#working title for this was 'shut up about the bone pit shut up about the bone pit'

[numericalbridge]

I think it should be clear by now that i have many, many problems with toh's writing, but i also think that both the strengths and the weaknesses of the show are present more or less evenly through out it. So i am always side eyeing the fandom when fans paint Hunter and the Whittebanes as something that elevated toh and made it special and more mature.

Like, yes, Belos's character is important, but he is important in the way his character contrasts Luz and Eda and others, and as the representation of a certain worldview and type of person. There are some interesting things about the way he is written as an individual too, but the way the fans prop him up and give him so much sympathy and care for his characterization and backstory - even when his actions are not excused - compared to characters of color who are dismissed or get simplified to suit narrow roles (even though they are also interesting in canon) is often pretty evident.

And Caleb's and Evelyn's roles are way overblown by the fandom. They could've been swapped with a different backstory for Belos, yet parts of fandom treat them as the most essential part of the series all the while saying terribly unkind things about fans who are unhappy about Gus's and Willow's treatment. (and i am an enjoyer of background characters myself, but i think it is one thing to say 'oh i love this guy with 0 lines, i am going to vote for him in a poll and invent a backstory for him' and the other thing to pretend the guy is the most special character in canon while treating major characters as if they are nothing).

Like, i obviously don't think there is anything wrong about liking the Whittebanes/Evelyn and writing meta about them or creating fanworks, but it really feels like some of the fans would've preferred to watch a show about these white characters rather than the actual Owl House. Even a white disabled woman like Eda seems too much for this type of fans.

And while Hunter's story is fairly well done, it is not the only important part of the series. Other characters also have interesting things about them, they are often just not given the same chances to shine - sometimes by the show itself, but sometimes fans just refuse to give them a deeper look.

And the show didn't even get more serious or deep just because of the addition of Hunter. Luz's depression and guilt are present from early on, there are some things about Eda and other adults, and education and society, that are relatively deep for what it is - just not in that specific 'wow so dark' way. And as the show adds more plot and lore in season 2 it gets more serious - which is nothing special but a usual development for this type of a kid show. And then the fans majorly overblow how serious and deep it became when it's still very much a fantasy-comedy aimed at tweens.

[junkissed]

pro bono

member — lawyer!wonwoo x lawyer!reader genre — smut, fwb to ?? word count — 1.1k synopsis — you and your coworker jeon wonwoo have been working on this case for months. now that it's finally over, he shows you that "for the public good" doesn't mean that he can't be good for you, too. aka: lawyer wonwoo fucking coworker reader after winning a case smut warnings — descriptions of female anatomy, prone bone (the title is a pun hehe), creampie (shocker i know!), spanking, hair pulling, dacryphilia, mirror sex, coworkers fwb!wonu, gratuitous descriptions of how wide wonu's shoulders are just because i can notes — requested by @junhuisms sorry this took so long bff </3 — lots of love to @onlymingyus for proofreading !! — probably some legal inaccuracies bc i know nothing about the law i'm just here to fuck the hot man so go easy on me pls. i really meant for this to be a longer fic but it's been in my docs for almost a year and i've been trying to not pressure myself to write a certain amount so i hope this is still able to live up to your expectations :) i know i've been pretty mia recently but i'm trying to get back into the swing of things so feedback is super super appreciated! hope you enjoy! note #2 — tumbly still hates me and is super finnicky about putting my posts in the tags so i haven't been able to use my regular divider image bc it bugs out :(( i've tried everything i'm sorry but pls lmk how you like this new one!

you’d been working on this case for months, and it had been one to make or break your career. weeks upon weeks of research, reviewing documents and studying laws to make sure your arguments were seamless.

the upside to all this work, however, was that you got to know your coworker wonwoo better, who you’d been assigned to work on the case with. and by “get to know him,” what you really meant was “get railed every night after work”.

and tonight, after the trial had wrapped up and the court’s final decision had ruled in your favor, you found yourself where you’d grown accustomed to spending all your nights: in his penthouse apartment, and more specifically, in his bed.

the floor-length mirror in his room was one of your favorite things, because no matter what position you were in or how you were angled, you could always see wonwoo. see his broad shoulders, see his muscles flexing, see his abs tensing right before he cums; and god, it drives you crazy.

but it drives him even more crazy as he fucks you into his mattress, watching in the mirror’s reflection how your eyes are squeezed shut and tears stream down your cheeks onto his pillowcase. 

it’s one of his favorite positions, as you’ve learned over the past few months, to have you lying flat on your stomach as he fucks you from behind. with your body at this angle, he can get so much deeper into you, you can practically feel it in your stomach, and with only just a handful of thrusts he can make you fall apart on his cock in a matter of seconds. 

tonight, however, it’s taken less than that to make you cum. the pride of winning the case has him on a high, and he barely even needed to get you stretched out first. but he did anyway, his face buried between your thighs for what felt like eternity until you were pushing his head away and begging him to stop teasing.

you yelp as he twists his hand in your hair, yanking your neck back so you can see your reflection in the mirror.

your eyelids droop heavily, jaw hanging open as wonwoo meets your eyes in the mirror. “you see how well i fuck you, baby?” he groans, squeezing your hip with his other hand. “taking it so fucking well… i’ve fucked you stupid, haven’t i?”

all you can manage is a moan as tears begin to form in your eyes from the pleasure. you whimper quietly, noises muffled by the pillow as you struggle to catch your breath in between thrusts. you can already feel the burn of another orgasm in the pit of your stomach, and wonwoo’s hands pushing down on your lower back are making it impossible to hold back.

“my good girl,” he coos and he lets go of his hand in your hair, barely giving you a chance to catch yourself as your head falls forward and back down onto the pillow. “don’t hold back those pretty sounds. let everybody hear how you like to celebrate your wins. you deserve it, baby.”

“just as much a win for you— as it is for me,” you manage to gasp out. you struggle to keep your eyes open but you force yourself to, determined to see the way his face contorts in the mirror. his eyebrows furrow as he adjusts the angle of his hips, staring down at your ass, back arching into him and forcing his cock deeper with every stroke.

he leans down over you, caging your body with his own, his mouth brushing against the back of your neck. “we both know you did most of the work. and this… this is your reward.”

“wonwoo—” you moan out brokenly as his hands knead your ass roughly, grabbing at your skin and spreading you apart so he can push into you with more force. you clench around him and he curses, his hips starting to stutter.

without warning he pulls out, rolling you over onto your back. you whine at the sudden loss and at the ache in your muscles, but wonwoo just leans forward over your body to kiss you and suddenly you forget everything you were thinking about. you’re so caught up in his mouth on yours and his hands sliding over your body that you barely even notice when he pushes his cock back into you, never breaking away from your lips as he starts out a steady rhythm, gradually building back up to his pace from earlier.

finally he pulls away, sitting up to put his hands on the back of your thighs and push your legs up to your chest. your breath catches in your throat with each thrust, your mind reeling as you concentrate on the feeling of him so deep inside you, pressing against that sweet spot over and over again.

his broad chest is the only thing that fills your vision as you cum, and your brain barely registers the words that leave his mouth in that deep, gravelly voice you’ve become accustomed to hearing nearly every night. 

“taking every inch so fucking well,” he grunts, forehead glistening with sweat. “god, you look so good taking my cock.” his movements become more and more desperate as he starts to chase his high, his fingers digging into your skin so roughly to the point that you know you’ll find bruises there in the morning. 

still breathing heavily, you whine out his name one last time, sending him over the edge right behind you in a matter of seconds. he lets out a guttural groan, continuing to snap his hips frantically as your walls squeeze around his throbbing cock.

wonwoo chuckles, handing you your purse and helping you shrug your coat on as you attempt to wipe the smudged mascara from your cheeks with your thumbs.

“same time, monday night?” you ask as he walks you down the hall to the elevator, holding the doors open with one hand.

he nods, not even making an attempt to hide the grin on his face. “you keep winning cases like you did today, and you might as well just move in. save you the trouble of calling a taxi every night.”

you laugh, knowing he’s not serious but your heart races at the thought anyway. “you keep fucking me like that, and i might take you up on that offer.”

he hums and raises his eyebrows, but you can tell he’s pleased. “i knew having that mirror installed was a good investment.”

you might not be getting paid for taking on pro bono cases, but just knowing that you’re helping people makes up for it. and of course, the compensation you get from your coworker is more than enough to keep you coming back for more. 

i hope you enjoyed this!! if you did, consider reblogging or leaving a comment or an ask :) it shows me this is something people want to see more of, and knowing people like this makes me want to write more of it! thanks for reading!!

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[sungbeam]

yours, mine, & everything in between

kim hongjoong x gn!reader (no prns mentioned)

0.7k words, fluff, est. relationship au, one kiss, darling petname used — some things hongjoong thinks about when he's finally home (in your arms).

a/n: im trying to figure out if i like the normal text as the title ,,, anyways, sorry this one's so short T-T

Kim Hongjoong fought to keep his eyes awake. The light flooding into the darkened bedroom from the en suite bathroom helped him force them open, but it was all to watch with warm tenderness the view before him.

Your back was to him as you sat at the vanity mirror you both shared in the bathroom, a low hum flowing from your lips like a siren song. An old shirt of his hung off your frame, the collar stretched and warped from thorough wash and wear, the light teal color faded.

He couldn't remember when it happened—when this image had become the thing he associated with the word "home."

Although a workaholic, he could never compare an all nighter to sleeping by your side, to watching yourself unwind and disassemble your carefully crafted walls to be with him. You could be bare with him in a way that didn't mean physically. And in his drowsy state, the light from the bathroom haloed around you to make you look even more divine.

How'd he get so lucky?

When you finally finished your nightly routine, you quietly stood from the vanity stool and closed the bathroom lights. Your footsteps were light as you padded across the bedroom floor to slowly sink down onto the bed beside him.

Eyes not yet adjusted to the dark, Hongjoong let his eyelids flutter shut at the feeling of your fingers caressing his cheek. “You should be sleeping,” you whispered to him as he leaned into your touch.

He hummed, taking your hand to pull you under the covers with him to wrap you up in his embrace. “Not without you,” he murmured into the familiar scent clinging to your skin.

Something like contentment settled in the pit of his stomach when he realized why the smell was so familiar. It was the notes of sandalwood and bergamot—the body wash he'd been using since college. You smelled like him.

He felt your nose nudge at his pulse, his heartbeat steady and calm and comforted. “Mmm, so this is where all my body wash has gone,” you mused lowly after recognizing the familiar smells of your own soap lingering on his pretty neck and collarbone.

Hongjoong gave you a sleepy smile in the dark. “I couldn't help myself,” he admitted with a bite of his lip. “You used my body wash though. An eye for an eye.”

“So you're saying that if I stole a kiss, you would steal one back?”

A chuckle fell from his lips; his pulse leaped against your mouth. “Now where is this coming from, darling?”

“'m just saying what's on my mind, Joong,” you teased.

He slowly rolled your entwined bodies over so he could hover above you, hands bracketed around your head as he gazed down at you with an amount of love that could not be mistaken for anything else in the world. You didn't need any light in this room to know how much of it was here and all yours.

“I'm going to steal that kiss back now,” he murmured, his voice low, mouth practically already lowered over your own.

You would let him steal that kiss from you, just as you'd let him walk right into your ribcage to steal your heart, too. What was yours was his, and what was his was yours.

Hongjoong pressed his lips to yours, gentle and soft. There was no rush to his movements that were languid and drawn—you and he had all the time in the world like this. It didn't matter that he had a long day; all that mattered was that he could be with you at the end of it.

When he pulled away, he didn't go far. He stayed where your breaths could be shared and your noses could still nudge the other, where he could still smell himself on you and wonder if the sandalwood and bergamot would linger long enough for you to wear him to work the next day.

Exhaustion wore at his bones and he settled over top of your body with his face tucked into the crook of your neck, a perfect fit. “This is nice,” he sighed as his arms wrapped around you once more, legs entangled between the sheets.

Your hand was gentle as it carded through his hair. “It is,” you murmured. “I'm happy you're home.”

His heart gave a leap of emotion in his chest, his eyes falling closed. “Me too.”

a/n: pls remember to reblog + comment if u enjoyed!

atz m.list

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[hummingbird-of-light]

Sixth story for @badthingshappenbingo ~

Title: In The Eye Of A Hurricane

Fandom: Star Trek (AOS)

Character(s): Montgomery "Scotty" Scott, Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy

Relationship(s): Montgomery "Scotty" Scott/Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy

Rating: T

Words: 673

Prompt: Caught in a Storm

Warnings: Major Character Death, Angst, Sad Ending

(You can also find this story on AO3)

~ In The Eye Of A Hurricane ~

He wasn't sure exactly where they were. Montgomery Scott had lost all control of the shuttle and so Dr. McCoy and he were simply drifting aimlessly through space.

The magnetic storm had simply been too strong for the small shuttle. All systems had failed and they could only hope that they had not strayed too far from their course for it was the only way the Enterprise crew could find them.

Scotty had never experienced such a long-lasting storm. The shuttle had been unable to maneuver for two days and they were running out of oxygen. Not much longer and they would suffocate in agony.

The engineer looked at McCoy, who was sitting at the window of the shuttle, looking out into the storm that was still raging. There was a strange smile on the man's lips.

"Is everything... all right, Leonard?"

Scotty felt terribly weak and it was incredibly difficult for him to speak. The lack of oxygen was already making itself felt.

The CMO's gaze slid to him and he laughed humorlessly.

"I... I was just thinking about what they say... about hurricanes. About... there being quiet in the eye of the storm."

Scotty nodded as he got up from the console he was working on and sat down with McCoy.

"Aye. But... this storm..."

There was no eye of the storm. And even if there had been, they would never have gotten the shuttle there.

"I know, Scotty."

McCoy nodded with a bitter smile.

"Do you think... Jim has a chance of finding us?"

Scotty swallowed hard. He didn't want to give the man next to him too much hope. As long as the storm didn't stop, the chances were incredibly slim. And even if it did... no one could tell how far off course they were.

It should have been a simple away mission. Instead, it was to be their last.

Scotty carefully took McCoy's hand and squeezed it gently.

"I... I dinnae ken. But..."

The doctor stared wide-eyed at the Scotsman's hand before looking up at him and nodding for him to continue.

"We mustn't... give up... hope."

A nod was all McCoy could give in reply. Then his eyes fell on the systems that were still shut down.

Scotty had done his best, but he just hadn't been able to do anything for the shuttle.

"What... what do you think... how much... time we have left?"

The question made Scotty's blood run cold. He had never wanted to hear it. And he didn't want to answer it either. Tears filled his eyes as he shook his head.

"Scotty..."

He knew. He knew he couldn't hide anything from McCoy. So he slowly opened his mouth.

"I... I think... another two or three hours."

He knew that it was like a slap in the face for the doctor and Scotty feared for a moment that he was going to shout at him. However, he was wrong.

The engineer's eyes widened in surprise when McCoy suddenly placed a hand on his cheek and ran his thumb tenderly over Scotty's skin.

"Then... let's... make the most of this time."

Seconds later, their lips met and Scotty felt an indescribable sensation in the pit of his stomach. It was almost as if the radiation was penetrating the walls of the shuttle and making his body tingle. But... it was a good feeling.

Only a short time later, skin met skin. Their bodies snuggled close together and Scotty wished nothing more than that the doctor and he had come to this important realization sooner. The realization that they belonged together. And that they loved and longed for each other.

They spent their last hours in peaceful harmony, giving each other what their bodies had craved for so long.

When they finally ran out of air, they didn't have time to get dressed again. It didn't matter.

Everyone should see that they had found each other in their last moments. And that they had been happy. Because that was nothing to be ashamed of.

[tworoadsandapenny]

What You Wish For: Chapter 15. Raph

It's all the title. This one is all about Raph. Which means I thoroughly enjoyed writing it.

Lots of blood in this one. You have been warned.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“RAPH!”

His voice tears through the ire, bringing me back to the here and now. I catch a glimpse of my right arm gushing blood and basically useless, and try to thin the haze from my mind while I gather my surroundings.

The pause was clearly the opening my opponent had been waiting for. I see it coming in my periphery, but with my right arm as it is, I’m too slow to stop it.

The blade sinks deep. I can feel it digging around near my liver. But as I’m waiting for the final blow, my mind clears enough to notice it’s Hun’s only weapon. And his right eye is covered in blood and probably not working so good.

Blue bandana tails whip past me on my left, and I hear him whisper.

“—the right moment.”

My lip curls up in a grin as blood pours down my leg. Hun looks at me like I’m a madman, which only makes my smile broader.

It’s in the details, right Big Bro?

I clamp my hand on his wrist like a pit bull to a bone, pulling him closer—the blade digs deeper into my innards, but I needed to close the distance—and make sure his face is mere inches from mine before I talk.

“You lose.”

By the time his blood soaked eye catches what’s happening, my sai is so deep in his skull, I can almost see it popping out the other end. It takes a moment, like his brain was trying to understand what just happened, before his eyes close and his body crumples to the floor like a broken marionette.

Year and years I’ve wanted to sink my sai into that bastards skull. Hot damn did that feel good!

I use the adrenaline from my kill to pull the blade from my side—as carefully as possible, because I know Don’s gonna freak out as it is—and I stand over the body. His brain is leaking blood all over the floor and I know for damn sure he’s not getting up again. But still. I can’t help myself. My rage is not quelled. My thirst for vengeance still demands more.

I pry my sai from his rotting brain and lord it over his bleeding corpse, right over his enlarged chest. My hands are trembling with rage. “This,” I say with venom dripping from every syllable. “This is for my brother.” And I drive the blade deep into his heart. Deeper. Until my hand is nearly inside his ribcage.

“Leo!” I reach a hand down to the one he’s covering his wound with, pulling it away slightly so I can take a look and see how bad.

He’s been shot. Leo’s been shot.

I pull my weapon free only to plunge it back into his chest with just as much fury. More.

His chest ain’t moving. I can’t hear his breath anymore. He looks so peaceful…

Again and again and again, I stab him in a frenzy as my ire pours out in a loud and building scream.

And suddenly I can’t feel anything anymore.

My body goes numb, my brain shuts down, and all I can do is sit there, staring at my big brother, waiting for my heart to rip out of my chest.

Finally. It’s done.

I stare at the body, my hands covered in as much blood as his chest, and I know with certainty that the man who orchestrated my brother’s death is finally eradicated from existence. As he should be. As he deserved.

But the pain in my chest is still there.

It still hurts. As much as it did three months ago. As much as it did when I watched him take in his last breath.

As much as it did when I realized my dumb, worthless ass, had gotten my brother killed.

A sudden dizzy spell brings me out of my stupor, and my eyes dart around the room in a panic. My family. They’re here, I saw them. The explosion… I heard more Dragons being thrown about on that side of the warehouse, which means someone is over there. I need to go look. To find them. To protect them. To keep them from leaving me like he did…

What if I just got them all killed? What if they’re all…

I sink to my knees without realizing, my body feeling heavier every second. There’s a pain in my side now too, and it takes a moment for me to remember I’ve been hurt. My hand goes to cover the wound immediately.

“Pressure.”

He whispers in my ear. I do as he says. I haven’t the heart to argue anymore. I want to do what he says. I want to hear him bark orders.

“Keep pressure. Stop the bleeding.”

I want him to be here. With me.

“Keep them bright eyes open. If you pass out, I can’t give you CPR.”

I can’t help but crack a smile. I still can’t see him, but I feel him sitting next to me, his hand over mine as he helps me keep the pressure on. “Duly noted.” I say before spitting a hock of blood from my airways.

The room’s gettin’ mighty fuzzy. I feel myself list to one side, but when I go to catch myself Leo stops me, holding his hand over mine to keep the blood at bay.

“If I leave, you bleed out.”

I’m about to reply with my own wit when I hit the floor. Right… I was falling. But his hand’s still on my side. Still helping keep me here. Keep me safe.

Always.

“Leo…” I still can’t see him. I keep looking for that blue bandana and those fretting eyes, but they're not anywhere in the room. Everything’s starting to go dark. My family… where are my—

I feel his hand though.

“Leo…”

“It’s okay, dude, we got you.”

That’s not Leo’s voice. Still familiar. Still comforting. But not Leo.

I know that voice. “Mi—“ I’m suddenly coughing, the familiar taste of bile and copper mixing in my mouth. But I gotta be sure. They’re here. They’re okay. “Mikey?”

“I’m here!” He sounds desperate. “I’m here, just squeeze my hand if you can’t see me.”

I hadn’t even noticed his hand was in mine. Gripping tightly. I think. Can’t feel it. Can’t feel much. But I can hear just fine, and his terror rings out clear as a bell.

I’ve scared him. Again.

It’s always me. The big screwup…

“You’re not.”

Blue flickers at the edges of my vision. Just beyond the dark. Just out of sight. Just… barely…

“You’re a much better person than you think you are.”

I don’t know if it’s what he’s saying or the fact that I still can’t find him, but I start to panic, coughing as I try and sit up. He’s here. I need to find him. See him. Just once. “C-Come back!” I’m spittin’ blood, and I know I shouldn’t move, there’s a voice saying I shouldn’t move, but I have to. I have to find him!

“You still don’t get it.”

It’s driving me crazy the way he keeps saying that! “Get what!?”

But it’s not Leo that answers.

“Get out of here. Casey and Sensei can only hold them off for so long.”

Don. He’s safe too.

“I won’t lose another brother to your temper!”

Don knows. He knows the truth. Knows what I am. The thought is another knife in my chest. I try to find his eyes, but they’re focused on something in my side. My wound? Am I still bleeding? Can’t feel it anymore…

I need to—I should say something. Don and Mike, they don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve me. My brain ain’t workin’ right and my lips feel as numb as my hands, but I need to tell them. It takes a good solid effort—damn I’m gettin’ tired—but I finally manage to clear the blood from my throat so I can speak.

“Don…”

I sound pathetic. Weak. And I don’t get past the name before my strength fades again. But I need them to know. Should have said it before. Should have told them all the time. Should have…

Shouldn’t have said it. Shouldn’t have shouted.

“I DON’T NEED YOU!”

Dammit. I can’t make my mouth work. I don’t know if it’s because I’m bleedin’ out or because I’m so damn bad at telling them how much I care, but I can’t do it.

Gotta try again. “D-Don…”

My eyes finally manage to focus a little, and I can see Don and Mikey trying to stand me up, Mike taking point with his nunchaku out and spinning, and Don beside me with my arm over his shoulder, trying to drag my ass through the warehouse.

There are tears running down his cheeks.

Dammit.

“Just save your strength, Raph. We can talk after we get you fixed up, okay? After we’re home and safe.”

“Save the lecture for after we get home.”

The thought suddenly strikes me that I might not make it home. I’ve been thinking it all night, but just now it really sinks in. Becomes real. Maybe it’s because I can feel it happening. I can feel myself going. The darkness at the edge of my vision keeps growing and I know this is it.

I slide my eyes over to peak at Mikey who’s whipping his weapon in an unsuspecting Dragon’s face. Makes me proud, I gotta admit.

Dammit.

A sudden chill runs down my body as the cold hand of dread snakes through my veins. I can’t… I can’t leave ‘em. But I don’t think I got a choice in the matter anymore. Can’t feel. Can’t think. Can barely keep my eyes open. Thoughts are draining through my mind like a sieve and I can barely tell if my feet are under me anymore.

I think… I think I’m leaving…

Dammit!

If only I hadn’t gone out on my own.

“You shouldn’t have left.”

It’s always me. I’m always the one screwing it all up. If only I’d stayed.

“Because you took off! And I didn’t want you out here fighting alone.”

If only I’d listened.

“We’re going back. Now.”

Why didn’t I listen?

“We’re a team Raph. We need to stick together.”

If only…

“RAPH!”

If only Leo was—

“Still here.”

My eyes snap open—when did I close them?—and the room’s gone. Everything’s disappeared and I’m standing in the middle of this endless white. I can hear Mike and Don shouting frantically around me, but I can’t see them anymore.

It feels like I should be panicking, but there’s something about this place that soothes my frayed nerves in a way that’s almost… familiar.

And then he steps forward. Blue bandana flitting behind his head, one katana upon his back, and a knowing smile across his face.

Not a vision. Not a figment or an apparition. It’s really him. In the flesh.

“…Leo?”

I hear him chuckle at how tentative my voice is.

“Hey Raph.”

It’s his voice. Really his. He’s here, speaking to me. Staring at me. And suddenly I can’t breathe.

“Still getting into trouble, I see.”

He looks at me like he’s waiting for a response, but I can’t give one. I can’t remember how to make my lungs work. He just smiles and walks towards me, eyes bright and almost dancing behind that blue bandana of his. I look him over as he walks and… and there’s no more… no more blood. His stomach is fine, his plastron fully intact, not a drop of red anywhere to be seen.

He’s suddenly right in front of me and I know if I could move I’d be doing something embarrassing like hugging him or something. But I can’t. Can. Not. Move.

If I move he might…

I close my eyes to try and find some semblance of balance when I feel a tight embrace. I feel his breath against my head, feel his heart beating against my chest.

“I’m here.”

I don’t know what happened. Something in me snaps, I can feel the break as it gives way. And suddenly there’s water streaking down my face as my arms shoot around my brother’s shell.

He’s here. Just like he said he’d be.

There are no words… I can’t…

His hand comes up to my neck, holding me there for a moment, when I hear him sniffle. I pull away quickly to see tears streaking down his cheeks.

I ain’t ever seen Leo cry before.

He must have understood the dumb look on my face because he just smiles wide at me and wipes the streaks away.

“I’ve missed you.”

His words strike a chord somewhere deep in my chest. I want to reply, but I… I got nothin’. I just stare at him, wondering when the dream is gonna end and trying not to grip his arms too tight. I watch as he looks me up and down like he always did when he was checking for wounds or injuries I wasn’t coppin’ to.

Finally he clamps my shoulder with his hand—warm and firm and not a spec of blood on it—and gives me a bit of a shake.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Before I can even bat an eyelash in protest he’s pointing past my shoulder. I turn and see Mike and Don, almost faded behind this veil of white, like a movie screen with the brightness level way too high. They’re kneeling beside something on the ground that looks like it’s covered in—

Wait… is that…me?

I look from the body to my hands and back at least four times before I finally find my voice. “…Am I—“

“—dead?” Leo shakes his head humorously. “No, not yet. But you don’t have much time.”

My mind is reeling. I can’t seem to find purchase on anything he says. I’m still standing there, probably looking as confused as I feel, when he walks past me to stare at Mike and Don, a familiar twinge to his eyes.

Fondness and worry. Or “Forry” as Mike had dubbed it at one point. I just knew it as the “Leo look”.

He watches quietly, his eyes moving from one brother to the other like he’s trying to drink in every detail before they disappear. Suddenly Sensei is there beside them, his hand on—I guess that would be my head?—and Leo’s face shifts to something that looks awfully close to shame. He holds up his hand, like he’s going to reach out and touch the picture of our father, before pulling it back and closing his eyes.

I don’t think I’m breathing. I’m just watching him in silence, studying every inch of his face while my heart thumps so heavily in my chest, I’m surprised it hasn’t burst through my plastron yet.

“They’re in so much pain…”

The way he speaks… it’s like daggers. Thin needles, poking just deep enough to pierce the nerve and flare with pain. He sounds tormented. Hurt. And the scariest part is he’s not trying to hide it.

“Leo…” His name croaks out like I’ve just swallowed a cigar, but as I’m about to try again, he’s speaking. Low and calm and unjudgemental.

His back in still to me. Still facing our brothers. Our family.

“If you wanted to live, you’d already be fighting your way back to them. It would be close, but you could make it. We both know you could. But you’re not fighting. You’re here.”

Wait… what? Was he saying I’m choosing to die? That’s not—

“Are you?”

An ire burns in my stomach that makes me want to shout in his face for even suggesting something so stupid. But it dies the moment I realize the pain in my chest is gone. For the first time in three months I don’t feel like someone is staking my heart with a hot rod-iron.

I… I want to be here. With my brother. With Leo. I don’t want to leave him.

“I…” But the words won’t come. Everything clogs at the back of my throat as I turn to stare at my family—Casey standing over me with his hands in fists and blood on his knuckles, Sensei stroking my head and whispering like he’s trying to coax me to wake up, Mikey clutching my hand like it’s tethering him to sanity, and Don working frantically to patch me up while I bleed all over the roof—and I can feel my fingers curling into my palm.

DAMMIT.

“I can’t. I can’t leave them.”

I know it’s cowardly, but I keep my eyes on the ground ‘cause I know if I look up—if I see his face all sad and worried and filled with shame and telling me he misses me—I’m going to lose it. I’m going to give in. I’m gonna stay by his side and refuse to leave, consequences be damned.

I think my whole body is shaking as I stand there. I’m barely holding it together when I feel his hand on my shoulder. Don’t Leo… just don’t…

“Thank God.”

I can’t help but look up in my surprise and he’s standing there in front of me, a big wide smile on his face and something glinting in his eyes that makes my bones ache I’ve missed it so much.

Pride.

He wants me to go.

“They need you.”

I don’t mean to scoff, but I can’t help it. I know he’s trying to be nice and all, but we both know the truth. Know it all too well…

He’s suddenly got his arm around my shoulder, turning me to face our family. The white haze that separates us has grown thicker to the point that I can barely see them, but I still make out the general shapes. They’re at the lair now, in Don’s medical bay. Don’s standing over me as April—when did she get there?—hands him bandages and Casey watches from a distance. Mikey’s still holding my hand for dear life, tears falling on my skin as he sits beside me with Sensei’s arm draped over his shoulder.

The fear is so thick I can taste it.

“They need you, Raph.”

I want to believe him. I do. I know my family would miss me.

They shouldn’t. Not after I—

Casey would throw a fit. Mikey would cry. Don would wall himself away.

They should be thankful. I only cause trouble. I never listen. If I’d listened, Leo would still be—

April would square her shoulders and bare it for everyone’s sake. And Sensei would be left to pick up the pieces.

I didn’t mean to. I didn’t. I didn’t mean what I said. I swear. Leo, I swear I didn’t—

“Raph.”

His hand’s on my shoulder again, squeezing to get my attention. I just stare at him. Stare at his blue bandana. Stare at his green skin. Stare at those eyes that never stop worrying.

“I don’t need your orders.”

Not hurt or angry.

“I don’t need your leadership.”

Why aren’t they angry? They should be. I deserve it.

“I DON’T NEED YOU!”

What have I done?

I fall to my knees, my muscles all failing from the anguish now charging through me. How could I? Why did I want to hurt him so badly? He was just being protective big brother. Just being Leo. How could I… I…

I was just being me.

Just being…

Just let me be. Let me stay here. Let me stay with him.

“NO!”

His voice is almost shrill with fear, so much so it startles me into looking at him. He grabs my other shoulder so tightly, I nearly wince at the pressure.

“You can’t stay. You can’t. Please. I can’t stop you—I can’t make you go—but you have to! You have to!”

I’m still trying to form my reply when he takes me by the back of the head and touches his forehead to mine. I fall silent, leaning into the touch more than I ever have before.

“Please Raph, you have to understand. I want you here. I do. I want you to stay with me. I miss you more than I can…” He pauses, and I can hear the brokenness in his voice being forced to the back. “But they need you. You have to go back to them. Please. Please.”

I almost didn’t hear what he was saying ‘cause I’m so focused on the touch. His forehead against mine is such an unexpected comfort… I don’t want to think about anything else. I want to stay. I need to stay. I can’t leave him. Not again. Never again. I can’t—

But Mike and Don. I can’t leave them either. Can’t leave them alone to deal with everything—three months I’ve been out of it, I don’t even know how badly they’ve been hurtin’—I can’t leave ‘em. I can’t.

But Leo…

I can’t.

I…

“Raph!”

I look up and Leo’s glancing back at the picture of the others. It’s fading again, the picture washing out so much I can barely see anything. Mikey’s standing up—I think it’s Mikey—and shouting at me on the table. I ain’t seen him cry like that since the rooftop…

I must be fading. It’s now or never, I can feel it. Stay or go. Either way, I abandon a brother.

I don’t know what to do!

I know I’m of no use to them over there, Mike and Don are better off without me. But they’ll hurt… they’ll morn… and I can’t stand to see ‘em cry.

But Leo. I can’t. Leave. Leo.

He suddenly stands me up, his face hardened in resolution, looking to me as he steps aside. “Whatever you decide. I’m with you.”

I stare at the fading picture of my family huddled around me, holding my hands, shoutin’ for me to stay with ‘em, begging me to open my eyes.

And my feet don’t move.

I look to Leo—my leader, my elder, my brother—and I feel ashamed. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry!”

I can’t do it. I can’t…

And he just looks at me with those kind eyes again.

Kind and sad.

“I know.” His voice is so calm as he touches me on the shoulder. Always calm. Always in control.

I hate him.

I miss him.

I need him.

But I can’t stay.

I reach out and touch the picture of my family, a cold film—like brushing the surface of the lake out at the farmhouse—meets my hand. Suddenly there’s a pain in my chest, sharp and intense, like a blade cutting out my heart. I can’t help it, I fall to my knees clutching my torso and gasping for breath, staring at Leo.

Still here. Hasn’t left. Still here.

“It’s okay.” He whispers quietly, hand still on my shoulder as he kneels beside me. “Let me help.” He reaches out and touches the film, grabbing a handful in his fingers and tearing a chunk away. He flinches, his eyes pinching shut like they do when he’s fighting off a serious bout of pain and—

Connection. I don’t know why or how but I don’t care to ask because suddenly I can feel him. I can feel Leo. I hear his thoughts, I know his fears and desires, I feel his pain.

We’re connected. For this one brief moment I know my brother better than I ever did before. I know he’s hurting. I know he’s desperate for me to leave, to go back and protect our family.

I know he wishes more than anything that he could come with me.

The sting is intensifying with each passing second. It’s like bolts of electricity jolting from one nerve to next, setting my skin on fire. I reach out and pull at the film, tearing it away as Leo was, ripping it apart as best I can amidst the throbbing of my body.

I can see beyond the screen now. Nothing but darkness. Endless. Emtpy. And suddenly I’m terrified of it.

“Go Raph!” Leo shouts at me amidst his grunts of pain, trying his damnedest to keep this barrier at bay so I can squeeze through. “Quickly! You’re out of time!”

I know. I know! Now or never. Literally. But I look up at Leo—stare at those heavy shoulders and those eyes alight with fire and determination—and I can’t help but pause. Because I feel him. And I feel something I never thought I would in his mind.

Fear.

Afraid that I’m leaving.

Afraid that I won’t.

The pain is too much. “Leo—“

“RAPHAEL!”

Mikey. That was Mikey’s voice. Hurt and scared. I suck in as deep a breath as I can and turn to my older brother. To see him. To take him in.

One last time.

“I know you don’t need me.” He says before I can open my mouth. “You never got it, Raph.” My stomach churns. “That it’s not—“

“Leo,”

“That I need—“

“Wait,”

“Remember what I told you. That night. The last thing I said. Remember it. Please… never forget it.”

“ LEO!”

I let go.

My body slips through the barrier and the pain disappears. I’m floating in the darkness, my body practically weightless.

My eyes locked on Leo.

He lets go of the film, a huff of exhaustion blowing past his lips as he looks almost shocked that I actually made it through.  

He waves at me. Smiling. Tears running down his cheeks.

My heart is in my throat as part of me is suddenly panicking, clawing to go back and bring him with me. But the other half is just as desperate to get back home. Back to Sensei. Back to Casey and April.

Back to my brothers.

My skin is tingling.

Something warm washes through my body like a breeze of hot air, warming me inside and out. It’s comforting. I try to focus on it, focus on the warmth and ignore the dread. My stomach finally starts to settle as I breathe deep.

Another pain hits me, duller than before, more like the constant ache of a sore muscle. In my stomach this time. I go to reach for it, but my hand is like lead. I suck in a breath and steady myself—just like liftin’ weights—and force my hand to move. It’s slow, shaky, but does the job. I feel around my stomach—it feels different, smoother—till I come to something soft. Gauze, if I had to guess. Must be bandaged. No doubt the result of a sleepless night for—

“Raph?”

Don. I don’t need to see him to know he’s exhausted. His voice is as tired and weary as it always is when one of us is out of commission. And if he’s here, that means Mikey must be nearby.

“Raph!”

Right on cue. I can feel the others around me stir, gathering closer. Can feel Mikey squeeze my free hand tightly (can't see, but I know it’s him).

My heart feels like it’s beatin’ out of my chest, and it’s not because of the effort it’s taking to drag air into my lungs.

I’m scared. Scared to face them. After everything that’s happened… after everything I did.

“He told you not to go!”

And they don’t even know everything. They weren’t there. They didn’t see…

I should tell them. Everything. But if I do they’ll know it was me. They’ll know it was my fault. That none of this would have happened if I’d been paying attention. And I can’t handle having them look at me like that.

“You owe us for getting our brother killed!”

It feels like there’s a cinderblock on my chest. I try to speak, to tell them what happened—I swear I do—but the words just won’t come out.

“It’s okay, bro.” Mikey’s wrapping his other hand around mine and gripping tight, his voice as steady as a rock. “You’re home and safe and that’s all that matters right now.”

Mikey and his insight, I swear. “Mike…”

“We can talk when you’re feeling better.”

I’m still trying to figure out how in the hell he knew when I’m steamrolled by a headache. I flinch as I feel exhaustion overpower my senses. Still can’t open my eyes. The fatigue is growing with each passing second, and I suddenly don’t know why I’m fighting it.

“Rest, Raphael. “

Sensei’s voice is like a breath of fresh air. It feels like I haven’t heard him talk in months. Maybe I haven’t. Can’t remember… but damn it’s good to hear it now. And he sure doesn’t have to tell me twice, I don’t think it’s a minute before my body relaxes and I’m out like a light.

Last thing I remember is Sensei placing a hand on my chest and leaning in to whisper in my ear. “Yoku nemuru, my son.”

And after three months of running, I’m finally home.  

~*~*~*~*~*~ Previous < - > Next Masterpost

See, I told you we'd find comfort eventually.

Comments/Critiques are always welcome.

End of Line.

-TRAaP

[reservoirreputation]

Teaser for my ResDogs fic, posting on AO3 10/1

Title: 'Birds in the Spider’s Nest' (end of chapter one)

tags for the teaser: canon typical violence, canon typical language, implied child abuse

1974

Vic Vega is led into a nice office, where two men already sit. Spotting him being escorted by the henchman, they both stand. The man behind the desk is the infamous Joe Cabot, and, if Vic plays his cards right, his future boss. The guy is tall, imposing, reminds him a bit of a bulldog. The guy in front of the desk, next to the empty chair meant for Vic, seems to be the complete opposite; he’s quite short, but stocky. Much younger than the big guy, and actually looks quite kind. Vic notes to watch his back around this one; kindness was always an ominous sign, as far as he’s concerned.

Joe gestures for him to sit, then gives his attempt at a smile, “Mr. Vega. You come highly recommended. Your brother has nothing but good things to say.”

“A miracle, really.” is his dry reply, because Vic and his brother rarely get along.

“Maybe he thinks you’re qualified, maybe he just wants you to get some work and fail miserably. Either way,” he looks up and down at Vic’s imposing height, “You’ve got potential. You interested in interning?”

It’s the most exciting thing to happen to Vic in years, “Sure.”

“This here’s Larry Dimmick.” The man to Vic’s left gives a polite nod, a slight smile, like he knows he’s gotta handle him with kid gloves, “He’ll be your mentor.”

The first week of on-the-job training is interesting, to say the least. The first day was nothing but talking and driving, meeting some people in very public places, making small talk while Vic waited in the car with the windows rolled down. The next two days involved even more driving, but with Dimmick going into various buildings; houses, apartments, small businesses. Again, Vic not allowed anywhere near the conversations. Day four of being on his best behavior, Dimmick looks over and says, “If you can keep your mouth shut you can tag along for the next meeting.”

Vic doesn’t respond with anything more than a nod.

‘Meeting’ turned out to be a shake down, with some associate being behind on payments. Three months worth. Vic could feel dread build in the pit of his stomach, but still wears his best poker face. He’s been pretending he doesn’t give a fuck about any awful thing since he was ten, this would be no different. So, when Dimmick and another heavy grab the bastard’s arm, smacking his hand on a flat surface, he’s expecting to see broken fingers. When Dimmick gets out a knife, instead, Vic can’t help but look away.

The sound of steel cutting through flesh and bone will haunt him just as much as the man’s screams.

As the weeks wear on, Vic’s exposed to more of the inner workings of the business. He meets various employees, most of whom are very out of the loop about Joe’s activities. It’s a silent lesson; the people around you only know as much as you allow them to. The debt collectors don’t need to know the same things as the accountants, despite how connected the two are. The wholesalers don’t need to know everything about the dealers, and they’re meeting one such of the latter, right now.

Larry’s a protective sort, despite being much shorter than Vic. Every new face Vic comes across, Larry insists on leading, physically keeping Vic behind him. So, when they meet a pot dealer named Matty, also a short fuck, Vic just feels like an overgrown freak.

Larry doesn’t quite like Matty. That much is obvious. Later on, Larry will say to him that not many people do, because Matty’s a bit of a screwup. The initial meeting, though, the guy seems quite nice.

The dope dealer is about Larry’s age, maybe younger. He has light brown hair, a thin face. Skin is freckled and pale, and eyes a striking green. He wears jeans ripped at the knees, a loose t-shirt and an even bigger plaid button-up over this, like the guy’s permanently wearing someone else’s clothes. He stinks a bit of pot, but of the good stuff. His expression is tired, like he doesn’t get enough sleep. Like he doesn’t get enough of anything. Where Larry comes across as being in control, Matty seems like he’s just along for the ride. Vic can’t help but see part of himself in the dealer, the kind of instant connection when you see someone who’s the same kind of fucked up as yourself.

[hubbery]

Meeting Juelie

Title:  Meeting Juelie Character(s): Juelie Yseone, Kikass Wosley, Glynne Cacein (Mentioned) POV Character(s): Kikass Wosley POV: Second Person, Past Tense Originally written in 2018.

"It's a murder." "Like death?" "No, like the winged beasts that flap about in the air. Feathered, black plumage with beaks orange-yellow like nails." There isn't any bite to your explanation. "Crows," you repeat. Your bones are weary and your shoes uncharacteristically heavy in the way they can only be when you've been working too long. You clear your throat to continue and your voice is echoed by a shrill caw. "The body has been here long enough for them to get a bit of meat in their beaks, and I can't say I blame them."

You're looking at another barebones, countryside crime for the record, and with the smashed teeth of your <John Doe> and the lack of a face you're probably going to have to call this one quits or haul it in.

Of course, you weren't acquainted with Juelie then, who'd been called in on your case in what you assume to be some attempt at efficient bureaucracy. The first thing you noticed was her height, tense posture, and the neutrality of her face. You wouldn't have expected her to be capable of laughter back then, called to fix as many people's messes as she was. She did her job, provided her professional opinion, and on occasion (and by that you mean more often than expected) provided more assistance than was strictly necessary. Her skills were questionable in origin but not in execution, and you made it your business not to pry. You suppose this is why you got along as well as you did.

You remember you didn't get along with Juelie so great when you were ribbing her at work. She was a few sweeps and a head or two taller than you, and she reminded you of a willow with her gangly limbs and slightly hunched appearance. You learned later that the curvature of her spine was work related rather than the fault of genetics, and you kept your mouth shut once you realized how much larger she was in a room when she stood up straight. You're lucky she found you strangely endearing by trying to start some kind of camaraderie rather than the nuisance you know you must have been.

You think the first time she spoke to you of her own accord was over a stack of paperwork as thick as your hand was wide. "It's a wonder," she said while depositing the stack on your desk like the waste of ink and foliage it was, "that they always give those that are competent work that wastes their talent." You thought she was speaking in generalities when she left, hair flowing behind her on her way out the door. You didn't realize until hours into your own shift that she was talking about you, and you don't know if it's such a bad thing that you agree with her.

That was probably where your problem with her started if you're going to be honest with yourself. You're definitely not flushed for her, and you're so close to pale it's painful—the word friend tastes so foreign in your mouth it's a wonder you have any. She tells you one day over some poor sods corpse that she doesn't have any friends. She's squatted in a patch of gravel, lines slowly growing more permanent in those red splashes of color she calls shoes, glasses pressing indentations into the bridge of her nose she'll complain about later. You don't agree with her assessment, and for the first time since you met her you've finally found something to disagree about. The feeling that gives you is an odd, indecipherable swirl in the pit of your stomach that gives you a serious pause to the words about to come out of your mouth. You make it your business to pry.

You like to think you've come better acquainted with Juelie over the perigees, but she continues to shock you with her quiet dedication to being herself. She doesn't have the air about her you'd expect from someone of her blood, and gods it took you far too long to get the lowdown on what in hells her blood was. 

You were working over some stiff together when she'd rolled up her starched white sleeves in preparation for a close examination. She never wore short sleeves, and in a moment you got all you needed to know about why. She wasn't thin as you'd initially thought, for one. You knew she was strong before you got a glimpse of the hell that was her left arm, and the stuttering click that left your throat in an expression of anxiety only gets you the slightest glance from the corner of Juelie’s eye. 

The gal has scars twisting up her arm something wicked, and on her wrist is the puckered, purplish, bruising shape of what to you is clearly a bite mark. The edges are lined like teeth and the skin raised like newly healed tissue, and you avert your eyes before she catches you staring. You kind of fucking hate her for having so much going on in her life that you don't know about, but to have gone through all that without bragging?

She was smarter than you gave her credit for. 

You think it's been almost a sweep of you knowing her when you finally pop the question. You're sitting on the corner of your desk with your mug in your hand and she's leaning against the threshold of your door like she isn't almost too tall for it, head ducked out of necessity and to savor the drink pressed to her lips. 

“Yseone,” you clear your throat, suddenly struck with a sense of uncertainty. 

She pauses and raises her eyes to meet yours, back straightening and mug lowering as she directs on you her full attention. You feel small and monumentally stupid all at once until she opens her mouth to address you, and you remember the troll you're talking to doesn't have the fangs to tear open your throat. You're surprisingly focused on how flat her teeth are. 

“Yes?” She doesn't sound as if she's nervous about being asked something out of the blue. You're too busy fussing with your collar to think too much about her reaction.

You learned about her moirail a time after she'd become a regular fixture at your desk, the same mug in her fingers filled with your coffee just how you liked it. You didn't know how she'd figured that part out, and she didn't tell you when you asked.

“Are we friends?”

“Funny,” she smiles. “I was just asking myself the same thing.” 

You're shocked when she laughs, her eyes lighting up with mirth that's as alien to you as the brightness of her face or the fact she has the ability to smile. You hide your own smile behind your mug and a steady stream of breakroom coffee, pleased.

[littlefreya]

The Big Bad Wolf

Summary: If there is anything August enjoys it’s breaking those who resist him. Now trapped in his little cage, the little bird has no where to fly to.

Prompt:

I always found the idea funny of August breaking a strong girl. similar to Ingvild. but like she is one of his strongest Apostels and fights by his side. She's unstoppable but August just looks at her and is like 'yep this girl definitely got some issues lets tell her she's our good girl and make her kneel'

Pairing: August Walker x Original Female Character (3rd person pov)

Word count: 1.7K

Warnings: 18+, abuse of power, rough cage fucking, hatesex, unprotected sex, hinted breeding, risky creampie, possessive behaviour. On the safe side it’s borderline dub-con.

A/N: Got inspired by the prompt and by watching Mi6 for the 700th time. That scene gave me ideas and look where we are today. Many thanks to my love @agniavateira​ for beating my work.

Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed. Your feedback is my fuel. 🖤

Title: The Big Bad Wolf

August Walker admires a good challenge mainly because he always gets what he wants, either by the sweetness of his maw or the sharpness of his fangs. This time, the presented game at hand is indeed a fine one to be played: a woman so hateful, her blazing glare makes smouldering coals gather in the sour pit of his gut. 

He calls her the ‘Spawn of Lilith.’ Nothing but another entitled little brat. She forgets who she works for, but he would be there to give her a keen reminder. Hell, he is going to catch up with her, and when he does, it’s going to hurt. 

Even if it means he’ll have to char the flesh right off her bones. 

And so, he lurks in the shadows like an incubus. Watching, waiting for the moment when they are completely alone in the Apostles’ little underground hideout—a hidden cavern dug into onyx iron rocks and smooth oceanic minerals somewhere over the bleak Irish sea.

Even alone, she walks about as if she is the queen of his unnamed kingdom, her icy exterior growing icicles at the ceiling of the claustrophobic chamber while August seethes beneath his skin. Holding himself around her for months has been hard in many ways yet tonight, the opportunity presents itself like a gift wrapped up in a red little bow; his little glacier of a woman has literally walked herself into a trap. 

Unaware of August’s presence, she stands inside the cage where they store their ammunition and equipment. Too busy running through logistics, she doesn’t hear the careful footsteps that wander to join her inside.

When the metal bars rattle and slam behind her she almost gives out a squeal. Dropping the chart and her pen, she throws her head over her shoulder and immediately rolls her eyes. There he is again, that fucker, leaning against the shut door with his hands behind his lower back and a mist of lust clouding his furrowed gaze. 

She knew this day would come. She felt the way he covets her; perhaps in her most forbidden, unspoken dreams, she summoned him too. She hates everything about this and more than anything, she hates herself for the sweat gathering between her thighs.

August Walker, the shaggy canine beast. His eyes flare like volcanic stones as they wander languidly, while the tip of his serpentine tongue slithers across his lips. She swears she can see saliva dripping down his dimpled chin while he takes her in as if she was some forbidden delight. 

He would devour her alive, rip, tear, and swallow the remnants of her bones and then use one of her ribs to pick his teeth clean.

“Are you going to make this harder than it already is?” He asks, voice as calm as a fucking bomb.

Without batting an eyelash she shifts her posture, crossing her arms together and clenching her jaw. “The fuck do you want, Lark?”

“Hmm,” he groans softly and moves himself from the gate, long confident strides bringing him closer to his object of desire. He circles her for a moment, inhaling sharply as if he can smell the dew between her inner thighs. 

“You know what I want kitten,” he responds with a pause, pushing his tongue between his teeth, his glare fixed on her groin. “Bend over.”

“No.” 

With a spiteful smirk smearing her lips, she turns away from him—a costly mistake. Before she manages to return to her task, August's large claw clutches her shoulder, slamming her against the bars. His foot kicks her legs apart while he nuzzles her temple and huffs like a ravenous animal.

In her despair she whimpers, both out of protest and the undeniable desire to be fucked selfishly by a very dangerous, bad man.

“You’re saying no to me? I own this whole operation. That means, I fucking own you. And I take what’s mine whenever the fuck I want.”

Hanging onto the cold bars, she swallows the lump in her throat and closes her eyes. Her hatred toward him knows no bounds but her body is poisoned by the type of yearning only demonic possession can explain. It taints her with self-loathing, though if there’s anything that August taught, it’s that desire always triumphs above logic and reason.

It won’t do her any good to resist him anyway. 

Body arching, she sticks her ass against his rigid bulge, grinding back and forth. Fuck, she could swear he is harder than the iron in her grip. Her cunt already milks at nothing in preparation for the softness of his flesh and the thought of its warmth ploughing her open.

“Get it over with, porn ‘stache!” She spits.  

His growl clatters the bars like the tail of a rattlesnake. Unceremonious, he forces her trousers and panties down to expose her ass while urgently fumbling with his belt. The sound of the buckle clicking behind her sets ripples of need down her soaking mound. Lungs shrinking, she twists her sweaty palms around the bars and gasps, waiting to feel him stuff her with his huge cock.

August spits on his fingers, briefly lubricating himself before he parts her cheeks and penetrates her tight little slit with a loud grunt.

“Fuck!!!” They scream in unison, stilling and leaning against one another with the astonishment of two bodies mingling into one. This carnal function is beyond their sentiments and despise of each other. Pulsating heat, desire, and barbaric friction reduce them to nothing but primitive beings, grinding against one another in search of both heaven and hell.  

‘Oh, baby, hell is a place on earth.’

Like a wolf in a gentleman’s clothing, August reveals his true savagery. The elegant suit and slick haircut are but a mask of phantasm to the bloodthirsty animal that dwells beneath the surface. Wrapping a hand around hers, he holds her in place and begins rutting fast and hard, revelling in the screams and helpless sobs sputtering from her lips as his cock forces her to stretch. Every thrust further expands her for him, forcing her to become his vessel. With August’s girth pulsating inside her lonely crease, she is stripped of the remaining tendrils of resistance. Sooner than imagined, she is swaying along, moving to accept every inch like a wanton slut. 

Oddly enough, he is anything but the lame fuck she believed him to be.

“Lark,” she chants breathless, “harder!”

August chuckles at her pleas and slams his hips into her trembling ass. “Not such a cold bitch now, aren’t you?” He rasps, bottoming in, reaching a spot inside her so sensitive, tears follow from her eyes.

“You like this, huh? Like it when the big bad fucks you? I can feel your hot pussy clenching around me as if your life depends on it, swallowing my cock like a desperate little whore.”

Her answers are pitiful moans, her hands sliding lower on the sweat-slicked metal. The war to remain strong and agile falters as August rails her body the way a predator shakes its prey in order to stun it. At this moment she is heedless, surrendering to the carnal needs of a man who’d take the same pleasure in killing her as much as screwing her. 

“You are mine now, you understand?” Increasing the pace into a punishing rhythm, he reaches one hand to grab her neck, squeezing and leaning her head against his chin. “I’ll take this from you whenever and wherever I want. Maybe even put a little collar around that neck of yours to mark you.”

The cage suddenly feels smaller than it is—flesh and iron close all around her, August consumes and inhabits every pore of her skin.

“No...” she mumbles, but her voice breaks into a peal of shuddering gasps as August shifts to bounce her vigorously onto his swelling lust, proving a point of who’s in charge. The familiar symphony of senses begins to quickly swim through the base of her loins, spreading like colourful heat as he buries himself so deep she can feel him in every inch of her soul. 

Drowned in a mist of pure delirium, his name spills from her lips. She sends her hand to the back of his head and crashes like the waves that collapse on the rocks outside. Her treacherous womb draws August near, her pulsating canal threatening to make him one with her body. 

Although he planned to pull out, his hips falter and he pushes himself the deepest he can. The aching tip of his cock kisses at the wall of her womb and empties himself, hot and thick with a shuddering grunt. Hand clutched around her belly, he holds himself deep, huffing against her hair until his milky seed begins seeping out from around his cock and trickles down her shuddering thighs.

“Fuck, I needed that.” August pants. He leans to kiss the back of her head and then nudges his nose into her scalp like some sick animal. The scent of her lavender shampoo, sea mist, and acrid sweat pervade his nostrils; he inhales further the sweet aroma of victory when a sudden dry blow hits him in the abdomen. 

“I fucking hate you, you fucking dog!” She hisses, forcing him to pull out with an amused, taunting chuckle. His steel-blue eyes fall on the battered hole between her legs, feeling proud as his thick semen oozes out before she pulls her pants back on. She turns to look at him with whispering embers for eyes.

Tucking himself back into his trousers, August follows her with his gaze, watching how she scampers for the gate and battles with the handle to escape this prison of disgrace.  

“Better get some rest, pet. I’ll come for more later tonight,” he calls toward her with a promise as he rolls himself against the metal rods and sighs.

Finally managing to free herself, the door opens with a loud screech. She means to flap her wings and fly but then pauses and throws August a spiteful glance. The grin spreading on his face seems almost endearing, his large dimples deep and his cobalt eyes shining like a child’s who just got a puppy for Christmas. 

“Don’t worry,” he chimes, exposing those big white fangs. “I will bite.”

[bang-fantansies]

Yandere! God Profile - Taehyung

Human Amongst Gods [TEASER] - upcoming fic

Warnings: Suicidal! Taehyung, suicide attempt, mentions of anxiety, mentions of emotional numbness, mentions of death, mentions of afterlife, extreme isolation and loneliness, mythical creatures (imps).

I did my best to include any triggering topics mentioned in this post, but if you see any more potentially sensitive topics I may have missed, please let me know!

This does not represent Bangtan as people or a business, nor does it represent anyone/anything associated with them. This is purely fictional and was made for entertainment purposes only; not to slander anyone or any company.

Name: Kim Taehyung Occupation: God of Death

Taehyung had never had a life, so to speak.

On the contrary, he’d only ever known the fringes of it - the last whisper it would emit before being snuffed out. By him.

So was his purpose as he was hailed as the God of Death.

A title that comes with great power, Taehyung would soon discover.

But with such great power comes an even greater loneliness.

After all, most other gods from galaxies over knew of his reputation, and how to stay away from him if they wished to avoid an untimely death at the simple touch of his hands.

The same for mortals, he’d found.

Day in and day out, he’d sit at the sides of thousands of mortals, watching their soul drain from their body and take his arm as he guided them to their destination.

And every time he did so, he’d feel a sense of malice spike in the back of his mind.

He knew that mortals were released from their duty to wander the Universe a lost soul.

So why not him?

Or, at least, a companion to travel without him: to smile at him without fear in their eyes, to touch him without their body trembling.

But such a fantasy had never come to pass.

Not yet, at least.

And after being exiled from most areas of the Universe for all his life, Taehyung had accepted his fate as a dealer of death. The responsibility of cataloguing and distributing death throughout the Universe was a mighty job, after all.

So much so that he’d employed underlings - impish little beings - to bear the brunt of the work for him.

To release and record all the souls they’d freed that day.

And when all was said and done and his office imps went home for the day, he realised something.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Even his subordinates had families and homes to go to, but he had nothing.

He just existed for the convenience of the Universe - to maintain the balance that allowed it to live on.

And so here he stood - before a window of a wall overlooking an empty planet he inhabited and used for his work.

The land was filled with office buildings identical to his own, stretching as far as the eye could see; a field of concrete.

Each building housed a thousand or so imps, all working to keep up with the ever-increasing demand of death records that required filing and uploading to the System.

And Taehyung looked upon them as he would his own children.

They were the only company he had. And even then his workers had never actually seen him, for he spent his days cooped up in his office or out harvesting lives.

This was for their benefit, of course. Hellish creatures like them were not immune to Taehyung’s touch.

No-one was.

Taehyung’s reflection gazed back at him, the buildings taking a backseat as it came to focus on the stranger before him.

With so little experience and so little identity, would the Universe really collapse without his effort?

Would anything change if he were to...disappear?

Taehyung oftentimes found himself wondering such a concept in the few spare minutes the day held for him, but before a decision could come to fruition, he was called say to a far-off galaxy to harvest the lives of the ready-to-depart.

Taehyung bit his lip and glanced back into the confines of his office.

Red carpet, four walls of sheer darkness, all glass yet revealing nothing but darkness.

There were no achievements to be held on shelves or written in history books.

The only thing to be written in books about Taehyung were the deaths he’d orchestrated and recorded himself.

He literally had nothing to show for his life, despite having existed for many thousands of years.

Taehyung stuck one hand in a pocket of his suit, raising his other before the glass and making a swiping motion before it.

The glass vanished, simply fading from existence, allowing the frozen winds of Taehyung’s planet to invade the office.

Eyes half-lidded, taehyung peered over the edge.

Nothing but a straight drop for miles.

Taehyung knew what death entailed for mortals, but for gods, he had no idea.

No god had ever shown signs of having reached another place after death, which was a good incentive for other gods to avoid Taehyung.

The fear of the unknown bound them to their current existence, making them claw at any chance of survival they could reach when faced with dire circumstances.

With this in mind, Taehyung continued to lean over the ledge, gazing down into the pits of the desolate city.

The promises of the cycle of isolation his life had been urged him further.

He took a step forward, tips of his shoes peaking over the ledge.

He could feel the cold intensely, for it pierced his jacket, almost as if trying to push him back into his office.

“You had your chance. Now I get to decide who lives and who dies.”

His voice was carried by the wind, the high altitude ensuring that the message would reach no-one, to become a mere footnote in the grand scheme of things.

A final word to those that had pushed him away - forced him into his own corner and expected him to survive.

A particularly harsh blast of wind made him wobble, though he made an effort to try and keep his balance.

The numbness that came with his profession was lightly pierced by doubt, a flash of anxiety.

The most primal part of him knew this wasn’t the answer to his problems. With any luck, he’d simply become part of the darkness from which he had been plucked to begin with if he actually went through with this.

But even that had to be better than a lifetime of isolation, right?

On shaky legs, Taehyung inched over the edge, keeping his heels firmly planted in the carpet of his office.

He willed his eyes shut, the combination of the iced winds and the anticipation of falling made them flicker - fight - to stay open.

“It’s all over now,” he promised. “No need to fear.”

His own assurances eased his nerves, giving him the last push he’d need to right the wrongs his existence had brought.

The world slowed, Taehyung forcing a leg forwards to hover over the edge.

The frost nipped at his exposed skin as the leg of his trousers could do little to battle the winds.

His balance loosened, causing him to sway back and forth with the grace of an antique rocking horse.

He was so close to freedom.

He could feel himself lighten as the weight of worlds dropped from his shoulders.

But solice was not meant for him.

Not like this.

Behind him, his phone chimed.

It was not the same sound he’d hear when he was notified of another death.

No, this was the unfamiliar tinkling of a bell: a stark contrast to the melancholy hum he’d installed when he was to be called to work.

His ears pricked, so finely tuned to the sound of a knell that this fresh noise frightened him, almost tipping him over the edge.

A quiet part of him begged him to check what it was - anything to get away from the ledge.

The much larger, number half barked at him to hold his ground, stick to his guns and just get this whole ordeal over with.

He knew who to listen to - he knew when he saw the notification he’d find a reason not to carry out his plan.

And despite knowing nothing of the notification or its nature, Taehyung hesitated.

It would be a shame to die a curious man, he thought.

Besides, it was probably nothing important. Then he could spend an eternity in peace without wondering what this sound could mean.

Taehyung brought his leg back in, stumbling away from the ledge.

The prick of anxiety he’d experienced before quietened yet stayed at his side, an accomplice to his survival.

He left the window open, however.

Sighing, he shuffled over to his desk - a deep and dark mahogany - and died his phone lying dead-centre.

With Taehyung’s presence near, thy e screen aprung to action, displaying a notification.

It was a message. Sent from an unknown number.

Taehyung arched an eyebrow and brought the phone close to his face, unlocking it and opening his messages.

His contact list was barren save for this mystery caller.

Aware of this, he had adopted the presumption that it was a nuisance caller.

Though who dared to play jokes on such a deadly force as himself, Taehyung had no idea who would have the balls to even come up with such an idea.

And he checked.

He wanted to know who had jested him before his demise.

The message was blunt, void of courtesy, yet held a string of salvation for Taehyung.

There is another way.

Taehyung glanced over his shoulder and out to the sea of buildings .

Had someone seen him?

It wouldn’t be a surprise considering some of the imps were bound to still be at work, though Taehyung’s office was so far above the clouds that he’d assumed no-one would have spotted him.

I can only hope that I’m not too late.

I can help you.

Attached to the second message was a picture of a woman, a halo hanging above her head like a target.

Taehyung’s eyes widened, his breath short.

Pale fingers fumbled for his tie, pulling it loose while he observed the picture further.

He knew that halo.

He’d seen only one other like it in his many thousands of years of life, and even then it wasn’t glowing with life.

It had been while he was visiting a museum dedicated to gods past, and such a relic had appeared in a heavily-guarded display case.

Without its owner to wear it, it was neither as vibrant nor as beautiful as it lay on a satin pillow, merely resembling a circle of bone rather than an ethereal object.

But it’s brilliance enraptured him all the same.

He’d believed it a fable - a legend created to keep him tame and willing to do his job.

A legend of a soul who could withstand Taehyung’s killing touch.

And here he was, seeing it for a second time, in action.

Interested?

Taehyung found himself pausing.

This could just be a trick, he told himself.

But...what if it wasn’t fake?

He requested proof that the image was real.

The response was clear cut and blunt.

I can take you to her.

Taehyung glanced over his shoulder again, paranoia projecting shadows in the corners of his vision.

Still, nothing but the open window.

He glanced back down at his phone.

What did he have to lose?

All right.

Take me to her.

I will. The stranger typed.

But first, I need you to do something for me.

I don’t own the pictures used in the moodboard, but I edited the moodboard myself.

[katelyn--renee]

Composure

Title: Composure

Fandom: Supernatural

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reader/(Y/N) Winchester (mentioned), Harper Winchester (OC, mentioned), Daniel Winchester (OC, mentioned), Crowley (mentioned)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Wife!Reader

Words: ±2670

Description: Dean and (Y/N) take their shot at a normal life and settle down. Over the years, they have a few kids. Things are good. Until they’re not. What will Dean do when his past comes back to put an end to his happily ever after?

Written For: @deanwanddamons ​ 2K Celebration! Congratulations babe! That’s awesome! My prompt will be in bold -  “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

Warnings: ANGST! Descriptions of blood. Mentions of breaking and entering. Kidnaping. Show level violence/outbursts of anger. 

Author’s Note: This is in correlation with another fic of mine, Sweet Cherry Pie. It takes place about twelve to thirteen years after that one, to give you a brief timeline. There will be other fics with that original storyline, so stay tuned.

Thank you so much to @wonder-cole​ for being my beta for this wonderful piece and helping me with the title. You’re awesome and much appreciated! She has some amazing work of her own, so please do yourself a favor and check it out! Check out @talesmaniac89​ for more awesome page dividers!!

Disclaimer: I do not own any photos or gifs, all rights go to original creators/owners.

Interested in more of my work, check out the link below.

Masterlist

The rain was heavy tonight, thick and angry as it poured from the dark clouds above. The fat raindrops were noisy against the single paned windows. The water coated the glass surface and made it impossible to see through, even as the flashes of lightning lit up the night sky and cast long shadows through the living room of 35 Maplewood Road. There was a heaviness surrounding the house, as if something wicked had been there.

The home was dark and empty, and the furniture was overturned and broken in places; the sofa was thrown over backwards, the cushions laying discarded across the floor with the end table toppled over beside it. The lamp that had occupied its surface was shattered to pieces on the wooden floor, and the rug had been stained with something dark and red. 

The coffee table was shoved out of place, the glass surface no longer there in one piece and the mirror that hung in the hallway had a spider web like crack across the surface, hanging now only by one screw. In the very center of the crack, something crimson and shiny caught the lighting from outside, almost as if someone’s skull had been smashed there.

The familiar idling of Baby’s engine grew louder as Dean pulled in the driveway of his home, the brakes squealing as he came to a stop and put the Chevy into park. A feeling of dread began to knot into his stomach, making the muscles of his jaw flex as he tried to bite back the feeling. Something was wrong; all those years of hunting and honing his instincts told him that much. Not a single light was on inside of the home and yet, (Y/N)’s car was parked out front. Not good.

Dean fished his phone from his jacket and swiftly unlocked the screen with a swipe of his thumb across the glass, dialing the number he knew so well. Pressing the receiver to his ear, he waited while the call rang out once... twice… “Come on, (Y/N/N).” He muttered under his breath as the fifth tone sounded. Her voice greeted his ear, but it was artificial; the recording of her voicemail, Hi, you’ve reached (Y/N)... 

“Damn it.” He cursed between gritted teeth and ended the call. He tried again, pressing redial. “Come on, baby, answer your damn phone!” He shut his eyes when he got the same results as before, cursing to himself as he shoved the device back into his pocket.

Never taking his eyes off the front of the house, he leaned over for the glove box and swiftly unlatched the compartment door, just as he’d done a million times before. Green eyes continued to scan for any signs of movement, even through the thick wall of rain that coated the windshield, despite the efforts of the wiper blades. 

Reaching a steady hand inside, he pulled out a pocket sized flashlight and his beloved stainless steel Colt, the engraving on the barrel catching the lightning as it bolted across the sky. Expertly, he removed the clip with a press of his thumb and double checked the bullets inside before sliding it back into the place, securing it with another click. It’d been years since he’d held the weapon, but the pearl coated handle felt just as natural as breathing against his palm.

Leaving the Impala’s engine running, Dean climbed out from behind the wheel and shut the door, the hinges creaking with age. Clicking on the flashlight, he approached the home with long, yet cautious strides, his booted feet silent in his approach, even through the heavy rain. 

His mind was racing with every terrible possibility, his guilt threatening to eat him alive as images of his family, in the worst possible outcome, flashed before his eyes. It made his blood run cold. His heart was pounding rapidly with fear, pushing the adrenaline through his veins and forcing him to move forward rather than let the panic overwhelm him.

He tried to peer inside the living room through the set of windows lining the front of the house, but it did little to ease his uncertainty; if anything, it only made it worse, only able to make out long shadows and dark shapes. His clothes were completely soaked through, hugging his large frame by the time he’d reached the front porch, the coolness of the rain chilling him to the bone. Droplets of water dripped down his face and the tip of his nose, and his hair clung against his forehead.

Approaching the large red door, his scowl only deepened, darkening his features when he discovered that it had been left unlatched, allowing in a single beam of light with each flash from the storm overhead. He glared at the lock and then narrowed his eyes as something caught his attention, the muscles there twitching. Stretching a hand out, he examined the wooden surface, his fingertips grazing over the chipped paint and splintered wood. Someone had broken in.

Taking only a moment to compose himself, Dean exhaled slowly and swallowed back his apprehension, forcing himself to go on. Using the weight of his body, he nudged the door open cautiously and poked his head inside. The experienced hunter kept his gun aimed high and at the ready, his finger hovering over the trigger. Wrist over wrist, Dean held the flashlight steady with the opposite hand, the beam unmoving, providing him with some light through the darkness.

All of those years of training were put to the test as he stepped through the threshold of his home, his expression as hard as stone and giving away absolutely nothing, despite the fear that was boiling just beneath the surface. His eyes darted around the room, following the beam of his flashlight, taking in every detail of his surroundings just as he’d been taught all those years ago.

Following the layout of the house, Dean came to the living room first, stepping over the broken furniture and discarded decorations. The sight of his home in this state made him uneasy and that much harder to keep his cool, able to sense the panic starting to creep in. Where was (Y/N)? Where were the kids? Who had done this to his family? Was it revenge?

Another flash of lightning caused something slick and shiny to catch his eye, and Dean let out a shaky breath. Hesitating for only a moment, he crossed the room and crouched down next to the sofa to investigate, the troubling sight seized his heart. There was a substantial amount of blood there, a large pool of crimson that had soaked into the fibers of the rug. 

Near the top of the stain, a gold chain necklace was lost within the mess and a thin layer of another substance was scattered around it. It was almost yellow in color and had a very distinct, very specific scent that accompanied it. Touching the surface of the floor next to the stain, Dean felt something grainy under his finger tips. Lifting it to his nose, the smell of sulfur invaded his senses. Demons.

“Fuck,” He cursed, the boom of the thunder shaking his house as it lit up his face simultaneously. Still crouched, he plucked the necklace out of the sticky crimson mess and glared at the amulet with a heavy gaze, his hand shaking. He shut his eyes and closed his fingers into a fist, the knuckles turning white around the piece of jewelry. It belonged to (Y/N). It had been a gift, a charm to ward off evil and prevent possession.

This was all his fault. He should have known better. Hell, he did know better and yet, he ignored it, because he had a chance to finally be happy. To have an actual family and live the normal, apple pie life he’d always wanted. And now the ones he loved were missing and more than likely dead. Or probably close to it.

His chin quivered for a moment and hot tears stung at the corners of his eyes, his emotions getting the better of him. How could he let this happen? How could he be so stupid and reckless? He knew better, damn it! Once a hunter, always a hunter. There is no getting out of the life, not entirely, because those evil sons-of-bitches will always be out there. 

One way or another, they always find a way to catch back up to any hunter who has tried, and every single time it ends bloody and messy and violent. He needed to find them, he just had to. And he would save them, no matter what it cost. He’d pay it.

Releasing a heavy breath, he opened his eyes and willed the tears away, shoving the emotions back down into the pit of his soul. Despite his efforts, a solitary tear made it’s escape, dripping down his left cheek and onto the color of his shirt before he could stop it.

Dean rose to his full height and squared his shoulders, prepared to continue his search. Sliding the necklace into his jacket pocket with care, he followed the trail into the hall with a heavy heart. 

Glass cracked and snapped under his boots as he walked through the space, his jaw flexing when he saw the picture of his family shattered on the floor. Their happy faces only added to his grieving heart and guilty conscious, their smiles making his soul ache.

That had been a good day, nearly five years ago now; (Y/N) had worn his favorite blue dress that day, the strapless one that stopped right above her knees and showed off her sexy legs. 

She had on that silly - but achingly cute - oversized tan hat that kept the sun from her eyes. He would always tease her about that goofy hat, but she never cared what others thought of her, never ceasing to be herself, no matter what.

They’d gone to the park that day, had an actual picnic and he’d played catch with his son while the girls giggled and painted their nails...  They even taught the twins how to ride their bikes that day. They couldn’t have been more than seven years old.

Harper had caught on much quicker than her brother, of course, taking after her mother in that way. Those girls were naturals at almost everything they did, only needing to try something a few times before perfecting it. That had been something he’d adored and admired about his wife and it was a huge part of what made her such a skilled hunter when they met.

Daniel, on the other hand, had to take the time to understand how something worked first. He needed to study the mechanics of things, take them apart, rebuild and understand it completely, inside and out, before he was able to master it. Danny often reminded Dean of the Winchester side of the family. That had been a good day, one of many they’d shared together.

Brought out of his memories by another angry boom from outside, Dean pressed on. Where the picture had once hung, there was a bloody handprint smeared on the white wall, the two colors contrasting greatly. 

The blood streaked out toward the kitchen, giving the hunter a clear path to follow. Damn it. Dean grit his teeth. It felt as if something had his heart in a vice, squeezing it tighter and making it increasingly difficult to breathe the further he went.

His emotions were threatening to break through the surface again, fighting hard against his resolve, but he held his ground against them, purely focused on finding his loved ones. Now was not the time to break down. Following the trail of blood and debris, he checked each room along the way, trying to be as thorough as possible. He couldn’t afford to miss a damn thing. 

Their bedrooms were empty, and unsurprisingly, every inch had been torn apart. Dean’s chest heaved with emotion, his breath hitching in his throat; if anything happened to those kids, he would never be able to forgive himself.

Continuing on, the hunter emerged into the next room, and found much of the same; broken furniture, shattered pictures and even more blood. But not a single sign of his family. The sliding glass door had been left open, allowing the rain from the storm to collect onto the tile floor. 

Dean shut his eyes and took several deep breaths, his chest aching with every forceful beat of his heart. He needed to call Sammy, needed to form a plan. When he opened his eyes, something on the countertop caught his eye; a sheet of paper. Cocking his head with curiosity, he crossed the room in three long, determined strides.

It was a note, addressed to him.

It’s been too long, darling. How’s Moose? Hope the wife and kids are well...oh, wait, that’s right, you’re as clueless as ever. No surprise there. Before we get to the fun bits, let’s talk business; I need a favor and you and your giant of a brother are going to help me. Now, to ensure that things go as planned, I have something of yours. I assure you, they are safe. For now. Do as I ask, and they will be returned to you, alive. So, Dean, dear, let’s make a deal, shall we? You know where to meet me.

Squirrel,

Yours truly, 

The King of Hell

“Crowley.” Dean growled deep in his chest, his teeth clenched as his blood began to boil over with rage. “Goddamn it!” He shouted, swiping the contents of the counter onto the floor. “Fuck!” He kicked something across the room, too angry to pay much attention to it as it slammed into the stainless steel refrigerator. He swung at the closest surface, his fist connecting with a nearby wall.

The drywall collapsed around his fist as the plaster fell to the floor at his feet. His knuckles were screaming at him, but he didn’t care, too fueled by his rage to notice. What could Crowley possibly need their help with? It didn’t matter. Whatever it was, they would get it done and save his family. Crowley would get what’s coming to him; Dean would make damn sure of that.

Taking a few calming breaths, Dean removed his phone with a bloodied hand and opened his contacts, scrolling through the names until he found what he was searching for. Sammy. Dialing the number, Dean held the phone to his ear with baited breath. After the third ring, Sam’s voice came in through the other end, sounding concerned because of the late hour, “Dean? Everything alright?”

Dean shook his head, his vision blurring with tears. He cleared his throat, trying to prevent it from shaking too much. “No, Sammy. It ain’t alright.” He admitted, gripping the counter with his free hand, bracing himself. He wanted to crumble onto the floor, his body trembling; his mind flooded with so many different emotions, each of them trying to overpower the other: fear, guilt, anger, heartache…

“Dean, what is it?” The younger Winchester questioned, the worry evident in his voice. “Is it (Y/N)? The kids? Is everyone okay?” He waited patiently on the other end, but Dean could hear him moving around; he assumed his brother was getting his things ready to head out.

“Damn it, Sammy,” Dean’s voice broke as a few tears slipped through the cracks, “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.” He shook his head, allowing himself a moment to break, his chest heaving. “We were out!” He slammed his fist down onto the counter, terrified and angry.

“Dean, what’s going on?” Sam pleaded, wanting desperately to help his big brother. 

“Crowley.” Dean clarified, going into more detail as he composed himself and straightened his stance, “Crowley’s taken them.” He took a calming breath, his moment of weakness over. “I need your help, Sammy.”

“Already on my way.”

Annnnnnd there you have it. I hope that wasn’t too rough on the heart? No worries, there may or may not be a part two in the works? We shall see. ;) 

Anyway, if you enjoyed that, please like and comment and if you’re feeling a little extra generous, share it with your friends, too! You’re feedback is like GOLD! As always, thanks for reading! 

Taglist!

Supernatural

@akshi8278​ // @flamencodiva​ // @perpetualabsurdity​

[sabraeal]

If All Else Fails Just Play Dead

[Read on AO3]

Obiyuki AU Bingo 2021 Swan Princess AU

There is a boy in her house.

Two boys, actually; not counting Uncle, who is the Margrave Entaepode, or Papa, who acts like he is, or Raj, who everyone simply tolerates because there are worse things than having the first prince adopt your heir as their particular friend, and all of them start with denying said prince what he wants.

(And also because when he’s not trying to flex all his royal powers at once, Raj can be almost tolerable. He at least believes in magic, which gives him a leg up over just about every other boy Shirayuki has known, save for uncle, even if he doesn’t know any himself.)

Sakaki is also not to be counted, though she feels bad about it, on account of how often she typically forgets that Sakaki is a boy and not just some boy-shaped furniture Raj travels with, like how he always brings his pillow and his favorite chair. She’ll have to remember to bring him some extra pastries from the kitchen as an apology.

No, these are two entirely foreign boys, shipped straight from the court of the King Who Isn’t, as her father calls him-- though not within his mother’s hearing. Shirayuki is resigned to make the best of it; Uncle asks for so little, and she is the Lady of the Manor, even if she only comes by the title from a lack of older women to fill it. If she must, she can entertain their guests, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it, not one bit at all.

A shelf rattles, jostling the books on their bindings. Shirayuki’s fingers nearly dint a page as she turns it, but she does not look up. To look up would be to give in, and even if she is charged with entertaining, she does not need to be the entertainment.

It rattles again, now with two giggles to accompany it. Excellent. It seems both her troubles are accounted for.

With a sigh, she collects herself. This is what is fair, after all. It is her duty to see after Entaepode’s guests, and Papa is already taking on the brunt of the Her Majesty’s needs, as well as the marquis’ that travels with her. Not that she would have minded if he wanted to switch; Queen Haruto at least seemed like the sort to enjoy a quiet afternoon in the library.

A leg swings over the top of the shelf, long and skinny and ending in a particularly scuffed boot.

Very much, Shirayuki thinks, slapping her book shut on the table, unlike her son and his companion. 

“You’re not supposed to do that.” She means to be mild, but each sound falls so waspish from her lips that it could sting. Oh, Uncle will be displeased when he finds out she was rude to their esteemed guests. “It harms the books.”

A sly, cat’s grin shines down on her as a second leg follows the first. “We’re just on the shelves.” Obi twitches his shoulders in a lazy excuse for a shrug. “It’s not like we’re ripping out pages.”

Of the three of them, he’s older-- oh, well, both boys are older than her, but he’s oldest. Only a few years shy of being a man in his own right; the sort of older that’s supposed to know better. Not that he looks it-- Obi’s supposed to be thirteen, but he’s barely an inch taller than Prince Zen, showing none of the stretch in his limbs that boys his age should before they come into their growth.

His feet dangle, just at the level of her nose, and uncharitable irritation itches in her thoughts. Maybe he’ll be one of those boys who’s small forever, a man in a child’s body. The sort of boy she’ll be looking down on instead of up at, should she get Papa’s height, or Uncle’s.

“The shelves are where the books live,” she tells him officiously, fists high on her hips. “And if you knock it over, then you might hurt your spine, or worse, one of theirs! Or even worse,” she adds with no little horror, “you might tear out a page!”

He blinks, those wide, gold eyes flashing like candlelight. “Huh.”

She conjures up Uncle at his most imperious as she says, “This isn’t a training yard.”

“How would you know?” The shelf wobbles, and a pale white mop heaves itself over it. The second Prince of Clarines is pinch-faced, like he’s always just finished sucking on a lemon, and pale as an invalid. She could believe he was bedridden, from the way he keeps waiting to be served. “It’s not like you’ve ever been on one.”

A breath hisses between her teeth. It’s not from lack of trying, she wants to say; her last birthday, Papa has trousers sewn for her, plus a shirt and waist. He’d promised her a sword, even traipsed her through the halls to the yard, but Uncle had been waiting right at the gate, mouth drawn to a forbidding line.

What are you thinking, Mukaze? She’d heard him growl, her ear pressed tight to the study door. My own heir, and you put a blade in her hand.

If she were a boy, you’d have thought I’d done it too late, Papa had replied, easy as always, the way that would drive Uncle mad. I don’t see the harm--

Of course you don’t. Uncle had never sounded so cold, so bitter as he did in that moment. You never do.”

Her stomach twists, slithering around like a nest full of snakes, only getting more knotted, more sick as she thinks about it. Uncle and Papa were close as brothers, surely--

Surely, she shouldn’t be worrying about this at all.

“Why are you wearing all that black?” she snips instead, ignoring the heat that licks up her neck. “It’s summer.”

It’s not doing him any favors either; all that thick velvet just makes his limbs skinny and his face more drawn, like he’s a skeleton rather than a boy.

The prince stills, legs no longer kicking, lips no longer flapping; just a steady, slow rise and fall of his chest. Obi-- a study of constant motion-- doesn’t even do that; instead he sits, utterly immovable, and stares.

With a voice chilled with the winter he’s never felt, His Highness finally says, “My father died.”

She’d known that, she had. His Majesty died a year ago, her Uncle even told her, their legs pressed tight on his study’s sofa. She liked doing that, lining bone to bone, like they might one day be a matching set, margrave and heir both. Another pair of shoulders to carry the burden of rule, after so many years of an absent, broader pair.

Her Majesty has ever been a bosom companion to this family, he’d continued, a strange tightness to his voice. Now that her mourning is over, she is bringing her youngest son to visit. I’m sure your father would be pleased if you became...as close as they.

So much for that. Uncle would be so disappointed-- not only had she scolded the prince, but she’d insulted him too, and--

And he had started it. Her mouth settles into a thin line, so like Uncle’s.

“So did my mother.” So long ago that she is barely more than a song and a scent. Still, there is no ceding ground, not to Prince Zen; every inch she gives him yields a mile, and he considers it his due. “And you don’t see me walking around in velvet during high summer.”

The prince’s skin is pale as moonlight, the envy of every maid in the manor, but it flushes an angry red now, his body trembling to contain him. “My father, he sputters, leaping off the shelf, “is more important than your stupid mother ever will be.”

Papa praises her for her even-temper. Just like your mother, he laughs, not as boldly as he is wont. You never let anything under your skin. Not like me. Though all our impulse certainly bred true.

Anger, Uncle would say in his soothing voice, every syllable measured, makes a man a fool. You would do well to eschew it if you can, my little girl.

So it is not that Shirayuki is angry; oh no, she is incandescent.

Her finger curl, carving pitted crescents in her palms. For once she is glad that magic is consigned to history books and scholars in their towers, for if she could but call fire to her fingertips, this whole library would be alight. Her mother may be more sense than solid to her, but there is not a stone here she has not touched, and--

Well, Uncle is right, but Shirayuki is content to be stupid.

“Maybe so,” she says, so calm, so even, just as Uncle might. “But at least people liked her.”

For a moment, Prince Zen looms, every line trembling, and she is convinced that he will raise a hand to her, that he will truly treat her as her father’s mouth has earned her. But instead he spins on his heel, stalking out of the library with naught a word.

Wrath leaves her at once, a spirit exorcised from her chest, and oh, she’s dizzy with the lack. Her hand reaches out, meaning to grab for the chair--

But another hand grabs it instead. Shirayuki had never noticed at what a patrician angle Obi’s nose sat, not until he stares down it at her, his face a smooth bronze mask.

“That,” he says, finally sounding his age, “was badly done.”

Had her father sat her down after that terrible, disastrous morning, and told her that one day she would consent to marry the prince, Shirayuki would have--

Well, she would have done something Uncle wouldn’t approve of, surely. And she had, when Papa sat her down not too long after the queen’s carriage disappeared into the horizon, and told her that their union had been agreed upon, dowry and all. But to think she would ever want to, that she herself would gladly make the plans-- impossible.

If only it had stayed that way. If only she had remembered why she’d waved him off at arm’s length every summer, why she’d tossed him in the pond when he tried to kiss her at fifteen and told him he’d have better luck finding a princess of his own species in there. At least then she might be able to scuttle this whole wedding, instead of having Papa and Haruto cluck at her pitifully when she asks, telling her that it would all work out eventually.

After all, hadn’t she loved him just last night?

Shirayuki huffs, rolling to her side. She’s no longer livid, which is an improvement; last night she’d thought quite long and extremely hard about how many tapestries she would need to tear from the walls to get a good, solid bonfire to catch and burn Wistal palace to its very stones. Once she started considering where the custodians might keep turpentine, or whether she could wheedle the key to the cellars out of the chatelaine, she’d forced herself to lay down. Few things had ever made her so angry that they couldn’t be solved by a good night’s rest.

Wrath and rage has cooled, but not to her usual levelheaded calm, the answer filling her with vim and vigor and a dangerous determination. Oh no, instead her fine barrel of fury has turned to melancholy, and with each minute that ticks by, she drinks a deeper draught.

Is beauty all that matters to you?

Even now her breath catches at the roiling confusion in Zen’s eyes. What else is there?

“What was I thinking?” Her fists clench at her sides, but it’s not enough, not until she brings them to her eyes and pressed down, colors sparking across her eyelids. “Why did I...?”

She thought he had changed. They all had, these last few years, hadn’t they? No longer the three children that had tripped over each other in her uncle’s halls, bickering and pinching and causing trouble wherever they roamed. Shirayuki’s temper had mellowed. Zen had grown taller-- or at least tall enough to please him. And Obi--

Obi should be here. And now he’s not, and it’s yet another why she has no answer to.

A timid knock brushes against her door, followed by an even softer, “M-my lady?”

Shirayuki pulls her fists from her eyes, blinking away the blur. “Come in.”

A small girl slinks inside, dark eyes wide and round. “M-my lady...” Her brow furrows. “Your hands are wet.”

She glances down, staring at the fingers laces so tightly in her nightgown. Her knuckles do indeed shimmer in the light, right where they had been pressed along her eyes. “So they are. I...suppose you are here to dress me.”

“Ah...” The maid loses her certainty, eyes darting around the room. “About that...”

Her heart leaps in her breast. “Has something happened?”

“Ah, well.” The girl winces. “There’s a bit of a, um, problem. With the arrangements.”

“The arrangements?” Shirayuki echoes.

“Ah...”

That’s when she hears the screams.

Her twelfth summer marks the moment that this arrangement becomes completely, irrevocably unfair.

“I don’t see what the problem is.” Branches shiver above her, the only sign of Obi a few flashes of black and buckskin and the leaves quivering in his wake. “You two have gotten nearly civil these days.”

“But you’ve gotten tall,” Shirayuki grouses, tucking herself between the roots of the old oak, book sprawled upon her lap. “Any day now you’ll be head and shoulders taller, and what if Zen’s the same? I can’t be the smallest.”

“Well.” She can’t see him, but she knows he settles above her, perched on a branch too precarious for his size. “You are a girl.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be tall.” A finger taps against the page, thoughtful. “Haruto is.”

“For a lady.”

“For anyone,” she corrects primly. “It’s fine enough for you to be tall-- you’re tolerable. But Zen...” She grimaces. “His height it the only thing that keeps him humble. The king isn’t tall, is he?”

“He is,” Obi informs her with relish. “Almost taller than my father, and he’s not done growing.”

She pictures it, Zen being able to look Haruka square in the eye, and shudders.

“I was afraid you’d say that.” Shirayuki sighs, finger knitting in her lap. “Uncle should forbid you from coming. You can stay for now, but next summer is right out.”

It’s strange how even though she can’t see him, she can feel his grin on the air. “I’m sure nothing would make him happier.”

“Or me,” she admits, wistful. “What good neighbors Zen and I might be, if we never had to look at each other again. Save for weddings and births and funerals, of course. And you’d always be welcome, Obi.”

“Thanks.” He drops down one of his too-long legs, toes curling in the air above her, the only visible part of him. “But I wasn’t talk about the Young Master.”

Shirayuki blinks, mouth curving in confusion as she parses his words. “You can’t mean Uncle.”

Obi leans, just enough for her to see his dubious, arched brow. “Why not?”

“Uncle’s always liked Zen.” He’d been the one to calm her when she’d come crying, distraught that Papa would make her marry a boy as pompous as him. Plenty of boys grow out of their pettiness, little girl, he’d told her, smoothing the wild riot of her hair, at least as many that don’t. “Even now, he’s with him, showing him the march.”

“Only because your father asked him,” Obi says, settling back into the canopy. “The next Margrave Entaepode needs to know what his lands can bring. Especially if he means to bring them to his brother.”

Shirayuki frowns. “I’m the next Margrave Entaepode.”

“No,” Obi hums. “You’re the next margravine.”

Shirayuki is not sure what she expects when she walks into Clarines’ great hall, but it is certainly not carnage.

“What happened?” she breathes, picking her way over a toppled chair. There’s not a scrap of fabric that’s not torn, not a table nor chair without a wobble. Flower petals lay strewn on the ground, and the cake--

“Oh no,” she sighs, “I was so looking forward to desset.”

It’s toppled, every tier crushed to the stone beneath it, buttercream and jam and custard smeared up and down the aisle. It had been a gift from the Seirans; Zen had been so excited to know their much-beloved cook had made each layer with him in mind-- Except one, Obi reminded him, swiping a bit of cream from a spoon. You know who Cookie loves best.

“A beast did it,” the steward tells her, near to tiers. “Knocked it over, then even stopped to take a bite.”

“Three bites,” a maid chimes in. “Odd, it was. I could have sworn it thought about it too, just stood there looking as Cook came in, shouting to high heaven, and ate its share.”

Shirayuki glances down. “Flew? As in-- with wings?”

“Yes,” the steward agrees, “it had wings, and a mouth with cruel teeth.”

“There weren’t no teeth,” the chatelaine snaps waving the wailing man off. “It was just a bird. Swan, I think, from the size. And the meanness. Came in here like a holy terror, it did.

“It was a beast with teeth,” the steward insists, “and it bit one of the footmen!”

The chatelaine huffs. “What did you expect, trying to grab it like that?”

Shirayuki can’t help but agree; she’s bitten more than a man or two that tried to catch her as well. But that’s not what has her attention now; instead it is the cake on the floor, those three big bites out of it, baring chocolate sponge and raspberry custard. The layer Cookie made special. The one she thought would go to waste when...

“Where is he now?” At their looks, she amends, “I mean, it. The beast.”

“Outside,” the steward says, sending a narrow look toward the door. “A few of the maids managed to chase it out, but I’m afraid it will have gotten into the decoration-- my lady, where--?”

“I’d like to take a look,” Shirayuki calls back, slippered feet already carrying her to the door. “I, ah, think I might know how to solve this...problem?”

The steward blinks. “Is there some...Tanbarunian folk tradition for this? Ridding the grounds of a foul beast?”

Her feet stutter at the threshold, and she swallows down a laugh. “Certainly something for removing one fowl.”

At thirteen, Shirayuki will admit, Zen becomes tolerable. Not without extreme duress, and certainly never if Obi is around, but being in his presence no longer feels like slivers under her fingernails. Now it’s just that unpleasant drone of cicadas, the same that herald his arrival every summer.

“Are you supposed to be climbing?” she asks, settling herself at the base of the tree’s trunk, as always. “Your mother won’t thank you for ruining those trousers.”

Obi laughs, already deep in the canopy. “I think you mean his laundress.”

“I have plenty more,” Zen scoffs, levering his boot over another knot, giving him the height to reach the first branch. “And I think you’re only so cross because you can’t climb for beans.”

She retracts her opinion. His Highness has certainly not become tolerable in the least.

“Come off it,” Obi laughs, so easy in his bower. “Anyone can climb.”

Zen grins down at her with smug authority. “Not Shirayuki, she’s a girl.”

“So is Kiki,” Obi reminds him, “and if she heard you talk like that, she’d come up and throw you off that branch herself.”

“Kiki hardly counts as a girl--”

“--That’s not what Mitsuhide would say--”

“--And that doesn’t mean Shirayuki can,” Zen adds, tone brooking no argument. “She doesn’t even have trousers on.”

“Shirayuki can climb in a dress just fine.” Obi swings down, right to the lowest branch. Or rather, the second lowest, since Zen hasn’t vacated the first. “Come on, I’ll tell you how.”

She spares the tree a dubious glance. “Are you sure--?”

“Always. Don’t you trust me?” He lowers down a hand, callused and bronzed, and she takes it. “Good, now put your foot there. Now just...think up.”

She sends him a dubious look. “I don’t think it’s possible to just go up by thinking it.”

He grins down. “You’d be surprised.”

Shirayuki is definitely ruining her dress.

“You’re sure it’s up here?” she calls down, a worried swarm of footmen huddling beneath her. “Waterfowl aren’t really...tree-dwelling birds.”

“I’m sure, my lady,” one pipes up beneath her. “Took to wing, then hopped up the branches easy as you please.”

Shirayuki casts a long look up the oak, sighing. “Of course he did.”

One slippered foot lifts, hooking over a thicker branch, resting her weight right by the trunk.

“Just think up,” she murmurs, irritation rising with every word. “Just think up and it’s hardly anything at all.”

“HONK,” agrees the goose above her.

“Oh.” She blinks, taking in the sleek white body and the webbed feet tucked unnaturally beneath it. Well, not that the pose was unnatural, but the place. “You’re not a swan at all.”

“HONK,” the goose informs her, wistful this time.

“Be glad,” she says, reaching for him. “If you were any bigger, I wouldn’t be able to carry you, and you’d be stuck up here with your big wings and bad decisions.

The goose ducks it head, abashed. “HONK.”

“You better,” she starts, trying to wrangle a bird his size beneath her arm, “be exactly who I think you are.”

This close, her fowl friend doesn’t dare express his opinion at the only volume nature saw fit to give him, but instead, cuddles right against her neck. For one, weak moment, Shirayuki leans against the trunk, letting her head sink into his feathers. Please let this be him. If it is, she can worry about the how later. Maybe even the why. As long as he hasn’t abandoned her, there’s nothing--

“Not to interrupt you,” a lady’s languid voice drawls beneath her. “But I’m assuming that you might need some help getting down.”

Fifteen is when Shirayuki is made aware of just how utterly unfair her life will be from now on, now that she’s to be the wife of a prince.

“No, no,” Obi laughs, nervous. “I think the Young Master has it right this time, Miss. You can’t come.”

“Why not?” He’s gotten much taller now, taller even than when he arrived, and she has to look up to guilelessly meet his eye, much more than she’s used to. “If I can climb trees with you, I can splash around in a pond just fine--”

“Yes, but--” his mouth split into a pained grimace-- “climbing trees doesn’t involve taking off clothes. You can see how that might be a, hm, problem now, can’t you, Miss?”

“No.”

His exasperation is completely unwarranted, considering how exasperating he’s being. “You’re a lady.”

“One that can swim,” she counters. “We’ve done it before, I don’t know why it’s bothering you now.”

“Because you’re...” He waves a hand at her, a harried up and down, but she only stares back. “Of all the things for Master to leave to me...”

“I can keep my shift on,” she offers, “if that helps.”

“It really doesn’t, Miss.” Obi sighs, one hand coming up to rub at his shoulder. “Surely your father-- no, your uncle. Surely your uncle’s talked to you about how boys and girls shouldn’t, um...you know.”

“I don’t.”

“It’s just...” He takes a steeling breath. “Miss, you’re a woman now. You can’t be naked with men.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I said I would wear my shift. And besides, you’re not men, you’re boys.”

Obi head rolls heavenward. “Only to you.”

Shirayuki gives him a considering look and pulls out her trump card. “Would you let Kiki Seiran come?”

She doesn’t know this Kiki Seiran, not from anything more than what’s been said in her presence, but she knows-- whatever a man does, Kiki does, and better too. The moment her name leaves her lips, Obi drops her a helpless glare.

“Kiki,” he says, as if savoring the word, “doesn’t count. No one lets Kiki Seiran do something, she just does it, and we all live with the consequences.”

A fond smile flickers across his lips, and for no reason at all, her stomach twists. “You should marry her.”

Obi blinks. “Huh?”

“Kiki Seiran,” she says lightly. “It seems she’s really quite impressive.”

For a long moment he stares at her, unblinking. Then he coughs, one, twice, until it’s no longer a cough but roaring laughter.

Shirayuki stares at him. “Is something funny?”

“Oh, Miss,” he wheezes. “That’s some vote of confidence, but Kiki Seiran-- she’s not for the likes of me.”

The sick knot in her stomach dissipates into affront. “Why not? There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Again, you really know how to compliment a man,” he teases. “But no count worth his acreage will marry his daughter and heir to a bastard. With her pedigree, they’re probably planning to marrying her to Elder Highness as we speak.”

“Well, that’s silly,” she huffs. “You’re worth a thousand princes Obi. Any lady would be lucky to have you.”

His smile wavers. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“You should bring her next time,” she decides. “I can talk to her.”

“Ah,” he coughs, shaking his head as he traipses after her. “That won’t be necessary at all.”

This is not how she thought she’d meet the illustrious Kiki Seiran, her wedding dress torn to rags and goose hugged tight in her arms, but it would not be the first time today fate thwarted her expectations.

“I’m fine,” Shirayuki assures her, slowly making her descent. “But do you have, um, water?”

One elegant brow arches. “Water?”

“Ah, yes.” She drops down before her-- oh, Lady Seiran is...quite a bit taller than she’d imagined, and at least twice as pretty. No wonder Obi always smiled when he talked about her. “Like a, um, lake? Or a river might do?”

“A lake?” Her gaze drops, mouth canting into a thoughtful line. “For your avian compatriot, I suppose. You think his home must be close by.”

“Yes,” she lies, because babbling about ancient texts she’s certain she was never supposed to see and magic of the blackest sort seemed a poor first impression to make. “It would probably, uh, help with the...destructive behavior.”

“He has left quite a spectacle behind. It will take hours to clean that up. Or days,” she adds with a pointed look toward the goose. “Your wedding seems to be thoroughly postponed.”

Good, she doesn’t say. This Kiki Seiran is Zen’s friend too, after all. And even if Shirayuki could have shaken him to pieces last night, she’s that too.

“Water?” she says instead.

It’s the right thing to say, since Kiki turns around, gesturing toward the treeline. “There’s a pond back there. Just follow the cobblestone path and it should take you right out to the dock.”

“Perfect.” Shirayuki takes two hurried steps before pausing, turning over her hip to add, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Kiki. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

There’s that brow again, lifted into an elegant arch Shirayuki could never hope to mimic. “Only good things, I hope.”

Her stomach lurches as she replies, “The best.”

[tailorvizsla]

You didn't think I wouldn't ask for some Boba Fett though now did you? (Of course not, he is the new shiny for me iuwhei) ✨ HC Of my Choice... What about having your first kiss with Boba and he doesn't #know it is your first one till part-way through or after? Am I projecting? Yes, yes I am.

Title: HC – Boba Fett and First Kiss Pairing: Gender neutral Reader x Boba Fett Word Count: ~1700 Rating: PG-13 Warnings: Boba Fett is a grumpy bastard, but you hold your own against him. Boba also gets injured, but there aren’t any graphic descriptions of the injuries. Author’s Notes: Okay, my Angle, I’ve been thinking about this one for as long as it’s been sitting in my inbox. I’m not familiar with Boba Fett’s character, so I wanted to make sure this was good for you. So, without further ado, here we go with the Big Green Grumpy Jerk who has somehow inexplicably charmed his way into my heart with a few gruff comments.

Tagging @princessbatears because chaos? :>

📚 My Master List 📚

Boba Fett isn’t a man of many words. It’s not that he’s shy or anything – he just doesn’t like talking to people beyond what is necessary. He has worked alone his entire life, so the sound of others’ voices just sort of grates on him. He especially does not like being crowded by people.

So, one day, while doing his thing, he ends up injured. It’s not even due to combat. His jetpack just…sputters out. His beskar’gam turns what should have been a fatal fall into a very painful one. He knows he has broken a lot of bones, but Boba refuses to die like this. He crawls his way back to his bike, calls for medical aid, and prays to the Maker that someone in town will come help him.

You are the only person who does come to help him. Most other people are too afraid of the Imperial remnants to work with a Mandalorian. Others are too afraid of Mandalorians to work with a Mandalorian. You? You are not afraid of much. He is not sure if you are brave or stupid. After splinting the worst of the damage, you get him onto the bike and get him back into town. It is at this point that Boba finds himself leaning toward thinking you are stupidly caring and trusting.

You inject him with bacta – the good kind that makes him giggly, sleepy, and numb – and get to work. When he wakes up, he’s wrapped in an annoying number of casts and splints, but at least he’s still alive. However, you then give him the bad news: the fall has damaged many of the delicate nerves in his back. If he fails to undergo physical therapy, there is a real chance he may never walk again. He’s no medical expert, but when he looks at the scans you took, he knows you aren’t lying.

So, Boba resigns himself to having to deal with you on a regular basis. The first physical therapy exercises are simple, yet they exhaust him to the point where he just passes out. As the days go by, he starts putting up the walls to keep you out. (Spoiler alert: you manage to find your way through the cracks in the wall, annoying him with barely any effort on your behalf.)

Now, under ideal circumstances, this shitshow would end with Boba Fett getting back on his feet, paying you handsomely for the amount of time you have spent getting him put together, and going back to bounty hunting, never to think of you again. But of course, the universe throws an even bigger wrench into his carefully thought-out plans. Someone finds out that you’re taking care of him and a whole bunch of angry townspeople converge on your little clinic. He grabs you and the two of you run. The last thing you see is your clinic going up in flames. (Boba can’t believe the shortsightedness of these people – they’ve driven off their only competent medical professional. What are they going to do next? Kill their only competent mechanic? Di’kute, every last one of them.)

And so, the two of you go off on a merry adventure, annoying the absolute shit out of each other on a regular basis. Boba especially is concerned at how easily you have managed to find every single weak point in his defenses – physical, mental, and emotional. You are a fair shot with your blaster, so when he got fresh with you that one time, telling you that your ass looked downright edible in the trousers you had borrowed from him, you drew your blaster and fired a shot off at his feet. He laughed so hard his bucket nearly fell off. (You are not sure if you are disturbed that he finds being shot at amusing. He does scold you a bit, but you do notice that he does not talk about your ass anymore.)

With your knife? You’re lethal, and he learns that the hard way when he fails to announce his presence behind you. One moment Boba is reaching to touch your shoulder and the next moment, he’s got your elbow in his face and your penknife embedded in his flak vest. Fortunately, the blade’s too short to cause serious damage, but he does not let you forget that you kriffing stabbed him when he was only trying to ask you what you wanted for dinner.

Even though Boba would rather cover himself in tiingilar sauce and crawl back into the sarlacc pit headfirst than ever admit it, the two of you make a damn good team. He goes off to hunt bounties, you stay in town to provide your medical services for a fair fee. Sometimes, when your services are not needed, you’ll hang back at the ship and do some basic accounting to keep him within his budget.

Boba grumbles when you ask to accompany him on a hunt, but he figures you really do need to learn how to defend yourself if anything should happen to him. When the two of you were surrounded by goons, you naturally fell into place behind him, your back to his, covering his shebs while he provides the heavy firepower. When the numbers are thinned to something more manageable, he sets you loose on them, letting you practice your knife skills. And by the Maker, he is impressed with how much you have improved since the last time you stabbed him.

Between hunts, you get his shebs back into fighting shape. Hell, he thinks he’s even better than he was before. The exercises you insist on forcing on him have made him more flexible than he was before, and his bones no longer creak first thing in the morning. One particularly hot, muggy day, you try to make him drink that vile green vegetable concoction you call a smoothie. Smooth his shebs, there are chunks in that liquefied animal feed. Sometimes he wonders if you’re trying to kill him on purpose.

(You don’t know this, but Boba has already arranged for everything in his possession, ships and banking accounts included, to be transferred to you in the event of his death. Hell, he has even started negotiating with a friendly Tribe to make sure you have a home to go to and your pick of their warriors for marriage, should you be interested. Boba justifies it this way: the last time his jetpack mutinied, he ended up several hundred thousand credits in debt to you by his estimation. By ensuring you have a safe place to go, and a family ready to welcome you, he can offset the immeasurable debt he owes you. It hurts to think of this, but Boba genuinely cannot bear the thought of you being alone in this cruel galaxy, the same way he had been when he was a child. So, if he ever does piss you off to the point where you off him in his sleep, you’ll be fine.)

You keep pushing and pushing, insisting that he needs B-vitamins or some other bantha-shit he’s sure you’ve made up for the sole purpose of annoying him. When you start going on about macronutrients and essential vitamins, Boba loses it. He tosses his cutlery down and goes stomping off toward the cockpit. You follow him, blathering on and on about the last blood panel you had pulled – HDLs, LDLs, and a whole slew of acronyms later, he loses it. Rather than snap at you, he shuts you up the only way his poor sleep-deprived brain can come up with.

Boba pushes you up against the wall, gently to avoid hurting you. You don’t seem at all phased. In fact, you start waving the paper at him as you try to draw his attention to his sodium levels. Boba leans in and presses his lips to yours. You finally stop talking, your entire body going stiff in response. He takes a moment to nibble along your lower lip before parting your lips with his, tongue probing a bit deeper in, and you still aren’t responding. Boba draws back and stares down at you. You’re wide-eyed and clearly in shock.

He leans in again. This time you respond clumsily, your hands clutching at that stupid piece of paper. He gently wrestles it out of your grasp and crumples it up. Then he tosses it over his shoulder, not caring where it lands. He cups the back of your head and deepens the kiss. Still, you’re not responding the way he wants, so he draws back.

“What, never been kissed before?” he asks.

Before he can say anything else, he realizes that that was your first kiss. While Boba has never wanted to be anyone’s First Anything, he realizes that he wants to make an exception for you. There’s no one in this entire galaxy who can annoy the shit out of him in one breath and then worry about his health in the next. You are his little baar’ur. After you have wormed your way under his plating and so selfishly made yourself a fixture in his life without his permission? Oh, no, no, you are not going anywhere.

He cuts off your stammering with another kiss. He takes this one slow, moving your hands to where he wants you to touch him – one at his nape, the other at the small of his back, right over that spot that makes his knees weak.

This time, you respond. Slowly, hesitantly, but as you grow more confident, your hands begin to stray. You worm your fingers up the back of his shirt and dig your nails into the sensitive skin there, making him gasp in pleasure. Then you dig your fingers into his long hair and tug lightly, earning a low growl from him. You freeze and stare up at him with wide eyes until he leans back in.

Fortunately, your big smart science brain learns his likes and dislikes very quickly. When he finally pulls away, he finds that he really likes what he sees – your shirt’s rumpled, your hair is sticking up, and your lips are red and swollen from his kisses. Then and there, he makes a vow to make sure you always look like a mess.

(Spoiler alert: quite a few more of your firsts happen right here in the cockpit.)

[glimmerglanger]

Whumptober 2020 - Day 9

Day 9 of Whumptober, part 9 of the oof!au. And now we come to the turning of the tides. This one is SUPER long (6k) and is also the only part of the series to have a split POV. 

General Info: Post Order 66 Vader-Captures-Obi-Wan AU. Eventual happy(ish) ending. Past/eventual Codywan. One-sided Vaderwan.

WARNINGS: Mentions of past torture and loss of a limb. Implications of non-con. Mistreatment of a prisoner. Fall-out of mind control. Mentions of/thoughts about suicide. Death (including a major character. For the sake of spoilers, I’m not going to say who dies, but if you need to know before you read shoot me a msg and I’ll tell you).

No 5. WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING? 

On the Run | Failed Escape | Rescue 

Victory left Vader feeling warm inside, pleased. For a time. He got what he wanted, what he deserved, Obi-Wan begging for his forgiveness, using his proper title, obeying. He got all the apologies he was owed, and it only cost a few bodies, slumped against a wall.

Obi-Wan’s agony and horror filled the entirety of the Force, ratcheting higher with each clone that died. He was such a weak fool. They were nothing, just things, and broken things at that, for all that Obi-Wan carried on, his pain so large it felt like a living creature, sucking up all the air in the room, filling every possible piece of Vader’s mind, battering at him from across their bond.

He’d never, actually, felt pain like that from Obi-Wan before. Never once. It brought back memories of their time on Zygerria, where similar emotions had swirled out of Obi-Wan’s head, but… Obi-Wan had more control, back then.

Under Vader’s command, he cracked and broke, shattering like glass each time Vader so much as threatened one of the clones. It was ridiculous. Every single one of them would happily put a blaster bolt in Obi-Wan’s head, and yet he fell to his knees and he groveled and he said, obediently, whichever words Vader wanted.

He did whatever Vader wanted, without protest, without hesitation, for all that his expression was some blank and empty thing. Sometimes, Vader had one of the clones shot, anyway, just to make sure Obi-Wan didn’t lose track of the stakes.

He did everything Vader wanted, so agreeable, the great General Kenobi brought so low. Finally put into his place. Agreeing, with the rasp that remained of his voice, that Vader was right to take his arm, stretching it out, head bowed, fair was fair, after all. Agreeing that he’d been wrong. Agreeing while his agony curled through the Force, staining everything.

Vader worked to hold onto the initial pleasure of his victory, fought for it, temper growing worse as Obi-Wan spoiled things, once more. He could barely breathe, around Obi-Wan’s cursed emotions, by the time it became obvious that Obi-Wan needed to go to the medbay, no longer shaking, no longer doing much of anything but breathing shallowly, gone pale all over, staring at the troopers, intently.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan was murmuring, barely audible, as a pair of troopers lifted him and carried him away - strange that they had not dragged him, Vader considered, but only briefly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he kept repeating, as they carried him through the door. He had been slurring the words for some hours.

Vader appreciated the apologies, but, truly, they were far too little too late.

He turned away as the door shut, moving to look out over the open viewport along the side of the room, staring out across the lava fields below. He curled his hands around the railing, breathing hard, and reassured himself that he had, in fact, gotten everything he wanted, finally.

He turned away from the view, eventually, and went to check the messages his Master had sent him, over the past days.

#

Cody warned Crys to watch his expression when they were out of the medbay. To control his emotions. Vader was one of the few Force sensitive people left in the galaxy, as far as Cody knew. That meant he could, technically, pick up emotions.

Cody worked to keep his feelings contained. To stay as blank as possible. But there was fury in him. Fury and rage and guilt and hurt and--

And Obi-Wan had taught him, back during the war, how to breathe slowly and deeply, how to settle himself when the noise in his head got to be too much. Cody remembered sitting beside him, quietly, meditating in a dimly lit room with the sweet smell of incense all around them, listening to Obi-Wan’s breath and falling into the same pattern, so they were breathing as one and, he had imagined, perhaps their heartbeats even changed to match--

Obi-Wan floated in a bacta tank as Cody walked back into the medbay, hours after he’d left, leaving Crys to continue on with their preparation. Obi-Wan’s remaining limbs curled close, like he was trying to make himself small, even while unconscious. 

Cody remembered everything his body had done. Remembered, so clearly, giving the order to shoot Obi-Wan down on Utapau, the cool slide of satisfaction in his mind as he’d watched his General plunge into the waste-water pit. He remembered moving out, remembered reassignment, remembered people begging, pleading with him--

He dug his nails up into his palms, when the memories got to be too much, and marched forward, back towards where he’d left Bones. Who was… bent over another trooper, when Cody entered the room, and who snapped, “Don’t say a word.”

And so Cody didn’t, because you listened to the medics when they gave you orders, even when you, technically, out-ranked them. He waited, patiently, moving a bit around the side of the bed to watch as Bones did… something to the side of their brother’s head.

It didn’t take very long before Bones shifted, pressed a bacta patch into place, and looked up at Cody, scowling, to snap, “Chips.”

“Excuse me?” Cody said, considering that the aneurysm may have caused more damage to Bones’ mind than they’d first assumed, adjusting his plan to work around that, and--

“There are chips in our brains,” Bones said. “Frontal lobe. I assume that’s what’s controlling us, because I’ve removed four of them so far, and the results have been favorable.”

Cody blinked at him, struck, abruptly, by how good it was to have his brothers back, to have help, to remember that Bones was every bit as competent as he was, if with the tools of the medical bay instead of combat planning. “Where are they?” he asked, “The ones you freed?”

“Waiting for you,” Bones said, mouth quirking, his eyes hard and flat as Cody’s felt. “I sent them to the barracks and told them not to draw attention to themselves. Guv is going to stay here, though. He’ll help me, we’ll move twice as quickly.”

Cody nodded, calculations streaming through his head. There wasn’t much of the 212th left. Their men had been thrown onto the front lines in the immediate aftermath of the war. He didn’t believe for a moment that hadn’t been intentional, another jab at Obi-Wan, even though everyone had thought him dead.

Palpatine and Skywalker had wanted them all dead, at first, just because they were Obi-Wan’s.

The survivors were mostly clustered on Mustafar, such as they were. “How long to free them all?” he asked, as Guv started to stir around. 

Bones shrugged. “A few days? Maybe less, if I can find another medic or two.”

Cody reached out and gripped his shoulder. He said, “Good work. Stay out of the way in here, you hear me? Just leave if Skywalker comes by.” To see Obi-wan, he did not add. He didn’t think he needed to. “But make sure I’m informed.”

“Will do,” Bones said, and Cody left him to his work, a piece of his plan that he’d dared only hope for slotting into place. He’d been prepared to bring this entire place down on his own, if necessary. It looked like he was going to have help. He could work with that.

He looked at Obi-Wan again, on his way out of the medbay, bile burning in the back of his throat, and then set his expression. He stared forward and worked to keep his expression cool and blank. Empty. Just like the faces of all of his brothers. 

Cody knew every face around him. His men, wiped clean. Emptied. Screaming inside their own heads, the way he’d been. Begging for someone to help, where no one could hear. Trying desperately to regain control of themselves long enough to - to make it stop.

Cody had spent three long years trapped inside the prison of his own mind, watching his body commit atrocities. All he’d wanted was the opportunity to put a blaster to the side of his head and pull the trigger. It had seemed, for so long, the only way to escape. 

He’d managed to fight his way to a different kind of freedom. He didn’t understand why he hadn’t been strong enough to do it weeks ago, before--

Before Vader had gotten his hands on Obi-Wan. Before he’d made Cody--

Cody fought to keep his breathing steady and lost, but none of his brothers looked his way as he reached out, bracing a hand against the wall, back curling over as his heart lurched, off-rhythm and agonizing. 

He’d beaten Obi-Wan. With his own hands, he’d-- he’d thought about the best ways to cause pain and then he’d done it, methodical. Effective. And he’d - he’d - Force - Obi-Wan had begged him not to and he hadn’t been strong enough to stop, he’d--

Never again, he thought, straightening and continuing towards the door to move through all the expected motions and to check on his brothers, such as they were. The bunk room. That was where Bones had sent those he’d freed.

They were all packed in, barely enough room to walk between the beds. The space felt claustrophobic and empty at the same time, because even when the bunks were all full it was silent. No one talked. No one laughed. They just… moved about. Silent. Ghosts made flesh.

Cody walked between them, memories of the past dogging his steps, drawing to a stop by Swoop, who was… sitting like all the rest of them. They were supposed to be cleaning their blasters. It looked like he’d started the process and abandoned it.

He was sitting, staring straight forward, blaster in hand and shaking, badly, as he slowly raised his arm, his finger on the trigger. Cody’s heart lurched in his chest and he reached out, without even thinking, grabbing Swoop’s wrist with one hand, stripping the blaster away with the other.

He said, quietly, hoping Bones would understand, “Report to the medbay.”

Swoop stared forward, breathing shakily, his ear shiny with red blood, and Cody swallowed, wishing he could do more. “I’ve got you,” he said. “Just go to the medbay. That’s an order.” He’d been able to hear things, while he was trapped.

Swoop must have been listening, because he let out a shuddery breath, and stood, moving without a word towards the door. Cody checked on the rest of his men - his brothers - and found those Bones had freed clustered together, looking over to watch him with haunted, shadowed eyes. 

“Come with me,” he said, as he reached them, tilting his head towards the door. He had so much to do and intended to waste no time accomplishing it. He gave them instructions and sent them on their way, smiling grimly as they moved off. He turned on his heel; there was so much to do, and had a moment where he thought everything might go wrong, when he stepped out of the barracks and found Vader walking down the hall, ridiculous cloak flapping behind him.

He resisted the urge to go for his blaster. It wouldn’t work, he reminded himself, and instead drew to attention, the way he’d been forced to do for so long. Cody stared forward, face carefully blank, focusing on being...empty, inside. 

He hoped Vader wouldn’t glance towards him and his heart lurched, unpleasantly, when Vader drew to a stop before him. Cody saw his own reflection in the side of Vader’s helmet, the lines on his face deeper, a distortion of himself.

“2224,” Vader said, something pleased and thick in his tone. Gloating. Smug. “Obi-Wan asked if you were alright. Did you know that? So worried you were hurt. The things he did, to make sure I allowed the droids to tend to you. Can you imagine them?”

There was no reason to tell him. No reason at all, except to revel in the hurt he was causing Obi-Wan. Vader, as far as Cody knew, thought they were all… dead inside. Cody fought with himself; he’d been doing that without respite for three years. He’d gotten very, very good at it, apparently. His expression did not twitch as he said, blank, “No, Lord Vader.”

He expected Vader to notice how very badly Cody wanted to kill him. Instead, Vader just said, “You’ll report to my quarters when he’s recovered. I think it’s time we ended his fascination with you.”

And he turned away, resuming his march. Cody exhaled, harshly, as Vader exited through the doors at the end of the hall, heat from the volcanos beyond sweeping in, temporarily, before the doors closed. His hands itched, not with the urge to reach for a blaster. He’d rather beat Vader to death, he realized, with a dark, twisting slant of his emotions, beat him the way Vader had forced him to beat Obi-Wan, until he wasn’t moving anymore and--

But that would have to wait. He was not ruled by his emotions or the flat, cold fury inside of him. He had one possible opportunity to get Obi-Wan out of here. To rescue his brothers. He wasn’t going to waste it.

No one cared where he went around the base. Vader had, after all, left him in charge of so much, ever so confident in the power of his control, in his ability to make Cody do whatever Vader liked. Well, Cody considered, heading for the munitions bay to check on Crys, keeping his expression studiously blank, he was in the mood to do what he liked. 

He’d always favored explosions.

#

Vader wanted nothing more than to enjoy his crowning moment of victory for a little while. He didn’t see why, after all he’d done for the galaxy and his Master, that could not be allowed. But, apparently, he had been silent for too long after his successes.

His Master had sent Tarkin to check on him, as though he were a wayward child. Vader recalled being quite impressed with Tarkin, once. He’d seemed sure of purpose, during the war. Willing to do what needed done.

Currently, Tarkin only irritated him. Lectures appealed not at all to him, but he had his orders and, besides, Obi-Wan would be in the medbay for some time yet. Vader had been forced to punish him, to remind him of his place, to take a pound of flesh; it was nothing Obi-Wan hadn’t taken from him.

And when he recovered enough to be stable, Vader would take the rest of what he was owed.

Tarkin asked after his current projects and sneered at the base and was, generally, an irritant. Vader resisted the urge to lift a hand and strangle the man. His Master would be displeased, if he did.

His irritation built up behind his bones, restrained and held back. This was Obi-Wan’s fault, anyway. If he hadn’t distracted Vader so much, he’d have completed the tasks set before him and wouldn’t have to deal with Tarkin’s overbearing presence, for however long the man decided to stay.

Vader scowled behind his mask, and resigned himself to playing the unwilling host for nearly three days, before Tarkin finally left, apparently satisfied that he’d thrown his weight around enough.

It left Vader’s temper surging through his veins, burning hot and stinging. He sent an order to the medbay that Obi-Wan be dragged from the bacta, ignoring the droid’s complaints that he was not fully healed; apparently, there was some kind of internal damage. “He’ll live,” Vader snapped, “I want him brought to me.”

He needed to settle the pressure in his head, the rage in his blood.

It was, after all, all Obi-Wan’s fault.

#

Cody worked unceasingly for three days, getting everything moved into place. Exhaustion beat at the insides of his head, forcing him to get his head down for a few hours at a time. He wouldn’t risk ruining the mission because he was kriffing tired, so he made himself wedge into a bunk and shut his eyes, determined.

The nightmares woke him after what felt like moments, leaving him gasping and jerking to sit, vomit rising in his throat. In the nightmares, he saw Obi-Wan, every single time. Begging, bloody, held down and hurt and--

And Cody was the one hurting him, every time.

He swallowed, hard, panting and feeling sweat break out across his skin. His stomach hurt, terribly and his head throbbed. But a few nightmares were less of a punishment than he deserved, for what he’d done. He was going to get Obi-Wan out of here. He was going to drop the entire base into a volcano. He was going to kill Skywalker, with his bare hands, if possible.

And then he’d think of a way to pay for what he’d done, and pay the cost, gladly.

Until then, he scrubbed a hand across his face and stood. He’d slept a few hours. More than long enough. It would have to be. He couldn’t bear the thought of putting his head on the pillow again, of shutting his eyes, of leaving his subconscious free to return to the monstrosities he’d committed.

He loved Obi-Wan. Had loved Obi-Wan for so kriffing long. And he’d still--

Cody pushed the thoughts away, rising from the bunk and meeting Reck’s eyes from the bunk across the aisle. Reck nodded, just a little, barely a sign of movement, but enough to show he was in there.

So many of them were free.

Soon everyone on the base would be themselves again. They’d gotten lucky in that regard, Cody knew. The visit of the Admiral had distracted Skywalker, something Cody hadn’t anticipated. Thus far, Obi-Wan had been the only thing that adequately kept Skywalker occupied and--

And Cody hadn’t been willing to use that distraction again. Skywalker was never going to raise a hand to Obi-Wan, ever. He was never going to get the chance.

Cody held onto that thought, moving out into the base, expression studiously blank, just in case. He threw himself into the last stages of his preparations; making sure the base was wired appropriately was important. Taking care of the ships in the hangar needed handled, as well. They needed one clean - free of any tracking devices - and the rest… well.

Cody wasn’t taking any chances. There’d be no way for Vader to get off of this rock, if somehow Cody failed to kill him directly. He didn’t plan to fail, but having contingencies never hurt anyone. 

He spent hours in the hangar, ensuring everything was just so, nodded grimly once finished, and moved back through the base, looking for something else to keep him busy. It was so vitally important that he stay busy. It kept the memories away, kept his thoughts from spiralling inward in a way that made him want to reach for his blaster. 

He didn’t think he could kill Skywalker with it. Yet. But lifting it, pressing it to the side of his own temple, was…

He swallowed, marching blank faced down the hall. Those were thoughts for another time. Save Obi-Wan. Kill Skywalker. Blow up the base. Get his brothers out of here. Those were the goals he needed to hold onto. And he gripped them, tight. Focused on nothing else and nothing more.

Cody went to the medbay. There was generally something to do there, and most of the rest of his preparations were complete. Bones almost always had a brother in recovery, someone who needed explanations and comfort, who needed to be told it was alright, now, that it was over, the long nightmare they’d all shared.

Cody went over all the completed preparations one more time, as he reached the medbay, making it two steps in before a jarring sense of wrongness swept over him. He froze, gaze jerked towards the bacta tank where Obi-Wan had been floating, last he checked, and--

“They took him,” Bones said, fast, coming forward and gripping Cody’s arms, his expression distraught, openly so. “Sir, they took him, the droids had orders and Crys and--”

“To Skywalker?” Cody asked, hoping that - maybe - the answer was no. That maybe they’d just dragged him to his cell. That would make everything so much easier. Cody planned to keep Obi-Wan away from Skywalker’s execution, if at all possible. 

Obi-Wan had loved the man Skywalker had been, once. He didn’t need to see what Cody was going to do to him.

“Yes,” Bones said, sounding gutted. “What are we going to--”

“How many of us are still chipped?” Cody asked, feeling something cold settle across him, ice itself moving through his veins. There was no more time to wait, then. He’d already failed his promise not to let Skywalker touch Obi-Wan again, but-- Running off immediately wasn’t going to serve any of them.

He needed to set everything into motion. Then he’d run off.

“Less than a dozen,” Bones said, “but it’ll take me hours--”

“Order them to board the ship,” Cody cut in. There wasn’t time to waste on explanations and fretting. “Tell them I’ve ordered general quarters. Lock them in. We’ll deal with them later. I want them out of here now, before anyone can start issuing orders. You’re to stay on the ship with them. Get the medbay made ready. We’re not getting out of this without injuries.”

“Yes, sir,” Bones said, nodding, and turned, just like that, motions suddenly calm and controlled. They’d all been waiting for this such a long time, Cody knew. He certainly had.

He turned on his heel, walking out of the room, ignoring the droids watching them curiously. A few droids were no longer a concern. They wouldn’t be able to get word to Skywalker, anyway. Not if he were - were distracting himself with Obi-Wan again.

Cold fire spread in Cody’s gut as he walked. He’d almost made it to the barracks when an order came over the comm in his ear. It seemed he was wanted, immediately, in Skywalker’s throne room.

He could guess at why, and grinned, small and tight. Skywalker would invite him in, would not even be startled when Cody showed up, because Skywalker had called him. Made it easy, over confident and sure he was in utter control. The throne room was more of a problem than his private chambers. There were automated defenses in there. But Cody had prepared for this eventuality. His knuckles itched.

Cody continued to the barracks and gestured, silently, when he stepped inside. The few of his brothers still under the control of the thing in their heads never even looked up, never saw the signs Cody sketched through the air.

The rest of them, those freed, those ready to fight, stood with grim, determined looks, checking their blasters and straightening their armor. Cody looked over all of them, heart beating steady and sure in his chest, and nodded. They were as ready as they were ever going to be. And he was so tired of waiting. He marched through the halls, men falling in at his back, without a word or hesitation.

He gestured again as they reached Skywalker’s throne room. His brothers nodded, spreading out, pressed to the walls, blasters drawn, ready and waiting, as he blanked his expression and waved the door open, stepping in to get a look at the exact situation they were dealing with before he called in all his back-up. 

The throne room smelled like blood and the poisoned, volcanic air from outside, in a way that dropped the bottom out of Cody’s stomach. The room was brightly lit, not even the brief mercy of shadows there to hide the sights that awaited.

Obi-Wan was there, and Cody’s heart ached to see him. He was kneeling on the floor, head down, beside Skywalker, who was sitting on that throne of his, the ugly, brutal shape of it looming through the smoke that had been allowed to billow into the room. Cody resisted looking towards the open window, an itching sense of anticipation in his bones.

Skywalker had his legs crossed, a chain wound around one hand, connected to the collar at Obi-Wan’s throat. Obi-Wan’s right arm hung limp by his side, unbond. Cody swallowed bile, the abbreviated end of Obi-Wan’s left arm a condemnation, another way he’d failed, and he’d--

“Come here,” Skywalker ordered, voice a boom, and Cody remembered when he’d sounded like a boy, those first few months of the war. That boy had grown into a monster. Cody wished, absently, that he’d killed Skywalker long ago. Years ago. If only he’d known.

He walked forward, assessing the situation. Some of his brothers were already in the room. But that wasn’t a surprise. Skywalker liked to keep guards around, and perhaps he intended to force Cody to kill them. Or, Cody considered, eyeing the blasters they already held, perhaps they were to be his executioners.

They were all but two of them awake.

He hoped Skywalker enjoyed the surprise he was about to get. It had been far too long in coming.

Cody came to a stop in front of the throne, staring forward, waiting for the perfect moment, and Obi-Wan hitched in a breath, rasping - his voice was still barely a whisper, strained and hoarse, “Please, please, don’t--”

“I didn’t give you permission to speak,” Vader snapped, jerking on the chain, and Cody’s hands tightened into fists. He fought to keep his emotions calm and still. “I told you,” Skywalker continued, after a moment, “that 2224 has been experiencing defects. I think it’s time we resolved that.”

Cody watched Obi-Wan go still, strangely and totally. Centering himself, Cody realized. Preparing for something. 

“I know how I’d prefer to handle the execution. We could see how long it would take, if you like,” Skywalker continued, voice thrumming with implications. “But you could, perhaps, convince me to make it painless.” He tugged on the chain, again, jerking Obi-Wan forward against his legs, even as he uncrossed them, and Cody was going to--

“Yes, Lord Vader,” Obi-Wan said, before Cody could signal the other troopers, sliding his hand up Vader’s leg, and there was no more time to wait because Cody wasn’t letting this happen again. Never again. Never--

He made a sign, sharp and short, by his hip, and everything went mad, all at once.

Vader made a harsh, furious sound, standing and throwing Obi-Wan back, viciously. Cody blinked, because there was a flash of red, and for a moment, Cody thought that Vader had drawn his lightsaber and killed Obi-Wan and--

The red went with Obi-Wan, who hit the ground, rolled, and came up on one knee, glowing lightsaber in hand and blood streaking down his chin as he rasped, “You’re not going to hurt them, ever again, Anakin.”

That was when the first explosions started going off, right on schedule.

It was when Vader roared an order to kill him. 

And it was when his two chipped brothers opened fire.

#

Vader told Obi-Wan, when he was dragged in and dumped across the ground, that he had a special treat planned. He enjoyed the way Obi-Wan shuddered at the words, the way his emotions tangled and warped, dread and even still some scraps of determination threading through him.

Obi-Wan still thought he had a chance, even after everything. Even after Anakin had taken his arm - and he thought, perhaps, after he handled 2224, he’d take a leg, make Obi-Wan see exactly what he’d done, make him live it. He was going to undo Obi-Wan, utterly. It simply might take longer than he’d first hoped.

In any case, wrapping Obi-Wan’s chain around his hand and dragging him closer had settled some of the anger left behind by Tarkin’s visit. Obi-Wan still moved like he was hurt inside, carefully, a soft sound punching out of him as Vader dragged him into place.

He considered, for a moment, that something should be done about Obi-Wan’s right arm. There was no easy way to restrain it, though, and anyway, what was he going to do? The collar around his neck prevented him from acting against Vader’s will. And, if that failed, well…

There were troopers in the room. They’d proven so effective at getting Obi-Wan to listen. Just the threat of their deaths was more than enough to have Obi-Wan begging for mercy he wasn’t going to receive. A few executions were a good way to remind Obi-Wan of who was in control.

Still, Vader planned only one such execution for the evening. He’d grown tired of seeing 2224’s face around the base. He had a sneaking suspicion that Obi-Wan was thinking about the defective damn thing, that, even when he was with Vader, his thoughts were elsewhere. Another betrayal.

Besides, 2224 deserved to die for everything it had done during the war, for taking Obi-Wan’s focus away, distracting him.

Vader called it in, sitting back on his throne and relaxing. Tarkin had gone. He had Obi-Wan. He’d soon be rid of 2224. He’d gotten what he wanted and shuddered, just for a moment, at the way the realization left him feeling strange and hollow. 

He focused on the twist and ache of Obi-Wan’s emotions as 2224 marched in to face its execution. Obi-Wan’s agony was so rich, so complex. He hadn’t hurt nearly so much when Vader took his arm. That had just been… pain. Physical. Fleeting. The way he split open as Vader told him exactly what was going to happen to 2224 was so much thicker. Choking. Spilling into the Force.

Vader’s mouth twitched behind his helmet - it was wrong that Obi-Wan cared so much about some thing, a clone, anything that wasn’t him - and he jerked on the chain, only slightly mollified when Obi-Wan slid a hand up his leg.

How many times had he thought about Obi-Wan touching him like this? Obi-Wan kneeling between his spread legs, head bent forward, focused on making him feel good? They should have had this before, Padmé would have understood, Vader could have made her understand.

His respiration quickened with anticipation. He knew exactly when he planned to order 2224 executed. He’d order it to kill itself, he decided, after making it watch. After he had Obi-Wan’s mouth on him, after--

His sweet musings were interrupted when Obi-Wan’s emotions shifted, all at once, agony and grief peeling away to reveal something cool and calm and flat. He jerked at the same instant he felt Obi-Wan’s fingers curl around his lightsaber, and--

Vader shoved him back, immediately, with the Force, the saber activating even as he tossed Obi-Wan across the room. A second later and it would have carved up through his gut. Obi-Wan had activated it while it was pressed close to his skin, had intended to kill him and--

Fury and betrayal swirled through Vader’s mind as he lurched to his feet, drawing the Force around him, watching Obi-Wan grip his lightsaber, the red blade glowing across his skin, his eyes fierce and blue, sharp all of a sudden, all the misery he’d worn just pulled away, like a mask, like they’d been put-on, which was impossible.

Vader snarled, reaching for the controls for the collar, and the ground shook under him. Around the room the troopers were moving, suddenly, opening fire on 2224, who jerked away, impossibly, he should have stayed where he was, unmoving, not fired back at them, grunting when a blaster shot caught him in his side before some of the other troopers opened fire, taking out each other, not--

Vader didn’t understand what was happening. It didn’t matter. He moved to activate the controls, to bring Obi-Wan to heel, and 2224 said, “Skywalker.”

Vader blinked, surprise making him look over, sure he’d misheard and--

“For Trip,” 2224 said, calm and flat, as he shot the controls on Vader’s arm, sparks jumping out of the suit even as the rest of the troopers not on the ground opened fire on him. Vader roared in fury, unsure how Obi-Wan had managed this, how he’d managed to corrupt the clones’ programming, but none of that mattered.

Vader could figure that out later. After they were all dead. He lashed out with the Force, throwing them back, lifting three of them into the air at once, grip choking around their throats. He would kill them, oh yes. All of them, one after another, the entire 212th, ending with Obi-Wan. He’d make Obi-Wan watch each of them die, make sure he couldn’t look away, make sure--

He tightened his grip in the Force and made a hoarse, surprised sound when the troopers fell, anyway, his power pulled apart. The Force shifted in the room, swelling up, sweet and sharp, and he looked over, confusion coursing through him, to find Obi-Wan on his feet, saber shaking, breathing hard, what remained of his left arm stretched out.

“I won’t let you hurt them. Ever again,” Obi-Wan panted, eyes blazing, power coursing out of him, holding Vader back, which was impossible. Obi-Wan had ever been able to match him, but Vader had taken care of that, restrained him-- 

And the collar lay on the floor, twisted, the edges still smoking faintly from the blade of his saber. Vader snarled, moving towards Obi-Wan, fury building in his bones, all his focus on his old master. Blaster bolts hit across his shoulders and back, his chest, deflected by all the shielding in his suit, and then there was another explosion, closer, rocking the room.

Sparks jumped inside his systems, when it hit, a few warnings going off and silencing at once. His respiratory system stopped responding; as did his cardiac. The next blaster bolt hit true, and he stumbled back a step, and then another, as more bolts hit him. 

He needed to get out, get away from this madness. Institute repairs. His chest split with agony as his heart struggled to keep beating without mechanical support. He wheezed, gasping for breath inside his helmet, driven back further, until he hit the wall, gripping at the edge of the window.

“No!” he panted, raising one hand, rage and sharp fear echoing through him, allowing him to pull hard on the Force. He lashed out at Obi-Wan, the source of all of this trouble, and heard him cry out, sharply, as half the room came down in the grip of Vader’s power.

Stone and rock spilled across the floor, choking dust swirling through the air, giving Vader a moment to sway, his access to the Force no longer so restrained. Everything hurt. He didn’t - it was impossible. There were alarms going off, everywhere, and no one had come to help him. He hurt. He’d--this was all wrong. Impossible and wrong. 

He looked around, as the air currents rising off of the lava moved through the room, clearing some of the smoke. He found cold, furious faces everywhere, and Obi-Wan, up on one knee, somehow, looking up at him with his shining blue eyes, saber dropped so he could extend his right hand, shaking with the effort of restraining Vader’s use of the Force. 

The troopers opened fire on him, all at once and it - his suit wasn’t working properly. He felt each impact, terrible.

“Master!” he wailed, unable to breathe, heart stuttering, tripping, because Obi-Wan had so many weak spots and he knew he was one of them. Obi-Wan wouldn’t let them actually kill him. It wasn’t the Jedi way, after all.

A blaster shot caught him dead center in his helmet, shoving him back, almost over-balancing him. “For Dart,” 2224 said, flat, as Vader gripped at the edge of the open window. 2224 stared at him, his eyes dark and terrible even as he bled from the blaster wound in his side, even as he made a sharp sign with his hand and the blaster fire stopped. “For all our brothers.”

Vader gasped, choking, planning to take advantage of their foolish mercy. He started, “Obi-Wan--”

And 2224 said, “Yes,” grimly. “For Obi-Wan.” And he pulled the trigger once more, stepped forward while Vader was reeling, and kicked him, impossible force behind the blow. Vader made a sound, heard it echo in his helmet, as he overbalanced, grabbing for the edge of the window and missing and--

#

Cody leaned out over the side of the window, listening to further explosions go off, exactly as they should have. The EMP had worked well, he thought. A nice touch. It would have been enough to take Skywalker out, even without Obi-Wan’s help.

But Obi-Wan’s help meant they hadn’t lost more men, and--and that split something open, inside Cody’s chest. Obi-Wan had still fought for them. After everything, he’d tried to put himself between them and Skywalker.

And so Cody stared down into the lava, so far below, watching as it closed over Vader’s head, his one outstretched hand. He ignored the pain in his side, hot and cold at the same time, and the feel of blood sliding across his skin. The shot had gone clean through and he knew he was losing blood, lots of it.

It didn’t feel terribly important, at the moment. “Sir?” Crys asked, stepping up beside him, blaster still in hand. “Did you get visual confirmation?”

Cody spat over the edge, turned away, and said, “Yes. He’s dead. Let’s go.”

They weren’t done.

Not yet.

He’d killed Skywalker. He’d freed most of his brothers and the rest were going to be sorted. All that was left, he considered, turning away from the fire, was getting Obi-Wan out of here. Making him safe and never letting anyone hurt him, ever again.

[faerytale-au]

A Darkness Lingers Pt.2

Word Count: 6,750 Fourth Prompt Place: During and After “Promises and Tokens” Rating: M TW: Mentions of Past Abuse Cross Posted Here Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Instead of crying or letting the hurt get to her she chose to sit on the couch, and before she knew it she was being called. “FRISK?” 

She jerked in place, snapping from the daze she’d been unknowingly aiming at the wall. Forcing a smile she glanced up at Papyrus, a curious tilt of her head somehow only deepening the uncharacteristic frown on his face.

“YOUR MAGIC IS ALL OVER THE PLACE, IS SOMETHING WRONG?” Instead of answering she flicked her eyes over to the front door. Papyrus followed the look before letting out a deep sigh.

Papyrus smiled as he took a seat beside her. “IF YOU NEED TO TALK YOU KNOW I AM A VERY DILIGENT LISTENER MY DEAR SISTER.” 

Like he wanted the gentle use of her new title made her smile more genuine. He could see a fragment of the tension ease from her shoulders as she looked down at the ruby ring on her hand, a concentrated furrow of her brows making his smile nearly falter.

“Were you…” She paused thoughtfully. “Do you miss your dad?” 

Papyrus didn’t move, didn’t so much as breathe as he looked at her. After a moment his hands, resting unassuming on his knees, curled into tight fists even as the rest of him remained loose and relaxed in appearance.

His tone fought to keep it’s cheerful inflection. “SOMETIMES!” 

And then it was hard to keep his voice steady. “Other times…”

Frisk watched as Papyrus glanced away from her, his teeth pressing together firmly as his sockets dipped with a softness she couldn’t decide on being sadness or affection. When he spoke he still kept his gaze averted, locked on a bit of peeling wallpaper he hadn’t noticed before.

Redecorating was definitely on the agenda.

“Truth Be Told...I Don’t Really Remember My Father Too Well. If There’s Anyone Who I’d Worry About Missing Him, It’d Be Sans.” 

Frisk didn’t comment, and Papyrus looked back over with a timid smile. “They Were Really Close. Well Maybe Close Isn’t Right...They Both Had A Habit Of Acting Close But Being Distant. Only When They Told Me Stories Of Mom Did They Seem...Not Far Apart.” 

“Sans hasn’t ever mentioned your mother.” Frisk frowned curiously. She was sure he hadn’t, trying to think over their many conversations she couldn’t even recall a moment where he might’ve hinted at her.

Papyrus chuckled so quietly she could’ve almost mistaken the laughter for Sans’s. “I’m Not Surprised. Her Passing Was Always A Sensitive Subject.” 

Frisk hesitated but decided to risk asking. “What happened?” 

Like a switch had been flipped a haunted look flew over the Seelie’s expression, Papyrus’s sockets dulling and turning a shade darker than she knew they could ever go. He shut them and in a very high falsetto he forced his words out.

“I Killed Her.” 

Frisk thought her heart stopped.

“Her Soul Shattered While Giving Life To Me.” All she could do was stare at the floor. Frisk couldn’t think of what to say, what reassurances to give. How do you comfort someone when you hadn’t the first clue as to how they were feeling?

“I’m sorry you lost her like that…but it wasn’t your fault at all Papyrus.” 

“HMM MY BROTHER OFTEN TELLS ME THE SAME THING. AND WHILE IT MAY BE TRUE...That Doesn’t Change My Personal Feelings On The Matter. IT’S JUST SOMETHING I’VE LEARNED TO DEAL WITH.” Frisk had to blink back the tears that wanted to fall from her eyes. Papyrus always seemed so cheerful and upbeat, she never would have guessed he held such pain close to his heart. 

“Why do you think that?” 

Here Papyrus hesitated. “Because...I’m Certain If She Hadn’t Died Our Father Would’ve Never Went Down The Path He Did…Our Lives Would Be Very Different.” 

He sounded oddly like her; if she had tried harder to be good maybe dad would have loved her, if she had been a little more quiet, more invisible, maybe her mother would have cared. Maybe Frisk’s life could have been different from what it was now. They were thoughts she used to have constantly and that sometimes still plagued her at night.

Frisk didn’t like hearing something so similar coming from Papyrus.

She didn’t know what to say. Why did she never know what to say?

“Would you be happy...having your father back?”

Papyrus looked thoughtful, his expression scrunched in concentration as he thought on Frisk’s question with the most honesty he could give. He eventually shook his head and let out a huff of air.

“I’M NOT SURE. BUT I THINK SANS WOULD. STUBBORN TO ADMIT IT HE MAY BE. BUT THE PAST IS THE PAST THERE’S NO CHANGING THAT, IT’S SOMETHING WE HAVE TO ACCEPT.”

And little did he know Papyrus had just made a decision for her. Maybe...she could repay them both by offering what she had never had herself back in her world.

“Thank you Papyrus. Talking helped.” They both looked at each other in a soft and comfortable silence, his sockets taking on a less darkened hue as he unclenched his fists. 

He pulled her into an unexpected hug. “ANYTIME!” 

Frisk stiffened on instinct, her expression becoming awash with shock before she slowly smiled and hugged him back. Papyrus was the greatest Seelie she knew next to her husband, and he deserved everything, they both did.

~~

Sans barely saw the grove in front of him from the ring of mushrooms; his mind was wandering and his sockets were bottomless pits. He hadn’t wanted to leave Frisk the way he had, he already felt so guilty over it, but he...couldn’t take another second talking about his old man.

It was a given he would’ve had to tell Frisk eventually. But he had wanted to do it on his own time and terms, he hadn’t wanted the reason to be because the Unseelie was plotting something. 

Sans had wanted to live with Frisk in ignorance for just a bit longer.

Now all he could think about was not only how to explain his other job to his wife, but what preparations he’d have to take to prevent whatever drawback Gaster’s sudden activity would cause.

He was silently cursing himself, he was usually better prepared than this.

“Your foolish fancies will get you into trouble one day.”

The last time he’d seen Gaster in person... 

How long had it been exactly? Sans couldn’t remember. He hadn’t tried too, in fact he’d gone out of his way not to think about him. But now alone and sitting with nothing to distract him his thoughts took over...the memories he’d long repressed surfaced.

He could remember vividly how angry and hurt his father had been, the way he had sounded when he’d spoken in a voice not entirely his own to condemn Gaster for what he knew was the greater good, and how broken that had made both him and his still very young and impressionable brother.

Papyrus had suffered from nightmares for years after witnessing the fight that had broken out, Sans still suffered from them on occasion with flashbacks to boot, but he handled them better now and as far as he knew Papyrus didn’t even have them anymore.

But that didn’t mean the wounds were no longer there.

Sans shut his sockets, and all he could see was how Gaster’s gaze had turned vicious and loathing when Sans had told him he was selfish. Gaster’s shock when he’d accused his old man of loving only himself without regard to his family and those around him.

Gaster had been many things...always cold, standoffish, hard to relate too. But even then Sans had known in his youth, his father had been different deep down. He had been kind, patient, and always full of a tame but strong energy that he had little doubt wasn’t where Papyrus got his own wild flame from.

Papyrus ironically took after the old bones, both of them had difficulties socially, both of them had more to them than others typically saw or bothered to look for. Sans was sure if Gaster had been there for all the years he missed, he would’ve likely loosened up and been softer, Papyrus too would have learned more decorum.

It wasn’t hard to imagine.

At least with how Gaster had been before...

There wasn’t a night where Sans hadn’t questioned if he’d done the right thing. A day where he wondered where everything had gone wrong. And Frisk had reminded him of that so painfully he had almost snapped.

He couldn’t...handle admitting his doubts.

Gaster had been his first Unseelie case, and he could still remember being horrified as his father had morphed from the corruption right in front of him and Papyrus both. His little brother in tears as Gaster’s arms had melted and evaporated away leaving behind nothing but floating hands and how his face had grotesquely cracked in a bone rattling snarl.

His father hadn’t even looked like himself anymore.

It had been too much for such a young child to see, it had been to much for himself, and it had been traumatizing in how it had made Sans wonder if he’d look like that if he ever let his own darkness take over. If Papyrus…

Sans had hated Gaster in that moment.

It had killed a part of Sans when he’d flung him through the Unseelie gate; his soul threatening to fracture under the sorrow he’d felt at the shock and surprise in his father’s gaze right before the doors had slammed shut behind him, it had also been relieving.

But Gaster had stopped caring, had stopped being the Seelie he and Paps had once so admired. He’d been a fae dedicated to family, a Seelie sought after not only for his dedicated work ethic but also for his wit when it came to negotiating and deal making.

Gaster had been the very image of their society, no less than the Queen herself.

So his darkness as it had consumed him had been not only a blow to Sans and his sibling but to their world as a whole. There wasn’t a soul alive that didn’t know about the Seelie’s fall from grace, that didn’t get told of Gaster not as someone to idolize but as a cautionary tale.

The day he’d emerged from his lab donning that haunting eye piece, his eyelight wide and pulsing with a silent victory Sans had felt sick, could tell something was off. He’d seemed so mad, entirely out of his skull with knowledge and insidious intent that had made it hard for Sans to even breathe.

Could he have done something then?

If he had tried, could he have kept Gaster on the right path?

But more than anything Sans now silently wondered...why after all this time? Why appear now and go after Frisk? Gaster never pursued anything unless it had been to his benefit or to that of his ambition.

A protective anger flared in Sans’s soul.

Was it revenge? A way to escape? As much as Sans tried he couldn’t think of a valid reason or guess the intent behind his father’s sudden interest. If he didn’t already know the drawback to going into the Unseelie realm Sans would’ve been there already confronting the other.

He refused to let Gaster ruin anything else with his greed.

A small stinging sensation tugged at Sans’s chest, pulling him from his thoughts as his eyelights came back with a harsh flare. 

He clutched at his chest with a frown before pulling back his sleeve to stare down at his wedding bracelet. The moonstones along the back of it were lit up a furious red, oscillating between different shades and tones, but all meaning the same thing.

An image, sheer and thin like looking through lace flashed in his mind.

Golden doors, a hesitant step...

Frisk was before one of the gates...an Unseelie gate.

Sans felt his soul quiver, the magic between his joints tightening in panic as sweat coated his skull. She was trying to not only leave the realm but to open a gate to the corrupted fae? A possibility so logical and most likely true made him sick.

She had said she wanted to help Gaster.

Had he messed up? 

Again?

Sans never should’ve been harsh to her that morning, he had never acted that way with her before, of course he would’ve upset her. Of course she’d rebel against him when he was so out of character with her. 

Panic, thick and unrelentingly harsh overcame him.

He was back through the gate and rushing to shortcut in a single breath as guilt and worry shot a bolt of ice down his spine. 

He prayed he wasn’t too late.

~~

Frisk was uncertain as she stood at the abandoned post, her mouth dry and chest heaving with thick breaths. She already knew Gaster was standing on the other side, waiting. His presence she could feel like a weight on her chest.

He’d known she’d show hadn’t he?

She swallowed thickly, she didn’t know if she could even open the gate, but she was more than sure if she did not only would Sans know, but every Seelie in the realm would too. 

A glance up at the thick bells hanging ominously above her made her heart give a painful skip in her chest. There were so many it felt like, but in reality only six stood guard, three to either side of the arch overhanging the entrance. All wide enough that Frisk imagined if one were to fall it could encompass a whole village in it’s depths.

Her eyes drifted down to a pair of hand prints embedded within the golden doors, one on each side of the doors seam. The tiny indentations were like specks to it’s immense stature but Frisk could feel the powerful magic swirling out from them like a hot breeze, coiling and calling with a phantom caress.

She shut her eyes as she tried to get her breathing under control.

“Second thoughts?” Frisk’s eyes snapped open and she frowned as she looked down at her hands, wispy sparks of muted fire tracing along her palms and fingers, as if her magic was trying to soothe her.

“I...need your word.”

Gaster was silent, but soon his voice was echoing in her mind again. “Has my son not taught you the dangers of an Unseelie deal?”

Frisk clenched her hands and let them fall to her sides as she stared ahead, her eyes boring into the door as if she could see Gaster just behind it smirking at her. But she refused to let his words antagonize her. 

This was a front for him, she felt it in her soul, she’d seen there was more to him.

“He has, but I’m willing to bet you would never truly harm those you call family.” She couldn’t see him, but the sudden thickening of the air around her told of his annoyance...and his power. If he could cause such such a shift locked in another realm there was no doubt he could cause unfathomable damage when present. She wanted to believe in him, truly she did, but she wasn’t naive enough to overlook his taint.

“...What do you ask of me?”

“I know better than that Gaster, I know how deals work, your word or I walk away.”

There was a long stretch of silence.

“...Place one hand to the door…” Nervousness made a knot form in Frisk’s stomach but she managed to take another step forward, careful to avoid touching the spot her hand was to rest when opening the gate she pressed her palm flat and firmly to the smooth surface. 

Warmth and chill mixed, curling like ghostly tendrils through the thick door to wrap her fingers and wrist. It stung, burned her flesh enough that she hissed painfully. It had never felt like this when she’d made a deal before; like her hand was slowly blistered and then quickly dunked into freezing water.

His magic was this potent?

“For my freedom, voice your request.”

Her heart hammering Frisk spoke slowly, “You are not to bring harm or death to a single soul in this realm.” 

The air became suffocating, laced with bitterness and fury so engulfing Frisk covered her mouth and nose to keep from choking on the suddenly foul air. The magic binding her hand nearly had her knees give out with how intensely it constricted around her. 

She’d angered him, but just as quickly as that anger had come it just as quickly soothed and withdrew. The overpowering feeling in her arm was still there but had gone down to a dulled throb.

“...Is that all you demand?” The curious tone in his voice had her shoulders hunching suspiciously. 

She took a second to think over her words and was sure there were no loopholes or room for him to betray their deal, but she was still learning. Hesitantly she chose to say something else instead of trying to add to her conditions, something told her she needed to.

“That’s all I ask of you...as family.”

For a moment it felt as if Gaster had softened, something warm and yet sad filling the bond being manifested between them. If she could see him, she’d have seen how haunted he looked, how empty and bitter he was.

Gaster was to be denied even his vengeance.

...For family…

How manipulative, and thoughtful.

“I see now just how perfect for my son you are.” 

Frisk wasn’t given the chance to respond as an acidic burn of pain shot up her arm and straight into her chest, sending her vision tunneling as her soul was constricted and squeezed in the onslaught of a corrupted deal struck.

Gaster felt her try to topple but his magic still scorching itself in an unseen contract kept her up and firmly on her feet. He couldn’t help the smirk on his face. The repercussions and consequences from what she’d just done caused her to suffer, which pleased the darkness in his soul.

It was just punishment for the rules she’d just imposed on him.

When he could sense the tie on her being firmly in place he released her.

Frisk crumpled, fell painfully to her knees, and tried to keep her balance by resting her hands and forehead against the doors where she panted as if she’d just ran a marathon. In all her years she’d never felt something so nasty and horrible as what had just happened.

It was almost as if she’d dirtied herself…

“Quickly now, I highly doubt my eldest didn’t feel the violation to your soul.” 

Violation?

She must’ve said it out loud because Gaster answered, “An unfortunate side effect. I can explain more after you hold up your end to our agreement.” 

Swallowing down what felt like cotton Frisk pushed shakily to her feet and narrowed her eyes at the door’s seal. Taking another deep breath she moved her hands into the imprinted grooves and let out a gasp as her palms settled almost perfectly into them. 

A cool breeze, comforting and warm wrapped around her as her magic flared to engulf her hands and rapidly climb her body. Flames that didn’t burn or singe flowed around her and flared into a fiery typhoon, whipping her clothing and hair as if she was caught in a hurricane.

“That’s it! Focus Frisk.” Gaster’s encouraging call echoed.

She squeezed her eyes shut as they began to burn, tears running from their corners only to be lifted into the air in a bizarre loss of gravity. The air distorted and bent, a heatwave or time magic rapidly grew the grass at her feet and wilted it before reverting it rapidly to a youthful green.

She--she didn’t know if she go on--the doors gave but it felt like her energy was a battery, fluctuating between full and powerful to weak and drained--

No! 

She...she could do this!

Frisk could set Gaster free; she could give Papyrus and Sans their father back. She could prove she was more than just Sans’s wife and a human, she was capable of so much more than sitting around day in and out with nothing but the worry and fear of being a burden that being a mage brought.

She could prove she was more than anyone had ever given her credit for.

Frisk cried so loudly her voice rose above the ringing the bells began to give as she poured all her frustration and deep buried regret into pushing the door’s apart. Foul wind and diseased air bathed her in cascading flows of evil intent that made her almost collapse with nausea.

Another inch--

And she fell, her magic going out as the doors swung wide enough Gaster reached forward and caught her easily. Moving quickly he passed the entry way and glared back at the feral Unseelie that had been alerted, their charging forms barely visible before Gaster coalesced his magic and slammed the doors back shut with a resounding crack of thunder.

Frisk was gasping and barely coherent as Gaster knelt with her and pressed his forehead to her own. She shivered as a feeling pushed in and started to replenish her but nearly made her gag at the bile it raised in the back of her throat.

Despite how gross it felt her breathing evened out, and thankfully Gaster pulled back before standing fully again. His hold on her only released once he was sure she could stand without shaking. It took her a second to get her thoughts straight but once they were she looked up at him cautiously.

“Thank you.” He hummed before turning.

Frisk froze.

Sans was still and at a distance but his whole frame tensed the moment his eyelights locked with Gaster. She watched as his sockets narrowed in disbelief and his grin trembled at the edges.

Gaster looked amused.

Her heart dropped. 

Frisk felt the air take on a sudden chill, ice spiraling out from the bottoms of Sans’s feet to coat the ground as the wind picked up and billowed his cloak and clothing. Her husband’s smile, so often soft and adoring, suddenly widened and...felt as if it went empty of all feeling.

A bolt raced down her spine as his eyelights snuffed out, the left socket flaring bright like a raging inferno lit up with yellow and blue light coalescing violently in hostile intent. She was shocked as Sans spoke with the voice that she heard in her dream.

“Y O U  D O N ‘ T  B E L O N G  H E R E.” 

Gaster’s smirk dropped. 

“Sans wait please!” Frisk tried but her plea died in her throat as he glanced over at her, the weight of the power she could feel in his gaze suffocating and stalling her thoughts. 

It felt like he was seeing right through her.

Frisk locked in place, her and Sans both staring at each other with vastly different expressions and intent. There was apprehension and...she didn’t have a name for the way his face shone with false warmth in his smile but yet felt so condemning.

She didn’t know rather to be afraid...or worried.

Gaster took the opportunity to slip an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to his side, the abrupt motion jarring her enough into breaking eye contact as she looked up at Gaster.

It seemed to be enough to affect Sans.

Instantly his eyelight went out and he looked absolutely petrified as the whirling wind of his magic died. The sight of his wife in his deranged father’s arms sent such a painful spike through his soul that he had to fight not to let the magic in his joints constrict.

“don’t you dare--” Gaster gave a dismissive snort.

“So, it seems the risk to her well-being is what can temper you, duly noted.” Frisk tensed but the reassuring rub of his thumb into her shoulder relaxed her. The gesture was unexpected and it confused her how such warmth could come from him while he still glared Sans down, bitterness and cold detachment livid in his one good socket.

Sans glanced over at her and then back to Gaster, like hell he’d risk Frisk’s life for his job let alone his anger. 

His demeanor became forced as he hitched his grin higher in one corner and held his hands up in a shrug. “no need to get so handsy, why don’t we go ahead and sit down for a talk. seelie were we can compromise?” 

Frisk perked up hopefully but Gaster wasn’t fooled by the sudden attitude change. He could see his son’s tell with the magical sweat drop that subtly slid down the side of his skull. 

Unlike Papyrus, Sans wasn’t good under pressure, it’s why he so often relied on his magical abilities when push came to shove in high tension situations.

An unfortunate flaw in his eldest.

“Your acting is about as poor as your puns, lacking in dedication and effort,” Sans’s expression darkened. “Rather disappointing given our race. But not nearly as disappointing as the thought you’d honestly believe me capable of intentionally hurting my daughter-in-law.” 

It took Sans a moment to register Gaster’s words and slowly his body unwound as he blinked in confusion. Of course he thought that, if he could betray both him and Papyrus when they were younger, what was stopping him from hurting Frisk who he didn’t even know?

Sans wasn’t stupid.

Frisk took a deep breath and her voice was gentle.

“I’m sorry I hurt you by bringing Gaster here.” Sans’s skull whipped in her direction and he looked as if she’d slapped him but she continued, her eyes bright with her determination that it kept him rooted to the spot in which he stood. 

“He just...misses you and Papyrus, his home. Don’t you miss him too?” 

Slowly Sans’s eyelights panned over to his old man’s face, and the slight twitch of his frown, the way he had a hand absently adjust his monocle was telling. If only Sans couldn’t see the grudge his father still carried on his soul he might have relented.

But Gaster’s sins were countless.

He looked back over to Frisk, his kindhearted and stubborn wife, with a gaze soft but somber. It was too late for what she was trying to accomplish. Gaster was banished, an Unseelie who refused to give up the very conviction that corrupted him. 

A Fae that had sacrificed everything that should have been precious.

“frisk--you can’t save him.” 

She looked ready to defy him but he cut her off. “surely even he’s told you that.” He shot Gaster a glare. “my old man has always made it a point to make sure everyone knows reality from fiction.”

Gaster...looked away as his hand tightened on Frisk’s shoulder only the slightest bit. 

If he hadn’t been holding her she would have thought he was ignoring the way Sans was speaking about him, indifferent to how hurt and angry his son sounded. And though she could tell he was becoming more angry himself, more tempted to lash out still he held to his word and didn’t. 

“my old man died years ago frisk.” She could sense the ache, but it sounded so final.

Frisk looked down at her feet as she collected her thoughts before facing her husband again. Sans’s sockets were locked on Gaster but his attention was so clearly on where she was held it was impossible to miss the nervousness with which he hid his hands in his cloak. 

Seeing how distressed he was it felt as if she’d wronged him, and doubt began to settle in her chest. Was she really doing the right thing? Couldn’t everyone be saved? She didn’t know what to think.

Frisk felt herself fade out, the world turning grey and loud. Shadows both sharp and blurred ran across her vision as hopelessness and desperation struggled with the fire of her hope and fought to quench her resolve. 

She felt her body vanish.

Sans almost flinched at the cold and detached look that took over her face, it was horrifying to him how washed out her skin turned with her eyes going so dull it felt as if her soul had fled. It hit him in the most painful way to watch her wilt like a doll whose strings had been cut, but it wasn’t nearly as painful as her words.

“You saved me…” She muttered through numb lips.

And that made him question...if he actually had.

Gaster looked down at her, a mix of intrigue and surprise quirking one of his bony brows as he took in her state. It twisted Sans’s magic with disgust as he recognized the look in his father’s sockets.

no, don’t look at her with curiosity, like something to dissect, this isn’t--this wasn’t okay--

“sweetheart, that’s not the same thing, not by a long shot.” His words were hushed, gentle as if she might shatter. He wasn’t even aware that he’d gotten closer until Gaster held a hand out between them and nearly touched him. 

Sans fought not to instinctually lash out with magic and shot Gaster a deadly look, but it went ignored as his father fully turned and adjusted Frisk to face him at arm’s length. 

The longer Frisk stared at nothing and Gaster examined her the more Sans felt his anxiety grow, the more he tried to come up with a way to separate them without somehow accidentally harming her.

Eventually, “Ah, you’re traumatized. Classic dissociation associated with PTSD.”

Then Gaster did something Sans hadn’t witnessed since he was a child.

The former scientist got down on his <em>knees</em> and kept his gaze intentful and measuring as he spoke with the same authoritative voice he’d often used when he’d had to calm Sans down in his worst moments.

“Memories and feelings are just the mind’s way of storing information. None of that applies to the here and now, you don’t need to remember Frisk. Focus.” 

”Family is everything Sans, greater than even yourself, never forget that.”

Sans felt his soul give a violent thrum and he had to do everything he could not to take his sockets off of Frisk. He hadn’t thought back on his father’s encouraging words in years. But now it was all he could think about as Gaster worked to bring his wife out of her stupor. 

The doubt he’d carried all this time in the back of his skull came to the forefront.

Had Gaster...wavered in his depraved dedication? Was he changing? Had he...ever changed really? It was so hard to believe anything else as Frisk’s eyes slowly began to brighten, and her lashes fluttered away her daze.

Sans felt his stance on his father give.

Frisk sucked in a breath as her body lit up with warmth and her mind slowly cleared. She was confused to see Gaster kneeling in front of her but that quickly turned into mild embarrassment as he smirked at her. 

“Good.”

Soon as she was coherent Sans moved to hold her, but was met with Gaster stepping forward and blocking the way. His guard went up, and the softness Sans had felt bloom in his chest hardened upon seeing his Father’s malicious smile.

Frisk stiffened at the sudden mood shift. “Gaster, we had a deal!” 

“And we still do my dear.” He chuckled. “Nowhere did you state I couldn’t fight him.”

Frisk reached forward, her hands grasping and burying within the smoke that composed Gaster’s form as she tried her best to gain his full attention, anything to buy her precious seconds to try and convince him not to go through with the sudden whim.

Gaster however simply peered over his shoulder at her, “That’s enough of that, stop acting so childish.” and spawned a hand into being. 

“frisk!” Sans panicked and tried vainly to teleport to her but found himself frozen in place, a dark and corrupted purple surrounding and suffocating his soul. Gaster looked back towards his son with a shrug as he snapped his fingers.

Frisk’s eyes went wide as dark light erupted from the ground around her, exploding upward and encasing her in a dome of pure blackness. Her cry went muffled and silent as it formed a cocoon around her, flipping and deafening her senses. 

Sans began to sweat as he visibly struggled to break free, “F R I S K!” 

His old man had gotten stronger through the years.

Gaster took a step forward, the last five of his hands appearing and enlarging as he prepared for combat. Sans was gasping, his eyelight bright and flaring with rage. His father was unperturbed and merely looked at him boredly.

“Is that all you plan to do? Act dramatic for your human? Come, let’s see what the years have taught you my boy. Best hurry.” He gave a snide smile. “Dear Frisk has, at best fifthteen minutes of air.”

Sans’s smile went so wide it threatened to crack his skull.

He should’ve known better. He should’ve acted as soon as he’d seen Gaster had returned.

Instead Sans had let nostalgia and his worry for Frisk make him weak.

The air turned chill, frost and snow whipping into a flurry around him as he glared his father down with tears in his sockets...as his second eyelight lit up with equal power to the first. 

Gaster smirked as he easily dodged the first barrage of bones, his body morphing and shifting to allow the ring of projectiles through his form without a single scratch. He chuckled as Sans took the opportunity to break the hold his magic had on him and shortcut away.

Predictable.

The taller fae didn’t even have to turn as a frustrated cry echoed from behind him. Smirking he looked over to the shorter Seelie’s enraged snarl as a thick wall of impenetrable darkness kept him back from where Gaster held Frisk hostage.

“Fourteen minutes.” He taunted.

Sans’s shoulders slumped as if in defeat but Gaster easily sensed the pool of magic building beneath him and leapt, just barely missing a circle of sharpened bones protruding from the ground in a spray of cold fog.

“Ah, intending to actually kill me are we?” Sans slowly turned to face him, one hand still firmly pressed to the wall between him and his wife, his smile gone and replaced with a firm line.

“let her go old man. i didn’t like your games when i was a kid, and i don’t like them now.” 

Gaster frowned and leveled a cruel glare at him. “Who says I’m playing?” 

Sans vanished, the area around Gaster becoming awash in black before snapping into sharp clarity as the judge swung an elongated humerus bone. Gaster dodged with ease and the area once more turned black before returning with Sans coming down from above. 

“Your shortcut’s effects will only do so much to aid you.” He remarked as an equally cold black wall of bones spawned above him blocking his son’s blow. Shards of ice like that of shattered glass rained down, catching the glow of Gaster’s corrupted magic and reflecting it with ethereal light as he shot Sans a narrowed smirk.

“Stop being lazy.”

Sans’s eyelights flared and quicker than Gaster could blink reality dissolved and snapped back in furious and rapid succession. 

The monocle Gaster wore lit up and pulsed.

A blow aimed from the side, met with a gigantic palm.

Bones from beneath his feet while Sans struck from behind, blocked and evaded.

His son’s frustrated smile going wider as he summoned a blaster and fired only made him chuckle at how childish the Seelie’s ultimate defender looked as the powerful beams were easily absorbed by the holes in his hands.

Each time Sans tried to strike or entrap him Gaster simply thought ahead of him and prevented it, his monocle allowing him to peer moments into the course of his son’s actions to determine the best way to counter.

Gaster would be lying if he didn’t admit he was mildly disappointed.

This fight was too easy. 

The moment Sans appeared again and lunged at him, humer raised in defiance, Gaster merely glanced up and shot a hand out from the darkness of his body. 

Sans was shocked as he was locked in place, his forehead glistening with magical sweat as the hand, thoroughly cracked like a jigsaw puzzle and looked as if it was barely held together kept him from finishing his attack.

Apparently his father had seven hands instead of six. Sans wondered if he’d bothered trying to salvage it as a reminder of just how angry and bitter he was at him. It wouldn’t have surprised him.

Sans felt his arms strain as he pushed the humerus stubbornly against it.

Gaster knew he had won, all without barely lifting a finger, he could see it in the way Sans’s smile threatened to falter as it wobbled in the uppermost corner. Logically this was where he should stop. He had made a deal with Frisk after all.

But this was so tempting.

Before him was the very reason he’d been forced to suffer more than he had even when they’d all been locked in the void, the Seelie responsible for sending him to a place where he couldn’t feel the call of nature or the binding of magic that composed their very existence.

Sans could’ve purified him years ago...instead he had chosen to send him away.

He had damned him.

“I owe Frisk an apology.” He stated lowly. 

Sans’s sockets narrowed in confusion and Gaster’s smile broke into a horrifying and twisted leer as his glee and eagerness outshone the calm composure he'd maintained throughout the entire confrontation. “...For making her a widow.”

Sans barely registered the words as Gaster’s palms rose up to encircle him from all directions, their hollow centers lighting up as they prepared to eviscerate him. He went to shortcut but his soul was pinged as Gaster used his magic to cancel his own.

Pulling from his magic started to exhaust him as he summoned another rain of bones but groaned as Gaster once more scattered and shattered them before they could impact. Sans didn’t even have the energy to call another blaster.

His sockets slammed shut as he tried to think but he kept coming up short on figuring out a way to escape, his magic was racing along his leylines and he was gasping as the world went impossibly silent except for the roar of his incoming death. 

...Was..was he really this weak?

He didn’t realize he was so out of practice.

Couldn’t he manage to protect one person?

Sans opened his sockets and looked up passed the Unseelie to the wall standing between him and Frisk, his soul shuddering in agony as he envisioned her floating unconscious and vulnerable, completely at another’s mercy without anyone to help if she cried out for it.

His frisky…

His wife…

Sans could only ever fail to be there when she needed him.

A shout pulled Sans from his spiraling thoughts and he whipped his head around just in time to see a giant orange bone come flying and connect sharply with the side of his father’s skull.

Gaster was caught off guard, his body lurching and soaring with barely any effort into the wall of a building that broke and collapsed around him in a grotesque version of a fairy mound. Sans fell to his knees as Gaster’s magic broke and looked up with relief.

“hey bro...what took you so long?”

Undyne was smirking along with the rest of the guard as Papyrus slowly lowered his hand, his magic thick and undulating around him in a burnt orange aura as his cape levitated beyond gravity's hold in crusted ice.

Papyrus frowned. “HONESTLY BROTHER, YOU KNOW I DETEST FIGHTING.” 

Sans smiled, battle ready and bringing backup? 

His bro was the coolest.

[too-scared-to-do-this]

Of the Devil’s head

Chapter four - Bloody hell!

Sander’s side fanfiction

Wordcount: 1304

Ships: still just prinxiety 

TW: mentions of blood, cursing, injury, post-operations stuff talk kinda, imprisonment, a lot of panicking and distress - which kind off resembles an anxiety-attack but not really. I think I’ve got all. As always, if I missed anything, let me know, please. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. :3

Summary of the whole story: They say, the one that wears the crown rules all - the living, the dead, the walking, the crawling, the rooted, the sane and the mad. They say, once you own the crown, you become the  most powerful being on Earth and beyond. Roman’s stolen bigger things - a measly little crown won’t present a problem, even if he has to steel it straight off of the devils head!

-----------------------------------------

Chapter four - Bloody hell!

Not only does time not work in Hell, but apparently physics doesn’t either. Because no matter how Virgil looked at it, there was just no way this weird figure could’ve fallen straight onto him from the place he was situated at.

He was climbing the throne from the back. Reaching from the side. So please explain to him, how the hell was he able of falling fall over and landing directly on top of the king?

Either Hell was truly that massed up, or this person was just unconventionally clumsy.

Virgil didn’t have much time to ponder on it, though. He yelped and pushed the stranger off. Which resulted in poor Roman landing on his back on the hard ground. Broken stalagmites and new once that were just growing out pushed into his back, his head hitting a particularly sharp one.

Dull ache spread through his whole body. “Aw…” he groaned weakly, reaching for his head. Carefully trying to lift himself into a sitting position, the voices around him started to come back to him.

Someone on his right was barely breathing, short fast breaths not enough to satisfy their lungs. And someone on his left was laughing their ass off.

Roman frowned at the general direction of the laugh. This was not funny.

And why was everything so hazy? His vision was fogged and blurry and his hearing muffled and muted down. And oh god, his head!

He pulled his hand away. Even this out of focus, he could make out the big red splotch that covered his palm. Well, this is just great!

He had to get out of there before these things could lock him up, but the room was starting to spin and his eyes got kind off heavy… He just wanted to lay down… just for a little bit….

“Startup immediate! Let’s fucking eat him!”

Well at least that’s what Roman made out of what the creature on his right said. And that didn’t sound like the most pleasant thing. He didn’t feel like sleeping anymore. He had to get up! He had to run!

In reality, what Virgil said was: “Shut up, you idiot! They’re fucking bleeding!”

Panic seeping all the way to his bones he rushed over to the distressed stranger. This wasn’t good! He couldn’t leave them to just bleed out!  

Remi paid his master’s stressed-out state no mind. He was too preoccupied leaning over, just barely standing - laughing so hard. “And?”

Virgil couldn’t believe this! “Remington! Go get the fucking healers!”

When Virgil got distressed and needed people to listen, his voice pitched down a few octaves and doubled over. Demons called it his Monster voice.

In this particular instance, the Monster voice was nothing compared to the way he roared at the servant.

He immediately shut up and ran off to find help.

The king was left alone with a very woozy, barely conscious and scared to death Roman. “Oh shit! Don’t die on me...! Please...!”

He didn’t know what to do with his hands. Could he touch the creature? Should he touch them? What if they have a broken rib or something? 

They ended up just awkwardly hovering over the wounded figure.  

Meanwhile, Roman didn’t even know what was going on. His mind was too foggy to comprehend anything. He just sat there, willing himself to think the one thought he needed to think.

But what was that thought again?

Some-Something about… running?

Yeah, yeah that…

He… he wanted to run. From what...?

Nobody seemed to be nearby… So why did he want to…

Wait, what did he want again…?

Oh, right. Sleep…

Virgil’s hand-hovering came to an end the moment the med-team stepped into the hall. “Your Majesty.” the demons all bowed.

“Stop bowing and get this Human to the med-bay! Immediately!”

“Yes sir.” the main healer nodded shortly and rushed over to the thief. The rest followed.

The devil let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and fall back against the throne. It was going to be okay now. His healers are the best in the under-world. They’ll take care of them.

He watched as they took the now unconscious figure away. Remi walked up to him, not-bothered as always. “I don’t see why we couldn’t just left it to bleed out.”

Virgil was too tired for this. His mind was going three miles per second and he just needed to calm down… He turned his cold gaze at the demon. “You’re a mind reader. Figure it out.”

That shut Remi up. No matter how much fun it would’ve been to see the Human suffer, hearing what ran through his king’s head wasn’t fun at all. He wasn’t about that. “I’ll be throwing down damned souls into the pit. If you need me, just call my name, babe. Byeeeee!!” And with a finger-wiggle wave, he left the room.

Virgil didn’t feel like getting up. The ground seemed comfortable enough for now. (There wasn’t much of a difference between it and the throne anyway.)

A Human being. A living, breathing, Human flashbang. He hasn’t seen a living specimen in… He doesn’t even know when was the last time one stood before him.

And now there was one in his med-bay. Antichrist, this was bad!

What is he even supposed to do with a creature like that? Besides torture, obviously. Sweet mother of evil!

The devil sat there, contemplating un-life until one of the healers walked into the hall.

“Your highness, the Human has been dealt with. We stopped the bleeding, and stitched up the wound best we could. It is still unconscious, though, so we locked it in one of the cells, temporarily.”

“Thank you, Lucius. Let me know when they wake up.”

“Yes, sir.” with that, the servant left. And Virgil finally climbed back on that uncomfortable throne. He pulled his phone out, and started scrolling through Tumblr once again. Things didn’t seem so boring anymore.

-

Roman came to a few hours later - not that he knew how much time had passed. What he knew though, was that he was in a dark cell guarded by two demons. Even through his hazy brain he could understand the situation he was in - he was a prisoner. ”Oh, holly mother Teresa!” he freaked, standing up and rushing over to the bars. Well, more like he stumbled...

“You have to let me out! Come on! You don’t understand! Let me out!” he gripped the cold stone bars.

One of the guards looked at him, then exchanged looks with the other. The second nodded and left, leaving Roman with a very angry looking demon.

He gulped. “Mr. Ehr, Miss- am… I… ah, please let me go…?”

The guard didn’t even glance at him.

Well, this was going well.

The second guard entered the throne hall and bowed down deep. Virgil rolled his eyes. “I’ve been telling you for thousands of years to stop bowing! It’s betting annoying.”

The demon straightened up immediately, nodding ashamed. “I apologize, your evilness.” Another eyeroll. These titles were getting better by the decade.

“What’s up, Derius?” he leaned on the arm-rests, razing his eyebrow.

“The prisoner woke up.”

Oh. Oh shit. Okay. Okay... “Are they okay?”

“It seems fine. IA bit out of it and scared, but that is to be expected. We did just imprison it in an environment completely different from his natural habitat…”

Virgil nodded, feeling his heartrate spike and slow again. They were all right.

Then an idea popped up in his head. Slowly, a grin pulled at his lips. Remi wanted fun, didn’t he?

Virgil could be fun. (Now that he knew nothing serious was happening with the Human.) Virgil could be very, very fun. He bit his lip and looked up at the guard.

“Bring me that thief.”

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Iiiiiiii can’t even believe it!

Another part, right the next day? I’m kicking this block’s ass, y’all! :D And look where we are! Remember that first anonymous comment that started all this?

But hey, I really hoped you enjoyed it. :3

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. If I have an answer I’ll gladly share it. And if I don’t, you just helped me come up with another addition to the story ;D

I’ll be back with a new chapter as soon as possible :) 

(I wasn’t kidding when I said this was becoming my new hyper-fixation XD)

Bye, for now <3

Tag list:

@alice-only-me 

[entomancy]

(Fic) One thing we can agree on

Title: One thing we can agree on (Wattpad)

Setting: The vampire nonsense / Vegas Masquerade

Warnings: Gore.  I am having fun with my crayons.

Words: 1401

Summary: Flashback into the 'Moonlight Flush' part of the timeline. Which is the framing of the events of ~twenty years ago in the Vegas Masq. setting (which set up the current ‘rules’) as an urban fantasy police procedural; where Joplin would have been the secondary main / intro to the supernatural world and Belton the Season One antagonist who ended up Sort Of Befriended(ish).

This would have been in approx. Season Three, when bits from Joplin's past come back to bite him (er, again, I guess), and involves the first time he'd actually had to team up with Belton against a larger problem.

The larger problem being: more werebears, but asshole ones.

Indulgent, but I enjoy Belton being a dramatic irritation, and ~27yr old Joplin's permanent state of exasperation. And I wanted to explore an important (?) difference in the way the vampires and were(s) of this setting work.

(Also neither tumblr nor Wattpad has any sensible way to use footnotes, so there's one just... there, in the middle. Like this is FFN cira 2003 or something.)

---

The real difference between vampires and werewolves is how they bleed.

Clearly it isn't the only difference.  There are the big, obvious - hairy - ones; and you could spend lifetimes comparing technicalities of characteristic amongst the supernatural set, searching for links or diversions or even a root cause. How magic plays in.  How inheritances work, or the fundamental incompatibility of cross-siring.  How sunlight, direct or orbitally reflected, could possibly trigger the different effects that it does.

But for Denis Joplin, as he'd scrambled to make sense of the extraordinary left turn his last decade had careened into, somehow the thing that really seemed to underline it all was the way they bled.  Maybe because he'd always had such a damn knack for getting into situations that showcased it.

That last round of gunfire had really screwed up his right arm.  He'd wedged himself in place against the thick struts of a heavy-duty shipping container - splattered almost as much now with crimson as it was with spraypainted Cyrillic – and tried to breathe quietly.  The enormous bastard wielding a goddamn helicopter canon had fucked off to yell 'roided nonsense into a different part of the warehouse, so they probably had a few minutes pause before he realised his targets had dodged.

Not dodged as well as Joplin'd have liked, but there y'go.  You worked with what you got.

Most of the bullets had gone straight through – since he wasn't an armour-plated van – but he could feel a few wedged points of pain even within the jellied miasma of broken flesh that hung unpleasantly from his torn shirt.

"Jesustapdancing­-" he bit down on the mismatched curse as he grabbed his messed-up limb with his other hand and twisted, pushing it up against himself and the steel wall behind, and tried not to go blind.

It squelched.

"Don't like that," he muttered, then glanced up at the wet snort of amusement from just down the container row. "Hey, he nailed you to the fuckin' wall about as well as I've seen; don't get lippy."

Not that his extremely temporary partner was in much shape to be more actively sarcastic.  The brunt of the recent salvo had hit taken Belton pointy-ear to hip, ripping the big grey fuck open like a side character in chainsaw splatter, which – somehow – made the look of dazed amusement on the bits of his face that weren't hanging off even more aggravating than usual.  He shifted position, bringing his torn-up arms out in front of him as if holding something narrow and invisible in both hands, and –

Joplin blinked.

Pull... yourself...

"Oh fuck off," he growled – and it was a growl, a sound that started deeper than his chest actually went and brought the pull along with it; a bestial reverb that went beneath his bones.  Joplin gritted his teeth – which felt about ready to start moving in his jaw as it was, aching with something beyond nerves – and had another unpleasant feel around where his elbow used to be.  It helped if everything was in the right place.  Last thing he needed right now was having to rebreak a limb because he'd managed to shift over all wonky.

That'd have to do.  Very pointedly not making eye contact with Belton as he did so, Joplin Changed.

There have been a lot of renditions of a lycanthropic* transformations over the years, and there have even been some that have come close to the actual reality of seeing it happen. The exact visuals tend to vary person to person, but however it looks, the world bends – just a little, at the seams – as something that was only ever the thickness of breath away steps forward.  Joplin always thought it felt like stretching should do – an all-over, unfurling release of physicality, like every fibre of you stopped hunching its shoulders all at once.

________________________________________________________________

* There's an argument that 'ursanthropic' might be a more technically correct term when the reader is considering Denis Joplin himself – or even the bellowing figure currently firing 30mm rounds into what will turn out to be a container of tinned garlic pallets – but the linguistic side of paraphylogeny isn't a popular field.  'Actually, it's wereBEAR' is only a helpful correction under certain circumstances, and this isn't one of them.**

** Yet. ________________________________________________________________

The arm took a bit more effort.  A transformation that added several feet in height, width, and summed-up hair length didn't exactly have a problem fixing a half-mulched limb, but there was clearly an additional process going on.  He wondered how people had explained what it looked like before timelapse film had been developed.

It... healed.   Torn vessels sealed over; bone shards scraped and swelled together within muscles that bulged crimson-purple as they knitted close.  Tissue bloomed, bruise-blossom hues racing through tattered skin and dragging raw pallor behind them; black-bloody tears welled up pink and grey and pink again, threaded with ribbons of tendon herded into place by a lightning flash of sudden scars, gone as fast as they appeared.  Then the fur broke surface like desert flowering, and a heartbeat later there was nothing to show for the damage that a slight extra paleness in the iron-grey pelt, as Joplin flexed his bulked-out fingers carefully.

Belton clapped.  Just once, with a softness that hands tipped with inch-long claws shouldn't be able to achieve, and it was the most sarcastic fucking sound Joplin had ever heard.  He bared his considerable teeth in a silent snarl and waved his own padded hands towards the old bat.

Hurry.  Up.

Belton's black eyes crinkled at the edges, and then he pulled himself back together.

The real difference between vampires and werewolves is how they bleed.

Belton's blood was dark, with a strangeness to its consistency that would have baffled splatter analysts on a fundamental level, but it also didn't tend to stay where it landed.  None of him did.  Metal gleamed naked against the pitted concrete as pools of inky crimson pulled away from the bullets that had torn them loose, flowing back along their own path like a retreating tide - rivulets of reversing gore that snaked and whipped back up their origin form, trailing back into ruptures that folded seamlessly shut around them.  Belton stood up, even as his chest cavity was still closing, and gently pushed his hanging jaw back into place, smoothed like fresh clay.

Vampires don't heal – you see – so much as 'rewind'.

He held Joplin's gaze, half a heartbeat longer than he needed to, and grinned.

There was a spotless bullet held between his rows of teeth.

"Oh, fuck off," Joplin repeated – before he was drowned out by a guttural roaring, and the sound of a minigun barrel being smashed through something unfortune enough to be inside its turning circle.

"Little pigs, little pigs!  I hear you!"

Both men visibly winced.

"See, someone with that little self-awareness just shouldn't be this much of a problem," Belton muttered, flicking the bullet aside like a cigarette butt. "It's genuinely a bit embarrassing."

"Yeah, well," Joplin whispered back, as he scanned the roof, taking in the environment with an eye to traversal options he hadn't had five minutes ago. "I won't tell if you don't."

Another roar burst the air, and Belton started edging down the row again, clearly doing his own version of the calculations.

"Pity he doesn't take after your side of the family, really."

"This isn't a family situation," Joplin snapped back, readying himself to move when the oncoming footsteps got a bit closer.  If he could get around, then maybe he could deke out the...

He glanced back, about to signal a go, and realised the old vampire was still looking at him, one of those impossible-to-read expressions on his weird bat face for a second, before he spoke softly.

"See, that's the thing with monsters.  It's always going to come back to blood, one way or another."

A shiver danced down Joplin's extended spine, strong enough to stir the fur.  That was a bit close for comfort – and from sodding Belton?  He shrugged dismissively, only partly to himself.

"Yeah, well, this ain't gonna be the worst it gets.  Try not t'get cut in half again."

Then the shipping container exploded in a nightmare of burning metal.  Belton went right; Joplin went up; and everything else went on from there.

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