#to deal with having a burn? it’s horrible I’m oozing

[fauslayer]

going to talk about my cringe scrimblo rq like i said i would at the end of that long ask o7 dr. insano posting under the cut

i have decided that i am doing ALL of them

✚  HEALTH :

I’m not going to call Dr. Insano the sickest motherfucker on Tbe Planet Earth, but I do think he gets ill a lot more than people usually do and I think a lot of the time it is his own damn fault. I’m not forgetting the murky ooze incident no matter how much I beg to.

I think his eyes are kind of messed up, as well. He’s almost entirely blind without his goggles, and his vision without them gets worse depending on how fucked up hypertime is trying to be today.

♕  CHILDHOOD :

There is no childhood, only Insano. Bwuhhhh.

Bits aside, Wayne was a stupid little cringe baby, and I count him as a Lil’ ‘Sano of sorts.. We have documented evidence of his childhood, and proof that he only got worse. I don’t think Wayne Schlumper in his adult years necessarily requires sympathy, but I think the home that spat out (a large fragment of) Insano and Linksano probably wasn’t as inwardly pleasant as the dress shirts and sweater vests would show outwardly. Incredibly smart, incredibly annoying suburban science kids that were placated with expensive toys by parents that didn’t care for their well-being. I always imagine that ‘nette, in their youth, was the only person that really ever tried being nice to the booth of them, until she couldn’t anymore. And while Oscar stopped, reflected, Wayne kept going into the obsession that would tear him into tiny, infinitesimal pieces.

I think if I were him, I would be thankful for that to only be real maybe once a week. But then I think about Wayne having to exist in what is essentially a hivemind of himself, and yet most of them are better than him. And it’s like huh. Fun.

✿  HAPPINESS :

Insano is a man of relatively simple pleasures. He wants world domination, he wants crazy amounts of sex. He’s a guy that gets bored really easily, impatient very easy, and generally just needs to get out of the house. I think that’s fun.

But I also like when we get more scenes of him as a person moreso than him as an archetypal supervillain. The sort of mutual hate-disgust he and Spoony had with each other at the start growing into Insano being genuinely delighted at saving him from certain death (or eternal torment, either one) makes me smile. Same with how he clearly loves his son very much. I like the little sense of family that the TSE goons have.

I think he’s happy when he gets to see Jaeris in pain btw.

␛  ANGER :

God’s pettiest, most petulant creature, thy name is Doctor Fucking Insano. Incredibly whiny to the point of tantrums all the time (this is just an observation of what’s onscreen), constantly screaming and howling at whatever’s causing him any issue. He has horrible anger problems, mostly.

I think they were starting to sort of chill out the farther TSE got, though, so I like to think the whole situation with Spoony was sort of sucking the rage out of him. Your funny little guy going missing, or worse, was kind of a bigger deal, and I think him not reacting to it with cartoonish rage, but genuine solemnity shows how important his stupid little goon was to him.

That being said, once more, I think he’s happy when he gets to see Jaeris in pain. I have nothing personal against Jaeris but I sooooo think he does. He thinks that cowboy is getting his sloppy seconds when he didn’t even really get the fresh firsts.

♆  BODY :

I talked about his eyes a second ago, but I like to think Insano is kind of stupid riddled with scars (mostly burns and the like). He’s been shot in the chest a shitton, most notably with a magic gun, and if we’re to take a certain murky ooze incident into account, he does incredibly unsafe shit in his lab regularly, to the detriment of his physical health.

It’s impossible to keep track of his scars, though, since they like to shuffle a bit depending on how hypertime is feeling. Clonesano doesn’t really have any of the scars, or at least as many, compared to Bonafide Earth-4W Doctor Insano’s (recognized as such pre-hypertime fuckery) carefully cultured collection. I’d like to keep the chest scars somewhat consistent, though. Linkara is an important part of his life, and all.

ϡ  MENTAL STATE :

Jesus fuck

ღ  LOVE / SEXUALITY :

Mr. Clumsily Confirmed Bisexual, I also always see him as genderfluid.

†  RELIGION :

I think Insano only really believes in a god if he’s trying to get Linkara to text him back (it won’t work), or if he’s cursing it’s name at his own existence while having a bad one. On the other hand, there’s also the days where he’s his own God. He definitely has a God complex at the least, and seems quite comfortable in this fact. What else would you call a Champion of a concept, anyways?

✄ PET PEEVE :

I’m keeping the canon answer. The fact that he hate hate HATES Ferris Bueller’s Day Off because the title character essentially does everything he wants to do but gets no shit for it is fucking hilarious. Doctor. Have you tried not being cringe. You fuckhead.

☂  FOOD :

Unhealthy, unhealthy, unhealthy. Junk food, can food, and freezer food addict simply on the basis that he’ll forget what he has around and needs it not to spoil. Despite this, will go days without actual meals, and will steal snacks from Spoony as he sees fit (not even on necessity, either).

I also think he gets really into projects with making food, though. Like yogurt and bread and pickled vegetables, shit like that, but he’s just really into it to the point where’s he’s genetically engineering his own cucumbers for his spicy pickled vegetable medley and it’s a whole ordeal that makes the house smell like vinegar for weeks. He also makes sure to feed his son well (and in emergency situations, like the fridge moment, instruct Spoony on how to do so as well).

ty lol

[bexstorytime]

You had been spending more and more time with your older and most favorite brother. You two were so similar, this world where baby never knew daddy and all the horribly perverted things he showed her. Baby also never found tumblr and experienced any of the wonderful slutty things you know and love now. You were your dads ideal daughter, shy and innocent ( it’s my story! Deal with it😝😝😝😝😅)

You were watching your largest and older brother looking through al the clothes, you tried to help him and you could see he was growing more and more frustrated until he finally just gave up and suggested you dress him

The excitement of playing dress up with made you so happy as you raced around the store for a few outfits for him. You sho’d him into the dressing room where he was fumbling around, impatiently you peeled your head and caught a glimpse of his large broad back as he then slide a button up on. You quietly exited feeling a lil flushed at the sight of his shoulders.

It’s been years since you lived together, and you never realized he was exactly your type. Stocky, pale, weird, and funny. For some reason you felt a little twinge of excitement when you peeked in on him.this was a foreign feeling to you, not that you never touched yourself. Just that it wasn’t as high on your list of things to do. So the fact that you were effect from just the sight of him shirtless shocked you

You waited for him to exit the dressing room and model for you, noticing the pants might be slightly too small for his neither regions. Then you chuckled at yourself for even looking at your brothers crotch. You sent him back in telling him to try that shirt with a different pair of pants. You could hear him struggling and the task of dressing him took over as you boldly walked in on him pulling the pants off his legs.

He had one leg in the air and a hand on the wall opening up his thick pale thighs to your now needy eyes. You felt a substantial amount of cunt juices ooze into your undies seeing the bulge in his large boxers. You scolded him in a hushed whisper not wanting anyone to know you were in there with him. But you made the excuse that he’s just your brother if anyone caught you…. But that thought turned you on even more

“My own brother” you said in your head as you stared at his crotch, you could have sworn you say it jump when he realized you were walking in. “Bekah!!??” He hushed back , “what are you doing in here??!!”

“You’re taking so long!! I’m here to help! Since you can’t even pick out your own clothes I might as well dress you too!” Something stirred inside you, something about you commanding such a large man. You knelt down and removed the tight pant leg stuck to his ankle, attempting to look up at him with your explode low cut top, your tits in full view for him. But looking at him just made his cock respond. And it was in your line of sight. You joked about him having been single for too long if you were turning him on

He only turned more red from embarrassment, as you stayed kneeling holding the next pants open for him to dress. You didn’t realize being this close would effect you this much either. And his slight scent of your favorite cologne now had you more turned on then you can remember.

You slowly pulled both pants legs up him taking your time to burn the sights to your memory. Your hands on his pants tugging them up, as he placed his hands on yours to help, you could see his massive cock was now straining against the thin fabric of his soft boxers. His touch on you was electric, causing you to jump, groan, and dampen almost all at once.

He stood there with his arms out modeling for you in the tiny dressing room, and you told him he looked good but he needed to tuck his shirt in. You didn’t even think about it as you reached your arms around his torso, Barry able to touch your hands around his stocky frame. And you slide the shirt down over his ass. Suddenly you both realized just how close you were as your forehead was right as his chin. Neither of you said anything as you slide your hands around his hips. Both brother and sister are panting in unison as you realize you’re tucking his shirt in just around his cock.

You shrug and say to yourself, well I need to finish the job as you tuck him in, your hands rubbing all over h the base of his cock. Unknown to you is that Jeremy was equally turned on as you were by him. He wrapped his hands around you hugging you so tight as your look up and he plants the biggest most innocent kiss on you. You lose yourself in the situation. And your lips lock his perfectly not wet or sloppy kiss. Your hands do what they’ve secretly wanted for years. As you wrap your hands around his cock through his boxers.

You realize you’re finally touching the first cock of your life, and something about it being your brother’s set you off. You’ve never felt this wet before. As you break the kiss and kneel wanting to see your prize.

He doesn’t protest, just leans against the wall, letting you undress him. And you yank down his pants and boxers like a kid on Christmas morning opening the biggest gift. You gasp as his nearly 10 inch cock bobs out, sticking straight out letting you see the prettiest cock imaginable. It’s so thick your little fingers don’t reach around the shaft. As you begin massaging it clumsily. Jeremy takes your hands in his and shows you a much better technique. Before you’ve gotten a few pumps off a long string of precum leaks from his swollen head. You can see he’s so hard, which surprises you at how soft it feels in your hands

Another string shoots out a bit more hitting your exposed chest. You think I can’t make a mess!!! So you wrap your soft lips around his raging hard head. He groans at the sudden change in texture. And almost falls to the floor. He’s able to steady himself enough to sit on the bench. Looking at his obscenely big cock sticking straight up.

You turn you back to him thinking you heard a noise, as you peek out of the dressing room you feel his strong hands on your hips, pulling down your pants and undies to see your dripping virgin hole. All sense of brain power is lost for him as he wraps his hands around your hips pulling you back and you are impaled by his massive cock in one thrust. The good girl inside of you does everything you can to not scream. You let out soft whimpers as you nearly bit through your lip

You reach down to your flat tummy and you can feel inches of his hard cock against your stomach. The pain and sensation is a rush of orgasmic pleasure. Something about this feels so natural. As you start to raise and then he pulls you back down. Something about this fees even better then before. As you try to stand again, not trying to get away. But wanting him to pull you down harder. And his primal urges do just that. You leave your hand on your stomach as you both work in unison of standing and pulling back. You can feel his thick swollen cock slamming into your hand through your body… and wonder to yourself why you’ve waited so long to do this

You can hear ppl walking around through the thin curtain, as you sit down trying to not make a sound you actually push back and take his cock inside of you to the root of his cock. The feeing is too much for the both of you. As you have your first real orgasm of your life. And your brother unleashes a torrent of potent cum into your unprotected pussy.

As you fee him bucking and humping into you, rutting the last of his seed into you. You look back over your shoulder and you ask… can I come over for the night?

[a-chip-in-inosukes-nichirin]

Desecration of a Priest Teaser

A little teaser for a Trigun Priest Wolfwood/Ex-Church Girl Meryl that I hope to have posted both here and on AO3 in the next week or so.

18+ only (Minors DNI)

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“So… Father Wolfwood,” Meryl’s voice oozed sarcasm as she stole his drink again. “You came out to a bar on a Saturday night just to try to drag me, the prodigal son- or daughter if you will- back to god. You came out to this ‘cesspit of debauchery’ -as I believe I’ve heard you call it before- for me?”

“Jesus said to leave the ninety-nine sheep to seek out the one lost one,” Wolfwood kept his eyes on hers, as much as they were tempted to drift lower to the pale collarbones underneath.

“What a good priest,” Meryl rolled her eyes. “But you were such a horrible boy… how ever did you get through seminary?”

Wolfwood sucked his teeth, leaning forward.

“Prayer and hard work. After you left… I realized it was… I wasn’t helping you. I was supposed to be an example for you, and I messed that up, big time. I cleaned up my act. Haven’t touched a drop of alcohol, smoked a cigarette, swore- nothing. I’ve been a good man,” Wolfwood said earnestly, and Meryl felt a flutter in her stomach at the confession.

“Oh,” her mouth hung open slightly, brows raised in surprise.

Fuck… Meryl licked her lips.

I only want to wreck him more now.

“I want to prove to you that I’m better. I’m a man of god,” he reached out, taking her hand.

“Celibacy and all?” Meryl asked, amused.

Wolfwood blushed, stammering.

“W-well of course,” he looked away. “Priests have to be. It’s part of the job.”

“Hm, sounds like shitty deal,” Meryl took a long sip of Wolfwood’s drink.

“I get to shepherd a flock,” Wolfwood said earnestly. “I get to guide the lost to Christ.”

“Ooooh,” Meryl held up her hands, wiggling her fingers. “You get to follow a bunch of stuffy rules and tell people they’re sinners. Sounds like a riot. If I wanted someone up my ass all the time, I’d rather it be the fun way.”

Wolfwood was currently discovering new shades of red for his skin to burn while Meryl ran her mouth, much to her amusement.

“Listen, Wolfwood,” she set his glass down. “I appreciate that you’ve turned your life around or whatever. Good for you. I’m glad it worked out. But this-”

Meryl gestured around her to the music and dim lighting, laughter and drunken calls echoing around the bar.

“Is where I found myself. Not some hypocritical church. This is my home. This is where I found my god, and it isn’t some rule book.”

“Meryl,” Wolfwood stood, taking her wrist as she tilted her head, eyes lidded.

“I spent my whole childhood trying to find and live up to your god. I’m not going to go back to hating everything about myself.”

“You don’t have to,” Wolfwood said.

“You don’t believe that,” Meryl scoffed. “If you did, you wouldn’t be trying to drag me back to church.”

“I just… I miss seeing you. I feel like I drove you away,” Wolfwood took a deep breath.

Meryl leaned in until her breath fanned against his ear, hearing Wolfwood’s breathing hitch as her fingers toyed with the chain around his neck.

“You sure as hell didn’t make me want to stay.”

She pulled back, flicking the chain out of her fingertips so it rested on his heated skin again.

“You’ve got a chance to change that now.”

[warandpussy]

your life is mine

[iffylogic]

I’ve tried everything I can think of to stay positive, but I can’t keep up. I just can’t.

I’m so miserable. My life is just work, cry, sleep, repeat.

The place I work at is understaffed. The software is a nightmare.

And the clientele. Are. Horrible.

I basically spend half my waking hours getting yelled at, insulted, cussed out, glared at. Today was the new winner because this time I was cursed by proxy, hearing someone screaming at someone else at the top of their lungs, “Tell that stupid fucker [Iffy-deadname] to pay the fuck attention and” etc. Language is usually lighter, but ultimately I’m most accustomed to hearing that said to me directly.

I’m trying as hard as I can, and that’s the worst thing. I’m bad at this job. Really, really bad. And the more stressed I get, the worse at the job I get. The software and communication system we use is a backwards, impenetrable disaster.

But the worst thing is? I frequently make really stupid mistakes. I’ll completely forget a name I was given one sentence ago. I mix up numbers. I mix up faces. I mix up stories. I’ve tried to slow down, make an effort to pay attention and carefully absorb the information around me, burn it in.

Maybe it’s because I’m stressed, maybe it’s because of the rush, but I just can’t do it. I can’t get things straight. My auditory processing disorder makes it hard to process names/words I hear until the client is angrily spelling it out in a tone that oozes “you are an absolute moron Iffy.” And it’s happened so much that I can’t even disagree anymore.

It’s almost as bad when it isn’t my fault. Because frequently the client doesn’t care. The very first call of the very first day of this workweek was me being talked down to and mocked by someone whom I have never interacted with in any way. We were complete strangers. But I work for the place that’s too overworked/understaffed to cater to their every whim; I’m the one they found on the phone; I’m the one they’ll direct their rage at. Fully-grown adults—mothers, fathers, grandparents, left and right—not caring who they talk to as long as they get to hurt someone. My faith in humanity is practically in freefall.

I need to say this, it’s so important that I point this out: Many of the clients are wonderful people. And the staff are some of the kindest, most fun people you’ll meet. Hell, they’re why I leaped at the job.

But with us constantly lacking the staff to keep up with demand, people get mad. A lot of people.

I get up at 7 and come home at 7. I have two individual days off a week, and I spend most of that time in my bed. The several hours I have before bedtime for work the next day are spent either in a stupor or weeping, lately just the latter. There’s no time for the things that make me happy, the things I wanted to turn into a bigger part of my life one day. The job is cutting off the things it was supposed to give me a chance to return to.

I’ve tried so hard to stay motivated and positive. I really, really have. I’ve been focusing on the things I can finally save up for, and studying/practicing mindfulness and stress-management techniques. Going somewhere nice like the bookstore or the park for an afternoon.

I’m relieved to say that taking those days does bring me back for a bit.

But it doesn’t last. The stress-management stuff doesn’t last, not when the stress is so constant.

And it turns out the job pays a lot less than I expected.

It barely makes living expenses, if that. I can’t save up for the things I need or was looking forward to (including things important to someone in such a transitional phase of their life). And if an emergency arises, I won’t have the money to deal with it.

It took me half a year to even find this job. I don’t even... I don’t even know what to do. Am I trapped!? I’m crying for hours a day now. I spend most of my free time stressed from dreading the next shift, which is never far away. I’m so, so unhappy.

[goldenraeofsun]

Enhanced Extraction Techniques

Also available at AO3

“Cas?”

Cas whirls around. If he was standing on a normal floor, his shoes would have squeaked with the abrupt turn. In the Empty, though, his feet don’t make a sound. “Dean?” he calls back, his heart soaring in his chest.

“Cas? Where are you, man?”

Cas spins in another circle, his eyes straining against the darkness. The oppressive blankness of nothing presses against his eyeballs like an almost tangible film. He tries again, “Dean?”

“Cas?”

“Dean!” Cas takes off in the direction of Dean’s voice.

“Are you there?”

 Cas walks faster, anticipation quickening his heels. “I’m coming!”

“I can’t find you!”

“I’m here!” Cas calls back desperately.

“I’m running out of time here, buddy! Spell’s not gonna last forever. Where the hell are you?”

Panicked, Cas breaks out into a run. “I’m coming, Dean!”

“Are you?”

Cas stops dead. If he was back on Earth, he would have fallen flat on his face with the momentum. He turns to his right, where Dean’s voice just came.

“Cas? You there?”

Dean’s voice definitely came from his left that time.

“I need you.”

Cas swallows. Dean’s voice is coming from directly in front of him now. Icy dread creeps up his spine, but he feels hot all over.

“You make it too easy, Castiel.”

Dean never calls him by his full name, not in more than a decade. He is not talking with Dean.

“Nobody is coming for you.”

Cas doesn’t respond. Shamed beyond reason, he just stands there because there is nothing else to do. He can’t hide from the Empty. The Empty is everywhere.

Black ooze, blacker than the surrounding darkness, bubbles up from the floor. The Empty resolves into Cas’s own face, to his surprise. He’d been expecting Dean.

It shrugs, a knowing smirk playing on its lips. “What can I say? If you’re determined to keep me awake, I might as well amuse myself.”

“Your sense of humor leaves much to be desired,” Cas says as tonelessly as he can manage.

The Empty crosses its arms over its chest. “My options are limited, aren’t they?” it says snidely. “I can’t put you to sleep, so I can’t sleep. I might as well make this experience as hellish for you as it is for me.”

Cas frowns. “You could always negate our deal. Send me back to Earth.”

The Empty laughs. “That’s not how it works. That was a one-way trip.”

Cas grinds his teeth. “Then it seems like we’re at an impasse.”

“An impasse requires two forces of equal power,” the Empty tuts. “And you, my little gnat, have no power in this equation. You are my plaything. What was it that Gabriel said? A thousand channels and nothing’s on. Except you.”

Before Cas can respond, the Empty disappears, dissolving into a tarry splatter and absorbing into whatever passes as the floor in this place. 

 * * *

Cas wanders. He used to sleep while he was bored, but the Empty truly reigns supreme in his dreams. Cas killed Naomi’s Dean facsimile a thousand times, a million times. He watched Dean rake leaves, Crowley whispering poisoned promises into his ear. He walked away as Dean hurts and rages silently behind him in the Bunker.

So Cas stays awake. He’s an angel. It isn’t hard.

Dean’s voice occasionally calls for him.

Cas ignores it.

He wanders for what seems like miles, like hundreds of miles. Nothing ever changes in the Empty. With every step forward, he meets the same bleak blackness. The closest comparison in his long memory is the fraction of a second before the Big Bang - there was emptiness then too, but it was filled with a pregnant sense of promise. In the Empty - nothing.

Until.

Dean is running towards him.

Cas blinks a few times to make sure, even though his vision is perfect.

“Cas,” Dean breaks the silence first, “I found you.”

“Dean,” Cas breathes - any louder, and Dean will hear the trembling. “You’re here.”

“The real deal, sweetheart,” Dean says with a wink. “Now, come on. We’re getting out of here.” He takes off in the direction he came from, glancing behind him to check on Cas.

“We are?” Cas asks, following.

Dean throws him a disbelieving look. “Of course, dude. Sam and Jack are prepping the spell to get us back to the Bunker. We got Chuck by the short and curlies, but we’re one power player short. So we gotta get a move on.”

“So you need me?” Cas asks.

“Your mojo is the ticket,” Dean says with a little grin. “Chuck wiped all the angels off the Earth except Michael. And that dick isn’t answering our prayers, so you’re our next best bet.”

The joy at seeing Dean wavers. “I am?” he asks haltingly.

Dean shrugs. “We gotta work with what we have. And we just remembered you were here, out of Chuck’s reach. Our own spare angel!”

Cas barely holds back his flinch. Hunching in on himself, he mutters, “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Don’t worry,” Dean assures him, misreading his reaction completely. “We have a plan.”

Cas sighs. “Of course you do. What is it?”

“Sam found a spell,” Dean says. “It’ll rip Chuck apart, and, since Amara’s inside him - which, gross - it’ll maintain the balance when the spell takes her apart too.” 

Dean stops walking.

Cas looks around, but nothing sets aside this patch of emptiness from any other. No illuminated rift, no magic symbols, no X marking the spot - nothing.

“The catch is,” Dean says as he turns to Cas, his face regretful, “the spell needs an angel’s grace.”

In a blink of an eye, an angel blade drops into Dean’s palm.

Cas blinks. No beings but angels can manifest that particular weapon.

Dean raises the blade, fingers flexing on the handle. “You know,” he says conversationally, “Now that I think about it, we don’t actually need the angel himself - just the battery.”

Cas stands his ground, his eyes darting over Dean’s face, taking in every nuance and tell.

“I told you once,” Cas says warily, a horrible foreboding coming over him, “I’m always happy to bleed for the Winchesters.”

“Happy to hear that, Cas,” Dean says, his face impassive, “because you’re gonna bleed a lot, not gonna lie.” He shoves the blade in Cas’s chest, right above his heart.

Cas staggers back from the blow, pain and shock radiating out from the bloodless wound.

Dean raises his eyebrows, his mouth curling into a mocking smile as Cas meets his smug face. “What, were you expecting to go poof? We’re in the Empty,” he throws its hands wide, “everyone’s in stasis here, including you.”

Cas yanks the blade out of his chest, but it - and Dean - turns into black goo before he can stab anything with it.

 * * *

The Empty doesn’t mimic Dean next. Instead it takes Meg’s shape, Samandriel’s, Duma’s. Every one of the thousands of angels Cas killed up in heaven.

And there’s no escape. Cas can do his best not to listen, but if he retreats too far into himself, it almost counts as sleeping. With the Empty’s nudging, his thoughts will veer into his worst regrets, sooner or later. 

The Empty is in the middle of lecturing him in the form of Balthazar, when it explodes in a burst of light and sound.

Dean Winchester stands in the aftermath.

“Come on,” he says roughly. He strides forward to grab Cas’s hand and tug him in the other direction. “That bomb doesn’t last forever.”

“Dean?”

“Who else?” Dean yanks him sharply to the left. “This place didn’t turn your brains to scrambled eggs, did it?”

“I don’t think so,” Cas says shakily. “Dean are you really...”

“What?”

Cas can’t help looking down at their clasped hands. A fleeting thing, barely more than a glance. Still, Dean drops Cas’s hand like it burned him. “You good to run?” he asks shortly.

Cas barely nods before Dean takes off. They hurtle through the Empty, their rapid footsteps impossibly silent. Dean’s breath comes in sharp pants, and Cas’s useless wings ache, not for the first time, to fly them to their destination.

“Dean,” Cas starts, and Dean slows. “Where are we going?”

“Where I left my stuff,” Dean says shortly. “The spell to get us out of here needs a shit-ton of crap, and I couldn’t haul it all over this goddamn place while I was trying to find you.”

“How did you know your way back?”

The corners of Dean’s mouth lift in a faint smile. He points to the floor. “M&Ms.”

Cas squints at the ground, and, sure enough, they are following a trail of tiny candies. “Ingenious,” he murmurs.

“Hey, it worked with a Wendigo,” Dean says, shrugging. He directs them in a few more twists and turns before Cas sees Dean's duffle bag in the distance, topped with a bright yellow bag of M&Ms.

As they get closer, Dean pulls out an angel blade from inside his jacket.

Cas balks. 

Dean shoots him a puzzled look as he hands it to him. “It won’t kill anything here, obviously,” he says, unzipping his bag. He pulls out a copper bowl and bundles of herbs, “But having a weapon’s never a bad idea in unknown dimensions.”

“Yes, Dean.” Cas surveils their inky surroundings, already on high alert for any trespassers.

“Watch my back, okay?” Dean glances over his shoulder. Various ingredients get dropped into the bowl with outsized clangs and dribbles that seem to echo in the void around them.

Cas stays vigilant.

“This was easier than I thought it would be,” Dean mutters as the bowl’s contents start to smoke.

“Don’t jinx it,” Cas mutters out of the side of his mouth.

Dean chuckles under his breath. “I didn’t think angels believed in jinxes.”

It’s not like Cas has been especially angelic these past few years. He says shortly, “I’ve found you can never be too careful.”

Dean hums his agreement. “Need your blood for this part,” he says, shuffling over to make room. “Wait,” Dean says before Cas can press the blade againt his skin.

“Yes?”

“This is the last step,” Dean says seriously. “Once your blood goes in, it’s liftoff. So I wanted to get a couple things straight before we’re back in the Bunker.”

Cas doesn’t need to breathe, but if he did, his breath would have hitched in his chest at the closed-off look on Dean’s face. “Of course.” 

“What you said - what you told me,” Dean starts, his voice hard, “before you got sucked to this hellscape.” He drops his gaze to the bowl cradled in his hands, “That’s not me.”

Cas presses his lips together, struggling to keep his face impassive. Once he regains control of himself he says, “I did not expect you to reciprocate when I told you about my feelings for you.”

Dean actively recoils at the mention of feelings. He gives the bowl a little toss, and a few of the contents spill onto the floor. “Just, forget it,” he says brusquely, gathering everything up again.

“Dean-”

He turns to Cas, his eyes blazing. “But - you know what? I can’t forget it.”

Cas opens his mouth, but Dean is not done.

“How could you offload all that shit on me right before you fucked off to parts unknown?” he demands, voice rising in anger and volume. “Of all the goddamn things you could have said to me - that takes the fucking cake. You were my best friend -” he breaks off, shaking his head. “Worst moment of my goddamn life.”

Cas takes a step back, a sickly horror trickling down his spine. “I didn’t think-”

But Dean’s not listening. “I had serious doubts about coming here at all,” he continues, and the last Dean had stabbed him in the chest - how is this so much worse? “But Sam gave me those goddamn puppy dog eyes, and don’t even get me started on Jack-”

“I understand,” Cas interrupts stiffly. He inhales a deep breath he doesn’t need and continues, “Once we return to the Bunker, I’ll stay out of your way.”

“Probably for the best,” Dean mutters.

Cas cuts his forearm, watching with perverse fascination as the blood wells up and drips into the bowl waiting below.

There’s a violent burst of light and sound.

In the aftermath, Cas can only make out Dean’s mocking laughter. Before Cas can say a word, it turns into Meg’s delighted giggles. And then Gabriel’s howls of mirth.

 * * *

Cas sleeps after getting deceived for the third time. Anything is better than seeing the smug face of the Empty, whether it’s wearing Dean’s face, Gadreel’s, or Ruby’s. 

He breaks the wall in Sam’s head.

He lets Lucifer possess him in a futile plan.

He beats Dean to a bloody mess for the Angel Tablet.

Occasionally, the Empty grants him release, and Cas gets to deliver a bad joke to Uriel in Mesopotamia or Dean calls him a baby in a trenchcoat in a diner.

Time passes. Cas has no idea how long. There’s no sun - no moon - no cycling of the heavens. Only emptiness.

He gets shaken awake.

Cas blinks up at a pair of very familiar green eyes. “Dean,” he says, more or less resigned.

“Jesus,” Dean says as he sits back on his heels, “Way to make a guy feel welcome. I’m here to save your sorry ass, in case you were wondering. A full week of tearing my hair out over how to get you outta here, and this is the thanks I get.”

Cas sits up. “My apologies,” he says tentatively as he studies Dean’s face. There’s no sign it isn’t really Dean.

Then again, none of the others showed signs either.

Cas gets to his feet, asking, “Are you alone?”

Dean glances around them warily. “Yeah, Sam and Jack are keeping the portal open in the Bunker. They wanted to come,” he says, his eyes raking over Cas’s face, drinking him in. “They’ll be over the fucking moon to see you again.”

Cas swallows. “And you?”

“I -” A dull flush comes over Dean’s cheeks. He looks away.

Cas’s face shutters. “Right,” he says as he stands in front of Dean. “Now what?”

“Hey,” Dean says, reaching out to grasp his left shoulder, a mirror of the mark Cas left on him so long ago and so recently. “I missed you too. You have to know that.”

Worst moment of my life.

Cas looks away, Dean’s own raised voice echoing in his head.

“Hey,” Dean says again, gentler this time. His green eyes bore into Cas’s face. “What’s going on in that celestial brain of yours?”

The words catch in Cas’s throat, a lump of embarrassment and fear keeping them there. Embarrassment that the Empty deceived him. Fear that the Empty was right.

“Look, I know we didn’t leave things on great terms,” Dean says awkwardly, “and maybe this isn’t the best place to talk about it, but I’m so fucking happy to see you, man.” He chuckles ruefully. “’S making me lose my goddamn mind.”

Even if it’s only a facsimile of Dean - and there’s no way to tell for certain - seeing his face not contorted in anger or mockery is like a balm on Cas’s soul. If he had one, that was.

“About what you said before you got taken-” Dean starts.

Cas’s heart sinks.

“No,” Dean says, his voice low and gentle, “listen to me. I get that happiness for you might just be in the being, but for me-”

“It’s fine, Dean,” Cas interrupts. “I meant that, truly. You don’t have to-”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean says, smiling slightly, “You’re not making this easy are you?”

Cas bites his tongue to keep from contradicting Dean again.

“As I was saying,” Dean continues pointedly, his green eyes shining, “For me, happiness isn’t in the being - whatever the hell that means. It’s in the goddamn having.”

Cas bites his tongue harder, the pain hardly registering against the burst of hope fluttering wildly in his chest. “Dean,” he forces out, “You can’t mean…”

“Cas,” Dean starts, and Cas’s heart breaks - or mends. He can’t tell. He has no idea who he is talking to, and it’s, to borrow a phrase from the real Dean, an epic mindfuck.  

“Cas,” the Dean standing in front of him repeats, and Cas’s gaze automatically draws back to his face, “Good things do happen.”

Cas chuckles wetly. He has no choice but to say, “Not in my experience.”

Dean takes a step closer, far into the personal space he’d shown Cas so many years ago. Brows drawing together, he raises a hand to cup Cas’s face. “Someone told me a while ago that having faith was important. Seems you’re a little short there, buddy.”

Cas tries to duck his head, but Dean won’t let him. Eventually, he admits, “My faith has been tested recently.”

“But you didn’t give up, right?” Dean asks, leaning in close enough that Cas can feel the warmth of his breath in the air between them.

Cas shakes his head minutely. “No,” he murmurs, “not entirely.”

“Good,” Dean says, pausing just shy of Cas’s mouth. Waiting.

Cas steels himself and closes distance.

Just before their lips touch, Dean implodes in a burst of inky ooze.

 * * *

Cas breaks several knuckles on the floor of the Empty. There are no walls to punch, no blade to send heads rolling. Cas works with what he has.

The real Dean would probably approve.

Dean shows up again before too long. This Dean goes so far as to tell Cas he loves him.

Cas turns his back on Dean’s heartbroken face. He refuses to engage.

He wanders instead.

* * * 

Cas hears the footsteps before he sees his next Dean.

“Cas!” he pants, “Thank fuck. I thought I was never going to find you.”

Cas merely sighs.

Dean makes a face. “Way to roll out the welcome wagon,” he says, clearly offended. “I would’ve thought you were sick of this place by now.”

Cas purses his lips. “I am.”

“Shocker,” Dean says with a little smile. “Look, we don’t have a lot of time, so you gotta follow me.”

Cas doesn’t budge. He’d rather roam this place for eternity than suffer at the hands of another Dean facsimile. And he had thought he saw enough of them under Naomi’s tutelage. He’d been so naive.

Dean stares at him like Cas just stripped naked and danced the macarena. “What are you doing?”

“You’re not real,” Cas says bluntly.

Dean gapes. “Of course I’m real! Chuck’s de-powered, and Jack… well, it’s a long story. Bottom line: nobody’s pulling our strings but us.”

Cas lets out a derisive laugh.

Dean’s eyebrows rise, but he barrels on, “So it’s time to get a move on. Up and at ‘em, sunshine.” He jerks his head off to the right. 

Cas stays where he is. “No.”

“What the hell?” Dean has the gall to tug on Cas’s sleeve like he’s a wayward toddler. “Come on. You’re not making any sense.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Cas retorts. It’s not his best rejoinder, but he’s been very stressed lately.

Whatever Dean was about to say dies on his tongue as he stares at Cas in confusion. “What’s wrong with you?” He shakes his head before Cas can respond, saying, “Doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out later. But now, you’ve gotta come with me.”

Cas levels him a flat glare. This one is more stubborn than the last, more like the real Dean. “Why should I?”

“Because you don’t deserve to be stuck here?” Dean says, gesturing to the void around them. “You saved the world, Cas.” He swallows. “You saved me. Getting you out is the least we can do.”

“Because you need me to take on Chuck,” Cas says.

“No?” Dean says, his eyes narrowing. “I already told you, Chuck’s off the playing board.”

“Because you feel guilty about leaving me here.”

“No - wait, I do, but,” Dean breaks off, irritated, “you know what I mean.”

Cas doesn’t, so he continues in the same vein as before, “Because you love me.”

Dean hesitates. “I’m working on it.”

Cas snorts. At least the last Dean had the balls to say it. Many times. While crying.

“What?” Dean throws up his hands. “You just sprung it on me, dude! I didn’t even know angels could feel things like that, and it took me by surprise, okay? I’m only human, and sometimes we need time to get used to ideas. Like when we found out Snooki was a demon. Yeah, the signs were there, and it makes sense, but still - you sometimes need it spelled out for you.”

Cas pauses. None of the other Deans had referenced pop culture. “How long ago was this for you?”

“Since we summoned Snooki?” 

At Cas’s icy look of disdain, Dean hedges, “A month? Give or take.” He glares. “First we had to deal with Chuck, and it took a while to find a spell to get here. Remember, we didn’t even know this was a place before you died the last time. The Men of Letters weren’t a shit ton of help, for once.”

Cas crosses his arms over his chest.

“Just… hear me out,” Dean says. “There’s a portal to get us home. Sam and Jack can’t stall the Empty forever.”

That was new. “Jack and Sam aren’t in the Bunker?”

“No,” Dean says as he takes off in the opposite direction, all but forcing Cas to follow to find out more. “They’re up in Heaven.”

“Why?”

“Because the Empty can’t get to Earth without a summoning spell, which, as far as we can tell, doesn’t exist?” Dean says, checking over his shoulder to make sure Cas is still within earshot. “But you made that fucking stupid deal in Heaven, so we knew it could at least travel there. Jack zapped Sam to the Pearly Gates, and they’re hopefully making a distraction while I get you out.”

Still not entirely convinced, Cas asks begrudgingly, “And where are we going?”

“A portal,” Dean says confidently. “This place is a little like Purgatory, apparently. If it senses a human here, it’ll create a portal to spit them out again.” He flashes a grin over his shoulder. “So here I am, 100% genuine human to bail your ass out.”

“Thank you?”

“Don’t mention it,” Dean says with a wink.

Cas scowls. The first Dean had winked at him too.

“Jesus, tough crowd,” Dean mutters as they head further into the Empty.

Cas scans the ground, but there are no small candies lining the way. “How do you know where to go?”

“Turns out, Sam could find a spell for that,” Dean says as he holds up his left hand - clutching his amulet. The Empty must have really hunted around in his memories for that one, even more so than the Wendigo case. He hasn’t seen the real amulet in nearly five years. “It heats up when I’m on the right track towards the exit.”

“So no M&Ms?”

Dean turns to him. “I told you about that?”

Cas stares straight ahead, willing his face to fall into an expressionless mask. The real Dean had told him about the Wendigo over dinner with Sam and Mary while she was still alive, or the Empty wouldn’t be able to use it as inspiration now.

Dean shakes his head, smiling. “Man, I haven’t thought about that case in forever.” He glances at Cas, his face sobering. “You really don’t believe this is real?”

“No.”

He can’t. Not again.

Dean sighs as he steers them slightly to the right. “Come on, I’m almost getting third degree burns from this thing. We must be close.”

Sure enough, a blue swirling portal comes into view, a pinprick of light in the distance at first, elongating into an exact replica of the Purgatory exit as they approach. 

“Finally,” Dean mutters, his face impassive. He  turns to Cas. “Just… don’t stay behind,” he grimaces, “again.”

This version has been the most true to Dean - less callous than the first, more caring than the second, more guarded than the third. It will hurt the most when this one falls apart. Maybe it would be better if Cas heads it off at the pass instead of letting the whole painstaking ruse play out all the way through.

If the Empty could get it over with, Cas will go back to sleep. Anything is better than this torture.

Cas takes a step back, away from the portal. “This is pointless-”

“Jesus Christ, Cas!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “I don’t get it at all. You don’t think you deserve to be saved?”

Cas gapes at him.

Dean continues heatedly, “If an ex-demon with anger management problems and rap sheet a mile long deserved to be saved, I think a legit angel should get the same.”

Cas shakes his head. “I’m hardly a prime example of an angel anymore.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Have I ever cared about that?”

“Well, no, but-”

“Glad we can agree on something,” Dean cuts him off. “Now, are you going to go through the portal or am I gonna have to drag you? I’ll do it,” he threatens. “Don’t test me.”

Cas wavers. Everything in him says to follow Dean. But this isn’t the real Dean - this is the Empty waiting for the glorious moment when it can yank the illusion away, leaving Cas a little more broken than before.

Dean’s eyes narrow. “Fuck you,” he spits, “You can’t trust me just a little-”

“Trust?” Cas echoes as he strides forward to grab the lapels of Dean’s jacket, his voice rising in a mixture of outrage, desperation, and heartache, “You want me to trust you? After you’ve lied to me, deceived me - after you stabbed me, after you told me I put you through the worst moment of your life the last time you saw me, after you made me think you returned my feelings only to - only to-”

Dean shakes his head slowly. “But I didn’t do any of that.”

“You did,” Cas says fervently, shaking Dean a little - or maybe that’s his trembling hands. “You did - you’ve been putting me through hell since I got here, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of you.”

Dean’s expression hardens. “You don’t mean that.”

“Oh, I do,” Cas swears. “I’m done pretending.”

Dean his eyes flicking down to Cas’s mouth. “What do you know,” he breathes, “so am I.”

Cas freezes, waiting for Dean to dissolve into a puddle of goo in his hands.

Dean kisses him instead.

At the first touch of Dean’s lips to his, Cas jerks back in surprise and horror.

He falls straight into the portal. 

The Empty vanishes in a blur of too-bright light.

 * * *

Cas comes to in the middle of a field. The sun shines overhead. Noon, Cas registers distantly as he looks around. Dean’s sprawled on the prairie grasses next to him, already waking up judging by the groaning noises.

“Dean?”

Dean opens his eyes, glances at the sky, and closes them again. “Oh great, we made it.”

Cas tentatively picks his way closer to Dean’s side. He stands over him for a moment, shuffling to the side so he doesn’t block the sunlight falling on Dean’s face. “We’re on Earth.”

“Well, it’s sure as shit not Mars,” Dean grumbles, eyes still closed. “Are you watching me right now? I feel like you’re watching me right now.”

Cas stares around the field. “Not anymore,” he says, and a genuine breeze blows against his face. What a marvel.

“‘S okay,” Dean says as he wiggles a little on the grass, getting more comfortable, “’M used to it.”

Cas turns to him. “It’s really you.”

“The real deal, sweetheart,” Dean cracks his eyes open, one corner of his mouth lifting into a lopsided smile. “You believe me now?”

“This could be the most elaborate ruse yet.”

Dean lifts his head up. “Seriously? You dick, I did not haul ass all the way-”

“I don’t really believe that, however,” Cas says before Dean can work himself up too much.

“Good.” He meaningfully thumps the grass next to him. “Sit. You’re giving me serious Law & Order vibes.”

Cas’s brow furrows. “I don’t get that reference. I know about Law & Order-”

“And how does every episode of Law & Order start?” Dean interrupts, “With someone standing over a dead body in a field.”

Cas takes a seat. “Not always a field. Most episodes show corpses in urban areas, or, once, a yacht.”

“Pretty sure it was more than once. I hate procedural cop shows.”

“They are very formulaic,” Cas admits, stretching out his legs, “and lack the drama of soap operas.”

“I’m just saying, if a long lost sibling doesn’t pop out of the woodwork or if the main character isn’t killed off at least six times, is it really worth watching?”

Cas levels him a flat look. “Dean, all those things have happened to you.”

Dean snorts. “At least none of us got amnesia.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Speak for yourself.”

Dean turns his head to stare at him, a wide grin spreading across his face as he laughs. “Oh shit, you're right. How the hell did I forget?”

“Because of supreme irony, most likely.”

It takes Dean a moment to get it, but when he does, he laughs even louder.

Cas doesn’t have anything to add, so he lets the conversation peter off into silence, listening to Dean’s even breathing and the grass rustling in the gentle wind.

“I didn’t think it would be like this,” Dean says in an undertone.

Cas turns to him. Dean’s eyes are closed again, but everything else about him radiates a quiet tension Cas might’ve missed anywhere else. But here, in this field, nothing prevents Cas from honing on Dean’s whole being with everything he has. “What do you mean?” he asks carefully.

“I dunno,” Dean says, his face scrunching up, “I thought it would be more awkward. But… it doesn’t feel any different.”

Cas blinks. “Why should it?” he asks, and though he’s not definitively sure what Dean means by ‘it’, he has a very strong suspicion.

Dean shoots him a pointed look. “Because you don’t tell someone you love them and expect everything to be OK after.”

Cas lays down next to Dean. Staring up at the wispy clouds overhead, he says, “If it changes anything, I didn’t expect to be around for the after part.” Dean’s head turns to look at him, but Cas can’t bring himself to see whatever expression is on his face. “If you’d like for us to go our separate ways after this, I understand.”

“You stupid bastard,” Dean mutters vehemently, “for the last goddamn time, I did not piss off the immortal Blob just to tell you to go fuck yourself in person.”

Cas inhales a slow breath, breathing in the dirt, wildflowers growing nearby, and Dean. “You kissed me,” he says.

“You said you loved me,” Dean shoots back.

“Did you mean it?”

“Did you?”

Cas grimaces as he turns his head to face him. “I thought it was obvious.”

Dean swallows. “No, it wasn’t,” he says quietly, “but I’ve never been good at that stuff.”

Cas squints at him. “You are the most emotionally intelligent man I’ve ever met.”

“What?”

Cas rolls his eyes. “You expertly navigate and manipulate people’s emotions to get them to talk to you, open up to you, have sex with you,” he lists. “It’s extraordinary to witness.”

Dean makes a choking noise. “Dude,” he says, which tells Cas absolutely nothing. A few more clouds pass by before Dean speaks again. “I guess the signs were there - with you. But I didn’t want to put them together.”

“Why not?”

Dean shrugs, his shoulders scraping almost inaudibly against the soil and grass stems. “Just didn’t.”

“Then that’s why I didn’t tell you. But, Dean-” Cas breaks off. This part of the conversation, despite what Dean said earlier, does not feel the same as others between them. 

Dean’s eyes flick to his. “Yeah?”

“You kissed me.”

Dean inhales a sharp breath. “I did,” he says at last.

Cas waits, but Dean doesn’t elaborate. “Was it just a ploy to get me to leave the Empty?”

“No.”

Cas grimaces. Not for the first time, his life would be so much easier if Dean could communicate without speaking in riddles or hiding every third word he wanted to say. “Dean...”

“I told you I’m working on it,” Dean says defensively.

Cas closes his eyes. “What does that mean?” he asks, his voice strained.

“It means I’m working on it,” Dean says shortly. But before Cas can press him further, he lets out an explosive sigh. “It means I don’t want to hear any more goodbyes from you. It means - it means that kiss wasn’t too bad, right?”

“I thought you were a fake version of yourself created to torture me for eternity,” Cas says flatly.

Dean props himself up on his elbows. “So all I’m hearing is there’s room for improvement.”

Cas rolls his eyes as Dean scoots closer, peering down at him. “I suppose that’s one way you could look at it.”

“Would you wanna... do something like that again?” Dean asks, his expression confident while his voice is anything but.

“Only if you want to,” Cas says seriously.

Dean licks his lips. He nods once, the movement stilted.

“Should I sit up?” Cas asks, frowning, as he half-lifts his head. “Or do you want to lay back down-”

“Cas,” Dean says impatiently, “it’s kissing we’re talking about here, not Twister.”

“I have played that game before.”

“Yeah, I remember now,” Dean says, a tentative smirk hiding in the corners of his mouth. “You ever do it naked?”

Cas frowns. “There was a strict policy against nudity in the psychiatric ward.”

Dean ducks his head, laughing silently. His forehead lands on Cas’s sternum, his breath warming Cas’s chest from the outside in.

“You were trying to say something arousing,” Cas says, a beat too late.

Dean shakes his head, grinning. “Something like that.”

“I would like to play naked Twister with you.”

Dean’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “Glad to hear it,” he says as he leans over Cas. Cas goes a bit cross-eyed to keep him in view until Dean murmurs, “Relax. ‘S just me.”

In the instant before their lips meet, Cas half-expects the whole world around him to splatter apart in a tidal wave of black, otherworldly goo. But Dean is gloriously solid, gloriously human, as he cradles Cas’s half-raised head, his fingers tangling in his hair. 

The midday sun shines; the grass whispers in the wind; and Cas is saved.

[mendesbadrepuation]

Save Her // Peter Parker🕷

*This is based off a Tiktok I saw a long time ago and wrote a little something for it. I was scrolling through Tom Holland’s tag and saw that @lightholland​ was looking for someone to make it or have it. It was just sitting in my drafts collecting dust. So without further a do : )

I will add the link to the Tiktok...

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

“What do you mean she’s been kidnapped?!” Cap says in the small conference room to Tony. 

“Shh!” Tony puts his finger in front of his lips to silence Cap. “The kid doesn’t know yet. If he finds out I’m afraid he’ll put himself in danger before we can get a proper plan.” Tony explains more. His words get quieter as more people pile into the room. Tony felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. His eyes were bloodshot from not getting any sleep the entire night. It was suppose to be a simple mission. She’s done it time and time before. HYDRA found an opportunity to trick everyone. All of them have been through protocol in the case that something like this does happen. He just felt ill not knowing what they could possibly be trying to get out of her. 

The room was quiet as everyone was confused  as to why they were being brought in so early in the morning. Peter was swaying side to side in his chair with his eyes glued to his phone. He was texting her repeatedly wondering where she was. He hasn’t spoke to her since the night before. He had an important Chemistry assignment to complete that occupied him for hours. The last text he had from her was a simple “I love you spider bug” That was one of her many nicknames she had for him. 

“Okay so-“ Tony begins to speak to the group and everyone turns their heads away from the distractions. Peter cuts him off. “Wait Y/n isn’t here yet.” Peter says softly as he looks at Tony. It was easy to see how Tony was fighting his thoughts on how to break the news. He sighs as his shoulders drop. Cap looks at Peter then back at Tony. Peter had been sensing something all day but he wasn’t sure what it was. He knew he felt off. “What? Is someone not telling me something?” Peter tries to keep his cool from all the silence. The group looks around in confusion. 

“Mr. Stark.” Friday comes in through the A.I. system. Her voice sounded a little concerned. “I think you will want to see this.” Tony had a feeling he knew it was about her. He was expecting some kind of news soon and much rather than later. “Pull it up.” He disregards Peter’s questions and turns his attention to the glass screen. The room goes deadly silent as a image of Y/n pops up. Peter stands straight up out of his chair as his heart jumps into his throat. The video begins to play and she was crying in pain. The right side of her face had taken some serious impact. A serious busted lip was causing blood to ooze down her chin and her tears were mixing in with the dirty blood. A scene that none of the avengers wanted to see on their teammate. Especially their sweetheart. 

A blood curling scream pierced through everyone’s ears from her torture. There was no face to the voice but it was easy to tell it was a man that was speaking. “Where is the stone?” His voice was dark, brisk, and cold like a windy winter night. It cut through Peter as if he was made of paper. 

“I don’t have it.” She says breathlessly. “Please I didn’t take anything!” The camera zooms out and there was a knife sinking deep into her flesh. He twists it ever so slightly making her scream out in horrific pain. “PETER!” She cries out for her boyfriend. The only thing that was keeping her from crossing over to a dark place. 

Peter turns his body and Cap knew what he was about to do. Cap leaps after him holding him in his arms before he makes a B-line out the door. “Let me go!” Peter struggles around trying to fight his way out of his masculine grip. The video continues in the background as they offer up a deal to get her back. “I have to get to her. I have to find her!” His legs kick around as a way to create space between the two. The team all rise from their chairs to keep him cornered in. 

“Calm down! Listen Parker!” Cap tries to stop the squirming so that Tony could propose his plan. “You can’t do this alone!” 

“No! She needs me!” A soft whimper pulls from his mouth as he slowly stops his fighting. Cap knew that Parker and him could be an even fight if he wanted. He also knew that Peter was in no state of mind to fight him off like that. He knew deep down that he couldn’t get her back alone. 

“We’re going to get her back kid. But I need you to calm down. We have to be smart about this. We can’t lose you in the process. You have to stay focused with us. You know everyone in this room is hurting. We have to do this strategically. It has to be done together..” Tony says. Peter’s eyes were watering at this point. The frustration and pain he felt seeing his girl like that took a toll on him. Peter swore to himself he’d never let anything happen to you. Not like this. His heart was shattered and his gut was empty. All he can hear is his name being called from your horrific state. He couldn’t get to you and help you. It was his own torture that surely would leave scars for him. 

“Please. We have to get her back.” Peter fumbles to his knees and Cap does his best to cushion his fall but it was no use. The video goes on a little longer. A few more screams are heard and it shuts off. 

“I was able to trace the video back sir. It looks like it was sent from a server in a remote location in Canada.” Friday speaks. 

“Everyone get suited up. We will debrief on the air carrier.” Cap says and everyone quickly goes to their stations to get suited up. It was an intense feeling in the air. Everyone of them had a one track mind. That was to rescue their teammate. No matter the risk they were getting her back alive. Peter couldn’t bare another second of this. He had his suit on in a matter of seconds and was pacing in the air carrier first. 

Once they were all inside they viewed each layout of the blueprints Friday sent them for the set location. They managed to track her phone in a closed off portion of the abandoned building. All of their thoughts were said to find the best way to get her out swiftly and safely. Each plan was ran over a couple of times to outsmart Hydra and their evil intentions. 

“Peter it’s your job to get in that bunker and get her out. You need to understand that she’s going to be really out of it and the scene could stun you. You can’t hesitate. Get her out of there.” Tony says sternly to him. There was no else best fit to get her out. Everyone knew that. Peter just had to realize that any hesitation or delays can cause the plan to backfire tremendously. 

“I will.” Peter says. He would walk through fire at this point just to save you and hold you in his arms again. 

The air carrier lands a little ways away from the secluded location. They were all careful to keep things in stealth mode so none of the sensors would be detected. The plan is set in motion and one by one each member is deployed. Each of them tackle the obstacles set in the way. They wanted it to be in and out so no extreme force would have to happen. Tranquilizers were used to put Hydra agents to rest out of harms way. We’re they mad about the kidnapping? They were beyond furious. It didn’t matter. Once they had her safe then it was time to discuss wars. 

Peter sweeps his way through the rusty old building. He blends in with each surrounding and is careful not to tip his whereabouts. Once he finds the bunker door he uses his A.I. system Karen to break in. The door opens with an unusually loud creek. He swiftly creeps inside checking for other agents. There he sees her passed out laying on the floor almost lifeless. Holding her arms and legs together is some raged black rope that left her horrible laceration burns from her fighting it. She’s only been held captive for 12 hours and they managed to hurt her this terribly? Peter felt the anger boil up inside of him. 

“Y/n!” Peter whispers to see if she would respond. She doesn’t move and his heart drops. There was blood all around her. Her suit was ripped in places where the knife had been. Peter picks her up slowly and that’s when she stirs. Immediately she tries to fight her way out considering she had no idea who it was. 

“Let me go! Please.” She whines. Her voice was so hoarse. 

“Shh. Y/n it’s me. It’s Peter. I’m here baby.” He moves some of her hair out of her face to get her to look at him. The head of his suit comes down so she could actually see it was who he said it was. He uses his tech to cut the rope around her arms and legs, freeing her instantly. 

“Peter.” She cries in relief and clings to him tightly. He takes her body and places her legs around his waist. His arms tightly wrap around so she’s hugging him. He was not about to let her out of his grip. Not until they were out of harms way. Even then he may never. Her head nuzzles into his neck and he wanted to sigh in relief from the feeling. When she was being clingy that was her thing to do. “You smell good.” She weakly whispers. It was so innocent that it made Peter’s stomach release butterflies. He knew how strong she really was and that she’d have this shaken off in no time. He still was not letting her out of his sights for awhile. Peter gently placed his chin on her head to cling to her more. He easily moves his way through the abandoned building without being spotted. Once he reaches the air carrier everyone else was starting to regroup. 

“We got her. Is everyone counted for?” Cap says as he looks around. A small count of people was taken and the doors to the carrier are sealed shut. Peter just falls to the floor with her in his arms. 

“We’re going to get you some help here soon baby.” He starts to rub her back. She remained in the same position but never lost her grip around his neck. 

“Has she said anything?” Tony asks as he bends down to rub her head softly. 

“She didn’t know it was me at first. I say she has a concussion. She’s a little out of it. She said I smell good.” Peter lightly smiles and so does everyone around. It was their y/n being herself even in the state she’s in. 

“You really do. Did your side chick buy you some new cologne?” She jokes and the mood in the carrier lightens tremendously. Everyone laughs including Peter. Y/n kept her eyes shut and her head rested in between Peter’s neck and shoulder. A smile still formed on her face from her comment. 

“You did goofy.” Peter replies and places a sweet kiss on the top of her head. 

“Just making sure it’s really you.” The tip of her nose brushes up against his neck giving him goosebumps. “Sorry I got a little blood on your suit.” She adds. 

“I think it will be okay. As soon as we get to the compound we’ll get you stitched up. I promise. Just keep talking to me. I’m so glad you’re okay.” Peter’s chest vibrates to each word he says. It was hard for her to keep her eyes open with being in the arms of her saving grace. She knew she was safe now. 

“I could go for a nice shower. I’m sure I don’t smell as nice as you do.” Her words were turning into low mumbles now. “I’m really tired Pete.” She takes in a deep breath to try and relax the searing pain that was pulsing in her arm and leg. 

“I know. Just stay with me a little longer.” He scoots over to a wall so he could lean his back against it and stretch his legs out. He resumes rubbing her back once he gets situated. “Where is our next date going to be?” Peter asks to keep her awake. 

It was silent for a good minute. “The beach.” She replies. 

“Why the beach? You hate sand.” Peter states. 

“The sound of the waves, plus the view. It would be so romantic. And I wanna surf.” Her words were a little dragged out. 

“We should make it a team vacation.” Tony adds to the conversation. 

“None of you all better wear a Speedo.” She hesitates and then whispers to Peter. “Except maybe you can Pete.” The group laughs again. Big smiles on their faces knowing they had this sweetheart back. 

Her head slowly raises up this time to look at Peter once more. Her weak arm manages to go up and she placed the palm of her hand against his cheek. His eyes softly look into her and he tilts his face into her palm. 

“Thank you for saving me.” She whispers and leans her forehead against his. 

“I will always save you.” He replies just as soft as her whisper. 

They lean into each other and like magnets their lips connect ever so softly. Y/n felt the warmth she had lost from all the torture she endeavored. Peter could finally breathe a little better knowing she was in his arms. This kiss allowed him to be grounded from all the fear he had trapped in his mind. 

“Get a room!” Tony says in disgust. The two teenagers just smile into the kiss. 

Y/n was eventually back the Avengers compound safe. There she was taken care of from all the wounds she had. And just like everyone assumed Peter didn’t leave her side the entire time. 

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Tagged accounts:

@im-not-here-dont-leave-a-message​ @nerdy-collector-festival​

[remmushound]

The Purple Ooze, chapter 4

Tags: @brightlotusmoon @selfindulgenz @scentedcandlecryptid @ilo-artistry @digitl-art-monstr @dakotafinely

“UP UP UP UP UP GET UP WAKE UP EMERGENCY MEETING!”

Raphael and Michelangelo seemed half-dead as they stumbled into the living room; even if they’d rather be anywhere else, preferably in their beds, they knew there was only one way to stop the screaming as Donatello’s voice sounded over the loudspeaker.

“Don, what’s up?” Raphael’s eye felt like bricks were weighing down on them. He rubbed them, but that did nothing to help the burning.

Donatello explained in as few, dramatic words as he could what had happened. He tried to make the urgency known quite clearly in his voice and thought he did a good job of it, but Raphael and Michelangelo seemed even less invested than they were before.

“So Leo took your nerd stuff, big deal.”

“It is a big deal, Raphael! April’s mad at me!”

“April gets mad at all of us sometimes, Dee…” Michelangelo said, and at least he was trying to be understanding and compassionate.

“Not at me!” Donatello stomped his feet, “I’m her best friend! And I lost the brooch! And if Leo took it, and I know he took it, then we need to find him.”

“We will.” Raphael rumbled, “Later. It’s day, Donnie. Which means sleep, and you need it more than any of us.”

“But—“

Raphael laid a heavy hand on Donatello’s shoulders. “We’ll find him later and make him give it back. Just get some rest; April will understand.”

Raphael left Donatello admonished and betrayed for the favor of returning to his bedroom; Michelangelo wasn’t nearly so traitorous, staying at Donatello’s side and rubbing his carapace in a comforting spiral.

“We’ll find him Dee…” Michelangelo said, “I promise!”

“No no no no, you don’t understand!” A horrible realization was creeping up on Donatello like icy claws. Surely Leonardo wouldn’t be dumb enough to try and use that retro-mutagen on himself?! Oh who was Donatello kidding, of course Leonardo would be dumb enough! “I told Leo that the ooze— that purple ooze— could turn mutants human! Ugh! I— I was tired— I wasn’t thinking about the wording!”

“Donnie?” Michelangelo frowned. Turn mutants human?

“He’ll think he can use it on himself Mikey, but he can’t! If you take away our mutagen it would just leave us turtles, but I didn't say that part!”

“What’s happening?” Michelangelo whispered.

“Leo’s gonna do something stupid and we need to stop him!” Donatello fell lower to appeal to his brother, “Will you help me?”

“Duh.” Michelangleo said as if it were obvious.

“Come on!” Donatello grabbed Michelangelo by the arm and yanked him along to his lab.

“I thought we were going after Leonardo—?”

“We are!” Donatello said, tossing Michelangelo onto his bed as he slid into his computer chair, his fingers naturally finding the keys and setting to work faster than his little brother could keep up with. “I had a tracker installed in all of you so I know where you are at all times!”

“A tracker?” Michelangelo frowned, starting to look down over his body as if he expected to find something red and flashing and obvious.

“You’re not going to be able to see it, Michael.” Donatello said; he knew what Michelangelo was doing without even having to look at him. “The whole point is you’re not supposed to know about it, so don’t you go spilling about it, okay?”

A final few clicks and Donatello had the map of the city pulled up on his hologram, large enough to fill the entire room and cover him and Michelangelo in a blue, reflective light. Michelangelo ooed and looked at the way the lights danced off of his skin while Donatello located Leonardo’s little blue dot, marking down his coordinates and predicted trajectory in his wrist band before grabbing Michelangelo and yanking him along once more; Michelangelo didn't even seem to notice he was being moved, as mesmerized as a deer caught in headlights.

Donatello loaded Michelangelo into his seat in the turtle tank, making sure to buckle his little brother in tightly before taking off down the exit tunnel; he didn't care about his own seatbelt, but he had to make sure Michelangelo was safe, not that he planned to crash any time soon. Sure, he was going a little faster than he should have been going, and maybe he was playing it a little loose with the road laws, but there were more important things than laws to focus on right now because he needed to find his brother! He was just glad he didn't have to do it alone.

Donatello glanced over at his little brother. Michelangelo, still not entirely sure what was happening, played happily with his toy controls. He made the bright yellow wheel beep like a little clown horn, and he twisted the vibrant purple key to make bubbles drift out. The bubbles quickly caught his adoration as he reached out and tried to catch them on his hand. Okay, so maybe Donatello would have to do this alone. That didn't matter— they were almost there. The map on his wrist told him so!

Getting closer, getting closer— there! Donatello slammed on his brakes, maybe a little too sharply as he tumbled out of his seat and hit his face on the windshield like a bug.

“Ow.” Donatello groaned and had to pry himself off the windshield, rubbing his head and muttering some incoherence about car safety. While he was still leaned forward, Donatello decided to crane his neck just a little bit farther to see up to the rooftops. There Leonardo was a passing shadow, but Donatello knew that shadow! And he knew he had no time to lose.

[wallgirl]

The Little Nereid Part 14

Record of Ragnarok fanfiction

Poseidon x OC

Word count: 2,800

Dynamene, youngest of the 50 Nereids, has lived most of her adolescence as a servant alongside her sisters at Poseidon’s palace. But with her coming-of-age birthday and other developments, what she initially thought was just admiration of her master blossoms into something stronger and more passionate… and painful. Loving someone like Poseidon is not easy period, let alone as your first love. But Dynamene is young and naïve, and all she wants is a chance to be at the sea god’s side.

Categories and warnings: Romance, angst, unrequited love, coming-of-age, earn-your-happy-ending, slow-burn (ish); no sexual content. There will be some graphic violence in the future.

Updated regularly; will have about 20 parts total.

Slight body horror in this chapter

—

When Dynamene's eyes opened again, she was underwater, drifting a hundred feet above a vast ocean trench. It stretched as far as she could see in either direction, jagged cliffs reaching up at her with treacherous fingers. It was a stark contrast from the glamorous palace she'd just been in.

This must be the trench where the witch lives. Dynamene turned this way and that, but saw no one else around; only an eel that slithered past in a hurried manner. Aphrodite said she lived in the deepest part, so... I guess I'm going down there. She wasn't crazy at the prospect of going into a deep sea trench, but there was no turning back now. She allowed herself to sink down, down, down into the black shadows. Deep sea fish wiggled by, some staring at her in surprise. Most of her sisters weren't fond of the deep ocean, but Dynamene stared back at them, just as curious. She remembered when she'd asked Poseidon to take her to a place like this someday. That time will come soon, she promised herself, lips setting into a line of determination.

When she finally touched the bottom, she could barely see anything around her. The silt beneath her feet was far colder and slimier than that of the shallow depths, and she shuddered. She walked for a little ways, wondering where to go next, until she made out the faintest pinprick of light in the distance.

She pushed off from the ground and swam towards it. The source of light was an enchanted torch, the first of a long row that led towards a cliff face in the near distance. Dynamene followed the trail to the stone wall, where an underwater cavern awaited her. An ancient sign, covered in rust and barnacles, simply read "Welcome." Reassured that she was in the right place, she hurried into the cavern and followed the tunnel directly up.

Suddenly, she broke the water's surface, gasping in surprise. She had surfaced in a dimly-lit underground cave, kept dry from an air pocket. She pushed her damp hair out of her eyes, looking around in surprise. She pulled herself up out of the water onto a shallow out-jut of rock, catching her breath, when she realized there was someone standing just a dozen feet away.

Staring back at her with interest was the strangest creature she'd ever seen.

It was a woman, skin as white as the pearls that hung in thin strands about her neck and down across her chest. Her body was wrapped loosely from neck to toe in dark, mismatched sheets, with webbed feet devoid of toenails peeking out from underneath the makeshift skirt. Her eyes had no discernible pupil or iris; they were just as pale and empty as the rest of her body, shining damply in the light of the candlestick she held. A drooping hood covered her head, but there was one spot where hair had come loose, resting against her cheekbone. Dynamene looked closer, wondering at her hair color, before recoiling mentally. It was not hair, but some sort of fleshy tendril.

On edge from the woman's peculiar appearance, Dynamene slowly rose to her feet. "Are you... Are you the witch?" Dynamene asked hesitantly.

The woman blinked. Her milky eyes stared at the Nereid unabashedly. "Yes, I am," she answered softly, her voice raspy and lilting. "And you are..." She swayed closer. "Mm. A Nereid." She began to smile, her teeth unnaturally small and spaced out.

Dynamene suppressed a shudder. What was this woman? She almost looked like she was part fish, but she couldn't place her as any species that she recognized. Definitely not a nymph. But she supposed it really wasn't any of her business; she had come to make a deal. "I was told you might be able to help me with magic," she said.

"Indeed I can," the witch replied cheerfully. "Why don't we sit down together, and you can tell me what it is you need." She turned to amble back into the depths of the cave, and Dynamene hesitantly followed suit, wringing the water from her chiton.

Hanging from the roof of the cave was all sorts of plants and vines of every color and shape, some with tied ingredients dangling from them. Countless shelves and cabinets lined the walls, each one filled with strange and exotic items that Dynamene couldn't place. She looked all about herself in awe. "Are those all ingredients?" She recoiled at the sight of what seemed to be several whale eyes in various stages of decomposition.

"Yes. My work demands quite the vast range of materials. It's taken me a few centuries to collect all that you see here. Rest assured, all these ingredients mean that there is no spell or potion I can't perform." The witch had led her to a small table that looked as if it was a once-thick stalagmite that had been broken off. Dynamene lowered herself carefully onto one of two thoroughly rusted stools. She made a silent prayer that the stool wouldn't collapse under her limited weight.

"Now, what I can do for you?" The witch set the candlestick down between them before folding her hands attentively.

Trying not to be unnerved by the witch's alien appearance, Dynamene focused her gaze on the rough surface of the table. "I... I need something to help me with love."

"Love?" Although it was a question, the witch didn't sound surprised at all. "Well, that's not an uncommon request for someone your age. Tell me more."

Dynamene squirmed bashfully. "Uh, you see..." There seemed to be no way to beat around the bush, as hard as it was to be direct about her feelings. "Well, like the rest of my sisters... As a Nereid, I serve Poseidon at his palace, and..."

The witch's face immediately lit up in the strangest way, like a starving shark that had smelled blood. Her small teeth reflected the candlelight damply. "Poseidon. Do you?"

"Yes. And... Well, somehow, some way... I have fallen in love with him." By the end of the sentence, Dynamene's voice was hardly more than a whisper.

"In love with him," the witch echoed. "In love with him. Oh, my. My, my. What a predicament." Her gleeful smile didn't match her sympathetic tone at all.

Dynamene bit her lower lip nervously, a bit unnerved by the witch's strange behavior. "But, you see... things have become difficult. My family doesn't want me to be around him. They wouldn't even give it a chance. They think he's dangerous. And... I know he would never hurt me, but..."

"Oh, dear. Family... So loving and accepting, until they aren't." The witch tutted sympathetically. "Even our loved ones don't always understand our hearts. It's unfair of them to not give your love a chance... To not even hear you out."

"Yes! I know I could be happy with him, and..." Dynamene rubbed tears away from her eyes, only for them to be quickly replaced the next moment. "But they wouldn't listen. And now, I feel all alone."

"Don't you worry, darling," the witch whispered. "You're not alone. So many others find themselves in this predicament: misunderstood, shut-out, feeling desperate... That's where people like me come in to help. I can help you get exactly what you're looking for." She tilted her head, examining Dynamene. "So, tell me... what is it that you want my help with?"

Dynamene took a deep breath. "I want something that will... lead to him proposing to me, somehow." The look in her eyes went from hurt to almost fierce.

"A proposal. Well, well. That's a rather tall order." The witch flicked the tendril away from her face. "Wanting the hand of an Olympian... Poseidon, no less. My, my."

Dynamene shrunk against her seat, feeling rather uneasy. "Is that something you can help with?"

"Oh, sure," the witch said dismissively, waving her hand. "Don't you fret, darling. We'll get you your man. I just..." She licked her lips with a flash of her pale tongue. "Wasn't expecting this request today."

Dynamene nodded.

"So, tell me a bit more. I assure you, I won't judge. I've heard it all. You want him to make a commitment to you, sure... But what about after? Making it to the altar is only half the battle, you know."

"I... I have a guarantee that my union with him will be happy. I just need him to make me an offer. And then... Once we're united in marriage... Everything will be taken care of." Dynamene's cheeks began to burn.

"A guarantee? What might that be?" The witch cocked one brow.

"A blessing from Hera."

The witch's eyes nearly bulged out of her head in disbelief, making them look far too large for her face. "A blessing from Hera?! Well, you lucky girl. Those come few and far between." She sighed, tapping her cheek. "I myself met Hera once, you know..."

Dynamene started in shock. "Did she give you a blessing, too?" She asked, curiosity piqued.

"What? No!" The witch gave a harsh, barking laugh. "I had an agreement with her, you see... It fell through. And, you know, her temper and all..." She scratched her cheek with one pointed nail. A single droplet of gray blood oozed from the scratch, and Dynamene flinched at the casual violence of her act. "She cursed me to become this."

"Oh my," Dynamene whispered, the color draining from her face. She immediately felt awful for having judged the woman's appearance. "I'm so sorry, that's horrible of her!"

"That's an Olympian for you," the witch sighed. "But I've done well enough for myself since then. I've honed my craft, and this is how I spend my days now. Worse ways to live one's life." She smiled once more. "But let's bring things back to you now. You're my client, after all. Let's see..." She rose from the stool and crossed to a dusty boudoir covered in tomes.

"I have quite the list of spells for situations like this; just about anything you can think of." She picked up a book at random and flipped through it, dust flying off the pages. "But I'll need to know a little more to narrow things down. Tell me... What does he think of you?"

"Um..." Dynamene couldn't resist a shy grin. "I think he likes me well enough. He's given me presents, and we've had conversations... He's a lot softer on me than he could be when I've messed up." To put it lightly.

"Oh, lovely!" The gleeful tone had returned to the witch's voice. "So we don't have to worry about making the spell too strong; that's good news for you. A stronger spell would be all the more painful." The witch tossed the book to the side and grabbed another.

Painful? Dynamene gulped. "What do you mean by 'painful?'"

"We're going to do a mild transformation spell for you. Nothing too over-the-top, but spells like that always hurt a bit. I assure you, the end result will be well worth it. Poseidon is somewhat more susceptible to the influence of magic than the rest of his ilk because he thinks it's beneath him. Thus, he's never bothered to work on his resistance to it. You'll just need something strong enough to push him over that edge and get him to realize that he just absolutely needs you at his side."

"Will that really happen?" Dynamene asked, breathless at the thought.

"Oh, yes." The witch turned back to her, her face filled with a wicked leer. "He already cares for you. This will be just the shove he needs to make it official. Such a lucky girl."

Dynamene exhaled deeply. It's finally going to happen... We'll be together.

The witch cackled at the look on her face. "Oh, isn't it grand? You'll be happy, and he'll be happy... Dreams really do come true, don't they?" She threw her current book back down just like the first. "I've got it; the perfect spell. Let's begin." She waved her hand, and the candles lining the cavern immediately dimmed. "Come, this way."

Further into the cave was a larger room. At the center of it, partially sunk into the rocky ground, was a vast cauldron, many times the size of a bathtub. Dynamene peered into it cautiously; there was seemingly no bottom to it, only a vast blackness that stared back at her forebodingly. Swallowing, she backed away and returned her gaze to the witch.

The witch rolled back her sleeves deftly and cleared her throat. With a swift wave of both arms, the cauldron slowly gurgled to life. The dim candles brightened once more, but their flames had turned blue. The witch grabbed one from a nearby candelabra and threw it with force into the simmering cauldron. There was a muffled boom from within its depths, and the water began to shimmer an eye-wateringly intense blue. Sparks began to jump from the surface of the water, and Dynamene's eyes grew wide at the sight. The witch turned away and swept over to a nearby shelf, grabbing several tall glass vials before halting.

"Oh, that's right! Before we go too far..." The witch turned to look at Dynamene over her shoulder. "Ah, yes; a deal has to go both ways."

Dynamene twisted her hands, steeling herself. She had been dreading this moment, but there was no turning back now. "What kind of deal?"

The witch slipped closer, backlit by the eerie cerulean light. "Nothing you can't pay. That is, nothing you don't already have..."

Dynamene stared into the cauldron, blue sparks illuminating her face in a ghostly hue. The tear trails that remained on her face were sapphire beads in the light. If this was the only way, so be it. She was far too close now to give up.

"Then... Anything you want. It's yours," she told the witch, her voice shaking. "As long as... As long as it's nothing-"

The witch's smile broadened. "I'm not asking for much. You'll never notice it's gone, I promise you. Say, something..." She rose a fist. "This big."

"Anything," Dynamene whispered. The flames flooded out any other reflection in her eyes. The roaring cauldron filled her ears with its torrent, and with her senses distracted and heart despairing, there was nothing she wouldn't have agreed to. "It's yours."

The witch laughed madly. "Then we have a deal. Oh, your happiness is in reach now. Can't you feel it?" She snapped her fingers, and a sudden, strange lightness came over Dynamene. But she was still alive; still breathing erratically, and still staring into the burning flames. She flexed her fingers gently, wondering only superficially what the witch might have taken. "Now, you will soon take your fate into your hands. You'll be a new woman. No man alive will be able to resist you; least of all that inexperienced tyrant." The witch nearly bent double with laughter, wheezing with delight.

Without further ado, she shrieked out an unfamiliar word. All around them, the cabinets and cases flung their doors open in a unified crash. The witch rushed about the room, sweeping seemingly random ingredients into her clutches and flinging them without a glance. Bottle after bottle smashed into the cauldron, and Dynamene recoiled away from the shards of glass and burning hot sparks. The contents of the bottles hissed into oblivion in the burning waters, billowing out a thick smoke.

"Mandrake, rue, Gorgon scales, pearls!" The witch chanted madly as she snatched more ingredients. "Rosemary, harpy feather, siren hair!" The flames roared, reaching for Dynamene with raging lashes.

"Don't shrink away now!" The woman laughed at the fright on Dynamene's face. "This is what you came for! Embrace it, breathe it in!" She threw her arms high up into the air, commanding the inferno in a tongue unfamiliar to Dynamene.

Dynamene backed away from the cauldron a few feet, readying herself. Her hungry eyes filled with the dancing fire. The hypnotic flames were his eyes, the smoke his reaching hands, searing into her core until she was nothing but blue smoke, reaching back. You'll finally want me.

You'll be mine.

"Don't hesitate! Don't blink!" The witch threw more herbs into the flames, until they reached higher than Dynamene. "This is what you want! Take it!" Her voice rose to a screech. "Don't you want him to be yours?! Go, now!"

And without another breath, Dynamene took a running start and dove headfirst into the flames.

—

Author’s Notes:  At the end of this chapter, all I was thinking was BlUe this and bLuE that. Can you tell? lol

[return-of-a-space-cowboy]

The other world 6

epilogue will be posted soon

As you finally looked behind, you saw the kitchen was not in the same condition that you remembered. The wooden cabinets began to rot,  layers of wallpaper began to peel away from the walls and The floor was damp, like someone had left the kitchen tap on for too long.

The damage only seemed to spread as you walked forward. The house was deteriorating and the once wondrous charm became something much more nightmarish.

“Diavolo, I’ve returned with the eyes!” you yelled in a voice filled with hatred but he delivered no response, almost like he’d disappeared.

“Do I have to find you?! You expect me to continue with these games!” you yelled as you looked around the house while stomping your feet.

“(Y/n) don’t let your anger get the best of you, this could very well be another trap” Abbaccio said as readjusted himself in your arms.

The echo of footsteps from behind caught your attention, you swung your head to see who it was but you saw nobody. The atmosphere grew heavy and you began to find yourself short of breath with little to no air able to get in your lungs. You dropped Abbaccio as you grabbed at your neck to see if you were being choked, however you weren’t. You pounded at your chest and choked on your own voice as you had no idea on what was happening to you. You slumped against the peeling wall as your vision blurred and black specks consumed your vision before you dropped to the floor.

🌌🌌🌌

You rubbed your face as you regained consciousness. You looked at the ceiling before sitting up. You thought you were in the living room but everything seemed so different. The walls were red with a white diamond shape and all the furniture was colored the same except for a pink clock that looked like a face with green eyes. The fireplace glowed an ominous green as familiar trinkets sat above it. Plastered on the walls were various pictures of men who looked rather similar to Doppio and Diavolo along with women that were no doubt the spectras you were helping.

You looked at your various injuries to see that they had been tightly stitched. You yawned before you heard footsteps approaching. You turned your head to the entrance to see Diavolo walk it with an eerie smirk on his face that looked like pale, cracked porcelain. He was dressed in a striped suit and his hair was pulled back into a ponytail, only making him look more uncanny. Walked past you with a gleam in his button eyes before he sat at the long chair opposite of you.

“You’re such a disrespectful darling… I go to the effort of cleaning your wounds and you don’t even bother to thank me, or even greet me” he sighed. You gritted your teeth as you glared daggers, he had the audacity to say such a thing after the torment he put you though.

“Surely you understand the tough love I've had to resort to?” he asked but did not allow you to respond.

“I need you to stay here with me or else this very world will crumble” he explained.

You scoffed at Diavolo.

“This world revolves around you, and by rejecting it you are destroying it… I don’t think you understand the damage you have caused” he stated in a cool tone, trying to get some response from you.

“This world can crumble for all I care, It’ll be better than spending the rest of my life with a monster like you!” you hissed.

“Now can you quit stalling and give me my final task!” you continued.

Diavolo sighed as he grabbed a box off of the coffee table and put it on his lap before opening it and stabbing his long needle of a finger stabbed something inside it, only to pull out some brownish bug with a greenish substance oozing out of it. You shuddered as he ate it with no hesitation.

“What, would you like one? They’re cocoa beetles, native delicacy from Zanzibar” he said as he offered.

“No thank you, I would just like to get to the last task” you replied with disgust.

“You remember what happens after the final trial. If you win you will return to the real world with the eyes and your family” he said followed with a smirk.

“However if I win you have to surrender your pretty little eyes and stay with me for eternity” he continued as he crossed his leg.

“If you wish to give up now there is no shame in it” he explained with a chuckle.

“I’m not going to give up now, I’m sure I’ll beat you” you retorted, only to make him laugh a little.

“You still seem so sure after you lost this” he snickered as he pulled out the pendant Gelato had gifted you.

“Yes I’m sure, now give me my final task” you hissed.

“Alright then, since you're such an insistent one” he sighed before he stood up and stood next to the fireplace.

“Each of these little trinkettes hold some very important memories to you… That is how I learnt so much about you” Diavolo mentioned as he picked one up and held it in his metallic appendages so endearingly before placing it down again and sitting next to you, letting his needles play with your hair..

“Now I want you to tell me where your parents are?” he said in words sickly sweet hiding such a deadly poison.

“I don’t have an unspoken time limit unlike last time?” you asked

“Of course not, You shouldn’t feel pressured about your decision” he replied lightly. He was acting rather calm despite the fact that he could lose everything.

You stood up and walked towards the fireplace as you felt something in your heart of hearts telling you the answer was there. As you stood there you took a deep breath before tracing your hand over the trinkets before feeling your heart skip a beat. You opened your eyes and saw that your hand was on a snowglobe. It was from the last holiday you had in the woodland cabin that your parents owned, your family used to drive down every winter until you were about ten. Then things just fell through, your family moved, money became scarce and arguments between your mother and father became the norm. Times like those old days you treasured and you were sure that deep down they did too.

“What’s the matter, dollface? You seem lost in that pretty, little head of yours” Diavolo cooed as he leaned forward and had his head resting on his hand. You turned around and gave a smile and turned to him.

“I know where they are. You completely gave it away, my parents are contained in this globe… the very manifestation of our most treasured memories” you explained to him before he held his head in his hands, avoiding your gaze.

“So I am right! Now you need to keep your end of the deal!” you yelled.

Diavolos' frame began to shake as he stood up and walked towards you as he kept his head before slapping the globe out of your hand and letting out a deranged laugh.

“Oh my darling dear, you really thought I’d give you any chance to escape” he snickered as he placed hand on your shoulder.

“You are a pathetic creature to throw a fit at my victory” you hissed.

“You were nowhere close to winning dollface, You ruined your chance at defeating me before you even came back” he stated.

“What are you even talking about?!”

“Remember the present I gave you? the one you decided to burn” he asked with an eerie grin on his face.

“You…” was the only word that escaped your mouth.

“You made your own parents experience the most painful death” he chuckled as you felt what true despair felt like, nothing ever equated to the sheer horror you experienced now. You dropped to your knees as tears filled your eyes.

“You know what happens now dear… I promise I’ll be gentle” Diavolo spoke in a sweetly venomous tone as one of his appendages lifted your head up while the other drew closer to your eye before you saw something white pounce on Diavolo, causing one of your eyes to be scratched up by his needles as he fell.

You screamed as you held your eye.

“(Y/n), quick grab the key!” Abbaccio’s voice yelled. You simply just kneed down as you felt the blood dripping from your deep wounds. You looked at Diavolo’s body to see his suit had been torn apart, exposing the skeletal body underneath. The key he’d swallowed before was clearly visible and easy enough to pull out as he grabbed Abbaccio by the neck and stood up.

“(Y/n) what are you doing?” he Abbaccio yelled.

You knew this was your chance to escape but you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it, you were too deep in the throes of misery to function. Even if you did manage to leave you didn’t know how you live knowing what you had done, everyone would think you were insane if you told the truth. 

You pull your arm away from your eye for a moment only to let out a scream as you felt the pain of light hitting your damaged pupil. You covered it quickly again.

“I’ve just about had enough of you, always interfering with everything!” Diavolo hissed past his gritted teeth before throwing your feline friend to the wall.

“Things would have been so much easier if you hadn’t been sticking that nose of yours into others business” he scowled as he approached Abbaccio before rearing his leg back to kick you quickly got in front of him and took the blow.

“Leave him alone, It’s me you want not him!” you screamed at the monster in front of you as you buried your head in the carpet.

“You can do whatever you want to me, just leave him alone!” you wailed.

“(Y/n) what the hell are you doing?!” Abbaccio yelled. Unknowing as to what had caused your hysteria.

“Just leave me Abbaccio! Get out of here and never come back!” you screamed at him.

“(Y/n) what’s gotten into you?” he asked in a soft tone before a leather shoe pulled him off the ground.

“You heard her, leave…what did you think you could do to help her?” Diavolo said with a sinister smirk on his face before he kicked him off

“Besides you were only helping her for your own benefit, isn’t that right” he continued.

“You killed a man decades ago… and in death you were cursed to wander in the body of a mangy feline” he mentioned.

“What did you do to her?!” Abbaccio hissed

“Was it out of boredom or perhaps you thought helping her was going to bring you retribution to your horrible crime?” he asked as he ignored Abbaccio’s question.

“Is that true?” you hiccuped.

“Yes but-”

“See (Y/n) this cat never truly cared for you, he was only doing it for himself… He’s no different then the greedy mortal he once was” Diavolo explained as he pointed at him with a condoning look, yet in his button eyes Abbaccio could see the twisted and warped view he had put in your head was an exaggeration of the truth.

“Surely you understand now that there is no way beyond the pearly gates for you” Diavolo tried not to snicker as he looked down at Abbaccio who hissed at him, however his eyes were clouded by his sorrows.

He turned back knowing that there was no way to save you and that if he tried to attack Diavolo again he would certainly be injured or killed.

“You win for now Diavolo… but I promise you, I’ll come back and save all those you’ve wronged” Abbaccio growled at him before walking past the corner, to return to reality with a heart full of sorrow. He wanted to save you but there was no helping you in whatever state he had put you in.

You sobbed at the realization that you were never going to escape. The people you loved you would never see again and you’d never see the light of day or anything for that matter. Your heart felt like it was torn out. You had been tricked by that monster into throwing away your own freedom.

He kneeled down to your laying form.

“My doll… don’t cry, I promise you I’ll put everything back together for you” Diavolo cooed as he knelt down and pulled a few strands back.

“I can make more puppets for you to play with and make this all return to what you see fit, I can even make another Doppio if that amuses you” he continued. Before rolling you to your back.

“But first things first, I need those precious eyes you promised me” he snickered as one of his needles lightly poked your nose before moving to your wounded eye as he forced it open.

You screamed as you pounded on his chest as his over hand lingered over your head.

“I’ll get rid of this one first for you since you’ve been so compliant” he commented before stabbing three of his needle fingers deep into your eye and pulling it out with little care for you. You pulled at his ponytail and wailed in pain before he grabbed a pair of scissors and cut the optic nerve.

“Now my precious doll, do you think ivory would be a good choice?”

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

Hypothetical prompt for a teensy weensy tiny fic: Character A is very sleepy/ dealing with a headache/ has trouble falling asleep and Character B takes a solidarity-nap with them someplace quiet, pretty and calm.

(Bonus if you include A talking in their half sleep/ minor nightmares and jumps which B successfully calms down)

Let’s just assume “A” and “B” are... mh, maybe Emhyr and Geralt, how about that? Thank you very much for that cute little idea, and have 1728 words of fluff or whatever. Read under the cut or on AO3.

The door opened all but without a sound, but Emhyr startled, as if he had been deeply engrossed in the papers on his desk – in truth, he had been staring into emptiness, unable to concentrate on any thought. 

"Do you know what time it is?"

Emhyr gave his spouse a frown, revealing that he had lost track of time. A look at the half-burned candle in its copper bowl told him that it was late. Very late.

"Geralt," he returned in a puzzled tone, reaching out to him – a strangely touching, almost forlorn gesture. "I have..."

"Been brooding, what else," Geralt replied with a slight smile. He half sat down on the desk, but Emyhr's face betrayed more weariness than displeasure. Then he took the quill, which his husband still held in his hand; indeed, he clutched it almost convulsively, as if it were a precious tool that he dare not to lose. Geralt placed it on its little bench, which lay on the table next to the inkpot. 

"You've been sitting on this for two nights, heck, two days and nights straight. Take a break and rest."

"I must… "Emhyr began, with that small, unwilling crease across his brows that Geralt occasionally referred to as a defiance crease. 

"Sleep, nothing else."

"It troubles me," Emhyr admitted with unusual honesty, rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead. 

Then, as if he had caught himself in a gesture that betrayed weakness – even to his own husband – he put both hands flat on the desk as if to ground himself. But that didn't last long; soon, his fingers began drumming an impatient little cacophony on the tabletop. 

"I know," Geralt replied softly. "I know it's difficult, and I know you're doing everything you can to find a solution. But you're no use to anyone if you exhaust yourself."

Emhyr leaned back and gave the witcher a look in which, despite his fatigue, there was a hint of mockery. 

"I have a whole staff of advisors."

"Most of which will tell you what you want to hear," Geralt returned. He leaned forward, his face very close to Emhyr's, and continued softly, "Or do you want me to command you?"

This time, one of the rare genuine smiles crossed Emhyr's face, even if it didn't make up for the shadows under his eyes. He crossed his arms, regarding Geralt with a sort of challenging gaze. 

"The day I obey one of your orders, I will have a special flag raised, my dear."

"Well," Geralt replied with a mischievous (no, probably slightly filthy) grin, "as much as I love looking at that flag, you should be in bed for other reasons."

There was no mistaking the seriousness in his tone, and it was probably what prompted Emhyr to take Geralt's hand and candidly admit, "I can't sleep. Not because I would not want to. As soon as I close my eyes, I think of these people, this problem, and my thoughts won't turn off."

Geralt nodded, and in his gaze lay not only a genuine understanding but compassion that touched Emhyr in a special way. In one fluid movement, Geralt rose, pulling his spouse along with him by his outstretched hand, and the latter followed as if pulled by a string and stood up, albeit with a slightly confused expression. 

"I'll lie down with you," Geralt promised, "and you and I will just take a short nap. A compromise that should please you, after all, I learned from the best, don't you think? We'll close our eyes, just for a short while, and I guarantee you won't think about anything. It will do you good."

"You will do me good," Emhyr replied softly, and that settled the matter.

The bedroom lay in darkness. Geralt lit only a single candle so that his spouse could find his way in the gloom as surely as he could, and the latter sank unresistingly onto the bed as if it had only needed this prompt. Despite his exhaustion, he still did not believe this was enough to snap him out of his musings. A deep sleep, he felt as much as the pain that announced itself behind his forehead, would not be granted to him until he knew exactly how to solve his problem. Still, the pillow under his head was as tempting as the cool sheets, and even more so the body next to his own, feeling as heavy as anything that weighed him down. 

"Close your eyes."

That was a request that took some effort to follow, but Geralt clearly had more patience than he did, and they could both match each other in stubbornness anyway. 

The witcher just lay there looking at him, affection and a particular concern in his look, which now mixed with slight amusement as if he knew exactly what Emhyr was thinking. So the latter finally closed his eyes. 

"Now breathe with me."

Emhyr's lips curled in a sneer, whether he wanted to or not.

"Are we meditating now?"

"You have no patience for that," Geralt replied calmly. "Ah. Shut your eyes!"

After his stare did not have the desired effect, Emhyr closed his eyes again. Geralt placed one of his hands on his chest, a physical connection that strangely made it easier for Emhyr to pay attention to his words.

"Breathe," Geralt repeated.

"I think..." began Emhyr, but Geralt interrupted him immediately, not unkindly, "Don't think."

This request was almost ridiculous; how could one not think? Thoughts didn't disappear; you couldn't force them aside. There were no weapons against them – how amazing that Geralt, of all people, a unique weapon himself if necessary, claimed he knew the trick to make thoughts simply vanish. 

"Feel my hand," he said, and that again was easy. This hand was so familiar to Emhyr that he would have sworn he could feel it out of a hundred others with his eyes closed. That hand was warm, trusting, and sure; a promise in itself, and yes, he felt it on his chest, a weight that was none and yet carried so much, so heavy. 

"Breathe with me," Geralt repeated, his voice merely a hint, and strangely enough, it seemed pretty easy now. The heaviness behind Emhyr's forehead was no longer just leaden fatigue. It became tantalizing, like the announcement that something worthwhile lay behind it. Next to him was the assurance of a body he knew and trusted, and that assurance gave him the strength to focus on nothing but the other's breath. The blackness around him seemed to turn into colors, and he became all the more aware of the soundlessness of his surroundings when all he could hear was that soft breathing. And then – nothing more.

Until the moment when a loud gasp, a suppressed scream made him start up; a sound he couldn't place for a moment. Darkness enveloped him, and he remembered; he had apparently fallen asleep. How long, Emhyr could not have said. But what had awakened him from this thoroughly restful slumber, he quickly realized after a moment of typical confusion. Geralt, his hair disheveled, was sitting upright in bed, staring blindly into the darkness, muttering something. With both hands, he clutched one leg, and now everything was plain. 

His fingers clawed into his flesh as if he had to cover a horribly bleeding wound, and Emhyr knew he was doing just that at that moment; that it must feel to him as if blood was oozing from between his fingers, he must feel as if there was nothing to stop that bleeding. The truth had been different, and Emhyr shuddered at the thought of what had to be done back then, what he had done. He sat up, and carefully, very gently, he put a hand on Geralt's back as if he tried to calm a savage animal. 

"Wake up," he said softly. "It's a dream. Just a dream."

Geralt's face was contorted with pain, which he was living through more clearly in this nightmare than it had been in reality - shock and adrenaline had masked the pain then, but it always made its way in dreams. And it didn't stop there, which was an inevitable side effect of two ghastly fractures and magical healings. The pain was real, and the dreams could be very long and very unpleasant. Emhyr's hand on Geralt's back strove for the same assurance the latter had given him, the same promise, the same security. 

"I'm here," he said softly, and he knew his voice was finding a way into those dreams, as was his touch.

The return to reality was always the same: a gasp, sounding like someone who had been almost drowning catching their breath. After this, the realization that didn't need the words, but Emhyr repeated them anyway, like a mantra that aided them both, "You were dreaming. It's over."

Geralt turned to him. The one small candle was still burning, albeit dimly, and its light cast a shadow on his face, making his expression difficult for Emhyr to see. In any case, he sounded slightly confused, sleepy, as he replied, "I was asleep? Wait. You were asleep, too."

Emhyr suspected that his spouse could see his smile even in this twilight, and he didn't hide it.

"It looks like it. Your method was successful."

"So was yours," Geralt returned quietly, reaching for Emhyr's hand and squeezing it in mutual understanding. To his surprise, Emhyr's eyes suddenly widened, and he leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, albeit marked by suppressed passion. 

"Probably," he replied triumphantly, "but yours had quite another effect."

Unexpectedly, he jumped up, sat on the edge of the bed, and impatiently fumbled for his shoes. 

"I know what I have to do. It's very simple."

"You see," Geralt smiled, "it is possible to detach your thoughts from one thing after all. At least temporarily."

"Oh, you're quite right about that one," Emhyr said, stroking his cheek tenderly. "There is only one thing from which I find it even more difficult to detach my thoughts, and that is the sight of you in this bed."

Despite these words, he now stood up, and with slight disappointment, Geralt replied, "But you do it anyway."

"I do it anyway," Emhyr confirmed. "Just for a while."

There was a promise in those words. 

[sergeantsporks]

Swapped

Rating: Teen

Relationships: Changeling OC/Zoe (But it’s functionally Zouxie)

Ch 1/5

Tag warning for blood

"I didn’t ask for any of this! But when the Pale Lady says she’s picked you, and you’re living in the darklands where everything is a living nightmare and Gunmar has control over everything you don’t exactly get to say ‘no thank you! I’d rather not be a changeling if it’s all the same to you!’"

Changeling Douxie AU

Ao3

Or read under the cut

He’d been chosen.

A mission from the pale lady herself.

It was an honor.

It didn’t feel like an honor. It felt like being singled out, and not in a “oh, you did a good job” kind of way, but more like “a troll born in the darklands? You’ll die in a month” sort of way.

And when they’d told his parents, they’d smiled, and said “wonderful.” They’d said “oh, yes, what an honor.” They’d said that they were “so proud” of “their little son.”

Right. Proud. Honor. Chosen. All of it was pretty words, little lies to cover up a hard truth; that being a changeling wasn’t an honor. That it meant he couldn’t ever be completely part of any world, and that he, Dalmar, would be rejected by both sides. Changelings were called “impure” for a reason.

His parents had said goodbye to Dalmar.

And then he wasn’t Dalmar anymore.

He was Hisirdoux Casperan. “Douxie” for short. He was taken by Dictatious, kept in some part of the darklands he’d never been allowed before (because he wasn’t important, they didn’t care about him, they never WOULD have cared about him if they hadn’t gotten some message from some dead sorceress, he knew that, he knew all of the special treatment now was an ACT and they didn’t care if he lived or died), having his head crammed with random facts about some wizard kid that he didn’t know and didn’t WANT to know, some kid he’d never met with a cushy little life up on the surface world that now he had to pretend to be—no, not pretend, pretending wouldn’t be good enough, he had to be this kid, no pressure or anything. No one called him Dalmar anymore. They kept calling him “Douxie” until he’d gotten used to it—until it became his name.

It would be hard, they told him. Harder than any other changeling’s job, because before, changelings had replaced babies. They didn’t have to impersonate someone with memories, and a personality. They could be themselves, just turn into a blank-slate-baby. But Dalmar—no, Douxie, he was Douxie now—had to be someone he wasn’t.

And that was why he was on the surface now, lurking in the shadows and watching the real Hisirdoux Casperan. Noting how he interacted with others, especially with the wizard girl he’d recently taken up with and, of course, his familiar. Familiar. Da—Douxie held back a laugh. Little did Hisirdoux Casperan know, he was a familiar to TWO creatures.

Well. Not yet. Douxie wasn’t a changeling yet. But he would be. Whenever the elusive and vague “process” was complete.

So he watched Hisirdoux Casperan. Studied him. Learned everything about his behaviors, everything that made him Hisirdoux Casperan, apprentice to Merlin, one of the last remnants of a time long gone.

God, was this guy an idiot.

He bumbled around, making mistakes that didn’t lead to deadly consequences. He stumbled over his spells, doing things quickly and then yelping for his familiar when things went wrong and brooms went flying into his face.

Dalm—Douxie silently seethed. He’d been born in the darklands, with no recollection of the world that Gunmar was so eager to conquer. But now that he was here, here in air that didn’t seem to suffocate you when you breathed, here in a place awash with life instead of decay, a place of glittering lights and exciting noises and smells… he could see why the Gum-Gums were ready to break free of the darklands.

And Hisirdoux Casperan had been BORN here.

He didn’t know how lucky he was.

He took all of this for granted. All of the humans did. They didn’t know what it was like to live in a dying land, where if you weren’t SO careful, you could get eaten, and only the strongest survived.

He’d seen enough. It was time to get this show on the road.

He’d shrunk himself to fit through the fetch, a difficult spell, one that the real Hisirdoux Casperan could probably only dream of. He shrank himself again with a small, satisfied smile. That was something, at least, he held over Hisirdoux Casperan. He’d had no formal training from a great master wizard. But the harshness of magic in the darklands had been a better teacher than some crusty old relic could have ever been.

Dictatious was waiting for him. “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” Douxie agreed, “But—Dictatious. You said this mission was important?”

“Deadly so.”

Douxie crossed his arms. “Then I’m not doing it for free. I want a promise. I want you to make sure my parents are taken care of down here.”

“You don’t have parents. They died in a tragic fire where you met your familiar, Archie, leaving you orphaned.”

Douxie bit down a sour reply. “Dictatious. Promise me they’ll be alright.”

The troll rolled all of his eyes. “Very well. We shall look after your parents, as long as you forget they were ever your parents.”

“Deal.” Douxie let out a deep breath. “So. The, uh… process?”

Dictatious gave him a grin that looked just a bit too gleeful. “Hold on to your horns. This is going to hurt.”

Xxx

Hurt was an understatement.

Being ripped to shreds was probably closer to the truth.

Magic, but not his magic, pulsed through him, shattering his skin, splintering his horns, crushing his bones and it hurt like nothing he’d ever felt. No falling off of a ledge or getting hit by a Gum-Gum’s blade could compare to this. Everything squeezed, and pushed and pulled and tore, and it was like every part of him was being ripped up and stuck back together, but all wrong, and it hurt!

Dalmar screamed for his parents, but of course they wouldn’t come, and a cool voice reminded him that he didn’t have any parents.

Everything burned and froze and broke and mended and GOD, what was that oozing out, red and sticky and then it was gone, and he was crumbling into pieces, torn apart by wind and swirling back together into something new, then breaking again, and tearing like a hundred blades doused in poison.

An unearthly, echoing howling was everywhere, and it was him, but not him, and he didn’t even have ears to hear it, but he felt it in his bones, his bones that were being crushed to pulp and remolding and breaking and remolding and breaking and—

Something was oozing out of him again, but it wasn’t red. It was clear and salty. Douxie was on his hands and knees and it was over, thank the pale lady, it was over, and ugly, heaving sobs were tearing out of his new, human chest, and salty water was dripping from his eyes.

“The binding was a success,” Dictatious crowed triumphantly, “Congratulations, Douxie, you are officially a changeling.”

It was horrible. There was so much texture. Everything was so sensitive. The stone beneath his hands was rough and unyielding. The fabric of clothing rubbed against his new (light pink instead of blue—strange) skin, and Douxie winced at the sensation. Ow.

He staggered up to his feet, stumbling around on weird, straight legs, and long feet instead of delicate hooves. Douxie wobbled as he walked, nearly falling over. Dictatious just watched.

“Do you think you’re up to this?”

“I’ve got it,” Douxie snapped, rolling his weird new ankle joints experimentally and kicking his feet. Right. He could do this. He teetered a few more steps. “I’ve got it,” he repeated, walking across the room, “I can do it.”

“Congratulations,” Dictatious said dryly, “Now, there’s only one step—pardon the pun—left.”

Douxie turned towards the fetch, preparing the spell that would shrink him enough to get through. “Kidnap my familiar.”

Xxx

Douxie watched his familiar, waiting for him to be alone long enough to make his move. But Hisirdoux Casperan was rarely alone. He was always with Archie, or that new wizard girl. Was that going to be Douxie’s life, now? Never alone, not for a second?

And then, finally, the moment he was waiting for. Hisirdoux wandered off to go to the bathroom, and Douxie pounced, hitting him with a sleep spell before he knew the changeling was there. He couldn’t do the shrinking spell on anyone but himself—as a few disastrous attempts to shrink a Gum-Gum small enough to get through the fetch had proved. So he was just going to have to entrust his familiar to the Janus order, who claimed that they could yes definitely get the wizard through the fetch.

And sure enough, there were a few changelings and a pack of goblins waiting for him. Hisirdoux Casperan started to wake up as Douxie handed him off to the Order, and he blinked blearily at Douxie.

“Wha…?” Realization seemed to dawn in his eyes, and terror sparked. “No!” he shouted, just as the Order dragged him away.

Douxie shrugged off any uncertainty, turning to get back to Hisirdoux’s friends before they realized anything was off.

Sorry, Hisirdoux Casperan.

But this is my life now.

[harrowharksoup]

“Need a Hand?”

Local Writer Overcome with Divine Inspiration of the John Variety at 4 a.m., Makes Puns

[One-shot set in a Canaan House AU where the Lyctor trials progress as intended; occurring sometime after the Pool Scene, during an imaginary Lyctor trial]

It would never not be funny, Gideon mused, watching Harrow lose her mind over some crusty old Lyctoral theorem. Her necromancer had become so thoroughly entrenched in her work to the point where all else seemed to have dissolved into the background and there was nothing but Harrow, some bones, and the imagined smell of burning sulfur from the pure intensity of her concentration. It would never not be funny, except that Gideon was bored. She lolled around, kicking half-heartedly at one of the discarded constructs lying in a pile of shattered ribs and fractured vertebrae.

“Yo. Harrow. What’s the big holdup? I’m about to fossilise from lack of …” said Gideon, and trailed off. Harrow was breathing differently. She’d squinted her eyes shut and was kneeling on the ground, her black robes pooling around her as blood dripped slowly from both nostrils. That was both normal and expected; what concerned Gideon was the blood that had begun to ooze from between her closed eyelids and out of her ears.

“No, stop — Nonagesimus, you need to take a break. Bleeding out on this — stupidly clean floor isn’t going to help anybody.” Gideon was trying not to sound worried (she was failing).

“So — close,” came the rasped answer, and then a grinding sound, probably teeth — though whether it was from mandibular mastication or not, Gideon had no idea. With Harrow, you never knew. It could be from any number of untethered teeth secreted within the dark recesses of the necromancer’s Ninth House robes.

Gideon looked around for something to help, and saw it. She hurried to Harrow, who had doubled over with her forehead nearly touching the ground. Her necromancer’s eyes cracked into slits as she looked up at Gideon; she was crying tears of blood, but she had stopped the theorem she’d been attempting. “Do you need … a hand?” asked Gideon, waggling the severed forearm in Harrow’s face so that her brow runkled and her gravity well eyes became somehow even more black hole-like: dark, inexorable, unimpressed with Gideon.

“No!” snapped Harrow, brushing radius and ulna aside; they crumbled instantly at her touch, dusting her in a fine powder that rendered her a ghostly stick. She took a breath, schooling her expression, and said in glacial tones of utmost disregard: “Nav, if I wanted ‘a hand,’ I would simply conjure one myself.”

Gideon couldn’t help grinning. “Come on — humerus me a little.” (And, under her breath: “Oh, that came out wrong. If I wanted you to bone me I would have just said so.”) “No, this is better — this is so much better,” she said loudly, and leaned in — Harrow flinched — as she draped an arm around her necromancer’s twiglike shoulders, adding, “because you have me! Your personal, professional arms dealer.”

If Harrow was getting the puns, she didn’t let on, or at least didn’t have any further reaction beyond the perpetual irritated frown that left her forehead wrinkled like one’s toes after they’d been in the bath too long. (Gideon knew all about that: at first, she’d thought she was dying, or that maybe some horrible withering spell like the entropy field had been set upon her. It turned out it was just what water did to you — water, the primary source of life, that colourless, flavourless liquid you made soup with and drank nasty recycled jugs of, never mind the permanent taste of mould it left on your tongue. It felt like a betrayal in the worst way. Gideon had wretchedly crawled back to the sonic like the prodigal child she was.)

“If I were interested in your ‘arms dealing,’ you would know,” said Harrow finally, and struggled to her feet. Gideon stepped back and watched her necromancer sway minutely, her pupils constricting until they were mere glittering pinpricks amidst the lightless ebony of her irises. “This is just a momentary setback, that’s all. I have a better idea about how to approach the trial; we try again in an hour.”

✦         ✦         ✦

Gideon’s ass had been kicked, and she hadn’t even got to use her two-hander. She lay flat on her back, too winded to move, and watched little coloured lights dance in and out of focus. I have a better idea about how to approach the trial, Harrow had said. Better idea, apparently, was have Gideon attempt to trick the trial into thinking she wasn’t a threat. That the trial had recognised Gideon for the danger she posed would have been flattering if she weren’t currently nursing bruised ribs and a swollen jaw.

“Nonagesimus, I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” groaned Gideon, and spat blood on the pristine tile floor; one of her teeth rattled in its socket. Damn. That was going to hurt. Maybe she could get Harrow to grow her a new one later.

Something — or rather, five somethings — appeared in her field of vision, too close to be anything more than a yellowed blur. Gideon blinked sweat out of her eyes and beheld a set of phalanges: smooth, freshly formed. She looked up. A burly, strong-jointed construct towered over her, bony appendage extended like some famous painting of a deity. Harrow was watching her, head cocked to one side and an experimental gleam in her eyes. “Need a hand?”

[hellowkatey]

Febuwhump Day 2

Prompt: “I can’t take it anymore”

Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence and torture

read on AO3

Business and Pleasure

He's lost track of how long he'd been here. By the numbness in his chain-tied arms and the hollow ache of his belly, he'd guess a few days. The chamber she is keeping him in has no windows, no way to judge whether the beatings he endures are ten minutes or ten hours.

And without the Force, Obi-Wan truly feels like he is merely floating through some sort of boundless wasteland.

A week ago (two weeks? a month?) he wasn't chained in a torture chamber with a Force suppressant entrapping his body and mind. Obi-Wan was enduring the already-horrific Battle of Jabiim.

They weren't ready for such a difficult trial so early in the war. Not only did the Separatists have the upper hand strategically, but they had the support of the Jabiimi rebels who were acclimated to the constant rain and random deadly mudslides.

Plain and simple, the battle was a blood bath before Asajj Ventress pulled him out of the burning walker. Now, he has no idea of the outcome.

He has no idea if Anakin is okay. No way of reaching through their bond to tug at his Force presence with reassurance. The damned Sith torture mask not only prevents him from using the Force, but it chokes him with the icy fist of the Dark Side. All he can feel is the constant stream of anger, pain, and death that seems to have amplified through the galaxy since the Clone Wars began.

No wonder Ventress is so irritable all the time. She has to feel this stream of darkness on a constant basis.

Speaking of Ventress, the door to the far side of the chamber opens, and in walks his captor. She walks with her usual long strides and slight sway of her toned body as though she is strutting into a cantina and not her prisoner's keep. When she notices he is awake, her lips turn in a sinister smile that morphs the vertical tattoos at the corners of her mouth.

"Kenobi, how lucky of you that I don't have to beat you awake."

The torture mask only has eyeholes, which makes speaking difficult-- but not impossible. He forces a smile, even though she can't see it anyway, but it makes him feel better.

"If there were such a thing as luck, I would agree."

She saunters over, an electroblade she likes to use when he mouths off just a little too much hanging menacingly in her hand. With his hands and feet chained so that he hangs in midair, Obi-Wan is entirely at Ventress's mercy. He has no way to strike back. No way to use the Force to unchain him. All he can do is try to figure out why in Sith's hell she is continuing this ruthless song and dance.

"Your disbelief of luck is ignorant. How else would you end up here with me?" she says as she runs the deactivated electroblade tip down the center of his chest.

"I do believe that was a deliberately set trap," he eyes her. "Nothing to do with having bad luck."

"Oh right. It is a shame that so many others had to die for me to get my hands on you. A shame for you at least."

He swallows hard, trying to keep his emotions at bay. Trying to prevent her from seeing how the brutal death of his comrades affects him.

"I'd think you'd resent this task. To be pulled off the battlefield for the sheer purpose of having to deal with me? And to what importance am I anyway?"

She rolls her eyes. "You really are denser than durasteel, Kenobi, you know that?"

"And you'd prefer to be back on Jabiim raising the death toll."

A sharp jab at his ribs and Obi-Wan's body seizes as a sharp volt of electricity courses through him. He sags against his restraints, breathing hard through the residual shocks that pulsate through his fingers and toes.

"Don't get me wrong, my duty is to be an assassin, but this--" she hits him again with the electroblade. "this mixes business and pleasure."

Ventress says this, but when Obi-Wan looks at her he can see the glint in her eye fade at her own words. She claims to enjoy this-- perhaps she does in some ways-- but he can also tell the weeks of torture may be taking a toll on her as well.

"I didn't realize business was also being conducted here," he says cooly.

"Oh, you thought I was simply a masochist then?"

"That would be one explanation."

"And other explanations?"

He tries to shrug, but with his arms restrained he just kind of bobs in place. "Orders."

Ventress crosses her arms. "I don't take orders from anyone, Kenobi."

"Not even your Master?"

The uncharged electroblade slams across his face, snapping his head to the side. He can feel the warm ooze of blood trickle down his cheek from where she struck him.

"What do you think you know of me?"

If he could grin, he would. Ventress has kept the truth of her allegiances held tight. Her story was that she was a Separatist spy, and his torture was for Republic information-- except, Obi-Wan quickly realized she asked him no questions about the secrets of the Republic or the Jedi. She only inflicted pain.

"Don't you think the Sith torture mask gave it away, Ventress?"

She glares at him. "My eyes aren't yellow, Kenobi. I'm no Sith."

"But you do work for the Sith. Tell me, how is Count Dooku these days?"

It's a shot in the dark, but from the way her eyes widen ever so slightly he can tell he has figured it out. It wouldn't be the first time Dooku has captured him, but the torture is certainly new. Even on Geonosis, his aim wasn't for pain, but for partnership. At least, initially.

A blast of electricity radiates out from his ribs again. This time, she holds it a few seconds longer to truly demonstrate her displeasure at his deductions. When she finally pulls away, dots are swimming around his vision and he can hear his heart pounding in his ears.

"You know nothing."

"Or maybe..." he huffs through the lasting effects of the electrocution. "these aren't... Dooku's orders. Certainly... isn't his style." Obi-Wan forces his head up so he can look her in the eyes. She hovers the electroblade above his abdomen, but her icy stare is trained on him. "So am I standing in your way?"

"Of what?" she growls.

"Becoming his apprentice."

There is a moment of silence, and Obi-Wan expects the electroblade to dig into his chest once again.

Instead, Ventress lowers it. Sets it back on the tray.

And picks up a paddle.

"He is a fool," she says venomously as the paddle makes contact with his left side. "to think you'd join him." Another strike to his other side. Obi-Wan twists painfully in his restraints, screwing his eyes shut tighter with every blunt contact with his aching body. "So I decided to take matters," the paddle smacks into his kneecap. "into my own hands." She grabs him by the chin, forcing him to look at her. He blinks through the dizziness to try and focus on her pale outline. "I will break you, Kenobi, so my Master may see your uselessness once and for all."

She pushes him away, forcing his wrists and ankles to catch on the shackles and reopen the wounds that seem to never get the chance to close. His breath catches in his throat, and he has to cough to force the air from his lungs. All he can taste is blood and sweat; he feels it dripping down his chin and hears drop, drop, dropping rhythmically onto the ground.

Every second seems to pull him closer to unconsciousness. A part of him welcomes the respite. At least for a little bit.

"I can't take this anymore," Obi-Wan shakes his head, causing drops of blood to fling off the ends of his hair.

"Is the pain becoming too much, Kenobi?"

And he smiles.

"Oh no, that's fairly tolerable so far. I meant your pathetic lamenting."

Ventress stares at him incredulously before lashing out with her bare hand to strike the side of his head. Obi-Wan sees stars.

She's yelling at him now. Threats of even more horrible and painful tortures she is ready to try on him. And yet, he is invigorated with a new feeling of satisfaction. His body feels as though it is crumbling, but it will be worth it. Dark Siders use their anger for strength, it also feeds a fatal weakness. Ventress's impulsivity and inability to control her fury has revealed the root of her plan-- to watch him break.

By no means will he let that happen.

[writingfromkitchenator]

The Mad Dawn

Written for @sdavid09 Tale Teller’s Fright Night 2020 ~ Thank you so much for this amazing opportunity and challenge!  This was awesome fun as someone who has a deep love for horror and felt real good to be able to write something like this!

Happy Halloween everyone!

Inspired by Dawn of the Dead

Inspired by Mad World by Gary Jules

Set several months after the battle of the five armies, Erebor is awoken to bells ringing in Dale, a bleak warning for what comes over the course of the night and into the dawn.

Pairings: Thorin x F!OC (previous), Dain x F!OC (current)

Words: 3,811

Warnings: Zombies, grief, minor talking of blood and fighting (nothing intense or graphic), major character death and reanimation (it is zombies after all), bleak future outlook.

The bells sounded in Dale, ringing through the darkness in the middle of the night.

Feet hurried, left the warmth of their beds, hastily pulled on armour as they scurried to the gates of Erebor.  Fear of the not so distant memory of a dragon clung to the dwarves, murmurs filling the halls as some sat still, holding their breath.

At the gates, a messenger arrived, pale faced and stammering, and it took a few minutes for the words to come from him, the bell continuing to ring.

“The dead,” He croaked.  “The dead are rising.”

The dwarves were confused for a moment until screaming began within their own halls and soldiers threw themselves into action, shaking off the thought of the messenger at the gate, even as he screamed after them.

“They’re rising from the lake!  The dead have returned!”

Orders were given, hurried footsteps marching loudly through the halls before falling silent.

Dain was shouting, but no one was listening, the soldiers all having stopped to stare, another army approaching from the halls of the dead.

“Mahal have mercy on us,” Dain breathed, the glistening dead eyes staring back at him, sending a cold chill up his spine, unlike anything he had felt before.  “Get the Queen!  Get her out of here now!”

Myara was on her feet, pacing the bedroom, the bells still sounding in Dale, a sound signalling doom was upon them.

There was a knock on the door and she hurries to throw it open.

Dwalin stood there, his expression grim.  “We need to go.”

“What? What is happening?”  She asked as Dwalin marched in and started gathering a few small items into a traveling pack.

He swallows, casting her a look, one that drifts down to her swollen stomach.  “I think it’s best if you don’t know my Queen. We need….we need to go.”

She rests a hand on his arm.  “Dwalin…”

Dwalin shakes his head.  “Get dressed Myara.  Please.”

A cold chill settled over her, the hair rising on the back of her neck, and she moves as best she can to throw on travelling clothes and what armour she could, the sword on her belt looking strange against her stomach.

“You know I will defend you with my life,” Dwalin said quietly, an odd note in his voice as he waited by the door.  “As will anyone in Erebor, but I will warn you now…” He swallows.  “This is unlike anything we have faced before.”

Out in the hall, Bofur and Nori waited, both pale and afraid, although doing their best to hide it.

Myara looked between them and then at Dwalin again.  “Please.  Just tell me.”

Dwalin shakes his head and takes her arm, starting to lead her down the hall.  “Trust me, nothing I say will be able to prepare you. Let’s hurry.”

Soon, Bombur, Bifur, Dori, Ori and Oin had joined them.

“Gloin has already got his wife and son out,” Oin explained.  “They’ll meet us there.”

“And Gloin?” Dwalin asked.

Oin’s expression went grim.  “Has gone back to the fighting.”

Myara looked at Dwalin.  “Where is Balin?”

He shakes his head.  “I do not know.”

Their footfalls seemed to fall oddly in the halls, against the backdrop of the ringing bell, the shouts of soldiers, and Myara had a growing feeling she had felt before, long ago, when a dragon had attacked.

A blood curdling scream made them all freeze, all of them arming themselves as they stared into the darkness at the other end of the hall.

Dwalin went forward slowly, cautiously, his axe out in front, trying to see through the dark. His grip was tight, too tight, his hands slipping as sweat built up from the pounding of his heart in his ears.

Myara almost screamed, tears filling her eyes at the sight coming down the hall towards them.

“Thorin…” Dwalin breathed, his axe lowering slightly.  “Thorin please…no…”

Several months of decay had twisted Thorin’s features, the cut that had been sealed was now split and oozing thick black blood, his skin an ashen whitish green. He shuffled towards them, lifeless eyes on Myara.

Myara thought she was going to be sick, her fingers subconsciously finding the bead in her hair, the bead that Thorin had not long put in before the battle of the five armies, seated securely above Dain’s.

“Thorin, don’t-don’t come any closer.  I meant it.” Dwalin’s voice cracked, his feet carrying him slowly back, the others all tense.

It seemed that none of the soldiers had had the heart to fight him.

There is a further shuffling noise behind Thorin, and Fili and Kili join him, a low groaning growl leaving their throats, and Thorin’s hand reaches out for Myara.

“Go,” Dwalin said thickly, turning away from the sight.  “Go!”

Several hands forced her to move, hurrying her in the other direction from the horrible sight. Her chest ached, her heart broken again. What had they done to deserve this horror?

“Where is Dain?”  She managed to ask, her voice soft and broken.

“In the front lines,” Dwalin said, casting her a worried look, but still constantly glancing behind them, worried that the shambling corpses of their friends would follow.  “He will try and meet us there.”

“Dwalin-”

“Myara, we all swore to protect you and Thorin’s child,” Dwalin said.  “Swore with our lives, no matter what would come. Dain is doing this protect you.”

She hangs her head and focuses on moving, doing her best not to think about how this could turn out, about she could lose all those that she loved.  It was to ignore the grief of what she’d seen, but she knew if she was to survive, she would have to.

Winding passage after winding passage passed them in a blur and Myara looked over the edge of one of the many bridges in Erebor, normally lit in golden light. Fire burned below, illuminating the soldiers fighting off the dead that seemed to fill the halls endlessly, many in varying states of decay, but the freshest were those from that horrible battle, weapons still in hands as if it had been sealed around them in death, and she knew the soldiers were grieving once again.  She caught a flicker of red hair, of a mighty shout, but it quickly disappeared in the ocean of bodies beneath her and she was hurried into another hall before she could call Dain’s name.

The bells of Dale went silent.

They hurried past another hall and a loud screech caused them to freeze, several corpses shambling towards them, some of them old and some of them very fresh, bleeding wounds still fresh under their armour.  This lot was moving quicker, Bombur, Bofur and Bifur all sharing a look and nodding, stepping between the oncoming dead and the rest of the group.

“No-”

“You need to go,” Bofur said, giving a nod to Myara.  “We’ll deal with these and catch up.”

Dwalin takes Myara’s arm again and leads her on, his expression grim.  The sound of fighting followed them for a long few moments before all fell silent once again, their footsteps falling softly through the hall.

Tears streaked down her cheeks, but she keeps herself silent, her grip tight on her sword. Erebor would not fall today, not after everything that it had already been through, not after they had not long got it back, she had to believe that.

A deep rumble echoes through the ground, making the group stop and a fear filled look to pass between several of them.

“It’s not possible,” Dwalin breathed.  “No, I refuse to believe it, not with all this going on as well.”

He marched ahead and the others slowly followed, Myara still keeping her head held high.  All of them grew more anxious the further they went.  Why were the dead rising?  Why were they being haunted like this, after all that they had suffered? Those that they had loved, those that they had already mourned, now seemingly after them and their blood.

Another rumble goes through the halls, dust falling from the ceiling and Myara mourned, as she knew the others were, mourned that they were just getting back their homes, their lives, and now this would change everything again.

There was a kick in her stomach and Myara let out a steadying breath.  She had no choice but to survive.  She had to survive.

They reached the secret entrance just as there was a roar outside.  They had all been there, they all knew that sound.

“Mahal have mercy on us,” Myara breathed.  “This cannot be happening.”

Footsteps sound suddenly behind them, and Dwalin and Nori quickly step in front of Myara, Oin, Dori and Ori stepping in close on the sides.

With a limping shuffle and the shine of blood on his head, Dain stepped into view, his face pale under the blood, an equally injured Bofur was hanging on his shoulder.

“We need to go,” Dain grumbled.  “We need to go now.”

Myara hurried to his side and helped him, while Nori took Bofur, a pained grin on his face.

“You should just leave me here.”  He said grimly.  “I’m pretty sure I’m gone for.”

“Not a chance,” Nori said firmly.  “I think we’re going to lose enough today as it, without you staying here.”

Bofur laughs grimly, but it quickly silenced by the pain, holding onto the worst of the wounds as best he could.

“What is happening?”  Myara asked, trying to see the extent of Dain’s wounds.  “I saw…I saw…”

She couldn’t bring herself to say it, the ache in her chest too much, but by Dain’s grim expression, he understood.

“I saw him too,” Dain said quietly, taking her hands and kissing them gently, his own expression pained.  “But we cannot dwell on it.  There is nothing that we can do for them.”

Screeching and growls come from down the hall.  As quickly as they could, they hurried out the door and swung it closed behind them.

Outside, Myara stared out towards Dale, her breathe stolen as she saw fires burning once again, but her attention was only held briefly as an all too familiar roar cut through the air, earning all of their gazes.

A large dark form was in the sky, coming from where Lake Town was still being rebuilt. All of them standing there knew what the form was, and they all watched helplessly as it headed towards the burning city.

“This isn’t happening,” Ori said quietly, voicing what they were all thinking.  “Smaug was dead, we all saw him fall.”

“We saw a lot of those we’ve seen fall,” Dain said grimly.  “It seems that the gods have abandoned us tonight.”

A green light filled Smaug’s chest and even from where they stood they could make out the rotting dark red scales, the black arrow still embedded deeply into Smaug’s chest.  The fire erupted from his chest, illuminating the sky in a vivid green glow.

Dain’s hand rests on Myara’s lower back.  “Do you think you can get down alright?”

Myara’s jaw clenches and she nods, Ori and Dori leading the way so she can follow, Dwalin and Dain close behind, Oin and Nori taking up the rear, helping Bofur as best they could.

“Where is Tula and Gimli?”  Oin asked, huffing a little.  “They should have been here.”

“Tula is no fool,” Dain said.  “She knew that they could not have waited long.  Hopefully we find them later.”

The night felt so cold as they reached the ground, Myara’s arms wrapping around herself as they waited for the others to get down.  There were screams in the distance, and her gaze turned towards the gates of Erebor, the fires still burning brightly, enough to illuminate the figures struggling there.  A wave of nausea struck her, and she managed to just get a little further away before she was sick, the stress all a little too much.

Dain was there in a flash, his hands rubbing her back gently until the vomiting eases, and she breathes deeply, getting herself back in control.  “Easy love, take it slow.  You are going to need all the strength you can muster to get through this.”

Myara nods, barely listening, feeling a ringing starting in her ears.  Whatever had caused these events was nothing normal. Whatever had called Thorin back, had brought Smaug back, it seemed to be against her people.

There was more screaming and she looked back up towards Dale.  “Is…is there nothing we can do?”

“We could not even hold them at bay ourselves,” Dain said, helping her straighten out.  “I stayed as long as I could before we were overrun.  I was not proud in calling a retreat.”

Myara rests a gentle hand on his arm, earning his gaze where he was hiding his pain.  “This is beyond any of us Dain.  We will get away and find help.  We can-”

There was a shout and they turned, seeing Bofur practically falling on top of Nori, pulling away from Oin, but there was a snarl leaving him, one that was cold and empty, almost animalistic.

Dain moved first and shoved Bofur off Nori, Bofur’s body thudding into the stone with a sickening crack and sat there, unmoving, his hat sitting soaked in blood next to his head.

“What-what happened?”  Nori asked, his face almost white, staring at Bofur.  “He…he went limp and then-then-”

“That’s what has been happening,” Dain growled, cautiously approaching Bofur.  “They’ve been dying and then getting back up, sometimes partly eaten.  Not much seems to slow them down, although a sharp knock usually disables them, at least for a time.”

A stunned silence sat around everyone, even as Dain crouched next to Bofur, gently prodding him, his expression pained.  Slowly, he sighs, and gets back to his feet, shaking his head, earning more than a few grief stricken expressions, Dwalin cursing silently under his breath.

“Tonight has been a tragic night,” Dain said.  “We need to get moving now, before it gets any worse.”

“But Bofur…”  Nori said, his face still pale.

“There isn’t anything we can do now,” Dain shakes his head and re-joins Myara.  “We must move on before they realise that some of us have gotten out.”

Myara sniffs and shudders, her mind almost numb now to what was happening, but she couldn’t rid herself of a bad feeling that had been growing her since she’d seen Thorin earlier.  Dain’s hand rests gently on her and she nods, starting to lead them all away from the distance screams and the sickening roar of the dead dragon.

“How will others get out?”  Ori asked quietly as they walked.  “There has to be something else that we can do.”

“There are many paths through Erebor,” Dain said.  “And as much as it pains me to say it, they will have little choice but to try them.  The hoard that we were facing was nothing to be taken lightly.  It may just be the end of the world as we know it.”

A chill goes up Myara’s spine and she finds herself stopping dead in her tracks, Dain almost running straight into her, his hands resting on her for a moment before he sees what she’d stopped to stare at.  Quickly, he moves in front of her, the others reacting accordingly, all pretending they couldn’t see the shake of the sword in her hand.

“Thorin…” She breathed, her voice barely audible even in the silence that suddenly seemed to surround them.

“You will go no further,” Dain said loudly, even as more figures begin to step out beside Thorin.  “This is not your world anymore.  You will return to where you came from.”

Dawn was approaching, the light starting to peak over the horizon, illuminating the walking corpses more and more.  Myara stared with wide eyes as Thorin starts to approach, unaffected by Dain’s words, and it was only now that they could see the Arkenstone still clutched tightly in one hand, but it was no longer rich and vibrant, reminding her of starlight, now it was blood red and dark, but still unmistakable.

“I will give you one last warning,” Dain’s voice went low, into almost a growl.  “Whatever creature you are, you will leave and you will not return, releasing all those you have under your spell.”

A low snarl in the air and it took them all a moment before they realised that it was coming from Thorin, or what had once been Thorin, because none of them could be certain that they could even call him that anymore.

“My…ara…”

Myara’s breath caught in her throat and the tears started again, shaking her head, not wanting to face the reality of this, her chest aching so much.  If it wasn’t for Dain’s protective hand on her, then she knew she’d be running, and she knew that she wouldn’t stand a chance, not against Thorin, or whatever this things now was.

“Dwalin,” Dain’s voice was quiet, firm.  “I want you to take Myara and I want you to get as far from here as you can.  Do not stop until you can find somewhere safe, or someone that can help.”

“Dain, you can’t-”

He glances back at her, his expression set.  “I am sorry love, I know that you deserve more than this, but for you survive, for our people to have a chance, this must be done.  Oin, go with them.”

“I can’t lose you too,” Myara said.  “I can’t…I can’t see you like this too.”

“Dwalin,” Dain’s gaze left her.  “Please. Your duty is to your king, and this is your kings final order.”

Dwalin swallowed and nods slowly, stepping in beside Myara, even as she stares at Dain with tears in her eyes.  “What…what about the others?”

“It is their choice,” Dain said grimly, holding Thorin’s cold, dead gaze.  “It is an honour to have fought by all of you.”

Dwalin looked around at the few others left as Oin stood by Myara’s other side.  Dori, Nori and Ori all nodded grimly to him and moved and stood next to Dain.  With a final glance back at the growing number of dead, they could now make out a few more faces, Fili and Kili, Balin and Gloin, and many other soldiers and citizens, that they had laughed with, spoke with, and they knew that there wasn’t a choice left.

“It has been an honour my King,” Dwalin said, taking Myara’s hand.  “I will do all that I can.”

Dain nods, his grip tight on his weapon as the horde slowly approaches.  “My Queen…I’m sorry that we didn’t get more time.”

Myara felt herself go back to end of the battle of the five armies, of having too much to say and too little time to say it, of suddenly feeling like the world was being pulled out from under her feet again, and she couldn’t stop the whimper that built up from her chest.

“It’s not fair,” She whispered.  “It’s just not fair.”

“No, it’s not love,” Dain said.  “But you need to go.”

Dwalin and Oin start to pull her gently away, the weight of the situation sitting heavily on their shoulders.

“I love you…” Myara managed to get out, her voice broken, tears rolling down her cheeks as her hands rest over her stomach.

There was no chance to say anything else, the four dwarfs standing alone against the approaching dead, even as Thorin’s gaze follows Myara as Dwalin leads her away.

Myara can’t watch anymore, turning away, her eyes blurred with tears, letting herself be led by Dwalin and Oin, know she would go back if they so much as let her go or got her to focus.  Dwalin and Oin remained silent, both in their own grief, and knowing that the sudden task before them, was going to be even harder than the one they had not long come from.

Eventually, as the morning light spilled over the land, the sun just beginning to peak, the three of them stopped and looked back from their position on a ridge. Dale and Erebor were burning, the distant figure of Smaug crawling its way to the gates of Erebor.

The worst though, the worst was the horde, they could all see it clearly from where they were, a large group of dead, men and dwarves alike, all together, all moving slowly, and the three of them on top of that ridge could not bear to look too long, just in case there was another face they recognised.

Myara sighs and pulls her hood over her head, not wanting the see the world any longer as she stares at her swollen stomach and wonders just what will happen to them now, of how she was meant to raise a child in a world like this.  She didn’t want to face the fact that she was going to have to start again, she felt like she’d started again too many times, and now this time, it was almost alone, only the two others by her side and whoever ever they could possibly find in this mad new world.

Dwalin rests a hand on her lower back, earning her gaze, and she can see the grief and despair matched in his gaze, can see the same questions burning away in his mind, but he just nods, his expression stony, one she returned.

There would be time to grieve later, time to speak and try and answer those questions, but for now, again, they had to move, had to find safety, maybe a friend. There was no time to focus on those big questions, or the self-despair that sat in the backs of all their minds.

“Hopefully we can find Tula and Gimli,” Oin said, but there was little hope in his voice. “Hopefully they came this way.”

“Just keep your weapon close,” Dwalin said, shouldering his axe.  “We do not know what the paths ahead will be like.  Let’s just start by getting as far away from here as possible.”

Oin nods, casting a glance at Myara, his expression turning worried, seeing her head down, her face hidden beneath her hood, hiding herself from the world as much as the world was hidden from her.  Dwalin just shakes his head slightly and the two men share an understanding look before helping her away this place.

Silence followed them, no birds singing in the dawn, no beasts stirring from slumber, no voices starting as they start the day.  In that silence, it’s just the three of them leaving their world behind, Myara’s hand tightly wrapping around the two beads in her hair, a soft sob leaving her, a sob that seemed to echo through the ages and be the voice of the times to come.

[queerofthedagger]

hello! i noticed you have prompts open, and i love your writing! no pressure ofc but do you think you could write james and sirius rescuing regulus? maybe getting him out of grimmauld, or maybe when they're all older, getting him away from the death eaters?? james and sirius CAN be in a relationship, or they could be just uselessly giving each other heart eyes until reggie does something to facilitate their boyfriendhood?? i don't know, the ball is in your court, now :')

Hey nonnie, thank you so much for the prompt! ❤️ It really took me a while, but on the bright side, it also got quite long (most of it is under the cut.) I hope it’s more or less what you were aiming for - it got angst-y, but there’s a happy ending.

The first part of this was also written for a writing exercise on discord, “Have your character write a letter to their younger self.” All of the fic was heavily inspired by this video, and by the song used in it, which also provided me with the title.

or maybe you were the ocean (when I was just a stone)

Teen and Up || Graphic Depictions of Violence || 5,7k words || AO3

Pairings: Sirius Black/James Potter; Sirius Black & Regulus Black

Tags: Regulus Black Lives; Fix It; Established Relationship; Angst with a Happy Ending

Summary: There are only two ways this can end, and James refuses both of them. Refuses to accept that they will die here, like this, joining the hundreds of dead bodies in their eternal grave; refuses to be the one who has to drag Sirius out of here, to tell him that he’s failed in the last second. To watch him shatter underneath the weight of his grief. ---  Kreacher does not like Master Regulus' plan. Kreacher has his orders about them, but they don't include a piece of parchment, meant to join Regulus the following day. Kreacher thinks there's only one person able to help, loath as he is to admit it.

Kreacher's right.

*

Dear “younger self,”

I would never write this if I wasn’t going to die tomorrow, but there is a strange urge to acknowledge everything in a place outside my own head, and this seems the easiest way. At least it is a dying wish easily fulfilled.

That is a horrible way to start a letter. I suppose it is of no consequence though, seeing that these words will disappear with me.

If I could give you only one piece of advice, it would be this; listen to Sirius. Listen to Sirius and go with him when he leaves – do anything, anything at all to get away from this house that has never been a home to either of you.

I know what you’re thinking; he abandoned you first. He is the one who replaced you. He made everything so much harder on himself with his stubbornness, his constant need to be contrary; by always stepping into the line of mother’s fury.

But he is also right, about so many things.

Most importantly though, he is right about this – no matter what you do, it will never be enough to make them proud. Not getting sorted into Slytherin, not upholding traditions and echoing their beliefs and, most of all, not joining the Dark Lord. Nothing will ever be enough.

You will only burn yourself up by trying; you will do everything that is expected of you and more, and it won’t be enough. You will do unspeakable things that leave you shaking for days on end, will wake you up every night with screams lodged behind your teeth and fear buried in your bones.

Will leave you aged decades within a year, and still mother will only stare at you blankly and ask where Sirius is.

You won’t know either, but you’ll wish you did. You will wish that you could find him, warn him, beg him for help. But not only will you have aged decades, you will have drifted away so far that there’s no way to go back anymore.

Not a point in trying either.

You may think that I’m dramatizing in typical Black manner, but to be honest, it’s still so much worse than it sounds.

Tomorrow, I will die in a cave, and nobody will know. Tomorrow, I will die in a cave, and all I’ll be remembered as is a spineless coward who has been wrong all along.

At least I won’t have to deal with Sirius’ ‘I told you so.’

I’d take a hundred of those if only to see that grin one more time.

There always is a choice, and there always are consequences. Sometimes, they just come for you as an army of Inferi and the Drink of Despair.

-          Regulus

* * *

Regulus doesn't know that Kreacher slips the letter out of his pocket later that night; doesn’t know that his always loyal elf is still searching for his least favourite family member when Regulus leaves for the last time, in the early hours of dawn.

Anything, anything at all to save Master Regulus.

* * *

James hears the crashes and the shouting already on the staircase, Sirius’ voice unmistakable. He breaks into a run, taking the steps two, three at a time, wand drawn and ready to fight whoever has found them.

An old, wrinkled house-elf is not what he expects to find sneering up at Sirius, and it effectively stops him in his tracks. Sirius doesn’t seem to notice him though, glaring down at the creature with so much hatred written over his face that James doesn’t dare let his guard down just yet.

“I’m not going to promise you anything without knowing what you want from me,” Sirius just spits, contempt dripping from his every word. His hands are shaking at his sides though, muscle in his jaw jumping, and James knows that this isn’t a usual threat.

Knows that there’s something personal in this because Sirius’ anger only ever burns bright and hot like this when he’s terrified; when there’s something on the line beyond his own life.

Sirius only ever loses control when it comes to his loved ones, and just like that, James knows whose elf this is; knows with startling certainty spreading through his lungs that this has the potential to break Sirius, and inevitably himself.

Neither of them has noticed him yet, or at least not considered him noteworthy enough to avert their glares from each other, and James takes a second to take in the details.

The living room looks wrecked, books and papers littering the floor and the coffee table lying overturned. Sirius has a cut on his cheek, slowly oozing blood while the elf appears to be unharmed. It’s clenching a crumpled piece of parchment in one gnarled fist though, and underneath the disdain spilling from its eyes, James can make out a deep wariness.

“Sirius,” he says, taking a few steps into the room without lowering his wand. “I don’t think he’d be here if it wasn’t important.”

Because there’s only one reason James can come up with for the elf of the Blacks to appear in their home; only one reason, and he knows that Sirius knows it too, sees it in the thin line of his lips and the tightness of his shoulders.

“It could still be a trick,” Sirius presses out, not taking his eyes off the elf, and there’s a plea ringing in his words, desperation for it to not be what they both fear it is.

“Kreacher would not expose himself to the presence of filthy blood-traitors for – “

“Shut up!” Sirius snaps, eyes flashing, and James quickly wraps his fingers around his wrist. Looks at him and silently says, not now, not yet, it’s not worth it.

“What are the terms?” he asks out loud, glancing at the elf whose face twists as if contemplating if James is even worth answering to.

He seems to decide that it’ll have higher chances than with Sirius, though he turns his nose up when he speaks. “Kreacher has a message that was not intended to reach the – you. Kreacher will deliver it still, if the blood-traitor son promises to help.”

And yeah, that would be a problem, James thinks. Looks at Sirius and sees the conflict there, twitching fingers and working jaw, and thinks to hell with it.

“You were not ordered to not deliver it either, then?” he asks, because he might be reckless, but he’s not stupid; might be willing to risk everything and anything for Sirius every second of the day, but never once Sirius himself.

The elf’s sneer slips by a fraction. “Kreacher received no orders at all about the letter. Kreacher does want to add that time is an issue. He will be needing help soon.”

Sirius still doesn’t look convinced, but James knows what will happen if they refuse; knows that Sirius will run himself in circles, will drive himself mad with not knowing. Knows that it might be the deciding push to finally plunge them off the precipice this war has them balancing on.

Thinks that if it’s as bad as he thinks it is, refusing might end up being worse than whatever potential trap they’re about to walk into.

His grip on Sirius’ wrist tightens, but he doesn’t glance away from the elf when he says, “We accept. Give us the letter, and we’ll help.”

Sirius makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat but he’s also already gripping for the parchment, nearly tearing it in his haste.

James is barely able to take in the words with the way Sirius is shaking beside him, and still, all he can think is that it’s so, so much worse than he could’ve ever anticipated.

“Where,” Sirius finally chokes out, his face pale and haunted, and he’s swaying on his feet, knuckles white around his wand. “Where,” he repeats, voice breaking over the shout.

James does the only thing he can do; takes Sirius’ face between his hands and digs his fingers into his skin. Presses their foreheads together and says, “No, not like this.” Holds on even as Sirius struggles, eyes wild and caught so firmly between anger and desperation that it makes James’ heart ache. “You’ll kill us both like this,” he says, shaking him for good measure. Says, “Breathe,” again and again until Sirius finally starts listening, or at least accepting that it’s the only way James will let him out of this flat anytime soon.

“Better,” he finally allows, but he only lets his hand drop to Sirius’ wrist once more as he turns back to the elf.

There’s disdain again, but also poorly hidden relief, and James could honestly not care less about what a house-elf thinks of them right now.

“When is he planning to go?” Sirius asks, and his voice is still strained, full of fear buried underneath fury, but at least he’s thinking again.

Of course, it all flies out of the window when Kreacher answers, “He left an hour ago. Kreacher can take you to the entrance of the cave but not further.”

James doesn’t protest when Sirius snarls, “Take us,” doesn’t think that Kreacher would be willing to give them more information even if he’d get Sirius to listen for another second.

The words Inferi and Drink of Despair are still echoing through his head, and they’re mixing with the guilt that is already radiating off of Sirius in waves, mixing with it’s my fault, and I should’ve tried harder, and if he dies, it’s because of me, that he knows are running rampage in Sirius’ own head.

As they’re pulled into the Apparation, James silently lists defences against Inferi and poison, hoping that they’re the only things he will have to fight tonight.

The sounds hit him first; desperate, guttural sobs that seem to echo, magnified and thrown around between what turn out to be the smooth, dark walls of a large cave. There are pleas in between, broken off words and swallowed fractures, though through the seconds it takes them to orientate themselves, two words are repeated over and over.

Sirius, please.

The words twist themselves underneath James’ ribs, race down his spine, and still he is glad for them. They freeze Sirius in place just long enough for James to reach out and hold him back from storming straight into the water stretching out between them and the small island Regulus seems to be kneeling on.

A green glow coming from a basin spends just enough eerie light to illuminate Regulus’ trembling figure, curled in on himself and pleading, crying, screaming himself hoarse.

It’s only Kreacher’s voice that prevents James from having to outright fight Sirius to keep him where he is.

“There’s a boat,” he says. “It will only take one of you.”

“Can’t you take us?” James asks before Sirius can, one arm still tightly wrapped around his chest as his own stomach sinks, panic clawing its way slowly up his throat.

Kreacher’s jaw sets and he shakes his head. “The wards would be tripped, and Master Regulus forbade me from doing anything to alert him.”

There’s no way, no way in hell that James will let Sirius go alone, or leave him behind, and he spares a thought to curse whoever set up this nightmare of a setting. He has some suspicions but no time to really bother with them, Sirius already struggling again, glaring and spitting and snarling at James as if he’s seriously contemplating to hex him within the next few seconds.

He needs an answer, a solution, anything, but there’s nothing, and then there’s movement from the small island, the sudden sound of waves drawing their attention.

It shouldn’t be loud enough, shouldn’t drown out Regulus’ cries and Sirius’ curses, but still they both stop moving, eyes forcibly dragged to witness Regulus bowing low over the edge of the lake.

Grey hands are breaking the surface of the water, followed by heads and bodies, so many of them that they appear to be moving as one. The green light reflects on the dead skin, catching on empty eyes and white teeth, and James has to clench his jaw against the bile rising in his throat.

“Take us,” Sirius says, and his voice is cold all of a sudden, tightly controlled fury pressed into two words as he stares at Kreacher.

“Kreacher cannot – “

“Take. Us,” Sirius repeats, drawing himself up. “I command you to take us, or I swear by all that I hold dear, my mother will look like a bloody joke when I’m done with you.”

Kreacher’s still hesitating, visibly struggling with himself in a way that would give James a pause in different circumstances, but they’re losing time they can’t afford.

Regulus’ screams have turned hoarse, barely audible over the other noises filling up the cavern now, and it’s impossible to spot him any longer in between the throng of Inferi.

“You want him to survive as well, don’t you?” James tries, and there’s terror ringing through his words.

Finally, Kreacher nods, and they don’t get another second to prepare themselves for the lurch of Apparation; to question just who they’re alerting by tripping the wards.

Sirius twists out of his grip the second they have solid ground under their feet again, wand slashing through the air in ferocious precision. Still, for every cutting curse that hits its target, three more seem to appear, and the whole bulk of them is already moving back into the murky water.

“Fire,” James snaps, unceremoniously digging his elbow into Sirius’ side when he doesn’t seem to hear him. “Fire, but not directly at them, come on.”

An incantation rolls off Sirius’ tongue that James has only ever read about and his blood runs cold. His own movement slows and stops as he watches white-hot flames burst forward, rushing over the surface of the lake surrounding them, forming indistinct shapes.

“Sirius,” he tries, grabbing his arm. “Sirius,” he shouts, shaking him, but to no avail. There are no Inferi left in the vicinity of the island. No other bodies either but for Kreacher cowering by the basin, and James knows, knows that Sirius has noticed too. That he’ll burn the whole cave down, no matter how little it will serve an actual purpose, and himself with it if James lets him.

The light of the flames is breaking on Sirius’ face, all hard lines and pain etched into every crease as his eyes seem to burn, grey blazing just as bright.

There are only two ways this can end, and James refuses both of them. Refuses to accept that they will die here, like this, joining the hundreds of dead bodies in their eternal grave; refuses to be the one who has to drag Sirius out of here, to tell him that he’s failed in the last second. To watch him shatter underneath the weight of his grief.

It’s not a plan. It’s not even something he expects to work or to not go horribly wrong, but it’s the only thing he can think off beyond forcing Sirius to give up for his sake.

The Summoning Spell shouldn’t work on people, and the seconds after he casts tick by so very slowly. The heat keeps scorching his skin, licking at his hands and his face and supplying a painfully tangible warning of Sirius’ suffering.

Then there’s a ripple in the water close to them, a body hurling out of it and barrelling into James with a force that knocks him off his feet. Sharp stones are digging into his back, his head is thundering with the strength of the impact but he’s laughing, laughing and crying and only just making sure that it’s Regulus lying on top of him, unconscious but with breath brushing against James’ neck.

Somehow, he manages to climb back to his feet, pulling Regulus up as he goes. Manages to stumble through the thick smoke that’s curling through the air, through his lungs, threatening to choke them all before they can burn or drown.

A distant, hysterical corner of his mind that he tries to ignore as best as he can helpfully points out that it at least keeps out whoever created this cavern from hell, and he wants to laugh again.

Finally, he reaches Sirius, standing rigid at the very edge of the water with tears streaming down his face but wand still raised, staring straight into the flames. James wraps his free hand around his neck, pressing his nails into his skin and shaking him until Sirius finally turns his head to look at him.

It takes several seconds until the haze leaves Sirius’ eyes and they widen, realization bleeding into them, swiftly followed by guilt. James wants to feel relief, wants to reassure him that there’s nothing to be guilty about; wants to shove Regulus at him and shout, see, everything will be fine, you idiot. As if I’d ever let you down.

He’s not sure yet that he believes it himself though and does none of those things. Does only tighten his grip on both brothers and shouts for Kreacher, the words scraping against his raw throat, and he nearly slumps in relief when the elf appears next to them with wide, terrified eyes.

“Take us to our flat,” he orders, praying and begging silently that he will listen. The fire is breaking through the barrier Sirius must’ve kept up, heat already singing their clothes, and he thinks he can hear a shriek of rage even over the roaring of the flames.

The sight of Regulus must’ve convinced Kreacher because he doesn’t waste a second to grab the limp hand, and then the world is twisting, lurching, and the last thing James sees is white and red and yellow, and a person materializing out of black smoke in the spot they’re just leaving behind.

Regulus’ weight drags James down as soon as they land, and he pulls Sirius with him. The quiet and cold of their living room is like a punch, adrenaline snatched away with the sudden absence of heat.

For long moments, he’s unable to move, to do anything but breathe. Unable to comprehend that they made it out, all three of them still alive and here, maybe not unharmed but not on the bottom of a lake full of Inferi either.

“Is he - ?” Sirius breaks the silence, and when James turns his head to look at him, his eyes are clenched shut, hands still trembling where they press against the floor, and lips white with the force his teeth are biting into them.

“He’s breathing,” he answers quietly because he has no idea if Regulus is fine, will be fine again, and he can’t lie to Sirius, never could, not even about something like this.

Sirius gives a jerky nod, still not opening his eyes but reaching out a hand to wrap around James’ own so tightly that he can feel his bones shift. “I could’ve killed you. I could’ve killed you and you didn’t stop me.”

It’s not an accusation, not even a reprimand. It’s only horror, and guilt, and James wants to erase the previous hours from all of their minds. Wants to take all three of them far away from a family that pitches brothers against each other, from a war that’s eating away at all of them, and from whatever it is that led Regulus to the cave and his near self-sacrifice in the first place.

Wants to take them far away and forget about the terror that’s still woven tightly around his ribs, pressing into his lungs and choking up his throat with a grip so crushing, he’s not sure if it’ll ever leave again.

“As if I’d let you,” he finally chokes out, squeezing Sirius’ hand in return and pulling them both into a sitting position.

It falls flat and they both know it, but Sirius merely gives another nod and scrambles until he’s kneeling at Regulus’ side, hands shaking as they hover helplessly over his still body.

James wants to take them far away from here, or scream and rage until the memories don’t feel so achingly raw anymore, and does none of it. Instead, he pulls himself together with more effort than it’s ever taken him and knocks his head softly against Sirius’ in wordless reassurance.

Taking a deep breath, he starts pulling away Regulus’ torn robes. “Kreacher, could you get me the potions from the bathroom?” he asks when he finds deep gashes underneath the fabric, littering his arms and chest, bleeding into their faded blue carpet.

The elf disappears, the crack of his Apparition startling Sirius out of his shock. The following minutes pass in silence, both of them working on closing the wounds, dispelling the water from Regulus’ lungs, and checking for invisible injuries.

After Kreacher reappears with the potions, he watches them closely but otherwise stays silent and keeps his distance, hands wrung tight into the hem of the pillowcase he’s wearing.

“That’s it,” James finally says, sitting back on his haunches and rubbing a hand over his face in exhaustion. “Some of it will scar, but he should wake up soon.”

At least he hopes so; neither of them is a Healer even if they’d inevitably picked up the basics since leaving Hogwarts. He doesn’t want to consider what would happen if he doesn’t.

Sirius doesn’t answer, merely sits back to lean against the back of the couch and carefully moving Regulus until his head is resting in Sirius’ lap.

For long moments, James only watches the slow movements of Sirius’ hand carding through Regulus’ hair, the way his eyes keep roaming over his body as if expecting new injuries to appear. Watches how two of his fingers stay pressed against Regulus’ pulse point at his throat, hand twitching every other second.

Eventually though, James forces himself back to his feet, legs trembling underneath him as he makes his way into the kitchen. His throat is parched, his eyes are still burning from the smoke, and he knows that Sirius must be in a similar state; knows that he won’t get up and take care of himself until Regulus opens his eyes because it’s what he’d do if it was James lying there.

It’s what James would do if the roles were reversed, and that’s a scenario he shoves away as best as he can whenever the thought so much as tries to form.

When he steps back into the room with two glasses of water and PepperUp Potion, Sirius is still in the same position, but he’s talking quietly, words barely audible. “Come on, lionheart, you have to wake up. I owe you several I told you so’s, remember?” he’s just saying, voice rough and still so, so heavy with regrets.

“Sir-us?”

James freezes where he’s just sitting down next to them, nearly forgetting to keep up the levitation spell, and watches with fear and relief warring in his chest as Regulus’ eyelids flutter, eyes slowly blinking open to reveal a grey several shades darker than Sirius’.

“You idiot,” is the first thing Sirius chokes out, his grip on Regulus’ shoulder visibly tightening, and in spite of everything, James smiles faintly. “You complete, utter idiot, how could you?”

Regulus’ eyes widen, his body going rigid while his hands curl into fists at his sides. “What – where – “

“You nearly died,” Sirius spits before James can even think about answering, and he winces at the note of anger creeping back into Sirius’ tone. “What were you thinking? If Kreacher hadn’t – “

“Kreacher came to you?” Regulus interrupts, surprisingly alert all of a sudden as he sits up, and James wonders if it’s only adrenaline that’s fuelling him. He twists so he can keep looking at them, pushing himself onto his knees, and his eyes flicker between them as fear and disbelief chase each other over his expression. “I – you – you got me out of the cave?”

Before Sirius can answer, James reaches out to squeeze his knee.

Sirius swallows, eyes closing briefly, but his voice is much calmer when he says, “Yes, though if it wasn’t for James, I doubt – we only arrived when you – when the Inferi attacked you.”

Regulus’ expression doesn’t change, confusion and wariness still shining in his eyes. “But how – I forbade Kreacher from telling anyone and anyway, why? Why would you – “

Care is what he doesn’t say, what he doesn’t have to say if the flinch from Sirius is anything to go by.

James watches out of the corner of his eye as Sirius’ jaw clenches and unclenches, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his legs, and he eventually draws his shoulders back.

“Because you’re my brother. And I – even though I never regretted leaving Grimmauld’s, I regretted leaving you behind. That we grew apart so badly and I – that you thought you couldn’t come to me with whatever insane thing you were attempting tonight. Because the thought of you dying – I couldn’t – I’d never let that happen,” Sirius finally says, his voice quiet but gaze boring into Regulus’.

Regulus stares with wide eyes, a frown etched between his brows as if he isn’t quite sure that any of this is real. “But you’re – I’m everything you hate,” he finally spits, face twisting into a snarl while his hands tremble at his sides. “I joined the Dark Lord! I did things so horrible, you wouldn’t – “ he chokes off, turning his head away.

James thinks it’s startling how similar the two of them are, after all, despite everything. He’s itching to make this easier for both of them, but all he can do is press his leg against Sirius’ and hope that it’ll be enough to get through this.

“And you realised what a shit-choice that was,” Sirius shoots back, and for the briefest of seconds, his lips twitch into a smile. “I told you so, by the way.”

Regulus’ head whips back around, and James wants to bury his face in his hands.

“The letter,” Regulus whispers, his whole posture slumping. “Of course. I should’ve – “

“If you finish that sentence, I’ll kill you myself,” Sirius growls, then shakes his head and huffs. “I just – are you really so keen to die that you wouldn’t even consider asking me for help?”

There’s desperation bleeding through his words now, and Regulus must’ve heard it too because his head snaps up, his hand twitching as if he wants to reach out.

“It’s not – no,” he presses out, running a hand over his face. “But I – not only didn’t I expect you to believe me, it’s also dangerous. More dangerous than this war already is, and you have a traitor in your precious Order and I couldn’t – he’ll hunt me down anyway.“

“You betrayed Voldemort,” James says before Sirius can, the final pieces clicking into place, and it reminds him of the flash of white skin materialising just as they’d left the cave behind.

Regulus flinches at the name and seems to hesitate. Eventually, he nods, resolve hardening his features. “He’s mad, completely, utterly mental. I just – I couldn’t do it anymore and when Kreacher – when I found out something important, something that could help bring him down, I – “ he pauses, biting his lips. Takes a deep breath and closes his eyes before looking back at Sirius. “I thought I could at least do one good thing. What does it matter if I die in a raid, in a cave, or because he decides to kill me?”

“Because I couldn’t bear to lose you!” Sirius snaps. “Because it was already bad enough to lose you once, and I won’t let Voldemort, or anyone else for that matter, lay a fucking hand on you, alright? And you’ll better get used to that, you complete idiot, because I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

There’s a beat of silence in which the words seem to ring through the room, and then a dry sob wrenches itself out of Regulus’ throat, his hand flying up to press against his mouth.

Sirius instantly moves forward, wrapping his arms around Regulus and burying his head in the crook of his neck, his own shoulders shaking. It takes only a second until Regulus’ arms come up, his hands clenching in the fabric of Sirius’ hoodie as if holding on for dear life.

James watches, something loosening in his chest, and when he looks at Kreacher for the first time since Regulus woke up, there’s barely any disdain left on his old face.

The two of them stay in their embrace for a long time, murmuring to each other so quietly that James can’t make out the words.

As much as he wants to give them their time, to leave them to make up for all those lost years, there’s still a memory at the forefront of his mind that is impossible to ignore. He doesn’t want to think about it, wants to think about nothing but all three of them being alive and well, but if he truly wants to keep it that way, they still have more important things to worry about first.

Clearing his throat and flashing them a strained, apologetic smile, he waits until he has both of their attention. “I’m not sure that we weren’t seen just before we disappeared.”

All the blood drains from Regulus’ face and he flinches back as if he’s been slapped. His hand finds Sirius’ arm, fingers twisting into his sleeve, and James’ heart aches at having to do this at all.

Sirius’ features only harden, jaw setting and lips pressing into a thin line.

James knows what he’s going to say and shakes his head. “We have to leave,” he says, raising his hand to stall Sirius’ protest. “We could go into hiding, but Regulus is right. We have a traitor in the Order, and whatever it is Regulus attempted to do tonight, you and I both know that it was too well-guarded to draw anything but Voldemort’s utmost attention.”

“A Horcrux,” Regulus says quietly, turning his head to send Sirius a look full of meaning that’s lost on James. “Did you take a locket, by any chance?”

“A Horcrux,” Sirius echoes, his voice suddenly hoarse again, and he slowly shakes his head. “We didn’t but I – well I guess it got probably caught up in the Fiendfyre.”

“You – “ Regulus starts, then cuts himself off and shakes his head. “Never mind. James is right though, we can’t stay here. We have to – I need to, I’m – “ he stammers, hands starting to shake and fear filling his eyes.

Sirius’ eyes meet James’, and he finds the same resolve that he’s feeling mirrored back at him, a silent, old promise between the two of them that now includes a third one.

“My parents had a house in the middle of nowhere in Iceland,” he says, a plan starting to take shape in his mind. “We’ve never been there but I know the coordinates to create a Portkey, and that there are a few elves who’ve taken care of it over the years.”

“I should be able to ward it and make it unplottable,” Sirius picks up, already getting to his feet and dragging Regulus with him. “We’ll contact Dumbledore, get a message to him with the information we have and that we’re leaving, nothing more.”

“What about mother?” Regulus asks, the panic receding even though there’s still uncertainty in his eyes. “I know you don’t care but if he saw me, if I disappear…”

Sirius sighs, closing his eyes briefly, but he nods. “Send Kreacher back, order him to not tell anyone but report to her that he hasn’t seen you in days. Voldemort won’t outright kill her if she doesn’t know what’s going on, the support of the family is too important for him.”

There’s a beat of silence as Regulus and Sirius stare at each other, but eventually, Regulus nods, exhaling a sigh. “I hope you’re right.”

Summoning parchment, James hands it to him. “Write down everything you know about – whatever it is you were talking about; I’ll call one of the Potter elves to deliver it later. We’re going to pack a few things, I think Sirius has some clothes that should fit you.”

Regulus nods, fiddling with the quill, and James decides to leave him to it. Just as he and Sirius are about to leave the room, Regulus calls, “Wait!”

Turning back around, James watches him, hoping that there won’t be another argument coming; it’s all a mess already, all of them running on their last reserves of strength, and they can’t afford to lose any more time.

“Thank you,” Regulus says, the words quiet but sincere.

James smiles, but it’s Sirius who answers. “Always.”

As soon as the door to their bedroom closes behind them, Sirius twists, pushing James against the wood and crashing their mouths together.

His own hands come up on instinct, wrapping around Sirius’ waist, and he keeps his eyes closed even as Sirius pulls back to lean their foreheads together.

“We’d all be dead without you,” Sirius chokes out, voice breaking over the words, and his fingers press against James’ jaw so harshly that it’s bordering on painful. “We’d be all dead, and now we have to leave everything behind. Are you – I won’t force you to come with us.”

James huffs a laugh, wet and nearly hysterical. “Merlin, sometimes you’re such an idiot,” he presses out, his own throat closing up. “I’d go anywhere with you, anywhere at all. You should know that by now. And we’ll be safe. At least, we’ll finally be safe.”

The last words linger in his mind, circling as they haphazardly throw clothes and trinkets into bags, packing up only what they’ll need most. Linger as they send off the letter to Dumbledore and create a Portkey out of the mug that Lily gave them as a house-warming gift. As the three of them grab it tightly and are whisked away.

Circle through his mind still, as they set foot into the small cottage at the foot of a mountain, waves crashing in the distance, dark wood cracked with age but warm and cosy and safe.

They’ll be safe.