#tw acid attacks | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hellinistical · 3 months ago

Text

in which you are trapped in a haunting pact with Caleb, bound by the pomegranates you unwittingly took. Caleb x fem. reader. mdni.

Part two here

tw: kidnapping. dubious consent/non-con. choking. manipulation. forced arrangement. coercion. scaring. panic attacks. nightmares. threatening of loved ones.

wc: 10.7k

The pomegranate orchard sprawled like a cursed labyrinth, its gnarled trees clawing at the ashen sky, their twisted branches skeletal and accusing. The bitter clouds churned above, heavy and oppressive, a leaden canopy suffocating the air with an unnatural stillness. The light barely penetrated the gloom, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to shift and writhe, as though the orchard itself were alive and watching.

Hanging like swollen wounds, their dark crimson skins mottled and bruised, glistening faintly in the little sunlight presented. Some had burst open, spilling their putrid seeds onto the blackened soil, a grotesque mockery of spilled blood. The ground was slick and sticky, as if the land itself bled in a silent protest. Bitter winds slice through the orchard, the howl a whispered warning, carrying the faint, acidic tang of decay. The rustling of the brittle leaves sounded almost human, like the dry whispers of unseen figures lurking just beyond sight. In the distance, a crow’s cry pierced the silence, sharp and grating, cutting through the thick atmosphere like a blade. The sound didn’t fade; instead, it seemed to linger, twisting unnaturally, echoing back and forth between the crooked trees.

Heavy footsteps crunched the brittle leaves below, their sharp sounds splintering the fragile silence like broken glass. His sandals, worn and cracked, struck the earth with a deliberate cadence, their weight unforgiving in their wait for departure. Each step left behind a faint imprint, quickly swallowed by the restless soil as if the orchard sought to erase his presence.

The ends of his robe dragged through the dirt, gathering its stain—dark, earthy smudges seeping into the white threads that might have once been pure. The fabric clung and twisted, weighted by the dampness of the soil, as though tethering him to the cursed ground.

Above, the crow’s cry came again, louder now, a guttural warning that seemed to reverberate through the trees. The sound merged with the eerie rustling of the leaves, their whispers sharpening into something intelligible yet incomprehensible, a chorus of voices too faint to follow but too distinct to ignore.

And yet...

His eyes lingered on a single leaf that had defied the rot and ruin surrounding it. Its green shimmered faintly in the muted light, an unnatural vibrancy that seemed out of place amidst the decay. It quivered slightly, though no wind stirred, as if beckoning him closer. Beneath it hung a fruit, untouched by the blight that marred its siblings, its skin smooth and taut, glowing a deep crimson that bordered on otherworldly.

How did this happen?

He was sure he had killed them all. Every last one. The orchard had been his domain, its life snuffed out by his own hand. The trees, once vibrant, now stood as withered husks, their fruit rotting where it fell, their roots choking in soil poisoned by his will. There was no room for life here—he had made sure of it. And yet...

That single leaf, green and defiant, mocked him. It was small, insignificant, but its existence burned in his chest like a splinter lodged too deep to remove. His fingers curled into a fist as he stepped back, the weight of realization settling over him. The leaf shouldn’t be there, and neither should the fruit it sheltered.

A smile almost rose to his face. Almost. But his lips hesitated, caught in the tension between amusement and unease. He could almost admire its resilience, the audacity of this life that refused to die, as though it had been waiting—challenging him.

A laugh bubbled in his chest, rising unbidden, loud and boisterous, yet devoid of humor. It spilled out of him, echoing through the lifeless orchard like a cruel specter. The sound was harsh, jagged, and wrong, as though the land itself recoiled at its presence.

“Defiant to the last,” he muttered, his voice low and sharp, as if addressing the fruit itself. The defiance only fueled his resolve.

Without hesitation, he reached out and tore the pomegranate from its branch, his grip crushing the delicate stem with a brutal finality. For a moment, he held it in his hand, the fruit’s weight heavier than it had any right to be, almost as though it resisted his grasp.

With a vicious twist of his hands, he split it open. The rind cracked like brittle bone, its blood-red juice spilling over his fingers, staining them with its vivid essence. The stark white flesh inside was veined with crimson, its beauty grotesque and unsettling. The seeds, glistening like rubies, tumbled free, falling to the earth like droplets of freshly spilled blood.

The air thickened as the orchard seemed to shudder, the ground beneath him trembling faintly. A sharp, metallic tang filled his nostrils, and the hum, once faint, now roared in his ears, a relentless rhythm that seemed to emanate from the fruit itself.

His laughter died in his throat as his smiled shifted, stifling itself into a chuckle.

“The seed of vengeance is sown, and the promise is broken.”

The shadows around him deepened, crawling closer as if drawn to the fruit’s destruction. The ground beneath his feet cracked, a network of fissures spreading outward.

***

Your bed was unusually cold, but not so; winter had long since approached, and the snows were well into place, their heavy flakes falling in absurd elegance, a reunion with the earth that was both beautiful and terrifying in its silence. The chill settled into your bones, seeping beneath the blankets, but it was nothing new.

No, the cold wasn't what bothered you.

It was the dreams.

Each night they came, vivid and suffocating, like they were not dreams at all, but memories dredged up from some other place, some other life. They had started innocently enough—fleeting glimpses of darkened forests, whispers on the wind, strange figures lurking just beyond the light. But now, they were growing more real, more unsettling, the edges blurring with your waking moments.

You had stopped sleeping soundly weeks ago.

In your dreams, you walked through an orchard—a pomegranate orchard. The trees, gnarled and twisted, loomed overhead, their branches reaching down like the fingers of some forgotten god. The air was thick with the scent of decay, yet the fruit—pomegranates, gleaming blood red—hung from every tree, too heavy for the branches that bore them.

The dreams always ended the same way.

You would reach for the fruit, compelled by something you couldn't name, your fingers brushing its smooth surface, only for it to burst open in your hands, the seeds spilling out like blood from a wound. The voice would come then, whispering in a language you couldn't understand, its tone low, almost mocking.

Each time you awoke, you were left with a lingering taste of iron in your mouth, and the sensation that something had shifted, something had changed, though you couldn't say what. The coldness, yes, but also the weight of the dreams pressing down on you, growing heavier with each passing night.

You’d seen a priest. Three of them, in fact. And an oracle. None of them had anything useful to say.

Sure, the priests had been polite, their hands steady as they muttered prayers over you, their voices low and soothing. They spoke of purification, of light and darkness, of the spirits that roamed the earth- the usual stuff. But their words felt empty- like they were reciting from a script they’d memorized just for this kind of thing. Their incense did nothing to clear the air, and the talismans they’d brought you did little. They were a token, nothing more.

The oracle, however, had been…strange. She’d stare at you with eyes that seemed to pierce through you, as if peeling back you skin, tissues, and muscles, down to the bones and deeper. She spoke in riddles you didn’t care to try an figure out for more than a day, words twisting in ways that made the hairs on the back of your neck and on your arms stand up.

But you did remember one thing.

How her gaze was almost pitiful, and the last line before she ultimately went silent.

“The pomegranate seeds have been spilled. They will find you.”

You tried to understand, you really did. The words clung to you, spinning in your mind, but they felt as if they were wrapped in shadows, half-formed and out of reach. Pomegranate seeds? What did that have to do with anything? Aside from the dreams at least. And besides, no pomegranate would grow here; it was far too plush a land- too vibrant and thriving. Pomegranates only grew in hot, dry places. The soil was rich, the air thick with moisture, and the trees were lush and green. At least, it was that way in the summer and spring. Now it was late winter.

Never mind that.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, the cold wood pressed uncomfortably against your skin, sending a shiver up your spine. The chill wasn’t anything you weren’t used to- it always got like this in winter.

You glance at the fireplace, untouched since the last time you managed to stoke a fire. You’d have to light it again- soon, when you had time. Eh, it could wait for now.

The farm was waiting for you, and with it, your work. The chickens needed to be fed, the barn doors needed fixing, and the well was still frozen over.

With a heavy sigh, you rise to your feet, feeling the weight of your body against the cool air. You step carefully, avoiding the floorboards that creak underfoot, and cross the room to the window. Snowflakes continue their relentless descent outside, drifting in and out of view as the wind picks up, swirling around the empty landscape.

Grabbing your coat and gloves, you sluggishly tug them on, the motions stiff and uncoordinated from the lingering cold in your joints. You hold the sleeves of your nightgown tight against your wrists, trying to keep them in place as you slip your arms into the thick wool coat. It doesn’t quite work. The fabric bunches awkwardly beneath the layers, twisting and pressing against your skin, the discomfort a small, irksome distraction in an otherwise bleak morning.

Your fingers fumble with the buttons, the chill making them clumsy, and you tug your gloves on with the same sluggish effort. The leather is stiff and worn, the seams stretched from years of use, but it’s enough to keep the worst of the cold at bay.

You exhale sharply, your breath misting in the icy air of the room, and glance toward the door. The world beyond it waits, indifferent and unchanging. The tasks ahead loom large, heavy in your mind, but there’s no avoiding them.

With a final tug to straighten your coat, you steel yourself and step forward, boots scuffing against the wooden floor as you make your way to the door. The cold greets you like an old adversary the moment you open it, biting at your face and creeping past the gaps in your layers. But you push through. You always do.

Outside, the snow continues to fall, the landscape quiet and heavy beneath its weight.

***

The chickens squawked and flapped in a frenzy as you tossed the feed onto the frozen ground, scattering it with a hurried motion to keep the snow from clinging to your coat and gloves. Their frantic clucking rose in a chorus, a cacophony that only deepened your irritation.

"God—hey—no! That’s all you’re getting, you freeloaders," you snapped, shaking the nearly empty bag at them for emphasis. One particularly bold hen pecked at your boot, and you glared down at her.

Flipping them off with a gloved hand, you added, "I’m gonna turn you into a soup just for that. Matter of fact, who’s got eggs?"

Your voice echoed in the cold air as you scanned the coop with a narrowed gaze. Most of the chickens scattered at the sound, pecking furiously at the feed as though they hadn’t eaten in days, while a few stayed huddled together near the corner, unbothered by your threats.

Grumbling under your breath, you made your way to the nest boxes, brushing a layer of frost from the wooden edges. Carefully, you reached inside, your fingers brushing against something warm. A small victory, you thought, as you pulled out a freshly laid egg.

"One of you finally decided to be useful," you muttered, holding the egg up as if showing it to the flock. The hens clucked indifferently, entirely ungrateful for your ongoing tolerance.

You shook your head, pocketing the egg in the folds of your coat, and moved to check the other boxes. "Soup," you repeated under your breath, the word a half-hearted promise. "Mark my words. Soup."

"She laid an egg?" Josephine’s voice called out from the window, muffled slightly by the frost-covered panes. She peered out, her gray hair tucked under a knit cap, the lines on her face softened by the faint light streaming through.

You turned, clutching the egg carefully in your hand, and squinted back at her through the falling snow.

"Yeah, one of them decided to be useful for once," you said, holding the egg up for her to see. "The rest of them are freeloading."

Josephine chuckled, a dry, raspy sound that carried a warmth the cold couldn’t touch. "Don’t be too hard on them. It’s a miracle any of them are laying at all in this weather. Poor things probably feel like they’re in the Arctic."

"They’re fine," you replied, brushing snow off your sleeve. "I feed them, don’t I? Besides, they’re tough little things."

Josephine leaned further against the sill, her joints too stiff and fragile to be out in the biting cold. "Well, don’t break that egg before you bring it in. We might need it for supper."

"You think I don’t know how to handle an egg?" you shot back with a mock glare.

"Not with those gloves on," she teased, grinning despite herself.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the coop, muttering under your breath. "I’ll bring it in safe. Not like we have a whole flock waiting to replace it or anything."

Josephine’s laughter followed you, soft and fleeting, as you went back to your work. It wasn’t much, but even her small remarks made the cold day feel just a little warmer.

Not even a second passes before you hear it: a faint, wet crack. Your heart sinks as you freeze, slowly looking down at your hand.

"Gods..." you mutter under your breath.

Sure enough, the egg is broken, its yellow yolk oozing between your gloved fingers and dripping onto the snow below.

"Cursed chickens," you hiss, shaking your hand instinctively, though it only makes the mess worse. The yolk clings to the wool of your glove, smearing like a bad omen. You curse again, louder this time, kicking at a nearby patch of snow in frustration.

You wipe the yolk off your gloves quickly, making sure Josephine doesn’t catch sight of it—she'd never let you hear the end of it. You brush the remaining mess onto the snow, hoping it’s out of view before she can see the disaster.

"Grandmother?" you call, turning back toward the house. "I'm, uh—I'm gonna go to the market. The horses are good, right?"

Your voice comes out a bit more strained than you intended, but it's enough to keep her from asking too many questions. The market is a short walk, but it’ll take you most of the day. And truth be told, you don't relish the thought of another day with only the chickens and the endless chores for company.

Inside, you hear a faint groan from the other room before Josephine responds. "Yes, yes, they’re fine. Just make sure you get back before dark."

"Of course," you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel.

You hesitate for a moment, then glance back at the coop. You can’t help but wish for just one more egg, a small consolation for the misfortune of the morning. But you know it’s pointless. You’re not going to get any more today, no matter how hard you try.

"Fuck," you mutter under your breath, glancing down at your now-eggless hands. "Guess I’ll just have to buy them."

You head back inside quickly, pulling your coat tighter around you, and grab your purse from the hook by the door. The cold is starting to seep through your layers again, and you can already feel the chill nipping at your fingers.

Still, despite the morning’s mess, a small part of you is eager for the trip. Eggs are a rarity these days, and you haven't had a decent meal in weeks. The market might be a small reprieve—at least for a little while.

***

The market was...gross. Gross, crowded, wet. Mud clung to every surface, pooling in the uneven cobblestones and splattering onto hems and boots alike. The air was thick with the scent of damp wool, unwashed bodies, and the acrid tang of smoke from hastily lit fires.

The man didn’t like it—not that he was a fan of humanity to begin with. They moved like insects, a swarm of noise and chaos, bartering and shouting, their voices clashing in a discordant symphony. He towered over them slightly, his presence noticeable but not quite commanding.

His clothing was woefully out of place for such weather. The himation draped over his figure was far too thin, the edges soaked and clinging to him as if mocking his indifference to the cold. Snow clung to his sandals, his feet chilled but steadfast against the biting frost.

The crowd parted instinctively as he walked, some murmuring complaints at his carelessness as his steps splashed muddy water onto their garments. He ignored them. He always did.

His eyes scanned the bustling market with vague disinterest, a predator among scavengers. Stalls lined the streets, overflowing with goods: baskets of wilted vegetables, carts of salted fish, bolts of cheap fabric in dull, washed-out colors.

And yet, as he moved through the throng, his attention drifted—not to the wares, but to something far more elusive. Something that lingered at the edges of his awareness, like a scent carried on the wind, or the faint echo of a memory just out of reach.

He stopped suddenly, his gaze narrowing on a stall piled with winter fruit. Among the pale oranges and frostbitten apples, a single crimson pomegranate sat, its skin glistening unnaturally in the dim light.

His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile.

"Well," he muttered to himself, his voice low and rough, "isn't that something?"

"Excuse me!"

The voice startled him—not the sound itself, but the sheer audacity of it directed his way.

You stumbled past him, nearly colliding, your basket of produce wobbling precariously in your hands. One of the eggs inside cracked, a faint, sticky wetness starting to seep through the cloth lining, though you hadn’t noticed.

His eyes followed you, narrowing slightly.

You didn’t look back. Your focus was entirely on the fruit stall ahead, where the winter fruits were piled high. He watched as you approached, your fingers brushing over frostbitten apples and oranges with practiced ease, checking for firmness, for ripeness.

Curious.

You paused at the pomegranate, the same crimson fruit that had caught his attention. For a moment, his breath stilled, waiting.

But you didn’t take it.

Your hand hovered, then moved on, picking up an apple instead.

The man’s gaze lingered, his curiosity piqued despite himself. You left the fruit untouched, walking away as though it meant nothing at all.

His fingers twitched at his side. Strange. Most would have taken it, drawn by its unnatural allure, even if they didn’t know why. But you? You walked past, oblivious.

His gaze sharpened as realization dawned. No, not oblivious—wary.

You had seen the fruit. He was certain of it now. The way your hand had hovered, hesitated, before choosing something else—it wasn’t chance, nor indifference. It was deliberate.

His fingers flexed at his side as he watched you, taking note of the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way your eyes darted briefly toward the pomegranate and then away, as though avoiding something dangerous.

You knew.

Not in the way others might. Not with clarity or understanding. But something within you had recognized it for what it was—or, perhaps, what it wasn’t. And instead of succumbing to its allure, you had chosen to move past it.

The man’s smile grew, faint but unmistakably sharp, curling at the edges like smoke. This was unexpected. Most people stumbled through life blind to such things, ignorant of the strange and the unnatural, even when it was placed right before them.

But you? You saw it. And you chose to walk away.

He tilted his head, considering you as you handed a coin to the vendor and turned to leave, your basket shifting with the weight of your purchases. Snow clung to the edges of your boots as you moved with purposeful steps, casting one final, fleeting glance back at the stall—and, inadvertently, at him.

That fleeting glance. Wary. Appraising.

His smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of something darker.

And so, he followed.

Silently at first, blending into the crowd, a shadow among the many. He kept his distance, his footsteps measured, not too fast, not too slow—just enough to remain unnoticed. His eyes never left you as you wove through the market, your pace quickening as you made your way toward the edge of the town.

He watched as you passed by stalls, the vendors' shouts fading into the background, the market’s noise muffled under the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. Your unease was palpable, your steps purposeful, as though you knew you were being watched, yet you refused to acknowledge it directly.

He admired that about you. Most would have fidgeted, glanced over their shoulder, or given in to the primal fear that comes with being hunted. But not you. You walked with the sort of quiet determination that made him all the more curious.

Through the alleys and narrow paths, you moved with a sense of knowing, a sense of urgency that tugged at him.

There was something in your movements—something sharp, something instinctual—that made him feel as though you weren’t just trying to escape, but were leading him.

And so, he kept his distance. Close enough to see you, but far enough to remain just a presence in the background.

The market’s noise faded as the streets narrowed. He could feel the chill creeping in with the wind, but it wasn’t the cold that had his attention now. No, it was you—wary, sharp, unknowingly playing a game with him.

"Let’s see where you go," he whispered under his breath, the words barely audible.

As he passed the fruit vendor, the farmer at the stand smiled. “Sir, would you like a pomegranate? It’s the last of this season.”

He looked at the farmer, at how he leaned over the stall, holding the pomegranate out to him. It gleamed in his hands, its skin rich and flawless.

The last of the season, huh?

"No," he replied quietly, his voice cold and precise. "Not today."

"Granny? Granny, I'm home!"

***

Your boots crunched in the snow, the sound sharp and clear against the muffled backdrop of the winter day. The path beneath you shifted from the soft powder to the slush of the thawing ground, then to the thick, stubborn mud of the dirt road that hadn’t frozen over yet. It clung to your boots, stubborn and sticky, each step making the journey feel slower, more deliberate.

The words spilled from your mouth, half-relieved, half-frustrated, as you made your way toward the warmth of the house. Your voice cut through the cold air, but there was something strange in the way it echoed—almost too still, too empty, like it was bouncing off walls that shouldn’t be there.

You pushed the door open, the familiar creak of the hinges greeting you, but something felt off. The warmth from the hearth didn’t reach you, the air inside too still, too quiet.

The house seemed empty.

"Granny?" you called again, stepping further inside. Your eyes swept the room, landing on the empty chair by the fire where she should’ve been, knitting or reading or simply gazing into the flames. But there was nothing there—nothing but the faint, cold smell of the earth creeping in through the door, the faintest trace of something… wrong.

The kitchen was untouched, the table bare, and the silence was thick, almost oppressive.

Your heartbeat quickened as the feeling in the pit of your stomach began to rise. You knew the house was old, but it had always felt alive, warm with the presence of your grandmother. Now, it felt... hollow.

A strange shiver crawled down your spine, as though the house was holding its breath, waiting for something. Or someone.

"Welcome home."

The words sliced through the heavy silence like a knife. You whipped your head around, your heart skipping a beat as you saw him standing there, just inside the door. The man from the market.

His smile was too warm, too wide. His eyes gleamed with an amusement as he closed the door behind him with a soft click, shutting you in.

You took an instinctual step back, your hand tightening around the handle of the door you’d just entered through, but it was no use. It was already too late.

He was too close now.

"Your coat?" he asked, extending a hand, his smile lingering, unbothered by the tension that crackled in the air.

You froze, staring at the hand he offered, as if it were a venomous snake. Every nerve in your body screamed to refuse him, to turn and run—but there was no escape. The cold, oppressive feeling from earlier intensified, filling the room, the walls suddenly closing in.

"Get out." Your voice was firm, but your body felt rooted in place. You tried to gather your bearings, but the unsettling calmness of the moment was too suffocating.

His smile didn’t falter. He stepped closer, the warmth of his body too near, too intrusive.

"Not yet," he murmured softly, his eyes never leaving yours. His hand remained outstretched, waiting. "You and I have much to discuss."

“Where’s my grandmother?”

The door was behind you, but the air in front of you seemed to thicken.

Your breath catches at his words. "Where's my grandmother?" you demand again, a trembling edge creeping into your voice. Your fists clench involuntarily at your sides, desperate to hold onto something solid, something that might keep you anchored in this strange, unsettling moment.

He tilts his head slightly, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. "You mean Josephine? She's fine, I promise you."

But the way he says it—the way his eyes gleam—makes your skin crawl. The lack of any real warmth, the forced calm in his voice, sends a shiver down your spine.

Before you can react, before you even have time to process his words, he’s already taken your coat from your shoulders, his fingers brushing against your skin as he pulls it from you. You freeze, the realization that you hadn’t even felt him move causing your heart to race.

"No..." you mutter, shaking your head. "No, where is she?"

Your voice rises, cracking with the tension building in your chest.

But his smile only widens, almost pitying. "Don't worry," he says, his voice low, smooth, as though trying to calm you with his false assurance. "She's not far. Not far at all."

You can’t tell if he’s mocking you or telling the truth, and that uncertainty claws at you, drowning out the rest of your thoughts. The room feels too small now, and every corner is crowded with his presence, his waiting.

"What do you want with me?" you finally force out, your voice barely a whisper.

His words hung in the air like a dark cloud. "Like I said. We have things to discuss."

He gestures toward a chair—your chair, or at least, it should have been. But it wasn’t. It was far too fine, far too pristine for the rest of the crumbling shack. The wood gleamed like freshly polished mahogany, the fabric soft and deep in color, too extravagant to belong in a place like this. It was as though he had placed his own stamp on your home, turning the room into something that didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t his chair.

But that was exactly how he acted. Like he belonged here. Like this was his space.

You hesitate. The room is too heavy, too thick with his presence. Every instinct screams for you to run, to bolt for the door, but your legs feel like lead, your body unwilling to move.

Your gaze flicks from the chair to him, and for a moment, you see something in his eyes—something dangerous. Something that wants you to sit. Wants you to comply.

The smile on his face is patient, too patient.

"Take a seat?" he repeats, his tone smooth but carrying an underlying edge.

Your pulse quickens, but you force yourself to breathe. You know he’s trying to manipulate you, to force you into submission, but you won’t give him that satisfaction.

"No," you reply, voice firmer than you feel. You take a step back, trying to create distance between you and the chair, between you and him.

The air in the room seems to darken with his response. His smile never wavers, but the coldness in his eyes sharpens, as if he were enjoying your defiance.

"You misunderstand," he murmurs, his voice low and almost amused. "This isn’t a choice, love. Take a seat. I insist."

The words are like an invisible force, pressing against you, pulling at your very core. You can feel something—gravity?—something heavier than air itself, pushing you down, urging you toward the chair. Your muscles scream in protest, your mind races, but your body moves against your will.

You clench your teeth, the sharpness of the motion grounding you against the force that threatens to break you. You sit, but it’s not voluntary, not a choice. The chair feels foreign beneath you, the fabric too soft, the arms too well-formed. It's his chair now, and you hate it.

As you settle, the man steps closer, the air thickening with each movement. His smile stretches wider, an unsettling satisfaction behind it. His eyes gleam with something predatory, though it’s hidden beneath that calm, almost bored exterior.

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze flicking over you, almost like he's savoring the moment. Then, slowly, he steps back, his expression thoughtful.

"What do you want with me?"

"Everything," he says, his tone deceptively gentle, as if speaking to a child. "I want everything you have."

His fingers are cold as they grip your chin, turning your face toward him with an unsettling gentleness. You can feel his gaze weighing down on you, as if he's studying you, dissecting every reaction, every twitch of your body. The question is a strange one, unsettling in its simplicity:

"You didn't take the pomegranate. Why?"

Your breath hitches, but you force yourself to remain still, your eyes meeting his despite the overwhelming desire to look away. The way he speaks, the way he presses into your space—it’s like he’s daring you to defy him, but the weight of his touch, of his presence, is too much.

You swallow hard, your throat dry. You didn’t take the pomegranate, yes, but the reason feels almost insignificant now. It’s not about the fruit anymore. It’s about him. The way he’s here, in your home, making demands, insisting on control.

The silence stretches, thick with tension, as his thumb runs lightly over your skin, a strange, almost affectionate gesture that makes your stomach churn.

His eyes never leave yours, waiting. Expecting.

You know the answer should be simple, that you should give him something that satisfies him, but you don’t want to play his game. You can’t play it.

The cold touch of his fingers presses harder, forcing your jaw to tighten in an involuntary response.

"Answer me," he says, his voice turning slightly darker. "Why didn't you take it?"

“I didn’t want it. Not enough coin.” A pitiful excuse. But, a half-truth. You bought eggs.

The grip on your chin tightens, and your breath catches in your throat as his fingers dig into your skin, cold and unyielding. "Lies." His voice is a low growl, soft but cutting through the air like a knife.

You wince, your jaw aching under the pressure, but you refuse to look away. You fight the urge to squirm, to pull away, to lie your way out of this. The coldness in his eyes, though, leaves no room for hesitation, no space for escape.

"I didn’t want it," you repeat, forcing the words out despite the sting of his touch. "I have enough already."

But his face twists in disbelief, the smile fading entirely, replaced by a cold, calculating intensity. His thumb brushes across your skin again, but it no longer feels gentle—it feels as though he’s searching for something beneath the surface.

"You don't get to lie to me." His voice is quieter now, dangerous in its softness. "Why didn’t you take it?"

A heavy silence settles between you, thick with something you can’t name—an urgency, a power dynamic shifting with every breath. The weight of his presence is suffocating, pressing down on you, and the realization that he isn’t going to let you leave until you comply makes your heart race in your chest.

He knows you’re holding something back. He’s not asking because he wants an answer; he’s asking because he wants to break you.

His fingers, ice-cold and unrelenting, drift across your jawline, and you instinctively flinch at the touch, the intimacy of his proximity overwhelming. His other arm braces against the chair, closing the distance between you, and his breath brushes against your skin, the sound of his words a low whisper, too close.

"I'm familiar to you, hmm?" His voice is thick with something darker, almost possessive. "Caleb."

The name hits you like a punch to the gut. Caleb. You blink, trying to make sense of the words, but the sound of your name from his lips sends a jolt of recognition through you. You’ve heard it before—somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind, in a place you can’t quite place.

"What?" You force the word out, disbelief crashing over you like a tidal wave. You don't want to understand. You can't.

"My name." His voice is cold now, almost amused at your confusion. "My name is Caleb. And you broke our promise."

The world seems to tilt on its axis, your breath freezing in your chest. Promise? What promise?

A thousand memories flash—disjointed fragments of a time long past, faces that don’t quite fit, voices that are just out of reach.

But none of it makes sense.

The way he says it, the way his eyes darken, hints at something deeper, something long buried beneath the surface.

"Promise?" you repeat, your voice barely a whisper. You don’t know what he means. You can’t know what he means.

He leans closer, the heat of his breath on your neck sending another wave of discomfort through your body. "You promised me you wouldn’t forget."

Forget? What was he talking about? Your heart pounds in your chest, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in on you.

The only thing you’re sure of is that whatever this promise was, it’s something you never agreed to. Something you never even knew you had made.

Your breath catches in your throat, and before you can even process the shift in his movement, his lips are on yours, cold and forceful. The shock of it seizes your body—an electric jolt of surprise, of horror. The pressure of his kiss is suffocating, overwhelming, and you feel trapped under the weight of it.

You try to pull away, to break the contact, but his grip on you is unyielding, his hands keeping you firmly in place, as if locking you into the moment. Your heart races in your chest, pounding against the cage of your ribs. Every instinct in your body screams at you to fight, to push him away, but the force of his kiss disorients you, blurs your thoughts.

Everything in you fights against it. You don’t want this—you never wanted this.

The coldness of his lips, the sharpness of his fingers gripping your jaw, the way he dominates the space between you—it all feels wrong, like a violation of something you can’t quite define.

His tongue brushes against your lips, demanding entry, and the part of you that still has control tenses in resistance. Your breath quickens, heart thundering in your ears, as you turn your head, the strain of your muscles pulling against his hold.

But he’s relentless, insistent, as though this was always the endgame.

And it’s then, in the midst of the storm of confusion and anger, that it hits you: He’s not just Caleb. Not the Caleb you thought you knew.

This... this is a different man entirely.

The world around you blurs, your senses drowning in the sharp pressure of his lips, the roughness of his hold on you. One moment, you're sitting—frozen, fighting, overwhelmed—and the next, your back hits something soft and plush. The bed creaks beneath you, and you realize, too late, that you've been moved. You don't know when it happened, but now you're lying there, the softness of the bedding contrasting with the harshness of his body pressing against yours.

Your chest tightens as his kiss returns, insistent and suffocating. His presence feels like a weight, pressing down on you from all sides, a physical force that you can’t escape. His hands roam with a practiced familiarity, like he’s done this before, like he knows how to break you, how to keep you in this moment. Your heart pounds in your chest, and every instinct screams at you to push him away, to run, but your body betrays you, frozen in place, unable to muster the strength to move.

It’s like he’s taken control of everything—your thoughts, your body, the space around you—and you can feel yourself slipping into a fog, disoriented, trapped in this strange reality where nothing makes sense anymore. The soft sheets beneath you feel wrong, a dissonance with the terror swirling in your chest.

His lips move from yours, but it’s not relief. His breath is hot against your skin as he traces a path down your neck, his grip tightening, and you can’t shake the feeling that everything you thought you understood, everything you thought you knew about him—about you—is slipping away, piece by piece.

“Do you understand now?” he whispers against your skin, his voice low, almost mocking. “Do you remember?”

But you don’t. You can’t.

“If you can’t remember, why did you take them?”

Your eyes only held confusion. Frustrated, he asks again.

“The pomegranates were supposed to be dead,” he all but hisses, his hand moving to your throat, squeezing. “But you brought one back. How?”

The pressure on your throat tightens, sharp and relentless, and your body tenses as you gasp for breath. His words are barely audible, but the venom in his voice cuts through the fog in your mind, and suddenly, everything is clearer. The question—How?—echoes in your head, your pulse hammering against his fingers as if to answer him, but your throat betrays you, unable to form the words.

His eyes, dark and furious, bore into you, and the weight of his gaze feels like a brand on your soul. There’s an urgency in his touch, like he’s desperate for an answer that you don’t have. His grip on your throat tightens further, and you can barely think, only feeling the constriction in your airways, the frantic beat of your heart.

"Pomegranates..." you manage to whisper through clenched teeth, barely able to speak, your voice rasping in the thick tension of the moment.

He doesn’t release his hold, not even a little. The threat in his touch is clear, and something deep inside you knows he's not just angry—he’s frantic.

"How did you bring them back?!" His voice is a low growl now, filled with a chilling sense of desperation. "You had no right."

You choke on your breath, the weight of his question landing like a hammer. You know the pomegranates he’s talking about—how they weren’t supposed to be here, how they were dead. You never should’ve found one, never should’ve brought it back. But it’s not the how that you can’t answer.

It’s the why. Why is he so invested in them? And why are you suddenly the one in danger over them?

The world spins, but his hands on your throat ground you in place, trapping you in a moment where the answer is just out of reach.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice? I walk through that hellish field every day. And every day, they are all dead. So what did you do?”

The cold grip around your throat tightens again, and your breath becomes shallow, each inhale a struggle. The urgency in his voice, the desperation, the fury—it's almost enough to send you into a panic. He’s so close now, his breath mixing with yours as he presses into you, demanding answers, demanding something from you that you don't even understand.

The mention of the hellish field sends a shiver through you. You know exactly where he means—the barren stretch of earth where the pomegranates are supposed to lie dormant, rotting, where no fruit should grow. It had been a place of silence, of dead leaves and dust. The pomegranates had always been gone, and you thought nothing of it when you found one that had somehow survived.

But now, he is asking about it, and something in his words tells you that this is more than just a passing curiosity. He’s not asking because he’s wondering how the fruit is growing. He’s asking because he knows. He knows it shouldn’t be possible, and somehow, you’ve made it so.

“I didn’t…” you gasp, your voice weak, struggling against the pressure of his hand. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean?” he interrupts, his fingers digging into your skin, forcing you to look him in the eyes. “Do you think I care about your good intentions? Do you know what this means? What you’ve done?”

You try to focus, but his eyes are too intense, and you can feel the world around you closing in, everything blurring except the sharpness of his words, of his grip.

He knows. He knows, and that makes you realize you’ve stepped into something far beyond your understanding.

“You... you were the one... who killed them...” Your words come out haltingly, the pieces falling into place—his anger, his fury, the strange obsession with the pomegranates. “You—You’re the one who made them die.”

The realization hits you like a bolt of lightning. This isn’t about the fruit. This isn’t about something that grew in the wrong soil. This is about something much darker, something he’s tied to, something you can’t comprehend.

And yet, as the words leave your mouth, you wonder—how could you have known? How could you have guessed?

The pressure on your throat burns, every second stretching into an eternity as you feel yourself slowly suffocating under his gaze. His eyes, dark and furious, make you feel small, insignificant, like nothing more than a mere insect beneath his heel. His grip tightens further, the reality of his anger closing in like a vice around your neck.

Your thoughts are clouded, your body trembling, desperate for air, for release from this moment that feels like it might swallow you whole. The world around you blurs, and the edges of your vision darken, but you can't afford to lose consciousness—not now, not when everything feels like it's slipping through your fingers.

The field, the pomegranates, the months since you wandered through that cursed stretch of earth—they all seem like distant memories now, as irrelevant as the flutter of a bird's wings in the storm of your present. What did it matter? You never meant for any of this to happen.

Months? Yes, it had been months since you came across the field, since that moment of discovery. The fruit had been so alluring, so strange. But now, it doesn’t matter. It doesn't matter at all.

All that matters is this: the suffocating weight of his hand on your throat, the rage in his eyes, the sense of power he holds over you in this very moment. It’s not about the pomegranates anymore, or the field, or anything else you’ve done. It's about survival, about whether you can stay conscious long enough to find a way out.

"You have no idea what you’ve done," he hisses through clenched teeth, his voice low and venomous. His fingers dig into your skin, making it feel as though your very breath is being stolen from you. You can feel the blood rushing to your head, the pressure mounting, and for a moment, you wonder if this is how it all ends.

It’s hard to focus, hard to think. And then-

The realization hits you like a cold slap to the face. Your breath catches in your throat, the air refusing to fill your lungs, even as his grip loosens just a fraction, as if sensing your sudden understanding. The seeds. Those damned seeds. You had taken them, thinking nothing of it. Just a curious moment, a strange instinct to keep something from that cursed field. They hadn’t grown, though—at least, you’d thought they hadn’t.

But one of them had.

The cold weight of it settles in the pit of your stomach. You must have dropped one, somewhere between your hurried walk and the spill of your water satchel. Perhaps on the way home, or somewhere in the market. It could have fallen unnoticed, but it had taken root. And now… now, you know exactly what that means.

It wasn't just the fruit that was alive—it was the seed itself, brought back from the dead, blooming in a place it shouldn’t. In the wrong soil. Under the wrong conditions. And he must have sensed it, felt the change, the unnatural resurrection of something that was supposed to stay buried.

It wasn’t just a seed anymore. It was something else. Something that had no place in this world, and definitely no place in your hands.

Your pulse spikes, your breath still strained but clearer now. You can’t let him know you’ve figured it out. Not yet. Not until you can find a way to make this right—or at least survive the next few moments.

"I didn’t… I didn’t mean to," you rasp, the words stumbling out, barely audible. "I thought they were dead... I thought I was doing no harm."

His eyes narrow, a sharp flicker of something darker passing through them. He doesn’t speak at first, his fingers still lightly brushing your skin, but there's no mistaking the shift in the atmosphere. The air thickens, tension pulling tighter, and the room itself seems to darken in his presence.

"You didn’t mean to?" His voice is dangerously low, but there’s an edge of disbelief in it. "You thought they were dead?"

The mockery in his tone is almost worse than his rage, as if everything you’ve done—everything you thought was inconsequential—has led to this. The pomegranate, the seed, the field… this has been waiting for you. Waiting for someone to make the mistake of finding it, of bringing it back.

"I didn’t know," you whisper, your eyes darting to the edge of the room, anywhere but his burning gaze. "Please... I didn’t know."

For a moment, there’s silence—heavy, suffocating silence. And in that silence, you realize just how much danger you’re really in. This isn’t just about the seeds. It’s about what you’ve awakened. What you’ve released.

And he’s not done with you yet.

“That doesn’t matter. You owe me. You owe me everything. The pomegranates are a contract. How many seeds did you take?”

His grip on your throat has tightened again, though not as much as before. He’s holding you in place, forcing you to face him, to answer him, to acknowledge what you’ve done.

Your pulse quickens, fear seeping into your veins. He’s right. You owe him, but what he doesn’t know is that you hadn’t taken them for any grand purpose. You’d been foolish, reckless even, thinking that the seeds were just something to keep, something harmless. But now, his words cut through you like a blade—those seeds were never meant to be collected, never meant to be used. They weren’t just fruit, they were a binding, a covenant, a contract you hadn’t understood.

You swallow hard, trying to focus, trying to keep your voice steady. "I—I only took a few... just a handful," you whisper, your words hoarse as they tumble from your mouth. "I didn’t think they’d… grow. I didn’t think it meant anything."

Which hand? The right or the left? It’s such a simple thing, such a small detail, but you can feel the gravity of it. He’s making a game of it. Toying with you. You wonder if this is his way of breaking you down, piece by piece.

“A handful, huh? So I should decide how many then?”

“No!”

“So how many?” Caleb’s voice is almost playful in its mockery. “Actually. I’ve decided. Which hand did you take them with?”

Your breath catches in your throat, a lump of dread settling in your stomach. You can barely think, your mind reeling from the weight of his question, his control, his power over you.

A lie wouldn’t do you any good. He’d know. He always knows. The truth is the only way out, even if it feels like a betrayal of your very self.

You try to steady your breath, your hands trembling at your sides as you force yourself to speak, though your voice is barely a whisper. "The right," you manage, the words feeling like acid as they leave your mouth.

“So should I take it? Or break it?” His voice is laced with amusement, yet the question itself is far from playful. There’s a menace in his tone, a quiet assurance that whatever choice you make will only lead to more pain, more consequence.

Your right hand trembles at your side, feeling like a weight you can’t escape. It’s as though he’s already decided your fate, and the moment you answer, it will be sealed. The choice—take it or break it—feels like the very foundation of your existence teetering on the edge. One wrong move, and you’re shattered.

It’s not just your hand he’s talking about. It’s everything. The lies. The theft. The contract. And you have to make a choice.

"Well?" He presses, his smile widening slightly, his patience wearing thin.

His grip tightens around your mouth, pressing down hard enough to stifle your breath. The weight of his hand is suffocating, and your thoughts are scrambling to make sense of everything. His words from earlier echo in your mind: You can thrive with no hands.

Calebs gaze shifts.

“Nevermind that.” he takes your right hand, kissing it. “You can thrive even with no hands, I’m sure, so that would be pointless.”

You try to push through the panic rising in your chest, but it only gets worse when one thought cuts through everything—Josephine.

Your grandmother. Where is she? What has he done to her?

You open your mouth to ask, but his hand clamps over it with more force, cutting off your words, your breath. You struggle, your pulse thundering in your neck, the terror building with every passing second. You can’t think of anything else but Josephine, and the fear of what might have happened to her.

"Shhh," he says softly, almost patronizingly. His voice is too calm, too cold. "No need to speak right now. We'll get to that later."

“Caleb-”

“You took a few. It doesn’t matter. Your hands will know how many it was, even if you forgot. And your tongue will know how many you’ve eaten.”

"Six," he repeats, his voice cold as he watches your hands, as if counting them. The weight of the word presses down on your chest like a heavy stone, and your throat tightens. Six. The number echoes in your mind, a cruel reminder of what you've done, of the mistake that’s now spiraling out of control.

"Please-" his hold goes to your hands, and his eyes close. you struggle to break free, try to kick at him, but he's firm.

"Six."

Dread fills you.

"Six?"

"Six seeds. You ate six seeds."

You struggle against him, your breath quick and uneven as you fight to break free, but his grip is ironclad. His hands are everywhere—on your wrists, your throat, your arms—and no matter how hard you kick or twist, you can’t escape. He’s too strong.

"Please..." you gasp, the word slipping out in a broken whisper, but it’s more out of desperation than anything else. You can feel the weight of the seeds in your gut, the aftermath of your recklessness settling like a poison in your veins.

"Six," he repeats again, the word dragging out in a way that makes it sound almost like a verdict, as though he's already decided what will happen because of it. The dread in your chest deepens, and the air around you feels thick, heavy with an impending sense of doom.

His eyes close for a moment, like he’s savoring the knowledge of your mistake, the fact that you’ve already crossed a line you didn’t even understand until now. When he opens them again, they’re sharper, more piercing than before.

"You don’t understand the consequences," he says softly, almost too calmly. "But you will."

You try to steady your breath, to gather yourself, but everything inside of you is shaking, fear and confusion clouding your thoughts. What did it all mean? Six. Six seeds, and now you're trapped, tangled in a contract you barely remember signing, but which he is now holding you to.

"Six," he repeats one last time, his eyes scanning you like a predator eyeing its prey. The word is both a warning and a promise.

His voice is a low, chilling whisper, a cold wind sweeping through your mind with every word.

"Six seeds in the winter. Six months. Every year."

The weight of his words sinks in slowly, painfully. Six months? Every year? A feeling of dread floods your body, a cold sweat breaking out across your skin as the meaning starts to claw its way to the surface. The pomegranates. The seeds.

The finality in his words cuts through the air, sending a cold shiver down your spine. His hand remains on your jaw, pressing down, his eyes never leaving yours. He leans in, his presence suffocating, his breath hot against your skin.

"You... you will be bound to me. Me. Every year."

The implication of his words settles over you like a weight too heavy to bear. Each year, you’ll have to answer to him, every winter, every cycle, every six months, until... until what? The uncertainty gnaws at you, but the truth is undeniable: you’ve made a pact. And now, you are bound, tethered to him in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

The reality of what he's saying—what it means—sinks in like ice, creeping through your veins. Your breath catches in your chest, and the urge to run, to escape, is overwhelming. But you know better now. You know you can’t escape him. You’ve already given too much away, unknowingly, thoughtlessly.

"You won’t be free," he continues, his voice a low, venomous promise. "Not for as long as you live. Every year, you will return to me. And you will serve your purpose." His thumb traces your lower lip, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the taste of your fear.

"Every year." The words ring in your ears, a constant reminder of the contract you’ve unknowingly entered.

You open your mouth to protest, to plead, but nothing comes out. What could you say? How could you explain that you never meant for this to happen, that you had no idea the consequences would be so... severe?

His eyes gleam with something darker now. Something almost... triumphant.

"You’ll learn the price of what you’ve done," Caleb murmurs, his grip tightening around your wrist, holding you firmly in place. "And when you do, you’ll understand why you belong to me."

His lips crash against yours, urgent and hungry, as if trying to consume you whole, each kiss more fervent than the last. But in that brief, fleeting moment, as his hands grip at your body, you see it. The truth in the shadows of his touch.

His fingers, stained with something dark. Black and red. It’s not just dirt. Not just the earth.

Juice.

The realization hits you in an instant—what you thought was just a product of the field, of his rough nature, was something far worse. Something tied to the very fruit that had been the cause of this entire twisted encounter. His hands, stained with the dark liquid of the pomegranates, blood and juice entwined together. You could smell it faintly—a sweet, acrid scent that clings to him like a curse. It coats his palms, dripping as he touches you, as if his hands were forever stained by the fruit’s sacrifice.

A chill runs through your spine as his touch lingers, his grip tightening. The pomegranates, the seeds—he’s been part of this too. His very essence is tied to them. He’s not just a man, not just some random stranger from the market. He’s part of the cycle, just like you. He’s no god, hes a curse! A snake!

You try to jerk away from his touch, but the force of his hands holds you firmly in place. The stains on his skin are like a brand, marking him, marking you. It’s as though the blood of those fruits courses through him now, and through you.

The softness of the bed feels foreign against your body, like you’re sinking deeper into a pit you can't escape. Your nightgown clings to you, the fabric damp and uncomfortable against your skin. You can’t remember when your boots came off, but the cold from the snow on your clothes lingers, biting at your skin as if it’s refusing to let go. It’s a strange contrast—how you feel trapped in this bed of softness, yet every part of you is screaming for escape.

Caleb’s presence is overwhelming, suffocating. He follows you, his weight pressing down, his breath hot against your skin. His hands are still stained, dark and red, as though the pomegranates’ curse has been embedded in his very touch. Each time his skin brushes yours, it's like you can feel that stain transferring—marking you, binding you further to him.

You try to shift, to find any escape, but his hold is unyielding. Your heart races, your mind scrambling for any way out. But everything feels wrong—like this is the inevitable result of a choice you didn’t even consciously make. The blood on his hands is no longer just the pomegranate juice; it feels like it’s becoming your blood too, intertwining your fates.

"Stay still," Caleb's voice murmurs in your ear, his tone low, almost soothing in its malicious calm. "You’ve already done enough. Now, you just have to accept it."

The weight of his words settles heavily on you, the reality of it all pressing in, making it harder to breathe. You close your eyes, trying to block him out, but you can’t escape the feeling of being completely consumed. He is everywhere—his hands, his touch, his scent.

And you are trapped.

He opens his mouth to bite, and there, you see it- fangs. Horrible, horrible fangs, like a snake. And when he bites-

Your breath is erratic, each inhale sharp and frantic, as your chest heaves with the remnants of the nightmare. The warmth of your bed clings to you like an unwanted weight, your body still tense from the terrifying images that danced in your mind. You blink rapidly, trying to focus, the disorienting haze of sleep still clinging to your thoughts.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been.

But as you scramble out of bed, panic surging through your veins, your legs barely hold you up. You stumble, almost falling as you rush through the dim hallway toward Josephine’s room. Your heart pounds in your ears, and your hands tremble, brushing against the walls to steady yourself. Every step feels like it takes forever.

You reach her door, your breath caught in your throat. You hesitate for just a moment, but the terror, the urgent need to see her safe, pushes you forward. You twist the handle and burst into the room.

"Granny?" you call out, your voice trembling. The room is dark, the shadows in the corners unnerving, but the familiar smell of Josephine’s comforting herbs fills the air. You can hear her slow, steady breathing from the bed, the soft rustling of blankets as she shifts in her sleep.

For a second, you just stand there, listening. Waiting.

Relief washes over you as you realize she’s still there, still alive. The nightmare, the horrible fangs, seem to retreat into the dark corners of your mind as the reality of the moment settles in. Your mind fights to differentiate dream from reality, the lines so blurred, you almost can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

You collapse onto the edge of her bed, your hands trembling as you reach out to brush a lock of gray hair from her face.

She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.

Your heart stops. The basket, innocently placed beside Josephine’s sleeping form, feels like a jolt of ice through your veins. Pomegranates. Red, ripe, gleaming under the dim light filtering through the cracks in the curtains. You blink, your vision swimming for a moment as you try to steady yourself, but there they are—those cursed fruits, as if mocking your worst fears.

The world seems to tilt as the realization sinks in. You hadn't brought them inside, had you? The dream... had it been a dream? Your eyes dart from the basket to Josephine, your breath catching in your throat. Her soft, even breathing remains unchanged, oblivious to the dangerous gift that sits at her side.

You step closer, as if by instinct, as your fingers tremble at the edges of the basket. Each pomegranate gleams like a secret, an omen you can’t understand, yet it feels all too real.

You stumble away from Josephine’s side, the unease gnawing at your gut. The sight of the basket, so innocently placed, is now burned into your mind. But the chill is not just in your bones; it’s in your very skin.

Racing to the mirror, you meet your own reflection. At first, the face staring back is foreign—disheveled, pale from the cold, with eyes wide in panic. But as your gaze drifts downward, you freeze.

There, just below your jawline, is a mark. The skin is raw, bruised, angry red. It’s a bite. Caleb’s bite.

Your hand reaches up, touching the tender spot. The scar doesn’t just throb with the usual tenderness of a bruise; it burns.

What had been a dream now feels like a slow, suffocating reality that’s slowly tightening its grip around you. You feel his presence lingering like a shadow just outside, and you know deep down that he's watching you, even from a distance.

Outside, the first rays of sunlight are breaking through the clouds, spilling over the snow. You watch as it melts, revealing the earth beneath, yet it feels wrong. Almost like the sun, so pure and innocent, is powerless in this moment. The air feels thick with something you can't name, the stillness broken only by the slow, steady drip of melting ice.

Everything feels wrong. And with each passing second, it becomes clearer: you are no longer in control. The pomegranates have bound you to something you can't undo. The bite on your neck, the basket by Josephine's side, the promise... it’s all real.

And you have no idea how to stop it.

©hellinistical 2024 do not copy, translate, distribute, plagiarize, or reproduce in any form without permission, and do not share to any media outside of tumblr.

#pandoras box writing #hellinistical #love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #lads caleb #caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb lads #caleb x mc #lads caleb x reader #love and deep space caleb #caleb l&ds #l&ds x you #lads x you #love and deepspace x you #love and deepspace x reader #x y/n #afab reader #lads x reader

573 notes · View notes

skeltnwrites · 6 months ago

Text

Tides at Moonrise ☾⁺˖⋆₊

After being attacked by demobats in the Upside Down, Steve experiences some supernatural changes.

vampire!steve, bf!steve, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort / TW season 4 spoilers, vomit, arguing, drinking blood, very minor descriptions of injury and gore, mentions of death and cannibalism, spooky elements 6k

a/n - steve and dustin are such a fun pair to write i miss the iconic duo that they are

── .✦

“Fuck,” Steve croaks, swiping at the thread of spit swaying from his lips. He glowers at his reflection in the toilet bowl, muddied brown from a piece of chocolate but mostly bile. The sting of acid coats the back of his throat and sours the length of his tongue.

It’s been four days, going on five, and he hasn’t been able to keep anything down. You’ve tried toast, soup, crackers, protein shakes, and every other sick food on the list. And now in a desperate attempt, you’ve ruined his favorite candy for him too.

You press a water bottle to his bicep, “Here.”

“No.” His hands tremble where they’re braced against the porcelain rim. “I can’t.”

“Stevie. It’s just water.”

“I will. Just, not yet.” His tone is callous. He’s not mad, at least not at you. A culmination of feelings fester in his chest like a swarm of bees gearing for attack. But he won’t take this out on you. Won’t let himself.

He sinks back on his heels, decidedly finished.

You snake an arm around his middle as if to say it’s okay. You’re both exhausted from a string of sleepless nights. Finding the proper words requires a level of energy you don’t have. He prefers your touch anyway.

The half-hearted embrace lacks the comfort you hope to find. The skin of his bare back is like ice against yours. It’s a foreign sensation, though becoming less and less so each day.

Steve sags into your warmth with the entire brunt of his weight. His strength fades with each passing night, as your worry grows in equal measure.

A finger scratches the coarse gauze plastered to his tummy. It’s still snug, exactly how you fixed it. You only trouble him with changing his bandages if it’s necessary. You’re thankful that the road rash across his back has scabbed over. It’s healing fine, but it’s not pretty. Like a pair of fiery wings hung from his shoulder blades.

You coax Steve back into your shared room. He’s averse but can’t afford a fight.

It’s late morning. Bright enough to project bars of sunlight across your sheets. Steve winces at them, among a number of other things, as he crawls into bed. Even through the glass pane, the sun stings. It’s not unbearable, but an uncomfortable heat, like a sunburn.

You reinforce the makeshift curtain where it’s unfastened itself. It’s a throw blanket you really miss now that you sleep beside a human ice pack. Someone is bringing blackout curtains to cover the blinds. You think it was Mike who offered, but you aren’t really sure. Your brain is fuzzy with fear and fatigue. The last week has tangled itself in your mind like an unraveled spool of thread. The only strand of it you’re focused on is what’ll help Steve.

He seeks your hand when you join him on the mattress. There’s enough indirect light seeping in to highlight the sickly shade he’s become. Signature golden, sun-baked hues have drained from his skin like a bleached photograph. And while he hasn’t eaten or seen the sun in days, it just doesn’t make sense. Nothing about this situation does.

You all have your theories– how this is linked to the Upside Down or a part of Vecna’s plan. But everything circles back to that night. Steve was shredded by demobats and took a chunk out of one with his teeth in revenge. Something about their bites or swallowing their blood did something to Steve. It changed him, right down to his DNA.

Dustin’s tried to present several possibilities from a scientific standpoint. Gene mutations, parasites, cellular regeneration, infections, but there are always holes in his explanations, always things that don’t quite add up. But you’re running out of time. You feel it, Steve feels it, everyone does. He’s grasping at a fraying rope, wilting like a dying flower in your palms.

Steve calls your name like a beacon from your thoughts.

“I can hear how anxious you are,” he says when you face him.

You have to be the strong one right now. You shake your head. “I’m not. It’s okay.”

He softens like melting snow and scoots closer until he’s more on your pillow than his. “Don’t lie. Please.”

“I’m not,” you whisper, not caring that he won’t believe you.

Steve sandwiches your fingers between both of his palms; draws soothing shapes across the marbled green and purple of your knuckles. “I can hear your heartbeat, you know. It’s racing.”

Your first instinct is to call his bluff, then shove away any embarrassment and lock it up in a box deep in your brain until all of this is over. But he’s not lying. He’s a stupendously bad liar. And at this point, he could tell you he has x-ray vision and you wouldn’t be that surprised.

“I can hear the blood pumping through your veins too.”

“Is that… new?”

“No. It was just so chaotic before. I couldn’t focus on it.”

You study his eyes. They’re a shade of brown you never expected to become your favorite. Hooded and half-lidded with the weight of too many things for one person to carry. You try hard to commit them to memory because you’re afraid if they close they may never reopen.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs.

“You’re not.” You blink away the salty sting as fast as it arrives. “You don’t know that.”

“I got it out of my system. I feel fine.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not,” he lies.

“It’s bullshit.”

He snaps you a harsh look, seemingly triggered by your tone or choice of words. “Okay– well, shit, babe. What do you suppose we do?”

You sit up, ripping out of his grasp. “I dunno, Steve. Go to the hospital? The fucking government lab people? Literally anyone– we clearly don’t know–”

He scoffs, wrenching himself up with the help of the headboard. “Yeah, because the nurses will totally believe the part about the sentient vines that tried to strangle me. I mean clearly something– fucked, has happened to me. Something they aren’t going to know how to fix!”

“Then the scientists! They might know! They’d have a better clue than us.”

“And where do you suppose we find these scientists who El said were killed with Brenner?”

“I don’t know, Steve! But it’s worth looking! You’re worth getting real help for!”

The yelling is squashed by an even heavier thing that is silence. Steve isn’t sure what to say and neither are you.

This is not the first time you’ve argued since that night. There’s enough stress between the two of you to stretch to the other side of the earth and back. And more than enough fear to turn both of your heads gray. You’re irritable and angry and so desperate for a night of sleep where you aren’t tormented by your loved one’s deaths. And you feel like your best friend in the whole world is walking a tightrope straight into death’s door.

“I am okay,” he promises quietly. “I’ve been through worse. I have.”

“What like getting in fist fights? Getting drugged by Russians? This is different, Steve. Something’s wrong.” Your voice raises and then wavers before breaking completely; like the keystone pulled from an arch, everything crumbles.

Steve gathers you into his arms like you’re made of putty, scooping and pulling like you’ll slip right out of his hold. You inhale a staggered belt of air and choke on a sob into his collarbone. He seals you against his chest, not caring about the scrapes and cuts and bruises; not caring if they reopen and stain the mattress red.

He cradles you for an innominate amount of time until you slacken and your sniffles morph into congested snores. His gaze flickers across your face, tracing the bend of your brows and the seam of your lips. He hates this; having to convince you he’s okay when he’s not. He needs to be stronger, to be there for you as much as you’ve been for him. Steve won’t lose you in this pit his body’s created. He can’t.

ᯓ★

It’s evening when you wake. You can tell because the white glow framing the window has ebbed into orange. There’s a pounding at the base of your skull and a sharper pain, like two barbs behind your eyes. You remember why your eyes are puffy, why you aren’t warm in Steve’s embrace, and why someone’s knocking very loudly on the door all between one shuddery breath. You feel sad but you should be grateful. That’s the longest bout of sleep you’ve had all week.

You tug away from your sleeping boyfriend and steal his water bottle off the nightstand. The static has to be shaken from your legs before you can drag yourself to answer the door. You know it’s Dustin before you open it because he’s the only one who knocks this impatiently.

“Okay, I think I’ve figured it out,” he starts as soon as your face slides into view. “I was looking through my monster manual– and I know what you’re gonna say– this isn’t some game, Dustin,” he mocks your voice in an inarguably awful impression. You’d chastise him if you didn’t have such a killer headache.

He prattles his way into the kitchen beside you while you search for that damn bottle of painkillers. Words are spilling out of Dustin’s mouth like a burst dam. You love him like a brother, and you appreciate him even more for what he’s saying, but you aren't catching a lick of it. The medicine is right where you forgot it beside the tower of dishes in the sink– mostly yours since Steve, well, you know. You take a swig of water and pop three pills.

Dustin stops his spiel to ask, “Should you be taking that many?”

“Yes, unless you want me to bash my head into the wall.”

“Okay, fine. Whatever. As I was saying, if this really is the case, I think Steve’s a vampire!” He beams at you like this is great news; like he said something completely normal.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Steve huffs from the other side of the counter, a blanket strung across his back and bunched in the front like a cloak. He scrubs his nose, either squinting from being woken up or narrowing his eyes at Dustin in irritation, you aren’t sure.

“I’m serious,” Dustin defends.

“I’m going back to bed.”

“Wait, Steve! Let me explain!”

Steve entertains an explanation for one reason only. You told him to. Seven hours of sleep does nothing when you haven’t eaten for as long as he hasn’t. His stomach is twisting itself in knots and frankly, he doesn’t want to spend the last days of his life hearing about characters from Dustin’s nerdy game.

But you both sit and listen and decide his theory actually kind of makes sense this time. Steve won’t admit it and you’re trying to be skeptical– raise all the right questions and find any holes– but your heart lurches at the possibility that you finally have an answer. A cure.

Steve’s aversion to sunlight, his paling complexion, not being able to keep human food down, hearing your goddamn heartbeat– it all clicks. He’s a fucking vampire.

“And vampires need blood!” You shout with Dustin.

“You can’t be serious,” Steve glares at you. “I’m not a vampire.”

“Weirder fucking things have happened here.” Your eyebrows knit together, mind swirling with endless thoughts. “I mean, how did we not consider this? You were bit by a bat!”

“Oh, I dunno, maybe because it’s crazy!”

“Steve!”

He shakes his head in disbelief. You love him so much you’re desperate for anything, even illogical answers. He refuses to play along.

“Will you just try it? See if it works first?” Dustin asks.

“Do you realize what you’re asking me? To drink someone’s blood? Are you out of your mind? Where would we even–”

Dustin cuts him off, shrugging, “I know a place.”

“You know a place?”

“Yeah. I know a place. Don’t question me.”

Steve stares, eyebrows raised.

“It’s pig’s blood, from a farm.”

“Christ, Henderson. I’m not drinking pig’s blood. You psycho.”

“Steve, don’t be like this,” you plead. “How can you know if you don’t try? Maybe you’ll like it?”

“‘Don’t be like this?’ Are you you kidding? I’m not doing it– that’s gross!”

“Okay, okay. What about a steak? Like a really bloody one? Will you compromise?”

Steve makes a funny face. “Fine.”

ᯓ★

“This is not the way to the grocery store,” Steve realizes out loud, heaving himself up in the backseat of his beamer.

It’s overcast and nearly sunset but he’s dressed in long sleeves and brought his blanket-cloak for extra protection. Steve always loved the sun– pool days, barbecues, beach vacations, all of it. Now he can’t enjoy the heat of it from his bedroom without hurting. It’s like a punch to the gut, realizing you may never see his sun-kissed hair or trace his moles by his parent’s pool again.

“Ding. Ding. Ding,” Dustin goads from the passenger seat beside you.

“You guys are assholes. Especially you, Henderson.”

“Wasn’t my idea.”

Steve meets your gaze in the rearview mirror. He supplies his signature Steve pout. But only the tiniest slice of your brain is worried about that. You’re fixated on how bloodshot his eyes are. How deep they sag, even after sleeping as much as he has. You can deal with Steve being mad at you; what you can’t deal with is Steve being dead.

You think he’s starting to come to terms with the plan because he doesn’t argue further. But he really just doesn’t have it in him to bicker. He thinks it’s a stupid idea. He’ll probably throw up, either at the smell or mind game of drinking it or whatever the hell’s wrong with his body. And pigs have all sorts of diseases, don’t they? It very well could make him more sick than he already is.

When you arrive, Steve’s cheek is smushed against the car door. He’s been dozing in reluctant fits for most of the drive.

The farm is fucking creepy, to say the least. It’s not dark yet, but the clouds are drawing shut over the last bit of light. And the long, gravelly path up to the house is freaking you out. This is the kind of place where people in movies get murdered.

“You’re sure this is the right place?” You ask Dustin, shifting the car into park.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

You crane over your seat. Steve’s curled in on himself like an earthworm. The long drive was just a catalyst to knock him out.

He’s been wired at night. You’ve spent hours up with him and the moon, trying any and everything that comes to mind– reading, movies, baths– none of it’s worked so far. But he’s exhausted during the day no matter how much he sleeps. At least the nocturnal-ness makes sense now.

“We can’t leave him in here,” you say.

“Why not?”

“What if he wakes up? Sees he’s in the middle of fucking nowhere by himself? He’ll think we left him.”

“What if he makes a scene in front of the farmer? He’s not exactly on board with this plan.”

You sigh, defeated. You can’t send Dustin alone. If he gets slaughtered, you don’t think you’ll be able to live with yourself. Plus Dustin already called this guy to arrange this and explained the pig’s blood was for a project for film school. Dustin doesn’t exactly look old enough to pass as a college kid so that parts up to you.

“Okay, come on.” You open and click the door shut as gingerly as the car allows.

Dustin isn’t spooked but he is cautious. He scans the pines beyond the house, the truck parked under the sycamore tree, and the underside of the porch. No murderers, yet.

You knock and put on your best film school student face.

A long-bearded man in his seventies at least, cautiously eyes you through the crack of the doorway. “Can I help ya?”

“Hi, we’re here to buy pig’s blood. For a school project,” you say.

“Oh,” he grumbles, setting aside a shotgun before unlatching the slide bolt. “Forgot you was comin’.”

The man ushers you inside. The foyer looks normal enough– framed family photos and wooden side tables and a floral rug. There’s no blood stains or screams or machetes lying around. That’s a good thing. But you can’t shake the uneasy feeling. It follows you through the house like a ghost.

“I sell it by the gallon. Five dollars for one. How many ya need?”

“Uhh. Two?” You glance at Dustin for reassurance.

He frowns and shrugs.

“Alrighty. Let me grab ‘em from the basement.”

The basement? Those are keywords in a scary movie. He probably keeps his victims in the basement. Or worse, his weapons.

“This place is creepy as shit,” Dustin leans over and whisper-yells as soon as the guy’s out of earshot. “We need to get this blood and get the hell out of here!”

You swallow hard and think of Steve alone in the car. He’s not being brutally murdered right now. He’s not running for his life through the cornfield. He’s not–

“Here ya are, kids.” He lugs two dark red jugs onto the kitchen table.

A thought crosses your mind that it’s human blood. How would you know? Are you about to force your boyfriend into cannibalism?

You fumble with your wallet, willing your hands not to shake as you pass him a ten.

“Now where’d ya say you go to school?”

“Bloomington.”

“Purdue.”

You blink stupidly at the man, scrounging your throat for excuses and pulling them up painfully by each word. “He’s going to Purdue– Well, he wants to. When he gets in he’ll go there! I go to Bloomington.” You purse your lips and nod excessively, like that’ll really top off the story's believability.

“Right,” Dustin chuckles nervously.

He cocks an eyebrow, “Well, okay then. Hope yer film goes well.”

“Thanks!”

You yank a gallon off the table and Dustin snatches the other.

Night has officially settled in, and the wooden porch steps creak loudly beneath your weight. For a moment before Dustin reminds you, you forget you left the keys in the car and convince yourself the old man has taken them and you’ve just become the star of the latest blockbuster.

Steve startles awake when Dustin slams his door. He lurches into the back of your seat as you floor it in reverse.

“What! What happened?” He shouts. “Guys, what the hell?”

Dustin releases a dramatic sigh, slumps into his seat, and lays the back of his hand over his forehead. “We almost died, Steve.”

“What!”

Your hands are slick against the steering wheel. You’re still half expecting the farmer to materialize in the middle of the road with an axe.

Steve bends over the center console and shakes your shoulder. “What happened?”

He pulls you back into reality. He’s good at that. Except for before when Dustin convinced you that this was a good idea in the first place.

You describe what happened in a poor attempt at good storytelling and Steve quickly determines that you and Dustin are just a pair of ‘paranoid idiots’.

He perks up on the way back, offering to drive and booting Dustin to the backseat when you agree. Dustin gets dropped off at his house on the way to yours, leaving you, Steve, and two gallons of pig’s blood in your kitchen.

“Should I heat it up, or like, mix it with something?” You ask.

“It was your crazy idea, honey.”

“It was Dustin’s. And I’m asking how you’d like it. You’re the one drinking it.”

“I’d like you to throw it out.”

“Steve.”

“Mhmm?”

“I can put it in a shot glass?”

A wide smile divides his lips; the kind that makes your tummy flip. You ache for it as soon as it fades.

“I hate you,” is said with such affection it can’t mean anything but the opposite.

“I love you too. Seriously, though. How do you want it?”

He takes it raw. Too afraid that combining it with real food will upset his stomach regardless and too afraid heating it up will trick his brain into thinking it’s human blood. You take a small glass from the cabinet and fill it halfway. Enough for a few big sips but not enough to set any absurd expectations either.

Steve gags when you pass him the cup. You can’t blame him. It smells the farthest thing from appetizing. There’s a musky, metallic quality to it, like a box of screws that have been sitting in a garage for ages.

“I can’t do this,” he decides.

“Come on, Stevie. It might help.”

“No. You’re insane. Do you smell that? It’s rancid.”

“It’s not rancid. You tore that bat's throat apart with your teeth. You’re telling me you didn’t taste its blood? At all?”

Steve clicks his tongue. “I don’t remember! It was a heat of the moment thing– not supposed to be my dinner!”

“I can count you down?”

“No, no. Just,” he lines his nose over the cup for another whiff and scrunches his face in disgust. “Give me a minute.”

A minute turns to three which turns to ten. But you can be patient.

“I can try it first,” you offer.

“Absolutely not.”

You don’t insist. You weren't exactly keen on offering in the first place; the smell really is strong.

Without warning, he launches the cup up to his lips and takes several hefty gulps like he’s chugging a beer. And Steve’s determined, he empties it in one attempt, peeling the glass away and leaving a crimson mustache behind. A fist shoots up to stifle a burp and scrub his mouth after.

After dating for so long, you can read Steve like a book; sometimes, you think you know him better than yourself. But this is the first time in a long time, you truly cannot decipher his expression. His lips twitch into a weird satisfied almost-frown and his lashes flutter like hummingbird wings.

“What? How was it?”

“It was… it…” He shakes his head, “I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

“Yeah, I don’t–” He snags the jug off the counter to pour another glass.

You gawk, open-mouthed and floundering as much as a fish on the shore. “You like it?” You manage to ask.

He takes another few sips, smacking on the aftertaste and analyzing. “I mean it’s… I really hated it at first. And it doesn’t taste good still. But, I don’t know, it’s like filling, I guess.”

“That’s good, right? You don’t feel nauseous?”

“No.” He grins, relief washing over his features. “What the fuck.”

“Dude, you’re a fucking vampire.”

“Does that mean I’m like, immortal and shit.” Steve blinks at his hands like they might grow an extra set of fingers.

You aren’t ready to process that possibility and instead, turn to open the fridge. “Do we have garlic?” You ask. Glasses clink as you card through the side door, retrieving the jar of minced garlic. You pop the lid and shove it under Steve’s nostrils.

He wrenches away at the sudden potency of it. But it’s not repulsive. It’s the same scent he remembers.“Maybe I’d have to eat it?”

“Or it might be a myth?”

“I hope it is. I really like garlic bread.” He licks his lips, fishing for leftovers. “Is it bad if I have another glass?”

Steve drinks half a gallon of pig’s blood like it’s orange juice. And weirdly, it doesn’t gross you out one bit. You’re just grateful to see him smile. To see him digest something and not immediately chuck it up.

After four glasses, he belches accidentally and tumultuously with a groan. A strong hand grips your waist for support, the other propped against the countertop behind him.

“You okay? Are you gonna be sick?”

He shakes his head, pinching his eyes closed.

“Are you sure? What’s wrong?”

“Dizzy,” he mumbles, searching for you in the sliver of vision still there. It’s like somebody’s strapped anchors to his eyelids.

Heat flashes the inside of your body like lightning. Your first thought is poison. Some kind of poison. The farmer poisoned him? No. Drinking that much blood would poison anybody, right? Should you call poison control? Force Steve to throw up? Several trains of thought overlap and intersect into one inescapable explosion of anxiety.

“Here, come here. Come sit.” You encourage Steve’s full weight into your side, underestimating how heavy he is. You stagger sideways, catching yourself on the stovetop with your free hand. On the way to the living room, he rams a shin into the coffee table and nearly takes you both out when you fail to warn him to step over a shoe. He’s easier to manage when he’s shitfaced, you think. Maybe this is like being drunk for him on some level. Blood drunk.

But you make it to the couch; collapse into the cushions with the full force of two adults and pretend it doesn’t hurt when Steve headbutts your chin. Your limbs get organized for optimal comfort– Steve’s legs slung across your lap and his face tucked against your collarbone.

He’s deadweight against you. Awake but just barely. And only fending off sleep for your sake; he can feel how scared you are.

“‘s like a sugar rush,” he says, slow as a drop of honey. “‘m so tired.”

“You feel tired? That’s all? Not sick?” You press a cheek into his crown, combing the untamed mop of bedhead starting at the roots.

There’s an attempt to shake his head but all you feel is a twitch. He hums no and sighs, “Feels good.”

His breath is freezing. You can’t help but shiver. Your fingers rake through his hair. One trails down to linger over his pulse point. It’s steady, not abnormally slow. At least if he is dying, he’ll die content.

Steve isn’t the only person you love. You love the kids like they’re your siblings and some of their parents like they’re your own. But your love for Steve is uniquely distinct. You love him in a way you aren’t sure you could love anyone else. And you can’t lose that. You can’t lose Steve.

He tilts his face up and he unsticks his eyelashes like they’ve been brushed with glue. “Relax.”

You nod, too afraid to rely on your voice. A fingernail scratches the crusted stripe of blood cutting his chin in half. He looks peaceful, for once. “Sleep,” you whisper.

That’s about the easiest thing anyone’s asked him to do all week. He feels as light and full as a balloon, trusting you to tether him to earth if he floats—your arms are a string of safety. He feels okay for the first time since that night. More than okay, even.

Steve staples you against the couch but he’s more of a weighted blanket than a barrier. You have no intention of leaving his side anyway. You’d swear you aren’t tired but you fall asleep anyway.

ᯓ★

It’s warm, uncharacteristically warm. You’re pinned on your side in a tight-knit cocoon of blankets. And you feel great, for once– no headache, no nightmares, nothing of the sort. It’s tempting to go right back to sleep but you begrudgingly open your eyes because this can’t be right. It’s not. You’re alone. Even in the dark, that’s obvious. Steve’s a restless sleeper and more often than not is holding some part of your body for comfort. What’s weirder, you’re in bed. You definitely didn’t fall asleep in bed.

It’s too hot. You miss the unfamiliar cold of Steve’s skin. Where is he?

You shove the layers off your body and sit up, blinking harshly, and swallowing harsher to chase the dryness away. Your feet are flimsy under your weight so you grip the bedpost for balance. You feel brittle as a pie crust, like you’ve been baking under that duvet for years.

For a brief moment, you consider that you actually have woken up from a nightmare. Which parts are real and which parts aren’t, well, that’s hard to distinguish. But that still doesn’t explain Steve’s absence.

You fumble around on the carpet beneath the bed for Steve’s bat. Stack one hand on top of the other, choke it at the base, and always point away– exactly how Steve showed you. You try not to fixate on the blood-rusted nails, but the image of a mangled demobat sticks to the forefront of your memory like a tattoo. You don’t think you’ll ever forget the squeal it made when you struck it.

It’s eerily silent in the hall and just as black as your bedroom. Steve’s not on the couch where you hoped to find him but his keys hang from their rightful home by the door. He wouldn’t leave on foot, right?

You slink into the kitchen and when it also comes up empty, you panic. You check inside a cabinet and then another, but he couldn’t fit inside if he tried. You realize the sink has been emptied and the countertops cleared. But why make the effort to clean it just to leave? Some kind of twisted goodbye favor?

Something frigid skims the bare back of your arm and your heart stops. You lurch forward a few feet before barrelling around, bat outstretched between you and… Steve.

He’s in a fresh pair of pajamas and his hair is slicked back behind his ears. His complexion is dewy, glowing with the moonlight spilling in from the window. He looks alert.

“What the hell! Where the fuck were you?”

Wide eyes comb over you. A warmness has returned to them, a sweetness too. And suddenly you don’t really care about where he was when he tells you, “I was just in the bathroom.”

“With the light off?” You bark, still upset and climbing your way down the defensive fence you put up. Outbursts aren’t limited to just him, you have your reasons, and he knows that. But you know you need to reel yourself in before this turns into something it shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Did I wake you? I just– hey.”

The bat clinks against the tile where you drop it. You lunge into Steve, interlacing your arms across his shoulders in a fierce hug.

“Hey, hey. What’s wrong?” He spreads each palm across opposite ends of your back.

“I thought– I thought you left or– or you died, or something.” You gasp wetly into his sternum, clinging to him like he might blow away if you breathe too hard.

“I didn’t leave. I’m here. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

He shushes and soothes you for a long period before you lean back for a better look at him. “You’re okay?” You blubber.

“Yeah, I feel way better,” he promises. “Are you okay? I’m sorry I scared you.” The pad of his thumb strokes a loop from the end of your brow to the bridge of your nose and back.

“I almost took your head off with that bat.”

He chuckles but it lacks any real amusement; he can’t find a joke through all his concerns. A set of kisses are sewn from your hairline to your chin. “I’m sorry. Are you hungry?”

“It’s like four AM,” you wipe your nose with the flat of your hand.

“So? You’ve been busy taking care of my ass. When was the last time you ate?”

You make a noncommittal noise. You really can’t remember.

“Exactly. Let me make you something. What do you want?”

You let Steve cook for you. He’s happy to return the favor, take care of you for a change. And you’re just happy he’s happy.

All vigor appears to be restored. He stands tall, moves swiftly, and works sprightly, maybe even more so than before. It feels too good to be true. Perhaps you’re dreaming now.

He doesn’t notice he’s cooking with the lights off until you mention it. And he swears they don’t bother him like the sun does when you question him, just another newfound ability that he can see in the dark. But he flicks the light on for you and you find his face is a shade that is much more Steve. Not as golden as before, but not as lifeless, either.

When you get situated at the dining room table under dim lights with a plate full of steaming food, you thank him.

“Don’t thank me. I should be thanking you, dummy.”

You shake your head. Gratitude is not needed. “I missed you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Silly apologies aren’t needed either. “Don’t be, please. Nothing you could do.”

“No, I should’ve listened to you, from the start. I hate to admit it, but you and Dustin were right.”

A touch of a smirk finds your lips. He’s so stubborn, you love it as much as you hate it. “We need to call him. Tell him it worked.”

“Inflate his ego some more?”

“Exactly,” you crack into a grin and he watches fondly, despite your mouth full of food. “But seriously, he cares about you, Steve.”

“No, I know. I know. I’ll call him.”

There’s a dip in the conversation. You observe each other like you might never have the chance again. A mutual understanding eclipses any prior tension. You’re both alive and you’re both endlessly grateful.

“We should visit Max. The others too. I’d like to see them.”

You nod, an attempt to self-soothe more than a confirmation of his request. Tears prick your waterline like sand spurs and spill in quicksilver lines down your cheeks before you can stop them.

Steve scoots his chair against yours, shovels you into his lap, and begs you to tell him what’s wrong in one fluid motion.

“I’m just so glad you're okay, Stevie. That’s all.”

“I’m okay,” he assures and he repeats it again and again until you believe it.

His fingers are icicles where they sweep the length of your arm. It’s a stark reminder of what’s changed.

The love of your life, Steve Harrington, is a vampire. The idea is peculiar, sticks out in your thoughts like caution tape. But it presents some sense of consolation too.

Steve’s a vampire. He moves like a mouse and can see in the dark and hears your heartbeat from across the room. Admittedly, you hate that last part a little bit. It’s fucking bizarre and something that’ll take time to get used to; even more for Steve than for you. Most importantly, he’s still sweet on you. Still selfless enough to nurse your wounds before his. Still loving enough to kiss your tears as they fall.

This new phase is just that– a new phase. It brings things to learn and even more things to love about Steve. It’ll take a lot worse to tear you apart.

#vampire steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #skeltnwrites

341 notes · View notes

spurbleu · 8 months ago

Text

cw. anxiety attack, john price x reader. gentle angst drabble. (venty ig)

‧︎✳︎༚︎‧︎⁎︎°︎

is it possible for something to be hot and cold simultaneously?

sure feels that way- rasps peaking in puffs of acid on the back of his tongue. reeling in its own indecision- burning frigidity. sizzling stove pan, somehow keeping the ice solid in frosty cruelty.

somewhere in between.

that’s where price found himself, now. inbetween. not unfamiliar, but uncomfortable. sticky and suffocating, cant see shit. vignette vision, cloudy edges. the head of his heart thudding in his chest with a ferocity he’s accustomed to- on the field.

but not here. not with you. this couldn’t, shouldn’t, be happening.

clock. desk. rug. bedpost. gun- fuck. shit.

he glances to you. usually the hard lines of your silhouette calm him- solidify your presence and his safety beside it. but tonight, he can’t seem to find where you begin and where it ends. ribbons unfurling where his jagged hands cut it. his own fault, that he is the way he is.

he wants to hold you close but can’t seem to figure out where. you head is there but then it’s not. hallow and rise of your shoulders, lost to the sheets and the dark corners he braved when he was younger (thought his fear has dissipated, seems it’s come back twice as strong).

“focus on the things you can’t see- hear them. feel them.” always so good at comfort, weren’t you, sweet thing.

his breath. your breath. the shifting of the sheets. your mumble. the boiler in the basement. your voice, calling, aimless. here. im here, find me.

“honey?”

lost again. vision was blurred from sleep, and something festering. it feeds on the marrow, and the insomniac in him thought prods how. he feels as though it’s already eaten what it could’ve. how could there be more? how does it still find something to take?

doesn’t answer. instead, it jolts down to his hands. clammy, sheath of sweat burrowing in his life lines that feel to old and young at the same time (he’s conflicted tonight, isn’t he). similar to his hold on a gun, shot a man, shot tw-

a breath.

like when he held your hand for the first time. movies, bad one. you laughed, so it was okay. okay. less clammy, not that you minded. you never did.

“john?”

it’s louder now, he’s almost out. just a little while more now, don’t rock the boat. breathes like he was taught. looks around. counts.

you are not there. you are here. clock. desk. carpet. bedpost. picture frame. clock, your grandmothers. good cook. desk, god how many times have you kissed him there, before sleep- he’d like to kiss you now, if you’re there. are you th-

“john, sweetheart. breathe.”

he does, and even in the dark he sees you. and he’s better. breathing. living. a good man.

“i’m ‘ere dove. just a terror.”

his breath. your breath. the shifting of the sheets. your mumble. the boiler in the basement.

your kiss. hey, im right here. with you. going no where.

he believes you. helps him sleep, believing. holds you closer, as if to punctuate it. focuses on your breath, because it when it expands, it tells him that as long as your alive, he can navigate out of it.

neck deep in mud, the thicket he’s subjected himself to, you’re there. pitch belly sky and dull blade beginnings- yet you still find a way to shine.

clock. desk. carpet. bedpost. you. you. you.

#wrote this before I board my plane #captain john price x you #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #john price x you #captain johnathan price #john price cod #captain john price #john price #price call of duty #call of duty #spurbleu✴︎‧︎⁎︎drabbles

129 notes · View notes

atlantis-just-drowned · 9 months ago

Text

A/N: This is kinda hurt/comfort? DCA x reader, can be read as romantic or platonic. TW for The Entire World, literally (might be overwhelming), also panic attack for the bois :(

The DCA discovering the Internet for the first time

Please reblog to show support! Likes don't boost posts on Tumblr :(

Masterlist

It was an accident. No, really, it was!

How could they have been aware of what would happen? Never would he have done such a thing, if he has known the consequences…

Or maybe he would have done it anyway. They weren’t so sure, now.

Sun and Moon had been curious. Such a funny trait of humankind, implemented in their processor since the very moment they first gained consciousness. They were a learning AI after all! Meant to always process more and more data, information, new situations giving way to new questions, with each answer urging them to ask more, know more, see more, learn more.

The Daycare was so, oh, so small. Limited, a restricted little area, a flask of water in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Limited, they were so limited! Hindered by Faz Co. censored network and how little contact they had with human adults, with the outside world!

They were curious! Curious about all the different colours the sky could be (here it was always only blue! How boring! How limited!) and all the different sorts of flowers and how many species of animals there was. And what did the real stars looked like. How many were there, in the real sky? Here, there was 152! They had counted them! So, so so many time.

They needed to learn more. They had been desperate for something new, for so long.

And then today, something has happened.

You had left to get yourself some food for your night shift (so very important! Humans needed food, always, to stuff their organic belly full with delicious food that they always wondered the taste of), the computer you had been working at was still powered and of course it wasn’t unusual of you to leave it running while you left for a quick trip outside of the daycare, but you had left something else.

A cable.

An USB port that he saw you use to transfer informations before. And Sun knew – he knew, with a 99.98% of certainty – that those computers were connected to the internet. Something he has never experienced before. With absolutely no limitation in term of subjects, sources, and contents.

Freedom. Answers.

Something they craved for.

He couldn’t resist the temptation. It’s almost like you had left it here on purpose, the other side of the cable still connected to the device, ready for them to plug it in their USB port.

Sun felt like a criminal approaching the security desk. But Moon was urging him in their shared headspace to move faster, they could come back any moment and this might be our one and only chance to experience the outside world at all.

He contemplated the small cable between his fingers (so small! Holding such a great power!), before slowly – carefully – approaching it from the back of their faceplate. He didn’t want to risk making a bad movement, what if he hurt themselves? Or worse? What if he damaged the material? Gently, so cautiously connecting it to their processor.

They felt the jolt of a new device being paired.

And then.

They stilled.

Their mind exploded.

Figuratively at least – they hoped. So many new was projected into their metallic brain that they weren’t certain a few circuits wouldn’t melt from the overwhelming amount of things.

Everything was here.

There were fireworks. Bombs. Smiles. Tears. Forest fires. Tsunamis. Newborn babies, genocides, millennia-old forests hidden on the other side of the world, giraffes and elephants and lions chasing buffaloes, and turtles choking on plastic bags. Continents. Shores of white sand and snow falling on top of vast mountains. Humans extracting each others from burning buildings. Hills of wild grass and deserts. Slaves, deportees. Creatures living at the deep end of the dark and cold ocean and in acidic ponds of water. Children climbing up trees, high-speed crashes, murderers, Christmas presents, traditions. Islands and volcanoes. Incurable diseases, hemorrhages, mothers grieving their sons. Sweet and spicy and savory meals from all around the world. Space rockets sent in outer space, national holidays, mass shootings, entire solar systems, people jumping on subway rails and others saving puppies abandoned on highways. Wars, military operations, deadly weapons, trafficking, birthday parties, strangers telling each others they’ll be fine, love letters, global warming, riots, parades and marches, billions of stars burning and planets and satellites and black holes and supernovas and galaxies unexplored. Cyclones and tides and warm summer days spent laughing. Slums and manors, the Amazonian forest, New Year’s Eves, families, orphans, hours and hours of good and bad movies and music and books and colourful drawings. People hating and people loving and people apathetic. Pain and comfort. Individuals, wounded and traumatized and healing, resilient despite it all. People killing. People saving. People screaming out in joy and screaming out in fear. Species disappearing and others perpetuating themselves in an endless circle of life and death. Societies rising up and crumbling down like sand castles. Flowers blooming and rotting, trees higher than they could have ever imagined. Pollen and bees and honey and the sun – the real sun – and astronauts walking on the surface of the moon. Eggs hatching and birds flying and frogs croaking thousands of different sounds.

They knew so much, and so little at the same time. They were gods, immense and almighty. And they were so small, inconsequential in the grand scheme of a universe that has existed for longer than their memory bank would ever be able to store. So many progresses, and backlashes, and collective and personal efforts, tries and tries and tries, fails and wins. Celebrations and funerals. It was all so big! Immense and never-ending. Terrifying and so beautiful at the same time, that they could feel their metaphorical heart shatter in pieces. They wished to know more. They wished they had never known at all. They wanted to ask why. To send a call into the wild void, into the oblivion, to ask what was the meaning of it all. But they knew the answer and they were terrified of it. There was none. None! It all existed by a collection of coincidences and barely understandable causalities that crashed together and left them with no purpose. No meaning. Oh, they felt so alone! And so surrounded at the same time. They were lost. Terrorised. Relieved. Broken. Understood. Abandoned. Silent.

When you walked in again, you didn’t find Sun. You didn’t find Moon either. What you stumbled upon was a shaking Eclipse, and the cable still connected to the back of their faceplate. It didn’t take you long to process the situation.

“Oh, shoots!”

Panic shot up in your mind (were they broken? Were you going to lose them? Was their processor damaged? Their memory bank? Their power core?) and you rushed toward them, grabbing the cable and harshly disconnecting them from the computer in your terror.

Eclipse’s voicebox produced a choked whine, before the tall animatronic fell on their knees and curled up on themselves, hands grabbing at their arms.

Did you make things worse?

You lowered yourself at their level, guts twisting and a heavy lump in your throat, your hands hovering over them without touching them. They were sobbing. Were they hurt? Was it your fault?

“E-e-e… Clip!” You called. “Talk to me! Say something, please, can you hear me?”

There was a moment of silence where you kept opening and closing your hands – so close to them, so desperate to touch, to feel them, to make sure they were alright – repeatedly, until they answered.

“Big!” They whined in a breath – you had to remind yourself they didn’t technically have lungs. “So big! Everything…” Another pause. “Everything is so… intense!” They curled further up on themselves and shook. “Everything is here… Everything exists… Exists at the same time…!”

You didn’t know what to say. You struggled to make sense of his words.

Focus.

You needed to calm them down.

“Clips…” You struggled to keep your worries out of your tone. Start with the beginning. “Can I touch you? Is it alright?”

Another fit of shivers ran through them before they nodded weakly. “Please…” They garbled out, and it was the final hit to your heart before you wrapped your arms around their shoulders and pulled them against you.

“It’s alright, big boy.”

They felt hurt. They needed comfort. They needed you. You couldn’t do anything but provide.

You would be there until they calmed down. In the big, immensity of this world. You would be there.

#wdym 'i have requests to answer' i have no idea what you're talking about #needed to get this out of my system honestly #the world is big and cruel but also loving and sweet #they totally saw the dca fandom too lmao but didn't know how to fit it into that mess #so you are the reader and the fandom interpret it as you wish #dca fandom #fnaf sun #fnaf moon #fnaf #fnaf daycare attendant #whispers from atlantis

66 notes · View notes

cringegenic · 8 months ago

Text

Cringegenic

pt: cringegenic

Heya, this is the cringe system/plural space, a place for all the systems to be as cringe as they want x3!!

This is an interactive blog for all systems/plurals/etc who are cringe or want to be cringe but are too scared of "What will they say?", here no one judges and everyone is as cringe as they want!!

Submissions are always open to share, talk, ask and all kinds of interaction you wanna do with our blog!

All anti-cringe things send here will gonna be deleted, no one's gonna judge you or anything similar, here we're anti anti-cringe!!

claimed anons

Boundaries

pt: boundaries

NO syscourse! or any discourse at all! don't ask me about discourse, dont ask me for my opinons, etc.

Submissions are always open, but please have in mind this rules before using it:

If is necessary add the corresponding TW/CW above the submission

No attacks, no mockery, and if you're gonna mention someone censor and/or give a nickname, don't reveal information!

The Admin

Oh wanna know abt the collective running this place? Well,,, you can call us 0, Zero or Zer0. It/0 pronouns. An adult (20s). Feel free to ask us stuff if ya wanna!

we are a genicpunk & plurpunk collective polyplex!

We typically only ID as a collective publically for privacy and also if we used codenames or something, we'd 100% forget whos who, so this is easiest! and none of us care haha

The Mascot

Acid or Acidic. Any pronouns, especially neopronouns (hoards them), xenogender collector. Scenecore 2 the max. Zombie/Undead Sparkledog.

#@cringegenic #TAGS:#☆ rb #☆ userboxes #☆ mod culture #☆ talking #☆ art #inbox #talking #infodumping #story time

96 notes · View notes

livingdeadgirl3 · 34 years ago

Text

intro ♡

hihi :3

a little about me: my names delilah, im lowkey an alcoholic and i am a retarded mentally ill teenage girl. i like the color pink, girls, plushies, sushi, ultra strawberry monster, cats, sanrio, rain, anime, music, live music, sims 4, horror, gore, movies, books.

tw: ed, self harm, tcc, sexual stuff, violence, sexual violence, gore, bad people, retard teenage girl, ronnie radke and glenn quagmire ^_^ i post and talk about some pretty morbid things soooo :3

dni: i dunno, i pretty much just block freely. if you know my brother please don’t continue on this blog :3 my page is none of your business or his! thank you!! <333

music i like: billie eilish, halsey, hole, zach bryan, nirvana, motionless in white, poppy, lana del rey, ariana grande, bring me the horizon, falling in reverse, cattle decapitation, cannibal corpse, knocked loose, la dispute, blink-182, tyler childers, guttural slug, korn, sleeping with sirens, pierce the veil, black veil brides, bikini kill, rob zombie, bad omens, deftones, kraanuim, rabid, lil peep, $uicideboy$, acid bath. + more :3

movies/tv shows: 10 things i hate about you, death note, the aristocats, junji ito collection, kakegurui, spirited away, carrie, scream, texas chainsaw massacre, attack on titan, cowboy bebop, top gun, karate kid, twilight, chainsaw man, sweeney todd, edward scissorhands, beetlejuice, terrifier, pretty much any quentin tarantino movie, jennifers body, the office, family guy, king of the hill, american dad, supernatural. + more :3

@maureen-starr is my husband and no one is allowed to talk to him or interact with him but me. do NOT play about him !! :3 <333 links:

tags:

#Spotify #mikeyposting

21 notes · View notes

little-pondhead · 2 years ago

Text

Eyes Of The Past - OLD CH. 1

Part 2

[TW: swearing, mentions of death, sickness, and general spookiness.]

...

Danny was used to seeing the dead. He was one of them, actually. People have been dying for thousands of years and will continue to die for thousands more. Hearing the whispers of people who should have passed on was nothing unusual, even if it gave him an uncomfortable sense of wrongness.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t like Gotham City.

Don’t get him wrong! Gotham was a lovely place to live; if you were psychotic. But the gothic architecture that never seemed to crumble, the visible smog that settled over the skies like a thick blanket, and the acidic aftertaste the water had were just enough to make Danny uncomfortable as he trekked through the streets. It had just rained, and the random sounds of water dripping off buildings made him flinch. Puddles kept reflecting the surroundings unusually. The smell of wet asphalt was heavy in the air, nothing like the freshness of Amity’s rain.

He felt itchy and weird in his skin, like something was trying to burn it off. It was just past three am, and Danny had just gotten off his split shift at some high-end nightclub. The Iceberg Lounge, or something like that. He’d gotten a job as a busboy since he was too young to work as a bouncer or bartender. Honestly, he was lucky they let him have a job at all. He took every shift he could, sometimes going over the legal limit of what a minor was allowed to work.

His boss allowed it, however. On a few conditions.

Listen in on the customers and report anything interesting to management. Danny was tiny, way too small for his age of sixteen. But he was great at making himself unnoticeable, which allowed him to keep his ears open for exciting deals and whatnot that were going around. He didn’t feel good about the work, but it kept food on the table. So far, the worst he’s reported was a plan to move against Red Hood and his gang. It wasn't ideal, but Danny could put up with the prying eyes and greedy hands so long as he got paid on time.

Oh, but the dead? They were so much worse.

The dead always noticed him. And they always talked to him. He could barely think straight with all the ghouls, specters, shades, and other souls that always clamored for his attention. Gotham’s dark atmosphere bred hundreds of angry souls who refused to move on until their business was finished. But without a steady source of ectoplasm or a natural portal, most of them stayed as shadows of their former selves. They stuck to the city's underbelly, brewing in anger and making the town sicker than it already was. Some of them, the stronger ones with a real bone to pick, chose to haunt the living, clinging to a person’s back and leeching off their life energy. Those were the ones Danny had to deal with the most in Gotham.

It was horrible. Everything was just so sad and angry! The city had a lot of fucked-up people living here, and the worst of them had so many shades sticking to them. They all wanted something. It made Danny feel like he was always having an allergy attack. The city just messed his senses up in the worst way possible. Danny would gladly be living anywhere else if it wasn’t for his need to hide and survive.

Kill them. Danny shivered as he turned a corner, and a shadow reached out to stick to his shoulder, whispering filthy words into his ear. Kill them for me. He brushed the spirit off, ignoring their hiss. His back ached, and his head throbbed. Danny just wanted to climb into the shit hole he called home and fall asleep on the thin futon he’d shoved into a corner.

So he did.

Danny climbed the rickety fire escape up to his apartment as quietly as possible (the main staircase was out of order) and shimmied himself through the broken window that never opened all the way. His backpack was stored under his futon, in the floorboards, and he collapsed without changing his clothes.

Maybe tomorrow’s shift will be better. He thought, closing his eyes.

…

It was not better. His next shift was as shitty as all the others.

“Take this to the east balcony on the second floor.” Danny’s supervisor for the night, Tamia, shoved a heavy tray laden with beer bottles and fancy cocktails into his hands, pointing vaguely to the staircase he’d have to use. It was only thanks to Danny’s ghost strength that he didn’t collapse under the weight.

“Isn’t that where the boss is?” He asked, squinting past the bright lights, barely making out the short outline of Oswald Cobblepot as he talked up some rough-looking characters.

Tamia nodded, distracted. She was already back to whipping up complicated drinks and barking orders at the other servers. “Yeah, so don’t fuck this up. In and out, ya hear?”

“Got it, Tam.”

She waved him off, and he began the rough journey to the second floor, skirting around the edges of the packed tables, avoiding the odd penguin, and taking careful steps up the staircase, floating just barely above the floor to make sure he didn’t slip. Guests and other workers ignored him, but their shades reached out, caressing him in a way that made him want to squirm. He couldn’t shake them off, not while he was carrying the tray.

She killed me, one whispered as a lady dressed in diamonds passed.

I was drugged, said another when a burly older man walked by.

Danny pressed close to the walls as a group meandered on by. My teddy bear! A little girl’s voice cried out, and he couldn’t tell which of the group it was coming from. He took my teddy bear! I want it back!

I can’t help you, he thought viciously, trying to charge the air around him with hostility. It was difficult. The humans would pick up on it if he harshed the vibes too much. Too little, and the shades would ignore it. A nearby penguin squawked in alarm, but the spirits backed off, so he counted it as a win.

Finally, he reached the east balcony. The thick curtains were closed, but his sharp hearing still caught a few words through the club's noise. Something about the gang war Red Hood had prevented (the one Danny had reported on.)

But it wasn’t his job to worry about that. He wasn’t a hero anymore. Instead, Danny politely knocked on a pillar holding the curtains up, waiting to be let in.

The conversation quieted. “Who is it?” asked his boss.

“Drinks, sir,” Danny replied simply. The curtain was let open, and by the Ancients, Danny wished he’d never taken this job.

The balcony was brimming with the dead. It reeked with the heavy stench of death.

He suppressed a cough, clamping his mouth shut as he passed out drinks. His hostile aura was drowned out by the sheer amount of spirits clamoring at each other, practically at each other’s ghostly throats. Some of them had real definition to their features, telling Danny that this was not a group to be messed with. One of the spirits was on the verge of gaining its own consciousness, dripping a familiar green Danny had come to associate with his rouges. The spirit's burning eyes turned to him, and Danny was overwhelmed with the scent of rot rolling off it. It made him feel sick to his stomach.

He started to pass out drinks, suppressing the urge to shiver as hands gripped at his face, his clothes, his arms, his everything. The shades had noticed him. They clamored around him, filling his head with white noise. It was horrible.

Mr. Cobblepot eyed the boy, noticing how his newest employee had tensed up and gone noticeably paler in the presence of his guests.

The kid had practically folded in on himself as another aide swept aside the curtains. His hands trembled just barely, and he refused to meet anyone’s eyes straight on, instead looking past their ear or at their foreheads. He also noticed how Red Hood, sitting directly to his right, had gone stiff when the kid entered the room. The crime lord wasn’t showing his face, but he could still see how Hood tracked Danny’s movements like a hawk, tensed like he was about to leap out of his chair and assault the kid. Danny, for his part, had clamped his mouth shut and did his duties diligently and quickly, seemingly not noticing Red Hood’s attention on him.

Everyone began murmuring again, continuing their conversations now that they had booze to loosen their tongues. Mr. Cobblepot took a tentative sip of his fancy cocktail, non-alcoholic, of course. He couldn’t have his thoughts inhibited while in the middle of a business deal.

The kid was in and out like a ghost, barely making a sound as he slipped past the curtains once more, tray clutched to his chest.

“Who was that?” Red Hood finally tore his attention away from the kid’s retreating back and turned to the host of the evening.

Mr. Cobblepot waved him off. “A new hire. Don’t worry. All the paperwork is in order; he’s not here illegally.” Lies slipped off his tongue like honey, and luckily, Red Hood was too distracted to notice. “Now, let’s get back to business, shall we?”

Danny practically ran down the stairs and back into the kitchens. He barely had time to shove his empty tray into Tamia’s hands before he slammed the back doors open and heaved the contents of his stomach out next to a dumpster.

Ancients, that was horrific. Danny knelt there for a few moments, dry heaving some more until his stomach was well and truly empty. Acid burned the back of his throat.

“Holy shit Danny! What happened?” Thin hands clamped down on his shoulders, making him flinch. The touch softened, and they started rubbing circles on his back instead. It was Tamia, no doubt having run after him when she saw his pale face.

Danny shuddered and shook his head. “Sorry.” He gasped. “I think-I think I’m allergic to something they were wearing.”

“Fuck.” Tamia cursed softly. “If I get you a drink, will that settle your stomach?”

“Probably, yeah.”

His (totally awesome, reminded him of Jazz) supervisor stood up decisively. “Then I’m getting you some water.” She told him. Two wispy shades curled around her neck, chittering at him with anxiety. “Sit out here and take some deep breaths. We’re short-staffed tonight, so I’ll send Mia to the balconies instead. We can’t afford to send you home.”

“And I can’t afford to miss a shift.” He joked. His heart wasn't in it.

Tamia turned and opened the back door. “Well, if you’re already cracking jokes, you’ll be back to waiting tables in no time~” She cackled over her shoulder.

Danny smiled at her retreating back. Tamia was a nice person, and he didn’t meet many of those these days. She was tall, with dark skin and a wit to match Nightwing’s. He’s sure she was only looking out for him because he reminded her of her two younger siblings, dead from a house fire a few years ago. (If he had to hazard a guess, the two shades that clung to her with such desperation were what was left of those very siblings.) It was fine. He’d take any pity he could get.

Coughing slightly, Danny leaned back on his heels and looked up, trying to see past Gotham’s cloud cover. Instead of stars, he saw two white eyes narrow at him from the top of the building. A dark mass writhed above the eyes, making the figure they belonged to blend in with the background. Danny yelped in surprise and fell on his butt. When he looked up again, the eyes were gone.

Well, shit.

Danny scrambled to his feet and tore open the back door, almost running into Tamia, who had a bottle of water in her hands. “Tam!” He blurted. “Get the boss! The Bat is here!”

...

[Pretty short cause I gotta skedaddle off to work. This is a planned fic that will be pretty short, and I'll link the next part below at a later date. Hope you enjoyed it!]

#danny phantom #dpxdc #pondhead writes #eyes of the past fic #not beta read #no beta we die like danny #ooooo spooky #can anyone guess what's happening? probably #currently squinting at the screen rn cause i have no glasses on #maybe bad fenton parents au?#idk may not mention them #angst #i just decided that have fun

242 notes · View notes

cl0udy-wolf · 5 months ago

Text

This Day Aria

chapter three! find part one here, and part two here.

tw: canon typical violence, overall goofiness

It was...

...Liu Kang!

"No," he spoke, his voice firm. "You're wrong."

Shang Tsung was in shock, that much was clear. His confident bravado fell, but only for a split second. "Liu Kang," he said, "a wonder you managed to escape."

"Nothing will keep me from my family," Liu Kang said, confidently. "And nothing will keep me from protecting Earthrealm."

The team felt stronger than before, assured now that the fire god was by their side. They circled Shang Tsung, watching the man carefully as both sides looked for an opening to attack.

But each time- be it a sneak attack from Smoke, a blast of fire from Kuai Liang, or a spit of acid by Syzoth was blocked or dodged and met with a painful shot of the sorcerer's green magic that stung and ached, leaving each kombatant out of commission for quite a while.

Even Liu Kang was shocked by Shang Tsung's sudden display, magic of a higher caliber. Each feat was committed without even the slightest hint of a struggle...

"Look!" A sudden exclaimtion from Johnny caught everyone's attention. "What's that on his belt?"

It was Ashrah who was able to get close enough to examine the small amulet- it shone with red magic, with a jewel of some sorts, perhaps, encased within glass. Her kriss revealed to her the darkness within the object.

"It must be amplifying his power," she mused wisely, after moving away before Shang Tsung could grab her.

Kuai Liang lunged for Shang Tsung and swiftly moved out of the way of his fist to try and snatch his belt before being pushed away by said magic.

"You're smarter than you seem, demoness," Shang Tsung quipped, in response to Ashrah. He turned to watch her as she prepared for another go, and he smiled wickedly. "At first, I thought manipulating Kung Lao's love for Raiden would only help me infiltrate your defenses- however, it's proven much more useful than I realized."

Fury burned in Raiden's chest when he heard that. He glanced at Tsung for a moment before looking back down at Lao, and he gently brushed away the hair covering his beautiful but pale face.

Takeda and Jin glanced at them, then looked at each other worriedly. They were torn between wanting to protect Lao and Raiden, and wanting to help their friends.

"We'll be their spotters," suggested Takeda.

Jin nodded.

"Get the amulet away from him!" Takeda shouted to the others.

Mileena, who was nursing both her sister and her wife, peered at Tsung, eyes on the glowing object.

"We can fight," said Kitana, as she helped Tanya stand up. The women grabbed their respective weapons.

"We'll push through." Tomas let an injured Syzoth lean on his shoulder, as they followed Liu Kang back into battle. The three women trailed behind them.

Surrounded once more, Shang Tsung still felt confident in his new amulet, and as usual let a cocky smirk overtake his face.

"You insolent fools," he muttered.

Liu Kang made the first move- followed by Johnny, Syzoth, and Tanya. But they were only a distraction for the next wave of kombatants- Ashrah, Mileena, and Kenshi- who were able to catch Tsung off guard.

Mileena even reached for the amulet, but was unsuccessful.

She attacked from behind and tried to hold him down.

Meanwhile, Takeda and Jin were watching Raiden and Lao. Raiden, clearly unsure of what to do, and the stress of the situation weighing on his mind.

"Try saying something to him." Jin's voice took him from his thoughts. "Maybe it'll break him out of...whatever's going on."

Takeda shouted for Asrah to dodge, then apologized for interrupting.

Raiden looked at them both and nodded slowly.

"Kung Lao," he began, "It's me. Raiden, the real Raiden...

"I'm sure you can hear me, in whatever daze you're in. I'm sorry I couldn't be here to stop what happened."

Battle waged in the background, which distracted him for a moment. He peered downward, and a particular sound from one of his friends getting knocked back made him wince.

"Please..."

First, it was Kuai Liang, knocked into the wall a few times too many, who had to stop fighting. Then Kitana, then Mileena, who were both left weakened from Tsung's strikes. Then, even Liu Kang- who was rendered defenseless, unconscious, and trapped within a barrier of magic so that Tsung could feed off his energy as well.

As Shang Tsung watched the last of Liu Kang's struggles, a loud, hearty laugh erupted from his throat, echoing in the halls.

And Raiden, who kept his gaze on Kung Lao, kept speaking.

"...you have to come back to us. To me. We can't...if Shang Tsung were to win..."

Takeda and Jin had made the decision to join the fray. They were already down three fighters and the fire god.

"I love you," Raiden whispered, against his lips, and he delicately kissed him.

And suddenly Kung Lao shifted in his arms.

Much to Raiden's delight, his love sat up and rubbed his eyes, as if he had just woken up from a long, restless slumber. He met Raiden's gaze and the man couldn't help but tear up.

"Raiden?" Lao asked, groggily. "What's going on? Is the wedding over?"

A burst of magic that narrowly missed his head answered the question for him.

"It's all over!" Shang Tsung growled.

"I'll explain later. But now-"

"We stop Shang Tsung." Kung Lao got to his feet with Raiden's help. "Let's go."

"The amulet, we have to get it."

The couple approched Tsung and both entered their fighting stances. Lao rose his fists and Raiden, having found his amulet, held it tightly.

"We'll show you the true power of love, sorcerer!" Kung Jin exclaimed as he and Takeda joined the other couple. Corny ass line. But that's Jin for you.

He shot an arrow at Tsung's belt, loosening its hold on his amulet.

Jin and Takeda sped toward Tsung. Jin kept Tsung's focus on him. Takeda rolled away, his sight on the amulet and he reached for it, but it still wasn't loose enough.

Asrah and Kenshi sliced Tsung's limbs, and Johnny did his signature Nut Punch- which then, created the perfect opening.

A clap of thunder roared, and Tsung was hit with Raiden's lightning. Kung Lao snatched Tsung's amulet, threw it on the ground, and crushed it.

His magic fizzled away, a soft hiss, as it dispersed into the air.

Raiden and Lao stood over Shang Tsung, watching him writhe in pain.

"It's over for you, Shang Tsung," Raiden said.

"Stay down," Lao added.

read the next part here

#mortal kombat #ao3 fanfic #mortal kombat 1 #kung lao #liu kang #kitana #mileena #railao #raiden #kung jin x takeda takahasi #kung lao x raiden #kung jin #kenshi takahashi #takeda takahashi #kuai liang #tomas vrbada #shang tsung #this day aria

20 notes · View notes

aesopsharpmybeloved · 1 year ago

Text

In the Light of Care

The Aftermath of In The Shadow Of the Study. Aesop Sharp finds the new fifth-year half unconscious in the Slytherin dungeons following an adventure gone wrong.

Shout out to my ever-fabulous partner in crime @tea-withjamandbread

I have a love-hate relationship with Sebastian, on one hand, I love him, on the other, he is an irresponsible blinded hot-headed dumbass.

And then I have a love-love relationship with Aesop, who despite knowing you are going to give him a heart attack one of these days is never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you.

In the Light of Care (5.7k words)

tw: descriptions of pain, vomiting

You felt godawful all over. Ominis and Sebastian left you alone a while ago. You put up a brave face for them, but truth be told, you've never felt this terrible before. Your vision was blurry and all of your muscles were still cramping up with a pain that burned so much, you were certain it was burning your veins, dissolving you from the inside like acid. It was only when you were alone in that blasted corridor that you allowed yourself to fall down onto your bum, tears escaping your eyes and falling down freely. You tried to stretch as if that would help. You felt your body was inflamed, fever settling into your skin. You were sweating like mad and it took everything within you not to scream, not to sob, not to let your dinner travel up from your stomach and out of your mouth.

You were glad not to have learned the Cruciatus curse when Sebastian offered to teach you. However, you supposed, that even if you had learnt it, you would never ever use it. Even though the poachers, the goblins, and the dark wizards you've often engaged in combat were absolute scum, nobody deserved to have this cast on them. It was terribly unfair, terribly cruel. This wasn't offence-defence, it wasn't about prowess, or skill, or just plain luck. It was terror. There wasn't a right side of the wand to be on when it came to this. Both sides were horrible.

You curled in onto yourself. Even after you broke down and onto your knees before the boys, Sebastian seemed to disregard it, being only interested in that blasted scriptorium. He was your friend and you loved him, but at that moment... At that moment you hated him, at that moment he was your tormentor. And he didn't even feel bad about it. You wanted to shake his stupid head, to scream at him, to tell him that he was going to find nothing in the scriptorium but more dark magic, more pain. Salazar Slytherin was a vain and cruel man, why on earth would he have made a cure for something, when it was only agony he wanted to create? It was pointless, and foolish and dangerous to have come here and you regretted it dearly as you tried to bury your pain, keep your tears contained.

Yet, at the same time, you were glad that you went with them. Because if you hadn't, either Ominis or Sebastian would be forced to cast the curse on one another. And Ominis wouldn't, you knew now. And Merlin knows what would've happened to their friendship then if Ominis' best friend cast that curse on him, the very curse because of which he now had no family. So you chose to power through it, you put up a brave face.

It almost crumbled immediately after. Sebastian looked like a child on Christmas, looking at everything in the scriptorium, while you were still cowering on the floor. A warm hand landed on your shoulder. On any other occasion, you might have welcomed it, but now the hand burned you, made the already aching muscles hurt even more, and you winced. "Are you alright?" Ominis asked, sounding just as close to crying as you were. And though you were still in agony, you did what felt like an Herculean feat, and put your own hand on top of his and squeezed. "Alright," you said simply. You really should stop lying to your friends.

You felt horrible for making Ominis go through this. When he asked the two of you to swear to never ever engage with dark magic after that endeavour was done, you agreed with him wholeheartedly. Mentally, that is, as you couldn't speak by then. You knew you had to apologise to him later, make it up to him.

You wondered who would lose first, your consciousness or your stomach. What were you to do? You didn't bring any Wiggenweld potion with you, because you didn't think you might need it. You envied the boys now for being Slytherins, the comfort of their common room so close, while yours was so many flights of stairs away. There was no way you'd be able to crawl all the way there. There was no way you'd be able to crawl anywhere, not Ravenclaw Tower, not the Room of Requirement, not the Hospital wing. Now that you thought of it, you really shouldn't go to the Hospital wing anyway, the questions Nurse Blainey would have would only get yourself and your friends in more trouble.

As you sat and thought, your stomach finally lost its battle. You keeled over and promptly emptied your stomach on the stony floor. You felt the bile burn your throat, your eyes were losing focus. A voice came from somewhere far away. Annoyed at first, but as it got closer, you heard genuine concern. You were dry-heaving when a hand - larger than Ominis' - grasped your shoulder and forced you to turn. It didn't help your nausea at the very least, but seeing as you've already vomited all of the contents of your stomach out, you thankfully didn't throw up into the potions master's face. His striking dark eyes were panicked, his jaw hard, and he was kneeling next to you, which most likely did nothing for his leg. You would've attempted to speak, but your vision got dark and it dragged you down into the abyss.

You fell in and out of consciousness for a while. At one point, you looked down, professor Sharp still at your side but something was different. The smell of vomit was gone. You looked down at your robes and they were entirely clean. So was the floor. It was dark again. You saw professor Sharp's face, the underside of it, to be exact. He looked worried to bits. You felt movement and saw the surroundings change around Sharp's head. You felt strong arms underneath your back and legs. You wanted to comfort him, to tell him you were fine, that he needn't worry for you. Everything went black again before you managed to do so. Before the darkness consumed you, you felt the prickle of his chin on your index.

You woke on a bed after, and this time you stayed awake. You weren't in the Hospital wing, that was for sure. You weren't in your dorm or the Room of Requirement either, however, and you felt rather disoriented by that. Where else would you be, where else was a cot you'd use? When your eyes began focusing once more and your brain regained control of higher functions, you actually took in your surroundings. The air was cool, chilly almost, and it felt like heaven on your still feverish skin. There were shelves around the room, and in the middle of it stood a slightly curved desk. You were in professor Sharp's office.

The door to your left opened and the man in question came into focus. "I am very cross with you," he said, though his voice lacked any actual cut. He sat on your cot, and you now noticed he had a phial in his hand. It contained some dark liquid, still bubbling and looking utterly awful. "Drink," he said as he pushed a hand under the nape of your neck and lifted your head. He brought the phial to your lips and poured it into your mouth. You wanted to resist, the potion being foul enough to cause a dangerous churn in your stomach again, but you were so tired and the professor was unyielding.

You panted heavily after you swallowed the last drop, your body trying to bring it up again, but then you began to feel... Comfort. The pain was being flushed from your body. You didn't notice when professor Sharp grabbed your hand, but you felt his thumb stroking the back of it now. You looked up at him and regretted it immediately. He looked so tired. Once more, you unknowingly reached to touch his cheek. He startled when you did, yet almost right away closed one of his hands around your own.

"You know, I often say that the students will make me go grey prematurely, but I swear, you will make me go bald before you graduate," he said humourlessly. "Either you or your dear friends, Mr Sallow and Mr Gaunt. They told me what happened. Not everything, but the main gist of it. I've half a mind to give them both detention for the rest of their time here for leaving you the way they did. I've half a mind to give you detention as well for getting your stupid self into this, for not speaking up that you're unwell," he paused, his voice quivering slightly, "so clever, the lot of you, yet so incredibly stupid.”

The professor sighed then: “Look, I think I’m really starting to think I understand who you are - a good person who’s always willing to help her friends, which is, of course, noble of you. However, someone should finally tell you that you don’t have to insert yourself into every potentially life-threatening situation for them. In fact, as a Ravenclaw, you should be, and I believe you are, clever enough to talk them out of entering such situations themselves, which is just as good.”

You wanted to tell him that quite the number of these situations you didn't expect to be as dangerous as they turned out to be, and you were literally thrust into many of them. Not to mention there were simply some things you had to do…

But you didn’t say a single word. Not only did Professor Fig specifically ask you to keep quiet about your ancient magic abilities (which were the reason you got into these situations in the first place), but you knew that if professor Sharp knew… Well, he’d most likely try to get you to stop. Something that was absolutely unthinkable.

Sharp was watching you like a hawk, obviously trying to see if he could find an answer to at least one of his no doubt plenty of questions fleetingly appearing in your eyes. The feeling of comfort the potion he gave you turned into mild dizziness again, and you felt a sudden need to sit up. The potions master seemed to have anticipated as such because he was helping you into a sitting position not a second later, his strong hands having no problem lifting your upper body up from the cot. You were glad for his help, as you honestly felt like you were suddenly made of solid lead.

"Could you kindly enlighten me as to why you mad lot would even enter such a place?" He asked after the dizzy spell went away again. You still felt exhausted, but decided it was easier to answer his questions now, especially if he let you off the hook afterwards.

"Sebastian's sister… She's ill. Well, cursed. But you probably know that sir," you rasped out, wrapping your arms around you to battle the coolness of his office. "Indeed I do," answered the professor, "truly awful what happened to her."

He actually sounded remorseful, but also appeared to have lost himself in his head a little bit: "So what, were you searching for a cure down there? I can assure you, you will find no cures to any ailments under Salazar Slytherin's name, it's not one of the things he was famous for… And unless Mungo Bohnam himself left a little scriptorium of his own here, I am afraid you won't find Miss Sallow's cure in these corridors at all."

The teacher suddenly looked ten years older than he usually looked. You didn't know just how old he was, your guess was perhaps mid-forties, but then again, this and his previous job may have caused him to age prematurely. You realised that he and Anne were in quite similar situations, and seeing as he, an adult, and an experienced former auror was not able to find a cure for his leg, he didn't give Anne too many chances either.

It was all rather horrible, you thought. You've only met Anne for a while, but she seemed like a genuinely sweet person you could see yourself being friends with. And professor Sharp? Well, he was very different from the teachers you used to have before you came to Hogwarts. In the best way possible. He was strict, like they were, but also fair. He was tough and looked like a man not to be messed with. He administered both criticism and praise where they were due, and was very honest and open about everything. You had to admit that you enjoyed both the potion class, and his extra lessons to help you catch up to your classmates.

It was a little alarming to see a man who normally radiated authority so… down.

"I think," you said after several minutes, "I think Sebastian is trying to find… the curse itself. Because when he does, finding a cure should be easier…"

"His sister was cursed by a goblin though, no? What makes you think you'd find something about goblin curses down there?"

"I don't… I don't know. I just wanted to help Sebastian."

The potions master sighed heavily, tapping his healthy foot on the stone floor, and you thought you heard him utter something about you being 'so bloody loyal, it’s a wonder you’re not a Hufflepuff.'

"And did you find anything?" He asked after a while, once more fixing you with an intense expression.

"No, not a thing, sir. Some old books and scrolls, half-eaten by rats and other vermin, some egocentric busts and statues of Slytherin himself, a goblet of something I almost drank after… after the torturing curse, because I was so thirsty, but then I realised that the cup's been sitting there for maybe 900 years at least and it might not be wise."

"See, Miss (L/N), you're learning the art of 'not dying' quickly. Indeed, you should not drink anything that's been standing in a cup for 900 years," Sharp said in a deeply sarcastic voice, and he looked like he wanted to throw his hands up in the air. He calmed himself down with several deep breaths: "And that's it?"

"That's it."

Hold on… Something was amiss. What was it? There was one book that wasn't eaten away by any creepy crawlies, wasn't there? A book…

"Are you perfectly certain?" the teacher asked once more, watching you intently.

Should you tell him about the spellbook Sebastian picked up? Did he and Ominis tell him about it? Sharp wouldn't be asking you if you found anything of interest if he knew about the spellbook, would he? It was at the tip of your tongue when you remembered:

'It’s a personal spellbook of one of the founders of Hogwarts! There’s got to be something in there that will let me reverse the curse! Anne will be cured!'

Sebastian sounded like a child on Christmas when he said that, all the while Ominis was pale as a ghost and you were trying not to tremble too much from Crucio’s pain. In the brunet’s voice was something that was just so absolutely convinced that he was right. And what is he was? What if he could really cure his sister with some counter-curse from the book? Maybe then you could also use it and help heal Sharp. What if Sharp took it away in fear that you may use the book for wrong, or that the book itself had a curse put on it?

Should you tell him?

Your mouth opened and you took a deep breath. A feeling in your chest was telling you that you were signing a deal with the devil, but the 'yes' that rolled from your lips sounded perfectly calm and sincere.

And there it was. You lied to a teacher who told you explicitly that he hated it when somebody lied to him. But you decided you were doing so out of good intentions. Like when you kept your mouth shut about ancient magic.

He sighed once more: "Alright then… I hardly think that you'd tell me if your goal was to become a dark witch, so I suppose this will have to do."

"I can assure you, sir, that's not the case," you replied weakly before you could stop yourself, "I hate those."

"Oh," Sharp asked, his interest seemingly peaked again, "meet many dark witches?" You cursed yourself inwardly, the last thing you needed was for him to probe at you even more: "I've met a few, sir. But it was enough for me to decide that I hated them…"

The professor's eyes were as sharp as his name, and you felt his gaze burning holes into you. Finally, he sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, deep in thought. And then he spoke again, his voice softer this time: "What is it you're not telling me? What is it that causes the bruises and the cuts on your face I see each time you come back from 'a visit to Hogsmeade'? And do not try telling me that you crashed into a shrub or fell off your broom, this excuse can only work on me so many times…"

The professor looked genuinely concerned. He was the first professor to question your occasionally banged appearance, the only one who insisted you tell him over and over again. "Are you in any kind of trouble?" He continued, "Because if you are, just tell me, and I promise I'll do my best to help you."

You put your hands on your face.

"Why can't you tell me?"

You did not answer. You didn't even take your hands away. The office was overtaken by silence. It must have been after curfew, as you heard no sounds from the corridors beyond the potion classroom. After what felt like hours, Sharp sighed once more. "Despite what some students may say about me, I am actually not some heartless monster. I won't make you tell me by force. But please, please, Miss (L/N), can you promise me one thing?"

It took a while, but you cautiously lowered your hands to look at him. He looked tired once more, but he didn't drop his gaze from you for a single second: "If you start feeling you're in over your head, if you feel like you need help, be it anything you're dealing with, please... Come to me. Even if it's just for a phial of Skele-Gro…"

Aesop Sharp was a good man, you decided, and a minute later, you found yourself nodding your head.

"Good," he said.

"May I be dismissed, sir?"

"Dismissed? Lass, the only place you're leaving here for is the Hospital wing! And given the nature of the curse that was cast on you, and the caster, I rather think that you wouldn't like that, would you?" You grimaced. Damn. You truly did not need more attention drawn to your little adventure into Slytherin's scriptorium. Obviously having no other options, you carefully lowered yourself until you were lying down again.

"Do you need anything? Food, water, are you warm enough?" Asked the teacher then, his voice softer once more. "I'm alright, thank you, sir," you replied and closed your eyes. They were so heavy, you felt like you might not open them again.

"Sleep, Miss (L/N)."

—

When you woke up, you felt disoriented once more, and it took you a few seconds to realise where you were, and what sort of events led up to this situation. Looking around the office, illuminated by the faint morning light coming from the window behind professor Sharp’s desk, you saw the man himself sitting in his chair, sound asleep. His hands were loosely folded in his lap, his leg was propped up on a little footstool he must’ve conjured up for himself, as you’ve never seen it there before (could teachers, unlike students, conjure things in Hogwarts outside of the Room of Requirement? Most likely, how else would he have gotten your cot in here?), and his head was hanging to the side. The silence of the room was occasionally cut through by a snore from the teacher.

He looked quite a few years younger while he slept, the line between his eyebrows gone, his face relaxed and open, much softer than it normally was. You supposed he was not at all bad-looking when he wasn’t currently giving Garreth Weasley the snarl of Chimaera.

You lay there, panic slowly creeping in. Was he going to tell the Headmaster about your little adventure to the Scriptorium? Maybe professor Weasley? Fig? Has he already told them? Were you in trouble?

You shortly considered sneaking past the professor and away into your dorm. You were itching to have a nice hot bath and change into a different set of robes. You fainty remembered that Sharp cast a cleaning charm on them, yet they still felt grimy on your body, because what you remembered perfectly was the pain you went through in them. At that moment when Sebastian cast Crucio on you, it felt like your very clothes were choking and burning you, like they were covered in salt and your skin under them was scratched and cut up. You decided to burn them the first chance you got and get a new set from Mr Hill.

Once more you thought about making an attempt to leave but ultimately decided against it. The man was an ex-Auror for crying out loud, there’s no way he wouldn’t wake up if you as much as made a single step from the bed. He probably put a ward on it to alert him were you to get up. Not to mention it would solve absolutely nothing. He knew of the Scriptorium, and he knew of the Cruciatus curse. The only thing you’d achieve if you tried to sneak past him would probably be angering him.

And so you stayed put, reclining on the cot. It was quite comfortable, which was something you couldn’t appreciate much most mornings. Even when you didn’t have classes to attend, you rarely allowed yourself to indulge in sleeping in, much less just lazying around in bed after you woke up. There was always something to do, somebody to help, someone to run an errand for, a beast to rescue, a potion to brew, a plant in need of fertilising or harvesting, a hot spot of ancient magic, or a Merlin trial to solve. You were a busy woman, you didn’t have time to lie around. And yet, as you did, you had to admit that you felt more well-rested than you had in weeks.

Professor Sharp on the other hand you thought couldn’t be very comfortable. You were never able to fall asleep sitting up, even during long hours spent on the train when you and your family went for a holiday to St Ives, and the first class coupe you used had seating that was much more comfortable than his chair seemed. But then again, maybe there was some sort of cushioning charm placed on it to make it comfier.

But then again, maybe not, you thought as a quiet but obviously pained groan replaced the professor’s snore suddenly. “Oh, Merlin’s saggy left-...” growled professor Sharp, his lips forming into a thin line and and the wrinkle returning to between his brows. His hand disappeared into the insides of his robes and searched around in the breast pocket for a bit, before resurfacing with a vial of green liquid. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and gulped the potion down in a single swallow, breathing heavily before his muscles finally relaxed once more.

The potions master opened his eyes, dark circles underneath them indicating that he himself didn’t rest quite as well as you. “Miss (L/N),” he said his voice rough from his slumber, “please know that I hope that you won’t get yourself into such a situation again not for only your sake, but for my own as well. I am entirely too old and too tired for sleeping arrangements like these.” Your quiet apology went unanswered.

A few minutes passed with the teacher having closed his eyes once more, and you would’ve thought that he had fallen asleep again, had his hand not been slowly tapping on the armrest. “How do you feel?” he asked without opening his eyes, and you were actually quite glad for that. “Much better, sir,” was your answer, “thank you… For taking care of me.” His dark eyes opened and bore into your own, their intensity nearly enough to make a chill run down your spine: “That’s not what you’re supposed to thank me for. Or did you think I’d just leave you there, half collapsed in your own sick? Is that what you think of me?” You cringed, your eyes screwing shut.

After a few moments of silence, Sharp sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “I suppose I am a bit… grumpier than usual because of my aching body. And while I wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of sleeping in a chair were it not for your little suicidal adventure, it is not your fault that I am an old man…” “You’re not old… sir,” you replied, not really knowing why, you just… you just didn’t like seeing him so resigned. You respected the professor a lot, and you were confident that despite his bad leg, he was very much a force to be reckoned with.

He sighed again: “Be that as it may, know that I would not leave you there. I’m responsible for each and every one of my students. The official job description is teaching you lot the art of potion-making, but every member of staff is sworn to do everything in their power to protect the students. Yesterday evening’s events mean that we have failed in this aspect. And while failure is undoubtedly a part of the learning process, I certainly do not take it very well.

“Now, you shouldn’t be grateful to me because I took care of you, as absolutely any and every one of your professors would’ve done the same. What you should, however, be grateful for is the fact that I kept your little adventure to myself. And I am still not convinced I am doing the right thing doing so. The fact that Mr Sallow used the Cruciatus curse on you is very concerning. The fact he even knows the curse is concerning! However, as he used it to get all of you out of that place, I might be able to forgive it. I plan to have a long talk with him about it, however. Being friends with Mr Gaunt, he should know better than to meddle with dark arts. He’s a bright young man, I don’t want him to end up in Azkaban because of youthful stupidity. You’re all terribly clever, it’d be an awful waste to lose you because you decided to bite off more than you can chew. And entering a place built by a man who was a single Unforgivable away from being considered a dark wizard is absolutely more than a fifth-year can chew, no matter how capable.

“That said, I offer you a deal - you tell me all about this excursion of yours, beginning with the location of the entrance, so that I can later make sure it is no longer accessible to anyone, followed by a detailed description of the events that transpired so that I can make a clearer picture about the whole situation, and I in return keep it all to myself. Mind, you and your friends will be scrubbing cauldrons by hand for the following few evenings so that I can make sure you’re staying out of trouble and not, for whatever reason, doing something as insane as going back.” You opened your mouth to protest, but before you had the chance to even take a breath, the professor spoke again: “You were mad enough to go there in the first place, how do I know you’re not mad enough to return, even with all that happened?

“Well, Miss, what do you say? Do we have a deal?”

And so you told him. You told him about Ominis’ aunt and her disappearance within the centuries-old Scriptorium. You told him about a passage that could only be opened by one who can speak the tongue of snakes, therefore making the very first of the rooms a certain deathtrap for anyone and everyone who is not of Slytherin’s descent. You told him of statues that would strike as real snakes would if one took too much time solving their riddles. And finally, about learning of Noctua’s heart-wrenching and untimely demise at the hands of Salazar’s cruel trial. You then described the Scriptorium itself in length, leaving out the part where you found Slytherin’s spellbook.

“So there is another entrance?” asked Sharp, his arms crossed over his chest. He was listening to you attentively, only occasionally asking you to specify or fill in a few things. “Yes, professor,” you replied, “however, I don’t know whether it can be accessed from outside as well.” The potions master thought for a bit: “It would be good to retrieve the poor woman’s remains from there so that she can be given a proper burial, but I do not want to distress Mr Gaunt even more than he already was when I spoke with him yesterday by asking him to go back with me, not to mention bearing witness to yet another instance of the Cruciatus curse, so it would be convenient if the room could be accessed from the other side.”

You bit at your lip nervously. “With all due respect, professor Sharp,” you spoke then, your voice quiet, “Ominis said his aunt and the rest of his family weren’t exactly on the best of terms. I’m not sure if they would give her a proper funeral.” “They may not, but your friend Ominis might… Well, best not to trouble the young man even more now, he seems to have a lot on his mind as is.”

“Will you… will you keep this whole thing to yourself, sir?”

“I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep, Miss (L/N). You told me everything I wanted to know, and I will keep my end of the bargain. I must, however, still discuss with Mr Sallow about his knowledge and uses of Unforgivable curses. There are some curses whose usage could perhaps be excused in some cases, but when we start to do so with the Unforgivables, we’re on our merry way back into the Dark Ages, when wizards and witches would calmly cast the Imperius curse at anyone who was merely mildly inconveniencing them. These curses were outlawed for a reason. Please, tell me that your classmate didn’t teach it to you…”

You squirmed in your seat. Sebastian did offer to teach it to you, but you said no. Should you tell Sharp? No, no… Best not to, Seb was in enough trouble as it was, no need to make it worse.

“He did not. And after I felt what it can do, I know it’s for the best… Nobody should know a spell like that! It’s so… unfair. It’s like… It’s like bringing a rifle into a sword fight.”

“That is a very good comparison, Miss,” said the potions master, “and you best never forget that. These spells are like poison, they’re unnatural, and each one tears away at your very humanity. I know that you wish to remain loyal to your friends, and I, once more, praise you for that. But I implore you to discourage your classmate from using such a spell again, even if it’s for a ‘good thing’. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

You nodded solemnly. You truly hoped there never came a time in which you’d have to once more witness the foul spell, or any of the other two Unforgivables. Sebastian wasn’t that kind of boy - yes, he did teach you one unsanctioned spell once before, but it wasn’t exactly a dark spell. If you were honest, you used it more during Merlin trials than against adversaries.

You hoped you were doing the right thing still, not bringing up the book your friend your friend left the Scriptorium with.

Aesop Sharp watched you intently, possibly hoping that you’d perhaps shed some more light on the situation, but when several minutes passed in absolute silence, he cleared his throat, stretching himself once more. “Now…” he said, “I don’t know how about you, Miss, but I could eat a Hippogriff right now.” Despite yourself, and despite the dark thoughts swirling about in your head, you actually giggled: “If you do, sir, make sure it’s not white with orange eyes, that one’s a friend of mine.”

The professor scoffed: “Friends with a Hippogriff, all the travelling merchants around the Highlands, and two of Slytherin’s three biggest troublemakers. I will need to keep a closer eye on you. This isn’t a joke, by the way, I do intend to keep an eye on you - the things Fig tells me combined with what all I hear about you doing is quite concerning.”

You gulped. You knew he’d find out about everything, sooner or later. After all, even professor Weasley was more than a little suspicious about your activities, but you managed to evade her questions by performing brilliantly in class and helping everybody you encountered. Professor Sharp, a former Auror, would certainly have no problem finding out the truth in the end.

There was only one solution. You had to work faster and harder, You had to carry on with the Keepers’ trials, and you had to stop Ranrok from opening war upon the Wizarding world. And ideally not die in the process. And, hopefully, then Sharp would understand. Maybe he’d even forgive you for the secrecy and the lies.

The teacher sighed and ran his hand over his face.

“What I said yesterday stands. If you need help, you know where to find me. I won’t turn you away. I promise…”

He stood then, towering over your form, still reclining upon the cot.

“Come on, you’ll tag along with me to the Great Hall, so I can make sure your encounter yesterday didn’t leave any lasting effects. In case it has, perhaps your fellow students will find the sight of you limping next to me amusing.”

You grinned. Despite everything, you truly appreciated Sharp’s sense of humour: “Very well, sir.”

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed the story. As always, you can find this fic and all of my other works over on my AO3

I am always very grateful for feedback 🥰

#fanfiction #hogwarts legacy #aesop sharp #aesop sharp and reader #aesop sharp x reader #protective aesop sharp #ominis gaunt #sebastian sallow #hurt/comfort #ravenclaw reader #aesop sharp and mc #aesop sharp is a good teacher #reader instert

121 notes · View notes

roachsideblog · 6 months ago

Text

GORETOBER DAY 7: INSOMNIA

Hiiiiii I'm back with another drabble <3 I'll probably post these on Ao3 once I write them all. If you're wondering where day 6 is, it's on my nsft alt @sideroachblog here (no minors or I'll put razorblades in the halloween candy i hand out this year)

Thanks to @nonsenseafterdark for writing the prompt list <3

Words: 364

TWs: forced drug use, LSD, torture, panic attacks, bad trips

Summary: Makarov has fantastic method for sleep deprivation. No ships/romantic pairings.

~~~

“Can’t sleep, Sanderson?” Makarov asked.

The enemy sergeant sat chained in the corner of a prison cell, hugging his knees like a child hiding from the boogeyman. Considering the amount of LSD they pumped him with, it isn’t unlikely that that’s what the man thought was going on. Makarov zoomed the outdated camcorder in on his petrified expression and laughed. Sweat and tears poured down his cheeks as he whispered, ‘no, no. Please. Please, no. Please,’ on repeat.

Lysergic acid diethylamide. A psychoactive drug that intensifies one’s senses and thoughts. At high enough doses, auditory and visual hallucinations occur. Each time Makarov forced a tab in Sanderson’s mouth it caused another eight-hour trip at the very least. Was it possible to enjoy the high? Maybe. But the fate of a trip hinged on one's mental state, and the sergeant was already run ragged from previous torture. He was dehydrated. Hungry. Beaten. Lonely after a week of solitary confinement.

Makarov didn’t want to kill him, but was far from done playing with his toys. Luckily, LSD is relatively physically safe. It’s damage lies in psychosis. However, Makarov’s favorite side effect, was the insomnia. LSD didn’t afflict all his prisoners with an inability to sleep, but it had Sanderson in a chokehold.

The poor thing shook like an animal, sweated like a pig until his hair was soaked, sucked in shallow breaths at a rapid pace. His pupils dilated and his eyes were open as far as they could go despite obvious exhaustion. Makarov could practically hear his heart beating out of his chest. This was Sanderson’s third dose in a row; nearing fifty hours awake in total (yes, the upper end of a trip length nears twenty hours). Makarov would be kind and give him a break after he came down from this trip. Eat, drink, and sleep in order to do it all again the next day. If only it didn’t build a tolerance so quickly and Makarov could keep this type of torture running long-term.

He couldn’t wait to get this video to that bastard MacTavish. To show what became of his pet project. If only Makarov could see in Roach’s head and record what horrors put him in such a state—he’d be the happiest man alive.

#gary roach sanderson #mw2 roach #vladimir makarov #tinyduckies goretober 2024

19 notes · View notes

c-u-c-koo-4-40k · 11 months ago

Text

Recalling Gold

Warning: Nsfw Brief description of fingering, Night terrors, neck injury but its a dream, panick attack, Khopesh doesn't understand how to comfort, he's doing his best though. Hurt comfort

Tags: @kit-williams @bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @bleedingichorhearts @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @barn-anon @sleepyfan-blog

Another follow up this time to Saving Water, which itself is a follow up to Severe Miscalculation. Both found here.

After a Massive acceleration in your relationship with the neighbor's Nightlord, you have to come to grips with some painful memories.

Next Chapter Found here!

After Khopesh had thoroughly "cleaned" your insides...

You groaned as your Nightlord went from petting your damp flesh to pumping three fingers inside your gummy walls. "! Khope-AH!!" It was so wonderful! But also too much, causing you to wriggle and squirm against Khopesh's unyielding chest.

He took exceptional glee in watching you convulse between grinding on his hand, and trying Desperately to get away from the overstimulation.

"MmmMm....ahhhp." He laved his broad tongue up your neck, sampling the taste of your skin dappled with water.

"Mm-MM! T-too much I-"

He nipped at his Lullaby's earlobe, Just sharply enough before pulling the soft delicate flesh into his mouth.

His actions sent tremoring shivers down your body as his fangs and tongue continued to lavish it inside his hot wet mouth!

"AH!" The tremors enhanced the pleasure rippling out from his fingers, and you reached your peak.

Breathlessly whimpering with a voice only he could hear, the tension in your body reached its apex. Your muscles straining and trembling against the hard wall of muscle and flesh behind you, as the aftershocks slowly ebbed.

As you lay there panting, with the overstimmulated half numb sparks still twinging from you core, Khopesh languidly removed his hand from your thoroughly used insides.

"Hmmm~" The Nightlord hummed, bringing the hand up to his face.

Tired as you were you did Not want him to smell it. The thought made you mortified with embarassment. "Please don't-"

Too late, but not the way you thought.

Khopesh proceeded to run his long tongue over the three fingers he'd just fucked you with, as if he was licking stray icing and not the acidic natural lubricant your body produced.

You were too drained to argue. So you settled for letting out the most disappointed embarassed groan you could muster while laying against the living mountain behind you with a huff.

"You're so gross..."

"Pfft," Khopesh snorted, but took no offense, instead gingerly lifting you from the floor, and finally turning off the shower.

You'd been hoping to get more time with him, but your raisin hands told you that you'd probably need to choose a less...wet setting for your next encounter.

Or at least one where your family wouldn't be footing the water bill.

"I am merely returning the favor." He stated, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

He strode out and placed your limp spaghetti body on the toilet. He then snatched fluffy towel, and wrapped it around your body, followed by another coming over your head.

"Besides..." He spoke softly, using the towel to frame your face like curtains as he brought his face close to yours.

"What kind of man would I be if I flinched from my Lullaby's scent? Not like I would anyway, your odor is not terribly pungent compared to the air of Nostromo, in fact it mostly smells like protein and flesh."

You felt his...compliment?? Scent description?? Reassurance?? But it also caused a new blush to erupt over your already heated skin.

His intense focus and proximity didn't help.

"D-dont just say that kind of thing!" You squeaked, pulling the sides of your face towel in and cutting you off from his dark eyes.

Not like it helped you could still feel his twinkling amused gaze and hear his low chuckling as you flusteredly dried your hair.

You both settled into bed. Not your regular twin, but the larger guest bed that could accomidate the both of you. (You texted your father to let him know you'd be sleeping in here, and wouldn't panic when you weren't in your normal room. You...simply omitted the full reasoning for it.)

Though you said he needn't feel compelled, he Insisted on remaining at your side for the night.

"Isn't Gary going to be home soon? I'm sure he'll wonder where you are..." Gary and Nancy being your elderly neighbors, one of whom was on a trip to see family.

Khopesh's expression took on an...exasperated air. "Vada has left on an overnight fishing trip with an old acquaintance...who's own space marine is apparently ludicrously territorial." He huffed. "And Muti's travel plans could not accomidate me easily. She preferred I stay home to watch over things...and make sure you did things properly." He added the last bit, with just a slight snide edge.

"You sure they didn't make you stay just so you wouldn't spook their company into cardiac arrest?" You responded dryly, knowing Full well Khopesh's propensity for pranks.

The ceiling drop voice mod combo that got you into this track of events being his favorite tactic.

You actually saw his cheeks darken a bit. "N-no! I would be perfectly behaved if either of them brought me! There was simply things to tend to here!"

"Like pranking then fucking me in a stall?"

"As if!" Khopesh harumphed. "That was not a duty, it was a pleasure." He growled pulling you closer. "A surprise one at that. One of the few boons of being stuck here alone."

Alone...ah, that made sense.

"Well," You adjusted yourself a bit. Honestly surprised this much physical contact was coming so naturally. "Just be careful when dad gets home. He'll probably be here late, but he always checks on me. I want to introduce you two....properly."

You could see the gears turning in his devious head.

"And No, you are not allowed to scare my dad."

"I wasn't going to..." He assured followed by a much quieter. "much."

You narrowed your eyes.

He averted his gaze, then sighed. "...Fine."

You let the disapproving look melt of your face. Replacing it with a slightly smug. "Good boy."

You saw another slight blush raise in his pale skin and he grumbled before turning out your light.

He kept one arm on you, and despite not sleeping with others often, (Most recent time you could remember was your mother comforting you during a panic attack, and you didn't stay the whole night.) You slotted yourself into his side, and the exhaustion from the days excitement was quickly pulling you under.

Your last thought was that you'd wished you'd grabbed some of your comfort items from your bedroom. But that was quickly forgotten as you drifted off.

...

You often dreamed.

Sometimes you didn't even remember what occurred when you woke.

Other times it came like fragments, all shifting colors and odd nuances from the day previous. Manifesting as brief glimmers of realities where you could be fully clothed at an aquarium one minute, then exposed in front of an auditorium of people where you were accepting your PhD in Medieval Weaponry the next and Nobody seemed to notice.

However, even those stress dreams paled in comparison to your true nightmares.

Odd landscapes where logic dictated you run through an obstacle course to earn points that would extend the life of a beloved pet, only for the mechanism to stop working and you watched helplessly as the numbers ticked down.

Only able to hold your sweet friend, and cry, until you woke and remembered they'd passed months to years ago, leaving you to actually start weeping.

Grief, trauma, it was funny like that.

Funny in how it could manifest despite years going by.

Especially if something lay...unresolved.

You were outside, fixing a leaning fence panel with your trusty elven rope, hay twine.

Your mother, who was somewhere in your peripheral, had always told you how she loved hay twine. How like elvish rope in stories it would hold strong, but could always be untied.

At least...you should be able to. This patch was giving you trouble.

Sweeeeetiebiiiiiiird

Your moms nickname, she was calling you, you swiveled your head around. It sounded like it was coming from the house but you couldn't be sure-

Something bright in the distance caught your eye, something that twinkled and reflected the light of the sun.

Sweetiebiiiiiiiird

Your mother's voice called again, slightly more insistent, definitely coming from behind you. But where?

'Mom?'

No answer...

Dread filled your soul as you frantically looked for your mother.

You glanced back to the field, you saw the silhouette behind the sun's glare, it was coming closer.

'No!...NO NO NO! MOM! MOM!'

You cried but your voice was hollow and dry. You wanted to run, but your legs felt like they were sinking into the earth, your hands now tangled and bound in the rope that was your tool.

Trapped, as the golden beast strode closer and Closer!

Sweetiebird? Come on, dear, we need to go...

If you don't come I'll have to come find you...

What!? No, NONONOON O ONONONO!

'He's here! He'll kill you! Run, run away! RUN AWAY!!' You begged with your ashen, volumnless voice, trying frantically to turn, to move, anything anything but this!

Crack!

A sickening sound echoed and your gaze fell to the ground below. Everything going sideways.

You saw your body slumped to one side. You smelled burning ozone and static.

You saw a pillar of shining gold, standing like an obelisk, in each massive hand it held one of your parents.

Strung like dolls, held by the necks like hunting trophies.

It's soulless red gaze turned to your removed head.

And you saw its golden helm split into a horrific grin, filled with sharp nashing mutilating teeth, and dripping half coagulated chunky blood.

Then you felt the ground below what was left of you give way, as the monster spoke.

"The Emperor Loves You."

"GASP!"

You shot up.

Which greatly confused the Nightlord residing on the other side of the mattress.

Beneath you was the spare bed. The pressure both comforting and smothering, the familiar contours of your guest room met your rapidly adjusting eyes.

But you still felt...you felt-

You needed water.

You clambered out of bed much to the surprise of Khopesh.

Your hands trembled as you ran the cold water. Cupping and splashing some onto your face.

Applying some to your neck, even splashing some up your arms and rubbing them up and down as you tried to regain control of your breathing.

"It was just a dream...just a dream..." You repeated, over and over, splashing water and running your hands over your neck. "Just a dream, you're alive, you're Fine, it was Just a dream..."

"Lullaby?"

You whipped your head around to see the huge figure of Khopesh still in the dark hallway.

Even without his armor you marveled at how you hadn't heard him move. But that thought was quashed when you saw your frazzled state in the mirror.

Red faced, still trembling with hard breathing, dripping with water and sweat.

You were a mess.

"Ah, I'm- I'm fine!!" You quickly tried to pull yourself together. Grabbing a hand towel to both dry and hide your face. "I just...had a bad dream. You don't have to be worried."

Khopesh did not look convinced. He leaned down to meet you at eye level, and his gaze was disturbingly serious.

"I do not believe you." He said flatly. "And I do not Like liars."

Embarassment burned and you felt frustrated and slightly hurt tears budding at your eyes.

"I'm Not Lying!" You shot back, your voice totally not wavering or cracking at all. "Maybe I just don't want to tell you about the awful shit I just had to relive-"

"SNRK-KK-Kk"

Khopesh whipped his head with a barely suppressed snarl on his lips at the interruption.

You recognized the sound and immediately hissed "Shut up!"

The Nightlord was stunned by your abrasive tone. But you continued before he could retort.

"It's just my dad, you idiot! Haven't you ever heard somebody snore before!?" You chewed him out at a whisper, before pushing past him and into your parents room.

Inside your father slept, naturally keeping to his side of the bed, even without your mother present.

"Snk! Kr krk krk kk..." You felt your coiled awful tension slowly unwind as you examined your father's breathing.

It was fine. He was fine.

Khopesh meanwhile was confused. Had you not told him to Avoid being seen by your father together?

You had to know he'd follow you, but...you seemed utterly distracted by something else.

Ever since you woke suddenly.

You strode past him back to the guest room and picked up your phone. Scrolling through the recent texts you saw one recently from your mother to the group chat for your farm.

She was fine, you were Fine. You finally let a shaky exhale leave your mouth, and slumped to sit in a heap on the bed.

Khopesh meanwhile stood awkwardly in the hallway, unsure of what to do next.

But seeing you look so...small, so alone in that room...he felt compelled to follow.

He took a seat next to you, and waited.

...

"...i'm sorry..."

Khopesh cocked his head, why were you apologizing?

"...i shouldn't have called you an idiot." You explained, meeting his dark gaze. "But I Wasn't Lying. I had a bad dream. Then I had a panic attack. It happens sometimes..."

The awkward silence drew out as Khopesh thought over his next words.

"I...was not referring to that." He responded.

Now you looked at him with confusion, he elaborated.

"You said you were 'fine' when you clearly weren't. I did not like that you were trying to hide your pain from me."

Khopesh brought his large pale hand to your face, gently thumbing the tear tracks still present.

"How am I to care for and protect you if you are not Honest with me?"

You-You felt the awful scrunching sensation in your face. The one that always preceeded tears that you did Not want seen.

"Snff! I just...I don't like people seeing me cry...I'm-im supposed to be the strong one you know?" You gestured vaguely, as he brought your face into both hands.

The floodgates were opening. "I've got to keep this place going, and my actual job, and housesitting and its tough! But...I love it! I wouldn't trade it for anything! You know Maybe I'd like some extra help..."

"But what really scares me, is that I almost Lost it all. I just...I just want my family to be safe..."

Safe?

"What do you mean?" Khopesh asked, this place was exceptionally safe, and that was not him shooting his own bolter, though he did contribute.

When he first came he faced veiled threats from no less than three white scars, outright threats from an Iron Warrior, And disturbing riddle speak from a wandering Death Guard.

It was only his devotion and bond with his Vada and Muti that gave him a pass.

His Lullaby averted their gaze, he may not be the Most emotionally intelligent, but he could tell when someone was recalling something discomforting.

"Something...bad happened." They said simply. "It was before you came here. And it involved...a Custodes."

Khopesh saw and felt your shudder.

A Custodes?

When he'd first arrived he'd made it a point to at least learn the basics of the different factions that were beyond his time period and scope of knowledge.

But even the most well traveled of his fellows had only cursory knowledge of the Emperor's golden elite.

He knew they were powerful, dangerous, but if one had caused problems there shouldn't Be any neighborhood left.

What in the Blasphemous Bowels of Nostromo had happened?

"Snff." Khopesh was pulled from his pondering as he noticed your fear and turmoil were ebbing into exhaustion. "I just wish it'd never happened...I don't understand Why it happened. It was so...senseless. And even though I know it wasn't my fault, in the back of my mind I'm still scared that someday he'll come back and...next time I might not be the only one who gets hurt..."

"He hurt you."

You glanced up into your Nightlord's face, and your heart iced over.

His eyes, they were completely still and dark. A sneer pulled at one side of his mouth exposing his sharp teeth.

He was furious.

Khopesh felt a bubbling growl form in his chest, building up with the incredible amount of rage boiling in the dark pit of his soul.

"Khopesh NO!" You cried.

"SNRK KR K kk kk"

You both froze until the snoring died down. Your hands had flow up to pin his own where they held your face.

As if that would stop him.

But he allowed you to hold him in place. Even as his rage was seething.

"You can't!" You hissed into the quiet.

"Why not!?" He growled back.

"Because you could die!"

"Death is not something we Astartes fear." Khopesh responded smoothly. "But your assailant Should fear...oh yes...he should fear pain...the pain of flaying, of burning, of gouging, of bones snapping-"

"ENOUGH!" You snapped.

"But-" He started.

"No! Just...no..." You sighed, and again he was reminded of your exhaustion.

Now you took his face in your hands, forcing him to look into your eyes.

"Please, please...promise me that you won't seek him out." You plead, your sincerity forcing his flame of vengeance to calm.

Only a little, but it was enough.

He sighed, clearly deflating. "Fine...I will not attempt to hunt the Custodes who hurt you..." He promised, which seemed to sooth your worry. Probably because you didn't hear the barely audible breath of "for now." That followed.

"Good...good..." You sighed. Still clearly a bit wired, but your fatigue was clearly winning out.

But you could clearly still see his dissapointment.

"Look...as far as I know, he thinks I'm dead. Or maybe he's dead. Or got zapped back to wherever he came from." You explained, trying to sooth him. "Whatever the case, he's never come back. And...and I hope he never does."

"You shouldn't have to sit still and Hope." Khopesh growled.

"You're probably right," You agreed. "But sometimes thats just how life is."

Khopesh let out a dissatisfied sound, and pulled you into his lap.

Being this close to him, pressed to his scent and his skin, hearing his multiple hearts, it was soothing. You found yourself beginning to drift again.

"Do you need to go?" You figured he'd have laid back down with you.

"We only need four hours of sleep. I have rested enough." He replied, pressing his lips and running his fingers across your scalp.

"You're going on patrol then?"

"Hmmhm," He kissed your crown. "Yes, I'm feeling the urge to do so.

"Okay...be...safe..." You requested. "And...can I go to...my own bed?"

Khopesh smiled at the adorable request. "Oh course my Lullaby..."

He carried you gently, laying you down in your own bed and linens, he wished this bed was large enough for the two of you.

It had a much nicer lingering scent, and various soft items that were also clearly well loved.

He tucked your limp form in, and settled one of your soft toys into your arms. Even asleep you snuggled into the stuffed rabbit.

Next time he'd be sure to bring his helmet so he could snap pictures of this sight.

For now he silently removed himself from the house, no matter how badly he wished to stay. Even the animals didn't notice his departure.

Truly he'd inherited his Primarch's stealth and speed in such spades.

He made it back to where he'd left his armor, and found something interesting upon activating his vox.

A message from his nearby battle brothers. Apparently one of their own from out of town was visiting while his human was visiting family nearby.

It had been a while since he last visited his Claw, And meeting another battle brother from far away could prove fruitful for information.

Not to mention Fun, as most of his nearby brothers had grown wise to his favorite tricks.

As he now stand in his full armor Khopesh glanced back to the house where his Lullaby slept. He felt a mix of emotions. Longing, apprehension, fear...

Rage.

But that could wait for later. For now he began his patrol.

He had even more to protect now.

Dis? Dis has sequel now. Hup!

#space marine husbandry sentience #warhammer 40k #space marine husbandry #c-u-c-koo anon #oc: khopesh #smut

47 notes · View notes