

Behind Dave, Sam and Rebecca draw their own pistols and point them at Tull, but before they can do anything, the distinctive rack of a shotgun sounds from behind them. They turn to see Hayley emerging from the cockpit, shotgun in hand.

HAYLEY: How’d you get in here?! Can’t you just leave my daddy and me alone?

Everyone stares at each other, weapons aimed at one another in a tense standoff. Nobody moves. Then, Sam looks over at Dave, who is standing closest to Tull, and mouths...

SAM (mouthing): Take. The. Shot.

Dave smiles, then gives the subtlest of nods.

DAVE: This is over for you, Tull.

TULL: Why’s that? You gonna try talkin’ me down again, pretty boy? Gonna try an’--

Dave fires, his bullet catching Tull straight in the chest and sending him flying backward!

HAYLEY: Daddy!

Sam whirls and knees Hayley hard in the stomach, then follows that with a punch to the face. The shotgun flies out of her hand and spins along the floor as Dave rushes toward Tull and Rebecca starts untying Rhea. Tull starts to recover, aiming his pistol at Dave, but Dave kicks it out of his hand and slams him to the ground.

TULL: Get off me!

DAVE: You’re finished, Tull. We’re bringing you in.

TULL: Hell no!

He roars and shoves Dave off of him, charging toward Rebecca, who turns and fires, catching Tull in the shoulder. Tull closes the distance, and Rebecca pistol-whips him in the face as Dave catches up to them. Meanwhile, Rhea finishes untangling herself from the ropes and starts looking around the cabin, searching for something she can use to help.

DAVE: Rhea! Stay back!

RHEA: I can help! I can--

She spots Tull’s dropped pistol on the floor, and steps over to it, then hesitates. Dave catches Tull in a headlock, but Tull flings him off, sending him crashing into Rebecca and both of them tumbling to the ground. In the front of the plane, Sam wrestles with Hayley, before Hayley leaps out of Sam’s way and lunges for the shotgun, scooping it up once again!

HAYLEY: Leave us alone! We ain’t going back! NEVER!

She turns and fires in Sam’s direction! Sam manages to dodge just in time, but the ricochet from the buckshot tears through the leather seat of the cabin and hits the pilot, tearing through his chest. He slumps forward in his bonds, dead, and the plane starts to waver.

REBECCA: That’s not good.

DAVE: We’ve gotta end this!

SAM: Tull!

TULL: Hayley!

Tull shoves Dave aside and runs toward the cockpit at Sam charges at him.

TULL: Outta my way!

SAM: Not this time.

But as Tull approaches her, she sidesteps and uses her foot to trip him, sending him crashing to the ground! Hayley screams and fires the shotgun again, catching Rebecca in the knee and making a mess of the back of the plane. Rhea hesitantly picks up Tull’s dropped pistol and shakily points it at Hayley.

RHEA (shakily): You... you drop that! Right now!

HAYLEY: Aww, aren’t you adorable.

Hayley points the shotgun at Rhea, but just as she fires, Sam kicks Tull away, sending him straight into the path of Hayley’s shot!

HAYLEY: NO!

The shot slams into Tull’s back, tearing his shirt to threads and ripping bloody streaks through his skin. Hayley stares, stunned, and lets the gun slip out of her hands, clattering onto the floor.

HAYLEY (sobbing): No... Daddy... we were so close...

Tull collapses to the floor. Rhea gingerly approaches him, gun shakily trained on his body, as Rebecca stoops down to check his pulse.

REBECCA: He’s dead.

Sam and Dave stare at each other in stunned disbelief, before turning and pulling one another into a tight embrace. They break apart for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes.

SAM: You did it! I don’t believe it... he’s actually dead...

DAVE: No. We did it, Sam. I--

SAM (softly): So, I guess--

And then, overcome by emotion and the heat of the moment, they start kissing passionately. Neither Dave nor Sam is sure who initiated it, though it was probably both of them. Then, out of nowhere:

HAYLEY (hysterically): I’m NOT GOING BACK!

Startled, they spring apart. Sam, Dave, Rebecca, and Rhea all stare at Hayley, an expression of sheer, existential terror on her face... and a grenade clutched in her hand. Sam and Dave draw their pistols simultaneously, quick as lightning, and point them at Hayley.

DAVE: What the--

SAM: Drop it! NOW!

RHEA: You’re gonna kill us all!

HAYLEY: So what? It’s like they keep saying... none of it matters anymore! What’s the point?! “All things must end,” so might as well end here, huh?

She moves to pull the pin.

DAVE: NO!

HAYLEY: All things must--

A gunshot rings out, and a small, red hole appears in Hayley’s arm. She drops the still-inert grenade and Sam and Dave rush to her side, each grabbing one of her arms and forcing them into a set of handcuffs. As they do so, they both turn to stare at Rhea, staring down at the pistol in her hands in shock: it was she who had fired the shot.

RHEA (stunned): Did... did I just...

Sam and Dave push Hayley to her knees as she sobs uncontrollably, broken and terrified.

HAYLEY (frantically): No, please, no! You don’t know what you’re doing! They’re coming for us... It’s coming for us... coming for me! This... this is bigger than you realize, we’ve all gotta run--

Her strange rant is cut short when the plane starts shaking and rocking, sending Rhea tumbling to the ground and the others struggling to brace themselves against anything they can find.

RHEA: This thing’s gonna crash! We’re all gonna die!

Dave peers out the window and frowns worriedly.

DAVE: Not just us. We’re headed straight for downtown L.A.... if this thing crashes, it’s gonna kill a lot of people.

SAM: What the hell do we do?

REBECCA: Leave it to me.

Rebecca pulls herself toward the cockpit, untying the pilot’s dead body and shoving it out of the seat. She takes the controls and pulls up on the control yoke, and the plane responds accordingly. She scans the control panel and frowns.

REBECCA: Power, engines, and landing gear are all shot. Must’ve been all those shotgun blasts getting flung around. Somebody get up here, I need a copilot!

Sam and Dave, still holding a sobbing Hayley securely between the two of them, exchange glances.

RHEA: I’ll do it.

Rhea nervously enters the cockpit, stepping over the pilot’s body on the floor before settling into the copilot’s seat.

RHEA: Okay, what do I do?

Rebecca begins pointing out various controls and levers at the copilot’s station.

REBECCA: Grab that one, there. Pull it toward you. Now see that button? ...Alright, read the dial on the left, tell me what it says.

RHEA: Uh... “500?” Wait, no, it’s going down--

REBECCA: Good. Keep one hand on that lever and hold it steady! Now, grab the headset and radio the tower!

RHEA: What, this one?

She pulls the headset over her head. Rebecca reaches over and flips a switch on the side before returning to the controls. Immediately, a voice sounds over the radio:

AIR TRAFFIC CONTROLLER (ON RADIO): --come in! Emergency, November--

RHEA: Hi! This is Rhea, uh... er... how are you?

Rebecca cringes as she continues her efforts to steer the plane away from the city center and back toward the airport.

AIR TRAFFIC CONTROLLER (ON RADIO): Who is this? What’s going on?

RHEA: Sorry! Listen, we, uh, recaptured the plane and we’re in control. Me and some police. Well, mostly the police, I didn’t really do much, to be honest--

AIR TRAFFIC CONTROLLER (ON RADIO): Sorry, police? What police?

REBECCA: Tell him we’re coming in for a rough landing and our engines are shot!

RHEA: L.A.P.D., duh, who else? Listen, we’re coming in for a rough landing. Our engines are shot!

AIR TRAFFIC CONTROLLER (ON RADIO): What do you mean? Explain!

REBECCA (shouting): Deadstick landing! It’s an emergency!

RHEA: It’s an emergency! “Deadstick landing,” whatever that means! Get everyone out of the way!

AIR TRAFFIC CONTROLLER (ON RADIO): We’ll take care of it! Right away!

RHEA: Okay, thanks so much--LOOK OUT!

A towering airport hotel rises up in front of them! Rebecca grits her teeth and jams the control yoke as hard as she can toward her. The plane rises into the air, barely clearing the tower’s roof.

SAM: Jesus! What kinda piloting is that?!

REBECCA: You wanna try flyin’ this thing? Be my guest.

DAVE: It’s gonna be a bumpy landing!

RHEA: INCOMING!

An office building looms up ahead of them! Rebecca yanks the yoke to one side and the plane banks around it, sending Dave, Sam, and Hayley flying into the wall of the cabin.

DAVE: Remind me never to fly with you again!

RHEA: Rebecca! Turn! TURN!

Rebecca barely clears a cluster of palm trees just outside the L.A. airport, then banks to one side, clipping the plane’s wing against the top of the gate with a shriek of metal.

SAM: Brace yourselves!

She and Dave cling to either side of a bolted-down table as the plane approaches the tarmac, gliding lower... lower... until, with an ear-splitting SCREECH, the plane touches down on the runway, skidding to a stop. After a moment of intense silence, Rebecca, Rhea, Sam, and Dave all exchange a glance. Rhea lets out a sigh of relief.

RHEA (in disbelief): We... we did it. We won.

_______________________

Next: "Just Another Prison”

CIU Tag List: @brightpinkpeppercorn @endlesshero1122 @bbaba-yagaa @acidsugar0

MW Tag List: @griselda1121

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cryxmercy · 4 years

Text

Dum Spiro Spero

When: apx 4 hours after this. Where: White Crest Morgue Who: @kadavernagh, @arthurjdrake, and Mercy

Arthur meets Regan at the the morgue to identify Mercy’s body after the ‘incident’ at Dark Score Lake. Things go about as well as the rest of the night did. Which means exactly what you think it means.

TW: character death, vomit, hospitals, drowning, description of bodies/autopsies

This was one of Regan’s least favorite parts of the job -- possibly tied with expert testimony in a courtroom full of people. Confirming the identity of decedents. Ideally, each would receive identification via a driver’s license, prescription medication bottle, or someone coming in to confirm, in addition to biological confirmation through dental records or implant numbers. At least this time, she had a starting point and knew exactly who to bring in. Mercy Smith’s body was laid out behind the glass window of the viewing room, all but her head obscured. There was rarely any reason to expose next of kin to anything below that. The decedent’s phone has several missed calls from Arthur Drake, and there had even been an envelope with his name on it in her car. Regan guided Arthur through the long hallway of the morgue, wishing she could have been seeing him again under better circumstances; she’d come to like and appreciate him, even though they didn’t know each other well. “I’m really sorry to bring you in here,” she said, meeting his eyes with sympathy, “I know the two of you were close, and I’m here to help however I can.” She opened the door to the viewing room and walked in after Arthur, her chest tight with nerves. It was never easy being face to face with a deceased loved one, even behind a sheet of glass, and even in the clinical setting of the morgue. Regan stayed silent, waiting for Arthur to speak.

To exist even briefly in a place of apparent death while alive and healthy seemed to go against every natural wish a person might have. Life and death were a facet of existence that Arthur could intimately recognise and understand. The process wasn’t surprising, he’d seen battlefields strewn with broken and bloodied bodies, walked streets where stepping over an emancipated corpse was grim but commonplace and then he’d experienced his own death too many times to count - sometimes peacefully and other times not. Life seemed to lay a path out for each person and their choices carried them through until they met their end. He’d watched with his very eyes as folklore and history built legends out of the dead, glorifying their acts and expunging their faults. It had always been the way, but from the moment he felt the air leave his own lungs and fear swell up in his chest within the gasping for air that wouldn’t come within confines of his own home he knew something was wrong. The missed phone calls were wrong. The fact that she was… No. He wouldn’t say the word, couldn’t acknowledge the sentiment. She would come back, she always did. They hadn’t only just found one another for their time to be cut so short.

Every step along the empty, anonymous corridors of the morgue felt inexplicably wrong; a rising sense of uncertainty the nearer they drew to their destination. The drumming of his own pulse pounding, pounding, pounding, and his head with it. Drowning out any and all conversation after the drive here, seeing Regan a vacant hollowness that seemed to douse the spark of joy and life he always carried into most given situations.

He set the backpack down on the floor as they entered the observation room. No words of thanks were offered to her sympathies, they rang true but words were meaningless as he stared at Mercy’s pallid complexion. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her like this, but it always caught him off guard. The tangle mess of spun gold pillowing her head in a halo-esque fashion that it could almost be falsely believed that she might just be sleeping. But there was no rise and fall to her chest, and the unnatural stillness couldn’t be questioned. She was no angel, but even now she was beautiful and radiant in ways no words could put into any meaningful fashion. A hand reached out, as if hoping to take her own but met only the cold wall of glass that separated them. His mouth pressed into a thin line, chin tipping down as he gathered his resolve formulating it into the first words he’d spoken since he arrived in a dull monotonous tone. “What happened?”

Regan was no stranger to grief. Mourning. Loss. It clung to her throughout her whole life, following her everywhere. Her friends, her brother, lovers, her dad. She could recognize in others when they’d lost someone special, how the grief became a physical ailment as well as a psychological scar. You couldn’t move past it; it was impossible. You could only trudge through it, slowly, painfully. And that was what Arthur was doing right now. There was no greeting, no smile, no pleasantries. Regan knew not to push for them or pretend they were necessary. If the decedent really was Mercy, then Regan knew this was the same woman who tended to the flowers in Arthur’s garden. Old friends who happened to both end up in the same damn town. Maybe more than friends. Probably more than friends. She trailed behind Arthur as he entered the viewing room, remaining silent and keeping her distance. It was strange; ever since her dad died, each decedent carried with it something she couldn’t explain or begin to understand -- an energy or a spark that jumped down her vertebrae and made her steady hands tingle. Mercy Smith hadn’t done that. Despite the stillness of her heart, and despite the deathly chill of her skin, Regan knew there was something off. But she never trusted feelings. They betrayed, where cold, hard logic scarcely did.

She was almost surprised when Arthur had a question for her. Regan had expected him to stay there, staring through the glass, hand pressed against it like it could bring him close to her. She hesitated for a moment. “I haven’t made a determination of cause and manner of death yet. I need to autopsy the -- her first.” But that was hardly satisfactory, was it? “Based on my observations of her condition and where she was found, it’s possible she drowned. But drowning is a diagnosis of exclusion; there is no finding that is pathognomonic for it, so I have to -- it’s important for me to look at everything as a whole.” Inside and out. Especially inside. But she didn’t want to share those details with Arthur right now. He didn’t need to know that she’d be looking for hyperexpanded lungs and a trachea full of froth. “Arthur, I’m sorry to ask you this, because I think the answer is apartment, but… can you confirm that this is Mercy Smith?” Regan lingered by the door. “And would you like me to give you some time alone?”

It was perhaps every person’s worst nightmare to outlive the greatest loves of their life. A lover, a wife, a child. Loss cultivated a strange understanding of empathy, of how emotions could affect behaviour channeling actions that otherwise might never have been. Arthur had spent lifetimes struggling with death, disaster and countless crises and catastrophes moments of utter despair and profound exhilaration. But standing here, staring at the ring of dark splotchy purple bruises marring the smooth column of her neck like a horrific branding necklace were the marks of what he knew had happened. The clamp of stronger hands he’d felt by proxy around his own throat, trapping off the air before the light had gone from the world. An ire sparked, fuelled by anguish and the fury of any person thinking they might get away with laying their hands on her in such a brutal fashion, to steal even a day of her life away. His left hand tightened, fingers curling into the thick line of angular scar-tissue made anew several months earlier and countless centuries prior. A bond as evident and apparent as the invisible thread that had always led them back to one another, no matter the distance or time that had passed.

Regan’s answer was clinical, precise and omitted the details he knew any mourning party wouldn’t wish to hear but the unspoken act he knew Regan planned to perform was the last thread. His fist thumped the wall, “no, you won’t touch my wif-” he swallowed back the word with a choked sound “I don’t want anyone touching her.” Because they weren’t. They never had made it to that day. How cruel the fates were that each time they almost found that perfect ending, it was snatched away - the irony of how it was this time Mercy’s death wasn’t lost on him. He swallowed back the bile he felt working its way up his throat. “Yes,” was all the confirmation he gave “someone did this to her,” there was a strange sense of calmness in the statement. The low-burning anger simmering as he stared through the glass.

He exhaled through his nose, she’d come back. She’d wake up and this would all be fine… That’s how it always worked. “How long ago did they-- How long ago did they find her?” How long would it take for her to come back? The question of needing time stirred him out of his stupor, “I have to… yes, I need to wait. I need to be here… I need to be here for her, when she comes back” perhaps it sounded mad, grief-stricken ramblings of a man that had just lost one of the most important people in his life. But Arthur wasn’t leaving the morgue any time soon.

Regan had seen this plenty of times before. Next of kin who couldn’t bear to think of their loved ones being under the scalpel. Legally, Regan had every right to proceed with the autopsy against anyone else’s wishes, especially if she thought there was likely to be a crime committed. She made few exceptions -- really, only in instances of apparent straightforward natural deaths where autopsy conflicted with personal beliefs -- and this was not going to be one of them. But she also wasn’t going to argue with Arthur while he was in the throes of grief. “I understand.” Was all she said. So many of the doctors she’d learned with would have been far better at knowing what to say here. Even Erin would have been more adept. Sometimes practice did not make perfect. “We’re going to find out who did this to her. That’s what I’m here for. We’ll learn what happened.” She kept her distance, as Arthur was still staring through the glass barricade, taking in the lifeless appearance of the woman he clearly loved.

“It’s been a few hours. Almost 4, now.” Of course he didn’t want to leave. But did he really think… Regan’s heart sank to her feet at the thought of Arthur waiting here, watching a decedent, waiting for the cadaver’s heart to start beating and fingers to start twitching. It wasn’t going to happen, and it wasn’t healthy for Arthur to hold out that kind of hope. “Would you like to stay in my office while I’m --” Right. He didn’t want anyone touching the body. She’d need to convince him, point out how important it was that this was investigated. She’d done it many times in the past; it was a well-practiced and sympathetic speech, but now wasn’t the time for it. “I think we should talk in my office. I can have someone come in to take care of her in the meantime, okay?”

It was a nice effort Regan made, but it was the start of a sentiment that Arthur wasn’t by any means ready to hear. He’d seen just how badly the police and even the FBI were when it came to solving the true nature of these cases and this wasn’t going to be any different. A flare of anger overcame him, as he rounded on Regan “you won’t learn shit,” this was emphasised by a wildly animated gesture of his hand the sudden vehemence was a turn of face for the typically mild-mannered scholar who always did his best to watch his tongue and curb the harm his words could inflict. “Least of all you - someone who doesn’t even have any kind of control or understanding about what you are. Do you even know the danger you and your denial poses to the people around you?” His eyes blazed with a simmering preternatural fire, “this entire department is incompetent and ill-equipped to handle the true reality of what happens in this town because all of you choose instead to bury your heads in the sand - blind to what’s happening right in front of your faces!”

“So no, I’m not going into your office,” he retorted shortly, his back to the glass viewing window and plinth on which Mercy’s body rested “and no, you’re not getting someone to come and take care of her. Because she’s going to be fine. She’s going to come back, and you’re probably going to think I’m insane! Which, you know what, that’s fine as well. Because it’s all real. She’s not human, and neither are you. And no amount of placating and self-confirming speeches about how it’s all gonna be alright is going to change that fact - for you, for me or for her.”

Mercy had not gone gently from this world. She’d fought until her last breath. Taunted the creature whose hands were around her neck, trying to choke the life out of her. She’d even spit words of defiance back into the face it chose to wear as it pushed her beneath the water and everything went dark.

So it was no surprise that her return was also not gentle. Not gentle at all.

Somewhere in the darkness of Mercy’s soul, a spark flickered to life. It grew and grew and grew… until it burned bright enough to fuel the almost imperceptibly slow curl of one delicate, pale finger. It didn’t last long, as the flame was still small, and Mercy’s body grew utterly still once more. There was a moment that followed, no more than half a minute, where the harsh, fluorescent lighting of the observation room started to flicker. Once, twice… three times. Before it went out completely, throwing the room beyond the glass into darkness.

Another moment passed. Followed by another. And another. And still another.

The air hummed with static, as it might just before a lighting strike during a thunderstorm.

It was then that Mercy’s eternal flame reignited.

When the lights suddenly returned, too bright and insistent and glaring, the observation room table was vacant.

Mercy lay on the floor, no longer lifeless and still, but suddenly very, very alive. She convulsed, gasping and choking on black, frothy water as her body did it’s best to right itself.

Regan could practically see the rage building behind Arthur’s eyes; they burned with a hot intensity. She knew what was about to happen. Some next of kin lashed out, yelled at her, spat in her face, and they always had plenty of saliva. They couldn’t accept the death of a loved one, didn’t want to think about what came next -- only what came before. When she’d met Arthur before, she’d pegged him as a calm, rational intellectual. But Regan supposed grief could turn anyone violent under the right -- or wrong -- circumstances. Regan steeled herself, hands curled into fists, as Arthur raised her voice and his temper. She debated reaching for her pager. She didn’t want to involve security, but she would. She let Arthur’s vitriol and words slide off of her as best as possible, confusing though they were, and bit her tongue. Forcibly. It was the only way to stop the mounting pressure circling around inside her lungs. It wanted out. It wanted at Arthur. Regan clutched her chest and took a couple of steps back. She didn’t dare open her mouth. But at the same time, the insult to her ability to do her job made her temper flare. The pressure climbed, but Arthur’s instance that Mercy was going to come back made it dissipate, replaced by a pang of sympathy. To this, Regan also didn’t think it best to reply.

The lights went out before she could. For a second, Regan thought she might have screamed, breaking them, but -- no, that wasn’t right. Electrical malfunction of some kind. Just a flicker, and they were back on. She looked at Arthur, finally chancing opening her mouth. “That -- maybe it’s storming outside.” But when her eyes landed back on the glass, back where the body had been lain, there was nothing there. No body. No decedent. What? Had Arthur done something? No, he hadn’t left this spot. Had one of her technicians moved the body when they weren’t paying attention? That had to have been it. “Where… the body is gone.” She turned to Arthur, anger and fear twisted into panic. Surely it had been a technician, but… but she needed to check. She motioned toward Arthur, spurring them both toward the exit. They needed to check the other side of the viewing room, behind the glass.

A mild manner and placating tongue could get you so far in life, but right now Arthur had no bearings to lean into his good will. No valid reasoning to hold back. He’d been holding back for nigh on twenty years, never wanting to let his temper flare and lose the control he’d built across that time. It wouldn’t do to expose himself, he wasn’t so capable of defence as so many other species were. But the combination of his conversation with Nadia earlier in the night about her own safety, the truly staggering incompetence of WCPD and Mercy’s death? A death that very well could have been prevented if he’d just picked up the phone, talked her out of whatever god-awful plan she’d got in her head. She’d always been the sort to play the heroine, and look where it got her. On a cold metal slab on the brink of something horrific. The odds were slim, but they weren’t odds Arthur was willing to gamble on.

After all, what if she didn’t come back? What if she did get stuck on the other side never to return. What then? All for what? The guilt and anger mingled, fueling an ugly concoction that spilt over in vitriol that typically wasn’t imbued by the professor.

The shudder of the lights, the spark dimming and reigniting caused Arthur’s words to fade and his eyes to go up to the light. Their eerie red glow grew more prominent for a second in the darkness before the natural lighting returned as did some of his rational thought. “Vi er født af stormen,” he muttered the words under his breath, born of the storm, “evigt lys vender sikkert tilbage” eternal light return safely. Though Regan’s explanation of a storm caused Arthur to grunt, roll his eyes and shake his head “You are something else Regan.” He grabbed the bag he’d brought along with him as he moved along to join her in the walk, his steps rapid, “I told you what it is. You just don’t believe me or anyone else in this town apparently.”

What choice had Mercy had this time? It had all happened so quickly… a call asking to help kill a demon and save the world, such as it was. Because if the creature survived, it would have laid waste to White Crest… to everything and everyone. So how was Mercy to say no? Considering what she was? And with the odds astronomically stacked in her favor to come out unscathed? This time it hadn’t been about being the heroine. It had simply been the right thing to do.

And if Rebecca hadn’t pulled on Mercy’s life force to power her final spell, they likely wouldn’t be here now. Nic would’ve never been able to harm her. But they were. And so Mercy’s Fury magic was making the situation right. And reviving her, one atom, one cell, one neuron at a time. Until she was snatched from the darkness and back into the light with all the force of a lightning bolt. Yet her body, as indestructible and immortal as it might be… was paying the price for that magic.

What language was that? Arthur’s anger seemed to twist into something else as soon as the lights winked off and on, speaking in a language Regan did not understand. It didn’t feel like the time to ask him. “You didn’t tell me anything.” She bit back, still trying to keep the screech locked inside her. He was mourning. He wasn’t in his right mind. She needed to keep reminding herself of that to keep her own anger at bay. Her hand itched for the pager. Calling security could escalate things even further though, just when Arthur seemed to be simmering. Regan held off. For now. Other matters were more pressing. “Belief has nothing to do with anything. People in this town don’t understand that the burden of proof is on --” She pressed her key card to the side of the observation room where the body had previously been resting peacefully on the table. Dead. Unmoving. But Regan nearly tripped over the body -- now on the floor -- as she ran in, slipping on the pool of dark water.

“How…?” Mercy’s body was still here. That was the first fact, the most important one. Had gases being released propelled her from the table? They could generate a lot of force. But, no. Regan’s eyes jumped around -- Mercy’s chest was moving. She was breathing. She was alive. She was coughing up more dark liquid. What did that mean? Had the first responders made a mistake? Had they not followed protocol? No. Regan had put the body in the freezer, had laid it out on the table for Arthur to identify; she would have noticed if it had a beating heart. She would have noticed. But hadn’t Mercy not felt dead, the same way her decedents did? She stumbled back toward the door, taking in what was happening as a scream took form inside her lungs like a brewing storm.

“I did, you just didn’t bother to listen.” He shot off accompanied by a seriously withering side-eye. “Oh take your burden of proof and shove it Regan, I’m not in the mood for a bloody lecture from you of all people” his voice had adopted a sterner note; akin to that of a disproving parent tired of a child’s nonsense shenanigans. Arthur really didn’t have the time of day to placate to Regan’s denial nor did he really feel like pandering to her whims.

The keycard beeped and Arthur couldn’t help but hold his breath half-anticipating and half-dreading the sight on the other side of the door. But seeing Mercy coughing up black water much akin to what he’d coughed up in his own kitchen with Nadia caused him to exhale in pure relief. She was alive. Thank the gods. Willfully and pointedly ignoring Regan’s question he pushed past, dropping to his knees so that he could scoop Mercy and the sheet she’d been covered in off the floor and propping her up against his chest.

“Shh, shh” the noises were soft and soothing as though attempting to calm a skittish creature as he brushed her hair out of her face “bare rolig, jeg har dig. Jeg er her.” Don’t worry, I have you. I’m here. She was wracked with shivers and Arthur closed his eyes resting his head against her temple as he pulled the sheet around her. Though feeling her grow restless again, the pulse of her energy amping like static on the air he hushed again “Hey, hey now…. I got you.”

Breathe.

The voice in her head commanded her and Mercy had no choice but to obey. She gasped for air, but there was no room while her lungs were filled with water. So her body purged itself of the black liquid, quickly and violently. It hurt, gods it hurt… and Mercy coughed and choked and tried to claw at her throat… at the fire that burned it’s way up and out of her chest and onto the cold tile floor of the viewing room. But she couldn’t. Her body wouldn’t obey. The magic that made her what she was had only one goal: survival. And it would do that through whatever means necessary. Mercy’s confusion and pain were irrelevant.

Yet even the darkness of Mercy’s ‘rebirth’ couldn’t block out the light that came from Arthur’s presence. It burned against the blackness as he pulled her in, and even as she continued to tremble violently, her face turned towards him. Towards his voice and his warmth. Towards the one person she knew would always keep her safe. Her eyelids fluttered, lashes dark against her pale, hypoxic skin, and she seemed to grow more calm as Arthur spoke softly in her ear.

Yet her shaking couldn’t be helped. She still felt cold to the marrow of her bones, even with Arthur’s preternatural warmth soaking into her skin. Her restlessness started to peak again, and the air hummed as it had before. Every breath was still like white-hot knives slicing through her chest… every cough rattled deep and wet and ominous, and her heart continued to flutter rapidly, trying to find a steady rhythm.

“... gør ondt…” Mercy’s voice was soft and weak. It hurts...

Arthur was down on the floor with Mercy in an instant, pushing the hair from her face and cupping her cheek. She was a her, now, right? No longer an it. No longer a cadaver. She never was. That thought practically froze Regan’s feet to the ground. How could that have happened? She so badly wanted to blame the first responders, never imagined she’d ever make a mistake like this. How -- more dark fluid being coughed up. Regan felt torn in several directions, like an aortic dissection after an ugly MVA. Mercy was clearly sick; she needed medical attention. Arthur was still being entirely unreasonable. She still wanted to call security. And the pressure in her lungs continued to build. Not again. Not here. Not at the morgue. The scream was urged on by the conflict and she couldn’t hold it back entirely -- a screech shot out of her mouth as soon as she opened it, breaking the flickering lights and cracking the sheet of thick glass between the two rooms. It was over in an instant, as she clapped her hands over her mouth and clamped her jaw shut. Regan stumbled back toward the door, an apology on her lips, but her concern about the potentially dying former-decedent and her irritable, irrational boyfriend won out. Mercy needed a hospital. She needed more care than Regan could provide. “She needs a doctor! Stay with her. I’ll be right back.” As much as she hated to leave the two of them alone here, she didn’t have a functioning cell phone, and an ambulance needed to be called. Leaving no time for argument, she dashed out of the glass-littered observation room and barreled up the stairs.

He hadn’t been paying attention to Regan the moment he’d seen Mercy on the floor, concern for her well-being overriding any good sense Arthur might’ve had in that moment of time. “I know,” he was just shifting her carefully in his arms leaning her over to help cough up any remaining water that might’ve settled in her lungs when the screech happened. Nothing he’d been anticipating nor could he brace himself and it earned a grimace of pain and discomfort almost enough that he dropped Mercy on the floor but his hold was secure enough that it didn’t happen. Thankfully his positioning let him shield her from the fall of shattered lightbulbs. “OW- The fuck?!” he shot a glare at Regan noticing her backing up over the crunch of shattered glass and then turning to leave barely hearing what she said he had to make a rush assessment of the situation. “Fuck,” he cursed, pulling Mercy and propping her up against the table he scarpered to his bag and ripped it open grabbing his oversized t-shirt and joggers out of the bag. “We gotta go… Gotta work with me now Frey,” there was an urgent note in his voice as he set about pulling the t-shirt over her head and arms (backwards in his rush) and did the same with the joggers.

He wasn’t the strongest of people, and Mercy was fairly built combined with the fact they didn’t have the time to chance seeing if she could walk left Arthur with little choice. Hooking an arm under her knees and her back he heaved her off the floor with a grunt, and made quickly for the door. He’d have to backtrace the route he’d come in by, but he could remember it well enough. There were a couple of close-calls but he otherwise managed to pick a route that avoided any confrontation with other members of staff until he back barge his way out the doors, almost tripping in the process into the fresh night air of the car park towards his vehicle. “Almost there… We’re almost there.”

Mercy made her own sound of discomfort as the high-pitched screech echoed through the room. Her ears rang and there was a sudden, sharp pain behind her eyes that was gone as quickly as it came. The shattering of the glass was a side-note as she continued to cough up thick, brackish fluid. But there was less of it now, and by the time she was sat up against the table, it was only the deep, wet cough that persisted. Regan’s screeching had had one small benefit: it had jolted Mercy to a slightly more wakeful state. Her eyes slipped open for the briefest of moments as Arthur spoke before falling shut again.

She did her best to help him, sensing the urgency of the situation. Lifting her arms and trying not be dead weight as he pulled the clothes on in a rush. When he hoisted her up, Mercy’s head spun wildly, and she felt vaguely nauseous as they started to move. But she did her best to wrap her arms around Arthur’s neck. They felt like lead weights, as did her head as it fell against his shoulder. She managed to stay somewhat awake as they moved through the halls, enough that her grip tightened every so slightly as Arthur stumbled into the parking lot. The cool night air washed over them, and when Arthur spoke to her again, she heard him. Almost there, he;d said. Almost there…

To which Mercy could only reply, “... home... ‘s’go home…”

The ambulance was on its way. Just a few minutes. Not for the first time, Regan was grateful for how close the hospital was to the morgue. She’d instructed security to let the EMTs in and send them down to the basement -- she needed to go stay with Mercy, make sure she wasn’t still on the edge of death. Keep Arthur calm, if that was even possible. She ran back down the stairs and headed straight for the observation room, but a few drops of that black fluid dotted the white hallway floor, making her freeze. There was a small trail of it headed toward the intake bay garage. She knew enough of blood spatter analysis to understand what those tails on each drop meant -- movement. Momentum. Her gut clenched and she kept running, slammed the door wide open and saw… just a lot of broken glass and black liquid. No Mercy. No Arthur. Regan pressed a hand to her forehead. How the hell was she going to explain this to the EMTs, who would be here any second? How was she going to explain to anyone? How was she going to explain this to herself? She stood in the darkness of the room, her eyes pressed shut. “It’s so much easier when they’re dead.”

end.

#chatzy #p: arthur #p: regan #p: dum spiro spero #vomit tw #//I can't think of any other tws but if anyone finds one just lmk :)

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malereader-inserts · 6 years

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Thistle & Weeds

Fandom: The Vampire Diaries Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson & Son!Reader Summary: There's more than flesh and bones. Let the dead bury their dead, they will come out in droves Word Count: 2,171 Request: “Will I be able to ask for a Klaus x injured son reader? Like, the reader is Hope’s twin brother and he gets captured and tortured by one of Klaus enemy and Klaus comes to save him? A bit of fluff at the end is that okay author-san? I love reading you fanfics they’re really good! :)” Warning: Gory, mention of injuries and blood

Just because, in a theoretical sense and in an ideal world, you are the son of the mighty Klaus Mikaelson. You are the heir, of New Orleans perhaps to say since your father loves projecting that around the compound, but that doesn’t mean you have to be as ruthless as him.

In fact, Klaus made a promise to himself to be the best father a child could have. He wasn’t his father, he wasn’t going to make the same mistakes. He was involved with you and your twin’s growing up, he played with you, taught you. At the ripe age of fifteen, you saw your dad as some sort of hero in your eyes.

He did everything to protect you but teach you how to defend yourself if he, your mother or your uncle Elijah could not come. When Klaus looks at you, he sees a fine young boy with potential.

You were more wolfish in your behaviour, whilst Hope was more driven by her witchy tendencies. Violent and aggressive is how your heart paves the way as Hope was driven with heavy emotions, sympathy and kindness. It’s how you and her complimented each other so well.

She played with light magic. You with dark magic, though you barely use your magic, you prefer to do things normally. You and Hope were very close to each other, almost an invisible bond that branded and tied you to her, you just knew what she was feeling, you sense danger near your twin.

Just like she did with you, you felt better with yourself knowing each other were safe. It was the main reason why your family were heavily protective, to see one child suffering was bad but a child suffering because they know their twin is in danger could kill them.

Which spiked concerns when Hope started screaming in her bedroom. She shot up in bed and pushed passed through the barricade of her mother and her father, who came to see what was wrong. Confused and alarmed, they followed a teenager distressed.

“(Y/n)?” She screams as she opens your door.

A scene left your twin and your parents hurt. Your bed was a mess, but not in a way that you just forgot to make the bed after waking up. The duvet was on the floor as if it was ripped away from you. The bed post was broken, almost as if you were gripping against it, in an attempt to wear out whoever had grabbed you.

The mirror was smashed, the witch books you have been stacking in your room had the covers were torn and pages hanging off a loose thread. Your chair was broken, and blood coating the wood from the broken chair.

“That’s his blood.”

Klaus had to be escorted by both Kol and Elijah to calm him down, he was ready to burn the city down to find you. Whilst Hope was in the comfort of her mother and her Aunt Bex, the wolf in her was still whining for her twin, the bigger wolf that sworn to protect her. She seems to be lost without you.

“We’ll find him, Niklaus,” Elijah spoke, placing a firm hand on his brother's shoulder.

Klaus shivered when he could hear his little girl sob for her twin, tears had strung up in his eyes. Elijah and Kol have seen Klaus distressed before, this was on another level. Klaus was angry, angry to the point that his brothers feared he would do something fiendish, something so nefarious.

“I’ll make them suffer, whoever has my boy-” Klaus gritted his teeth.

My boy, Klaus could smile at the thought of it but he is way beyond furious to think that. Oh, his boy, probably screaming for his dad to find him.

You’re counting on him.

He knows that, and he’ll be damned if he was going to fail his son.

Your throat burned.

You’ve been screaming for, what seems like to you, hours. The room was poisoning you. The fumes of vervain, mistletoe and belladonna had got you gagging. The bubbling of stomach acid was fluctuating, you were sure you were going to spit blood.

It was excruciating, you weren’t healing. Why aren’t you healing?

Your shirt that was once drenched in red was now brown and crusty, you blinked to stay awake but even that was getting harder for you. You lay on the ground, your face closed in a grimace, pale and clammy.

Every few minutes you would scream, not like one of those guys in some Tarantino movie being tortured, but worse. It had a raw quality, the realness of a person consumed by a pain that knew no end or limit. Then you would go quiet, just panting.

Your body shook; the stress of pain and laceration caused your body to writhe. You didn’t what would kill you off first, bleeding out or choking on your own blood. Or perhaps the infection that was quick to spread onto your wounds, was death by vomit a pleasant way to go?

You wanted to howl for your sister, for your mom, for your dad.

Slowly you tried to get up but realized how futile it was when you had to bite your lip to keep from crying out. A sharp pain lanced through your head and colourful spots flashed in front of your eyes.

“Mikaelson,” The voice was distorted, “I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long.”

The pain is increasing in waves, small lulls giving false hope of an end. Each peak robs your ability to speak. It's as though your blood has become acid, the intent of destroying you from the inside out. All you can do is writhe, the occasional whimper escaping to echo off the walls.

Your capture chuckles at your lousy attempt to speak, to defend yourself.

A strike from his feet to your ribs, you’re on your back. Then comes the stomp, you choked out a breath, coughing blood, gargling the metal liquid. You turn to lean on your left side, clutching your body.

You see him ready to strike again, but then it disappeared. A few minutes of silence, you hear drowned out voices. A voice that held such malice, venom dripped with every threat. You could chuckle at the whimper from your kidnapper, but your chest tighten.

“If I had time, I would rather not talk but hear your screams,” Sounds like your father, “I’m going to put you in your place.”

Then you see blood. But it’s not your blood, your vision was fuzzy, hard to comprehend but you see a head roll and you finally know you’re no longer in danger.

You wheezed as you were gently pushed onto your back. You moaned, in view was your dad. You watched in fascination to see his amber eyes return to the loving blue-green eyes.

“I’m here, son, dad’s got you,” His voice was shaky, afraid to pick you up in case he was going to hurt you.

He does so, you don’t remember screaming but there was a stabbing pain in Klaus when he hears his pup cry in pain.

“I’ve got you, no more harm can get to you.”

Elijah and Hayley share a look. Klaus had seemed to run off in his own investigation. Elijah could tell his brother was getting angsty, he desperately wanted to find you as well.

“Where’s dad?” Hope asked Hayley sighs, throwing an arm over her daughter.

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” Elijah commented as Kol scoffed from his seat at the table.

Rebekah and Freya glared at the youngest brother, Kol shrugged his shoulders. Everyone was getting angsty, the tension was high and Hope’s occasional whimpers and soft cries was slowly getting to each family members.

They didn’t care if they were targetted, they’ve coped for a thousand years to know each sibling were capable of protecting themselves. But, damn those who think going for the twins were a good idea.

The compound door slams open and everyone snaps their attention to the intruder.

“Freya! Please!” Klaus begged.

His hands were bloody and clutching onto you, you looked dead. But, everyone could hear the faint irregular heartbeat of yours. Klaus was bloody but you were bloodier. The Mikaelsons were quick to their feet to your aid as Freya ushered Klaus to your bedroom.

Hope wanted to reach out for you but was quickly held onto by Hayley. As much as a mother wanted to hold her son, her daughter was clearly in misery. When Klaus had gently put you down, Rebekah had to pull him out of the room so his emotions weren’t clouding Freya’s magic.

“Save him, please,”

And the door shuts.

Freya had been performing magic on you, some of your wounds were healing. But, you hadn’t woken up. Your family has gotten rid of your bloody clothes and placed something comfortable, but able to keep an eye on your wounds. At least one member of the family was guarding your side.

Whoever was on shift usually kept you cool, with a feverous state in your unconscious condition. Dabbing away to sweat away from your forehead and sometimes keeping your bandages fresh.

They hated how infrequent and wheeze like your breathing was. Hope tend to stay in the room with you, the family would bring her food because she was stubborn in leaving her twin again. You often see her curled up to you, asleep.

They had managed to get Hope out for a bit, a change of environment. Whilst Rebekah and Freya had Hope preoccupied, Kol and Davina were seated near the entrance of the compound, reading together but also on watch in case someone decided to barge in their family.

Elijah and Hayley were out investigating further of the case, to see if there are any future plans for the family so they would be prepared. Klaus was in your room, dabbing away the sweat.

“If I could take away this pain and anguish away from you, I would,” Klaus murmured, he felt just a little bit silly in talking to you - knowing he may not get a response.

He places the towel across your forehead, he brushes your hair back, softly smiling down at you. You look like him, but you have the smile of your mother - he would claim. A formidable creature but graced with a sweet smile.

“I know you can’t talk, but I just want you to know that I’m not going anywhere, you hear that pup? You’re stuck with your old man,” Klaus chuckles under his breath, but looking at your state of affairs, he sighs, “I'm sorry I failed you, I should’ve been there.“

He looks at your hand, your knuckles painted with discolouring. He cringes, you fought back, he could tell, those are bruises of you trying to punch back. Then he noticed how your fingertips twitch.

Klaus furrowed his eyebrows, blinked then looked at you. You jerked awake, Klaus widens his eyes.

“Dad?”

“Hello my pup,” Klaus greeted, you could sense his relief, “Is there anything you need?”

You look at him, your throat burned for water, “Water.”

He obeyed, helped you sip on the liquid, you wanted to gasp in pleasure, but you found yourself looking at your dad. He sat next to you nervously, taking away the folded towel off your head and place it back against the sink in the bathroom.

“Dad?” You hummed, you could see his ears perk at your address, “Do you ever get...scared?”

There was a silence,“…in all honesty? I’m always scared.”

“That’s…somewhat comforting.” You breathed out, but a smile reached your lips, “Not like you.”

“Well, if you see your child half alive and slowly dying, you’d be scared of everything, anything could happen and I was terrified.” Klaus responded, his hand was stroking your hair, “And before I had you, I was terrified with the possibility of losing my siblings.”

“Oh,” You managed to say, you didn’t want to ask what happened to you because frankly, you were too afraid to hear it.

“I’m scared that I’m going to be a terrible father,”

“Well, you’re not,” You responded, Klaus looks at you with hope in his eyes, “Hope and I are proud to be your children, we’re proud to share your name. You’re not a terrible father, you saved me.”

Klaus blinked and a doubt lifted from his shoulders. There was a comforting smile on his lips and he softly kisses your forehead.

“I proud of you too.”

Your sweet smile brightens his day, he still thinks he should have been there. He could stop your pain and stop his daughter’s suffering. To stop the devastation, yet, you hadn’t had a care in the world.

“Will you stay and tell me stories of your life, dad?”

You were always fascinated in his life, you could listen for years of the adventures of your dad and your uncles and aunt. He chuckles as he shuffles the chair closer to the bedside.

“Alright, it was...”

#klaus mikaelson #klaus mikaelson imagine #klaus mikaelson x male!reader #x male reader #the vampire diaries #the vampire diaries imagine #the vampire diaries x male reader #platonic

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ask-miraculous-2pnorway · 5 years

Text

The Blood Pumping through your Fist Pt. 7

Trigger Warning!!

[[MORE]]

The throbbing pain was all over his body. Wounds and scratches littered could have been noticeable through the stains upon his jumper. It was deep and so so hot, it felt as though his body was burning. It was hot. It hurts. It stings. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream but he could not. He did not dare to.

It was then when he felt his organs being squeezed, allowing him to cough and wheeze. Covering his mouth as he looked down towards his hand, there was nothing. Except for the blood that was produced from his cuts.

A shift brought him out from his misery. The feeling of shifting continue a few more and then it came out from his pockets.

❝ Hálogi ❞ a quiet voice ushered out, his kwami, Gulo looked at his owner so worriedly. These three days that had passed, there was nothing but torture brought upon Hálogi. Gulo wanted so much to stop it, but all the food that was brought was barely enough to keep any of their energy.

❝ I’m fine. ❞ those were the only two words that the Norwegian could utter towards Gulo. It was too painful to even speak and it was too painful for Gulo to watch. Hálogi whom had to met with the wrath of his uncle, Bard over and over again for the past three days.

Gulo parted his lips only to hear the jingle of the keys. Which caused Hálogi to tense up from the ground yet still maintaining such a limp sitting.

❝ Hide ❞ he hissed at Gulo who was hesitant to leave Hálogi and watch this nightmare again. He didn’t want to lose another holder. As the jingle got louder showing that they were about to open the door, ❝ Hide now ❞ Hálogi spoke in a rough tone that Gulo knew was painful for him to watch. But after some reluctance, he listened to his holder, he had rushed into the corner of the room which a bookcase stood, with two or a few books stacked.

Just in time, the door slammed opened and revealed Hálogi’s tormentor, Bard. Stepping closer towards Hálogi, a smirk came upon his face. Seeing the teen all beaten down but still holding his sanity by a thread. He can see it in his eyes.

❝ So how is my little nephew doing? ❞ Silence. It was what Bard expected. ❝ Nothing, huh? ❞ Bard had ways to get him to talk. But maybe, he can go for a psychological approach. Hit him where he did not expect.

So he grabbed his collar, which Hálogi looked up at his uncle in fear. The expression Bard had wanted.

❝ You’re waiting, aren’t you? Waiting for them? ❞ Silence once again.

❝ Do you really think they would come for you? Do you think your petty excuse to escape reality will come and save you? ❞ Hálogi tried to look away only to have his face forcefully look back. It was then Hálogi felt small. He felt so scared. Memories flood back into his head even though he tried to stay strong.

❝ Hálogi ❞ a silence between the two of them. ❝ They are not coming. Not for you. You know what they would do? They are all going to act like a hero and save you but then leave you in the mud. There won’t be this miraculous cure or whatever that will help you with your mental state and they won’t as well- ❞

❝ YOU’RE WRONG ❞

Once again, a silence. Hálogi wanting to take a stance but he felt his uncle’s grip around his collar tighten. Then, he felt the sting across his face. Hálogi was slowly processing what was happening. Bard had slapped him. Across the face. The stinging sensation left upon his cheek.

❝ I’m wrong? I’M WRONG, HUH? DID YOU HONESTLY THINK THAT YOUR FAMILY WILL COME? DID YOU EVER ASK THEM FOR HELP? DID YOU EVER TOLD THEM WHAT YOU HAVE DONE? DID YOU? ❞

❝ .... ❞ Hálogi was silent once more. Shaken up and unable to say anything or more like, he couldn’t disagree to what he did.

❝ Exactly. Did you love your family? Or did you love the idea of having a family? ❞

❝ I l-love them! ❞

❝ Really? Then tell me, why didn’t you ask for help? Why did you disappear from their lives? ❞

❝ ... ❞

❝ Admit it, you didn’t want them to abandon you. Why would anyone love someone like you? A pyromaniac who killed his parents and set ablaze many homes? You’re a murderer ❞

❝ N-No. They will come, I believe them. T-They’re my family ❞ Hálogi’s voice started to weaken. Trying to fight back but did he truly believe what he was saying? Was he digging for deeper scars inside him? Was Life trying him? The more he tried to look deeper, the more he felt the pain building up inside him.

❝ My sweet naive nephew, bonds like your ❛ family ❜ will break eventually. They are just any relationship. You aren’t tied to them by anything unlike me. My blood runs deeper into your veins. Theirs? Are so easily broken. One a conflict can cut ties, I am sure you have someone in mind ❞ Hálogi jolted back remembering the whole incident. What he was saying was true. He didn’t want to admit it but... It was all true.

The tears that ran down his bloodied cheeks, rubbing salt upon his wounds. Bard threw him down the ground, watching the emotionally and physically wounded child.

❝ Haha, I can understand why Einar and Heidi loved seeing you through this pain ❞ he turned around as he headed to the door. ❝ But don’t worry- I will tell Lukas Bondevik, Vladimir Popescu and Noah Vogel, you are returning to your blood family ❞

Hálogi almost jumped when he heard their names. No. Not when he tried to protect them. He was immediately left in the room finally to himself.

As sobs started to left this cracked lips. He felt sick. So much emotions swirling in the bit of his gut while thoughts overfilled his head.

❛ Do I love my family? or do I love the concept? Do they love me? ❜ the more he thought, the more he didn’t believe himself.

Gulo who stayed hidden away and overheard the conversation, tried to come over to comfort. Only to have been pushed away by his holder.

❝ You’re going to leave me too aren’t you? ❞ it was harsh but Gulo knew where this train of thought was coming from. Without a second, Gulo leaned his head against Hálogi’s.

❝ I am not ❞ Hálogi’s eyes grew more glassy before he let out a pained cry. Holding onto his kwami tightly.

❝ I want my mama... my far... Noah and everyone else ❞ he cried out as he sobbed onto Gulo. ❝ I don’t want them to leave me. I don’t want to be alone again ❞

Gulo patted his back only to hear the wings of a butterfly flutter. Looking towards the only small source of light. There it was. A purple and black butterfly fluttering towards Hálogi.

❛ No- no no no ❜ Gulo was panicking as he tried to comfort Hálogi but the more he tried, the more he cried.

Before the worn down and blunt scissors was consumed and Gulo pulled away almost to hide from a distance.

❝ Tradlos, I am Hawkmoth. You must be so distraught, to start questioning about your love towards your family. Well, I will be your new addition to your family and give you the power to tie and cut bonds between people. However, that requires a small little favour from me. Retrieve me the miraculouses and the power will be yours ❞

Tired, hungry and injured. Hálogi closed his eyes as he leaned against the wall.

❝ Yes, Hawkmoth ❞ consumed by darkness. He greeted the darkness like an old friend.

As a floating being appeared, they broke through the door.

Gulo looked up at Hálogi or Tradlos with a frown before running off to search for the others.

#aph miraculous au #hetalia #aph norway #2p norway #miraculous au #aph #miraculous ladybug #event #uwu

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katzuyas · 5 years

Text

Towards Fiddler’s Green [19/?]

Victor returns to Yuuri as soon as he can, but when he runs back through the line of trees his heart still flutters with worry. What if he's too late? What if Yuuri has already–

Victor sinks to his knees in the sand next to his husband, praying to all the gods that cross his mind. He searches Yuuri's neck for the faint beating of his heart and he finds it, much to his relief. It's still there, pulsing under his fingers, but its echo is weak. Fragile. Just like Yuuri himself looks as he lies there, dying. The blood from the wound at Yuuri's side has seeped through the layers of the clothing Victor has pressed into it. It's already been too long. If he takes any longer, Yuuri will bleed out, Victor is sure.

So, knowing there isn't much time left to do what needs to be done, Victor sets down to work. He cuts into the agave leaves he's gathered. The tips are sharp and thin, enough to serve as needles. The first one he cuts he rips apart when he tries to separate the body of the leaf from its point, and he curses while he tries to make another with trembling hands. This time, he's more careful and he succeeds. He tears apart the long, thin grass he's found growing from the dusty sands in the deeper parts of the island. The grass pulls apart in his fingers in thread-like pieces. Victor ties one of them to the needle, hoping desperately that it'll work.

He rests the needle on his bag for a moment, so that he can unwrap the wound. It's sticky with blood and Victor's hands soon bear the mark of it, but he doesn't even bat an eye. He's seen blood before. Human blood, yes. And now, now Yuuri is human, too. What Victor is about to do… he hopes Yuuri's human form will accept. If it fights against him…

Victor doesn't even want to think of what will happen then.

He wipes the skin around the wound as clean as he can with fabric wet in fresh water of the stream. And then he spreads the skin to gaze into the bloody mess within, and he sews.

He's never been clean with his needlework, even though his mother tried to teach him. Victor preferred swords to needles, arrows to threads, armor to clothing. But at this moment, when blood squeezes out onto his fingers whenever he pushes the needle through broken tissue, Victor is thankful for his mother's lessons. He wishes he knew more, paid more attention to her teachings, but…

He pricks his finger, but apart from the awareness of it, he doesn't feel the pain. His fingers slip in all the blood and his breath rushes out of his lungs faster than when he was running across the island to gather everything in time. He wipes his sweaty forehead with his arm.

And like so, he sews.

Long minutes, an hour, then two pass while he's focused on closing the wound in Yuuri's side. When he first saw it, the torn tissue didn't seem to take up so much of Yuuri's body, but now that Victor needs to fasten together inch by precious inch, the wound seems enormous. The horn that made it was just as huge and Victor wonders how it didn't pierce right through Yuuri. Somehow, be it luck or Yuuri's quick thought, it didn't. Victor thanks their lucky stars for it, for if it had, he would never be able to save Yuuri.

Like this, though, there's still a chance.

He's done stitching when the sun peaks over the horizon. The light shines over the beach, over the sickly hue of Yuuri's skin. The bleeding has been held back by the stitches, but Yuuri is far from being safe. There is sickness in blood loss, there is sickness in what comes after.

Victor takes the plants he'd gathered out of his bag without the care for the blood on his hands. He carries one of the stones from around his fire pit to set right next to Yuuri and uses the hilt of his knife to grind everything into a pulp. Once that is done, Victor cleans Yuuri's wound out of the blood that welled onto his skin while Victor worked, and he spreads the paste over the red flesh. He covers it all with another agave leaf.

Then, finally, he sits back.

His hands are bloodied, clothes as well, some smeared even on his face. He's tired, more than he ever remembers being. But all of that... It pales in comparison to the ache in his chest, which grows in power with every stuttered heartbeat that reminds him of why. For now, Yuuri is safe. For now, Victor has done as much as he's able.

For now, the only thing he can do is wait.

The next hours will be crucial. If Yuuri breaks a fever… If his wound gets infected… If his body rejects the threading…

Victor squeezes his eyes shut, withholding a sob. The sun has risen and looks down at them warmly, but Victor feels a bone-deep cold. His hands tremble, still.

He thinks that he should move Yuuri into a more shaded part of the beach, but moving him could rip the stitches. The only other option is to build a shelter over him. That would require Victor to move from Yuuri's side and at the moment… at the moment, Victor can't. His eyes trace every dip of Yuuri's chest, waiting, as if expecting it to stop.

Forgetting about the blood on his hands, Victor runs his fingers through his hair. He tries to hold back the tears, but while the ocean waves crash onto the beach at an even rhythm, he realizes that it's all pointless. Everything. If Yuuri dies, the world won't change. Nothing will feel his death, not the ocean, not the sun, not this island. Not even the monster that did this to him. Only Victor will be left here, staring at his husband's dead body, abandoned on an island that no one knows about. And he'll die here too, then. He's sure of it.

He touches his fingers to the bonding mark that still continues to glow. If the glow dies, if Yuuri's heart stops, Victor is certain that his own will cease its beating as well. After all, they are bonded. What one of them is, the other must match. Or so he believes.

For his own death he's ready, but Yuuri's… Victor looks back to his husband, so pale in the warm sunlight. Yuuri can't die, he decides. He can't.

So Victor sits by his side, bloodied hands come together in a prayer to any god or devil that is willing to lend him their ear. And like that, he waits for what is to come.

if you’re interested in reading more today, consider pledging to my patreon! tiers start at $1!

#yuri on ice #victuuri #viktuuri #victor nikiforov #yuuri katsuki #mermay 2019 #my fic #blood warning for this one #open wounds and such #stitching too #AND ANGST #LOTS OF ANGST #we're still not out of the woods my friends

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koderenn · 6 years

Link

Summary: A severed Force bond cuts deep into their healing past, as Ren and Rey struggle to redefine themselves and what they mean to each other. But with a schism running down the New Republic and the remnants of the First order in hiding, time is of the essence and broken hearts only get in the way.

Click here for Chapter 1

Poe dragged a chair next to the narrow bed, its metal legs screeching against the durasteel floor of the medical bay. He flipped it and straddled it, setting his forearms on its back and looking at the young woman in front of him with worry. Rey was still asleep, but according to the medical staff should be waking up any minute now. A monitor at the side of the bed beeped in rhythm to her heart rate and its screen blinked her vital signs. A soft yellow light overhead warmed the simple white and blue colors of the room. The clean soft curves and glass surfaces of the ship’s architecture reminding him of its manufacturer’s aquatic origin. The Mon Calamari species.

Poe rested his chin on the back of his hands, studying the crease between Rey’s brows and the light downturn of her lips, evidence of her discomfort even in her drug-induced sleep.

He rubbed his red eyes and unshaven face. The image of Rey hunched over, in pain, with tears streaking down her cheeks, was burnt and seared irrevocably in his memory. And the helplessness he had felt when he and Leia came across her, bloody and writhing outside the heavy metal doors of the medical bay with nothing but that man’s name on her lips, was a feeling he had never experienced before.

All her pain was because of him; currently sedated and recovering two doors down the bay. Anger boiled in his chest blistering and scalding at the thought of Kylo Ren and the atrocities he had committed. The leniency and forgiveness that Leia was showing was understandable. She was after all his mother.

But Rey…

Rey’s attachment to that man ran deeper than he could have ever expected. It was obvious that she genuinely cared for him. A lot more than he was comfortable or willing to accept.

Poe ran his fingers through his unkempt curls, dejectedly.

I doubt Rey ever felt like that for me.

He shifted in his seat pinching his eyes with his thumbs and willing the image of them together out of his mind. The acrid truth of their relationship stung too much. Instead he tried to focus on the last few days and the events that had transpired since then. They were equally as mind-blowing but at least he had found himself able to cope with them.

Barely.

The world was turning upside down and he didn’t know which end was what. There were Stormtroopers aboard the ship, wishing to defect. Coruscant was in rubbles and its fugitives were boarding Republic ships with any means possible. More than half of the First Order fleet was either surrendering or blowing themselves up. General Hugs with a handful of Star Destroyers had disappeared to Force knows where. And Leia…

Stars, Leia…

Leia was falling apart.

A sigh and slight movement of Rey’s head tore him out of his thoughts and he reached for her motionless hand squeezing it lightly. She mumbled something indiscernible, but quickly went back to her fretful sleep.

He couldn’t stay long. His presence was needed back at the bridge. And he had to figure out what he would do with all these people aboard the Resistance ships. The ships’ supplies weren’t enough to sustain everyone for more than a week or so. Normally Leia would have already been snapping orders around. But not this time.

“How’s Rey?”

Poe looked up startled to see a concerned Finn sticking his head through the open doors.

“She’s, uh…” He sighed. “Asleep. She’s still asleep.”

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Finn stepped in as silently as he could. With all the commotion going on outside, Poe highly doubted Finn’s boots would be the ones to wake her up.

“I’ll stay with her, till you’re back,” Finn said. “There are messages coming in from the Republic fleet and Admiral D’Acy has just left to take over the helm on the Titan. You really need to get to the bridge.”

I know.

Poe rubbed at his face once more, before steeling himself and getting off the chair. He leaned in and set a kiss on Rey’s creased forehead.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he whispered back.

Poe patted Finn’s shoulder and turned to head out, when he caught hazel eyes trained on Finn, blood shot and racked.

“You’re up!” Finn exclaimed. A flutter of relief and joy went through Poe.

But Rey just sighed and a sheen of tears formed in her eyes. And the voice that left her lips was as broken as the city below.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?”

It was time to register his vitals again. Louise passed outside the Jedi’s room and peeked inside to make sure she was still asleep. General Dameron was seated next to her, pensive and quiet. Louise couldn’t figure out what it is that he saw on that woman. Well, apart from those supposed powers she owned.

She shrugged and walked down the medical bay’s corridor to the room with the bacta tank. The guard stationed outside winked at her and she gave him a hint of a smile in reward before going through the hissing doors. The room was quiet, the General and the Chief of Medicine having obviously departed some time now. Things were finally quieting down as the ship entered the night cycle. There were no more trauma patients coming in as the battle of Corruscant seemed to be coming to its end, finally. These past three days had been exhausting.

She was about to log into the bay’s records, when a crack resounded in the empty chamber and she snapped her head up, the hair at the back of her neck standing on end.

What was that?

Everything was still, apart for the waves of green and grey illuminating the room, and disappearing into its shadows.

She twisted her head towards the direction of the immersed man. His palm was set on the tank’s glass and spidery cracks were covering its surface.

Her eyes widened in horror and her gaze drifted to catch his dark eyes trained at her frozen form.

He’s up. Oh, my merciful gods, he’s awake!

Louise blinked at the terrifying realization and the glass shattered.

Bacta flooded the floor. Thick and muculent. And she remained transfixed, watching the man in the shadows scramble on unsteady feet for a moment or two and impatiently pull on tubes and cords. His broad muscled body straightened slowly and he stared at her through wet strands with burning eyes.

Kylo Ren was free.

Ren’s head hammered with an ache that clouded any coherent thought.

The room was dark and he couldn’t make out a thing about his surroundings. He tried to get to his feet, the slippery ground giving out from under him and making it difficult to properly steady himself. His right leg throbbed and piercing pain radiated around his ribs with every inhale of breath. Cords and tubes covered his body, and familiar anger rose inside him as he tugged everything off and straightened his back.

A woman was standing across the room, gaping at him.

He looked around cautiously trying to decipher his environment through the heavy haze settled in his mind. The pale curved surfaces of the chamber had nothing in common with the harsh charcoal lines of the Star Destroyers, and the woman’s loose attire was far from the constricting First Order uniforms. Which meant…

Ren frowned.

Where am I?

It was quiet in the room. And eerily silent in his mind.

Rey.

Worry crept in his chest, molten and corrosive.

He had to find Rey.

The woman in front of him snapped into action darting for a panel and punching a button that caused blaring alarms to go off. The ear piercing sound seared through his aching head. His palms flew to cover his ears and his shoulders hunched over like a wounded beast’s.

Ren gritted his teeth and instinctively waved his hand, tossing the woman to the wall with a loud thud. Channeling his pain, he gathered the Force and a rod detached itself from the wall flying into his hand, right as the doors opened to reveal a startled guard. A blaster was aimed at him and fired, but the bolt was suspended in midair a few inches away from his outstretched hand. Ren crossed the room in a few swift strides, brutally bringing the rod down to the man’s back. The guard dropped unconscious at his bare feet.

He swirled the rod in his hand in one fluid motion, approaching the now unguarded door.

Something felt seriously wrong and it wasn’t the wounds he bore. He felt empty. Alone. He groped for the thread of energy that tied him to the one person he madly wanted to see, only to realize he couldn’t find it.

Rey?

He stepped into a clean, brightly lit hall, with numerous doors running down its length. The white light stung his eyes and he brought the back of his hand up to shield them. A sterile bitter smell drifted to his nose, reminding him very much of that of a medical ward. He squinted, spotting a pair of metal doors at the end with the distinctive insignia on it. He was right.

A few members of the medical staff, he noticed, had shrunk to the walls, staring at him horrified.

Ren glanced down at his half-naked body, cursing under his breath. He needed to get a change of clothes if he were to have any hope of blending in and finding Rey, as amusing as that seemed. He gripped onto his only weapon tightly and darted for the exit, just as the doors hissed open and more men filed in. They looked scruffy and unkempt in their worn out beige and orange clothes, which resembled very much those of…

The Resistance.

Fuck!

His mind barely had time to reel over the staggering information, when weapons were leveled at him and more shots were fired. He clenched his jaw, flinging the bolts away from him in annoyance. He threw his hand out, wrenching a computer terminal from a wall and tossing its sparking bulk on the soldiers crouching at the entrance.

Ben clawed at the bond again, straining into the Force and frantically calling out Rey’s name, but the cold silence echoing back turned his insides into stone.

Where’s Rey?

Why couldn’t he feel…

Is she…

No. There’s no way she was… He quickly stomped at the thought, desperately un-rooting it from his mind because it simply wasn’t an option. His girl was fine. He’d find her. Fate was cruel, but not that much as to rip her away and let him live instead.

But the nauseating emptiness that ached and throbbed within him cast a heavy shadow on his hopes. He couldn’t feel the bond. He couldn’t feel her…

His vision blurred unexpectedly and his throat clenched, stealing the breath from his lungs.

No.

Ren bit his lip, drawing blood and iron as he tried to contain the agony in his chest spreading like wildfire through his senses. A grunt escaped him, threatening to morph into a primal roar. He gripped the metal rod white-knuckled, searching for a means to release the anguish and despair tearing at his insides.

Doors hissed open to his left and two men barged in the hall.

Ren immediately recognized them and crimson fury eclipsed his vision. He delved for the wide-eyed pilot first, swinging the rod in a side slash aiming for his ribs, but the man got lucky and managed to evade it in the last instant. The traitor reached for the blaster hanging on his hip, but Ren ripped it easily from his hand with the Force. He landed a hard kick on the pilot’s chest bringing him to the floor and aimed the blaster to his head, efficiently freezing all movement in the bay.

Eyes blinked at Ren in fear and awe and hate, hidden behind their blasters. His chest heaved and pain ignited his every breath, but it didn’t even compare to the gaping hole that pulsated inside him. The bond that once tethered him to Rey was no longer there. Replaced only by a raw chasm so deep and bottomless that it threatened to swallow his very sanity if he fumbled with its edges.

Rey was gone.

And nothing else mattered anymore.

“Ben?”

He swirled his head at the voice to his left. A young woman was standing at the doors. She looked frail and tired, with her slim figure clad in a plain medical robe and her long legs bare on the steel floor. Wide hazel eyes were staring back at him on a freckled face that he could map by heart. His girl made of sun and sand would be cold in such a room.

Ren swallowed. The stinging in his eyes distorting his desert girl into an illusion.

It wasn’t her.

This woman standing before him was a complete stranger.

She brought her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob and her eyes welled up with tears. She was looking at him.

It can’t be…

“Rey?” He heard himself rasp.

A blaster went off, but he was too distracted to stop it. The bolt stunned him, causing his knees to buckle and his body to sag heavily on the floor. The room spun and he fought for awareness as light steps approached him slowly, followed by a clicking sound. And then, a warm voice that colored his innocent childhood years spoke sternly, just as he slipped into unconsciousness.

“Sedate him.”

#reylo

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ladyramora · 6 years

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A complex plot for you, if you wish to try: an AU where once you meet your soul mate, you stop aging and can’t die due to natural causes. Zenos xRam, Ramora dies due to wounds. Zenos goes on without her for a long time, until far in the future, he meets a woman who happens to be just like her in every sense of the word. ❤️

He’s much too far away when he feels it. The pull. The sense of urgency. So sudden and with such force.

He can feel her. For once not shielding herself from him. He can feel her strain like it is his own. Taste her fear in the back of his throat. Knows that she can feel him, too. Hates that he knows. That she knows.

Still the lance of bright hot pain steals his breath. He can feel their tether fraying. He has to go. Now.

- - -

Zenos finds her far too late. On a battlefield surrounded by chaos. Surrounded by beautiful, bloody carnage.

Thinking he would never find her among so many dead - he hears her. Feels the fading pull of their bond.

She’s murmuring his name like a mantra. A prayer. She is surrounded by her fallen enemies. She had not gone down without a fight.

Zenos can hardly stand the sight of her. Torn open as if she were a mere mortal. Her eyes… Those defiant, laughing eyes.She had been blinded. He grinds his teeth and hisses through them with unbridled rage, dropping to his knees at her side.

She turns her head, likely hearing his movements with her sensitive ears. Mayhap heightened moreso now that she could not see. Gods be damned, her eyes…

“Zenos… Zenos?” She mumbles, shivering and weak as she tries to find him with her hands. It is clear she can hardly lift her arms.

Zenos grabs her hands as she reaches for him, bowing his head and closing his eyes. “I am here, woman.”

She sighs and he can hear the rattling of fluid in her lungs. “You came.”

Zenos tightens his grip. How could she think…

“Of course I came!” Zenos snarls, opening his eyes to glare down at her and squeezing her hands far too roughly.

Ramora is smiling.

Zenos feels his anger falter. What use is it now? To be angry with her doubt of him when she already lay dying. He had failed her after all.

How could she still smile at him? He did not deserve her kindness. It only made him angry again. As it did before in the very beginning, so did it now.

“I did not think… I’d get to see you..,” She shakes her head with a rasping, choking laugh as she amends, “To hear your voice.” Her lips are red with blood.

A pool of it spreading beneath her. Around his boots. Soaking into his trousers where he knelt beside her. Taunting him with the dark stain of his own mistakes.

“Don’t speak,” Zenos hisses.

Ramora does not listen. She never had. “I’m s… sorry. I thought I c.. could do it by mys.. self…” She’s pausing between words, swallowing the blood in her mouth, losing focus. Drifting. Her eyelashes fluttering as she tries to focus on his face.

Zenos hates it. He can feel the threads connecting them unraveling. She has but moments left.

He should say something. Words of comfort. Apologize. Tell her the things that he had mistakenly thought he would have several lifetimes to say. Anything… Anything!

Ramora is shuddering. Calling for him in his silence.

“Ze-.. nos..? Ze..?” She falls quiet on his name. A choked sigh slipping through her lips.

Zenos feels the snap of their broken bond. Ricochet slicing through him like a white hot whip. The pain is nothing in comparison to the feeling that follows behind it. The all consuming, hollow emptiness of her loss. Zenos feels gutted with it. The string of fate that had tied them together falling limp without her on the other side of it.

He was alone again.

- - -

He leaves her body where her Scions are sure to find it. She would want them to know, after all.

- - -

He spends half a lifetime on revenge. Hunting down every last one of the savages that had taken her from him. Them. Their families. Everyone they had ever known.

Half mad with rage. With regret.

Painting with the red of their blood until there is nothing left for him to destroy.

He does not rest until they are all dead.

And then? After?

He feels nothing.

- - -

The second half he uses to research. Everything he can find on Soulmates. Resurrection. Reincarnation. All of it.

Every lead he finds. Every spark of hope. It all comes back to the same answer. No, there is nothing he can do. Nothing for him to fill his time. All that he could possibly do is wait. Wait for her to be reborn again. For her to want to find him.

Zenos detests waiting.

- - -

He spends a second lifetime searching for her. Accosting many a duskwight who fleetingly resembled her. With bits of blue in dark colored hair. The same height. A similar build. The shade of her skin… They never have her eyes. The curve of her face. Her smile.

Wrong. They are all wrong.

- - -

A third lifetime.

A fourth.

Many a time he had imagined he felt her. Their broken bond reaching out. Desperate to be whole again.

He never finds her.

He questions why the Gods had given him the chance to know her. To punish him? He has begun to forget what she looked like. So many faces fill his memory now. Will he forget her entirely? Lose her memory to the passing of time?

No. He will allow himself to forget.

He learns to paint.

To remember the shape of her face. The curve of her smile. Mixing paints until he creates the perfect shades. Of her hair, her skin. But most of all, he does not want to forget the color of her eyes.

He does not know if this is love. He would not be able to recognize it even if it was. He does not think himself capable of such an emotion.

But obsession?

Yes.

She could very well be just that.

- - -

By the fifth lifetime, he would become a well known painter. Well to do. His paintings fetching a substantial bit of coin.

A series of paintings titled ‘The Woman’ causing much frustration to his buyers when he refused to sell them.

Zenos would not part with them. He needed them to remember. To remember for him. He cannot call to mind her face without them. He has already lost the memory of what her voice sounded like.

Only vague, blurry memories of what she had been like.

He stands on the sidewalk, consumed with such thoughts and angry at himself for allowing this to happen when he hears it.

“Ramora! Ramora!”

Zenos’s attention is caught with it, his head snapping up to search the crowd moving around him. It couldn’t just be a coincidence…!

He doesn’t have much time to search when someone smacks right into him.

Zenos grunts with the impact, reaching out without thought as the person who had assaulted him reels with the force of their error and stumbles back as if to fall.

Zenos catches them without knowing why, his arm banding around their waist as they tip backwards. Dipping them over the strength of his arm as if they were dancing. He looks down into their face and loses his breath.

Familiar mismatched eyes blink up at him. Dark hair with blue streaks, a red lipped smile. The color of her skin, the shape of her face…

His fingers tightening at her waist as he drags his eyes over her. The same petchant for dressing provocatively.

“Thanks for the save, handsome,” The woman breathes at him.

Gods be damned, Zenos thinks as his heart seems to beat again. It was her.

And she didn’t recognize him.

“Ramorrraaa!” The same voice calls again, much closer than before, and the woman jolts in his arms and tears her eyes away from his.

“Oops, gotta go!” The woman says with a breathy laugh. Her hand sliding over his expensive suit as she looks into his face with a flirtatious smile, dark eyelashes fluttering, “Thanks again, gorgeous!” And steps up on her tiptoe to press a kiss to his jaw.

Zenos feels… He doesn’t know what he’s feeling as the woman slips from his hold. As he watches her leave him. Disappearing into the crowd like she hadn’t been there to begin with.

Naught left of her presence but a lipstick mark on his skin, and an all consuming ache of a bond that wished to be made whole again. Why did she not remember him?

“Ramora!” That voice calls, and Zenos snaps to attention. He waits until the voice calls again, “Ramora! Where did you go?” And makes his move.

His hand fisting in the coat of the person who had called for her. The person who had chased her from his grasp.

They jerk and whirl to face him with an angry sound, eyes widening at the sight of him. They knew his face.

“You!” The young man hisses.

Zenos narrows his eyes. It was all coming back to him now. The faded memories - fresh in his mind now that he’d made contact with the woman again. The boy remembered him from lifetimes before.

“You know me, boy? Ahh, that’s right. You were one of her Scions, were you not? What had she called you?” Zenos stares at the shorter man, eyes narrowing with a wicked smile, “Alphi.”

The younger looking man bristles, “It’s Alphinaud to you, you monster! I had hoped to never see your face again after what you did to her!”

Zenos stares the boy down. “What I did to her?”

Alphinaud steps close, a certain murderous quality to his eyes that Zenos could appreciate. “You let her die, Zenos! I… I found her body. You didn’t let us know, I had to find her body…!”

Was the boy about to cry here? Zenos detested such weakness.

He does not cry, though his eyes are wet. Instead he simply bares his teeth at Zenos, snarling lowly, “Stay away from her!” Tearing himself away from Zenos’s grasp to stumble away and disappear into the crowd just as the woman had.

Zenos stares into the crowd of passing strangers with a slow smile curling his lips. He brushes his hair behind his ear, laughing to himself.

“You dare to command me, boy? You cannot keep her from me. Now that I’ve found her, I’ll not let her go. Not again.”

#ffxiv #Ramora D'aubigne #Zenos #LadyRamora writes #ram x zenos #Ramnos or Zenmora #that Zenos thot back at it again #I finally finished this #been working on it forever #I may still add to it lol #but ta dah

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languidbones · 7 years

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Reylo holy grail fic reccs

So after I watched The Last Jedi I came away with a shiton of new and terrifying feelings.

And if you’re like me, feeling like the bloody Reylo ship has sailed without somehow notifying you:

Hand on heart, I did not see Reylo coming. I remember after TFA happened, I was excited about a thousand other things - like Rey’s parentage and the Luke theories. I mean, yeah, I noticed Rey and Kylo. In fact, during the interrogation scene, when Kylo whipped off his mask in this oddly romantic gesture, I even thought to myself, “HmmmmmT people are gonna ship the hell out of them.”

But I didn’t think Star Wars was gonna go there.

And then The Last Jedi happened and I was like ffffffff--

That said, the passion of this fandom is something else. I’ve always been a casual SW fan, and now I’m kinda just lingering by the Reylo door, poking my head in like a socially awkward guest.

One of the first things I did was to drown myself in a load of Reylo fanfiction, of which there are many, many brilliant ones. But after bingeing on fic for like a week straight, like an addict with a problem, I have kind of developed a... taste for specific types of characterisations and dynamics. The reason I enjoy this ship so much is the intense vulnerability Rey and Kylo share with no one but each other. So give me a Reylo fic that’s all about that and I’m so there.

This list kind of comprises of my personal holy grail Reylo fics - what I feel are must reads, ie. the recc list I wish I had when I started reading Reylo. I may add to this list as I chance upon more fics that make me sob quietly in the coming months, but in the meantime I hope this helps anyone trying to deal with the overwhelm of Reylo content happening rn lol.

The Bond That Ties Us by moontear Explicit, WIP | Two weeks after TLJ, Rey finds herself on an old Rebel base, trying to protect herself with the Force - but Kylo Ren finds a way to break through. This is to me the Reylo fic. The writing style perfectly captures the attraction between Rey and Kylo, as well as the push and pull of the light and dark that threads through their dynamics. The characterisations here, particularly for Kylo, are spot on. Also features some of the best (and most emotionally intense) Reylo smut I’ve read so far. Worth your time, this one.

World In My Eyes by sasstasticmad Mature, Explicit, WIP | In a post-TLJ world, where Rey believes the Force Bond she shared with Ben should be dead, she is proven wrong when he appears to her once more. While the premise is not new, the way the characters are written are a standout to me. "Ben brings her a flower that night, bright and beautiful and crumpled from where it was hidden in his pocket, and her heart aches from studying all his painful contradictions.” - This line in particular just makes me want to sob for some reason.

Charcoal by luvkurai AU, Explicit, Complete | Rey takes a break from her studies to go to the opening for an art gallery that just so happens to feature Coruscant's up-and-coming Kylo Ren. The characterisation pulls no punches - Kylo is wholly obsessive, and Rey is damaged. This AU wonderfully explores the disturbing (and existing) undercurrents in the Reylo ship. I remember being unsettled the entire time I read it, but it is so masterfully written that I could not look away.

In My Ten Years by brittlelimbs Mature, WIP | The day Rey was born, something changed in the Force - and a light entered Ben Solo’s lonely, anxiety-ridden world. He loves the baby the moment he set eyes on her, and Luke, too, notices the rightness of their bond from the beginning. The fierce, protective connection Rey and Ben share here aches me so deep. This fic convinces me that if Ben had somehow found Rey as a child in canon!verse, he would have been saved somehow.

Dear Porcupine by momo_official Soulmates AU, Mature, Explicit, WIP | Ben Solo. Rey brushed her thumb against the soul mark. Every couple of weeks, she searched the name on her ancient laptop to see if anything came up. Every time, the results were the same: Twelve year old boy vanishes. This is a soulmates AU, and Kylo’s characterisation here is the perfect blend of broken, bizarre, and beautiful. The story just captures the depth of Rey’s loneliness and Kylo’s mysterious intentions. I remember reading this with my breath caught in my throat the whole time.

ghostwalks (gin and fog) by diasterisms AU, Mature, Complete | Rey is a bright-eyed up-and-coming actress who finds herself cast alongside a broody star with a family legacy and the issues to match: Kylo Ren. My summary does NO justice to how stunning this fic is. Old Hollywood glamour simply drips from every line; there’s such a dreamy, cinematic quality to the writing here. And the way the writer portrays Kylo and Rey - oh my word. He’s troubled and mean, yet so helplessly drawn to Rey’s genuine sweetness. My heart swelled at the conclusion. Just beautifully written stuff.

May add oneshots soon, god there are many. If you share the same taste I do, share your reccs with me. TOO MUCH FIC, TOO LITTLE TIME, YOU FEEL ME.

#guess i ship them now #did not see this coming #reylo #rey #kylo ren #reylo fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic reccs #star wars #the last jedi

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lady-therion · 7 years

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Homecoming: Part 1 [Nessian]

Summary: Cassian really misses his feisty mate.

(Post-bonding. Post-ACOWAR.)

A/N: Because y’all know this precious overgrown bat baby would straight up sulk (like whine-at-the-door-and-paw-at-it sulk) if Nesta was gone for too long.

***

He missed her.

That was all. He missed her.

“So write her a godsdamn letter,” said Azriel, dancing along the edge of the sparring ring. He’d been on the receiving end of Cassian’s fists all morning and had yet to be reprieved. “It’s only been a week, Cas. We’re all getting tired of your moping.”

“Who says I’m moping?”

“Everyone,” his brothers said in unison.

Cassian turned to scowl at Rhys, who had been sharpening his sword on a nearby bench. “Yes, everyone,” he added smugly. “Feyre, Amren, Elain...”

“Elain?”

Azriel smirked. “The actual word she used was ‘cranky.’”

“I am not cranky.”

“An understatement if there ever was one,” Rhys drawled. “I think what sweet Elain actually meant was: insufferable ass.”

Cassian growled.

“Right. Because you acted like a godsdamned ray of sunshine when Feyre handed herself over to our enemies in the Spring Court.” He bared his teeth. “How did it feel knowing your mate was in danger and all you could do was wait? Because I sure as hell feel like shit and am in no mood for this today.”

Rhys’ violet eyes remained cool, but Cassian could detect a flicker of guilt that almost made him feel sorry. Almost.

“Point taken,” said Rhys. “I apologize, brother.”

“So do I,” said Azriel.

Cassian sighed.

It had been Rhys’ idea for Nesta to travel south to strengthen their ties with the mortal realm, which was now horribly fractured thanks to those treacherous wyrm-queens. As emissary, it would have been Nesta’s duty to go. But Rhys always believed in having a choice, so he gave her one.

Of course she decided to go. Of course Cassian understood the importance of her going. She wanted to do something for her people. She wanted to see the world. And deep down, he could never blame Rhys for granting her that wish in the first place.

But that didn’t mean Cassian had to like it, especially since it meant that she would be gone indefinitely.

“Mother knows Nesta can take care of herself,” he went on. “Hell, if she were here, she’d be the first one to kick my sorry ass all the way to the Rainbow. But this…this isn’t easy for me.”

He already failed her once—the memory still horrifically fresh despite everything that happened between them since. There were some nights where he could still hear her screams as Hybern’s men forced her into the Cauldron. He would wake up on those nights in a cold sweat, unable to be calmed by anything except his mate’s arms.

He had seen over half a millennia of death and destruction, had been the harbinger of both himself, but never had he been so overcome by such breathless rage and sheer terror as he was in that moment. They laid hands on his mate...had violated her beyond imagining...and he had been completely and utterly helpless to stop it.

Never again.

“She’ll be all right, Cas,” said Azriel. “Mor is with her and so is Lucien for whatever that’s worth.”

Cassian shook his head. “That’s not the point.”

The point was that he made a promise to protect her, and he didn’t like breaking promises twice.

***

Several weeks passed and Nesta still hadn’t returned.

Cassian could still feel her though, much to his relief. He knew she couldn’t cross the bridge of their bond too often; not with so many enemies nipping at her heels. Still, he could feel her—her warmth burning inside him like an eternal flame.

He noticed it most often when his moods grew so black that even he couldn’t tolerate himself.

Sometimes, it felt like a flare—as though she were chastising him from afar for behaving like a prick. Sometimes, it felt like the glowing embers of the firelight at their hearth, soothing him like nothing else after another grueling day at the war-camps. Other times, it blazed and smoldered, and he knew without words that she longed for him as much as he longed for her.

Thank the Mother she also sent him letters, though they were few and far between. The first one came shortly after his quarrel with his brothers.

Dearest—

I wish I could write more, but there are eyes and ears everywhere. Your family tells me you’ve been acting like an insufferable ass. I wrote them back asking if they only just noticed. Is my absence really all that unbearable? I promise you: I am whole and safe and healthy.

So stop sulking. You big, ugly brute.

It was the first time Cassian had laughed in days. He looked at that letter for hours, marveling at her elegant hand, no doubt trained by a slew of governesses by the time she was out of swaddling. It made him more than a little self-conscious about his own blocky chicken scratch, since he hadn’t learned how to read or write until Rhys’ mother taught him.

Sweetheart—

What can I say except that this big, ugly brute misses you? And yes, it’s unbearable. Almost no one says anything nice about my hair now that you’re not here to braid it! But in all seriousness: I want you home. I want you in our bed. I want to do all the wild and filthy things I said I would do once we became mates. Do you remember? If not, I’ll make damn sure to remind you. Thoroughly.

Stay safe. Come back to me.

He watched the paper vanish, only to return a few moments later.

It was the same letter he just wrote, only with a note added to the end.

‘I’ll make damn sure to remind you.’ Is that a promise, my dear Commander? Or a threat?

Either way, I’ll come...

Never was Cassian more sure that he had mated himself to an actual goddess.

***

Another several weeks passed and Nesta still hadn’t come home.

But rather than sink into despair, Cassian threw himself into the one thing he was good at: violence. Needless to say, his legions bore his relentless ferocity with varying shades of bitterness and a little more than fear.

“Take a timeout, Cas,” Rhys drawled. “I mean it.”

This, after an evening of drilling that had their soldiers practically begging for the Mother’s mercy. True, Cassian’s training had been nothing short of brutal, savage, and unyielding. But Illyrians were nothing if not resilient and cunning bastards—and Cassian was the prince of them all.

“There’s still more to do.”

“There’s always more to do,” said Rhys. “But at the pace you’re setting? We’d be lucky if our men can stand let alone fly at first light.” He turned to him, gaze softening. “Be honest. How bad is it?”

“Bad.”

It seemed like a lifetime ago when Cassian made some jest about Rhys’ mating bond chafing at him. Now having experienced it himself, he realized that it didn’t really chafe as much as it burned a fucking hole through his mind, fraying layers upon layers of rational thought. It took every ounce of willpower he had to keep himself in check...and sometimes even that was not enough.

“It’s not an uncommon reaction,” said Rhys. “Especially among new mates.”

Cassian swallowed.

Some mates didn’t leave each other’s sides for weeks, months even, after they consummated their bond. Nesta left mere days after the tenuous thread between them snapped into place.

“Have you called out to her?”

He had—his mental cries ringing like a bloodsong in his ears. But the wall that held Nesta’s thoughts remained cold and silent, surrounded by freezing mist. Nothing could penetrate it, no matter how hard he tried. All he could hear was the echo of his own desperation. A primal howl that longed to be answered.

Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?

“I tried. There’s nothing.”

Her letters had stopped as well. The last one unnerved him so much he nearly flew to the mortal continent himself—orders be damned.

I’ve had quite enough of the mess these traitorous queens left behind. The matter of their succession is a thorny one. I pray we all won’t bleed out by the end of it. Vassa plans to host a summit at her palace to end this farce once and for all. Lucien is suspicious of anything that breathes. Morrigan even more so. I myself wouldn’t be surprised if the whole affair was crawling with assassins.

My love, I’ll have to tread very carefully now. I’ll send word as soon as I can.

That had been ten days ago, and still no word had come—from either Nesta, Lucien, or Mor.

“If anything happens to her, Rhys…,” he said, clenching his fists hard enough to draw his own blood.

In truth, he didn’t know what he would do...save tearing the world apart to find her and wreaking bloody vengeance on anyone who did her harm.

“It’s a good thing the Archerons are so formidable then. And hardy.” A reassuring hand on his shoulder. “She’ll come back, Cas. You’ll see.”

It was a long moment before Cassian nodded.

“I know she will.”

She has to.

***

The next few days passed in a gray blur that held no meaning for the General Commander. Crops of fresh recruits had arrived from the neighboring clans, gawking and gaping at him as he stalked through their ranks, his Siphons pulsing bright and deadly at random intervals.

“I heard he killed a Hybern commander…”

“I heard his mate killed Hybern herself…”

If the days were miserable, the nights were their own kind of agony. He tossed and turned, his fitful sleep lanced by the same nightmares. Nesta screaming. Nesta sobbing. Nesta broken and bloody. Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

Where are you?

Then suddenly…

I’m here.

Cassian shot out of bed, nostrils flaring as he took in that unmistakable scent. The scent of wind and rain and thunder and lightning. The scent of storms and the clash of steel. He scrambled out of his tent, not even bothering to don his full armor before spreading his wings and darting straight for the camps.

A small crowd gathered in the main pavilions, Rhys and Azriel among the circle. A familiar flash of gold told him that Morrigan was also there, giving them her full report. The Fox, however, was nowhere in sight. And his mate...where was his mate?

I’m here, I’m here, I’m here...

He could feel her then, his heart beating wildly as the thread between them went taut as an anchor.

There.

She was standing apart from the rest of the group, speaking softly to a squadron of Illyrian females—one of the few that had been allowed to continue their training despite the odds.

He dived for her, landing so hard a small crater had formed in the bed of canyon rock. But none of the surrounding gasps or murmurs reached his ears as his vision narrowed to the most beautiful female in the world.

She turned to him then and his breath hitched at the sight.

Blue-grey eyes widened on a face that was partially sooty, as though she had walked through fire to get here. Her Illyrian leathers gleamed in the moonlight, the scales worn and muddy but not beyond repair. Tendrils of golden-brown hair escaped from a crown of braids, falling on the bare skin of her neck that captured most of his attention.

He wanted to say something clever—romantic, even. But he had never been good with those kinds of words and besides, the words didn’t come. Once again, his mate had rendered him speechless.

She marched toward him, her pace so quick and purposeful that he wondered if she was preparing to strike. Instead, she yanked his face down to deliver a kiss that seared his very soul, her tongue demanding entrance, her body giving off the not-so-subtle heat of her arousal.

He growled into her mouth as he embraced her, wrapping his wings around her to shield them from the catcalls and dirty jokes. She molded herself into his arms, almost grinding on him as he broke away to trail eager kisses down her cheek, her jaw, and finally to that lovely, lovely neck. Impossibly, she held him tighter.

Nesta...

I’m here. I’m home.

Then she leaned in to whisper in the shell of his ear.

“Care to remind me of what I’ve been missing while I was away?”

He grinned. “Well...I did make you a promise, didn’t I?”

***

Thank you for reading, my loves.

Other chapters be found in the Masterlist in my Bio / I am Lady_Therion on AO3

#nessian #nesta x cassian #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #sjm #sjmaas

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sheridanh0pe · 8 years

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The Skin I Live In, and Almodovar’s Secrets

With few empowering, complex roles for women in Hollywood movies, Pedro Almodovar’s female-centric films provide a cathartic meditation on womanhood through his stories of gender performance and transformation. The depth of his female protagonists extend further than what critics have said are gay and transgendered men masquerading as women (a textbook example being Holly Golightly in Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s). Such suspicions are valid given Almodovar’s drag queen inspired flamboyant and troubled divas that physically resemble famous leading ladies, and the needs of these women to exorcise a past trauma that haunts them and unsettles their identity. The mother in this story Marilia is a subtle nod to Blanche Dubois in A Streetcar Named Desire. In The Skin I Live In, the film title and tragedy that befalls the unassuming Vincente (who has been transfigured into a woman, Vera) centers on the trauma of gender not being a choice and the resulting entrapment, struggle, and later on healing. The designing principle behind Almodovar’s stories is based on a character who encounters loss and betrayal in a malevolent world and who must also overcome the estrangement of her mother and the mother’s failed attempts to protect her children. Fathers are largely absent and unnecessarily in the family unit but the mother’s return and acceptance is crucial to the main character’s ability to move on.

The Skin I Live In is a Pygmalion story of chauvinistic Vincente, whose assault on the mad doctor’s daughter Norma leads to his kidnapping and sexual reassignment surgery (becoming Vera). Almodovar treats the skin as a parallel motif for clothing, both being sculptural elements that define gender and sex. Vincente previously worked in a dress shop with his mother. The mad doctor, Robert, is a gifted plastic surgeon. In her claustrophobic madness, Robert’s daughter could not stand fitted clothing and it was her wayward removal of her clothes in the gardens after a party that provoked Vincente’s assault. In addition to the body stocking that protects Vera’s skin, Vera works with sculptures that pay homage to Louise Bourgeois’s fabric portrait-heads and body sculptures. Still mourning, unhealed after his wife’s disfigurement from a fiery car crash and subsequent suicide, the mad doctor atones by creating an artificial layer of skin on Vera that is burn proof and also recreates his dead wife’s face on Vera.

Together by Louise Bourgeois

The Toilet of Venus by Diego Velazquez

Melodramas are moral tales of good and bad but The Skin I Live In is certainly not so simple. Almodovar takes his main characters through a Kafkaesque labyrinth deviating from gender and sexual norms (e.g. nuns, prostitutes, transvestites, Chinatown mother-daughter familial ties, etc). His characters suffer psychological brutality, physical deformation, power struggles, and isolation, ultimately returning full circle to a state of equilibrium with the family (often all women) after a life-changing experience of transgressive and destructive love. Borrowing tropes from Hitchcock, as his films often do, The Skin I Live in plays on mothers and their strained relationships (i.e., Marilia as the servant mother reunited with the criminally-insane brothers Robert and Zeca); disorders of paranoia, claustrophobia and voyeurism that heighten the suspense through restricting actions to a single setting (i.e., Robert’s home clinic in which Vera is held hostage in a room equipped with video surveillance cameras); and a possessive love of beautiful women and their sexuality (i.e., Robert’s obsession with his unfaithful, dead wife through Vera’s body).

Like Shakespeare’s use of the father’s ghost in Hamlet, ghosts and mysterious deaths drive the character actions. The surreal quality of Volver, Talk to Her, and The Skin I Live In comes from these women having close ties to death like Salvador Dali paintings, which often depict sexuality, death, disembodiment, metamorphosis, and nightmares overlapping reality. Almodovar weaves in masterpieces of art, providing a backdrop of sophisticated and beautiful artwork that reflects the chaotic emotional realities of his characters, where story meets style. Zeca’s tiger suit and body modifications and his assault on Vera pay homage to a Dali painting. Zeca’s assault provides the rising action that leads to Robert’s killing of his own brother in revenge and Vera later bedding Robert.

Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening by Salvador Dali

In the tragic aftermath, Marilia cleans up the blood-stained sheets from her dead son Zeca. Almodovar’s signature use of bold red colors in bloodied fabrics, fruits, costumes, décor, and other props throughout his oeuvre is a tribute to the powerful relationship mothers have with life and death, which is why the mothers reveal the big family secrets affecting all of the characters. After Zeca’s death, Marilia breaks the history of Robert’s madness to Vera and the woman Vera has been made to resemble.

Almodovar’s meditations on love as a destructive and healing force are built off of the inciting incident (found in the family secret kept by the mother) that led to the current state of disequilibrium, paralysis, and chaos. The secret is a transgressive love affair that scatters the family unit, which the characters must resolve and overcome to reunite and reaffirmed the bonds of family that come with feeding all of their stories into the narrative thread. Almodovar’s movies are exciting because they don’t start off with the inciting incident in linear chronological order but instead the characters work backwards towards a single event or memory that is explored at progressively deeper levels as they come back together.

https://vimeo.com/167873646

Short Visual Essay on Almodovar’s Obsession with Red

The prevalence of red objects as an expression of passion and pain reinforces the catharsis of the characters’ self-revelations. As a film structured around the woman’s worldview and natural reactions to crisis, feelings of need and desire are powerful drivers in the hero’s journey and the telling of stories and secrets inspire dramatic actions of escape, murder, bravery, love, and reunion.

Vera’s weakness and obstacle is her captivity by a love-possessed man (like Lena in Broken Embraces and Marina in Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!) and Vera’s body taken out of her control (such as Alicia in Talk to Her). Almodovar toys with the idea of Stockholm Syndrome in some of his films, which has the audience guessing if Vera will love Robert back. Finding solace and inner strength in yoga during her 6 years in captivity, Vera exploits her newfound sexuality to seduce, kill and escape from her captor and his servant mother. Almodovar often stages women in deep contemplation under the warmth of a sunlit window, as inspired by Edward Hopper’s Morning Sun painting, symbolizing a woman’s need for warmth in isolation and freedom outside of the home. The film ends with Vera reunited with her mother and a lesbian friend she previously slighted, ready to tell her story.

Morning Sun by Edward Hopper

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