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hogwartsfirebolt · 3 years ago

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Desvelo (or: The Case of Subject A1534: Harry James Potter)

Draco turned on the recorder as soon as he walked into the lab. Two of his colleagues stood by the main table, fastening the unconscious subject’s limbs, and a third one handed him his notes, which he took without looking up as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves.

There was a hum of magic around the body, keeping it safe, keeping it still. He forced himself not to think too hard about who it belonged to.

“What’s the status?” he asked the room at large, approaching the table.

“Alive, under a magically induced coma to prevent strain to the core. We haven’t identified the curse,” replied Zeller, holding her hands over the subject’s head to hold the charm. Draco nodded at her, turned his face towards the recorder and spoke clearly.

“This is Draco Malfoy, code DM17008512, head of the Dark Arts BioStudies division, reporting from Level 9, on the 25th of June, 2008.” He walked around the exam table, lowered Zeller’s charms and replaced them with his own, finding the subject’s vitals with his magical awareness. “Subject A1534, Harry James Potter, is alive, kept under a magical coma. Slight bradycardia, as expected, blood pressure of 110/60, core unstable at 250 joules and climbing by the second.”

The manic energy of Harry’s magic zinged his forearms, crazed, looking for an outlet. Draco felt it around his fingers, underneath his nails. He clenched his teeth.

“This is Rose Zeller,” she picked up as he fell silent, “code RZ19003276, member of the Dark Arts BioStudies division, reporting from Level 9 on the 25th of June, 2008. Subject Harry James Potter arrived unconscious in the emergency department of St Mungo’s Hospital in the early hours of the 24th of June, 2008, and was referred to the Dark Arts Biostudies division that very morning, after the medics failed to identify the curse responsible for his condition.”

Draco knew all that, and yet it made his hackles rise once again to remember what the medics had said, the call he’d received the previous day, informing him of his new subject. He looked at Harry’s prone form now, the easy rise and fall of his chest as the coma imitated sleep, the peaceful drop of his eyelids, and had to will himself not to think as he ran his hands down the tan neck, the long clavicles. This was just a subject, he told himself. Nothing was different. He cleared his throat, “Curse entry identified over second rib, at midclavicular line on the right side. Trifocal, seeming to suggest a curse of the Imperial family. No exit mark apparent upon inspection.”

He took his hands off the body, clasping them together so he could pretend they weren’t shaking, and retracted his magic, pulling it free of the magnet of Harry’s. It was quiet, only the static hum of the spells keeping Harry unconscious broke the silence of the insular room. His soft breaths. The occasional brush of Zeller’s pen against paper. Draco tried not to stare, and couldn’t. There was so much brown naked skin on display, so much history, that no matter how hard he attempted to root himself to the present, he found himself falling into memories of that body, of those hands, of years of watching. Years of wanting.

“No exit mark apparent upon inspection,” he repeated. Made up his mind. “Impossible to reach further conclusions until the subject is woken up. Zeller, Nott, rennervate him. I shall stabilize his core.”

It was a testament to how far he’d come that neither of them thought to argue. They moved, one of them standing at each of Harry’s sides, and Draco stayed near his head, reaching towards his core with his magic, coaxing it into stillness, easing it from the entropy the curse had unleashed.

“Rennervate,” Zeller and Nott whispered in unison.

Harry’s core cells shook against Draco’s hold, fought the intrusion for a moment, but he held on, and soon enough Harry’s eyes popped open, frantic, his body immediately battling the restraints, thrashing, attempting to free his arms and legs, to flee. But still Draco held on, and at last, when Harry looked up and their eyes met, he stopped struggling, as sudden as a bucket of water dousing a fire.

“Potter,” Draco muttered through clenched teeth, as he reined in Harry’s core cells. “You need to tell us what they hit you with.”

He felt Zeller’s magic join his own, take some of the brunt of Harry’s magic, lift a bit of weight off his shoulders. His breaths came more easily.

“W-what?” Harry asked, still confused, still looking at Draco, only at Draco.

“You’re in the Department of Mysteries,” Draco said, “you were attacked. Do you remember what they hit you with?”

“I don’t— what? Department of— Do I know you?”

“Boss, his core is nearing 300 joules,” Nott said. “We need to put him down again.”

But Draco barely heard him. “You don’t remember me?”

Harry blinked, confused, tried to stand up, shook his wrists against his restraints when he found he couldn’t. “No. I was hit?”

“Yes, with a curse. Did you have the chance to hear what it was?” Zeller asked when Draco, stunned into silence, didn’t continue the interrogation.

“A curse? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Harry said. “Did you kidnap me? I — what’s happening?”

“Boss, core at 325”

“You’re the boss?” Harry asked Draco, looking right into his eyes once again. “I thought… you feel familiar but I don’t really—?”

“Boss, 350.”

“Mr Potter,” Rose said, “We really need you to...”

“Potter?” Harry asked.

Draco felt faint.

“360”

“Am I—?” Harry didn’t look away from Draco, his eyes pleading.

“380”

“Put him down,” Draco said.

Nott did.

The silence that followed ringed in Draco’s ears. They were all quiet, stunned into it. Harry lay unconscious on the table once again. Draco could still hear his pained confusion.

“Subject appears to suffer from severe amnesia,” he said at last. “Recording over.”

They’d kissed once.

It could almost have been passed off as an accident, brief and light as it was.

To Draco, it counted.

It had been four years before, the night Harry graduated from the Auror Academy. Him and the other 24 graduates had piled up into a bar and made a big deal of it, gotten drunk out of their minds. Draco’s presence had been a mere coincidence, his getting drunk a very conscious decision once he’d seen the boisterous, red-coated lot.

His memories were confusing, the images blurring into each other as the night progressed in increasingly drunker increments, but he remembered stumbling into the bathroom and finding Harry there, broad shoulders free of his coat, with Ron weeping into his arm and saying, “I just love you so much, you’re my best friend I love you sooo—“ and Harry patting his shoulder and saying, “I know, I know, I love you too.” He remembered, somehow, ending up at their table. Doing shots with them. A confusing few minutes on the dance floor. He remembered standing outside the bar in the rain and then, right there, the kiss. He couldn’t remember what had led up to it, but the fact of it had sobered him up immediately, and he remembered it, crystal clear, himself leaning against the wall, wet from the rain, and Harry, a long line of heat along his side, their lips pressed together. He remembered pushing for more, and then Harry pulling back. Harry saying, “Oh god.”

Then, the night dissolved in his mind and the next thing he remembered was waking up the following morning, hungover.

He’d not seen Harry for weeks after that, and when they’d finally met again at an interdepartmental meeting, Harry had given him a mere nod, eyes sliding right past him. As if nothing had happened. Perhaps, to him, it hadn’t. But to Draco, it counted.

“What’s the plan now, boss?” Nott asked him, droplets of sweat high on his brow from maintaining the charm keeping Harry down.

Draco took a deep breath. “We got some information. Find all references to amnesia linked to a curse of the Imperial class on the records.”

“On it.” Zeller said.

Harry lay unconscious once again, incongruous in the calmness of his induced sleep. A tamed lion. Draco reached forward, removed his glasses, folded the temples carefully. Then, he ran his knuckles along the dark, freckled cheekbones.

“I’m going to talk to The Professor,” he said. His colleagues hummed their assent.

The Professor’s office stood right at the end of Level 9, a door you might not see if it didn’t feel like being seen, in a corridor that, at times, didn’t exist at all. Fitting for the head of the department of mysteries.

The door opened for him before he knocked, which told him he was expected. When he walked inside, Hermione Granger stood beside her desk, two books in her hands.

“Professor,” Draco said. “You heard the recording.”

“Yes,” she replied, fingers quick on the pages of one of the books she held. “I want nothing more than to go see him myself, but I have to meet the minister right now. I did find these, I hope they help,” she handed Draco the books, one of them open to a specific page. Her level, browned eyed gaze was harsh on him. “The only reason I’m not storming your lab is that I know you’re capable. Take care of him.”

“I will.”

She nodded. “Do whatever it takes to bring him back.” He would.

Back in his lab, Draco sat on top of his desk and paged through the books Hermione had given him. The first one, the one she had handed him open, was on mind magic.

The dissolution of memories following an attack with dark magic, the title read at the top of the page.

A clear marker of mind magic is its lightness. Schuester and Neels classify the magical particles that travel through neurons as a follow-up to their natural action potential into two large groups: permalight and everblue. The permalight particles possess an immutable quality that ensures their stability, whereas everblue particles, in charge of the pathways pertaining to memory, when disturbed by specific dark curses (especially those dealing with the proceedings of the magical center in the medulla oblongata) become overactive, releasing an increased amount of energy that forces the magical core into a state of overcompensation. Cases with magical cores that reach up to 500 joules have been documented, and the main consequence is a loss of the overactive everblue particles and the resultant dissolution of memories.

“Found it,” Draco said, marking the page down and putting the book aside before reaching for the second one. “Nott, give me a rundown of the state of his everblue particles.”

“Got it,” Nott replied. After a couple seconds, he added, surprised, “the everblue particles are… going haywire, just frantic, it’s hard to say. They’re definitely more active than they should be.”

“Attempt to stabilize, give me a second,” Draco opened the second book. It was a Mind Potions manual. He paged through it, looking, looking, until he found what he was looking for. “McKinney, get me a silver cauldron.”

“There’s an antidote?” Zeller asked.

Draco nodded. “It will take a few hours to brew, but if I’m right, he should be out of here by tomorrow morning.”

“Baseline?” McKinney asked.

“Memory potion. Get me one as well, I’ll modify as needed.”

In a second, they were all working again. Draco went to the supply closet and picked out the ingredients carefully, one finger over the page that held the instructions. If he did it right, Harry would be back the next day. That was all that mattered. That was all he cared about.

“You need help?” McKinney asked him when he took the cauldron from her. He didn’t, not really, but one look at Harry lying on the exam table and at the clock on the wall had him nodding.

He would bring him back, and he would do it as soon as possible.

“Yes. Chop the staghorn.” He got the fire going, crushed the neem leaves, squeezed the valerian root. Together, he and McKinney completed the ingredient list, and Draco added them to the cauldron one by one, paying attention to the scent of the fumes, the color of the smoke. Once he had a royal blue potion, he turned the fire down.

“It needs to simmer for two hours. After that, I’ll need your help to wake him up and make him drink it.”

Mckinney cringed. Draco nodded, sympathetic. He wasn’t keen on forcing Harry, either.

“Will he have his memories back, boss?”

“The important ones, right away. He should remember the rest in the next few days.”

“Everything he remembered before?”

Draco nodded. “If I did it right, yes.” He was looking at the clock, at the slow tick of the thin hand marking the seconds. “You should all go grab lunch, I will need you sharp. I can guard the subject.”

They all recognized it as the order it was and, after taking off their aprons and offering to bring him coffee once they returned, they left him alone. The room was eerily silent in their wake. Draco brought a stool next to the exam table and sat there, right beside Harry. His hand, wide and open, lay next to his body. Draco swallowed, brought his hand up and ran the tips of his fingers down Harry’s palm.

Would he remember, Draco wondered.

He supposed it didn’t really matter.

When he’d mentioned the graduation party, over a year after it happened, Harry had simply stared at him blankly.

“You were there?” And then, sheepish, “Oh, man, I was so drunk I don’t remember a single thing. I’m sorry, did I do something embarrassing? Do you have embarrassing stories about me?”

Draco laughed it off, relayed the story of a weepy Ron in the bathroom of the bar, and Harry laughed along.

They’d become friends by then, were already past the tentative first drinks, well into the stage of inside jokes, of shared meals. And now Draco knew that Harry didn’t remember.

For a while, he willed himself to forget. Once he realized it was impossible, he resigned himself to living with his one-sided crush. Harry’s friendship was already so much more than he could’ve ever hoped for, his hyper-distilled attention heady enough as it was. It was enough.

“Ready?” Draco asked, holding the vial between his fingers. Zeller, Nott and McKinney stood at Harry’s sides. He waited for their nod before giving the order, “Now.”

“Rennervate.”

Once again, Harry woke up fighting, struggling with his binds before even becoming fully conscious. This time, though, Draco was right there, a hand to Harry’s sweaty nape, the short hair at the back of his head.

“Hey, it’s okay. Harry, wake up.”

Harry did, his eyes overtaken by his pupils for a couple seconds before adjusting to the bright lights of the lab. He looked at Draco, right at him as he had before, just as confused. “What’s happening?”

“You lost your memories,” Draco whispered, disarmed by the absolute trust in Harry’s eyes. “We can help you, but you have to drink this. Will you?”

He showed him the vial. Harry eyed it, swallowed. “Yeah, okay.”

Draco breathed out, relieved. “Here, I’ll help you.” He tipped Harry’s head back, brought the vial close to his lips. “It tastes good, I promise. I made it specially for you.”

Harry nodded, didn’t look away from him for a second as he swallowed, and soon enough, the vial was empty.

The potion acted immediately. The monitors beeped as Harry’s pulse skyrocketed, his breath quickening, but his core began to regain stability, the number climbing down from 400. His hand shot forward, clung to Draco’s arm, and Draco let him, watched him ride the waves of memories.

At last, Harry’s eyes fell closed, a faint sheen of sweat covering his forehead. The monitors showed his core at 80 joules.

“What’s your name?” Draco asked softly, gently.

“Harry James Potter,” Harry whispered, eyes still closed. He brought a hand up, covered his eyelids.

“Do you know what they hit you with?”

“Desvelo”

Unveiling.

Draco nodded at Zeller. She nodded back, took off her apron and walked out of the lab, to investigate previous uses of the curse on their records. Draco turned back to Harry.

“Do you know who I am?”

Harry stayed still for a moment, then nodded, a slight jerk of his chin. He didn’t say anything.

“How are you feeling, Harry?”

“My head really hurts.”

Draco moved his sweaty hair away from his forehead, still gentle, still speaking low. “Do you want a painkiller?”

Harry nodded.

“Nott, bring me ibuprofen, 650 milligrams,” he didn’t turn to see if Nott had listened, instead ran his fingers through Harry’s hair once again. “Anything else?”

He saw Harry’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “Yes. Back when— On the day of my graduation I—“

“Oh god, no,” Draco said quickly, hands stilling in Harry’s hair. “You don’t have to say anything. Please, just… you need to rest.”

“I do. But… we’ll talk about it later?”

Draco took a deep breath. “Yes. We’ll talk about it later.”

“Good.”

This is my gift to the amazing, lovely @onbeinganangel for the Wheel of Drarry Mini Exchange. Mari, you are the absolute loveliest and just, omg, give all of us on the server so much every single day, with your time and encouragement. It was a joy to get to write for you. I really hope you like it!! Infinite thanks to @moonstruckwytch for betaing this for me ❤️

#drarry #drarry fic #draco malfoy #harry potter #wheel of drarry mini exchange #mine #mywriting

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years ago

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we'll cast some light and you'll be alright (for now)

another fic, for y'all! more angst and mama Alci!

TW: Rape

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The man-thing beneath her was shuddering in pain, trying to scramble backward with only one arm, as the other was busy pressing against the gash in his side, trying to stem the heavy bleeding. His expression was a mix between revulsion and terror. As deep as it was, he would live. Maybe.

But he wouldn’t get that chance.

He didn’t beg or scream when his heart was ripped out, which irked his attacker, but it didn’t matter. The creature standing above him was satisfied, having obtained what she had come for. He was lucky she wasn’t either one of her sisters, who would have prolonged his death a lot longer than she had, milking out every last drop of suffering they could before his life force finally faded away into nothingness. She had better things to do than play cat and mouse with some incompetent human. Like returning the heart to her mother.

Bela’s chest warmed with pride as she gazed down at the dripping muscular organ cupped in her hands. It wasn’t often that Mother got to eat the heart of a man, and when she did, it was usually in the context of a raid on the castle, sort of dulling the effect of getting to consume such a treat. But now no damage would be made because Bela had managed to retrieve one all by herself! And Mother would be able to indulge in the warmth and sweet blood and would be so proud of her!

She swelled with delight as she began creeping away from the body, holding the heart delicately. Her sisters never understood why she was always reaching for Mother’s praise, but she couldn’t understand why they didn’t. Didn’t they want to please her? Make her happy? Get all of her praise and love and affection?

Bela’s thoughts were then rudely interrupted by something sharp snapping down around her ankle and yanking her to the ground. She let out a cry of pain, unable to bite it back in the face of so much discomfort. She shifted over and shakily reached out to see what had caught her.

A bear trap. Clamped around her left leg, just above the ankle. Her right hand gripped the limb tightly, slightly over where the metallic teeth bared into her flesh. One sporadic tremor was all it took to send new currents of torture up her leg. And, once again, there was no stifling her tormented scream from ripping out of her throat. Now both hands were clutching at the appendage, trying desperately to lessen the pain. It did little to help.

“Shit,” Bela hissed. “Shit, shit, shit!”

She attempted to pry the jaws of the artificial beast from her leg again, but her arms were shaking too much and the torment that seized her body prevented her from using all her strength; all of it was quickly being stolen away within her. Before she could get the teeth more than an inch away, the slickness of the blood caused it to slip from her grasp and bite right back to where it was originally. Just like that, she was back at square one.

Bela took several shuddering breaths and looked up at the sky. Now she knew why Mother didn’t like her and her sisters hunting alone. There was no one there to help her when she got into situations like this.

What had she been thinking? She was supposed to be the smart one! She was supposed to be the level-headed, calm one that didn’t do stupid things! She let her own need for praise blind her and now she was trapped.

There was snapping from within the dark woods around her. Bela’s head whipped up. Footsteps were approaching her- multiple footsteps. She bristled and made herself look as fierce as possible, despite the pain she was in.

A group of human men, around ten, if she counted correctly, broke through the brambles, armed with guns and axes and pitchforks, and stared down at her. A handful of them looked terrified at the sight of her, while the others smirked. Something sadistic was flashing in their eyes. They looked…hungry.

Bela tried to shake herself free from the bear trap when they approached her, but the iron teeth didn’t relent its vicious bite. They swarmed her, grabbing her limbs and holding her down. At first, she thought it was to take aim to kill her precisely, but then she noticed the very distinct bulges in their trousers and felt her chest seize in horror.

“Stop!” she yelled, finding her voice, which was wavering and shaky. “Let me go, you bastards!”

The men merely laughed at her threat. They seemed less scared of her when they had her ensnared as they did.

The leader of the pack, a scruffy man-thing with dark amber eyes, began to make a mess of her chest. His friends were pinning her wrists above her head, leaving her helpless to his assault. Slimy trails of saliva were left across her breasts; she cringed.

“Stop!”

When hands began to quest beneath her dress, she spasmed, fighting with all her strength. She managed to get an arm free and slashed her claws at one of the men beside her, ripping open dark red furrows along his skin.

“You bitch!” he shrieked, grasping at the gashes across his forearm. Blood seeped through his brown tunic. He looked fearfully at his friends. “What do I do?”

“Clean it,” one of them said.

“Will that be enough?”

“Enough for what?”

The man Bela had wounded shifted, looking anxious. “What if I turn into one of them?”

“That’s not how that works, dumbass,” piped up another man.

While they were distracted by each other, Bela squirmed harder. She tried to summon her insects, but her head was smashed against what she thought was a jagged rock; she swore she could hear the sickening sound of bones breaking upon impact. She slumped to the dirt, groaning. Her vision cut out for a moment, and when it returned, she thought she was being surrounded by rabid wolves.

“Creature, look at me while I touch you. That’s just common decency, don’t you think?“

Bela shut her eyes and refused to open them back up. She didn’t want to look. The man straddling her pulled her hair.

“Don’t be rude.”

She could feel more tears coming- how long had she been crying? She shook her head, jerking her limbs, but they were snagged tightly.

“N-No--”

The man-beasts around her cackled.

“Would you look at that,” one of them said. “The monster is cowering.”

“Not much of a terror now is she?” said another, tittering.

“She isn’t so strong once you have her caught,” added a third.

“God, she’s hot. Can we just start already? I want my turn.” a fourth joined in.

Bela whimpered. She couldn’t hide the fact that she was terrified. Her voice was cracking and she sounded snotty. She wanted this to stop right now. She tried to ease away, but they were firmly holding her in place. She kept muttering “no” over and over again, trying to drown out their voices.

The scruffy man leaned over her more, restraining her with his body weight.

“I said,” white-hot pain seared through Bela’s groin, causing her to howl, “look at me while I touch you, creature.”

She was dry, and the friction between her legs burned so intensely that it made her see stars. Within moments of only a few thrusts, she already felt raw. The stinging only increased.

All at once, she felt everything: the pain in between her legs, the dirty fingernails raking down her sides, the hands that raised up to fondle her breasts, the teeth on her neck, the tongue in her mouth, the bear trap around her ankle, the blazing heat that bloomed within her stomach… Then, she felt nothing at all.

--- --- ---

Bela lost track of time rather easily. It all started to blur together, but all she knew was that they tortured her in the woods for hours. Their lust was never-ending, their hunger was insatiable. She felt cowed by their heat, unable to fight back, falling victim to their needy claws.

She wondered why they didn’t kill her. She wished they did. She wanted the pain to go away.

Now, she lay on the damp dirt, naked, barely awake, and struggling to breathe. Her bare stomach was splattered with semen and marred by scratches. Her head was pounding intensely. Her throat felt red and raw. Her eyes were stinging and still leaking tears.

Had anyone noticed she was gone? Was Mother or her sisters worried about her? Were they looking for her?

Did they care?

Bela pushed herself up slowly; the pain was unbearable. It was a constant, aching thing in her stomach that never seemed to relent its throbbing assault. Hot coals were shoveled into each part of her body when she tried to move again, stoking the raging fires burning inside of her. Her muscles crackled painfully from the strain of getting up but were quickly overcome by a brighter, even sharp sensation in her left leg.

Right. She was still caught in the bear trap.

If this situation couldn’t have gotten any worse.

Bela struggled with the iron jaws for several eternal moments, sobbing harder each time her attempts failed. She eventually managed to pry the teeth loose and yank her ankle free, falling backward into the dirt and leaves and sending little lightning bolts alight throughout her entire body. She wept.

Eventually, awareness returned to her and she realized she had to get home. She had to get out of this forest. She had to get away.

She cleaned off her belly and legs and tried to do the same for her vagina, but it seized up the moment her hands got near, so she left it be. She put on her dress, which was in tatters and reeked of sex, but it was better than wearing nothing at all. The blood congealing between her thighs squelched uncomfortably when she began walking back to the castle, limping heavily on her injured ankle as she went. It bubbled and smeared and stuck on her skin, sometimes running down the length of her legs, but she couldn’t bother to wipe it away. She just wanted her mother.

It took a lot longer than it should have to get back to the castle, and when she did finally make it, she couldn’t go any further. Her knees buckled and the ground rushed up to meet her. She curled up into a fetal position, shaking all over, weeping again. She didn’t know how her body managed to still produce tears after crying so much, but there was wetness in her eyes and running down her cheeks. She trembled.

“Mother…”

Her voice came out weak and brittle. Frail.

“Mother…”

Maybe if she hadn’t been in so much agony, she would have cared more about being seen in such a state. But she didn’t care about anything. Not anymore. All she wanted was to curl up in her mother’s arms and never leave.

“Mother…”

The tears were coming down faster. Would anyone come for her? Did her mother care? Or was she to be left like this? She knew she probably looked like a sorry excuse for a beast, a waste of an experiment, better to be killed off so nobody would have to suffer her insolence, but she didn’t think Mother would be the one to turn her back on her. She whimpered.

“Mama!”

She should have known. She had it coming, didn’t she? Despite being the oldest, she was always the last in everything when it came to being a bloodthirsty beast. Didn’t hunt very well because she felt bad for the animals, was willing to submit to her younger sisters because she didn’t always know how to command situations, preferred to spend her time reading instead of participating in bloodsports, tried to avoid conflict because she didn’t enjoy getting her hands dirty, couldn’t even defend herself from human men…

It all made so much sense now.

She didn’t deserve to see Mother.

Footsteps were coming from one of the hallways. Someone was emerging into the light of the foyer. Bela, with her eyes bleary and mind hazed, couldn’t help but think it was one of the men returning for a second round. She tried to crawl away, whimpering.

Hands seized her and she screamed.

“No! NO!”

But it was too late. Too late.

--- --- ---

Alcina was first alerted by the smell before she even heard the mewls. The rank, disgusting stench of man semen entered her castle, so strong she was able to catch it from down in the basement, where every scent was usually overpowered by blood. But the pungent odor of filthy sperm managed to reach her like a wriggling maggot, and she instantly thought one of the maids had grown some courage and snuck a consort into her palace. She didn’t even think to consider what it actually had been because she never thought that such a thing would happen to one of her girls. It wasn’t something any mother should have to fear happening to their daughters.

Mounting the staircase, Alcina couldn’t help but chuckle at the foolishness of her maids. Did they truly think they could get something like this past her? Did they think they were being sneaky? She could smell their lust from a mile away.

However, as she exited out into the hallway, something new tickled her nose. The scent of semen was now mingled with blood and sweat and the faint smell of dirt. But there was something else, too. A noise. A word.

“Mother…”

Alcina perked up. Despite the faintness, she could easily pick out the voice of her eldest daughter.

“Bela?” she called back to her child.

For a moment, there was no response. At first, that wasn’t very concerning; Bela had always been the quiet type, always taking the time to consider her words instead of blurting the first thing that came to her mind like her younger sisters did. But with the intrusive smell wafting down the halls and the hoarseness she spoke with, Alcina couldn’t help but feel like something was wrong.

“Mother…”

“Bela,” Alcina said. She searched for buzzing beetles or flies, but couldn’t hear or see any. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had even seen her eldest daughter.

That, too, wasn’t very concerning, either. Bela had a tendency to tuck herself away in various rooms for hours, indulging herself in books and studies, always fascinated to know more about absolutely everything. Sometimes, it was the library. Other times, one of the parlors. But sometimes it could be a random maid closet that nobody would ever think to sit and read in or a hidden room behind one of the many tapestries that made searching for her an elaborate scavenger hunt of trying to remember which weaving had already been checked or a specific corner in a specific room that nobody really went into anymore because there was nothing important inside. Alcina vividly remembered the time she nearly tore the castle apart searching for her eldest child because she couldn’t find her anywhere and she wasn’t answering her when she called. It turned out that Bela, younger at the time, was in a small back room Alcina had completely forgotten existed, playing midwife with a laboring opossum and trying to feed the mother her beetles. Bela had turned to her, bright-eyed, and said, “Possum.” She then proceeded to give her an elaborate, in-depth explanation on the process of birth, radiating pride the entire time, completely oblivious to Alcina’s panic.

It then became a rule to never kill opossums for Bela’s sake. And they were, admittedly, a little cute.

However, like with the hoarseness Bela spoke in, something was off. Very off.

The blood mingling with the scent of sperm- that was her daughter’s blood.

“Mother…”

Alcina sprung into motion.

“Bela!” she called. She kept the panic from oozing into her voice, not wanting to jump to conclusions just yet, but her hurried stride was enough to convey her alarm. “Where are you, my sweet? Come to Mother.”

She stopped to listen for the buzzing of insect wings or even just footsteps on polished tile, but there were neither. There was, however, a very distinct cry that made her veins fill with black ice.

“Mama!”

Alcina charged down the hallway, adrenaline pumping madly through her entire body. A pair of quietly conversing maids saw her coming and jumped out of the way, pressing close to the walls. They should thank their lucky stars for their quick reflexes because she would have flayed them if they had gotten in her way.

“Bela!” She was shouting, now. “Where are you? Bela!”

She didn’t stop to listen this time, but she did strain her ears. There were no noises in response, not even an utter. She picked up her pace.

Alcina broke out into the grand foyer and three things slammed into her at once: first, the overwhelming stench of semen that was so thick and heavy she could almost taste it when she breathed through her mouth; second, the chill seeping in through the half-open front door; and third, the crumpled form of her eldest daughter curled up on the floor, shaking all over.

“Bela!”

Alcina rushed over to Bela’s side, noticing the way she tried to crawl away with bruised limbs. However, it wasn’t until she set her hands on her child’s shoulder that Bela let out a heart-wrenching scream.

“No! NO!”

Alcina snapped her hands away as though she had touched fire. Words could not begin to explain how awful it was to be a mother and be stared at with so much horror by her baby. Bela looked downright terrified of her--and then she noticed a sort of glaze in her eyes, as though she were peering out from a dirty window. She didn’t seem to be seeing Alcina as her mother, but as someone or something that struck great fear inside of her.

“Bela,” Alcina spoke softly. “It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

Bela shook her head and tried to shield her face with her arms, all while weeping, “No more, no more…”

Anger sparked deep within Alcina. Who could have possibly scarred her baby so badly that she didn’t even recognize her own mother?

Taming her rage so she wouldn’t scare Bela, Alcina reached out and lightly brushed Bela’s shoulder again, making her flinch and whimper sharply. The black dress she was wearing was in tatters, barely clinging to her frame, and the skin that laid underneath was grimy and scraped. It looked like she had gotten into a fight with a wolf and lost, but Alcina could tell this was much, much worse than anything a mangy hound could do.

“Bela,” Alcina said again. “My darling. It’s only me. Your mother. You’re safe. You’re alright.”

Bela peeked out of her arms reluctantly, and the eye that peered up at Alcina was clouded with tears. She blinked several times, as though she were trying to dispel a dense fog shrouding her vision, and then recollection seemed to dawn on her.

“Mama?” Bela croaked, her voice hoarse and weak. Her breathing, once shallow and wheezy, began to thicken, becoming heavier and more ragged as the seconds ticked by. The incessant shivering that infected her frame worsened until Alcina thought her eyeballs may just rattle right out of her skull. She whimpered.

“Yes, my love. It’s me.”

“Mama,” Bela said again. A fresh hurricane of tears stormed her eyes, pouring down her cheeks. “Mama!”

Bela collapsed into Alcina’s arms, sobbing. Instantly, the stench of semen increased tenfold, plugging Alcina’s nostrils and tickling her tongue. She fought the urge to gag. How anyone could thirst for such a poison was unknown to her, but there wasn’t time to meddle in human mating preferences. Right now, the only thing that mattered was the girl shaking and bleating like a baby lamb against her stomach.

Alcina pulled Bela closer to her, not caring about the odor anymore. She looked over her daughter, finding more scratches and rips in her dress, but also a large red patch on the back of her head, where the blonde hair was turned scarlet with blood. There was also a nasty ring around her left ankle that looked like it had been created by some kind of beast, leaking crimson and clear serous fluid. Protectiveness flared inside of her like fire.

“What happened?” Alcina asked, unable to keep the growl out of her voice. “Who did this to you?”

Bela flinched away. Her weeping turned to words and what came out was babbled nonsense: “I’m sorry, Mama, I’m sorry--”

“Hush, my sweet,” Alcina said, but Bela was too worked up to listen to her right now.

“No, no--” Bela shook her head, wincing as she did so. “It’s my fault, it’s all my fault! I’m s-sorry!”

Alcina’s eyebrows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Bela sniffled. Alcina wondered if she could smell the stink on her, too.

“I-- I went out hunting. Alone. Even though you forbid it.” Her daughter hung her head shamefully, letting Alcina glimpse the wound on the back of her skull again. “I wanted-- I wanted to get you something. A gift. And I had one, too! The heart of a man! But then-- but then I got caught in a hunter’s trap and-- and--” She dissolved into tears once again.

Alcina frowned. She always knew her eldest child’s hopeless devotion to her would get her into trouble. As much as she loved how Bela looked up to her, even she had to admit that it was rather worrying. Bela seemed to function solely on praise, always scratching for any ounce of approval, wanting only to please Alcina, even if it meant throwing her own needs out the window. Alcina remembered how she once briefly mentioned how nice it would be to hear her favorite song on piano and Bela interpreted that as a request, so she taught herself how to play the entire melody over the span of three days. As beautiful as the performance had been, Bela hadn’t slept or eaten or drank anything in that time, taking away her own basic needs until she finished her “task.” She never thought about herself and her body made her pay the price for it when she blacked out instantly after playing. Now history was repeating itself all over again--but, this time, it wasn’t her own immune system that exacted a fiery punishment upon her. That much was clear from Bela’s terror.

“Bela,” Alcina said. “Who hurt you? What did they do to you?”

Bela’s shoulder shook violently with the weight of her sobs. She didn’t look up at Alcina, much too ashamed of herself. Alcina could tell that much. Her daughter was practically radiating chagrin as much as she radiated emission.

“You can tell me, darling,” Alcina urged, softening her tone. “I won’t be mad at you.”

Bela peeked up at her nervously. Her face was blotchy and red, shiny with sweat and tears. “You-- you won’t?”

“I won’t,” Alcina assured her. “I promise. I would never get mad at you.”

Bela hesitated. She appeared to be trying to calm herself down, but it all fell apart when she shifted and seemed to be struck with great pain because she let out a heart-wrenching cry and curled up in Alcina’s arms, grasping at her dress with desperate claws. When she attempted to speak, Alcina could only make out snippets in between ragged gasps and distressed whimpers and heavy sobs.

“They-- men-- came at me-- too many-- couldn’t fight-- tried-- held me down-- touched me-- so scared-- hurts-- Mama-- Mama, it hurts!”

Alcina understood.

Alcina understood and she saw red.

An animalistic snarl that could frighten wolves bubbled from her throat and she bared her sharp teeth at the front door that was still slightly ajar, letting frigid, late-autumn air creep inside like an unwanted guest. She clenched Bela tighter against her, her claws beginning to grow in and hook into her daughter protectively, not quite realizing how much strength she was using until Bela squealed in pain. Instantly, her grip loosened, her talons retracted, her teeth tucked away back behind her lips, and she jerked her head to the side, yelling for a maid. One came rather quickly, and she had the sneaking suspicion that they were being spied on, but it didn’t matter. It was beneath her at the moment. Far beneath her.

“Run a hot bath in my room,” Alcina ordered. She tucked Bela in close to her stomach, trying to hide her ruined form from prying eyes. Nobody deserved to see the girl in such a state, certainly not a lowly maid.

The maid, a lanky, ash brown-haired young woman, nodded hastily, not even sparing Bela a glance, which Alcina appreciated. This one would be spared for a while.

A noise alerted Alcina, and she looked down to see that Bela was prattling on nonsensically, her watery words half-muffled by her dress.

“I’m so sorry-- didn’t mean it-- all my fault-- shouldn’t have gone-- should have known better-- don’t deserve this--”

The last comment in particular caught Alcina like a fishhook. She squeezed Bela tightly.

“Do not say that,” she said firmly. “You deserve my care. You are very unwell, Bela.”

Bela shook her head, whimpering. “It’s my fault it happened. I shouldn’t-- I shouldn’t have-- I shouldn’t--” Her breathing picked up.

“Bela, my sweet girl, take a breath,” Alcina said. “It’s alright. You need to breathe.”

Bela just shook her head again and buried her face back into Alcina’s stomach, not offering anymore words. She didn’t seem to be up to talking further. Alcina rubbed up and down her back to comfort her as they waited for the maid to return.

Alcina wasn’t sure how long she was crouched on the floor, breathing in the fumes of ejaculate, but the maid eventually came back, notifying her that the bath was ready. She sent her away before scooping Bela up into her arms, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from her daughter. Bela buried her face against her neck, shuddering, and Alcina felt hot tears slither down over her collarbone. Alcina cooed to Bela to calm her down as she carried her to her bedroom.

Inside the bathroom, Alcina carefully removed Bela’s dress. Every movement seemed to hurt her daughter, so she worked gently, not wanting to worsen her discomfort. Once the gown was off, she threw the tattered fabric into the far corner. It would need to be burned.

Now that Bela wasn’t wearing anything, Alcina could see the full extent of her wounds. Angry red scratch marks were scored up and down her back, sides, and stomach like some kind of sick point system, some crusted on the edges with blood and discharge, others flaked with mud and dirt. Purple bite marks were scattered on her neck and breasts, as though the men who had attacked her were the blood-sucking beasts and she was the cattle. Her thin wrists were swollen in the distinct maroon shape of fingerprints and her thighs were splattered in bruises and smeared with red--among other sick-smelling fluids.

The sight made Alcina absolutely enraged, but she stamped down her fury for the sake of her daughter. As much as she wanted to go find the monsters who did this, Bela needed her. She couldn’t just leave her.

“Alright, my darling,” Alcina said. “Let’s get you washed off.”

Bela didn’t fight her when Alcina lifted her up and set her into the hot water. In fact, she didn’t seem to be all too there anymore, too lost in her own shock and pain. She just stared numbly at the wall with half-lidded, glazed-over eyes as Alcina washed her shoulders and back and hair. Even cleaning the wound on the back of her head didn’t wake her up, despite the way she flinched in reaction to the pain.

“Bela.” Alcina gave Bela’s cheek a light pat. “My darling. Look at me.”

Bela blinked and her eyes focused on her. Alcina smiled softly at her.

“There’s my pretty girl,” Alcina cooed.

“Mama,” Bela rasped. Her head lolled back, resting against the wall the bathtub was situated against. “Hurts…”

Alcina frowned. She had a few draughts to relieve pain, but she didn’t trust the maids to get the right kind of medicine for her daughters. Not anymore. Not since Cassandra had asked for an elixir that would soothe some tooth pain she was having and a maid swapped it out for poison with the intent of killing her. Alcina had found her precious child seizing on the ground, foaming at the mouth, drowning in her own blood and froth. She vividly remembered watching Bela reach in with her fingers and scoop out the fluids from Cassandra’s mouth to keep her sister from choking further. If it weren’t for Bela’s quick thinking and excessive knowledge on poisons from spending so much time researching everything, Alcina may have lost a child that day. The maid, of course, was punished severely. When she was done with her, she wasn’t even recognizable. That being said, she would have to go and retrieve the brew herself.

Of course, there were her other two children, but she trusted them as much as she trusted the maids. Ever since Daniela and Cassandra had peer pressured Bela into drinking a random mixture they found--something about her needing to be more headstrong and stop letting them walk all over her--and Bela ended up being incredibly dizzy and unwell for several hours because that particular tonic had the strength to knock out a horse, she didn’t have the most faith that her younger daughters would grab the right bottle, whether it be intentional or not.

So that left her. Looking over Bela’s state, she knew the girl wouldn’t be happy if she went away for even a minute, but she didn’t have a choice. She would have to risk upsetting her daughter so she could relieve her of her pain.

But first, however, she needed Bela to feed, to regain at least some of her strength and consciousness.

Alcina tore open her wrist with her teeth and then pressed it to Bela’s lips. Bela instantly flinched back, her eyes popping open wide.

“It’s just me, darling,” Alcina murmured. “Just me. You’re okay.”

Bela blinked at her hazily, then looked at her bleeding wrist. Tentatively, she began to feed from it, sucking nervously from Alcina’s veins.

“Good girl,” Alcina cooed.

Despite the praise, however, Bela pulled back after only a few seconds, a look of sickness on her face. When Alcina urged her to feed more, she shook her head and shrunk away with a whimper, snaking her arms around her stomach.

“Alright,” Alcina said. “I’m going to leave for just a moment, okay? I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Bela’s head jerked up. She shook it furiously.

“I’m going to go get something that will help with the pain,” Alcina told her, caressing her cheek. “Just stay calm for me. I won’t be long.”

Bela whimpered and fretted like a baby animal as Alcina left the bathroom, but she forced herself to keep from rushing back to her side. She retrieved two different draughts, both in dark vials, and returned quickly, just as she had promised. However, she seemed to be gone long enough for something else to happen because when she walked back inside the bathroom, the bathtub was empty, the floor had turned into the equivalent of a small lake, and Bela was on her hands and knees in front of the toilet, throwing up.

“My baby!”

Alcina nearly slipped in the water on the ground as she rushed to her daughter’s side. It seemed Bela had scrambled out of the bathtub in a hurry. Her dress became damp as she knelt down, but she could hardly care. She swept Bela’s hair out of the way and rubbed her back as she retched.

“Mama,” Bela moaned once she finished. She looked up at Alcina, a thin line of bile dribbling down the side of her mouth, her eyes bright with tears. “It hurts…”

“I know, darling,” Alcina stroked her cheek. “It’ll be okay soon. I have something for you that may help.”

She showed Bela the vials. Usually, Bela would start guessing what they were, always eager to show off her knowledge on these kinds of things, but she didn’t seem to care about what they were. She just seemed exhausted, hollow, drained. Empty.

Alcina was going to kill the animals that did this to her baby.

Alcina uncapped the first vial. It smelled strongly of herbs. She pressed it to Bela’s lips, and Bela sipped obediently.

“This will help with the pain,” she informed. “And this,” she opened the second vial, this one smelling faintly of alcohol. “This will purge any disgusting parasites those beasts put in you. Drink, my sweet. Rid your body of their toxins.”

Bela obeyed again, drinking it all. If she didn’t like the taste, she didn’t show it aside from a twitch of her nose.

“Now,” Alcina set both vials aside. “Do you think you can try feeding for me again?”

Bela nodded. Alcina gave her a warm smile, then pricked the same wound on her wrist and held it out to Bela. Bela latched on and began drinking her blood, this time not pulling away.

“That’s my good girl,” Alcina cooed, stroking Bela’s head with her other hand. She knew her blood would soothe Bela’s abused throat, even if it hurt to swallow. The warmth was good for her regardless. Wash away the taste. Force down whatever stickiness was still latched against her esophagus.

She wouldn’t be able to tame her anger for much longer.

When Bela finished drinking, Alcina had her wash down in the bath one more time before drying and dressing her. Her ankle still seemed to be an issue, swelling up and inflaming red, so she flushed it out with alcohol. It earned her claw marks in her shoulders when Bela clung to her and cried in reaction to the burn, but it was worth it if it meant warding off any infection.

Alcina carried Bela to the bed, already knowing she wouldn’t want to be alone. It took a moment for Bela to get comfortable, twisting and turning when both her stomach and back proved to cause her pain, before finally settling on her side, curled up tightly against Alcina’s warmth. Alcina kept her arms around her, soothing her when she got restless until, finally, she relaxed.

Or, as relaxed as someone who just got raped could be.

The thought made Alcina so angry. So fucking angry. Of all her daughters, why Bela? She would hate for this to happen to any of them, but Bela had never done anything wrong. She didn’t have the same sadism as her younger sisters. She was merciful. Even if that made her a faulty beast, she deserved this least of all.

Alcina knew Bela probably wouldn’t sleep very much, and she knew that was to be expected. She was prepared for it. She knew how this worked.

But still. Revenge couldn’t go unserved.

She couldn’t wait any longer.

“Daniela! Cassandra!”

--- --- ---

“Daniela! Cassandra!”

Bela’s head snapped up. “No, Mama, no--”

Mother frowned down at her. She caressed her cheek, and Bela couldn’t help but press into her hand hungrily. She craved her mother’s touch in a way she couldn’t explain. She wanted it forever and always. She desired it as much as she desired her praise. But right now, even it couldn’t dispel the building panic mounting within her.

“Please, Mama, I don’t want them to-- they can’t-- please--”

But it was too late.

The sound of buzzing stormed into the room, and Bela hid her face against her mother’s dress. She couldn’t let her sisters see her like this.

Cassandra came in first, materializing out of a swarm of beetles and roaches, then Daniela, who took shape from a seething of blowflies and gnats. Even without looking up, Bela could feel their eyes bearing into her. She tried to hide beneath the blankets, but was unwilling to separate herself from her mother’s warmth. She wished it could just be the two of them, as much as she loved her sisters.

“What’s going on?” Cassandra asked.

“I need you to watch your sister,” Mother answered. “She is unwell.”

Cassandra raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t the oldest not need any care?”

Daniela nudged her, tittering. “This is Bela we’re talking about, Cassie. You know how she is. I’m still convinced I was actually the oldest, but Mother just says that Bela is the oldest to help build her confidence.”

“Please. We all know I would be the oldest.”

“Okay, okay, let’s compromise: we’d both be the better oldest sister.”

“That’s fair.”

Bela flinched at their teasing, just barely managing to bite back a whimper. She knew their taunting was always in good fun--most of the time, at least; Daniela sometimes blurred the lines between playful and hurtful--but she still let everything they said get under her skin, as though their insects were burrowing into her.

“Quiet, you two,” Mother scolded lightly. “Bela isn’t well. I’d feel better if she had someone watching over her while I’m gone.”

“Where are you going?” Cassandra asked.

And Daniela, always quick to crack a joke, added, “Damn, Bel, are you that terrible of company?”

Bela whimpered into the folds of Mother’s dress. All it took was one stern glare from Mother to shut Daniela up.

“I’m going to deal with some business,” Mother said, and the venom used in the word ‘business’ suggested she had some terribly bloody plans in store for the men who had assaulted Bela. Bela almost felt sorry for them. Almost. But not enough.

“Can you both do this for me?”

Cassandra and Daniela nodded.

“Thank you, my doves,” Mother said. She then looked down at Bela, stroking the side of her head. “I won’t be long, darling. Your sisters will take care of you. Nothing will happen.”

Bela just barely peeked up at her. She didn’t want Cassandra and Daniela to see her with her face all blotchy and red. She would never hear the end of it if they did.

She gripped tighter to Mother’s dress, burying her face back into the soft fabric. “Please don’t go, Mama,” she begged softly, hoping that her sisters couldn’t hear her quavering.

Mother caressed the side of her head. “I must, sweetheart. I can’t let them get away with what they did to you. I won’t stand for it.”

“But you’re sitting down,” Daniela put in helpfully, and Cassandra snorted into her hand. They both shut up when Mother gave them a sharp look, but Bela didn’t miss the small, fond smile that twitched on Mother’s lips.

“I’ll be back as soon as possible,” Mother said.

A kiss was pressed to the top of Bela’s head, and she realized this wasn’t a fight she would be able to win. Her claws were gently pried loose from the dress and the warmth she had been desperately clinging to disappeared, replaced by a chill that infected her heart like talons of ice.

“Play nice,” Mother said to Cassandra and Daniela before whisking out of the room in a hurry, her claws already brandished.

For a moment, silence was left behind. Then, a body bounced onto the bed next to Bela, and Bela flinched away. She curled up in the blankets, burying her face in the softness as Daniela got uncomfortably close.

“So…” Daniela started, practically speaking in Bela’s ear. “What happened? You seem pretty messed up.”

Bela didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice to not waver if she did. She couldn’t handle any more humiliation.

“I think she got her tongue cut out,” Daniela said to Cassandra.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. She sat down on the edge of the bed. “We literally just heard her talking. Explain that.”

“It fell off?”

Cassandra coughed to hide a laugh. She then poked Bela in the side, causing Bela to whimper in pain when a particularly sore area ached in response.

“Seriously, though. What’s wrong with you?”

Bela didn’t even know where to begin. There was so much to unpack in such a short amount of time. Their naked bodies, their disheveled hair, their sweaty penises inside her. Those animals pinning her down, licking her, forcing themselves into her, smashing their mouths against hers, clawing and grasping and groping. Their heavy breaths in her ears, the purrs about her being “so pretty for a monster,” the laughter when she tried to escape. Her own voice, ringing hollow in her mouth, and her blood, smeared all over.

She couldn’t handle it. She couldn’t handle it.

Another whimper bubbled forth. Bela began to cry into the blankets, unable to keep her emotions at bay. It was all too much for her.

“Aww,” Daniela cooed, and Bela couldn’t tell if she was being patronizing or genuine. “Poor thing.”

Her head was then cradled against Daniela’s chest, wrapped in both of her sister’s arms. Daniela stroked her hair with her claws, trying to be comforting, but the effect was sort of negated when her talons repeatedly brushed over the sensitive welt on the back of Bela’s head. Still, Bela appreciated the gesture, even if she was continuously wincing and growing nauseous with pain.

“Well, whatever it was,” Cassandra said. “Mother is dealing with it.”

“I hope she brings something back,” Daniela said wistfully.

Bela really hoped she didn’t. She didn’t want to see a single piece of those men, even if they were mangled and bloodied.

Shutting her eyes tightly, Bela tried to imagine that Daniela was her mother. She wanted Mother back already, and it was that clinginess that made her feel pathetic and weak. Weaker and more pathetic than she already knew she was.

Yes, it was always Bela who would rather read books than participate in torture. Bela, who was the reason they couldn’t feast on opossums. Bela, who was a poor fighter and hunter because she spent all her time learning new information or sewing instead of learning how to defend herself. Bela, who was overly polite to the maids and sometimes made friends with them. Bela, who needed her mommy’s approval to feel good about anything she did because her self-worth and self-confidence were that far into the ground. Bela, who should have been born as anyone else and could never live up to her own standards.

The tears came faster. Bela’s shoulders began to shake as she cried. She wanted Mother back. She didn’t care how pathetic that made her. She needed her mom.

“Mama,” Bela sobbed, momentarily forgetting that she wasn’t alone, but she didn’t even register the embarrassment at the moment. She was too overwhelmed with her own pitiful separation anxiety and uselessness.

“It’s okay, Bel,” Daniela said, scratching her head as though she were a hound. “Mother will be back soon!”

‘Soon’ ended up being an hour and a half, and by then, Bela was sure she had chased their mother away with her burden.

But then, the bedroom door slammed open and there was Mother, as clean as she was when she had left. However, she was wearing a different dress and there was a visible loss of tension in her shoulders that hadn’t been there before.

Daniela shook Bela. “Bel, look! She’s back!”

Bela’s head snapped up. Mother gave her a loving smile.

“Hello, darling.”

“Mama,” Bela reached for her mother, not caring how childish it made her, and Mother obliged to her beckoning, sweeping over and bundling her into her warm arms. Bela curled up immediately, relaxing considerably.

“I told you I would be back,” Mother said, pressing a kiss to her hairline.

Bela couldn’t reply. She just nuzzled in closer. She felt her sisters press into either side of Mother, but she didn’t mind. She was just happy to be secure, even if she didn’t deserve it.

Before those men were inside of her, she was inside of herself. She had a feeling that they wouldn’t be leaving for awhile, even now that they were dead, but she could cope with it, as long as her mother was there to hold her together.

She just wished she had grabbed the heart.

#resident evil 8 #resident evil village #lady dimitrescu #alcina dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #resident evil fanfic #we'll cast some light and you'll be alright (for now)#tw: rape

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wistfulcynic · 4 years ago

Text

The Thief of Time

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @optomisticgirl!! You are one of the loveliest and most supportive people in the fandom, a loving cat mom and brutal murderer who would die for a fictional plant and has the t-shirt to prove it. I am so, so honoured to have you as a friend ❤️❤️.

This fic came about because B sent me this post and I immediately said "Yep, Killian would be a wizard or an artificer." And B, unrepentant evildoer and witch!Emma's foremost fan, planted seeds in my head that would not stop growing. This is the result.

SUMMARY: Killian Jones, pirate-turned-artificer, has suffered blow after blow from life and all he wants is to go back to the past and make things right. If only he could get his bloody time machine to work.

Emma Swan, witch, has the ability to See through time and space and the responsibility to stand down any threats to either of them. When an artificer from 300 years ago in another realm devises a machine that could blow a hole straight through the multiverse, it’s her job to stop him.

What they find when they meet is an improbable connection, an understanding that bridges the distance between them. A distance that is in all practical ways insurmountable—by everything but love.

(And one very determined pirate-turned-artificer.)

Words: <9k Rating: T Tags: magic au, witch!Emma, artificer!Killian, angst, Killian Jones is a sad boi, a dash of hurt/comfort, time travel, realm travel, HEA

AO3

The Thief of Time:

Once upon a time there was an artificer.

He wasn’t much of an artificer, it must be said. Artificing, as everyone knows, requires patience, perseverance, and attention to detail, and while Killian Jones possessed a rock-solid stubbornness that stood in well for perseverance as well as a fine eye for detail, patience—at least when it came to tedious, laborious tasks—was not among his strengths.

This is perhaps why, on the particular bright morning when his life changed forever, Killian could be found in his workshop surrounded by shards of glass and a puddle of pale brown liquid oozing through his floorboards that until a moment before had been a bottle of rum. Until Killian, in a surge of frustration at yet another failure, had flung it furiously at the wall.

The rum bottle had been a more or less innocent bystander, a casualty of proximity, a stand-in for the machine that sat on a rickety table in the centre of the hut that served as Killian’s workshop—a machine that continued nonchalantly failing to function even after the rum bottle had met its tragic fate.

It was almost, thought Killian, as though the device didn’t care how many bottles came to an untimely end, it still had no intention of ever working.

He held out his hand with fingers curled like talons and let it hover menacingly over the machine before tightening it into a fist and shaking it. “I should bloody well smash you to bits,” he growled. “I should—”

He had no real idea of what he should do, beyond demolishing the bloody thing, heaving its carcass into the sea, and abandoning this foolhardy plan for good and all. It hardly mattered, though, as the machine made no reply—not so much as a tick of motion to indicate that it cared in the slightest about its own fate. Killian gritted his teeth and with effort reined in his temper. He reached for another rum bottle—there were always plenty standing by—and groped for a moment before he remembered he had the awl attachment connected to his brace and grabbed the bottle with his hand instead.

The bottle was stoppered with a tenuous scrap of cork; this Killian gripped between his teeth and dislodged with an expert twist of his neck, then spat it at the machine and watched as it struck the hammered copper facing with a satisfying thunk. He took the bottle to the porch of his hut—‘porch’ being the word with which he flattered the platform of weatherbeaten boards raised on hunks of driftwood—collapsed into the hammock strung across the corner of it and stared out to sea with the rum bottle cradled in his lap.

Tropical sun beat down on the shack and on the swaying palms that shaded it, and on the stretch of white beach that curved beyond it, and on the azure water glistening beneath the blazing sky. A tumbledown shack on a lonely atoll was not, so Killian had been given to understand, generally the sort of place in which most artificers chose to set up shop. They preferred tiny rooms atop winding staircases in tall university towers, so he was told, or for the more eccentric among them perhaps an derelict castle or even a dark forest hut. Somewhere close and damp and chill, where they could work by artful firelight draped in hooded cloaks and tuck the secrets of their craft safely away amongst the shadows.

Killian cared very little for such things, however, as he was not most artificers. He wasn’t, as has already been remarked, much of an artificer at all. A sailor by blood, a naval man by training, and a pirate by circumstance, this was Killian Jones. And now an artificer, by desperate last resort.

He took a long swig from his bottle and glared at the sea, at the ship that bobbed gently on the waves, anchored just to the left in the atoll’s curving bay. If he had any sense he’d end this foolishness, he thought with a bitter twist of his lip. He’d take his ship and find himself a crew, sail off and vent his frustrations on royal cargo vessels and navy frigates rather than haphazardly assembled collections of wood and scrap metal that would certainly never do more than than sit there smugly not working, taunting him, and—

Click.

Killian froze, with every muscle in his body. He waited. And waited. And—

Click.

Again. Killian exhaled slowly, cursing the faint vibrations of his breath in the air. He waited. And waited. And—

Click.

It was working.

—

A week later and Killian’s temper once again was hanging by the barest thread; the click of the device that had at first spurred him on now plucked at the frayed edges of his nerves and rattled inside his head each time he tried to focus. It was clicking, the mechanism was turning over, he had everything he’d thought he needed but still an element was missing, something vital that he couldn’t put his finger on, that hovered just at the edge of his perception like some fey spirit sent to taunt him.

Maybe you should just give up.

Killian spun around at the sound of the voice, a woman’s voice, with a wry tone and an unfamiliar accent. His eyes scanned the empty room. “Who’s there?” he called out, though it was plain to see no one was there. He was alone.

Quite alone.

He knew he was alone, of course, though the tingle between his shoulder blades did not concur, and remained even when he turned his attention back to his work. The sensation of being watched by unseen eyes is frequently a distracting one, but Killian stubbornly disregarded it and focused on his task. The sensation persisted.

He worked doggedly for several minutes, then set down his tools. “Lass,” he said to the room at large, “it’s bad form to stare.”

He swore he heard a chuckle.

“I do understand how it can be difficult for women to take their eyes off a devilishly handsome rapscallion such as myself,” Killian continued, “but I’m trying to work here so if you wouldn’t mind…”

He turned back to his workbench and as he did his elbow struck the edge of it, knocking over his latest rum bottle and sending a shooting pain up his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut and spat a stream of vicious curses and very nearly stabbed himself with the awl before recalling that he had no hand with which to cradle the afflicted elbow and rub away the pain. When it finally subsided and he opened his eyes once more, the sight that met them had him swearing a new and even bluer streak.

His device now sat bathed in a pool of rum, with sparks shooting from behind its copper face and very ominously not clicking. With a snarl Killian slammed his fist down on the table and ground it into the wood. He’d have to mop up the rum and wait at least a day or two to be certain whatever had seeped into the mechanism was completely dried before attempting to open it again to determine whether he could repair the damage. If he couldn’t he’d have to start over.

Or you could just give up.

“Are you responsible for this?” he demanded of the voice. “At long bloody last I was on the right track, and now—now—” He slammed his fist into his workbench again, sending rum droplets flying.

Look, don’t get cranky, mister. I’m just trying to stop you doing something stupid.

“Oh?” Killian snarled. “Is that what you’re doing? You’re a bit bloody late.”

What?

“I’ve done many a stupider thing than this, unhindered by any disembodied voices. You couldn’t have stopped me doing any of them?”

I—

“Where were you, for example, when I lost my brother in a cursed land, travelled back from that land, and then in a fit of rage burned the only method I had of returning there?” he demanded. “Where were you when I threw away my naval career, stole my brother’s ship, and led her crew into piracy? Where were you when I ravaged the land of my birth? Where were you when I fell in love with—” he broke off with a choking sound, then sat with his forearms resting on his knees, staring at his hand and at the leather brace where its twin should be. “I don’t know why I’m even saying this aloud,” he murmured, “you’re not truly here.” He ran his hand over his face then through his hair. “Perhaps I’m finally going mad. It’s an occupational hazard, or so I’ve been told.”

A breeze rustled through the shack, gentle and soothing. It whispered across his skin in what could only be called a caress. Despite himself, Killian felt comforted.

I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered. The voice’s compassion was undoubtedly genuine. But I couldn’t have prevented those things. They were not my business to See.

“And this is?” Killian demanded.

Yes.

He shook his head. “Who are you?”

There was no reply. The soothing breeze was gone, leaving the late afternoon air heavier and more still in its absence. His neck no longer tingled. He was alone. Again.

Always.

Killian pressed his fingers to his eyes and sighed, then grabbed a fresh bottle of rum—plus a second, upon further consideration—and headed out of the shack. Headed to the rowboat and the Jolly Roger, and, with any luck, a drunken stupor that would last until he could work on the device again.

“Hear this, lass,” he murmured as he paused in the doorway. “I will be back. I’m not giving up.”

We’ll see about that, whispered the voice, once he was gone.

—

Three days later and Killian’s hangover throbbed between his eyes, but his device was dry and in a less disastrous state than he’d feared. He tapped the magical stone that powered the mechanism until it sparked sharply in response, reconnected a few fine filaments of copper, snapped the gears back into place and held his breath.

Click.

Killian exhaled. It was still working.

Sort of.

He sat at his workbench and glared at the device, as though intensity alone could help him see what was missing in it. When it did not, he reached into his satchel with a long-suffering sigh, and withdrew a book.

He really should have gone to the books first. That’s what the other artificers had advised. Research before experimentation, a solid foundation of scholarship on which to build. In another life another Killian would have listened too, would have loved the prospect of hours, days, weeks spent in a library, absorbing the wondrous knowledge that it held. But that eager boy had long been lost, and the man who remained had spent too many years in wasted endeavours, hunting elusive magic beans and fairy wands, anything he heard of that he thought might aid his quest. When every lead he could scrounge all came to nothing he’d had no choice but to alter his course, and no bloody time to start from the beginning and do the thing properly. He’d already wasted so much time.

But perhaps, he conceded now, that had been a mistake.

The book had a weighty heft that testified its age, as did the brilliance of the jewelled ink on its vellum pages. Modern books with their rag-paper and plant inks were lighter, more fragile, less vibrant. Cheaper to produce of course, and more accessible, but the earnest, bespectacled scholar that still lived in Killian’s heart found them far more difficult to love. This book had been scribed centuries ago, by the hand of a monk whose name had long since vanished into time but whose skill was evident in the carefully crafted words and illustrations, the diagrams of fantastical devices that he had seen only with the eyes of his mind, never in reality.

Killian traced his finger over the lines of an engraving, squinting through his headache and the glaring sunshine to make out the tiny words that labelled it. With painstaking strokes he massaged his temples and let himself fall into the book, lost in study for the first time in many a year.

The hours sifted away like sand through his fingers, until a soft breeze ruffled through his hair and he became aware of that telltale tingle at the nape of his neck.

“Lass,” he said wryly, “has no one ever told you it’s rude to read over a person’s shoulder?”

It’s the only way I can find out what you’re up to.

“And just what prescisely makes that any of your concern?”

It just is. I can See it.

Though he could not have said how, Killian was certain she didn’t mean the sort of seeing one did with one’s eyes.

“So tell me then, what do you make of my choice of reading material?” he inquired.

Seems a bit dry.

He chuckled. “It is at that. But useful.”

You’re still planning to go ahead with it, then?

“I am. As I told you before, I don’t intend to give up.” A sharp smile flashed through his memory, the smell of sea salt on skin and in wind-whipped chestnut curls. His fist clenched. “I can’t.”

The breeze swirled up around him, wrapped itself about his shoulders in the gentlest embrace, and for a moment—just a moment—Killian let go. Let himself be comforted. Let himself relax. Tears prickled behind his eyes and his tired heart sighed. He swallowed hard.

You won’t find what you seek in this book, said the voice. Not what you really seek.

“Perhaps not. But it’s all I have left.”

Without warning the soft breeze stiffened, whipping up with force behind it and sending a half-full rum bottle teetering dangerously—but if Killian was prepared for anything these days it was betrayal. He caught the bottle before it could fall and set it safely aside, away from his device and his book and anything else that had the potential to be harmed by it.

“Nice try,” he sneered. The wind huffed a frustrated sigh.

This isn’t over.

“Why are you so determined to see me fail?” he demanded, but the words fell flat in the still and empty air—the absent prickle on the back of Killian’s neck informed him that she was gone again. “It’s not like I need any extra assistance in that area,” he grumbled. “I can fail perfectly well on my own, thank you very much.”

He bent to pick up the rum—a drink to soothe the ache in his heart—when his gaze caught on a diagram he hadn’t spotted before. He frowned and leaned closer, the rum forgotten, and began to read again. Soon he was absorbed once more, his eyes voracious as they scanned the pages. He made notes in the margins as he read, and tiny drawings and equations, and muttered half-formed thoughts to accompany the scratching of his pen. The clicks from his device soothed him now with their regular beat, and the tingle between his shoulder blades, when it returned, did not so much as register in his mind... though it lingered there as he worked, as the afternoon waned, until the sun began to sink below the horizon and Killian packed up his notes and his book and not his rum, and made his way back to his ship.

—

The next day found him in his workshop early, his mood uncharacteristically bright. He’d awoken that morning without a hangover for the first time in far longer than he cared to remember; the resulting clear head and sharp senses made the bright sunlight less oppressive in his perception, less like its exuberance was a judgement on his choices. Even his shack appeared cheerier than he recalled it, quaint rather than run-down, its slight slump to the left charming and not at all ominous. Killian was dangerously close to whistling a merry tune as he approached it, with his satchel slung over his shoulder and heavy with books.

He had brand new ideas to test.

His workshop itself consisted of the shack’s lone room and a single, long table that sat at the centre of it. On the table was his device, looking right at home there in the sense that it too was rickety, haphazardly constructed, and pitched to the left. Killian had told himself that the appearance of the thing didn’t matter so long as it functioned, but after it failed for so long to do even that he had begun to treat its exterior as a sort of whipping boy for his frustrations. The wooden casing bore deep gouges from his hook and other implements he’d attached to his brace; the copper facing was tarnished and dented. Hairline fractures criss-crossed the glass that covered the three small dials on the front and the long copper pole that was meant to be attached to the rear casing sat forlornly in a corner, looking as though it would dearly love the ability to rust, just as a way to express its feelings on the situation.

Looking at his device for the first time with clear eyes, Killian found that he felt rather bad. He really had made a dreadful hash of it. And although Killian Jones was frequently reckless, sometimes rash, and from time to time even a bit unhinged, he had never before been incompetent. Making a firm mental note to pick up some new materials the next time he made a supply run, he hefted the satchel onto his worktable, seated himself on the bench before it, and removed a book from the bag.

If he’d had two hands, he would have rubbed them together in glee.

Whatcha reading?

She appeared so suddenly that the prickle on his neck didn’t even have time to warn him. “I’m certain you can see the title for yourself, from wherever you are,” he replied.

Arithmetical Principles of the Mechanics of Time? Not very snappy.

“Never judge a book by its title, love.”

I thought that was by its cover.

“Title’s on the cover, isn’t it?”

So it is.

The voice sounded amused, and Killian chuckled to himself as he settled in to read. The tingle on the back of his neck remained as the unseen woman read along with him. He could feel her presence there, her eyes on him and on the book as he made his customary notes in the margins: quick diagrams and calculations and questions he would need to answer before he could proceed.

He was astonished to discover how engrossing the book was and how easy it was to lose himself in its pages, just as he had done the day before. How long had it been before then, since he’d allowed himself the luxury of a full day spent reading? Years, certainly. Time and tides, as the saying goes, wait for no man, and nor do rival pirate captains or deep-sea hellbeasts—they certainly do not wait for a man to finish his chapter before launching their attacks. Lazy days like this one took him back to his time in the naval academy, the long afternoons in the library there, the wonder he’d felt at all the knowledge contained in the books that surrounded him. An entire realm at his fingertips, just waiting for him to explore.

He had explored it in actuality years later on his ship, sailing her to the edge of the maps and beyond, but that first exposure to all the wonders the world held still shone as a jewel in his memory. For a young boy who until that moment had known only abandonment, drudgery, and abuse, the discovery that the world was far, far larger than he could ever have dreamt had been an invaluable treasure.

You love books.

Killian started; the voice sounded different now. It no longer echoed in his head, instead it seemed to come from somewhere to his right. He turned, and as he did perceived a shimmering in the hazy air, one that disappeared the moment he looked directly at it.

“I did,” he replied. “Once.” His mouth quirked in a wry smile. “Are you in my head, then, lass? Reading my thoughts?”

Of course not. It’s just obvious from your face.

“You’re familiar with the expression I’m wearing then, I take it? Perhaps because you’re inclined to wear it yourself?”

It was a shot in the dark, but it seemed to hit its mark. The shimmer grew more solid.

I—I’ve always loved to read. When I was a child it was all I had.

Something in the tone, a wistfulness perhaps, struck a chord in Killian. “You were alone, as child,” he said. “The books were your refuge.”

Yes.

Silence stretched for a moment, then he spoke again. “When I first arrived at the naval academy I could barely read,” he said slowly. “I was twelve years old. Where I come from literacy is a privilege of the wealthy, which my family was certainly not, but my mother’s father had been educated and he taught her to read and write. He was the younger son of a nobleman, disowned when he fell in love with a village girl. My mother in turn taught my father and also my elder brother. She had started to teach me as well but she grew ill and I was still so young, and then…” He trailed off, choked by the decades-old memory that still had the power to wound.

Then she died.

The voice was soft, so soft, and it settled around his shoulders like a blanket. He nodded. “Aye. She did.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes, just briefly, then continued. “After she passed, Liam, my brother, took over with my lessons, but there was never much time for such things. We were cabin boys on a large merchant ship by then, worked most days from dawn to dusk—but in what moments we had, we did try.” He shook his head. “Liam did the best he could, though our resources were so scarce his efforts produced little result. I was years behind the other lads my age at the academy at first, something they found highly entertaining.”

But you didn’t let that stop you.

“I did not,” he agreed. “Instead it spurred me on. In less than a year I had matched them, and in a year surpassed them. It was satisfying to make them eat their words, but in truth that was not my motivation.”

You wanted to know a world beyond the one you lived in.

“I wanted to know a world beyond the one I lived in.” He smiled at her, at the shimmering air in the corner of his eye that he almost fancied formed the shape of a woman. “As, I imagine, did you.”

Mmm.

Killian quirked an eyebrow at the shimmer. “Another orphan, I gather?” he pressed. “Alone in the world, unable to see a way out? Escaping into books for adventure, for a sense of the potential that lay beyond the narrow parameters of your life?”

You read me pretty well for someone who can’t even see me.

“You’re something of an open book, darling. If that metaphor isn’t too on the nose.” And perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t necessary to see someone to know them.

Faint laughter rang through the room. Open books read both ways, Killian Jones, her voice whispered, and then she was gone.

“Touché,” he muttered, as the tingle in his neck faded and a wave of magic pulsed in the air. A sharp snapping noise sounded from the device, followed by an echoing boingggg. Killian’s lips twitched. Softness followed by sabotage was becoming rather a thing with her.

He opened the casing and after a moment’s poking around in the mechanism identified the target of her attack—a small coupling in the box responsible for managing temporal currents. Killian felt himself grin. He was certain his unseen nemesis wouldn’t trouble herself to destroy anything that wasn’t crucial to the functioning of the device. He turned back to his book and flipped to the section on temporal flow.

“Thanks for the tip, love,” he murmured to the empty air.

—

Over the next month Killian worked doggedly on his research, leaving the device untouched and himself unhindered by tingles or voices or shimmery thickenings of the air. He read every book in his rather considerable collection, all the texts he’d… liberated from the universities and private collections of the realm’s best artificers then barely glanced into before he began constructing his device. He took a week off for a supply run, to collect the materials and bric-a-brac he’d need to construct the thing properly along with even more books, which he read eagerly at night on his ship, greedily absorbing the knowledge they contained as he lounged in his bunk.

Every day he thought about the voice, and about the very real woman he now felt certain was behind it. She wasn’t just a voice in his head, a symptom of madness or loneliness, or both. She existed, he had felt her, though he had never seen her face. He’d felt her presence and the connection between them—a peculiar sort of connection to be sure, but no less genuine for it.

The thought of speaking to her again helped spur him on.

Once he was back his workshop armed with resources in the form of both knowledge and supplies, he threw himself into a flurry of activity. He constructed shelves for his books, so he would not have to lug them to and from his ship every day. He built a sturdier workbench, with drawers to hold his tools, and a new, robust and polished casing and face for his device.

This was close work, requiring dexterity and concentration and the careful application of several magical items that had previously seemed to go out of their way to thwart him. As it turned out, Killian reflected wryly, he had simply been using them wrong. He still made mistakes, of course, and his lack of hand still proved a challenge. But gradually he found that he lost his temper less and less, that as he grew more knowledgeable and skilled he did not give in so easily or so frequently to despair.

He had almost entirely stopped drinking.

He spent a full week tweaking and refining the temporal current regulator in his device, until he was satisfied that not only near impervious to any further sabotage but also featured a clever adjustment of his own devising. Take that, Other Artificers.

He had done it. He knew he had. He had built his device and built it well. It would work now, and not because he threatened it or stumbled by happenstance upon the proper configuration. It would work because he knew what he was doing, and this time he’d done it right.

Killian Jones, artificer.

—

The stage was set.

The device was ready. More than ready. Its polished wood casing gleamed in the playful caress of the afternoon sunlight, which shimmered also off its copper facing and the smooth glass of its dials. The copper tube came up from where it was attached to the rear of the device and curved over the top of it, ending in a wide opening directly over Killian’s head. The rhythmic click of the mechanism was smooth and sonorous, each coupling attached and every gear well-oiled.

Click, went the device, tremulous and eager.

Click.

Every last thing was in readiness. Killian had only to flip the switch.

“You don’t want to do that.”

He paused with his finger poised above the small brass switch and smiled. “Back again, lass?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

The floorboards creaked, under boots that were not his. Leather rustled. Killian froze, then spun around. His jaw dropped.

“Bloody hell,” he gasped.

The woman stood in the centre of his workshop with her hands on her hips and lips curved in a wry smirk. Loose golden waves tumbled over her shoulders to frame an exquisite, fine-boned face and eyes that glinted green. She was dressed... well, she was dressed as no woman he’d ever seen before, in tall boots and tight-fitting trousers with no overskirt to cover them, and a leather jacket in the most outrageous shade of red. Killian blinked.

“You’re—I’m—what?” he choked.

“I said, you don’t want to do that,” she repeated. “If you do, you’ll blow a hole in the universe or—or something, I don’t exactly know. But it’s bad, and I can’t allow it to happen.”

Killian shook his head. He blinked again, harder this time, then rubbed his eyes. The woman was still there.

“What?” he shouted.

“Seriously?” snapped the woman. “You heard my voice in your head and didn’t even blink and I know you felt my presence. But now I’ve actually manifested and suddenly you’re at a loss for words? I thought at least I’d get some kind of smartass quip out of you. ‘At last a face to match the voice, lass’ or something.” She shrugged a single shoulder. “I don’t know. Something.”

“That’s—” Killian’s voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “That’s your idea of a clever quip?”

She scowled. “Look, I said I don’t know. You’re the smartass.”

“Well you might at least give a man a minute to adjust his premises before you start demanding cleverness from him, when you appear from out of nowhere in his workshop,” retorted Killian. “There is in fact a world of difference between voices in the head and full fledged hallucinations, you know.”

“I’m not a hallucination,” she huffed.

Killian knew that of course, but he still felt on rather shaky ground, metaphysically speaking. “Well what are you then?” he demanded.

“I’m a manifestation,” she replied, as though it were obvious.

“Oh yes of course,” he shot back. “A manifestation, how foolish of me not to have known that.”

She rolled her eyes. He smirked.

“A manifestation of whom, precisely, if I might enquire?” he drawled.

“Emma Swan,” she proclaimed, in a tone one might use to announce the arrival of a queen. “Witch.”

Killian regarded her with his smirk firmly in place, to which he now added a raised eyebrow. “A witch, you say?”

“Yep.”

“Indeed.”

She sauntered over to his workbench, hips swaying in a manner that Killian told himself firmly he did not find enticing, and leaned over, peering at the device. “This looks a lot better than the last time I saw it,” she remarked.

“Yes, well, I’ve been working hard since then.”

“I can tell.” She flashed him a look that had his muscles tensing. “Too bad it’s all for nothing.”

“What the bloody hell is that supposed—”

“Why do you want to travel in time anyway?” she interrupted, turning to face him and crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s a risky business, you know. Loads of people have tried and it never ends well for any of them.”

“That’s rather a bold statement from you, love, considering you are clearly not from this time,” he retorted.

“What makes you say that?”

Killian let his gaze sweep over her. “Red leather jackets aren’t exactly in vogue here,” he said loftily. “I’d be very surprised if they even exist. How did you get it to be that colour?”

“How the hell should I know, I didn’t make it!”

“Fair enough. Still stands out like a sore thumb, though.”

“Well it’s a good thing I’m not staying then.”

“Aren’t you?” Killian felt a twist in his gut at that; he was so enjoying sparring with her. “Shame. I suppose you ought to run along then, and let me get back to my work.”

“Ah, no. That I can’t do.”

“And might I enquire why not?”

Her expression, which had been sparking with the same joy of snarky battle that Killian felt himself, grew solemn. “If you’re successful then the repercussions of your work will echo all the way into my realm, in my time,” she said. “And I can’t allow that to happen.”

“Indeed?” he taunted, before he could prevent himself. “And just how do you propose to stop it?”

Her eyes flashed. “Oh you are so going to regret asking that.”

She raised her hand and twisted it, the merest flick of her wrist that sent a powerful pulse of energy through the room. He felt it throb through his body and he was rocked by its wave. What followed was silence.

Silence. No clicks. Not a one.

Killian spun round in fury and glowered down at Emma Swan, witch, who did not so much as flinch away from him. On the contrary, she appeared quite pleased with herself, and thoroughly unfazed by his very finest pirate snarl.

“I’ve never managed that so successfully cross-realms before,” she remarked.

Killian’s temper snapped. “What the bloody buggering fuck do you think you’re doing?” he roared. Her nonchalance was infuriating.

“I told you,” she reminded him coolly. “I can’t allow you to succeed.”

“I wasn’t succeeding, though, was I?” he hissed. “I’ve been not succeeding for the best part of a year now.”

“I know.” Her smug expression softened into an empathy that set his teeth on edge. “But that was about to change.”

“Oh was it?”

“Yep.”

He knew it was. But she... “And how the bloody hell could you possibly know that?”

“I told you, I’m a witch.”

He scoffed. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“Well... yeah, I guess it kind of is.” She frowned. “You know what a witch is, right?”

“Of course I do. A witch is a person, most commonly a female, who is possessed of magical or supernatural powers, typically focused on medicine, the body, nature, and the spirit,” Killian recited.

Emma blinked. “That’s… very precise.”

“I’m well versed in defining the various types and levels of magical practitioner,” he informed her. His surge of anger was draining away and he found he lacked both the energy and will to hold on to it. “The Guild is most insistent that registration be precise.”

“Guild?” Her frown deepened. “Registration?”

“Aye. To both.”

“You had to register? With a guild?”

“I did.”

“Register as what?”

“As an artificer, of course. Despite my lack of skill in the discipline, the Guild insisted. Firmly. Fists were involved.”

“I—see.” Her lips twitched. “That seems unethical.”

He barked a laugh. “Welcome to the Enchanted Forest, love.”

Emma’s eyes went wide and her mouth fell open. “Is that where this is?”

“Aye. Though strictly speaking this”—he gestured at the space around them—“is on an atoll in the Far Southern Sea. But the Artificers’ Guild is in the Enchanted Forest, and they care very little for such things as venue or jurisdiction.” He looked at her curiously. “Didn’t you know?”

“Nope.” She shook her head. “I’m not really here, you see.”

Killian had been so caught up first in wonder then in fury that he hadn’t truly looked at her, at least not beyond what was required to note her striking beauty and odd attire. A manifestation, she had called herself, and once he knew what to look for it was plain to see—the faint translucence and hazy outline of her form. Cautiously, he reached out his hand. It went right through her shoulder, with no more resistance than water in a bathtub.

“Huh,” he said. “Curious. So where exactly are you then, Emma Swan, witch, if you’re not here?”

“I’m…” Emma’s brow furrowed and her nose wrinkled. Killian told himself sternly that it was unwise to find a nose adorable when it sat on the face of the corporeal manifestation of a witch from an unspecified realm. “Well, I don’t really know how to describe it,” she said. “I’m on Earth. About three hundred years in your future. Though I suppose this must be Earth too, really.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. I think so? What do you call it? This… place. Bigger than the Enchanted Forest. You… you know there’s a place bigger, right? Beyond the, um, the forest?”

His lip quirked. Her stumbling attempts to explain were also not adorable. “That I do, lass,” he replied. “I spent years sailing the seas of this realm and have travelled to many a land.”

“You’ve travelled the Earth, then,” said Emma. “Or your equivalent of it. What would you call it?”

“Terra, I believe is what you mean.”

“Yes!” She snapped her fingers then pointed the index one at him. “That’s got to be it!”

“So if I understand you, you’re saying you come from Terra as well, but a different version of it, which you call Earth?”

She gave an eager nod. “Yeah, basically. My Earth was called Terra once too, by people who lived in my past, in a different country. But in my language and my time and my country we say Earth.”

“I... see,” said Killian.

“Yeah.” Emma looked a bit sheepish and waved her hand in a vague arc. “It’s a whole thing with multiverses I don’t really understand, if I’m honest. I’m not a wizard, you see.”

“No indeed. Nor I.”

“Well, I mean, you’re not even much of an artificer. Or at least not until recently.”

She was attempting to tease, he could tell. To keep the mood light between them. But all he could hear was the death knell of his last resort, the only hope he had left of honouring his vow. Without warning, the weight of everything he’d been through, a lifetime of struggle and defeat culminating in his attempt to build a time machine that would apparently destroy multiple realms were it allowed to succeed, settled on his shoulders. It was all he could do not to collapse beneath it. He sank down onto the bench and ran his hand down his face.

“No. That I certainly am not.”

He sensed rather than felt Emma sit down beside him—there was barely more than a shift in the air to mark her movement.

“I’m not an artificer, not even now,” he told her, staring at his hand and brace. “All I am is a desperate man looking to right a terrible wrong.”

“A wrong you need to go back in time to fix?” she asked gently.

“Aye.”

“What happened?”

Killian clenched his jaw. He did not wish to discuss Milah. He never actually had, though others besides Emma had tried to make him, insisting he would feel better if he spoke of it. If he gave vent to his anger and his grief. But he could not—the words caught in his throat each time he tried, stopped by the anger that sat hard and curdled in his chest.

“There was… a woman,” he ground out, faintly astonished to hear the words fall from his lips. “I loved her and she me, but she was married to another. A cringing coward of a man who valued his own comfort and meagre security above her happiness and her health.” He breathed slowly through the anger that still rose up at the thought of it. “She tried her best with him, for years she tried, but ultimately she came to realise that he would never change. She saw the remainder of her life stretched out before her, a grim slog through a grey world of misery, and she knew she had to do something, whatever was necessary to change it. For the sake of her own survival.” He risked a glance at Emma. “But she was a woman, thus her options were limited.”

“So she ran away with you,” said Emma. He searched her face for judgment, but there was none.

He nodded. “She ran away with me.”

“You saved her life,” she said harshly. “But you shouldn’t have had to.”

He blinked, startled at her tone, and watched as her face grew tight with anger. “In my land and my time, women have choices,” she hissed. “We have to fight for them every day, but we have them. We can leave marriages and we can have jobs and we can own our own houses and have our own lives. We don’t rely on men unless we choose to.” She looked up to meet his eyes. “I’m guessing that’s not the case here?”

“You guess correctly.” Killian’s voice was choked, his chest drawn tight by the depth of her compassion. Compassion for a woman she’d never met, who had died long before her time. He cleared his throat. “Milah had nowhere to go and no means to go there. I offered her an escape. It was all I could do.”

A moment passed before Emma spoke again.

“What went wrong?” she asked.

His lip curled. “I expect you can guess.”

He could sense the catch in her breath, though it made no sound in the quiet room. “Her husband found you?”

“Aye. Rather a predictable storyline, isn’t it? But there's an unpleasant twist to this tale, I fear.”

“What twist?” she demanded.

Killian swallowed. “Have you heard of the Dark One?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Well, yes. I’ve read the lore of course, but… are you saying the Dark One is real?”

“Very much so.”

He watched as comprehension dawned in her eyes. “And he—your—Milah’s husband—”

“Had become the Dark One, aye. At the cost of his soul, of course, but for some men that's a small price to pay to punish an errant wife.”

“Wow. I mean—wow.”

“I’m not familiar with that particular expression but it certainly seems to suit the case,” said Killian drily. “Wow indeed.”

“He murdered her, didn’t he?” Emma said, in a voice like the lash of a whip. It was not a question.

“On the deck of my ship,” Killian replied, “as I watched, helpless to prevent it. He tore her heart from her chest and he crushed it to dust.” He held up his brace, catching the sunlight on the curve of his hook. “And then he took my hand.”

Emma exhaled, long and slow. “So that’s why you want to go back. To stop her murder.”

This was also not a question, but he answered it nonetheless. “Aye. I promised to protect her and I failed. I have to make it right.”

“You know you can’t do that, Killian.”

The empathy in her voice, the understanding, the way she said his name… Killian’s anger rose again and he snapped at her. “Well not now that you’ve destroyed my bloody time machine!”

“You couldn’t have anyway.”

“And just how the devil—”

“Look, I told you, I’m not a wizard,” said Emma insistently. She shifted on the bench until she was facing him fully, one leg tucked beneath the other. “I don’t know all the ins and outs of how the universe works, or like, the multiverse or whatever. All I know is that if you turn on that machine it will blow a hole in all of it. Every realm and at every time would be destroyed. It would end the world.”

Killian scowled as his mind sought frantically for a loophole, a counterpoint, a way. His fist was tightly clenched and pressed hard against his thigh, his breathing shallow. “The books said—”

“The books don’t know,” she interrupted in that same insistent tone. “No one’s ever done this before. No one’s ever even come close.”

“And here I thought I wasn’t much of an artificer,” he sneered.

“Like I said before. You weren’t.”

Killian thought of all the reading he’d done, the careful cross-referencing of books that likely had never before been seen by the same pair of eyes. He thought of his temporal current regulator, the refinements he’d made to it. How certain he was that it would work.

He looked over at Emma to find her watching him, with gentle sympathy and not a hint of pity. “You can’t go back, Killian,” she said softly. “The past has already happened. All you can do is go forward.”

“So what you’re telling me is I need to move on,” he snarled. How he loathed that expression.

She nodded. “In more ways than one.”

Cautiously she reached out and placed her hand over his clenched fist, and though he could not feel her touch he felt it, the warmth of her compassion and her strength and her magic, drawn from another realm in another time. He let his hand relax and held it, palm up, beneath hers. He drew a deep, unsteady breath and then released it. Then he drew another.

They sat in silence for some time.

“I can’t recall the last time I considered what Milah would think if she could see what I was doing,” said Killian, finally, in a low voice. “I thought about her all the time, at first. But then… it got to the point where every time thoughts of her came into my head I would drink them straight out of it.”

“Because you knew that if she could see you she wouldn’t like what she saw.”

“Because I knew that if she could see me she wouldn’t like what she saw,” he echoed. “She wouldn’t have wanted me to lose myself in this—obsession. But then I have always been prone to obsession and she knew that better than anyone.”

“Obsession is just another word for intense dedication,” declared Emma, “once you add a bit of healthy perspective to it. It’s sincere devotion to what you value. Maybe all you need is just to shift your focus a bit. Find something new to work on, and another motivation to drive you.”

“Something new,” he repeated, then gave a hoarse, choking laugh. “I confess I’ve no idea what that could be.”

“You’ll find something.” The look in her eyes as she watched him was amused, wry, soft, and sad all at once. An odd sensation twisted in his chest. “I wish—” she began, then broke off with a shake of her head.

Killian realised their hands were still clasped. He wished he could close his fingers around hers, truly feel the touch of them against his skin. “What do you wish, love?” he pressed.

She shook her head again. “It’s just—after today I won’t be able to See you anymore. Once you’re no longer a threat you’ll stop appearing in my visions. I just wish I could watch what you do next, that’s all." She flashed him a grin. "I have a feeling it’ll be something epic.”

He laughed and after a moment she joined him, with a tinkling, joyous sound that made his heart feel lighter than perhaps it ever had. Maybe she was right, he thought. Maybe he could do something different. Something not driven by loss or anger or greed. “I don’t know if I can promise epic,” he told her. “But I do promise I'll do something. Something important to me. I promise you, Emma Swan.”

She smiled, gorgeous and heartbreaking. “Good.”

Killian could swear he felt her hand tightening on his, felt it in the echoing squeeze in his chest. He heard her next words before she spoke them.

“I have to go.”

He forced himself to nod. “I know.”

She reached up with her free hand and traced her fingertips across his cheek. “Goodbye, Killian Jones,” she whispered… and then she was gone.

Killian sat alone in his workshop with an empty hand and a silent machine, and a brand new ache in his heart. And for the very first time in a life full of loss, he allowed himself to grieve.

—

Killian didn’t drink.

He wanted to. The rum called to him, a siren’s song of numb oblivion, but that was a pit into which he no longer wished to fall. He had things to do now, crucial things, and they required a clear head.

He took the Jolly Roger and he sailed away, far across the seas to a place he'd sworn he’d never go again. The small port village where Milah had lived, and where she’d died. Whose harbour he’d put at his bow for less than an hour before he’d tipped her body into the depths of the sea.

It was the nearest thing he had to a gravestone.

He stood on the deck with his hand on the railing, staring down into the choppy waves below. His throat ached and his chest felt tight.

“I’m so sorry, Milah,” he whispered. “Sorry that I failed in my promise to protect you. Sorry that when I lost you I lost myself as well. I let myself fall so deeply into despair that I lost sight of who I was—and in doing so I sacrificed the man you loved. I’m sorry I became something you’d have hated me to be.” His throat closed up and he swallowed through it, forced the next words out. “When you died I swore to avenge you, but my love, I think—” he exhaled slowly “—I think I have to let you go.”

A brisk wind swept in off the water and ruffled through his hair as Milah’s fingers used to do. It stroked his cheek with the touch of her lips and whispered with her voice in his ear.

I love you, it said. Go.

Killian let his eyes fall shut as he breathed in the scent of her skin, closed his fist in her curls one final time. When he opened them again he was alone.

Alone, but for the first time in many a year, hopeful.

The past is done, he thought, and can’t be changed. All you can do is move forward.

Somewhere, some time, there was a green-eyed witch with golden curls and a sharp tongue and the softest heart he’d ever known. One who could read him like a book and understand the story it told. And he was an artificer who knew how to build a bloody time machine.

It was time to move on.

—

The afternoon was warm and hazy as it often is in August on the coast of Maine. The air was heavy and humid and buzzing with the hum of bees and midges as they swarmed and bumbled their way through late-summer flowers. Flowers that bloomed in full riotous colour in the remarkable garden of a thoroughly unremarkable grey clapboard house.

A figure approached the garden gate, tall and oddly dressed for this realm. He wore a long and sweeping leather coat over an ornately embroidered waistcoat, tall leather boots and a matching heavy satchel slung across his back. He paused, and regarded the gate with a raised eyebrow and all the deference he could muster.

Killian Jones knew magic when he sensed it.

“May I come in, lass?” he inquired of the air and the gate and the bumblebees, and whomever else might happen to be listening.

The gate swung open.

Killian favoured it with a small bow then sauntered through it, through the bright and fragrant garden and up to the porch steps and the door atop them. It opened as he approached to reveal a woman with long curling hair, a tight white tank top and very short shorts. She placed a hand on her hip and smirked.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

Killian climbed the porch steps and dropped his satchel, hooked a thumb beneath his belt buckle and treated her to his flirtiest grin. “Time is relative, I think you’ll find,” he replied. “Also an illusion. And there are some philosophers who claim that—”

His words were cut off by Emma’s lips, her fingers tight on the lapels of his coat as she pulled him in close. She was solid and real against his chest, her mouth hot and her skin so soft. Killian groaned as he sank his fingers into her hair, as he kissed her back with everything he’d held in his heart since he saw her last.

The kiss was short but rich with feeling, with potential, with hope. When it ended they paused for a moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s breath.

Emma spoke first. “You came forward,” she said. “You actually did it.” She laughed, and thumped her fist lightly against his chest. “I can’t believe you actually did it.”

“Aye, well, as it turns out, I’m a hell of an artificer,” he replied, and she laughed again. He pulled her against him, wrapped his arms tight around her and sighed as she tucked her head beneath his chin.

“And the rest of it?” she inquired softly. “Milah, and the Dark One—”

He took a moment to consider how to answer. There were many things he could say, so much he wanted to tell her. But it would wait. They had time. In the end he said simply, “I’ve made my peace. It’s done.”

“Good.” She looked up at him with that glorious smile and his heart sang with happiness. “That’s good.”

—

@ohmightydevviepuu @thisonesatellite @katie-dub @kmomof4 @mariakov81 @stahlop @spartanguard @killianjones-twopointoh @captain-emmajones

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lyallblacklupin · 4 years ago

Text

I am fighting for you.

Remus can’t easily escape the most heart-wrenching memory from his mind that was clinging stubbornly, only making his transformation worse; Sirius Black fighting alone against seven hooded opponents, the red sparks suddenly hitting his chest, and the screams echoing the alley. How can Remus forget the fact that those howls craving nothing but death, were of the most foremost person in his life, the only hope, only dream, only love, only the reason to keep living in this war. Sirius was his everything and the only thing.

Just for once, he wanted to live...

Just for once, he wanted to unfeel the pain...

Just for once, he wanted to love without fear...

Remus was lying crumpled on the floor, the pool of his blood beneath his wounded body. The sharp breeze of the cold dawn swishing from the opened window of the Shrieking Shack, that spasmed his already trembling, naked body. He peeked from his one of his heavy eyes to see the deteriorated window that was hanging on its rusty hinges, waving in and out, back and forth by the currents of the wind, and the sky was light blue as if witnessing an almost twilight sky, except it had started getting brighter. The view was quite scenic enough for Remus to distract him from his physical pain. However, the pain was not just physical.

He barely acknowledged the severely maimed hand of his own that was laying lifelessly before him. His wand was not far from his reach. He could grab it and cast healing charms at his wounds and he could apparate back to his flat. It was all physically possible, and yet very unwanting.

No one had come to accompany him on his full moon, and he was not mad. He was just tired, and so was James who was fighting for his wife and son, and Peter who was fighting for his dying mother, and Sirius...who was he fighting for?

Suddenly, the previous day enrolled before him, again.

"NO SIRIUS! COME BACK! APPARATE BACK!"

Remus was shrieking like the way he had never shrieked before, the blood dripping from his forehead, trickling down his eyelid, didn't bother him because they were outnumbered by another troop of death eaters who had apparated right after James had taken an unconscious Lily back in the nearby shop in Diagon Alley. There was fire, jets of red and green sparks, ashes of the burnt shops that once used to glitter with vivid colors and had the whiff of excitement for going to Hogwarts.

And then there was Sirius in the middle of the alley, fighting alone against seven hooded opponents. His eyes were hard and furiously fixed on the masked people. Remus could see how Sirius' wand was not relaxing for a single second, blocking every curse, jinx, and hex.

He wanted him to stop! He wanted him to come back! He wanted him alive! Why was he not listening to him? Remus' throat felt thorny because of screaming pleas for Sirius to come back. No voice on earth was going to stop him, no jerk was going to make him retreat from his charge. What was he fighting for?

"WHAT ARE YOU FIGHTING FOR!?" Remus cried.

Sirius abruptly stopped and his widened gaze fell on Remus. And that was when a bitter voice yelled, "Cruicio!"

In the fleeting moment, Sirius' body thrust to the ground as the red spark hit him in the chest. And then, there he was violently twitching, jerking, reaching nowhere, his eyes rolling, his screams were echoing in the alley.

"KILL ME! KILL ME NOW!"

Remus' chest was tight, and his already trembling body felt a strange shudder when that memory replayed in his head. He was struck with the most bitter realization; This was it. This was his reality. This was the true picture of his life in which he had to suffer with infinite amount of pain in every way possible, especially by watching the pain of his loved ones, and above all, Sirius.

Something broke inside him—like his ribcage suddenly lost the strength that held him and his stiffened muscles slumped down in defeat as he sobbed over his misfortune. His howls were making him realize how much he was torn inside. His tears were dissolving in his blood, and he wanted everything to stop, the war, the suspicion, the terror, the agony of being a werewolf, a terrible lover, and...just himself. He wanted to end...die. There was a voice inside him saying that there was a life beyond death where he could live without pain, love without fear.

Just for once...only for once...was it too much to ask?

Crack.

He immediately recognized the familiar footsteps, the strong scent, and the heartbeat which suddenly panicked him. How can he wish to die when he had one person who loved him more than they loved themselves?

"Merlin...Moony..." Sirius murmured under his breath, as he rolled Remus over so that his back was against the floor, exposing his bare chest. Sirius' eyes were tensed but he was wearing a poker face. Remus knew that he was pulling himself together just for him.

Padfoot doesn't cry when Moony cries, he will not yell when Moony yells—even if he yells completely unfairly—that was the rule because that was how they had been able to make this far.

Remus was just serenely studying Sirius' face: Those grey eyes were concentrated in casting healing charms all over his body, his nostrils were flaring but there was no hint of anger on that face, just deadpanned, he was frowning at the very unexpected wounds, his mouth was formed in a thin line, and his dark hair falling in his eyes which he didn't bother tugging behind his ear. He was so, so beautiful. And then the memory flashed in Remus' brain, again, and suddenly Sirius Black looked ten times more precious than he was right now. Remus didn't realize a whimper escaping his mouth until Sirius' eyes stopped to meet his.

Remus felt his heart skipped a beat, but there was a strange sense of satisfaction in exchanging a long stare. He could stare at him forever. He lifted his trembling hand and reached for Sirius' hair as he tugged a thick lock behind his ear, and a tear escaped Sirius' eyes.

"Don't leave me." Remus whispered.

"Selfish, are you?" Sirius' voice was hardly recognizable. Remus nodded, despite the pain in his heart, he knew how raw Sirius would become when he had been hurting. Sirius' plain expressions exchanged with the helplessness. Remus' hand was still tracing his damp face.

"Let's run away, then. Far away. Just you and me." Remus said, wanting to be just as raw as Sirius.

Today they were not being fire and water. They were being fire and fire, water and water. This was going either going to end in flames or a raging flood.

Little did Remus know, Sirius started sobbing as he shook his head. They were eventually back to being themselves. This was how it always ended. Either of them would break, and the other is there to pick up the pieces.

As much as broken Remus was, physically, Sirius was wounded deeply as he cried. He had never cried when Remus was suffering. He had known how to stay strong, but this time he was quivering in between his sobs.

"We wouldn't have to return, you know. Let's do this." Remus was also silently crying, but that didn't mean that he was ignoring Sirius shaking his head in disapproval. He held Sirius�� forearm to sit up, and he wrapped his aching arms around him.

"Don't do this," Sirius whispered in his hair.

"Then why do you make me do this?" Remus pulled away to face the other in the eyes. "Why do you throw yourself into hell as if you are searching death and wanting it to hit you!?

He was suddenly speaking so loudly and Sirius was looking down at their hands. Remus had wanted to say those words to put some sense into Sirius, but few hours after the dueling, he himself had disapparated to the Shrieking Shack when the wolf inside him had started to signal his arrival. In the meantime of his transformation, he hadn’t forgotten the dueling, the cruciatus curse hitting the love of his life, and most importantly, the urge to see him in one piece before him.

"As if you completely forget that I am here too! At your side. You don't even acknowledge the fact how much your actions would hurt me! Your pain is my pain, Sirius Black!" He poked him harshly on his chest. "You don't let only yourself be dead, but you also kill me! You don't fucking realize how much I love you! You fucking dumb tosser! I can't watch you die! I can't let you get away from me! I can't live without you! Why don't you understand!?

Remus' chest was heaving raggedly. He had forgotten about his wounds, and now he was just staring at Sirius' glistening eyes. They were leaking tears so silently. He looked so small and vulnerable. Remus held his face in his hands and pulled his forehead to his lips to press a chaste kiss there.

"I am sorry." Sirius' raspy voice sent a shiver down to Remus' body.

"I want to get out of it. But I don't think I can without you. I want to protect you like you have your whole life. Let me protect you, please."

"I'd die for you-"

"I don't want you to die for me!" Remus grabbed Sirius' wrists and tugged him close at his eye level, "I want you to live for me!"

"I'm responsible for this, Moony." His voice was weak and muffled because he had slipped his head in the crook of Remus' neck.

"What are you talking about?"

He met Remus' eyes. "I know...I can't say if I disagree with you because I don't. But then when I look at you, James, Lily, and Peter, I feel like I owe you all. My own blood is out there killing innocent people..."

Suddenly, everything was making sense to Remus; the hard glare of Sirius while he is dueling with those masked death eaters, the concentration that would be keen to linger when he disarms them, aiming charms and spell on those masks which could reveal their identity and Sirius would either sigh in relief if Regulus Black isn't behind that mask.

"I feel like I am responsible for every life because my blood is aiming to kill the people I so dearly love, Remus. I can't give up on you so easily. I don't care about myself!

“You can't see me dying, can you? I saw you on the verge of death every month since for years and I still do, but I cannot fight that miserable fate. I actually thought when I was twelve that I could find a cure for your lycanthropy. I actually believed that one day I will be the one to take the pain away from you. I was so naïve. Now these people, who are also my unfortunate family, are trying to kill you. I can’t stand that.

“So you asked me who am I fighting for? I am fighting for you."

Remus opened his mouth to speak but the words died in his mouth. Sirius had left him utterly speechless.

"You don't care about yourself," He spoke after a lingering silence, "but I care about you so you have to care about that."

Remus knew that his words sounded very stupid but Sirius chuckled and shoved him in his embrace.

"I love you, Remus John Lupin. I love you more than anything. And I promise that I will be careful for you, just for you because I don’t want to hurt you in anyway."

“You better not,” Remus leaned close and pressed his forehead against Sirius’. “Otherwise, I won’t share my jumpers with you.”

“A little less tyranny, Moony, I’m fragile!”

#wolfstar #wolfstar fanfiction #wolfstar angst #wolfstar happy ending #sirius x remus #remus x sirius #first wizarding war rp #dynasty mia

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imnotoverlyobsessive · 3 years ago

Text

Lost in Translation: Part Three

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE AUTHOR’S NOTE TRANSLATIONS ON AO3

He was right, though; it took a couple of minutes, but her body learned to accommodate him enough for him to go further before he had to stop. It took several more minutes of this process before he was fully seated within her.

Laurie collapsed atop her, kissing her neck. “God, Amy,” he moaned into her skin. “Let me know when I can move, alright?”

She nodded, and he kissed her passionately, sucking her tongue into his mouth as his hands roamed her body. They continued kissing in this way until she realized she was no longer in pain.

Pulling back from his lips slightly, she said, “alright.”

Propping himself up on straining forearms, he pulled out of her slowly before entering again just as slowly.

It wasn’t painful, but it took a few thrusts for her to begin to enjoy it.

When pleasure began to flow through her, her body clenched around his, drawing a “fuck,” from his lips and making him instinctively thrust into her a little harder, a little faster.

Finding she liked that, Amy pulled him down for a kiss, winding her fingers into his hair. “More,” she begged. “Please, more.”

“Anything,” he gasped into her mouth as he continued the movement of hips against hers. “I’ll give you anything.”

“I just want you,” she moaned, clutching at his shoulders. “Please, I- I love you so much, this feels- God, Laurie-“ His thrusts were gradually increasing in pace, and Amy wondered if it were possible to die from pleasure.

“I love you, too,” he groaned, kissing her again. “Amy, Amy, Amy-“ He was chanting her name as he plunged in and out of her, as if he’d lost control of his vocal chords. “You’re so tight, fuck-“

“Don’t stop,” she begged, clenching around him again. “Please don’t stop, feels so good-“

Laurie growled at that. “Voglio scoparti senza senso,” he told her, eyes intent on hers. “Voglio martellarti dentro fino a quando non riesci a camminare dritto.”

The sound of him speaking Italian made her muscles spasm again, but she said, “what-“

“It means,” he cut in with another thrust, “I want to fuck you senseless,” he told her, gripping her breast almost roughly. “I want to pound into you until you can’t walk straight.”

Any nodded, desperate for him, for anything he would give her.

“Only if you want me to,” he said against her neck, nipping the skin there. “Only if you’re sure.”

“Yes, Laurie, yes, I want it, I want everything with you, please- ah!” Her words were cut off by a scream when he slammed into her hard enough the bed shook. Bracing her feet on the mattress, she slid her hips over the mattress to meet his, needing more of him, more of everything he was giving her.

Wrapping his arms around her back to hold her close to him, as close as they could possibly be, he pounded into her again and again, so hard she wondered if she’d break, but it felt so incredible she found she didn’t care. Armageddon could have come and gone and she wouldn’t have noticed or minded. Not as long as he didn’t stop.

“I love you,” he moaned against the skin of her throat. “I love you, Amy.”

“I- I love yo-“ she cut herself off on another moan. “Yes, God, yes, so good, please-“

He kissed her throat over and over, as if he could imprint himself into her skin, slamming into her repeatedly.

“Laurie,” she sobbed, her muscles clenching and unclenching.

“You’re incredible, il mio tutto,” he murmured, pressing his lips to hers hungrily. She returned his kiss fervently, rubbing her tongue against his with a moan. “So perfect for me. You were made to take me, love,” he told her, nibbling on her lower lip and slamming into her again and again. “We were made for this.”

She hadn’t been so sure of that beforehand, but now, with him inside her, giving her everything she hadn’t known she needed, she agreed with him wholeheartedly, so she nodded, whimpering.

“Tell me you’re mine, dolce moglie,” he demanded, thrusting harshly. “Say you belong to me and me alone.”

“Yes,” she gasped out. “I- I’m yours, I’m yours, only yours, only you, I’m yours-“ She spoke in more of a jumbled litany than a coherent statement, but Laurie didn’t mind. He quite liked that he’d taken coherency from her.

He kissed her in reward, thrusting into her again and reaching between them to rub her as he fucked into her.

Amy screamed. She was so sensitive already that it only took a few swipes of his fingers before she clenched his cock like a vise, her legs instinctively wrapping around him to keep him inside her.

Still, though, he didn’t relent. He was groaning, needing her, needing to find the completion that he’d given her, and yet, he wanted more. More of this, more of her body, more kissing and touching. More of her love.

It took her a couple of minutes to recover, but she soon resumed meeting his hips with hers, much to his delight. Cupping her cheek, he gazed into her eyes.

“I love you,” he told her, thrusting inside her again. “I love you.”

Finally certain he truly was in love with her, she smiled and kissed him. “Then show me,” she said against his lips. “Give me a baby.”

“A- a what?” he gasped, shocked.

“A baby,” she said again. “I want your baby. I want you to put a baby inside of me.”

“Amy, God, I-“

“Please?” she begged softly, lifting her hips to meet his thrusts. “Please get me pregnant, Laurie.”

He looked at her for a moment; her sparkling blue eyes, gazing up at him with pure, unadulterated adoration; her shining blonde hair in a halo on the pillow underneath her, and then he nodded jerkily, kissing her again.

“Anything you want, my love,” he promised her again. “Anything.”

Smiling giddily, she kissed him. He pulled out of her and slammed back in with such force that her body jerked backwards on the bed.

He was murmuring into the crook of her neck as he fucked her; some of what he said made sense, some didn’t. “Fucking amazing, so perfect, so tight, my love, mia amata, love you so much, Amy, my Amy, gonna fill you, gonna fuck a baby into you, wanna see you swell up with my child, show everyone that you’re mine, all mine, all mine, God, Amy-“

He was putting pictures in her mind; beautiful shining ones, and she’d ponder them later, when her husband wasn’t as close to her as it was possible to be.

He groped her breasts roughly, his thrusts becoming shorter and harder. “Gonna cum, gonna cum, fuck, gonna- fuck, Amy-“

She wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but she very much wanted him to show her.

Then Laurie groaned into the crook of her neck, and she was briefly concerned because it sounded almost like he was in pain, but he was still clutching at her tightly, as if he were afraid to let go of her, and she felt a warmth fill her. His thrusts slowed and stopped, and he breathed heavily against her skin.

They stayed like that for several minutes until he pulled out of her with a wince on both their parts, kissing her softly as he did so.

He cleaned her with a damp cloth and more gentle kisses; to her lips, cheeks, shoulders, breasts. stomach, legs, hips- anywhere he could reach. Then he climbed back into bed with her, and they exchanged more kisses for awhile, some more heated than others.

When they were relaxing, her head on his chest (neither of them had any desire for clothes), he broke the silence with, “Amy?”

“Mm?” she hummed in response, nearing sleep.

“How much of that was… you know, real?”

Lifting her head up to examine his face, she blinked at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Do you actually want a baby?” he asked. “Now, or… at all?”

Amy kissed him with a sleepy smile. “Of course I do, Mr. Laurence. Can’t be leaving my beloved husband without an heir, now can I?”

Grinning, he said, “you know that doesn’t matter to your husband, Mrs. Laurence.”

“I know,“ she told him with a laugh, placing her hand on his chest palm-down and resting her chin on it as she gazed at him lovingly. “But I do truly want a child with you.”

“Several, preferably,” he told her quite seriously.

Amy laughed again and kissed him. “If the Queen can have a whole brood, I don’t see why we can’t do the same,” she agreed. “But for now, I think just one is probably best.”

He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Very well,” he agreed, sounding very reluctant indeed.

————

They never bothered to sleep with clothes on. It would’ve been most impractical, actually; it was far easier to only strip out of one’s clothes once rather than multiple times.

Although they did develop a keen interest in undressing each other. Amy was quite convinced she could watch her husband undress all day and not get bored of it. In fact, there were numerous occasions when one would remove their clothing and the other would watch.

They didn't have quite as many children as the Queen, although they did manage to have six, after which they’d decided to stop. Or rather, Amy decided to stop. Laurie would’ve preferred to keep going, wanting to best the Queen, but Amy had insisted that three boys and three girls was the perfect number, and that she’d run out of names anyway.

To be fair to Laurie, however, he really enjoyed seeing Amy pregnant. Which was lucky for him, because she spent four and a half years of their sixty-three year marriage pregnant. He also was rather fond of the process of getting her pregnant, so there was that, too.

Of course, if one believes in such things, perhaps their marriage didn’t end with death at all. Perhaps it was only postponed for a few months before Amy decided she’d spent seventy-one years of her life loving Laurie, had absolutely no desire to continue on without him, and had simply said goodnight to her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, gone upstairs to bed, and not come back down the following morning.

Perhaps when she saw him again, exactly as he’d looked the day she’d married him, she’d yelled at him for dying first, kissed him, and then continued yelling at him. Perhaps then they went on their way, to do whatever it is people in love do when their time on earth is done.

#my writing #fanfiction #amylaurie #amy x laurie fanfiction #amy x laurie #amy march #theodore laurence #little women fanfiction #little women #fanfic

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bicount-de-lettenhove · 4 years ago

Text

Escaping is Overrated - Part 2

Life on the Continent sucks balls if you're not a Mighty Witcher, and Jaskier learns the hard way just how inhospitable it can be when he finds himself on the run from Nilfgaard. ----- ~A continuation of Part 1~

okay so I'm a big fan of stories where there isn't necessarily a big bad antagonist, but where a character (say, a humble bard) instead ends up suffering because of shitty circumstances. If you are also a fan, please read on for a story which is essentially a list of shittier and shittier circumstances befalling our humble bard. There will eventually be a happy ending! CWs: canon-typical violence, non-graphic gore

Even to Jaskier’s exhausted mind the woods are beautiful. Deep, solid darkness settles under the trees to either side of the path and the air is still and quiet, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the dense foliage and the thick covering of pine needles on the floor. He shambles along the path, straining his hearing for any sounds of pursuit, but as the shade of the forest begins to deepen into dusk he realises with a thrill of excitement that no-one seems to be coming after him. He scans the woods around him, looking for an easy path into the relative safety of the dense trees, and spots a narrow line in which the foliage is flattened - an animal’s path, probably frequented by foxes or badgers. He follows the path, looking back often to take note of landmarks which would guide him back to the main trail, and internally congratulating himself on his foresight for doing that. Eventually he comes to a space in the dense trees, barely large enough to warrant being called a clearing, where a huge fallen fir has rendered the ground inhospitable to other trees. He drops his pack and rests his lute carefully against the trunk of the tree, before collapsing down against it himself with much less care. A wave of exhaustion washes over him and he suddenly realises how ravenously hungry heis. He reaches for his pack and pulls it towards him gingerly, unwilling to close his injured hands around the fabric, then fumbles with the button for several minutes, swearing colourfully. Finally he settles the horrible, mean little button between his index and middle finger, the pack between his knees, and pulls sharply. The button comes free and the pack drops to the floor.

‘Finally, you tiny bastard.’ He mutters, and reaches down between his knees to open the pouch of his pack. To his relief, it doesn’t look like his captors have touched his belongings, meagre as they are. He takes stock, using both useless hands to unpack his things onto the forest floor. He has a waterskin (half full), a hunk of bread (very stale), some strips of jerky (not worth eating at the best of times in Jaskier’s opinion), a tiny pot of jam (oh yes), a miniature bottle of vodka (oh yes), some bandages, a purse with a few coins, a spare shirt now stained with ink (dammit!), his songbook, the offending pot of ink and several bent quills. First, he cups the hunk of bread in his hand, taking greedy bites, and washing it down with gulps of water which ease the residual aching in his throat from the smoke. Opening the jam is a struggle but his determination wins out and soon he is knuckles-deep in the sticky goop and moaning obscenely as he sucks it off three fingers at once. Normally he wouldn’t eat the whole pot in one go, but dammit he deserves it right now.

He has carefully saved the vodka and now he reaches for that and the bandages. He sighs deeply, remembering all the times he had done this for Geralt. The pain clearly visible to Jaskier after years of practice reading the witcher’s minimal facial expressions; the slight clench of his jaw and flaring of his nostrils as he let out a carefully controlled breath; his unwillingness to be vulnerable, even around Jaskier, even after 20 years. Unbidden, pathetic tears cloud Jaskier’s vision. This is why he avoids thinking about Geralt. Over their time travelling together he has fallen utterly and pathetically in love with the witcher, and while he never dares to dream of his feelings being reciprocated, he always assumed that Geralt appreciated his help when he could give it. That he was more than just an irritation, even if his company was somewhat grating. But Geralt has made it all-too-clear that he isn’t in need of help, or company, or a bard.

Now wallowing in self-pity, Jaskier thinks back to that shitty day on the mountain. He’d turned away from Geralt and stumbled down the path, shocked by the witcher’s snarled words, fighting back humiliating tears. But by the time he’d retraced their steps to the clearing where Roach was waiting, he had steadied himself, regained control of his emotions. Geralt had been angry, crushed by what had happened with Yennefer, and the witcher had never been good at dealing with difficult emotions. He’d lashed out, and Jaskier had just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. So Jaskier had decided to wait for his friend. He’d waited the rest of the day, back against a tree and working on his latest composition. He’d waited the evening, fiddling nervously, starting to doubt himself. When it got dark he lit a fire for warmth, then he’d waited the night, huddled close to the flames but unwilling to move too far away from Roach in case Geralt returned and didn’t see him. Then dawn had broken and his eyes had been heavy, but he’d waited, shivering once the fire had died down and before the sun brought warmth to the mountains. But that day, as the sun had risen higher and higher into the sky, Jaskier’s heart had slowly sunk. Geralt wasn’t coming. He really had wanted to be rid of Jaskier. He really had meant what he said. Maybe he was watching right now - Jaskier had thought bitterly - concealed in the foliage and waiting for the idiot bard - the shit shoveling, irritating, useless bard who has hounded him for 20 years - to leave so that he could collect his horse and return to the path. With that realisation, Jaskier had got slowly to his feet, picked up his things, kicked apart the remains of his fire and turned, eyes once again full of unshed tears, to make his way down the mountain.

The dragon hunt was almost a year ago now, and since then the whole continent has gone - in Jaskier's opinion - absolutely tits-up. The Nilfgaardian army swarmed up from the South, spreading terror and destruction. At times it had felt to Jaskier as though everyone on the continent was heading North, trying desperately to escape the unstoppable wave of Nilfgaardian violence. Every inn was full of refugees and Jaskier had seen countless vagabond children wandering the streets, disfigured by grotesque scars. Villages were running out of food and ale and turning displaced families away. Disease was sweeping through towns and famine through the countryside. Rumours spread that Cintra had fallen. Jaskier had been travelling North too, helping people with food and medicine when he could afford it, playing songs and telling stories to entertain the children when he couldn’t.

About a week ago, he had been in a nameless village, standing on a rickety table as a makeshift stage and leading a packed tavern in a relentlessly fast, drunken version of fishmonger’s daughter. The tavern had been hot and damp and thick with the smell of sodden, unwashed woolen clothes. The skinny children whirled each other in breathless circles and the adults - who had long since moved from ale onto moonshine and other spirits - sang and stomped with a kind of frantic desperation, clinging to the shred of familiarity that his songs provided. Jaskier had bowed and accepted a few meagre offerings of coin, turned down others. Sometimes kind people were prepared to pay more than they could afford, and he had learned how to recognise those people from his years travelling with Geralt. There had been no room at the tavern for him, each single bedroom occupied by a full family, so Jaskier had left by the back door, intending to set up camp just beyond the village boundaries and very much not thinking of how nice it would be to sleep inside for once. As he had stepped out of the back door he’d been stopped by a thick hand on his upper arm which pulled him out of the wedge of light cast by the open door, and then a thick forearm had been pressed against his neck, pinning him against the tavern wall. He had spluttered at the pressure, hands coming up to try and ease the weight against his throat, eyes darting, panicked, between his attacker and the two men standing in the shadows behind him.

‘Please,’ he’d croaked out. ‘Here, just take my coin.’ He’d tried to offer them his pack, slung over his shoulder, but his attacker had just slammed Jaskier's head back against the wall hard enough that his vision had swum.

‘We’ll take exactly what we want, bard.’ He’d spat the word bard like it was poison. His breath had been hot and stinking in Jaskier’s face. He’d smiled, showing blackened, rotting teeth, and tightened the pressure on his neck, watching with obscene pleasure as the bard’s eyes had widened in panic and his fingers had scrabbled uselessly against the hairy flesh of his arm. Thankfully, after a few moments he’d let up, Jaskier coughing and retching as he tried to regain his breath.

‘What do you -’ his voice had been quiet and rasping, cut off by a cry of pain and a groan as his attacker had driven his knee into Jaskier’s groin and he’d folded forward to kneel, bent, in the mud. Then the man had hit him again, knee connecting with his face and Jaskier had felt hot blood spray from his nose. The man had stepped back and one of the others stalked forward, holding a broad, flat club in one beefy hand, and Jaskier just had time to open his mouth in a surprised ‘wait’ before he’d swung it down and everything had gone black. When he’d woken, in that cell, he’d found out exactly what they wanted. His kidnappers were thugs that had been bought out by Nilfgaard to do their dirty work. In this case, finding the location of one silver-haired witcher and one very important child-surprise. Of course Jaskier hadn’t told them. He wasn’t lying when he insisted - between screams - that he didn’t know where Geralt was. And he would never tell them what he did know - about Kaer Morhen, about the safehouses and healers Geralt favoured, about his travelling habits and his companions and confidants around the continent. Not just for Geralt, but also for Cirilla, because by the Gods that girl deserved none of this. And so, for once in his life, Jaskier had kept his mouth shut.

-------

oh it only gets worse I am being very mean and very enjoying it

Thanks so much for reading! 🧡🧡 Chapter 3 is on the way, but sometimes doing a phd gets in the way (how dare), so fingers crossed it won't be too long!

Also another note: I haven't written the ending of this fic yet, apart from Geralt Helps And Is Sorry TM. If anyone has any suggestions of favourite Geralt-saves-Jaskier tropes please drop me a reply because I have been stuck at the same point for far too long now 🧡

#jaskier #hurt jaskier #jaskier whump #geralt #is there in spirit #the witcher #TW: gore #TW: violence #my fic #original fic #original fanfic #fanfic in progress

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ruinsofxerxes · 4 years ago

Note

You gonna taunt us with your unfinished fic in the tags 😭😭

LOL SORRY BRUUHHHHH. But for real, after I wrote those tags I went searching through my laptop, and found the two chapters I wrote back in 2014ish!!! Like I said, it’s totally unfinished, and I haven’t even looked it over since I wrote it so there could be typos and I have completely forgotten what even happens in these chapters but if you wanna read it, here ya go lol.....rip to this fic.....it would have been fun......the one that got away............ . . .. ........ .. .

1. Chapter 1 Edward awoke, and this time it felt different. He had a vague sense that this was not his first time regaining consciousness. He could remember in memories so vague that they were nothing more than notions that there had been a long stretch of dark unconsciousness that had been punctured by short bouts of unintelligent wakefulness. This time was different; even in his unalert, half-asleep state, Edward could feel things he hadn't before. The room was quiet, wherever he was. The bed thin but soft nevertheless as was the flimsy sheet that covered him up to the chest. The word safe came to mind and, for some reason, that was more of a relief than a given. There was a small creak to Edward's left. His ears were easily able to place the sound, and Ed felt himself fill with even more relief. "Brother?" Alphonse's voice inquired far too hopefully. Ed hadn't realized he had done anything to give away that he was awake. He was still coming to himself, and his eyes still closed. Perhaps he had made a small noise upon awaking, or maybe Alphonse realized this time it was different, just as Ed had. Maybe, judging by that hopeful, almost disbelieving tone in Al's voice, he had been watching his brother sleep. When Al spoke next, his voice had drawn closer, his armor clanking further as he bent over Edward slightly. "Ed?" His voice faltered with uncertainty when Ed didn't respond. Ed was still in a daze even though it had been several minutes since he was sure he was definitely awake. He had to be on some sort of medication. Ed had been hospitalized enough in the past few years to know damn well what it felt like to be drugged up on pain killers. Which begged the question: what the hell happened to him? Ed forced his heavy eyelids open. He blinked the sluggish feeling away, and his view was overtaken by his brother's helmet staring down at him. Once Alphonse saw his brother's eyes open, his shoulders sagged visibly with relief. "Brother, are you okay?" Edward stared at his brother for a moment with growing concern. He was slightly disappointed as well but a reason for that emotion was not making itself known. "I'm fine, Al," he stated flatly. He didn't feel any pain at least. Grogginess aside, he really did feel fine, but he couldn't think of a reason why Alphonse would ask him such a question, and that worried him. Edward glanced around himself to find he and Al were at the hospital. Ed wasn't surprised considering the previous information he had gathered, but it unnerved him regardless. He looked back at Al, who was watching over him, his body language obviously on edge, as if he believed Ed could fall back into unconsciousness at any moment. Ed took in his brother's armor body and, with a start, a small snippet of memory came back to him. That's right, Ed thought. They had been chasing another lead on the philosopher's stone, hadn't they? But Al was still in his armor. He didn't seem overly eager to tell Ed whether or not they had been successful in their search either so Edward knew they had failed to find the stone. It wasn't a very promising lead anyway. It had brought them to some backwater town neither of the boys had ever heard of in the middle of the Eastern area. Ed hadn't had high hopes, but the realization was discouraging anyway. "I-I'm glad you woke up," Alphonse continued quietly, not meeting his brother's gaze. "I was getting worried that you wouldn't…" His fingers twiddled with the pages of the book sitting closed on his lap. It was a thick, old and battered book no doubt gotten from the East City library in order to pass the time that Ed's had been dead to the world. But just how long had he been gone? Ed craned his neck slightly to look at the cover; his heart leaped as he saw the title said something about comas and other similar medical conditions. How long had he been out if his brother was reading up on something so grave? "Al…what—what's wrong? How long was I unconscious? What happened? We didn't find the stone, did we?" Ed pushed himself up slightly but fell back into the pillows heavily. His balance was off and something wasn't right. Ed clutched at his right shoulder, suddenly struck with the realization. "And where's my arm? What happened to my arm?" His automail arm was completely gone, leaving nothing behind but an empty shoulder port. Without a moment's hesitation, Ed flung off the thin, white sheet covering his legs to reveal that they were both present. Ed exhaled his held in breath, his eyes sweeping over the nicks in his prosthetic and the bandages and gauze covering his flesh right leg. "Brother, stop. Calm down," Alphonse said, trying hard to stay calm himself. He reached over, gently taking his brother's shoulders in his large gauntlets and forcing Ed to lay back down. "Al, what happened?" Ed repeated. His voice was still slightly panicked but he made no move to struggle from the suit of armor's hold. After a moment, Alphonse let go and sat back in the hospital chair. "Ed, it's okay. You're going to be alright. We got you to the hospital early this morning, and you've been falling in and out of consciousness ever since. That's why…I was worried, I didn't know if you'd stay awake this time." Ed searched his brother's face but found nothing in the expressionless mask. He only felt marginally better by what Al told him. "Did something happen to me when we were looking for the stone? It was another false lead, wasn't it?" Alphonse looked up then and stared at his brother. He was quiet for a moment, and Edward shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. "Ed…the stone wasn't there at all. It was all a trick, we got ambushed shortly after we arrived. You…you don't remember that?" Ed shook his head slowly from side to side, staring at his brother in disbelief. He pulled the blanket slowly off himself more gently this time and gave his body a cursory glance. His legs seemed to have gotten the worst of it if all the patches were anything to go by. Part of his left forearm was wrapped up as well. Feeling his face tentatively with his only hand, Ed found nothing more than a bandage on his cheek and one hidden under his bangs to cover his right temple. As Edward patted himself down, Alphonse had spoken up again. "The doctors said you might suffer memory loss. I was hoping you wouldn't…" He shifted in his chair. "You were showing signs of hypothermia and your body was going into shock when we found you. It's a good thing we found you when we did. I don't…I don't know what would have happened if we had come any later." Edward paused his examination at the sudden thick emotion in his brother's young voice. Alphonse had pulled his shoulders in and was staring down sullenly at the book clutched in his hands. Ed's lips pulled down in a tight frown. He had screwed up once again, and Alphonse had received the worst of it, having to sit without pause by his brother's bed, not even knowing whether or not he'd wake up. "Sorry…" The word slipped out guilty before Ed even realized he had said it. He leaned over awkwardly and patted Al's large hand, even though Ed knew he couldn't feel the gesture. "Sorry I worried you." Al shook his head. "It's okay, Brother. It wasn't your fault. And you're okay now, that's what's important, right?" He didn't seem too convinced. Ed wasn't either soothed by the words much either but he didn't say anything. Ed drew his hand back after a pause and settled into the pillows. "Was I really that bad off? Did you really think I was in a coma?" He nodded toward the book when Alphonse glanced up. Al looked down at the object in question as if he had forgotten it was there. His hands gripped at the edges in thought. "This actually wasn't for you…" Al shifted uncomfortably as if he didn't want to relay the information he obviously knew. Al seemed to be handling Ed gently now, as if the loss of his memories from whatever had happened made him fragile and one more bad thing on top of it all would make him bow and break under its weight. "Who…" Ed asked gravely. He stared Alphonse down, making it evident that he didn't want to be fed sugar-coated half-truths. "You probably don't remember," Al started, squirming, "but the colonel was there too." "What happened to him?" Ed voice had hushed considerably. "We don't know. It seems like he got hit in the head somehow and probably had a concussion…the doctors aren't sure if he'll wake up. Or if will be any time soon." Al's voice tapered off. "How do they not know what happened to him?" Ed asked, getting frustrated with this entire situation and the doctors' incompetence and his own lack of recollection. "You were there, weren't you? Don't you remember?" "I…Brother, we got separated when we were ambushed. I went and got help as soon as it happened but by the time we found both of you, you were in terrible shape. With the colonel unresponsive and unable to tell us what happened to him, it seems you're the only witness. But now, with your memory..." "This is ridiculous." Ed was struck with a sudden rush of restlessness. He hated hospitals. He hated being sick or injured. He had to get out of this confining bed and this building with its thick, anesthetic smell. His feet touched the linoleum floor before he even knew where he planned to go. He just knew he had to get out of there; he had to find the colonel at least. Ed needed to see the man with his own eyes. Surely he was somewhere stuck in this hospital along with Ed, whether he was conscious or not. Alphonse grabbed Ed's arm gently before he could make any headway for the door. "Brother, you can't. You need to rest." Ed halted and stared at his brother in slight confusion. Couldn't Al understand what he was feeling? How helpless he felt? Lying around in a hospital bed wouldn't do anyone any good. Ed tried willfully to get his gaze to convey that in a way he knew his words couldn't. "The doctors need to come check up on you first," Al said more to himself than to Ed. He knew his brother well and he knew Ed hated sitting around idly. Al almost let him go, but he kept his grip firm, knowing Ed's wellbeing should come before his restless attitude. "You just woke up. I know this is frustrating but you can't just go running off." Ed frowned but he looked at the armor, silently knowing Al was right. "Brother, please sit back down. I'll try to tell you everything I know, okay?" Ed shifted his weight from foot to foot. Finally, he relented; he was more tired and out of sorts than he would willingly admit. Besides, hearing any information he could was better than running off cluelessly. The young alchemist flopped back down on the mattress, and Alphonse helped pull the blanket up around his brother. "Can you tell me the last thing you remember?" the younger boy asked as he settled back in his chair. Ed stared down at his blanket covered feet, thinking. "We were on the train, I think. You were complaining about losing at cards once again and you called me a cheater—" "You are a cheater," Al pointed out. "That was once when I was twelve!" Ed defended. "Anyway, we were on our way to the town of Awrosut after Mustang had given us another lead on the stone. And that's all I can remember besides waking up a few times before now." Alphonse listened quietly and nodded once Edward fell silent. "You…you missed a lot," Al decided, slightly exasperated. He took a deep breath that held no air and sighed, the noise echoed inside his hollow armor. He began to tell Edward everything that had happened, and Ed felt a heavy weight begin to settle down on him and its pressure began to smother him. 2. Chapter 2 Edward's head tilted slightly to the side as he stared down in pensive thought. It had been days since he had first awoken in the hospital, but Al's words still haunted his mind. They hounded him every waking moment as Ed tried desperately to piece together an unsolvable puzzle. If only he could just will his mind to remember. Then they wouldn't be in this mess. But he couldn't. And they were. There was nothing anyone could do about that. What Al had told him hadn't helped much either. It gave Ed a general sense of what had happened but not even that story could spark back any memories that could help either himself or the colonel. According to Alphonse, it had begun early in the morning last week when the brothers had gotten off the train in the small town of Awrosut. As Al described it, Ed could vaguely see the village in his mind's eye. But that was still a blur and what Ed did remember was more of a feeling than actual images. If someone asked him to draw out a visual of the town, Ed doubted he would be able to. Regardless, Ed acknowledge that that was true and could halfheartedly agree with Al that that is what had happened. He did it more to satisfy his brother more than anything else; Al had incessantly asked throughout his story re-telling whether Ed remembered certain details or not. More often than not Ed would nod or answer with a shrug, even if it wasn't true and his memory of anything after the train ride was still swimming in an unrelenting fog. After that, they had gotten off the train and promptly run into the colonel on the platform. What dumb luck, Ed thought with an eye roll. He could only imagine what his reaction had been when he and Al had run into the old bastard out in the middle of nowhere. Mustang had been in town to catch a connecting train back to East City. Now that was something Edward actually did remember. The colonel had been out of town for most of the week prior, at some important meeting in Central he had been called upon to attend. Al then told Ed that they had been approached by a man that had heard the Elric brothers would be in town. Ed had no idea how the man knew them or how he knew of their location or their reason behind the visit. Apparently the colonel was just as confused about that development as the brothers had been. But the man was a local and he seemed to know his way around better than they did so a flimsy trust formed quickly. The man raddled on as he showed them through the small town. Apparently it was much to Ed's chagrin that Mustang followed them since the colonel's train wasn't due for a while. There had been supposed rumors concerning the warehouse district part of town which resided next to a large river on the outskirts, and that was believed to be where they would uncover the stone. Ed knew now the stone, just like the rumors, had all been a lie to get them there and catch them off-guard. They had been ambushed as soon as they entered the first warehouse. The man had turned on them without hesitation as that had been his plan all along. Ed had no doubt he must have been working with others, but Al said he was the only one the three of them had fought, and lost, against. Edward stared down at the colonel now. Idiot. If Mustang hadn't stuck his nose into their business he never would have gotten caught up in all of this; he wouldn't be lying unreachable in a hospital bed with no improvement in the last several days. He might not have been damned so easily. Ed couldn't help but feel angry at the man before him now. He had never been too fond of the colonel. He was jerk to Ed even during the best of times, but that didn't mean Ed ever wanted anything bad to happen to him. As much as he hated to admit it, he respected the colonel and in some twisted sort of way, he was fond of their bickering and silently supportive relationship. Of course he would never admit that out loud but Ed supposed it was okay to think it here in the silence of Mustang's room, where only his own thoughts gave him any real company. As Ed pondered the event that had led them both here, he couldn't help the tugging in the back of his mind. Really, it all seemed rather convenient. That he and Al had been in such a remote location and had run into the colonel of all people. Ed remembered now how bad of a feeling the whole town had given him, but it had been buried under a desperate hope that this lead would heed real results for once. He had been such an idiot. This had all been set up to hurt him. For what reason, Ed wasn't sure. It couldn't have been for ransom since they had tried to kill him, Al said. Maybe they were jealous of his status and power at such a young age; maybe his alchemic abilities threatened them. Ed wasn't sure he would ever know the reason and that unnerved him. The thought of hearing the truth somehow unnerved him even more. And if the colonel had been there, was it possible he had been set up too? No, no, that was ridiculous. He had an actual reason for being in town; it was nothing shady like Ed and Al's lead. Ed pushed the conspiratorial thoughts out of his head. He still wasn't in his right mind. He was still shaken up by the incident and still healing; none of his memory had yet to make a reappearance. It wasn't good to be jumping to conclusions, especially in such a fragile state of mind. Ed shook his head, physically trying to break up the train of thought. It was the colonel's own stupidity and his own carelessness that had gotten him jumbled up in the brothers' predicament. And now he was the one paying for it for trying to protect them. He was never supposed to be a factor. Ed still wasn't satisfied with that thought, but he dropped the subject anyway. It had been days now that Ed had been stuck in the hospital and the colonel hadn't improved at all. At least he hadn't gotten worse, Ed countered. Ed had found himself drawn to Mustang's room several times since he had awoken. Ed tried to tell himself that was only because it was the only place he could get away from the smothering doctors and nurses and Al, who was always fussing over his wellbeing. But that wasn't all of it. Ed was concerned. He'd never really worried about his superior before but now that seemed to be all he was thinking about. Ed felt guilty about the entire thing too. Maybe if it hadn't been for Ed's carelessness, the colonel wouldn't have gotten hurt. So some form of self-imposed penance made him feel obligated to stand watch in the colonel's room, watching like a hawk for any sign of improvement. Hawkeye was there a lot of the time as well. It seemed she spent all her time not spent filing paperwork at the office here in the colonel's room. Ed tried telling her early on that she didn't need to worry and watch so closely, the doctors would take care of everything and she needed to take care of herself first and stay rested. She had just smiled sadly with a deep sort of understanding in her eyes and told Edward he should take his own advice. After that they didn't talk much. At the times when they were both in the room they would sit silently, not staring directly at the colonel but not really looking at anything else. Ed still preferred the times when Hawkeye was busy with work. He preferred the silence. It was calming considering all the restless thoughts and noise that went on in his head as he struggled to fix this seemingly hopeless situation. Stepping into the colonel's room was more serene than Ed first thought it would be. But the doctors didn't come by as often as they did with Ed, and the small sounds of the hospital could easily be shut out behind a closed door. The room was white and bright, it was calming and not overbearing like it seemed to be in Ed's room. Ed knew that was just his mind playing tricks on him, but he didn't really care. The sooner he got out of the hospital the better. Ed hated the feeling that came with being injured. He hated being treated like an invalid and being treated like a fragile little boy. He could see the pitying looks the staff gave him and he could only count the minutes until he escaped from their gaze. But leaving the hospital also meant leaving all this. Ed glanced around the room, reluctant to leave its calm space. He was schedule to be released today and he couldn't have been happier when he first heard that news. But something kept him rooted here. Leaving the hospital seemed to Ed like he was giving up somehow. It felt like everyone was moving on with their lives while the colonel was just left here without a care. Ed felt like he was abandoning his superior when this man had been the only one to share to some degree what he was going through. Even if the man had yet to regain consciousness, Ed felt a new connection between them since they were the only two to go through the whole dilemma. Ed could almost hear the smirk in Mustang's voice if he could hear Ed's thoughts now, smugly asking Ed where the sudden sense of loyalty had come from when he had almost never followed his orders before. "Brother?" Edward jumped out of his chair at the entrance of a new voice. He turned around swiftly, embarrassed, as if his brother could hear his thoughts. Alphonse was standing at the threshold to Mustang's room. His imposing armor barely fit in the doorway. He held Ed's suitcase in one hand and had his brother's signature red coat draped over his arm. "Are you ready to go?" he asked quietly, as if not to disrupt the room's serenity. "I…uh, yeah." With an exhale, Ed glanced at the colonel's still form one last time. He tried to act casual as he stood up straight and turned away. Of course he'd come back and visit. Even if Mustang didn't make for good company at the moment. Ed wasn't giving up on that old bastard just yet. He wasn't abandoning the colonel, Ed thought even as he headed for the door. Even if he was leaving, he would still work hard and he would save Mustang if no one else was going to do anything about it. Ed was the one who had gotten him into this mess, and he would help him get out too. Ed was never one to give up, and he wasn't about to start a streak of cowardice now, especially not when the colonel's life hung in the balance. "C'mon," he said, reveling silently at the strength in his voice, "let's go."

#i did a quick scan through the two chaps and im like......i don't remember writing this #sahdklasdljasdjsaldjal #I'm almost certain I saved an outline somewhere tho #next thing to find :/#ok fr tho i gotta read this because I don't remember and I want to lol #but fr again i actually did write a fic last week for the first time in two years #i gotta edit it but instead i'm doing this :/#Anonymous

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crawgluvr4 · 4 years ago

Text

ao3

warning for child abuse.

Jack leaves Indiana the week before he turns eighteen.

His parents go to visit a family friend for the weekend, leaving him in charge of his sister. Beth walks in on him as he’s packing, and says: “Wish I could say I was surprised.”

Jack adds another pair of socks.

“So where are you headed?” She leans against the doorframe, nonchalant, but her voice is a touch too light.

“Army.” He rummages through a drawer, considers if there’s any point in bringing a hairbrush. “Out of state.”

“Smart.” Beth scuffs the heel of her shoe on the threshold of his room. “Won’t find you.”

“You can come,” Jack offers, fruitlessly. He puts the hairbrush back in the drawer.

She just smiles at him, bitter around the edges. “Did you tell Vince?”

“Couple days ago.” Jack runs his hands along the edge of the duffle bag. “I was going to tell you.”

“Were you?” Beth folds her arms. There’s a vicious red welt Jack knows extends all the way down her forearm, half hidden by her jacket. “Before or after you stole the truck?”

“Vincent is giving me a lift.” Pathetically small. “To the city. I’ve got a plane.”

Beth hums. “Suppose he hid the ticket for you?”

“Mhm.” He zips up the bag, swings it around his shoulder. It’s not even halfway full. “I better get going.”

“Ask him if he’ll set me up with his sister,” she jokes. “I’d like someone to help me out too.”

“I’m serious,” he says again. Grips the strap of the bag so tightly it hurts. “You can come with me. They let you do that.”

“No, they don’t.” She tilts her head. “I’ll be okay, Jack. I can always go stay with Gina. Her parents don’t mind.”

Jack bites the inside of his lip, still guilty. “I’ll come back for you in a couple years, then.”

“Sure.” Beth leans off the doorframe, gestures like she’s rolling out the red carpet. “C’mon, then. No need to linger here. Nothing much to stick around for.”

“Beth…” He stays still, still with a death grip on the bag. “I don’t want you to think I’m leaving you with them. I just…”

“I know.” Her smile thins. “He won’t come near me. Mom won’t let him, you know that.”

It’s a reassurance and a cruelty at the same time. He nods, unable to find any words that sound right, and leaves his room. The door shuts - thud-thunk - behind him, and the floorboard three steps down from his room whines for the last time Jack will hear.

Outside, Vincent is already waiting, nervously drumming on the wheel of his mother’s car. Jack knows she’s going to be furious with him, and Vincent is still here, all the same. It’s not fair; not fair that he’s doing this despite Jack breaking up with him, and leaving, not fair that he’s leaving Beth behind because he’s too much of a coward to stay, and not fair that his father -

Beth puts one hand on his shoulder and he practically jumps out of his skin. She laughs, then shoves him forward, and he stumbles down the steps. The middle one creaks like it always has, loud enough to hear through his window.

Vincent nods at him, and smiles, waving to Beth as she stands on the porch. Jack turns - the house blocks the evening sun, and Beth is shrouded in shadow, the porch light not yet switched on. He thinks about how he may never see that porch again, and gets an odd surge of guilty delight.

“You better write,” she says, and Jack politely ignores how her voice cracks at the end.

“I will,” he responds, sliding into the passenger seat.

He doesn’t.

Jack returns to Indiana once.

He gets the call while he is, luckily, in the country. He’s asleep in Chicago one moment, then methodically booking a flight to Bloomington at two in the morning the next.

“Jack?” Gabriel mumbles, still half asleep. He pulls most of the quilt towards him as he rolls over, cracking open an eye. “You okay?”

Jack says nothing, just books the plane and saves the ticket, then puts his phone down on the nightstand. The carpet of the hotel room feels like a yawning abyss, and he pulls his legs back up onto the bed, clutching his ankles.

“Jack,” Gabriel says again, and Jack’s scrambled thoughts are cut through by a warm calm. “You’re shaking. What happened?”

Jack can’t comprehend speech, so instead he lets Gabriel share the singular thought: Beth is dead.

Gabriel pulls him back into a hug, and then he’s crying until he’s retching and aching because he never wrote.

Gabriel insists on coming with him to Indiana, so they book another meaningless hotel and Gabriel argues with someone important on the phone for a solid hour. Jack in turn insists he goes to the funeral alone, and Gabriel doesn’t argue, just sits sharing his pain, lets him know in words and thought that he understands.

Jack knows he does, but some part of him still blindly thrashes and says you can’t, you can’t. You loved your family. Gabriel hears it and pretends he doesn’t. Jack will apologize when he remembers how to feel anything other than grief. It had been the same when Los Angeles was destroyed; Gabriel stricken with guilt that he had let down people who had done nothing but love him, and Jack couldn’t understand that, could he?

Jack brushes temporary brown dye through his hair because he is technically a celebrity; Gabriel helps him style it just enough that when he looks in the mirror he barely recognizes himself, dark haired and unshaven and eyes red. Gabriel kisses him goodbye and makes him promise to be back before midnight, knowing that it won’t just be a simple in and out of the church. Nothing ever was, here.

Jack was raised Methodist. He assumes Beth either stuck with it or never wrote a will; she was twenty-five. The cities had been declared safe, more or less. It’s a closed casket service. He wonders who organized the funeral, because he was never contacted until a family friend had notified the undertaker that she did, in fact, have a brother. The priest drones about how sad it was that the Morrison family should suffer such an end, another tragic casualty of the Crisis.

There are a grand total of twenty people at the funeral, and Jack assumes most of those missing are dead. He sits himself near the back and eyes the door, ready to hurry out in case he’s spotted. He can’t make out anyone near the front, but at the back he sees one of his father’s co-workers and nearly has a panic attack until he reasons how ludicrous that would be. So he spends the rest of the service half-dissociating, never taking his eyes off the pale wood coffin at the altar.

People begin to shuffle out, and he dips his head to avoid eye contact, and almost everyone files out of the church without paying him mind. He barely registers one lingering figure until they sit down on the pew next to him, and he thinks, God, this is it, this is where they find me.

“Jack,” Vincent says.

Jack just stares at him.

“Everyone else is gone,” he continues, with the gentleness reserved for those incapacitated by loss. “Why don’t we get some coffee, yeah?”

Jack nods, and they leave, and he misses the burial because he isn’t sure he can stand it.

Vincent doesn’t make idle chatter, keeping a respectful silence while they enter some chain coffee store and he orders for them both. Jack finds himself staring at a caramel latte, his old favourite.

“It’s good to see you,” he says eventually, lamely, as Vincent sips at whatever he’s drinking.

“I’d say the same,” Vincent half-smiles, “But I do see your face every day. The hair’s a good touch.”

He subconsciously reaches up to touch it. “Yeah, I did my best on a day’s notice and no sleep.”

“It looks pretty natural.” Vincent eyes him for a moment. “I think blonde suits you better, though. And don’t go any darker than that.”

“Thanks for the fashion advice.” Jack takes a swig of the coffee, and it burns his tongue. Absurdly normal. “How have you been?”

“Oh.” He pauses, looks a little skittish. “Well, okay, given the circumstances. Pretty glad Dad built that nuclear bunker, because it allowed us to stay pretty much safe for most of the Crisis. Hopefully now that’s over with, I can actually go to college, you know?” Vincent raises an eyebrow. “I suppose I have you to thank for all that.”

“Not really,” Jack says, automatically; he had received far too many undeserved thanks in the past few years. “It could have been literally anyone. I was picked up randomly from my squad and got pretty damn lucky.”

Vincent snorts, dismissive. “Still. It was you in the end, right? Well, not just you. You can thank your friends for me too.”

Jack thinks of how Ana or Gabriel would respond to that and feels almost hysterical. “Sure.”

“And,” Vincent glances down at Jack’s hands, awkwardly resting on the table. “Congratulations, as well. I saw that interview on the T.V. Gabriel, right?”

Jack remembers he’s actually wearing his wedding ring instead of having it around his neck, because there’s no blood or dirt to get stuck in it at a funeral. “Yeah. He, um, wasn’t very happy about that afterwards.”

There had been an interview after the Behemoth had been destroyed where despite Jack’s careful guidance, the host had consistently stressed how close friends he and Gabriel must have been in order to pilot together. Eventually Jack had snapped and said something vaguely obscene, and the interview had ended and Gabriel had tried to be as embarrassed as possible while also not losing himself to laughter. Their relationship had, subsequently, been the subject of several tabloid headlines that Jack wishes he could forget.

He’s smiling a little, though, and Vincent looks relieved enough that Jack decides there’s no better time to ruin it.

“I, um. Did you keep in touch with her?”

Vincent politely laces his fingers together, expression neutralizing. The cuff of his dress shirt sticks to the table, which he doesn’t notice. “Not really. After she graduated, she left the state for a while, but ended up back here when… when John died. I don’t know where she went in the middle of a war, but she seemed to miss it.”

“Right.” Jack gets the overwhelming sense he’s being invasive, somehow. He wraps his hands around his mug. “And when my mother was killed?”

“She inherited the farm.” Vincent takes another sip of coffee, with the arm with the cuff that isn’t stuck to the table. Jack is pretty sure it’s jam. “She didn’t want it, but nobody else was going to buy a farm during the Crisis, so she stayed there. I really didn’t see or hear much of her. She kept to herself.”

Jack stares at his latte.

“...She did ask about you a lot,” Vincent adds. Some of the bubbles in the latte foam burst. “She said if I ever saw you to… say she misses you, and she loves you.”

It’s a lie. Jack almost appreciates the effort. “What else did she say?”

Vincent looks at him for a long time, mouth drawn into a line. “Jack, I don’t think-”

“Please.” The mug starts to burn his hands.

Vincent looks torn, but in the end he relents, because he had always been honest to a fault. “Beth was angry you never wrote. I’m sure you know that. When she saw you on the news, she… understood, but that anger never really went away, I don’t think.”

Jack nods. Another cluster of foam bubbles pop out of existence.

“I really didn’t keep up with her that much. I think her seeing me hurt a bit, I always got the feeling she assumed I talked to you. Which of course I didn’t,” and his voice is just a touch sad, because Beth wasn’t the only one he promised he’d stay in contact with. “But there was no way I could convince her of that without making a bunch of unfair assumptions. At John’s funeral, she gave a speech about how family had always been important to her, and repeated it verbatim at Catherine’s.”

Jack almost laughs. “I’m surprised she gave a speech at all.”

“She was pretty good at keeping up appearances,” and suddenly Vincent’s use of the past tense feels more real. Jack’s mild humour fades, and he clutches the mug tighter. “I, um, don’t know what’s happening to the farm. I think it goes to the state, unless Beth left it to you, but I don’t think she’d do that.”

“Probably not.” Jack watches as Vincent lifts his stuck cuff from the table; it is, indeed, jam.

“Do you want to visit?” He asks. “No pressure, but it might help.”

Jack considers it; thinks about Beth standing on the porch, shadowed by the house, consuming her and never letting her go. “No.”

“Alright.” Vincent tries a smile. “Well. Do me a favour and give me some way to contact you in the future?”

Jack obligingly rattles off his phone number, and Vincent scrabbles to input it. The jam on his shirt sticks it to the inside of his suit sleeve.

They finish their respective drinks in silence, Vincent kind enough not to prod and Jack too guilty to ask anything else. For nearly a decade he had cut himself off from thinking about his life here, focused only on war and saving the world instead. Guilt sidles up his throat and he once again has to convince himself of the absurdity of being recognized while having a public panic attack.

Vincent watches him for a minute before intervening. “If you need to leave, we can leave. I’ll drop you anywhere in the city, Jack, it’s no problem.”

It’s pity, Jack thinks suddenly. The same thing that had motivated him to drive Jack to the airport and take the fall for borrowing his mother’s car. Vincent knows nothing about him anymore aside from what’s on the television and the few snipped stories he had shared with him about his father, clipped and sanitized for public domain. And his dead sister, buried in the same plot as his parents that had cut him out of their life the moment they realized he’d escaped it.

He shakes his head. “My hotel isn’t far. I’d appreciate the walk. Clear my head a bit.”

Vincent doesn’t believe him, smile thinning, but he accepts it. “Alright. If you ever… have questions, or need anything…”

The implication is supposed to be: just ask. Jack knows he means: I’m only offering because it’s kind.

Vincent says goodbye outside the café with the same detached kindness he had at the airport ten years ago, but Jack understands it better now.

He walks around Bloomington for hours. There’s not many shops open yet, mostly restaurants and a few supermarkets, sparsely stocked. The rest of the city is shuttered and dead, and there are far fewer people milling in the streets than he remembers.

His body aches; he doesn’t remember when he last ate, and it feels like his grief overrides his enhancements. He thinks about how if he had come back for Beth she would still be alive, safe, somehow. It’s an impossible thought but he holds onto it anyway, and then his phone is ringing because it’s midnight and he’s alone cold in a back alley with no recollection of how he got there.

“It’s okay,” Gabriel says when Jack can only sob harshly into the phone. “It’s okay. I’ll come find you.”

Gabriel tracks his phone and finds him within ten minutes, only half a mile from their hotel. They sit out in the cold night on the concrete until Jack collects himself enough to walk, numbly, back to the room. Gabriel mumbles soothing nonsense under his breath and doesn’t ask where he’s been, just hauls him into bed and wraps him in the stiff linen sheets until he’s above freezing. In the morning, Jack will mechanically eat enough food for three people and spend the flight back to Chicago trying not to throw up, and he will never go back to Indiana.

Twenty years pass. Jack Morrison dies in August, and Soldier 76 visits Indiana in February.

The farm has been reappropriated by the state, but they have ignored the house, which stands shabby but firm in the twilight. It feels like some kind of hamfisted metaphor, or a sign, or something, but he doesn’t really care. He’s brought two large canisters of gasoline, and a box of matches. Conspicuous, but efficient.

Soldier 76 knows the middle porch step creaks loudly, and avoids it as he ascends, and the door is broken and comes off the hinges because he pulls too hard. He stares at it for a moment, then leans it against the wall and is swallowed by the house.

There’s still furniture inside, sparse and rotting but intact. He checks the drawers out of morbid curiosity, but there’s nothing left in most of them, all trinkets stolen or donated at some point. There’s some cutlery and some dishes, maybe a couple pieces of stationery, nothing to identify who once lived here. He knows he has to go up the stairs to properly coat the building, but he also knows that the room closest to the top has a floorboard three footsteps away that whines.

He exits the house, and picks up one of the canisters. It takes him a while to sum up the will to enter again, and he stops at the top of stairs and considers for a long time.

He eventually walks forward. The floorboard whines. His room is completely empty; no bed, no drawers. Scratches in the concrete walls that have softened with age. Someone was ripped from here hundreds of times, sometimes fighting and sometimes relenting. The barn, visible from the window, has long since been torn down.

He douses most of the petrol in this room alone, trailing the rest down the halls and he doesn’t dare to enter any of the other rooms. His - Jack’s sister’s door is closed, as is his parents’. Soldier 76 sloshes liquid over the handles methodically and when he returns down the stairs, the whine of the floorboard is lost in the sound of his laboured breath.

Hallway, kitchen, living room, office; one after the other. He takes a break only to fetch the second canister, discarding the first in the fireplace. His entire body stinks of gasoline and he wonders as he works if he will catch flame when he lights a match, and knows he doesn’t care. There are a few picture frames still hanging on the walls, faded photos of scenery with no human in sight. He splashes the petrol directly at them and they spit it back in his face.

The second canister empties, and the fumes are almost overwhelmingly nauseating. He throws it at the bay windows in the living room where Jack’s mother would ignore what his father was doing to him in the barn and watch the evening news. The glass shatters and the noise startles him despite his action, and he reels backwards and out the front door.

His first attempt to light a match is thwarted by the shake of his hands. He ends up peeling off the thick leather gloves and striking them bare, and some cruel miracle prevents his body alighting. He throws it in, strikes another, throws it, again and again. A hundred matches join the pyre and the smoke is acrid, thick and suffocating. Some memory dances at the edge of his thoughts; an explosion, fuel leaking on the ocean surface, white hot pain across his face - and he ignores it, because those memories are for the man who died in the Mediterranean Sea.

The blaze lights up the darkness and burns long into the night, and by the time it’s reported the sun is touching the edges of the sky, illuminating the skeleton of the porch. The fire department arrive swifter than any emergency services had in the past - two Omnics with a heat resistant chassis enter the building to search for survivors only to miss the ghosts.

Soldier 76 watches from a safe distance, where the farmland meets the edge of a small wood, where Jack Morrison would hide as a child, as a teenager, where he intended to die. The fire is extinguished, the house is destroyed, and ash sticks to his skin. The man inhabiting his body leaves Indiana and never returns.

#overwatch #soldier 76 #jack morrison #i.. hesitate to tag this r76 but i will because you guys get shit all in this tag anyway #reaper76 #its THERE its just background. dont kill me #pacrim au compliant #this is a headcanon i have regardless of au theres just brief mention of telepathy basically. enjoy!

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peraltasames · 5 years ago

Text

if devotion is a river then i’m floating away

anonymous: If you’re still taking prompts: Jake/Amy period comfort fic (cause I girl is suffering with these cramps)

in which i project my (and evidently this anon’s and prob everyone’s) desires to have my own jake peralta take care of me while i’m on my period into a fic! 💕 title from ‘love you for a long time’ by maggie rogers ✨

read on ao3

The worst part is Amy was really excited for date night.

(Admittedly, that’s the second-worst part. The worst part is definitely the awful pain in her abdomen that hasn’t relented even after a long, hot bath and a Midol.)

Still, she was really looking forward to whatever romantic activities Jake planned for the evening (or completely unromantic, she would honestly take hot dogs from the cart near his place and making out on his old, musty couch). She hasn’t seen him - properly seen him, outside of work - all week due to an insane caseload for both of them.

Incidentally, spending an entire week without your boyfriend sucks a lot more than it normally would when you just spent six months without him.

The last thing she wants is to cancel their plans, but she can’t even bring herself to get dressed, let alone go to dinner or a movie. Begrudgingly, she sends him a quick text before going to scrounge herself dinner from whatever’s in the fridge.

Sorry babe, I think I have to take a rain check on tonight. Bad cramps. I’ll call you tomorrow xo

After a very underwhelming dinner of a few saltine crackers and half a banana, Amy makes her way to the couch and turns on a home renovation show, hoping it will distract her from the perfect night she was supposed to be having with Jake.

Just before the big reveal of the couple’s newly-renovated San Fransisco townhouse, a sharp knock on her door forces her to drag herself off the couch. Expecting an Amazon delivery person or a neighbour asking her to collect their mail or something along those lines of banality, Amy sighs and swings open the door.

She’s not expecting Jake, wearing the suit that she only gets to see on fancy date nights, precariously balancing several paper bags in his arms.

“Jake, what are you doing here?” she exclaims, taking one of the bags from him before he drops it.

“Bringing supplies, duh,” Jake replies, striding past her to dump the rest of the stuff on the table. “From the drugstore - Midol, Advil, tampons. Chocolate and tea from the grocery store. And-” He gestures to the bag she’s holding. “That one’s dinner.”

She opens the bag and the unmistakable scent of pierogis floods her senses. Oh, he’s scoring major boyfriend points for this one.

“Jake, this is so sweet, I-” Her eyes flit down to his suit again and then widen immediately with concern. “Crap, did you not get my text before you left to pick me up? I really thought I would’ve caught you in time.”

“Oh, I left early to pick these up before our date.” Jake grins, pulling a bouquet of roses from the remaining mystery bag, walking them over to her. In a terrible attempt at a posh British accent, he adds, “For you, my dear.”

Some combination of Jake’s warm gaze and soft smile and this big romantic gesture makes Amy’s eyes begin to well with tears beyond her control.

Jake carefully places the flowers back down on the table, his brows knitting together as he rubs her upper arms gently. “What’s wrong, Ames?”

“Nothing, I just-“ She shakes her head. “You’re here and I missed you so much and I feel like we’ve barely seen each other since you got back and I just - it’s probably just hormones.”

She wipes her eyes and attempts to laugh it off, but Jake looks at her with complete sincerity and reaches upward to gently cup her face in his hands. She melts into his touch, so warm and familiar even after all this time apart.

“I missed you too.”

He leans in to kiss her and she meets him halfway, slowly rising up to her tiptoes so she has better access. She gradually, reluctantly pulls away, pecking his lips quickly before lowering herself and looping her arms around his neck.

“You know, you really didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to,” he assures her, rubbing her forearm. “I wasn’t just going to let you sit at home feeling crappy by yourself.”

Amy smiles, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “You’re the sweetest.”

“It was also cause I wanted to see you, though, so it’s like fifty-percent for selfish reasons.”

She rolls her eyes and leans in to kiss him again, but a sharp pain in her lower abdomen makes her recoil and grab her stomach.

“You okay?” Jake asks quickly, his hands moving to steady her. She nods, leaning into him for support. “Why don’t you get settled in on the couch with those pierogis and I’ll go get changed into couch-appropriate clothes?”

Amy smiles and lets him lead her to the couch, placing the takeout bag and a couple of plates in front of her before disappearing to her bedroom for a moment. She manages to devour half of her portion of food in the time it takes for him to change and return, wearing sweats and a t-shirt from the designated Jake drawer in her dresser. It’s yet another reminder of the silliness of their disagreement over whose apartment to move into - sure, she loves her place and it’s indisputably better than his, but she would take that tiny, unsafe, dirty apartment if it meant coming home to this every night.

She shifts over on the couch to make room for him to join her and he plops down next to her, forking over a few of his pierogis from the container onto her plate when he notices she’s nearly finished.

“Sorry this isn’t the romantic evening you had planned,” Amy says once they’re done eating, placing her empty plate on the coffee table and leaning into his side.

“Nah, this is like, the most romantic night ever,” Jake mumbles against her hair, and she can’t detect even a hint of sarcasm. “I wish you didn’t feel gross, though. Is there anything I can do?”

Amy thinks for a moment. “You could grab my heating pad from the hallway closet? It’s on the top shelf.”

“On it.”

Jake springs to his feet and returns with the soft grey heating pad, which she can see he’s already turned on to warm up for her. Amy immediately slaps it on her stomach, appreciating the instant relief.

“Anything else, m’lady?”

Already laying down and curling up into the most comfortable position possible right now, Amy nods and pats the space behind her. “You can spoon me while we watch that documentary I was talking about on the history of American spelling bees.”

Jake complies without missing a beat (their usual bets and competitions to decide who gets to pick the movie are put on hold whenever one of them isn’t feeling well) and slides into the space behind her on the couch, immediately wrapping his arms around her.

As soon as she selects the title on Netflix she shifts further into his embrace. As much as she has science to thank for the invention of Midol, she’s always doubly grateful for her boyfriend around this time of the month. Without fail, from the very early stages of their relationship, he’s always been there to give her a back rub or stop at the store to buy her tampons or comfort her during one of her hormone-fuelled breakdowns.

It’s incredibly unfair, she thinks, that she had to endure six months of these emotional breakdowns - made exponentially worse by his absence - without him there to hold her and kiss her hair and tell her it would be okay. There’s a lot of injustice in the world, though, and at least the universe seems to be trying to make amends by granting her perfect moments like these, where all the pain fades away and all she can focus on is his arms wrapped around her.

She can feel him rubbing her back gently with one hand while the other pulls her hair out of the way to lay a kiss on her shoulder, and involuntary goosebumps cover her skin.

“Thank you for coming over,” she whispers, already beginning to feel drowsy from the medication and the relaxation Jake’s presence brings, despite the riveting documentary they’re watching. “I missed this. Missed you.”

She’s yet to find the limit to the number of times she can tell him that since he’s come home. If it’s anywhere near the amount of times she thought about how badly she longed to hear his voice or feel his touch again while he was gone, she figures she must still have thousands of ‘I missed you’s waiting to be said.

“You saw me yesterday, clingy much?” Jake teases, one of his signature attempts to lighten the mood, but his hand still reaches for hers and tightly interlocks their fingers.

“Not what I meant,” Amy quips.

“I know, babe.” He lays another feather-light kiss to her shoulder. “Me too.”

She continues to revel in the feeling of his warm breath against the back of her neck and his gentle kneading of her lower back, the intimate attention and overall feeling of safety slowly coaxing her to sleep.

Perhaps he can sense that she’s fighting to stay awake, to spend as many waking hours with him as possible, because he whispers “sleep, Ames” against the shell of her ear.

“I love you,” she murmurs, pulling his arm tighter around her before giving in to the lure of sleep.

Jake carefully grabs the blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over both of them, burying his face in her hair once he’s situated.

“I love you.”

#jake x amy #b99 fic

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fangirlxwritesx67 · 5 years ago

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Taken By The Wind: A Sam Winchester x Rowena McLeod Love Story Chapter 5: Locked On You

Chapter 1: You Naughty Boy After Chapter 1: Wildfire Chapter 2: Why Thank You Chapter 3: Yes Please After Chapter 3: Hours Chapter 4: Green Velvet

Tags: 18+, sex, explicit sex, smut, porn. oral sex, penetrative sex, no condom, consent, size kink. Excessive descriptions of Rowena being gorgeous. This particular chapter includes breath play, handcuffs, panic attack, and discussion of past non-sexual trauma including canon death.

Thanks to @marril96 for the suggestions that got the plot rolling and @boondoctorwho for the beta reading! Check out her new series Shackled

Rowena was a complicated woman and her moods varied every day. She could be hot or cold, sweet or feisty, naughty or nice. The one thing that she was consistently?

Powerful.

She loved to have control in every situation. Which was the very reason that Sam so loved to take it away from her in bed. Sometimes, he did it by making her beg for the pleasure he gave her. Sometimes, he did it by taking what he wanted from her. Sometimes, he did it the most obvious way- by tying her up.

Any kind of physical bond on Rowena was merely a gesture. Just like Sam's apparent size advantage, it made no difference. If Rowena really wanted to, all she would have to do was snap her fingers to escape or incapacitate Sam. So when Sam had Rowena tied up and begging, it was because Rowena wanted to be tied up and begging. And oh, how Sam wanted her that way!

Rowena knew Sam could never resist being teased, and she loved to tease him. In fact, she had been working on him for several days, winding him up for what she knew would be explosive sex. She started getting his attention in little ways- wearing outfits she knew he liked, standing a little closer than she needed to, brushing her fingers against him in passing, playing with her hair when she pretended not to know he was watching. Two nights ago, she found a reason to be out of the bunker overnight.

Yesterday, she stepped up her game, making sure Sam couldn't ignore her. When he sat at the library table reading, she leaned over him, brushing her breasts against him. She found reasons to walk up and down the stairs, making sure he was watching her ass. She laughed loudly at Dean's stupid jokes, tossing her hair and showing off her neck. At dinner, she made sure to sit close to Sam and hang on his every word, batting her eyelashes enticingly. After dinner, he caught her in the hall. Pressing his tall body against hers, he kissed her hotly. She kissed back, eagerly, and then pulled away with a little shake of her head.

"Not tonight, Samuel," she murmured before slipping to her room and closing the door.

Today, she enacted the last stage of her plan. After making sure Sam noticed her, pushing him right to the edge, she played hard to get. When he walked into the room, she found a reason to leave. When he talked, she pretended to be engrossed in something -anything- else. She didn't laugh at his gentle teasing or respond to his flirting. By evening, he was wound so tight with frustration and desire that Rowena could feel him shaking whenever she was nearby.

After dinner, Rowena slipped off to the library. She grabbed a book and settled down into one of the big leather chairs, propping her feet up on a low table. She had a firm sense of her own beauty, and knew how to pose in order to display herself to the best advantage. She pressed her shoulders into the chair, pushing her breasts high against her rose gold sweater. She crossed her ankles, making sure her skirt slipped above her shapely calves and wrapped just so around her thighs.

She didn't have to wait long. Soon, Sam loped into the library, calling her name. When he spotted her, he loomed over Rowena, his hands on either arm of the chair. She was caged in by his body so she couldn't have gotten away if she wanted to.

"Rowena," he said. His voice was low. Tense energy seemed to crackle in the space between them. "I know what you're doing."

Rowena arched her perfect eyebrows.

"You do?"

Sam shook his head. Gods, he couldn't think when he looked at Rowena's bright glossy lips.

"You're teasing me, winding me up. That's enough!" He cupped her face in one hand and punctuated his words with kisses. "No - more - teasing."

Rowena sighed happily and slipped her arms around Sam's neck. She kissed him back, parting his lips with her sharp tongue. Sam gathered her in his long arms and picked her right up out of the chair. He slid one arm under her knees as he carried her out of the library and down the hall towards his bedroom in a flurry of hot kisses. With swift fingers, Rowena had his shirt undone before they ever got there.

Sam kicked open the bedroom door with one booted foot and laid Rowena down on his bed, on the thin pillows and scratchy cheap blanket. He pulled her sweater up over her head before letting her wiggle out of her dark skirt while he tossed aside his shirt and t-shirt. He pushed her back against the pillows so he could see her, all of her. In his spartan room, she shone like an exotic jewel. He wanted her so much he could hardly stand it. But he was willing to take his time. After enduring days of her teasing, he was going to make it worthwhile for both of them.

Sam covered Rowena's perfect tight body with hot kisses while she laughed and sighed and squirmed under his touch. Just for him, Rowena reached above her head to run her fingers through her thick red curls, letting them spill over the pillows. Sam leaned over her and ran one warm hand up her toned arms. Before she knew what was happening, Rowena felt the cold metal of hand cuffs click shut around her wrists. She gasped and pulled against them, but Sam had her. Her eyes widened with excitement and Sam chuckled at her response.

"You think you can tease me like that and get away with it?" He asked. "I'm going to keep you here and make you pay."

Rowena shivered with anticipation. Sam's mouth moved lower and lower down her body, kissing and licking as he made his way to what they both wanted. He traced his callused fingers over her fine collarbones and then pressed his hand against the base of her throat. He looked at Rowena, at her creamy neck under his big hand, and she nodded. He could feel Rowena's fast breathing and little moans under his touch. He tightened his grip on her throat as he concentrated on pulling her panties off with his teeth.

Rowena felt lightheaded, floating away on a mix of pleasure and breathlessness. Suddenly, panic surged through her. She was suffocating and she couldn't escape. She felt helpless, pinned down against her will. For the first time in a long time, she was powerless.

She jerked hard against the cuffs, yanking her wrists against the cold metal. She reached out for her magic but couldn't feel it. Jagged bolts of purple light fizzled in the air around her wrists as she tried in vain to free herself. A strangled cry tore from her mouth.

Sam reacted instantly, pulling his hands and lips off of her. But it was too late - Rowena was somewhere else, somewhere horrible. She drew a deep ragged breath and began to scream, wild cries of terror that pierced Sam straight through the heart.

"Rowena!" He called her name, truly scared. But she was beyond hearing. Her body shook in fear of something he couldn't see, and the handcuffs cut gouges into the fine skin of her wrists. Sam reached up quickly and undid them, but not in time to stop the trickle of blood down her pale forearms. He had no idea what was going on, and was afraid to make it worse, but he gathered Rowena in his arms.

On some level, she registered that he was there, and she curled into his embrace. He held her close as she trembled and sobbed. Her skin was clammy, her temples sweaty. She clenched her hands into fists, trying in vain to stop them from shaking. Little sparks of purple magic still fell from her fingertips.

Sam felt her gradually come back to him, returning from whatever hell she had visited. He pulled her in tighter, tucking her head against his chest. He ran his fingers softly through her sweat-damp hair, letting her know that he was there and she was safe.

Finally, with a ragged sigh, Rowena sagged against his chest. Sam stroked her face and gently cupped her chin. Pulling her gaze to his, Sam looked Rowena full in the face.

"Rowena," he asked softly, "What happened?"

Her green eyes filled with tears and she looked away.

"I couldn't breathe," she finally whispered, "And then I was back in Hell, with Lucifer, choking me." She gagged involuntarily, the flashback was so strong.

Sam shook his head. Of course. How could he have been so stupid?! He knew Lucifer, he had been to hell. How did he not think that this would trigger Rowena?

"Do you know what it's like..." The words caught in her throat. "Do you know what it's like to be burned alive?" Rowena shuddered, hard, memories of torturous pain searing through her.

Sam did know, that was the worst part. He, like no one else, understood exactly what Rowena had suffered. He had no words. Nothing he could say could make anything better. Helplessly, he held her close, trying to let her know that he was there, wanting to make things okay.

Sam took one of her fine hands in his, and that's when he realized her wrists were still bleeding. Rowena could've -should've- had enough magic to heal a minor wound like that, but she was too depleted to try.

"Oh, Ro," Sam sighed. He laid Rowena back on the bed. She let go reluctantly and whispered his name.

"Hang on," he told her.

He stood up and grabbed his discarded t-shirt. Walking to the sink in the corner, he ran warm water over the cloth. Sam came back to Rowena and wiped the blood off her arms in long strokes from her elbows to her wrists. He inspected the cuts on her wrists more closely. Her fine skin was puffy and raw, already bruising.

Sam couldn't help feeling like he was at fault, like he had caused this, like he had hurt Rowena in this way.

"Sorry," he whispered, "I'm so sorry."

She shook her head, her lashes wet and dark as her eyes fluttered closed. His gaze on hers was so intense she couldn’t bear it. She would've felt angry if anyone else had seen her without her protective armor in place. In front of Sam, she felt ashamed. He had always treated her with respect, even reverence for her depth of knowledge and experience. She felt somehow like she had disappointed him, and she hated it.

"Stop talking," she begged, her voice hoarse.

Sam obeyed, ducking out of the room just once to grab first aid supplies. When he came back, Rowena reached out for him. He settled on the bed next to her and wrapped her in a warm embrace before letting her go so he could take care of her.

Sam's fingers were tender as he dabbed cream on Rowena's cuts and then wrapped gauze gently over her damaged wrists. He taped the bandages and then placed a gentle kiss on each one.

Rowena was shaking from cold and the aftermath of adrenaline. Sam grabbed a worn flannel and offered it to her. She pulled it over her shoulders and Sam buttoned it up. Rowena was swamped in the shirt but appreciated the warmth. It smelled like Sam, and it comforted her.

Sam opened a bottle of water and handed it to Rowena. She drank it all down thirstily. He had never seen her like this, broken and small. All he wanted to do was comfort her, hold her.

He took a soft washcloth and wiped her face, cleaning off the mingled sweat, tears and makeup. When her porcelain cheeks were clear, he brushed the softest of kisses over her freckles.

He hated that she was hurt, hated that he had triggered this. It was a shock to see her absolutely shattered. Pride and magic were so much a part of her. He had never considered just how fragile she was without them. He thought he had gotten a glimpse of who Rowena was before she became a witch. It explained so much about her relentless quest for power.

Slowly, he stretched out on the bed beside her, careful to give her space. He had swapped his jeans for pajama pants but his chest was still bare. Rowena sighed and nuzzled back against his warmth. Sam curled his body around her small one, spooning her in his embrace. He carefully tucked one arm over her, pulling her in close. This was the most vulnerable they had ever been together, and he was frankly caught off guard.

Eventually, Rowena's breathing slowed as she succumbed to sleep. Sam stayed awake, watching over her. Her long red hair was splayed across the pillows, her lashes like lace on her cheeks. Sam's heart wrenched in his chest. When had he come to care for her so much?

Rowena had burst into his life as an enemy, and time had gradually made her a partner of Team Free Will. But to him, she was more- she had become a mentor, a friend. Their sexual relationship had grown up in the space between them. Rowena -and sex with Rowena- had become one of the best parts of Sam's life.

As Sam watched Rowena sleep in his arms, he finally admitted to himself the truth. She was more than a partner, a friend. She was more than a good time. She was his lover.

Sam loved Rowena. He realized it with a sharp pang of desire. How could he be holding this woman in his arms and still longing for so much more - for her, with her - at the same time?!

In the dark quiet of Sam's sparse bunker room, Rowena shone like a wayward star. Sam drew her in, curling around her protectively. He nuzzled into the curve of her neck, breathing in the sweet clean smell of her skin and hair. Her delicate body was warm against his. He marveled at the sense of closeness, at the delight of just being there with her.

Sam sighed contentedly. Rowena's heart, beating strong and steady in time with his, was the last thing he heard before he drifted off to sleep.

SPN First Last and Always: @dawnie1988 @deanwanddamons @divadinag @flamencodiva @fookinghelljensensthighs @idreamofplaid @maddiepants @magssteenkamp @onethirstyunicorn @the-chocolate-moose @there-must-be-a-lock @tloveswriting

Sam Girl For Life: @awesomesusiebstuff @lilsylvia

Rowena My Queen: @lilsylvia @marril96

#sam x rowena #samwena #samwitch #rowena fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #taken by the wind #fangirlxwritesx67

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saxxxology · 5 years ago

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What Goes Bump in the Night - 2

PAIRING: Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader WARNINGS: a/b/o dynamics, Victorian social dynamics, allusions to non-consent and dubious consent, dominance/submission, slow burn with eventual smut, suspense/horror/gore themes.

THIS WORK IS 18+ ONLY. DO NOT REPOST MY WORK ON ANY OTHER SITES.

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The bang of Crowley’s gavel makes you jump, and you’re quickly guided off the stage and through a separate door, which is quickly closed and locked behind you. You wait in silence, cowering in the corner, arms crossed over your chest as your eyes sting with tears. After a few minutes, the side door bursts open, and two men enter the room, led by Crowley.

One is tall, well over six feet. Brown hair curls around the nape of his neck, and his eyes sparkle with an untamed fire. He smells like warm honey and coffee, something that automatically relaxes you. He’s young, in his mid-twenties, you guess, and judging by the nice suit and shiny shoes, well-off. He’s looking at you like you’re not what he expected, and you lower your head in shame, aware of the tear tracks that stain your cheeks. The older man has to be his father, black hair with dashes of silver, and a graying beard to match.

Before you can move or say a word, Crowley grabs you by the arm and hauls you up so that you’re standing straight. “You have a brand, yes?”

The older man holds up a long metal rod with a flat end. You can barely make out the engraving, but you know exactly what’s coming. They’re going to brand you; it’s an Alpha’s way of making sure that if an Omega runs from them, they’re easily identifiable.

“Come here,” the younger man commands. You obediently shuffle forward, trying to appear brave as he takes you by the hand. His palm is smooth and warm on your skin. “What’s your name?”

You stutter through your name, barely able to make eye contact. He smiles with approval. “I’m Sam,” he replies. “This is my father, John. You’re coming home with me, do you understand that?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good girl.” He grips your hand a little harder as Crowley opens the door that leads to the outside and pulls you along behind him. It’s chilly out, and you shiver as the cold air blows over your almost bare skin. There’s a fire burning in an empty metal bin, and you shudder as John shoves the end of their branding stick into the embers.

“Sign here,” Crowley holds up a sheet of paper and a feather quill. “While we wait, might as well dispense with all the formalities.”

Sam scrawls a sloppy signature on one line and holds the quill out to you. You know what this is; it’s a contract signing yourself, body, mind, and soul, to your Alpha. If you don’t sign, you’ll be made to, and probably suffer more than just a forced signature. Accepting the quill with shaking fingers, you sign your name as best you can, keeping your jaw clenched so as to hold back more tears. Crowley slides the completed contract into the leather folder under his arm and watches as the older man pulls the now glowing brand from the flames.

Sam takes it, gripping your upper arm with one hand. “Hold still,” he says flatly.

Instinct takes over, and you wiggle free, letting out a loud cry as he reaches for you again. Your minimal efforts are not naught; John grabs you by the scruff of the neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. “We don’t have time for this,” he snarls, “do it now, Sam.”

Sam looks taken aback by your fear, as if he’s just now registering how scared you are. He reaches for your arm, and you let out another cry, jerking away from him. “Omega, hold still,” he mutters to no avail.

“For God’s sake.” John shoves you forward, pulling the brand from Sam’s grip. “Hold her, I’ll do it myself.”

Sam wraps his powerful arms around you from behind, one hand muffling your sobs and whimpers. John yanks on your upper arm and presses the brand to your skin, just below your shoulder. The pain is almost blinding, and you taste bile in your throat as you scream. It’s over in a matter of seconds, but the burning throb remains. Sam’s holding you upright—your legs have given out—and when he removes his hand from over your mouth, he trails the same fingers through your hair, as if he’s trying to comfort you.

“There,” John spits almost angrily, “let’s go.”

After waiting for an attendant to bring your things down from your private room, you’re escorted into a horse-drawn carriage, where Sam instructs you to sit next to him, opposite his father. The ride passes in a blur, and by the time you reach your destination, the moon is high in the sky.

The Winchester house is a Victorian monstrosity, two stories high, with steep, gabled roofs, windows glowing eerily with a golden light. You don’t get long to ogle before Sam’s dragging your small suitcase from the floor of the carriage and ushering you up the front stairs. It’s warm inside, and you shudder gratefully.

“Get her upstairs,” John instructs, “we don’t need your brother sniffin’ around when there’s an unclaimed Omega, he can barely keep his goddamn knot in his pants.”

“I’m very aware of that.” Sam puts his arm around you and makes to leave.

“I mean it.” John’s tone is harsh. “She belongs to you now, boy, better to make her yours before anyone else can.”

Sam lets out a low growl and ushers you through an ornately decorated living room and up two flights of stairs. Your heart accelerates when he pushes you in front of him down a short hallway until he reaches a heavy wooden door. Opening it, he shoves you inside and closes it, locking it behind him.

Sam’s bedroom is large and sparsely furnished. A large bed sits against one wall, covered in a dark red comforter embroidered with gold. Several matching pillows sit up against the tall wooden headboard. The only other furniture pieces are a wardrobe, chest of drawers, and a round table perched next to a long row of windows. A large fireplace sits opposite the bed, empty of charcoal or ashes.

“I’m sorry about that.”

Sam’s words cause you to turn, arms crossed over your chest. “What?”

“I’m sorry.” He approaches you gingerly, as if afraid of scaring you further. “My father, he’s… well, he’s got his own way of doing things, and—”

“Are you going to hurt me?” Tears sting your eyes, and you back up against the bed as Sam advances. “Don’t… please, don’t, I’ll do anything, I swear.”

Sam’s eyes soften, and he holds up both hands. “I’m not going to hurt you. Let me see your arm.” His fingertips graze your shoulder, and you tremble under his touch. He examines the burn on your skin, his brow furrowed. “Wait here,” he instructs calmly, “I’m going to make you a bath, you should clean up.”

You shiver as he leaves through a door on the opposite wall. It’s a washroom, and you hear the sound of water running. The Winchesters must be loaded to have a house like this with running water; you’ve never had a bath outside of a metal washtub before.

After several minutes, he steps out, beckoning to you. You step into the small room, eyeing the ceramic basin nervously. If you’re to bathe, you’ll need to take your dress off, and you’ve never been naked in front of an Alpha before. Sam’s easily twice your size with over a hundred pounds on you. If he wants to mate and claim you, there’s nothing you can do to fight him off.

“Dress,” Sam says, pulling at the bow at the back of your gown. “Lift your arms.”

Trembling, you raise your arms over your head, wincing as the reddened skin of your burn pulls. Sam drops the fabric to the floor and inhales deeply at the sight of your naked body. You’re not like the other Omegas, no full hips and thighs, no round breasts, nothing that an Alpha might take pleasure in. You’re small and stick-thin from living on the streets for so long and not being properly fed at Crowley’s.

“Look at me.” Sam waits for you to turn to face him, and you raise your forearms to cover your pitifully small breasts. “Don’t hide,” he says, offering a kind smile. “I said I won’t hurt you, and I’m a man of my word.”

“I—” you swallow thickly, trying to stop more tears from flooding your eyes, “I’ve never been… l-like this in front of an Alpha…”

“I can tell.” Sam’s jaw tenses as his eyes flicker over your body. You get the feeling that he can see right into your soul. “Here, let’s get you cleaned up.”

You step into the tub, fully aware of the fact that Sam’s eyes are fixed on the space between your thighs before you sink into the warm water. He strips his jacket off and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, kneeling behind you and reaching for a metal cup. He scoops up cupfuls of water and pours it through your hair. When you feel his hand on your forehead, you obediently tip your head back and let him wet the rest. There’s a white bar of soap on the edge of the tub and he swirls it in his hands, working the lavender-scented suds into the ends of your hair.

“Is this okay?” He asks.

You take a deep, slightly shaky breath. “Yes.”

Sam doesn’t reply, only reaches for the cup again and begins rinsing your hair. When he’s finished, he stands up, drying his hands on a small towel. “I’m going to get you something to sleep in,” he says, “come into the bedroom when you’re done.”

You finish washing quickly. The lavender scented soap soothes your skin, and when you finally stand up and pull one of the towels from the brass rack, you feel cleaner than ever. Your arm, however, hasn’t stopped burning, and the new tears that fill your eyes aren’t from fear or exhaustion.

Sam’s sitting on the bed, a small basket of bandages and an amber glass bottle of salve by his side. Your suitcase is open on the floor; he’s gone through what little garments you have to see if you have a nightdress to no avail. He’s holding a white nightshirt that looks like it might be his, and when he hands it to you, the size confirms your suspicions.

“I’ll buy you something that fits tomorrow,” he clarifies, “and you’ll need better clothing than this.” He casts a disdainful eye at the open suitcase. “I brought you some food as well. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

You shrug the nightshirt over your head before dropping the towel. It falls almost to just above your knees, and you hand to pull one shoulder up to stop it from falling down. When you attempt to head towards the tray of food, Sam snaps his fingers, and you flinch. “Come here,” he says, patting the bed beside him. “Let me take a look at your arm before you eat.”

Eager to get this part over with, you allow Sam to push the sleeve of your nightshirt up. His hand’s large enough to wrap easily around your upper arm. You wince and squirm when he presses a fingerful of salve to the wound, but he holds you firmly. “Stop moving,” he commands, evidently irritated at your lack of obedience. You fight to remain still as he covers the skin around the brand mark with the sweet-smelling mixture.

“It’ll stop infection,” he explains, finally letting you go to unwrap a length of bandage. He wraps it several times around your arm, checking to make sure it doesn’t cut off your circulation before tying it. With a nod of his head, he gives you permission to finally eat.

The smell of soup fills your nostrils as you sit down, and you spoon a mouthful of broth, meat, and vegetables into your mouth. It’s delicious, and you eagerly down most of the bowl in less than five minutes, finishing it off with the chunk of bread lying beside it. The cup of tea is the last thing you touch, and you breathe in the sweet fragrance before taking a long sip.

Sam’s been watching you eat with an amused, if slightly pitiful, expression. “Are you still hungry?”

You shake your head. Truthfully, you feel almost too full. It’s been quite a while since you’ve had this much to eat in one sitting. “No,” you answer, still sipping at your tea. “Just tired.”

Sam checks the small clock on the nightstand. “It is late,” he says, as if agreeing with you. “We should sleep.”

You watch, slightly caught off guard, as he pulls his white button-up off and tosses it to the floor. His pants go next, and you stiffen in surprise when he straightens up, fully naked. He’s glorious, every inch of his body suntanned and lean. There’s a sigil inked into his skin, just below his left collarbone, a type of star enclosed in a circle. He smirks at your expression when you tear your eyes from traveling lower than his waist and turns, striding confidently towards the chest of drawers.

“Scared?” he asks, his tone ever so slightly mocking. “It’s just a body, Omega, I’ve just seen yours.”

“I’ve n-never seen a… a man… naked.” you choke on your words as he pulls a nightshirt out of the top drawer.

He chuckles, sliding the loose fabric over his head and letting it fall to cover his thighs. “You’ll get used to it. I normally don’t wear anything to bed, but since you’re here…”

You bow your head in shame. “I’m sorry,” you apologize. “I… I know you don’t want me. Your father made you—”

“My father didn’t make me do anything,” Sam replies, his tone a little colder. “Like I said, he has his own way of running things, and last month…” he takes a deep breath before continuing. “I went through a rut and nearly killed someone. I was angry, got in a fight, and my father drew the line. I had a choice to make, and I made the easy one.”

You give a short nod and stand up. Your eyes burn, and you know that the longer you cry, the worse you’re going to feel the next morning. “I think I’d like to sleep,” you say quietly.

Wordlessly, he pulls back the heavy coverlet, allowing you to climb underneath before pacing around to get in on the other side, turning out the oil lamp and shrouding you both in darkness. He’s silent for several long seconds before you hear him speak.

“Good night, Omega,” he whispers.

You turn onto your back, staring up at the dark ceiling. “Good night… Alpha.”

#what goes bump in the night #alpha!sam winchester #alpha!sam x omega!reader #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction

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chickensarentcheap · 5 years ago

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Sanctuary- Chapter 9

WARNINGS: language and smut. NSFW.

Tagging: @alievans007, @valkyrie-of-the-light, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @innerpaperexpertcloud

She straddles his lower back as he lays on his stomach in the middle of their bed; her fingers pressing into the tight and aching muscles in his right shoulder. The pain is moderate to severe tonight. A dull ache that starts in the base of his neck and travels the entire length of his arm, throbbing in the elbow and pins and needles in the fingers. Scar tissue from the various surgeries he’d needed after Dhaka wrapping and twisting around ligaments and nerves and causing on going issues. The worst is his right shoulder; a reconstructive surgery to piece everything back together repeated shoulder separations had led to increased mobility issues. The scar running over both the front and back deltoid muscles and along the top of his shoulder to the nape of his neck. Surgeons had been able to save and improve mobility but had warned that there’d be permanent and progressive consequences, tightening and shortening of muscles and ligaments, bursitis, arthritis. The list went on. Long term physio, massage, drugs. Umpteen things prescribed or suggested that made him feel a hell of a lot older than his forty years.

“Ovi wants to bring that girl over tomorrow,” Esme says, as she uses both thumbs to get into that tough spot right under his shoulder blade.

In the last five years she’s grown accustomed to every inch of his body; whether it be providing relief for therapy for painful joints in muscles or when they made love. Those fingers acquainting themselves with every muscle, memorizing the way they twisted and bulged, how they moved under her touch. She knew every spot that either ached or turn him on, able to intricately trace the outline of every tattoo and scar. There was a time where the memories those scars held were too painful to relive; she couldn’t see them, let alone touch them, without being reminded of the horrific events in Dhaka. Now the trauma had subsided, and she no longer had to look away or pull her hands back. The events were still fresh in her mind, but she was able to block them out. There was something bittersweet about those scars now. The ones that he’d gained while in Dhaka. A reminder of how she’d almost lost him but how he’d fought back and they’d both been given a second chance.

“Why?” Tyler asks, both forearms under the pillow his cheek rests against.

“I guess he thinks this is going to be something long term and serious and he wants us to meet her. He seems pretty crazy about her. I don’t remember him being this bad over any of the girls he dated in high school.”

“I wonder if he’s going to cough up his V card sooner rather than later.”

“You have an unsettling obsession with his virginity,” she teases, and he turns his face into the middle and lets loose a string of profanity when she gets up under the shoulder blade and presses a hard as she can. His entire body going rigid; toes digging into the mattress. “And no,” she says, as she releases the pressure. “That was not meant as punishment for said virginity obsession.”

“It’s not an obsession,” he lifts his head from the pillow and removes one arm from under it, resting his chin on it. A pained grimace on his face, sweat beading across his forehead and gathering at his hairline and temples. “I’m just curious. She’s an older woman, he’s a virgin. He’s lucky when you think about it. She’s probably got all kinds of experience.”

“Or she could be relatively inexperienced like I was when we first met.”

“The things you knew how to do and you were comfortable letting me do? You weren’t that inexperienced.”

“You are the third and the last. Three guys? That’s not a lot.”

“Well the other two must have been really good teachers. I should send them thank you cards. Fuck,” he groans, as she runs her knuckles along the entire length of his right shoulder blade. “You’re savage for a little thing.”

“How do you know it wasn’t you who the good teacher?” she suggests. “I mean, there wasn’t else much to do for those five days and you are blessed with an incredible amount of patience and stamina. How do you know I didn’t just let you do all the work and show me how things are done?”

“Because I was there and I know that isn’t true. There were things you knew and that you did willingly and I never even had to say a word.”

“Maybe you’re just so hot I said ‘fuck it. I’ll let him do whatever he wants’.”

“Well, you did let me go where no other man has ever gone before. After only three days. So…”

“You really are a fifteen-year-old with raging hormones stuck in a grown man’s body,” she chides. “So you think he will? Cough it up to this girl?”

“I wouldn’t blame him if he did. What guy wouldn’t take it if it’s right there staring him in the face? I don’t know why we have to meet her though. Can’t he just fuck her and leave us out of it?”

“I don’t think this is strictly a having someone to fuck situation. I think he’s actually really into her. Haven’t you noticed the way his entire face lights up when he talks about her?” Her fingers and thumbs move up to the top of his shoulder, firmly pressing along the scar.

“You honestly don’t think I pay attention to that kind of shit do you? I’m a guy. Guys do not pay attention to that kind of stuff.”

“He’s totally crazy about her. It’s so obvious. Pay attention next time. I’ll ask about her tomorrow at breakfast. Just watch how he reacts. What he does with his face. You do it sometimes too. When you look at me.”

“Am I drunk when I do it?”

“I’m going to seriously smother in you sleep. Don’t be such a smart ass. I know you hate talking about feelings and all that sappy stuff. But I know you feel that stuff. You don’t have to admit it, baby. I know you better than you know yourself sometimes.”

It’s true. There were times she could just look at him and know what he was thinking or feelings. Easily finishing his sentences. Or giving words to the thoughts in his mind that he couldn’t find an adequate way to express.

“I still don’t understand why we have to meet her,” he says, forehead against the pillow, teeth digging into his bottom lip as she narrows in on the troublesome spot on the base of his neck.

“Because he wants us to. Because we’re his family and he wants her to meet his family.”

“It’s going be weird explaining all of that. I hope he’s not going to throw me under the bus and leave it to me to answer her questions.”

“Just tell her what we’ve told everyone else who asks,” her hands move down onto his spine, pressing into each vertebra. “His parents were friends of ours who died in a car accident and we were named his guardians in their will.”

“That story isn’t going to hold up forever. One day or another, the truth will come out. It always does.”

‘Well don’t let her be the one you tell it to. The last thing we need is to traumatize her and have her sue us for emotional pain and suffering. Can you imagine hearing a story like that? It sounds screwed up to me and I lived it. Imagine how messed up it would be to her? We’ll just have a nice quiet dinner like a normal family.”

“Like we’re normal. Have you met our kids?”

“Good point. Your spawns do have a tendency to get a little rowdy.”

“My spawns,” he snorts. “Because I’m the only one responsible for why they’re here.”

“You had your five minutes of fun, didn’t you?”

“You and I have very different experiences of the times our kids were conceived. Were you even in the room when it happened? Because five minutes? Times that by like twenty.”

“Oh, you wish! You may have the stamina of a God but that’s even too much for you. I love you and you’re a great fuck, but let’s be realistic.”

“Better than your ex?”

She laughs. “You’ve been wondering that all day, haven’t you?”

“Not all day but…” he closes his eyes and inhales sharply when she finally reaches the tailbone. Applying pressure as her hands move across the small of his back and over to his hips. “…I did think about it.”

“I can’t believe you’d even think it was a valid question. You are way at the head of the line on the best lover list. Second place is way back there. And it isn’t him, so…” she leans sideways to grab the bottle of pain relief cream lying on the mattress beside him. Grimacing when she opens the lid and sniffs. “…do I seriously have to sleep in the same room as you tonight? How offended would you be if I told you to sleep on the couch?”

“Very fucking offended.”

“This is not a smell I want next to me all night,” she holds the bottle up to his nose, and he coughs and gags. “Almost as bad as that sewer back in Dhaka.”

“Nothing will ever be as bad as that sewer back in Dhaka. But that does smell like shit. Just leave it.”

“The doctor said it’s the best one to use.”

“Who cares. I’ll put it on after you fall asleep. Then I’ll put a clothespin over your nose so you won’t wake up when the smell hits you.”

“You’re very stubborn,” she says.

“You tell me that every day at least five times a day. And that’s every day for the last five years.”

“So then stop being an enormous pain in my ass.”

“Never,” he declares. “Get up for a second.”

She pushes herself up onto her knees, allowing him to roll onto his back. “You okay?” she asks, noticing the grimace on his face.

“Fine. I’m fine,” he places his hands on her hips and settles her back down on his stomach. “Thank you, babe. That feels a lot better.”

“I don’t ever want to hear you say I never do anything nice for you,” she teases, as she leans down to kiss him and then settles her face in between his neck and his shoulder. A hand coming up to comb through the longer strands of his hair as he wraps both arms around her.

“So you’re being serious?” he asks after several minutes. “About this list of yours?”

“You can not be serious right now.”

“I’m just curious. You said you had a list and that I was first on it.”

“Are you honestly self conscious over my ex? Really? You of all people? You’re the last guy I’d ever expect that from.”

“I’m not being self conscious. I’m just curious.”

“Baby, you are at the top of every list I’ve had since I was sixteen and I first started dating.”

“Are these lists written down somewhere or…”

“Tyler…seriously…” she laughs against the side of his throat. “…you have absolutely nothing to be self conscious about. You are in an entirely different league than my ex in every possible way. It’s the man versus the boys. Let’s leave it at that. There isn’t any other man like you out there. I promise.”

That answer seems to satisfy him, and he drops a kiss on the top of her head.

‘What about your lists?” she inquires.

“I don’t have lists. I don’t do weird shit like that.”

“It doesn’t mean you don’t keep mental notes. Where would I be on your list?”

“I already told you. You give the best head I’ve ever had. I would have travelled from Australia to Colorado just for that.”

“What about the other stuff?”

“What other stuff?”

She sighs in exasperation.

“What do you want me to say? That you’re the best I’ve ever had and I’ve totally forgotten about every other woman that came before you?”

“I swear to God if you put me at the bottom of the list…”

Tyler laughs, and wrapping an arm around her waist, sits up and effortlessly tosses her down onto her back. “There is no list. I don’t think about things like that. I just know that you give the best head I’ve ever had and sex with you is incredible. Every time. I don’t compare it to other people. Why do I need to? None of them matter any more.”

“You’re being very diplomatic about this,” she frowns, but then sighs when his lips find the side of her neck.

His beard is rough against her skin, his breath warm, lips and tongue moist as they travel along her jaw and move up to her ear. His hand heavy on her stomach; pushing up the bottom of her simple tank top to expose an inch of flesh, fingertips gliding across her skin. And she shivers when the tip of his tongue traces the outer edge of her ear and his teeth gently sink into the lobe.

“What about Nik?” she asks.

“Who’s Nik?”

“I’m being serious,” she grabs a hold of his hair and yanks his head back, so he’s looking at her. “What about her? Am I at least better than her?”

“Who am I married to?”

“You had a chance to marry her? What…?”

“Stop…” he kisses her, chuckling against her lips. “…there is no one else but you. No one else I ever think about. There’s no one else I want other than you. So please…” he resumes the teasing and the torturing on her ear and her neck. “…stop…”

She opens her mouth to speak, then clamps it shut when his fingers make short work of the small bow holding tight the waist band of her bottoms. His mouth covering hers in a deep, hungry kiss as his hand slides down the front of her pyjama pants and dips between her legs. One hand in his hair and the other tightly gripping his shoulder as his tongue pushing its way past her teeth and seeking out hers. The kiss is desperate. Hungry. Needy. And she cries out into his mouth when he slips two fingers inside of her.

“Are you going to stop asking me questions now?” he asks, as he pulls back to study her face. Her pupils wide, her face flushed, hair falling across her forehead. “No more questions?”

She shakes her head, then lifts her head to kiss him. She curls an arm around his neck and pulls him into her; his free hand moving to support his weight, palm down on the mattress. Arching her back and pressing her hips flush against his palm as his fingers move inside of her. Slow, deep strokes that has all of her nerve endings on fire.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he watches her. The way her eyes darken and her breathing picks up pace; hips rising and falling to match every move that his fingers make. Bringing his thumb in contact with her clit, softly rubbing at the hardened nub until she’s got a hold of his hair once again and she’s yanking him down into another kiss. Effectively muffling the noises that come tumbling out of her mouth.

He continues to kiss her; soft, gentle pecks interspersed with longer moments of closed mouth upon closed mouth. Waiting until her body stops shuddering and her breath returns to normal before removing his hand between her legs. Eyes locked on hers as he licks her fluid off of his fingers.

“You’re evil,” she declares.

“In the best possible ways, yeah?”

She nods and reaches for him, a hand cupping his erection through his boxer briefs. Long and hot and hard underneath that cool, smooth cotton. The tip of her tongue sliding along her lower lip as she strokes him through the fabric, her grip tight, applying just the right amount of pressure. Until he’s swallowing noisily and his own breathing picks up his pace. Frowning when he suddenly pushes her hand away and then leans across the bed to grab a condom from the nightstand.

“No,” she says, as she takes hold of his wrist. “Don’t. Let’s have a baby, Tyler. One more.”

“You’re sure?”

She nods. “But I swear to God, if your super sperm does something crazy like another set of twins or worse, triplets, you won’t have to worry about a vasectomy because I will use a kitchen knife to cut your dick off myself. You’re a little too good at making babies.”

“Maybe,” he grins, as he sits back on his heels and grabbing a hold of her hips, pulls her towards him. “But they’re beautiful babies.”

She smiles. “They are. We did good, didn’t we.”

“Yeah. We did. We did real good.”

“Maybe the last one will be a girl,” she muses. “There’s way too much testosterone in this house.”

“Maybe,” he says, and hooks his fingers in the waist band over her pants and yanks them down in one swift movement. Batting her foot out of the way when she presses it against his crotch, toes rubbing against his cock. Placing a hand on either side of her head as he leans down to kiss her, capturing her bottom lip between his teeth before pushing his tongue into her mouth.

Her hands reach for the elastic band on his shorts and she hastily pushes them down over his hips and his ass. And he never breaks the kiss as one hand reaches behind him to shove the fabric down past his knees. Feeling her shudder against him and gasp into his mouth when he slips inside of her; groaning deep in his throat as he bottoms out inside of her.

“Fuck…” he breathes, forehead resting against hers. “…you feel so good. You always feel so good.”

She raises her head to kiss him; a brief peck on the lips before her mouth moves across his jaw and down onto his throat. Tongue travelling over the scar that serves as a permanent memory of when he’d nearly lost his life. Hands sliding across his shoulders and down onto his back, nails pressing into his flesh and breaking the skin as he moves inside of her. Long, smooth strokes that fill her completely.

No other man has ever been able to do the things he does. Or make her feel the way he can. The way he looks down at her with so much love and adoration in his eyes. The way each movement and each kiss lets her know just how worshipped she really is. His gaze never wavering; those blue eyes locked on hers, as if they’re burrowing into her very soul.

“I love you,” she breathes. “I love you so much.”

“I know,” he smiles. “I love you too.”

“Put a baby in me, Tyler. Put your baby in me.”

He blinks at both the honesty and power that comes with those words. And then it is as if every last shred of patience and resolve shatters. Slow love making turning frantic and aggressive, those large hands flipping her over onto her stomach and forcing her up onto her knees, slamming into her with brutal force. One hand on her hip and the other gripping the headboard as he furiously pounds into her. Surprised at how well she has always taken him. Even five years ago in that dirty Dhaka hotel room when he’d lost complete and utter control for the first time.

He reaches around to find her clit; stroking it as he drives into her again and again until she’s burying her face into a pillow to muffle her cries, his name repeatedly leaving her lips.

“Tell me when you’re going to come,” he says, as he drops his hand from the headboard and grabs her hair, yanking her head back, lips feasting on her neck. “Tell me.”

“I’m close…” she manages between ragged gasps. “…so close…”

He pulls her to her knees, so her back is pressed against his front; her hands reaching back to grab at his hair.

“Tell me,” he growls, and increases the pressure of his fingers. “Tell me.”

“Tyler…” she can barely get his name out. “…fuck…Tyler…”

“I want you to come,” he orders, and then removes his hand from between her legs and reaches between them to slip two fingers up her ass.

That’s all it takes. Her head falling back against him, his free hand clamping down over her mouth in order to hide the scream; sis name, profanities, unintelligible nonsense he can’t even begin to comprehend. And with two hard, strong stroke he’s coming as well; a long, loud groan erupting from somewhere deep inside his chest. And he wraps his arm around her waist to hold her painfully tight against him; making sure that not one drop of his cum manages to trickle out of her.

His trembling legs give out; vision white as he collapses onto his back, chest heaving as he attempts to regain some control over his senses. And he feels her move against him; the soft brush of her skin against his, her lips pressing a series of kisses across his chest and collarbone. Blindly he reaches for her, a hand falling on the back of her neck and bringing her head down to his shoulder.

They lay like that. Cool breeze tumbling through the window and washing over their spent and sweaty bodies. Until she shivers against him and he sits up and reaches for the comforter at the end of the bed. Draping it over both of them as he once more gathers her in his arms and pulls her tight against him.

****

He awakens to tiny hands incessantly shaking him. Torn out of a dead sleep by the sensation of someone clutching him by the bicep and yanking his arm back and forth with as much strength as a little body will muster. He’d been dreaming about Dhaka; a confusing mash up of all five days. From those moments in the dirty hotel room where greedy, hungry hands tore at clothes, to the early morning hours when he’d dropped her off at the extraction point before heading to meet with Ovi’s captors, to when they’d hid out in the sewer and eventually found themselves rescued by Gaspar and brought to his house. The betrayal of one of his oldest friends. Ovi taking the man’s life.

It was all mixed together. His brain unable to make any sense of it. And he’d just been about to set foot on that bridge when he’d been startled out of his sleep. It was a relief; he hasn’t had a dream about Dhaka in nearly four years and it isn’t exactly a time in his life that he wants to visit. But the anxiety and nerves he’d felt even in the dream had been vivid; his heart hammers in his chest and sweat gathers at his temples and across his brow. He almost snaps; stuck in that hazy space between sleep and consciousness. When your body isn’t fully awake, but your nerves are firing on all cylinders. It is fight of flight at that point, and his system chooses fight; ready to reach out and grab hold of what his brain is telling him is a threat when that little voice manages to break through.

“Daddy…” a pitiful pleading, accompanied by more shaking. “Daddy…wake up…please wake up…”

His daughter stands at the side of the bed. Even in the moonlight he can see the tears that stream down her face. The way she struggles to draw in a breath.

“Millie…” he pushes himself up onto his elbow and reaches up to push her hair away from her face. “…what’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“I had a bad dream. I was really scared. I made a mess. In my bed.”

She’d gone through a stage of horrible nightmares the first time he’d returned home from the job with a broken wrist, split lip, and busted nose. The bruises and the injuries had terrified her and had set off months of trauma and sleepless nights for everyone. And he’d spent weeks either curled up beside her in that tiny single bed or sleeping on the floor right next to it.

“It’s okay,” he swings his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and checking the time on his cell phone that sits charging on the nightstand. 2:33 am. He’s groggy; a side effect of the pain medication that he’d taken only two hours before. It had been the first sleep disturbance of the night; the deep-rooted pain that starts in his shoulder and just seems to spread from head to toe. “Let’s go,” he stands, thankfully that he’d had the right mind to actually put on a pair of shorts before going back to bed. “I’ll get you cleaned up.”

Sniffling noisily, she curls her entire hand around two of his fingers as they head out of the room.

He gives her a quick bath, a fresh change of pyjamas and then takes her downstairs with him to throw the dirty laundry in the wash. Not asking any questions; knowing from experience that when she’s ready to tell him about the dream, she will. Instead he makes her a bowl of oatmeal- her favourite comfort food- and they sit in the dark living room with the tv on but the volume on mute. And when she’s placated and calm once again, she tucks herself under his arm and cuddles into him; head against his ribs, a hand resting on his stomach. And he’s contemplating whether to pick her up and carry her upstairs or if they should just stay where they are when she finally speaks.

“I’m sorry, daddy.”

“For what?”

“For making a mess in my bed.”

“It’s okay,” he assures her, and drops a kiss on the top of her head. “We got it all cleaned up. No worries. Things happen.”

“It was a scary dream,” she sounds as if she may cry again, and he tightens his hold on her. “Really, really, really scary.”

“What was it about? Do you remember?”

“It was about you. You went away. Only this time you didn’t come back,” the tears start again, her entire body shaking with the force of them. And he picks her up and settles her against his chest; her stomach pressed against him, her head on his shoulder, both of her arms circling his neck.

“It’s okay,” he nuzzles her forehead with his nose, rubs her back in slow, smooth circles. “It was just a dream. Just a bad dream.”

“The bad guys got to you and they hurt you and you never came home,” she continues through her sobs. “And mommy was crying really bad. She was so sad because she missed you so much. And I cried too. I cried a lot.”

“Shhh,” he strokes her hair. “It’s okay. Try to calm down, okay? It was just a bad dream. I’m right here. I’m right here and I’m fine.”

“What if the bad guys come after you? What if they come here to find you?”

“Millie, what bad guys? What are you talking about? What…?”

“I know what your job is, daddy. I know that you go and help people. That you get them away from bad guys.”

He frowns. “Who told you that? Was it mommy?”

“No,” she sniffles. “It was Ovi. I asked him what your job was, and he says that you rescue people. From bad guys.”

Tyler sighs heavily. And makes a mental note to kick the kid’s ass.

“What if they come here? I don’t want the bad guys coming here.”

“They won’t,” he promises. “The bad guys don’t know where I am. I always make sure of that. I always make sure they have no idea who I am or where I live. So they can’t find me. So they can’t find you and your brothers and your mommy. No one is going to come here.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. And when have I ever broken a promise to you?”

“Never.”

“Everything’s fine. There are no bad guys coming to find me. You guys are safe, okay? There’s nothing to worry about. Are you ready to go back upstairs?”

“Can I sleep with you and mommy? In the big bed?”

“Are you going to snore and hog all the covers?”

“No,” she giggles, and tightens her hold around his neck as he stands up, an arm across the small of her back to keep her in place. “You’re strong, daddy,” she says, as he climbs the stairs, floorboards creaking noisily on under his feet. “You’ve got big muscles.”

“It’s why your mom married me. The big muscles. And because I’m tall and I can reach the things on the high shelves.”

“I’m going to get married one day. And have twelve kids.”

He scowls. “I think I just aged fifteen years hearing you say that.”

Mac lifts his head as they step into the room. Ears back, eyes wide. Tail wagging when he sees his favourite little human.

“Cuddle up to mommy,” Tyler says, as he places his daughter in the bed. “Don’t wake her up. Just cuddle up to her.”

Millie does as she’s told, pushing herself across the bed and burying her face into her mother’s back.

He climbs in next to her, covering them both with the thick duvet and lying down on his side; arm stretched across both of them, his hand resting on his wife’s hip.

She stirs. Her voice barely above a whisper. “Tyler? Is everything okay? What…?”

“Millie had a bad dream,” he explains. “She’s here with us.”

“A bad dream? What? She hasn’t had one of those in forever.”

“Go back to sleep. She’s fine. It just scared the hell out of her. Try to go back to sleep,” he settles his cheek against his pillow and rubs her hip in slow, smooth circles. Until her breathing settles and evens out and he’s pretty sure she’s nodded off again.

And no matter how hard he tries, he can’t follow suit. Awake and on alert until the sun begins poking over the horizon.

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fiction #tyler rake fan fic #extraction #chris hemsworth character #sanctuary

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3rdgymbros · 5 years ago

Text

— pairing; kouchou kanae x shinazugawa sanemi

— word count; 1.6 k

— summary; “Tanjirou? What happened to you?” Dismay colours her tone, bleeds what little color she has from her cheeks. Kanae suspects that she already knows the answer to her question. She thinks of standing, but the sharp pain that sings through her body is more than enough to dissuade her. “Get me my medical kit, please. It’s in that chest of drawers. Everyone, please sit, make yourselves at home. There’s fresh water in that pitcher if anyone’s thirsty.” ( Or: A Retelling of Chapter 132, in which Kanae lives. )

— read chapter 3 on ao3

“Stay in bed this time. I mean it.”

The next morning, Sanemi is uncharacteristically gentle. He helps her sit up, and brushes his lips against hers. It’s sweet and tender and lingers softly, until he breaks away reluctantly.

Kanae reaches out to cup his face. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Sanemi says, after a beat of silence, his ears tinged slightly with pink. Kanae blooms and glows at the declaration that never fails to make her heart pound and bring high colour to her cheeks.

Left alone to her own devices now, Kanae tries to keep busy. She indulges in her hobby of crocheting, one she loves but so rarely has the chance to partake in, working the hook in and out of the lacy threads of a growing haori. She tries to catch up on her reading, flipping through a new novel that’s been gathering dust upon her shelf.

In the afternoon, there’s a wild commotion in the yard, but confined to bed, Kanae is unable to do much, other than hope that Sanemi hasn’t picked a fight with Tanjirou once again. A bad feeling tickles her neck and puts her on edge; her mind replays the events of yesterday on an unending loop.

There’s a timid knock on the screen door. Blinking in surprise, Kanae gently invites whoever is on the other side into her chambers; she knows for a fact that it’s not Sanemi, who comes and goes as he pleases.

Tanjirou, Zenitsu and Genya enter at the sound of her voice, the three of them in various states of abuse; she suspects that their injuries are linked with the commotion that she’s heard several hours prior. Tanjirou appears to be the worst off; his face has swollen to twice its size, and his entire body is mottled blue and green. Zenitsu nurses a bruised cheek and a bloodied nose, but is otherwise unscathed. In fact, he appears oddly thrilled by the turn of events. Genya’s face is oddly red, though the gash on his cheek appears to have healed.

“Tanjirou? What happened to you?” Dismay colours her tone, bleeds what little color she has from her cheeks. Kanae suspects that she already knows the answer to her question. She thinks of standing, but the sharp pain that sings through her body is more than enough to dissuade her. “Get me my medical kit, please. It’s in that chest of drawers. Everyone, please sit, make yourselves at home. There’s fresh water in that pitcher if anyone’s thirsty.”

When Tanjirou returns with her medical kit, Kanae snaps on a pair of disposable gloves, and spreads out first-aid miscellanea all over her futon. Gently, she probes at Tanjirou’s face, then at his upper arms, shoulders and neck. It doesn’t escape her notice how Tanjirou winces at her ministrations, and she tries to soften the edge of her fingers.

“Is anyone going to tell me what happened?” Kanae asks conversationally. “Or should I start guessing?”

“We got into a fight with that wind guy again!” Zenitsu answers, his face contorted as he shoots Tanjirou a narrow-eyed glare. If looks could kill . . . “Somehow, everyone got involved . . . And Genya punched me!”

Kanae already anticipates a secret trip down to the infirmary later, to check on those caught up in the cross-fire.

Genya’s voice, oddly, is shaking. He can’t quite seem to look her in the eyes. “Don’t talk bad about my brother.”

“Oh, Sanemi’s not so bad once you get to know him.” Kanae chips in thoughtfully in his defence, applying a cooling cream all over Tanjirou’s skin. Watching as her fingers massage the ointment into Tanjirou, Zenitsu appears to be in pain, letting out an anguished moan. “He’s good, and he’s kind. He tries his best.”

Zenitsu, unsurprisingly, appears unconvinced.

“I’ve been banned from talking to Shinazugawa-san,” Meekly, Tanjirou confides in her, almost resembling a kicked puppy with its tail tucked in between its legs. “And my training here is over. We’ve all been told to move on to the next Pillar.”

“I see,” Kanae wilts like a morning glory at dusk. She’d been looking forward to spending more time with them, but it appears that it isn’t to be. Tanjirou, now slathered in the ointment meant for bringing down the swelling on his body, blinks up at her, his eyes showing his worry. Petting his hair and gifting him with a smile, Kanae moves on to winding the white bandages around him, with an expertise that belies her young years. “That’s too bad. I wished we could have spent more time together. I wanted to get to know you all more.”

“I know!” Zenitsu squawks, outraged, and lunges for his friend. “Tanjirou, you –”

Quickly, to distract him, Kanae binds the last of Tanjirou’s wounds and says, “Tanjirou, you’re done. Here are some painkillers. Zenitsu –”

The boy switches targets instantly. With an almost disturbing laugh, he lounges on the tatami mat in front of her, ready and waiting. Kanae shouldn’t be surprised – she’s heard complaints of him from the Butterfly Estate. Tanjirou’s eyes are sympathetic. Kanae is nothing if not professional, and proceeds to look him over. Sanemi, she knows, would have been more than happy to glower at him – he’s done so plenty of times in the Butterfly Estate when he thinks she isn’t looking, his glare directed at lower-ranked corps members who visit the household with only minor injuries. Kanae rubs the blood away from his face with a damp cloth, smoothes a layer of ointment onto his bruised face. Zenitsu sighs and moans in ecstasy, only ceasing when Genya smacks him once upside the head and hisses at him to stop.

Kanae finishes tending to Zenitsu, who looks disappointed as soon as she removes her hands from his face. She turns her attention to Genya, stiff and silent.

She smiles, tries to put him at ease as she beckons him closer. He shuffles forwards obediently. “Genya, does your body hurt much?”

“Oh, don’t mind him, poor Genya’s never been chummy around girls before!” Cackling wildly, Zenitsu delivers one taunt after another. “Genya, you poor soul!”

In spite of her best efforts to hide it, Kanae laughs. The cheerful sound fills the room; the three boys look at her, enraptured. She’s almost relieved that his silence is not out of dislike for her, but rather, due to his own awkwardness.

“You’re just like your brother.” Kanae remarks, fondly. Genya brightens at the comparison. How cute. “He was so awkward when we first started courting. It was rather fun to tease him.”

Zenitsu gnashes his teeth together. A vein throbs at his temple. Tanjirou is staring at his friend, caught in a place between sympathy and revulsion. She does her best to ignore his silent – and sometimes not so silent – seething as she checks over Genya and gives him a clean bill of health.

“Genya.” Kanae places a hand on his forearm so that he’ll actually look at her. His face is a bright, burning red. “I know that right now things between you and your brother are tense, but please don’t give up. I think that . . . I think that he still cares a lot about you, in his own way. Right now he’s just worried and angry, but keep trying to get through to him with how you feel. Sooner or later, he’ll come around. I’ll talk to him as well, okay?”

Genya oddly resembles a small child when he next looks at her; vulnerable and open. His voice is soft as he chokes out a, “Thank you.”

Somehow, Kanae thinks that he’s thanking her for more than just tending to his injuries. Smiling at him, she pats the top of his head, pleasantly surprised at finding the wavy plumes of hair to be soft to the touch.

Kanae packs away her medical supplies after handing out ointments and extra bandages for the trio to take with them. “It would be best to leave before Sanemi gets here. I don’t want him destroying our bedroom.”

“Thank you very much for your help, Kanae-san!” It’s Tanjirou who thanks her first, bowing in gratitude.

She waves him off with a smile that’s tinged with sadness. This brief respite that they’ve been given is clearly the calm before the storm, and she’s acutely aware that something is coming, already looming over the horizon. “Please take care, all of you. The next time we meet will probably be on the battlefield. Let’s all do our best to get stronger until then.”

Kanae watches affectionately as they clutter out of her room noisily. It had been brief, but she’d enjoyed having them. Wistfully, she finds herself wondering if this is what having children feels like, a never-ending stream of activity and life, and a home filled with laughter and smiles. She finds herself yearning for that bright promise of a future, not right now, but maybe once her battles are done.

Sanemi wanders in, opening the door to their bedroom, bringing with him the fresh scent of the night and the thick perfume of flowers from the garden. Kanae pats at her lap in an open invitation; Sanemi comes and rests his head there with a long-suffering sigh. “The idiots gone?”

“I heard what happened.” Kanae says, admonishing him. He accepts her mild scolding with a click of his tongue and a turn of his head. “Really, you should try and be nicer to them!”

“That kid gets on my nerves,” Sanemi grumbles, his tone rising as he thinks of Tanjirou. “The hell should I be nice to him?”

“Because I said so,” Kanae says tartly, running her fingers soothingly through his hair; he calms almost instantly at her touch.

Kanae debates bringing up the topic of his little brother; but then she glances down at Sanemi’s peaceful face, trusting and completely at peace, and she decides that she can talk to him about it tomorrow.

#kny #kny fanfiction #kny fanfic #kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba fanfic #kimetsu no yaiba fanfiction #shinaguzawa sanemi #kochou kanae #kanae x sanemi #sanekanae #sanekana #kouchou kanae x shinaguzawa sanemi #❋ M I N E ❋#ＴＥＬＬＵＳＡＳＴＯＲＹＯＦＷＨＡＴＷＥＯＮＣＥＫＮＥＷ | my fanfiction

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crystalsexarch · 5 years ago

Text

the little-death - crystal exarch - e

The Warrior blinks her eyes open, though she’s still but half awake. The light of the First dances through her window onto bits of dust, and she makes of it a certain haze, a mist, like the Pendants exist somewhere outside of time and place. Everything is blue. Everything is so, so quiet.

Twenty-nine - free day

Crystal Exarch. This became explicit, but it's really about pain and character growth. Ambiguous female WoL wakes to find her partner already up and troubled by the nature of his own survival.

More writing and sinning available here.

Don’t forget to submit your own request...bb

It must be early. She can already tell her lover has risen, but she suspects he hasn’t traveled far. She considers going back to sleep - rolling over into G’raha’s space and enjoying the ghost-warmth he’d left behind - but when she finds the spot cold, she lowers her brow.

At first she doesn’t catch him in the far corner of the room, standing robeless before the mirror. Likewise, he is oblivious to her awakening. His own body occupies him well enough; his own body and its flaws. No dream or disturbance brought him from the Warrior’s embrace. There had come a point in the early morning where his eyes simply opened, and in his head he found thoughts of G’raha Tia of the Source, of young muscle and mismatched eyes.

Gazing at his naked flesh, he tries to decide whether he is proud of having been that man or ashamed to have become somebody else.

The Warrior eyes him through her sleep-haze. If she cocks her head just right she catches his face reflected back at her, ignorant still of her gaze. He looks instead into his own eyes and drags his fingers down his cheeks, lets his left hand catch at the cut of crystal carved into him. And as it catches, his lips tremble.

She shuffles at his pain, not meaning to attract his attention - but his eyes shift to her reflection nonetheless. Before she can speak, he chokes a gasp and collapses to his knees.

“Raha - “

She’s out of bed soon enough, her own legs awake enough to bring her to him.

He hides his face in his hands and grits his teeth. The sudden rush of her body at his back, of the warmth of her arms around his neck only reinforce the idea that she comforts him more than he could ever comfort her. He and his body of crystal. He and his plague of guilt. He and his falsehoods, misfortunes, and fronts. For all his years, he has grown only better at wasting time.

“I...meant not to wake you,” he says.

“You didn’t.” Her voice floats to his ears.

Even in angst, he leans into her, cranes his neck to her embrace. “There is poison in my thinking. Poisoning me.”

“Let me take it from you.”

He sobs once and holds his elbows to keep his arms from shaking. “I would not have you likewise afflicted…”

“Then let me help.” She starts to rub his shoulders, but he twists his crystal arm away and buckles forward until his forehead is mere ilms from the wooden panels of the floor. Surprised, she lets her hands fall away. The muscles of his back surge with his heavy breaths. Only when he has breathed several cycles, does she set her fingers on his shoulder blade. “You are...hurting.”

There’s little he thinks he can do to keep himself from whipping the pace of his breaths to a frenzy. Between gasps, he exclaims something he hadn’t put into words before speaking them aloud:

“I’m so afraid!”

The room, nay the world is quiet, but for the Exarch’s ragged breaths. Not even the Warrior has words for him in those moments.

But she is yet thinking. She has been this same coil of pain and grief and burden. She has bled air onto the floor and gasped. She has rocked herself into exhaustion and sought comfort from the cold earth. She has needed as he needs, but - the cure eludes her.

Getting it out - whatever it was supposed to be - gives him a reprieve. He is able to keep his eyes open and process the wooden knots of the floor before him for a moment. Too soon, the lines warp with the return of his tears. His arms come forward in impulse, and he knows his body wants to hide itself, but she’s got him - she’s got him for better or for worse - she’s got her fingers wrapped around his forearms -

And she kisses the back of his neck thinking it is what she would have wished for in her darker moments - for affection and companionship.

But he thinks of fear. My life is ruled by fear even as I lie with the greatest force known to any reflection.

A reflection, as it happens, sits before him.

He raises his head and looks mirroward with eyes now tinged red. Though the Warrior’s eyes are closed, he sees somehow that their faces are not so dissimilar as he once may have thought. Tears have trailed down her cheeks as well, and stress has knit her eyebrows high.

She feels him raise his head and opens one eye. Her lover stares at her through the mirror, and she stares back at him until blush paints her cheeks instead of pain. “Look at us,” she laughs through her tears.

His own laugh dies in his throat. “I…”

“It is far too early to have shed so many tears.”

He swallows and uses the mirror to find her fingers with his own. “I am…”

“Don’t you say you’re sorry.” She presses her face into his back, unapologetically serious. He can feel it on his skin. “The only time you’ll be sorry is if you try to keep your suffering from me again.”

A chill runs through him. “My love...I just...Iam loathe to burden you with anything more than I already have.”

She shakes her head. “No. No burden.”

“I - “

“You are allowed to be afraid. You are allowed to need.” She pulls away and forces him to look at her true face instead of her reflection. “So tell me what you need.”

The whole of his body, the strength of the Tower even, can do nothing to stop the surge of emotion that flushes from his chest throughout the rest of his body. He can barely relay his next found truth. “I confess,” he says. “I know not what I need...but what I want is…”

Lips part. Hearts beat. The Warrior looks to the side in prescient bliss. “Take it…”

When he presses his mouth upon hers, he leaves little room for escalation. They twist until he has found his way on top of her. If lust hadn’t riddled his mind, he may have felt ridiculous for crying in one moment and straddling her the next, but his arousal was greater than his inhibition. As they had woken, they lie already naked on the floor, with no robes, armor, or smallclothes to remove. Already they had locked together in one space - now longing for an additional connection.

“Is this all right?” he hisses, drawing his hand to her slit. “The floor?”

She bites back a moan to answer. “Anywhere. Here, now.” She winces as he pushes a finger inside. “Take me. Take me all.”

The idea was to warm her up, but as her hands find his member he grows increasingly impatient - increasingly willing to be as impolite as she - but he holds back until he can slot another finger in her heat and press at an angle he knows will weaken her vitality.

“Ah! Raha!”

He fingers her and leans so he can feel her nipples on his chest. She loves the kiss of crystal on her, inside her. What he curses, she relishes and craves. She arches her back to get more of it, and more of him.

When he withholds a few motions longer, she bites his tongue, and he pulls away gasping and red hot. “Very well,” he says. “If...if you insist.”

“I do.” She’s melting beneath him, begging him to bring her back together. “I do, Raha.”

He feels his lower lip tremble. There is so much power in fear. So much ambiguity. So much that drives and resists, propels and prevents. Fear wages and wins wars, makes martyrs and cowards alike.

G’raha sets his forehead upon her neck and pushes himself inside, inhaling sharply. When he can go no farther, he breathes out into her hair.

“Gods…”

“My...Warrior…”

And when he starts to move, she twitches her hips up. It’s always that first push that frenzies. From now on, she knows she will fight only for pleasure: her own and his. She can see his tail lashing and stiffening with his thrusts. Though she can’t quite reach its base, she knows she can please him just as well by rubbing either of his ears.

He groans when she reaches the tip and pauses so he doesn’t embarrass himself. “Do you want me to - to touch you?” he says.

“Should it...please you…”

“It would…” He raises himself on his right arm and sets his left at her clit, but she pushes it away.

“The other is not lesser.”

He looks to the side, face as red as his hair, and readjusts so his clumsy crystal fingers can rub at her center.

“Just...like that…”

The words…excite him...

Deeply he moves, hoping he can survive another wave each time. When she squirms at his touch, he feels release building, and each time it grows too strong, he looks away so the sight of her lustful form beneath him begets not an early climax.

Soon, she gets tired of him trying to delay the inevitable. As long as she’d like to have him inside her, she is ravenous and knows he’s holding back. She wraps one arm and one leg around him, forcing him down onto one elbow. Knowing he wants to mark her, she shifts her head to press against her shoulder.

The idea that she wants his teeth on her skin makes his eyes water. The last of his courtesy is gone. Muscle memory propels his crystal fingers to work, but he can no longer focus on anything but chasing the thrust that will send him over the edge.

She’s pulsing by the time he clamps down on her neck, hoping the rhythm of her orgasm will intensify his. He holds and holds and holds her with his teeth until his tongue lolls onto her skin to the tune of a savage groan. Even after she’s certain he’s pumped as much seed into her as either of them can manage, he continues thrusting until his grunts become whimpers and he lets fall his body onto her chest.

Time has passed since the blue morning that brought them together, awakened.

The sun shines into the room and hits the mirror so it half-lights their connected, sweat-covered bodies. But neither of them sees. They have closed their eyes. Anything they could think of saying has already been said - or is instead already known through the heat they share. The sun they make between themselves.

But eventually, he is the one to rise, only to kiss her forehead and brush the wet hairs from her face. He smiles, for he knows through her he can become someone new, not quite G’raha nor Exarch. Something better. Something that can follow her forever, or as long as she’d have him. This is the weight he will bear, the one to keep him burning himself away. From burning her away. From burning.

He closes his eyes.

“I love you.”

#crystal exarch #ffxivwrite2019 #ffxiv fanfic #ff14 fanfic #final fantasy 14 #shadowbringers spoilers #mywriting #uhmmm..........#this is the One insofar as my exarch-postings go....#at least that's what i feel right now #other than pain #i mean #you guys know how it is #how are you doing? y'all good?#fan fiction i s h a r d

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