#would i have the balls to gut through my own forearm and break my bones and severe my nerves?

[hangingoffence]

stories about extreme human survival (be it real or fiction) always touch my heart in such an interesting way. humans ultimately are animals and one's survivor is written to our genes.

[soggy-platee]

It Goes Both Ways

Rating: M (Somewhat graphic talk of injury)

Pairing: Din x GN!Reader

Summary: You take a hit for Din, feelings and angst ensue.

Note: Hello sorry this is literally all angst, a tiny bit of fluff. I can't stop myself, I just love the whole "feelings being revealed through injury" trope. If anyone wants, I was thinking about a smutty part two to this one! Let me know. Also, y'all were so kind with Doubt, so thank you!

...

The fight went bad from the second it started.

Well, before that, if you were being completely honest. Everyone in the cantina had been too still, too tense when you and Mando entered. It was so clearly unnatural for the usually boisterous atmosphere of a Nevarro night.

Yet somehow, you both missed it.

The kid was really to blame. He had been a ball of energy all night, practically bouncing off the walls of the hull while you and his father did everything in your power to get him to calm down. You were both annoyed and tired as your set out to meet the contact, should have known there was no hope of success. When the eight men in the cantina converged on you both, you were immediately thrust into the defensive. Exactly where you knew Mando hated to be. You had taken down several attackers, using your blade to slash and hack until it broke off in the chest cavity of some blue creature. You had lost just a moment as you attempted to wrench the hopeless blade from the now lifeless corpse, but it was enough time for a rough tug to pull you to the ground and a heavy weight to climb on top of you. You remembered the previous night almost fondly as opposed to the impossibly tight grip on your throat now.

Your fingers dug into the hand around your throat to no avail as the man- a Twi’lek, you now realized- bared his teeth down at you. Hot breath brushed over your face and you grimaced even further. Eyes rolling, you managed to steal a glance at Mando who was engaged in his own battle. There were two on him, one managing to get Mando’s arms behind his back in a tight hold while the other approached with a raised blade as you looked on. Fear shot through you at his vulnerable position and you doubled your efforts.

Your fingernails finally caught purchase on the arm that held you down at the same moment you bucked your hips with everything you had. A hiss came from above as you managed to pull one leg above the hips holding you down. Twisting hard, you flipped the man into the floor at full speed, his cheek cracking against the hard dirt. On your hands and knees now, you whipped your head up to see the armed man raise his blade and prepare to strike at Mando’s exposed neck. The fabric of his cowl would do nothing to stop the glowing, razor-sharp weapon that was mear inches from him now.

You shot up, your boots digging into the dirt as you righted yourself directly into a sprint. It happened in a split second. You reached Mando just as the blade completed its arc, half-throwing, and half-pressing yourself in front of his armored chest in a protective stance. You followed your first instinct, forearm coming up to block the blow.

White-hot pain bloomed along your arm, reaching all the way to the bone, as the blade cut through you like butter. Gasping at the initial shock, you managed to get a gut punch into the man in front of you before dropping to one knee. You clutched your forearm, trying your hardest to not collapse and curl up right then and there. You dimly registered fighting directly behind you through closed eyes, hoping to God it was Mando dealing with the last guy.

No offense to him, but you felt like you had done enough.

A wave of nausea came over you as you dared to open your eyes, taking in the bloody mess that was now your arm. The cut wasn’t overly long, but it was deep. You knew you had felt it hit bone, but jeez, you didn’t think you would be able to see it.

A blaster shot from behind you gave your enough adrenaline to rise on unsteady feet, turning to see Mando with his arm still raised, blaster smoke rising from the body of the final hostile in the room.

He turned to you with an immediacy that made you sway, the speed of the movement causing another wave of nausea to rise up. You doubled over as he approached, pressing your good hand to the back of your mouth. He was mumbling something as he approached you, Mando’a you would realize later. His hands found your hunched shoulders as you finally heard a word you recognized well,

“Cyare-hey, hey, look at me-”

With your hand still planted firmly over your mouth, you glanced up at him. You were taken aback by just how shook up he looked, even underneath the armor. His hands were tight around your shoulders, almost bruising you with their intensity. His chest was heaving, but it couldn’t be from the fight now. His voice nearly shook.

The pain almost blinding you was nothing compared to the icing feeling that crept down your spine at the sheet panic he was radiating. It wasn’t right, you had never seen him simply break like this.

You had seen him trembling underneath you, above you as he came, but he was still always in control when you were together. This was different.

This was frightening.

His hand pulled up to cup your jaw as you faced him, tilting it back and forth, frantically searing you even though the source of your pain was obvious. You wanted to say something, anything, to get him to calm down. But when you managed to pull your hand from your mouth, all that escaped was a low groan of pain.

Well that didn’t work, you thought faintly before your face collided with Mando’s chestplate, blackness overtaking you a second after.

…

The swaying was what woke you. A constant, fast motion shook you all over. Most pertinently, it was shaking the hell out of your arm. Something was wrapped around you, holding you close to a hard metal surface.

Why did it hurt again?

Ah yes, the cut.

The cut. The fight.

Mando.

You forced your eyes open, instinctually pulling away from whatever was retraining you. A gruff voice spoke to you as you turned your eyes to face the dark fabric of Mando’s chin.

“Stop.”

His faceplate didn’t even turn to you, just one word directed outward to the now-dark street ahead of you. He was carrying you through the town bridal style, your damaged arm tucked up into your chest as your calves swung with each footfall.

The memories of the night flooded back to your in greater detail, mainly your injury. An injury, you now noticed, hurt a lot less than it had...a few minutes ago? An hour?

Your confusion formed a question. Fighting the dryness in your voice, you huffed out, “How long was I out?”

“Not long.”

Another short answer, again not facing you.

A frown tugged on your lips, brows furrowing. Had something happened you didn’t remember? Why was he suddenly pissed at you? Finally, you glanced down at your arm. Wrapped in several bacta patches, secured with more bandages.

When the hell did that happen?

“Cantina had supplies”

Sometimes his ability to read you pissed you off.

You finished the trip in silence, doing your best to let off a pissed-off vibe. It was childish. You knew how to communicate, you knew Mando hardly ever did. But you were tired, hurt, and you didn’t know why that was such a huge problem to him. You had saved his ass, anyway.

You should be the pissed one if anything.

You approached the Crest’s ramp and you prepared to be set down, tensing your legs and starting to push off his chest with your good arm.

His grip simply remained firm, however, showing no indication he would be letting you down. You twisted your head in an attempt to look him in the visor, confused as all hell. His face remained stubbornly to front, much to your continued irritation.

You pushed off him a few more futile times, wiggling your hips in an attempt to loosen his hand around your knees.

Nothing.

You just slumped in his arms then, waiting for what seemed like the world’s slowest ramp to hit the ground.

He stomped into the ship and didn’t set you down until the ramp started to raise. His demeanor still remained stony, but he set you down with a gentleness only reserved for you and the child. He steadied you as your feet hit the ground, but his hands pulled away as soon as he confirmed you could stand alone.

Before you could even speak, he was gone, heading to the ladder of the cockpit.

That was it, you had absolutely had enough.

You threw your good hand in the air before shouting across the silent hull.

“Yeah, thanks for the ride, I’ll just go fuck off then.”

It wasn’t your best line, but you were pissed. And confused.

And hurt more than anything.

To your credit, the words were enough to stop him, hand on the first rung of the ladder. You stood expectantly, breathing heavily from your words and your injury.

Silence.

You made an incredulous sound, turning around and folding your arms to the best of your ability.

“Leave it to me to fuck up and save your ass, my bad, it won’t happen again.”

You winced as the words left your mouth, it was mean. It was terrible. You didn’t mean it. You would lay down your life for him at any moment and he knew it. Well, you thought he knew it. You thought he would do the same for you, too. But here he was, acting like you were a liability. Like he didn’t care about you at all. It made you defensive. Maybe you misread things between you too. Maybe you were just sex to him. Maybe you didn’t go any further.

That was fine, you could handle that. You just needed him to tell you, and not do whatever this was.

Leather creaked as his hand tightened on the metal with your words, but silence persisted. The fight in your was waning as your thoughts continued to run wild.

Your next words came out more defeated than aggressive, “If I’m an issue, just tell me. I’m gone.”

That sparked something in him, hand flying off the ladder as he whirled to face you. The movement caught you off guard, combined with the weakened state it made you stumble back a step Then another, then more as the suddenly fervent Mandaoliran stalked toward you across the hull. Your back hit the wall before he finally stopped a foot away from you, helmet tilted down at you as his shoulders rose and fell with deep, ragged breaths.

His helmet searched you, looking you up and down while his hands came to hover near your shoulder. He didn’t touch you, however, simply grasping at air several times in contemplation before fisting them once more at his side.

“Of course you’re an issue, you are the issue -my issue.”

His tone was unreadable, half-angry, half-desperate.

You gaped like a fish in his face, trying to make sense of what the hell was going on. Where was this coming from?

Your silence rushed him forward. Pushing a finger into your chest, he rambled, “You did fuck up- saving me. I didn’t want you- you shouldn’t have- I didn’t need it.” He spat the final words, but there was something underneath it, far too similar to his tone earlier, his panic.

Still, his words reignited your anger and confusion. “What do you mean you “didn’t need it”. That knife was going for your neck!”

He threw his head back, hands coming up to grip the sides of his helmet.

“Exactly! A knife which you jumped in front of, with no plan, no defense. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I didn’t want you to die, idiot! What the hell did you think I was thinking?”

He stumbled, whatever retort he had dying soundlessly on his tongue. Then, he spun from you, crossing his arms over his chest as he did. His next words were quiet, dismissive but firm.

“I didn’t ask for that. Never do that again.”

You literally could not comprehend his train of thought. Did he want you to just let him die? You grabbed his shoulder with your good hand, trying to force him to face you to no avail.

“You don’t get a say, you don’t have to ask. Don’t you get it? If I want to take a hit for you, that’s on me.”

He rounded on you once more, helmet coming so close that it nearly made contact with your forehead. “You don’t get to make that choice”, he growled, low and urgent.

Oh, now that was fucking golden.

“What? I don’t get to make my own choices with my own life? Is that what it’s come to now? Clearly, you don’t trust me, but I at least thought you could afford me my own autonomy.”

Finally, his hands came up and grabbed your shoulders, shaking you with intensity as he shouted in your face.

“Would you just listen to me? I won’t- cannot lose you. Not for me. Not ever.”

Your shoulders tensed in his grip and your eyes shot wide. His words startled you, the meaning washing over you in steps. They first relived you, convinced you that you felt the same way about each other, regardless of the fact this was the first time you were both voicing such outright feelings. But they also struck that same anger in you.

“So you get to protect me but I can’t do that same for you?”. Your voice was calmer now, eyes searching his visor for some sign he understood how unfair- if touching- his words were.

His hands loosened on your arms, shoulders dropping from their tense state. His helmet dropped from your gaze, swinging loosely before he sighed, “...Yes.”

His voice upturned at the end, almost in question of his own words. Of course. He knew how stupid it sounded.

Anger left you at his defeated look, head hanging between his shoulders. You raised your good arm, slowly placing your fingertips on the bottom of his helmet. He tensed for a moment at the touch, but you pushed gently enough on the metal that he simply followed your guidance. His visor came to face you once more, the blackness reflecting the look of concern in your eyes. You could only imagine that his held the same look.

Gloved fingers found your bad arm, still drawn tightly to your chest. They brushed over the patches gingerly, making their way to your hand and intertwining with your own digits. Your eyes fluttered at the touch, the familiar feeling melting away the residual pain like water down a stream.

He sighed heavily, before speaking with a subdued sincerity.

“You make me so fucking scared, pretty. I’ve never-I didn’t know that feeling until you and the kid. I can’t focus on anything else. I can’t lose you- can’t live without you.”

His fingers tightened around yours as he spoke, and your soft smile was reflected in silver back at you.

“Do you not think I feel the same thing, feel the same way about you?”

He gave your hand a squeeze before breathing, “...I do.”

Your smile faltered at his admission, worry coloring your next words.

“Then why do you think I could live without you?”

It was times like these you cursed his helmet, his creed. You wanted- needed to know that your words were getting across to him, that he understands just how fucking much he meant to you. While his face was unreadable, a short breath through the modulator and another sharp squeeze of your hand told you that you had hit the mark.

You took a deep breath before saying, “Listen. We protect each other. Equally. That’s how this works. You can’t stop me. So if you want to keep me out of harm’s way, then you have to keep your own metal-ass safe, yeah?”

You swore you heard a chuckle from underneath your helmet at your comment, and you broke into a grin. You pulled your good hand from his and placed it behind his helmet, tugging it toward you and resting the cool metal on your forehead. His hand mimicked your position, coming up to intertwine with the hair at the base of your neck.

You let your eyes slip shut before saying, “Do you understand now, dummy?”

His hand gripped your hair tighter, pressing your closer. His words were thick when he spoke, “I do.”

You released your grip on him, righting yourself, but his hand simply slid down your back. He still held you close when he said, “And I’m sorry… for the way I acted. It wasn’t my intention to hurt you. I was just…”

He faded off, but you knew where he was headed. You chuckled and flashed another smile, “It’s alright, make it up to me by taking the next knife, huh?”

The usual huff of laughter at your stupid comments didn’t come however, his helmet simply tipped down to take you in, hand tightening on your lower back.

“Actually…” he started, voice growing lower, softer, “I had another idea about how to make it up to you”

[author-morgan]

Title: Silver Moonlight

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Rating: M

Summary: Arthur stumbles into one of your dig sites and your heart. 

Two day late Christmas present ficlet for my good friend, @dynamicorbit.​ Also tagging @kvitravn​ and @wolfxkissed​ because, Arthur. 

THE DIG SITE bustles with activity under the cool Colorado sun, but the day’s hours are slipping by. Stretching your back and legs, you crouch back down next to a boulder of red sandstone and begin working at it again with a hammer and chisel —stopping only to brush away the dust. Just north of Morrison was a treasure trove of dinosaur fossils and boundless discoveries. Spending the rest of your days digging the area would likely see your budding career to retirement and old age.

Loose gravel crunches under heavy footfalls, but you pay no mind to them —the site is crawling with paleontologists and rock-hounds looking for a quick buck. The shadow of a wide-brimmed hat blocks the sun as someone kneels beside you and rests a hand on your shoulder. “Watcha doin’, darlin’?” A low, rasping, and familiar voice asks. 

“Arthur!” Dropping the chisel and hammer, you clutch the buttons on your stained shirtwaist. “One time, my heart might stop beating,” you tell him, pushing back on his shoulder despite the joy of seeing him again. 

He hardly ever announces his arrival —instead, he’s keen on sneaking up behind you and scaring the living daylights out of you. His lips curve into a smile as he reaches out, cupping your sweat-slicked cheek for a quick moment. “Pray that never happens then,” Arthur says with a wink.

“Mind your boots,” you remind him. Dig sites were delicate things, and you didn’t need him stomping around without a care. He crouches down next to you again, looking over your shoulder at the blackened bone slowly being revealed. The last time he found you hunched over a pile of rock and bone you told him it was an Allosaurus and showed him a tooth as long as his forefinger. 

Arthur didn’t know a damned thing about dinosaurs or paleontology beyond what you tried explaining to him one night —albeit the whiskey probably didn’t help. It doesn’t matter much if he understood everything or not, seeing your smile and the twinkle in your eye when you spoke about fossils and postulates was something he would never tire of. All his efforts to remain aloof are in vain, for Arthur is smitten with you. “What’re you diggin’ up this time?” He asks. 

You glance at the exposed bones chiseled from the stone and reach for your notebook, making a quick annotation and sketching a complete picture of the vertebrae. The backend of this particular specimen was missing, but a handful of yards away, one of the professors from Harvard was working on cleaning a dismembered tail that looked about the right size to match. “I think it’s what Professor Marsh described as a Stegosaurus.” You point toward a line of wide and flat bony plates you spent the last month working on. “See those?” Arthur nods. 

He listens to your ramblings until the sky turns and you pack away your tools and notes, leading him to your small wall tent at the south end of the site. It’s been months since you last saw Arthur Morgan —roaming the plains and running from the law. Somehow his path always leads back to you, whether you’re digging bones or taking a day’s break in a town in the middle of nowhere. Arthur has a habit of knowing right where to find you, even in the open expanse of the American West. He stokes the small campfire, the golden flames mixing with the silver light of a full moon. 

You spare a longer glimpse of him —his beard is thicker than last you saw, his hair longer and tinged with the first hints of gray. “C’mere–” you smile, pulling on his dark neckerchief, unable to resist the urge to kiss him any longer. He’s quick to wrap an arm around your shoulders, chasing away the space between your lips as your fingers slide into the hair at the back of his neck. 

Arthur wraps an arm around your waist, drawing you onto his lap with a crooked smile. For all the nights spent under the stars, he never feels at ease until he’s with you. It stirs a feeling in his gut and heart that he wishes he could stamp out, but the sparks had taken to flames long ago. You and Arthur make for a strange duo —an academic and an outlaw. He stares up at you when you take his rugged face into your hands, thumb running across the scars on his chin.

You take his hat off, musing his dark locks. In turn, he reaches behind you, pulling two silver pins from your hair —fingers running through frazzled twists and messy braids. “What’ve you been up to?” You ask, kissing the corner of his lips to feel the tickle of his beard against your cheek.

“The usual,” he responds —raising hell and laying low. The Pinkertons chased him out of Oklahoma, and he wasn’t keen on seeing them again anytime soon. He followed the words on the wind and wound up near Morrison, Colorado, with you sitting on his lap —not caring about the things he'd done, only that he was back within an arm’s reach. “Ever made love under the stars?” Arthur asks, lips brushing over your jaw. 

“I haven’t,” you answer, knowing by the look in his dark blue eyes that’s about to change. He bends his knee, wedging his thigh between yours —the soft whimper you make quieted by his sloppy kiss as his lips move across your cheek and down your neck. 

Arthur fumbles with the pearl buttons of your shirtwaist, sliding the calico fabric down your arms with a low groan upon seeing the pale pink satin corset laying beneath. You stifle a laugh, knowing how much he dislikes the slow process of lacing and unlacing your corsets —a handful of times practicing had only resulted in a marginal increase in speed of which he could take one off. “One day,” he starts, loosening the laces, “I’m just gonna cut this damn thing off you.” You shake your head, laughing at his impatience.

Peeling the corset away, he tosses it toward the open entrance of your tent, and his rough hands find your breasts while you push the suspenders off his shoulders, fingers working the buttons of his stripped blue-flannel shirt until it hangs open. Arthur is a sturdy man —barrel-chested and broad of shoulder— built for fighting and fucking. His hand slips beneath the hem of your walking skirt, bunching the material up around your waist as his fingers find the wet heat between your thighs. Two fingers slip into your heat, curling, and stroking —Arthur watches your face twist in pleasure as he feels you grind down on his hand, the heel of his palm pressed against your clit. 

As skilled as his fingers are, you want him. Pushing his hand away, you quickly do away with your skirt and settle down astride his lap again. He groans, low and deep enough you can feel his chest vibrating against yours and bucks his hips —clothed cock pressing against your bare cunt. You both reach for his belt at the same time, but he swats your hands away with a dry chuckle that’s quickly silenced when you kiss him. 

Arthur lifts his hips from the ground, hastily pushing his pants down and freeing his hard cock —he’s thick and ribbed with throbbing veins from base to tip.

He lays back, head resting on his balled-up shirt with you straddling him, and his dark pants pushed down to his knees. The silver moonlight highlighting the slick wetness between your thighs. Arthur mutters something under his breath that you don’t quite catch, but the lusty glint in his eyes says enough. You reach behind you —fingers wrapping around his cock. His eyes slip close, lips parting as you stroke him, stopping only to lift your hips and drag his cock through your folds. 

You moan softly as you start to sink on his length. The head of his cock stretching you slowly. Arthur’s hands slip from your breasts to your hips, urging you down until you’re filled —thighs flush with his hips. You still for a moment, readjusting to his girth but slowly start to grind your hips into his. “What a sight,” Arthur muses as you pick up your pace, riding him lazily as he fondles your breasts, tweaking one of your nipples. 

Up and down, still, but with a bit of a rolling motion helping you hit every sweet spot that makes your body tremble and breathe his name like some kind of prayer. It’s been too long since you felt this —since he felt this. He can tell you’re close, teetering on the edge of the abyss because he is too. Arthur reaches between your bodies, fingers pressing against your clit and rubbing quick circles —hissing when your walls flutter and tighten around his cock. “Arthur,” you choke, head hanging forward. The Seraphs of Heaven could have raptured the world, and they would find you riding Arthur in the silver moonlight, lips parted in a silent cry and nails digging into his chest —not a care in the world. 

Bracing your weight on bent forearms next to his head, you crane your neck down. Lips ghosting over his as your body buzzes with your release, walls still pulsating around his cock. He pushes himself up, sealing his lips to yours —tongue parting your lips just as he pushes his hips up into yours to chase his own end. Arthur bends his knees, planting his feet on the ground, and begins to buck his hips up into you, faster than you had been riding him. He pulls another ragged moan from your parted lips, mixing with his grunts and groans.

You cling to his shoulders as he ruts up into you, gently biting down on his shoulder to quieten your moans if only to hear his. He lets out a strangled groan when his hips stutter in their rhythm, stilling deep inside you as his cock twitches, filling you with warmth. 

Arthur lays back again, holding you against his chest as he kicks off his boots and pants —laying just as bare as you now. A moment passes, your breathing and hearts synchronized. “I’ll volunteer for the supply run,” you tell him, chin propped up on his chest, fingers brushing through the dark hair on his chest. Before the week’s end, a small group would head back to town for fresh supplies, enough to last another week or so. You always enjoyed helping with the runs. It meant a night at the inn on a bed instead of a cot and a proper bath. “We can stay a night or two in Morrison.” 

Arthur runs his fingertips up and down your spine —a different kind of smile playing on his lips in the silver and gold light. “You know darlin’, I was thinkin’ bout stayin’ a while,” he says, watching for your reaction. “If you’ll have me, that is,” he adds.

Smiling, you press your lips against the bottom of his chin, laying your head against his chest again, listening to the beat of his heart. “Of course, I’ll have you,” you tell him. Arthur Morgan may not have been a good man, but he certainly wasn’t a bad one either, and it just so happened that when he first stumbled upon you at a dig site several years ago, he’d stumbled into your heart too. You’d keep him with you for the rest of your days if you could. “I missed you.” He wraps an arm around you, holding you tight to his chest. “Even with that ugly mug,” you laugh. 

He echoes your laughter —you can feel the low rumble rising from deep in his chest. Arthur turns his cheek, lips brushing against your forehead before settling back under the stars with a soft sigh. It feels good to be home.

[isis-astarte-diana]

On Your Toes

Summary: “You told me you were bored, so I gave you something to do.” Missy can always find a way to keep her companion busy.

Warnings: NSFW. MIHOW. Dark!Missy. Serious predicament bondage, featuring stress positions and the threat of bodily harm. (It’s foot trauma). Anal, but, like, not particularly explicit. Absolutely terrible BDSM etiquette - realistically, this is just straight-up torture. Missy is... really unpleasant. The way we love her best.

Word Count: 2067

NB: Sat down to write this thinking “aha, yes, the ornamental bondage concept. Nice, wholesome stuff. We all love that,” and then... well... this happened instead. I think it fits quite nicely into the New Toy universe.

It’s cold in this part of the TARDIS.

The engines are drowned out by the low hiss of an air conditioning system, and this, in turn, is swallowed in the whir of the servers that surround you. Row upon row of shelves stretch to the high ceiling, glowing with blue light, the impossible dimensions of the room containing only a fraction of a fraction of the ship’s central computing hardware. The vast monitor in front of you indicates that the temperature is in its ideal range; somewhere above refrigeration, but certainly lower than would ever be comfortable for a human in your state of undress.

Still, you’re sweating.

Your hair is plastered to your forehead with it, rapidly cooling trails of perspiration trickling down your neck, your sides, the backs of your trembling legs. Another full-body shiver makes your knees quake and you falter, losing your balance, dropping silently from your tiptoes to stand flat footed on the smooth tiles.

“Heels up.”

Missy doesn’t look up from her work at the control panel. She has her back to you, her dark head bowed, quick fingers flitting between a set of keys and dials and a touchscreen display. She had explained what she was doing, and you had made a valiant effort to listen, but that was hours ago, or so it seems. The technical jargon you’d tried so hard to keep track of has been pushed from your mind by far more urgent physical sensations.

The plug isn’t overly large - perhaps, at its broadest, just thicker than two of her slender fingers - but it’s certainly too much to ignore. Though inaudible over the other machinery of the server room its vibrations are powerful and, more than this, variable. If there is any pattern to the change in pitch, you have yet to determine it; and you have been thinking of little else for quite some time.

“Missy,” you attempt weakly, making no effort to conceal the chatter of your teeth. “Please, I-“ The words turn into an unsteady whine to match the abrupt increase in speed of the pulsing toy inside you. Your thighs try to press closer together, if not for stability then at least to soothe the impossible sensitivity of the slick flesh between them. The bar that keeps your ankles spread wide offers no such relief.

“Lift your heels,” she repeats, sharper this time. “And hush.”

Gritting your teeth against the cramping in your calves, you obey.

Behind your back, you hold tighter to yourself, each forearm clasped in the opposite hand and bound that way so that your shoulders are drawn backwards. Your chest is forced up and out by the position, leaving your naked breasts vulnerable in the cold air, nipples painfully stiff and throbbing from the chill. As the vibrations slow once more, your breaths come easier again.

The effect, unfortunately, is two-fold; with fewer distractions, your attention is once more concentrated on the strain of your position. Tension is beginning to set in at the base of your spine, the arches of your feet, even the core muscles in your abdomen, everything below the waist protesting at being made to hold you up like this. Tremors pluck once more at the tendons in your calves. You withstand them for as long as you can, teeth sinking sharply into your chapped bottom lip, until another wave of sensation from the plug as it kicks up to full speed for an instant has you landing hard on your heels, yelping so loudly that Missy actually startles at the noise.

The server room is not quiet, but it is very suddenly as still as a tomb.

You watch as she slowly lifts her head, rolling her neck, stretching languidly as if to emphasise your inability to do the same. When she rises to her feet you almost whimper. Being ignored is a torture in and of itself, but having captured her attention is no comfort. She does not face you, moving instead to one of the shelves nearest the control panel, one that houses gutted hardware and its components. Her fingers plunge into the innards of a half-disassembled server. Impossibly, the sight makes you shudder. From here she withdraws something in a closed fist.

“It’s a fairly simple instruction, isn’t it?”

Her voice is cooler than the spinning fans above you and hums with far more power.

“I mean - stand on your tiptoes. It’s four words. Not even particularly long words, either.” At this, she finally turns on her heels, her smile bright and broad and utterly mirthless. “You can manage to keep track of four words, can’t you?”

You nod emphatically, the movement made jerky by the shivering you cannot stop. She raises an expectant brow.

“And yet, there you are. Not standing on your tiptoes.”

The haste with which you rock up onto the balls of your feet when she begins to approach almost costs you your balance. You waver there for a moment, close to falling back on your heels again, even closer to sprawling face down on the hard ground. With your arms bound behind you, you would have no hope of shielding your face from the impact; your nose, already sore from the cold, throbs at the thought. A strangled whimper works its way through your trembling lips.

Missy narrows her eyes. In the low blue light her features are sharpened, shadows darkening under every curve and arch of bone with the angle at which she tilts her head. “You told me you were bored.”

You shrink, not only from her tone, but also from the memory of your own impertinence. At the time - curled up on the tiled floor at her feet, left with nothing to occupy your restless mind or hands and scolded every time you dared to fidget - you had hoped that she would let you assist her, even if only with a trivial task, or at least set you some busywork to spare you from having to sit still and silent in the cold.

“You told me you were bored, so I gave you something to do.” She takes hold of your jaw with icy fingers just as the thrumming of the toy kicks up a degree. Your hoarse gasp is due, in part, to both. “I went to all this trouble and you keep disobeying me.”

“Missy, I- I can’t...” Spasms shoot up the backs of your legs, settling in your abdomen, shortening your breaths as you speak through a grimace. “I didn’t mean- I wasn’t-” It’s impossible to straighten out the words behind your quivering jaw. “I’m really trying.”

“You certainly are, dear.” Her thumb curls under your chin, her palm slowly moving to cup your cheek now. She bares her teeth. “Consider my patience tried.”

The slap catches you off guard. Its sting is only aggravated by the chill of her skin, and of yours, so that the pain is sharp as frostbite. Your heels meet the ground again as you struggle to steady yourself. The shifting of your weight brings relief, but this is smothered by the knowledge that you have, once more, failed to follow her instructions.

“I’m sorry!” With your face turned down towards your shoulder and your eyes clamped shut against the welling tears, you try fruitlessly to rise back onto your toes. Though the balls of your feet burn with the effort, your legs are too shaky, your knees too weak. You cannot seem to settle into a balanced position. All the while, the shifting of the plug inside of you is torturous, its constant vibrations irritating your nerves and flooding you with scalding arousal that cools on your parted thighs. “I’m sorry, Mistress, I- please-”

Her knuckles brush against the blazing skin of your cheek and you flinch from the touch. “Oh, it’s alright, poor love.” With a sympathetic click of her tongue, she coaxes your eyes back to hers and gives you a pitying look. “Now, I know how you humans can struggle with these things, so I don’t mind giving you some help, just this once.”

She shows you her other hand and finally loosens her fist to reveal the spoils of her earlier search. Your cry of alarm hones her lips into a knife-edged grin.

“I’ll do better!” The words are too loud in the close quarters, ragged with unsteady breaths as your wide eyes flit between her face and the pair of inch-long screws resting in her open palm. “I will, I promise, I-” Again, your voice is robbed by a sudden and brief change in the pitch of the maddening vibrations.

“Well, if you’re going to do better, then you won’t mind this at all, will you?” Missy presses the sole of her boot down lightly on the toes of your right foot, cool and smooth and with no weight behind it. “Stand on your tiptoes.”

You shake your head, teeth clenching to stop the chatter there, tears turning cold as they begin to escape at last. She pushes harder, the touch growing uncomfortable, still wavering just this side of pain.

“On your toes,” she repeats, her smile flickering with the threat of a snarl, “or I will break them for you.”

For the barest of moments you try to weigh up the impossible choice - obey, and feel the pointed tip of the screw beneath your raised heel; disobey, and test the sincerity of her words - until the bones of your toes grind painfully between boot and tile and the far more present peril wins out. With a choked gasp you lift yourself once more onto the balls of your feet.

Her voice lowers to a stage whisper and she gives you an exaggerated wink. “Good choice.”

You twist your head at an awkward angle to watch her moving behind you, but this threatens your balance and you quickly correct your posture again. As she sinks to the ground, her fingernails carve a stinging path down the back of your left calf, following the curve of cramping muscle from knee to elevated heel. You jerk under the touch, but cannot escape it without falling.

“If I were you,” she begins, with a faint stirring of amusement, “I would think very carefully about which foot I favoured.” To emphasise her meaning, she pricks the arch of your foot with the screw. You squeak pitifully.

“Please, Mistress.” You cast your blurry eyes to the ceiling, trying not to shift your weight when she repeats the motion on your other foot. Your thighs quake beneath you, cold and strain and horror all taking their toll. “I’m sorry, I- I was rude-”

“You were bored.” She drags her nails up your right leg when she straightens up and leans in to show you her indulgent smile. “And now you’re not. You’re welcome, dear.”

Missy returns to the control panel without a second glance. Your babbling protests fall on deaf ears as she sits back down, swirling her fingers across the touchscreen. It takes only moments for the futility of your efforts to sink in. Despite her earlier impatience with your complaints, she seems entirely impassive to them now.

Fighting every screaming nerve in your body, you bow your head and try to concentrate.

The most tentative of attempts at shuffling forwards is quickly thwarted; with your ankles bound this far apart and your arms restrained behind you, you have no hope of shifting away from the threat underfoot without your forehead meeting the tiles. Through harsh and wavering breaths you are forced to accept the dawning realisation that your balance is tentative, your muscles are fatigued, and it is only a matter of time until you fall one way or the other.

“Missy!” Her name is a panicked sob. Your feet are beginning to cramp and you shrink in on yourself, clawing at your forearms, seeking stability that you cannot find. In your anguish, your muscles draw tighter around the plug, drawing your attention once more to the unpredictable nature of its constant pulsing. “I can’t stay like this!”

She turns to look at you over her shoulder, her expression one of arch disinterest. “Well, you can put your heels down if you like, poppet.” Her eyes crinkle at the corners with her smile. “But you’ll only do it once.”

Unseen, she slips a hand into her pocket and deposits the two screws inside.

[whumpywhumper]

Realization

TW: Medical Whump, Depiction of Hospitalized Whumpee, Aftermath of Captivity, Grief/Mourning

Tagging: @misspelledwitch @insanitywishes @imagination1reality0 @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @voidwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi  @captivity-whump @liliability @muumimafia @fanastywhump @elisabethrosewrites @unsure-but-alive-752 @jeverest00 @texdoeshalo @fanmanga1357-blog

@0idril0​ @rosesareviolentlyread​ @walkingchemicalfire​ I’m not lying when I say I wouldn’t write without these three, thank you for all your support and enthusiasm. 

Follows directly after: Consequences    Masterpost

V***V 

“What?”

Clint felt an unhealthy sinking sensation in his gut at Kincaid’s stricken expression. A wild, cold fear burst to life as the two law enforcement officers raised placating hands toward him. His wolf stood to attention, instincts cataloguing each and every micro expression, the shifting of their scents to nervous and sorrowful.

They know something about Markus.

“Clint, I need you to stay calm, okay? We don’t know anything for sure yet.” Ben’s placating tone did very little to soothe him or his increasingly restless wolf.

He could feel the growl building in his chest, the subvocal rumble trapped against the increasing beat of his heart. Placing his hands flat on the table, Clint suppressed the urge to stand and loom over the two other men, not wanting to ruin the relationship he’d been building over the last day.

“What don’t you know for sure yet?” The question came out dangerous and cutting, the wolf unable to completely mask the fear fueled rage that was brewing.

Kincaid swallowed heavily, easing himself away from the table and the predator on the other side. In a move too natural to be anything other than habit, his hand went to his waist where his side arm was located. “Clint, I need you to take a breath before we discuss this, okay? We’ll give you all the information you want, but none of us want an uncontrolled were�� in the hospital, right?”

Belatedly, Clint realized his eyes had flashed to his wolf’s golden yellow, the unnatural color sending primal signals of danger to the two officers. Licking his lips, Clint also felt the sharp points of his incisors, the lengthening bone telling him he was much closer to shifting than he wanted to be.

Hissing air through his teeth, Clint closed his eyes and wrestled back control. “You’re right, you’re right,” he said, letting the air out in a controlled exhale. He forced himself to lean back into his chair, trying to trick his body into relaxing with the casual posture.

Ben let out a shaky breath of his own at the gesture. “Thank you, Clint.”  He exchanged a look with Kincaid, the witch taking his hand off of his weapon and nodding slightly for the other man to explain. “I told you earlier about the John Doe, right?”

Nodding stiffly in acknowledgement, Clint felt a black bauble of refusal form in the back of his mind. No, no, don’t say—

“Clint, he looks an awful lot like the guy in your photo.”

Denial rested heavily on his tongue, and Clint’s head twitched on a negative shake. His mouth moved without input from him, a tinny echo reverberating in his ears. “Which guy?”

Clarification. One of the first rules of investigation. Make sure you’re talking about the same thing.

Ben took a deep breath as he slid the phone over, tapping the screen to make the photo appear again. His finger pointed directly at Markus’s face.

Clint’s sharp exhale sounded like he’d been punched. His eyes tripped over to Kincaid, question clear.

Corroboration. Don’t take one person’s word as fact.

The witch nodded, mouth tight with sympathy. “He’s pretty beat up right now, Clint, but I’ve spent some time with him the last few days. I would bet money that it’s the same guy.”

Correlation and Instinct. Don’t ignore your fucking gut.

The smell of magic, Kincaid’s hoodie reminding him of Markus. His gut telling him that the John Doe was important. His wolf howling as he left the nest behind.

It all added up to one thing.

Clint couldn’t suppress his savage snarl as he stood, chair skidding back into the wall with force as that black bauble burst into sharp shards of rage. He barely held back his shift as he demanded,  “Where is he?!”

Kincaid and Ben met his challenge, standing their ground as they stood to match his stance, hands going to their weapons.

“Clint, you need to calm down.”

“We’re not going to keep you from him, Clint: take a breath!”

He didn’t stick around for any more words, long strides taking him into the hallway and quickly outpacing the cursing police officers. He inhaled, nostrils flaring as he scented the air. Bleach and the overwhelming odor of sickness assaulted his nose, any recognizable scents so tangled that it was dizzying to try and parse through. Growling in frustration, Clint pulled around the corner and into the open hospital ward.

He didn’t even notice several of the nurses and visitors freezing as they caught sight of him. Instinctively, he took note of one of the uniformed police officers Holland had put on guard placing a hand on his weapon, posture settling in to move quickly if he proved violent. Clint’s wolf howled at the challenge, daring someone to get in between him and Markus.

Gaze flicking over the details, Clint catalogued that most of the rooms were open for observation, curtains drawn back and glass doors slid open so that the nurses had open access to go in and out. Only one of them was closed off, the curtains pulled to afford privacy.

Holland words floated in. The John Doe was the only ICU patient on this floor.

Still barely a moment, Clint surged forward, stalking toward his intended target. Kincaid’s shout to the uniformed officer to stand down from down the hallway was the buzz of a gnat, Ben’s yelling for Clint to calm down and wait for a minute not even registering to the pissed off wolf. He had to get to his friend.

The only thing that pulled him up short from forcing his way into the closed off room was the tiny nurse that barreled in front of him, arms spread wide as she faced him down.

“Just where the fuck do you think you’re going?!”

“Get out of my way!” Clint snarled at her, pretty sure his face wasn’t entirely human. The only thing holding him back from going through her was the fact that she was tiny and, enraged or not, he didn’t want to hurt her.  The woman barely flinched.

“No! Do you not see the signs on the door? This is a sterile room, and I’m not going to just let you waltz in there like this.” Her eyes blazed, furious and protective as a bear in front of her cub. “What business do you have in this room? Explain yourself!”

Kincaid and Ben finally caught up, almost tripping over themselves as they skidded up the fray.  

“Woah woah woah! Everybody calm down!” Kincaid grabbed onto his shoulders, pushing him out of the nurse’s face, using his own bulk to force distance between the near feral were and the breakable nurse.  

Clint transferred his snarl to Kincaid, the witch not backing down even as the wolf shrugged off his restraining hands. He knew he was being unreasonable, but god, if Markus was in there then he couldn’t stand the thought of being kept from him.

He started to pace, anxious energy burning him up inside. He kept one hand balled into a fist, the other buried in his hair as he fixed his gaze on the people between him and his goal. “I have to see if it’s him, I have to. You can’t keep me away from him.”

Ben held up his hands, trying to regain control of the situation, his affable demeanor imbuing the air with calm. “Nobody is keeping you from him, Clint, let’s just all take a deep breath.”

Clint tried to take a deep breath, but it came in as a barbed gasp for air, his wolf absolutely frothing with the desire to break the door down and get to his friend. He could feel his incisors elongating and subtracting with the internal struggle of keeping even a modicum of control.

The nurse sent a cautious look between him and Ben, her stance never shifting from being firmly in front of the door. “I’m not letting you in this room until I know what’s going on and your relationship to my patient. He’s not going to be hurt or infected just because you’re pissed off.”

“He’s my friend,” Clint howled, the implication that he would hurt Markus making his heart splinter. “His name is Markus, he loves his friends, and he’s terrified of heights. He’s been missing for months, and he’s been alone, hurt, and scared, and I didn’t find him! Please, fuck, just let me see him.”

The words tumbled out of him in a mad rush, anguished and visceral, Clint practically sobbing out the last plea as he faced the nurse.  Her eyes had widened at his tirade, stance softening as his distress became evident. Both Ben and Kincaid came closer to him, preparing to catch or support him if he needed it.

“Okay, okay, Clint,” she said, nodding her head and approaching him with open hands. “You’re gonna get to see him, okay? Let’s just take a minute and calm down, alright?” She motioned at one of the orderlies who’d snuck up, prepared to restrain him if necessary, and he grabbed a chair so that they could force him to sit down.

Clint shuddered but didn’t fight, breaths coming in staccato bursts as he tried to get back his equilibrium. “Please just let me see him,” he repeated, eyes blinking rapidly to force away the yellow.

The nurse squatted in front of him, grabbing a hold of his forearms and catching his eye. “I’m going to let you see him, okay, Clint? You just need to calm down first. Take a deep breath and let it out.” She pulled in a breath, and he matched it, following her instructions as he calmed down. “Good, good job.”

It took him a few minutes longer than he would have liked to regain all of his calm, his hands coming up to cover his face as he finally let out all of the frenzy that had overcome him. “Fuck,” he cursed, “Fucking hell.”

“You can say that again, buddy,” Kincaid huffed, patting him on the shoulder.

“You ready to continue the conversation now, Clint?” Ben asked. Clint nodded, rubbing his hand over his beard before meeting Ben’s kind gaze. “Okay, like I was saying before, we don’t know for sure that it’s him, right? But for you to go in and check, you’re gonna have to get decked out in a mask and gown. You remember what David said, right? He’s not doing well so even if it’s him or isn’t him, you’re gonna have to control yourself and be calm.”

Clint swallowed heavily, taking another deep breath as he climbed to his feet. “Yeah, yeah I got it, Ben. I can do this.”

The nurse, Catrina from her name tag, stepped in front of him, hand resting firmly on his bicep. “Clint, I need you to look at me and listen, okay?” She didn’t continue until his gaze locked with hers. “I need you to be prepared for what you’re going to see in there. From what it sounds like, you’ve already talked to Dr. Decker, right?”

Clint nodded, hands clenching and unclenching rhythmically as he shifted from foot to foot. “I didn’t know it was Markus, would’ve asked more questions if I’d known. Fuck.”

Catrina took his cursing in stride, pulling his attention back to her. “I’m gonna take that to mean that you don’t really know what you’re gonna find when you go in there alright?” She paused to let his brain catch up, looking for the understanding in his eyes. “Clint, he is not going to look like himself at the moment, okay? His face is pretty bruised, and he’s heavily sedated so he’s not going to be responsive at all.

“I need you to understand this next part crystal clear, okay? You can’t touch anything. He’s got a tube down his throat, and a machine is breathing for him. He’s got several other drains and tubes that are under the blankets, but they’re all doing important jobs. I don’t care if they look painful or uncomfortable, don’t mess with them. If you have a concern about the equipment, come to me first. Do you understand?”

Clint nodded, hands raising in surrender. “Hands to myself, I got it.”

“Okay, I’m here if you need anything or need to ask any questions.” She handed him gloves, mask and a gown with a tight but sympathetic smile. She was donning her own gear with him, clearly not going to let him be alone with her patient until he could prove himself. He took a settling breath and struggled into the equipment with unsteady hands.

Catrina opened the room up for him, and Clint’s senses were immediately assaulted on all sides. His nose was struck by the sour, muggy odor of iodine, stress, and pain. The beep, hiss, and whirr of multiple pumps drilling into his ears alongside the obnoxious hiss of a suction mechanism and oxygen through a hose that only his sensitive ears ever seemed bothered by.

He stumbled forward as Catrina pulled the curtain back slightly to allow him fully into the room, drawn forward by the inescapable need to see if this was his friend or not. Almost immediately, Clint’s wolf started howling in his head, knowing even before he did that he’d found his lost packmate.

It took him a moment for Clint himself to catch up, to realize what he was staring at as he came to a halt at the foot of the bed, claws digging into the meat of his hands.

Markus.

Tubes and wires snaked across the bed. Hesitating, swallowing back the animal whine in the back of his throat, Clint put a hand on the lump he assumed was a foot. The blanket dimpled under his hand from where warm air was being pumped under the blankets, and he felt the rhythmic hiss thunk of compression devices around Markus’s lower legs.

He took a steadying breath through his nose, eyes burning as he catalogued the machines and devices he saw. He finally came to the head of the bed and flinched.

The bed was half sat up, his friend swathed in blankets, a folded towel protecting his eyes from the light. But there was a familiar black tuft of hair, and pale skin under a mask of multicolored bruises. It was all there, barely visible under a plastic contraption holding a tube in place.

He could hear bubbling over the sound of the machines and braced himself. He knew that sound, it wasn’t a good sound. Swallowing hard, Clint shuffled around the bed, careful of his feet. Fuck, chest tube.

He’d listened when David had outlined the John Doe’s condition, the impersonal words laying out all of the harsh, gritty details necessary for law enforcement and other medical personnel to get a complete picture of what was going on with a victim. He’d pictured in his mind the reactions of friends and family once they’d found out what their loved one had been subjected to. Had even pitied the poor fucker who’d gone through so much only to be faced with the potential of never living free again.

He’d never imagined this.

Inching up the side of the bed, he gently pulled the towel away from the other man’s eyes, taking a closer look at the face hidden under all of the medical equipment.

A wounded noise broke free of his chest when he compared everything he knew about his friend with the face on the bed.

“Fuck.”

Clint heard his voice like it was someone else’s, a pitiful broken syllable that held every tear he’d wanted to shed since Markus had gone missing.  

“God. Fuck.” His eyes were burning, and he couldn’t look away from his friend.

He wanted to throw his head back and release the mournful howl that was building up in his throat, give a voice to the agony churning in his chest, the horror of the fact that this. . . this was the result of his failure. Instead, he bent his head and put his forehead against his friend’s, blinking away the tears as they filled his eyes.

“Markus,” he sobbed, “Oh my god, Markus, no . . . “

~

Holland was the one that came to collect him.

Clint didn’t know how long it’d been since he’d come in to see Markus, he hadn't been paying attention to Catrina moving around the room, his sensitive ears dismissing the shared whispers outside the door. All of his attention had been on Markus. He knew it hadn’t been long enough since he stopped crying for his eyes to be anything but bloodshot as he met Holland’s sympathetic gaze.

The older man looked ridiculous in the yellow gown and blue face mask, the worry lines in his forehead thrown into harsh relief in the fluorescent lighting. His hands were gentle though as he threw his arm around Clint’s shoulders, other hand taking a hold of his forearm to pull him carefully away from his friend.

“C’mon, Clint,” he murmured, normally gruff voice so soft with understanding that it almost set him off again.

Clint stumbled after Holland like a newborn colt, legs uncoordinated jelly as followed the other man’s guidance. He was barely aware of the door sliding closed behind him before he was ripping away the gloves, mask, and gown, needing the scent of his friend’s pain off.

Distantly, he registered that he was shaking, and pressed his palms together, bringing his joined hands to his face.

He couldn’t even think. His mind was blank. Heart numb.

He jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder, whirling around with a yellow eyed snarl. Holland was there, his pressed lips together, Ben and Kincaid flanking him, all three of their concern clear. Clint opened his mouth, only to find that his words had deserted him.

He wasn’t the silent type. But this? It was beyond him. They had to see the truth in his red rimmed eyes, but they had a job to do now. They were no longer new colleagues working a case with a consultant. They were cops speaking with a victim’s family member, and they had to be certain.

“Clint, is that Markus?”

He nodded, breath leaving him in a harsh expiration, feeling suddenly dizzy. “Shit,” he gasped, grabbing a hold of his knees.

“Okay, c’mon, let’s get you sitting down somewhere. Kincaid, can you ask David to meet us in the conference room?” Holland gathered Clint up by the shoulders, trying to steer him down the hallway.

“No-wait—I can’t,” Clint’s words went in one ear and out the other, the older man bulldozing over his objections.

“He’s not going anywhere, Clint. He’s in the best hands he can be in now, right?”

Numbly, Clint nodded, running a hand through his hair. When they got to the conference room, he collapsed into the chair he had vacated earlier and looked at the mountain of evidence and paperwork that they’d collected, swallowing back bile when he realized the horrible things he’s been evaluating for the case had probably been done to his friend. It made it real in a way that cases usually weren’t for him.

Holland leaned on the desk beside him, reminiscent of their talk the other night, placing his hand on his shoulder. “Think you can answer some questions for me?”

Not trusting his voice, he nodded again.  “Yeah. . . “ he breathed.

“He’s your friend, and we’re going to give you any information that you want, but does he have any next of kin? Someone with the authority to make medical decisions?”

“He doesn’t talk to his family, closest he has to a sister is Illyn, but, uh,” he rubbed under his eye, “they never changed their medical proxies from Evan when they moved.”

Ben sat down across from him, faint lines standing out at the corners of his concerned eyes. “Is this the same guy from the phone earlier?”

Clint nodded, his stomach sinking. “I gotta call him again. Fuck. . . I gotta call Illyn.”

Holland squeezed his shoulder, exchanging a look with Ben, who nodded. “Kincaid should be here with David soon. Why don’t you get Evan on the phone first? David can answer your questions and you two can make a plan.”  

Clint reached for his pocket and froze when it was empty, looking around at the table.

“Oh, sorry,” Ben murmured, pulling Clint’s phone out and sliding it over. The corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile, “I still had it from earlier.”

His hands shook as he took the phone back, and he swallowed heavily as the screen lit up. The picture from earlier stared up at him. Markus was smiling and happy. Completely different from the still, almost lifeless, figure he’d just left.

“We’ll give you a minute,” Holland said, giving him a firm pat as he motioned Ben to the door.

“Thanks guys.” He sucked in a deep breath and clicked on his contacts. Rubbing a hand over his face, he waited for the call to connect.

How the fuck do I break this to him? What do I even tell him?

“Hello?” The sound of barking accompanied his friend’s voice, and it was such a jolt of normalcy that it took his breath away.

“Ev’. . .”

“Clint? I haven’t heard anything from Deanna yet, it’s only been like an hour, right?”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a hell of an hour.” His chuckle was almost hysterical, and he could hear Evan pause. Could practically see the concerned look on his face.

Carefully, his friend responded. “Clint, if this guy already passed then there was nothing you could have done.”

“No, no,” he said, a little too firmly, “he hasn’t passed. Um . . . “ his voice trembled, and he took a small breath, trying to brace himself.

“Clint?” Evan’s voice was filled with apprehension, “What’s going on?”

“It’s Markus.”

“What? You mean you found what happened to him?”

Clint balked at answering, looking up at the ceiling with burning eyes.

“Clint,” Evan’s voice was hard as diamonds, “did you find the bastard that killed our friend?”

“He’s not dead, Ev’,” he answered, words slipping free like a clot, “He’s the John Doe.”

[starkeristheendgame]

Could you do a fic where Peter ends up using his safeword?🥺👉🏻👈🏻

Of course! Thank you sm for the prompt you sweet little bean ❤️ I’m gonna set this in a sort of grey-area between Homecoming and Infinity War, as a set-up for the use of the safeword. I hope you like it! 

TW: Reference to bodily harm (the building collapse) | PTSD mentions/depictions | Use of a safeword | Brief rough sex description | Panic/Panicking | Mild humiliating/degrading dirty talk.

Stay safe, my lovelies! 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Real good for me - Fuck, yes - Take it, baby”. Tony’s words are growled into his ear, backed by the warmth of his panting skimming the hinge of his jaw as fingers twist in his hair, tugging his head back. The sting is just the right side of painful, forcing him to arch his spine, to push his ass back onto Tony’s thick cock. 

Post-mission fucking has become kind of A Thing these days, ever since Peter nearly got taken out during a mission and Tony had lost his shit, freaking out before pressing Peter down into their bedsheets, driving his cock so deep Peter could almost taste it. 

They haven’t even made it to the bedsheets, this time. They’re not even home. The concrete of the floor scrapes his palms where he scrabbles for purchase, desperate for leverage against the brutal way that Tony fucks into him, like he’s nothing but a tight, hot sleeve for his cock. 

“Still so loose and sloppy, baby. My cock really ruins you, huh? Leaves you open and gaping like you’ll never be tight again” and Peter cries out, because its so fucking good. Good enough that the dust and rubble around them almost doesn’t bother him. He’ll feel gross later, and demand a shower, but right now the thick, hard tip of Tony’s cock is abusing his sweetspot, and his mind is a mantra of fuckyespleaseharderohgod. 

The hand in his hair stops pulling, and presses his face down into the dirt, hard enough that the floor is like sandpaper on his cheek. There’s a chunk of beam keeping his hips up enough for Tony to shift, forcing his legs together so his thighs are squeezed shut, and he’s trapped. 

Peter’s heart ticks up a notch. 

“Bet if I held off even for a day you’d come crawling on your knees, begging for it” Tony rumbled against his neck, teeth skimming the vulnerable skin there as he draped himself over Peter, pinning him down with all of his weight. Still wearing the suit - Its a considerable poundage to bear, Peter’s back and thighs instantly tensing with the strain. 

It would be hot, any other time. In the safety of their own bed, with soft sheets and luxury pillows. Now, its dirt and dust in his nose and the darkness of the crumbled building around them, Tony’s weight squeezing his ribs down around his lugs, trapping his limbs so there’s nothing he can do except lay there. 

Peter sucked in a sharp breath, breaking off into a sobbed gasp as Tony pressed him down harder, trapping his arms underneath his chest as he sank his cock deep into his plaint little body, forcing it to part around him, as deep as it seemed he could go and then even deeper. 

“T-Tony” Peter rasped, whimpering and writhing under the larger man, sucking in heaving breaths as the trembled. Tony cooed at him, pressing his cheek down into the dirt, braced on his forearm as he squeezed Peter down. 

“Fuck, darling. So tight. Like I’ll never get my fucking cock back” Tony snarled at him, words thick-sweet and breaking through the sudden roaring in his ears. Peter twisted and mewled, trying to get his arms out from underneath him, but Tony clicked his tongue chidingly and ground his hips down, shoving Peter back into the dusty concrete. 

“P-Please. I can’t - Its too much, Tony” he rasped, trying to get the right words out between hitching sobs. 

“Aw, poor baby. Still not used to taking it big, huh?” Tony cooed, patronising and full of faux-concern as he rolled his hips, grinding Peter into the dust like he was typing to leave an imprint of him there. Peter wailed and shook his head as much as he was able, ignoring the way that the rubble dug into his soft cheeks and rubbed the skin there raw. 

“N-No. Tony I can’t...I...Ple- Huntsman” he manages on a broken cry, and in a movement too quick for him to even register, the weight lifted off him, gone in a gut-wrenching moment of relief. He was distantly aware of the slow, dragged slide of Tony’s cock pulling out of him, leaving him open and gaping and exposed. 

“Hey, Pete, Peter. Hey, baby. I’m here. Stay with me” Tony breathed, kneeling down in the dirt besides him with his still-hard cock slapping against the pelvis plate of the suit smearing the gold there with cum and lube. Peter squeezed his eyes shut and shifted, squirming in the dust to curl into a ball as he sucked in billowing breaths, trying to calm himself down. 

“I’m sorry” he whimpered, tucking his arms around himself for protection. “I didn’t mean - It was...”. He can’t finish the words, can’t admit that even in the middle of getting dicked down by Tony, the Vulture haunted him. The feeling of his own crushed bones was a ghost he couldn’t shake. 

“Oh, sweetheart. My precious boy. Its okay, you’re okay. You can breathe, in and out, nice and slow. In...Out. Good” Tony’s gentle, low murmuring was easy to latch onto, a strong contender against the hammering of his heart and the roaring of his rushing blood. He felt sick, dizzy, and before he even realised what he was doing, he was reaching out for Tony. 

Warm, flesh fingers curled around his own, holding with careful tenderness. Peter forced his eyes to open a little and noted that the suit had bled away, leaving Tony on his knees in the dirt in the slacks and shirt he’d been wearing before Director Fury had come storming into the Tower. 

“Am I okay to come a little closer?” Tony asked softly, and Peter gave a hitching nod, closing his eyes again as he shook on the floor, trying desperately to shake the feeling of being trapped, crushed. It felt like the slabs of concrete were still there, digging into his fragile skin, grinding his bones together. 

“I’m here, baby. I’m right here” Tony shushed his increasing sobs, thumb gently rubbing the side of Peter’s hand, giving him plenty of space but sitting close enough that Peter could scent his cologne, his sweat from the mission and their fucking. 

There was a scuffle, the sound of a belt, and then Tony was talking again, gently. “Hey, baby. Do you think you can put your head on my leg? The floor is all dusty” Tony soothed, and Peter sniffled but shifted, obligingly lifting his head enough that a thick, strong thigh could take up the space between his scraped cheeks and the dirt. 

“There’s my good sweetheart” Tony praised, still gently rubbing circles along the side of his hand. Peter’s breaths were less laboured now, but he still felt hot and humiliated, embarrassment leaking into the space that the panic left behind. 

“You did so well, darling. I’m so proud of you. You know that, right? My precious little darling. So good for me” Tony hummed, one hand hesitantly settling on his shoulder, featherlight and giving him plenty of time to express that he didn’t want it. He kept his touch light, thumb sweeping gentle arcs across the muscle. 

“I’m okay” he sniffled, opening his eyes. Tony had tucked away his cock and was sat on his ass, body leaned slightly away so he wasn’t looming over Peter, gaze soft and concerned. “I’m sorry. I just - It was the dirt, and I couldn’t move, and it-”

“Hey, baby. You don’t have to tell me, okay? You don’t have to explain it. You did so well, you used your safeword and I’m so proud of you. Take deep breaths, baby. Nice and slow. We can stay here for a while”. Tony’s hand swept a little lower, brushing his hip, and Peter could feel the tickling coolness of nanotech blanketing his bare ass, covering his exposed hole, as light as his touch. 

“How about when we get home, we have a nice, hot bath, hm? Bubbles, that smelly shit you keep bullying me into buying...”

“That you secretly like because you use it when I’m not there and think I don’t notice” Peter responded in a wet mumble, shoulders hitching slightly on a soft giggle. Tony had made a big show of fussing and sneezing and sniffing himself the first time Peter insisted on having a ‘proper’ bath, but the younger boy knew his mentor had secretly grown to adore them. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I still say if I wanted to smell like that, I’d go sit in a florists’ shop for a few hours” Tony shot back, but his voice was light and amused as he continued to pet at Peter, feeling the way the boy’s rabbiting heartbeat began to slow as he calmed. 

“As opposed to smelling like grease and rust?” Peter asked, voice a little rough from his crying. It felt like they’d only been sat here for a few minutes, but when he caught sight of Tony’s watch, he knew it must have been at least half an hour since his freak out. When he shifted, he felt cold and sore, arousal gone and leaving discomfort in its place. 

“You wound me” Tony huffed at him dryly, hand sliding slowly and carefully up into his hair, scrubbing through it gently and using his thumb to sweep aside clumps of dust and rubble. “You feel okay to get up, sweetheart?” He asked after a pause, and Peter nodded, groaning softly as he uncurled, he and Tony using each other to wobble to their feet. 

“I’m -”

“If you say you’re sorry again, I will be forced to do something soppy and over emotive” Tony warned him, and Peter closed his mouth, flushing, before opening it again. 

“Thank you” he said instead, and Tony gave him the most achingly sweet smile. 

“Anything for you, darling” the older man murmured, ducking down to press a sweet, loving, gentle kiss to Peter’s mouth as his fingertips skimmed his hips, dragging the nanotech up and over his body, ready to take them both home. 

[xdepthsofwinterx]

(2/2) Also, was thinking: she left before they go to the Underdark, but the Valsharess probably sent some drows after her, tracking her and trying to kill her. What did she do at that time? (next part of the ask XD)

{{Alright first off, apologies @waterdeephero​! This ask has sat in my inbox for literal years! I have been waiting for the perfect inspiration to strike for this particular part of Dhana’s story-line. It is one of my favourite parts, largely because it is where Dhana meets my lovely @aquiversfull​ Kymiel. So finally, here it is! Forgive the length, I got carried away with battle scenes again x’D}}

Waterdeep, Hordes of the Underdark, Chapter 1-2: Canon!Verse

Thwack!

Blood ran icily cold, what remained of the bolt splinteringin her periphery. The emerald sheen wasn’t lost on her. Poison. Heart thunderingagainst her ribcage, Dhana darted down another alleyway. Visibility was growingincreasingly poor as near vertical sheets of rain hammered a crescendo againstthe cobbles. Squinting revealed little of Waterdeep’s winding streets, thesorceress barely making out the looming outlines of buildings. Had she time torecast infravision, she would have, but her assailants where incessant.

Another volley whistled through the air, ripping through thetop of her ear. Dhana drew blood from clamping down on her lip, smoulderingpain erupting from the wound.

Fucking drow!

Ducking beneath washing lines that extended across her path,the woman used the sudden cover to her advantage. More complex incantationswere out of the equation, but evocation came as naturally as breathing.

Hands outstretched, fingertips dragging along brick, Dhanafocused on the pain. The way water seeped into the ragged flesh, the shreddedcartilage flapping lamely in her haste. Ice crackled to life, feeding off theweather and her adrenaline. It shot out like spiderwebs, spikes erupting frombrick at an alarming rate. A startled cry pulled out a cruel smirk.

One down. Gods know how many more to go.

Something flashed up ahead, the tell-tale sizzling of the arcane. Dark brows furrowed a moment too late, therealisation pooling horror in her gut.

Spider webs.

She felt the fibrous grip snag hold of her boots, rippingone from her foot. The momentum sent her sprawling unceremoniously in a sticky,sodden heap. Muscles and bones shrieked in protest, the skin upon her forearmsshredded to ribbons from the friction. Dhana coughed violently, head ringing asshe tried desperately to get to her feet.

‘Zexen'uma harl, rivvil.’ *

She froze, head jerking upwards at the commanding tone. Likeice it slithered over her skin, enticing a rash of goose bumps to follow. Desperateto see through the watery veil, she struggled to raise her hand. A shadow leaptoverhead, a burst of silvery light and a shattering of glass had her seeing stars.

Like a fly upon a spider’s web, she could feel their eyesupon her. Whom ever it was moved closer.

“Phu’ dos zhaunus ol zhah ilta?**” an uttered whisper, somehowaudible above the rain, called from above. Their leader – or so she surmised – stoodbefore her now. Without a light she could make out little features, but the lethalpair of short-swords spoke volumes.

‘Assassins. Like the one in the Yawning Portal.’ Shegrimaced as the figure crouched down at her level, the overwhelming scent ofchemicals upon their person. A hand captured her chin, wrenching it up at apainful angle. She was twisted this way and that, the drow inspecting her earwith a growl.

“Foolish male, have you no eyes!? This is your pathetichandiwork is it not?”

With a jerk, Dhana was released. Recoiling, she pressed herhands more firmly into the ground and forced herself up.  This time her captors allowed her to kneel,but the red hued blade at her exposed throat meant she did little else.

“If you are so intent on killing me, hurry it up. I’ve freezingmy tits off out here!”

It wasn’t a lie. Having fled the inn with next to nopossessions, desperate to avoid questioning glances, the mage wore naught buther leather and fur padded armour. Even her staff was gone.

Sliding up her gullet, the short-sword rested just under herchin. She could feel the trickle of blood forming from the nick.

“Dos phuul natha bran uss whol zhaunus***,” followed by avelvety chuckle, “I will enjoy disembowelling you like the dog you are.”

N-Now hang on, disembowelling?! No one mentioned-

Phwet.

Dhana flinched as something thick and viscous splatteredacross her face. As she sat there blinking furiously through whatever thiswas, she heard a distinctive sound.

The twang of a bowstring. And whoever it was had stirredup one hell of a hornet’s nest. Shrieking drow echoed upon the roof tops, thesounds of spells zipping through the air and breaking roof shingles. Dhana feltthe blade fall, shortly followed by a body. The sorceress wasted little time inscrubbing at her eyes. Finally her vision cleared, sepia eyes swivelling about.

There, sticking out of the hood of her fallen captor,was a blue and white tipped arrow. From this distance Dhana could tell it was aclear headshot, right through the eye socket. She whistled, impressed.

That was until a dagger sliced through the air before hernose.

‘Yes Dhana, battlefield, we are in a godforsaken battlefieldyou twat!!’

Snatching up the blade she set about cutting herself free,the webs falling away. Whomever had cast it must have met an untimely end, asthe silk vanished. Dhana stumbled to her feet, willing her magic to harden uponthe surface of her skin and armour. Pieces of rock fell away as it responded, notwithout sending a dizzying spell of vertigo her way.

I…I need to rest, badly.

Sadly it seemed Lady Tymora was ignoring her again today, asan irate roar sounded from behind her. Bewildered, Dhana instinctively rolledaway, just in time to miss the great sword that spliced the space she had onceoccupied. A hulking, silver haired beauty with a none to friendly exteriorgreeted her.

Balanced upon the balls of her feet, Dhana acted quickly. Willingwith all her strength, she coaxed the water about the drow’s feet to burst tolife. It wound up his legs tightening and crackling with incessant cold. Hehissed, barking some very uncouth words in his mother language, managing tolift his blade with increasing difficulty. Filthy, bloodied and utterly fed upherself, Dhana gave him a dark grin.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Zu'tour ol elg'care-eugh!!!” ****

You would have thought that he’d have figured it out. After all,the metre long icicles stained red with drow blood was a massive give away.Dhana didn’t give him the satisfaction of answer.

She outstretched both hands. One hand clenched with violentintent, the other flipped a universal sign that shall not be repeated here. Thegreat sword clattered loudly upon cobblestone, her mouthy friend now the centreof a grotesque, ice sculpture.

Slumping against the wall, Dhana leaned her head back againstthe brickwork. Rain bounced off her feverish skin, refreshing despite the throbbingear. Morbidly curious as to the damage Dhana lifted a tentative finger.

“I would strongly advise against doing that.”

An involuntary spasm shook her entire body, the sorceressyelping in surprise. Leathers creaked, drawing her attention to the suddenvoice.

How he had managed to appear at her side so silently was beyondher. Well, besides the rain and the previous battle of course.

An elf knelt mere feet away, ears dripping, face clarteredin a similar fashion to her own. A heavy emerald cloak adorned his shoulders,swept across studded leather armour, held in place by a brass broach. Hisoutline blurred ever so slightly at the edges, causing her nausea to worsen. Hesmiled despite their situation, dimples appearing in his bronzy complexion. Evidently,he held this expression often.

“Please do not be alarmed, I have no interest in hurtingyou.”

She gave him a sceptical look, “Y-You sure about that?”

Those unusual ochre eyes gleamed with unspoken humour.Instead of answering he pulled back his cloak to reveal…a quiver full of blueand white tipped arrows. Dhana gawked.

“Y-You’ve got one hell of an aim!” Her elven saviour finallychuckled at this, the timbre pleasant upon her frayed nerves.

“Luckily for you, yes. Although, you are quite anintimidating fighter yourself.”

He gestured warily to the glistening, impaled drow. Sheshould have thought twice about looking, as it seemed her stomach had reachedits limit. Lurching away from her newfound companion, Dhana emptied thecontents of her gut onto the cobblestone. She could barely breathe from theconvulsions, feeling the bile burn her nostrils as well as her throat.

Movement from behind alerted her to the nearing presence. Callousedfingers gently lifted her hair, gathering it at the base of her neck. Had shethe strength Dhana would have slapped him aside, alas she could not. Weak, emotionallyexhausted the mage could do little but retch until nothing remained.

Minutes passed, odd gags threatening here and there. Oncesatisfied, the elf retreated, squatting before her with a flask.

“Drink this, please.” She squinted through watery, bloodshoteyes. He sighed patiently, “It is not poison, look.”

He sipped the contents, swallowing to prove his point.Reluctantly the sorceress nodded, taking the leather-bound container, and downingas much as she could muster.

“I have neutralised the remainder of your attackers. I suggestwe move from this location now, as it is likely another party will follow intheir footsteps.”

Dhana almost choked. Coughing, she handed back his water skin.

“What is this we?” He blinked at her as if it wereobvious. She snorted, “I do not need babysitting, master elf.”

Securing the hip flask upon his belt, the elf stood up. Headjusted his bow and quiver, before glancing back down at her.

“I prefer Kymiel if you don’t mind. That nickname is…painfullyformal,” not waiting for her to respond he bent down and secured his armabout her waist. Eyes widened rapidly, the mage squawking indignantly. Helifted her with surprising strength and ease, positioning her arm behind his head.She stumbled a bit, coming to lean into his gait. Dhana glowered.

“And you are?”

“Pissed off.”

“Well, Miss Pissed Off, you are hardly in any fit state tocontinue unaided.”

She couldn’t exactly argue with that, given the way her headspun from overexertion. Growling, she let her head flop forward whilst she centredherself. A pang of guilt ran through her.

“It’s Dhana, my name that is.”

She could feel him perk up as he began leading them away.

“Pity, I rather liked your prior name.”

“Ugh…shut up!”

Tonight was going to be longest night she had endured inmany a year.-Drow Translations- Taken from here and here.

* - “Stay down, human.”** - “Are you sure it is her?”*** - “You sure are a loud one.”**** - “Shut it, bitch!”

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Settle our bones (like wood) over time, over time

Tony is down with the flu, so Rhodey helps out by looking after Morgan (and her dad).

Seems like Endgame has turned me into a fluff writer. This is probably one of the softest things I’ve ever written. Contains fever dreams, vomiting, some angst and light spoilers, but nothing too grave.

A million thanks to @whumphoarder for putting so much work into beta-reading.

Rhodey has just finished showering and is fixing himself a sandwich when his custom-made StarkPhone starts blaring the unmistakable melody of Black Sabbath’s Iron Man (The phone was a belated gift from Tony for his last birthday -  subtlety has never been his best friend’s strength).

“Hey man,” he greets.

“Rhodes?” Tony asks, sounding slightly off.

“Yes, it’s me. You should know this, seeing as you called.” A bit of worry starts gnawing in Rhodey’s gut.

“Listen...I might need your help here.”

Rhodey sighs internally. This is the same sentence he heard a year ago, when Tony’s bots managed to blow up a pyramid of paint buckets in the nursery and both of them spent the next seven consecutive hours hurrying to clean up the mess before Pepper came home. Rhodey’s just returned from a rather arduous week with Nat in Morocco and was looking forward to an afternoon spent entirely with himself, his food, and his TV remote.

“Sure,” he replies, trying his best not to sound entirely unmotivated. “What’s the mission?”

“Just, Morgan,” Tony says. “I, I guess I caught a flu bug, and I can’t - Pepper’s in L.A., and I can’t even open these stupid baby food jars without puking. Pep will kill me if I have Dum-E feed the kid.”

He breaks off and Rhodey hears a muffled cough from the other side.

“I know you just got back, but-” There’s a clatter, a muttered curse, and then the sound of a baby crying in the background. “I’m sorry, dude,” Tony continues in a hoarse voice.

Rhodey frowns. If Tony is calling him for help - hell, if he is actually apologising - things must be pretty desperate.

“On my way,” he confirms, getting up with a groan but already feeling his own fatigue fading into the background. “Be there in ten.”

*

The cabin sits at the lake, calm as ever. Rhodey smiles a little to himself when he thinks that his Tony, the former party king of New York, has chosen a lonely place in the woods as the site for his retirement. The front door opens automatically as soon as the hidden scanner has examined his face, and Rhodey steps into the warm interior.

“Welcome, Colonel Rhodes”, Friday’s voice greets him.

“Hey, Fri. Where’s Tony?”

“Boss is upstairs in the nursery.”

“Thanks.”

Giving Morgan the bedroom under the roof was probably one of Tony’s more selfless deeds (well, apart from saving the universe multiple times), considering the breathtaking amount of stars that are visible through the window directly from her bed.

On the other hand, Tony is understandably not very fond of stars anymore.

Rhodey makes his way upstairs, avoiding the building bricks littering the steps as well as the heap of washing on the first floor landing that needs to be ironed.

Tony is sitting on the floor in Morgan’s room, leaning heavily against the bed frame, the eight-month-old baby on a blanket next to him. She’s not exactly crying, but the noises she’s making definitely express discontent. Tony is trying to capture her attention with a screwdriver that he circles above her face, but he seems barely able to keep his own head up. There’s an unopened baby food jar and a spoon on the bedside table next to him.

“You look like crap,” Rhodey assesses. “What’s your temperature at?”

“I called you to babysit Morgan, not me,” Tony rebuts hoarsely. “If you’re fussing, I’ll ship your ass straight back home.”

“Sure you will.” Rhodey bends down to stroke the girl’s hair, noticing that she is swaddled up in multiple blankets like a baby-burrito.

“Is the little hobbit sick, too?”

“What?” Tony’s head shoots up. “No, I hope not.”

“Then why’s she wrapped up like this?”

“‘t was freezing this morning...Her skin felt cold…”

Rhodey frowns and checks the kid’s temperature. If anything, she’s a little overheated and clearly uncomfortable in too many layers. “That was probably the fever messing with you.”

“Oh.” Tony shifts uncomfortably. He is entirely too pale, with a hint of green on his face.

“When is Pepper coming back?” Rhodey inquires as he unwraps the blankets around the unhappy baby.

“’s Wednesday today, right?”

“Thursday,” Rhodey corrects.

“Ah,” Tony rubs his hand over his eyebrows in an exhausted gesture. He looks about ready to keel over. “Tonight, then. Probably late. You can, you can stay over in the guest room if you want to…”

“I know, Tony, don’t worry about it,” Rhodey reassures. “I’m gonna feed her now. You should move to your own bedroom, try and get some rest.”

“Yeah,” Tony nods, glancing at his feet for a moment as if not sure whether they will carry his weight. “There’s an idea.”

He hoists himself up and strokes Morgan’s hair out of her face with slightly trembling fingers before shuffling towards the staircase.

When the baby is fed and asleep, Rhodey makes his way to Tony’s room, hoping against better knowledge that his friend would be following the baby’s example. But of course that’s not the case. The sounds of dry heaving are carrying clearly over to the staircase from the first floor bathroom.

“Tones?” Rhodey knocks on the door.

“’m good, don’t come in.”

“Sure…”

Rhodey pushes the door open and takes in the scene. Tony is slumped over the open toilet bowl, his cheek resting on the seat. His face is showing an unhealthy pallor. Towels and discarded bottles of Gatorade are strewn around him, and the smell of sickness hangs thickly in the air. It’s obvious that Tony has been ill for a while already.

“Dude,” Rhodey starts.

“I said don’t come in. Not pretty,” Tony rasps.

“Well, I’ve seen you worse.”

“Yeah, don’t remind me…” Tony coughs again and retches drily, not even bothering to lift his head anymore. Rhodey can see the muscles in his back contracting when he throws up again, the ribs visible under his shirt. Hs still hasn’t gained back his full weight after the three weeks in space.

“Oh, fuck this.” Tony reaches up weakly to flush, then crashes back against the giant bathtub. Tiredly, he looks up at Rhodey, his dark eyes glazed over from fever.

“Okay. Back to bed,” Rhodey orders.

“Not sure if I’m done,” Tony admits.

“I’ll get you a bucket.” Rhodey grabs Tony under the armpits to pull him up and steadies him until he is sure that Tony’s own feet can take his weight. Then he hands him a glass of water to rinse his mouth.

“Do you want some Tylenol?” he asks, scanning the medicine cabinet.

“Nah,” Tony shakes his head. “Tried. Didn’t stay down.”

“At least drink a bit of water. You must be getting dehydrated.”

Tony obeys, sipping at the glass while supporting himself on the wash basin. His hand is shaking so hard that water is spilling over the edge, even though the glass is barely filled two-thirds.

All at once, Rhodey vividly remembers the week after Tony had returned from Titan. True to his word, the first thing he did when he was able to stand again on his own was try to shave. His hands were shaking so much that Rhodey had to help him, steadily clearing the stubble that was more gray than black, deliberately not talking about Steve and space and the child whose absence was so present in each of Tony’s words and actions.

It still is.

Rhodey gets Tony settled into bed. The engineer lies down on the mattress gingerly, as if his whole body hurts. Within minutes, he falls into an exhausted slumber, looking entirely spent.

He is undeniably older now - a fight in space, a lost child, and another one born having taken their toll - but something about the way he keeps his forearm curled protectively around his face reminds Rhodey of college, of watching over him while he slept off his highs, an arrogant, vulnerable, entirely too-young kid in a world that didn’t care enough.  

Rhodey carefully pulls a blanket over his friend. He goes to the kitchen to fetch some crackers for himself and a basin in case Tony gets sick again and checks once more on Morgan, who is sleeping peacefully, hugging an Iron Man plush toy, then settles down in an armchair in the corner of the master bedroom. He picks up Tony’s tablet, scrolling lazily through the news, before setting out to ruin his friend’s Netflix viewing history.

Twenty minutes later, Tony starts moaning quietly, his face scrunched up and slick with sweat. He rolls to and fro, hands balled into fists, his eyeballs moving rapidly below his eyelids as he mumbles something unintelligible.

Rhodey sighs and stands up to wake him. Before he can do so, Tony snaps upright. “Peter,” he croaks breathlessly. His eyes dart around the room, taking it in with a mixture of confusion and fear.

Rhodey just shakes his head. “No, Tony. I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Oh.” Understanding settles in Tony’s features, disappointment, sadness. He slumps back against the pillows, brushing an arm over his face to wipe away sweat and maybe more. So much pain. So much guilt. “Is Morgan—?”

“She’s fine. Go back to sleep,” Rhodey advises.

Tony grunts in response. He closes his eyes, but opens them again a few seconds later, looking paler than before. “I need- ” he clasps a hand over his lips, sitting up, and tries to get his feet under him.

Rhodey takes the basin from the nightstand and pushes it into his hands, silently ordering him to stay in bed. “Here. It’s okay.”

Tony eyes the bowl and takes a few shallow breaths, closing his eyes. Rhodey can see his throat working as he tries not to be sick.

Upstairs, Morgan starts to cry.

Tony reflexively makes to stand up. “I got her,” Rhodey reassures, already half out the door. He feels his heart go a little warm. The one man whom nobody ever would have thought would be a father has turned out to be a pretty good one.

He hears Tony retch behind him and the sound of liquid splashing into the bowl when he climbs the stairs. Rhodey makes a mental note to keep an eye out for signs of dehydration since the only thing Tony could possibly be bringing up at this point is the few sips of water he had earlier.

Morgan is crying at a volume louder than should reasonably be possible for someone of her size. Rhodey changes her diaper and carries her around the room, talking nonsense to soothe her. It takes a while to settle her back down. She knows Rhodey well, but it’s clear that she wants her parents.

When he returns, Tony is still in the same position as he left him, but now slumped over, holding his head in his hands. The half-filled basin is sitting in between his knees.

“Hey.” Rhodey takes the bowl out of his lap gently and sets it on the floor. Tony barely reacts. He’s malleable, radiating heat, the fever evidently much higher than earlier. He barely opens his eyes when Rhodey helps him to lean back against a heap of pillows in front of the headboard. Rhodey goes to clean the evidence and returns with a wet washcloth that he uses to wipe down Tony’s face and then cool his forehead.

Tony is too feverish and uncomfortable to actually fall back asleep, so Rhodey starts the TV for some white noise and settles into the bed next to him. Tony watches with half-lidded eyes and heavy breaths, his hands clenching the blanket. He keeps shifting his weight against the pillows until his head lands on Rhodey’s shoulder, the sweaty hair hot and damp through his shirt. Rhodey adjust his position a little to make him more comfortable.

“So that’s what it takes to get you into bed with me,” Tony slurs.

Rhodey rolls his eyes. “You wish.”

There’s a pause as the weak smirk fades from Tony’s features and he lets out a tired sigh. “I…” He struggles to form words. “Just…thanks, dude.”

“It’s okay, Tony. I know.”

And he does, he’s always known. During the nights at MIT, he understood the way Tony sought distraction in parties and wine to quiet his thoughts and how he brought people home to bed to keep the loneliness at bay. He was there when Tony OD-ed on his graduation day, after Howard hadn’t shown up and Tony had worn an AC/DC shirt instead of a suit, insisting he didn’t give a damn about his summa cum laude. And that other, horrible night, after Tony’s parents died and he stood on Rhodey’s doorstep, high and silent, with red-rimmed eyes and traces of tears on his face.

After he’d returned from space, starved and broken, when he was too weak to cry and water just seemed to flow out of his eyes like from an overfilled pond, Rhodey understood that those tears were for Peter Parker. And the day Morgan was born and Tony was more afraid than ever before, Rhodey had quietly waited at the hospital all the way until the door opened and Tony stepped out with his daughter in his arms, smiling like the proudest man on earth.

Now he just sits there, feeling Tony shiver when the chills run through him, doing what he always does - being there.

He stays until Morgan starts up again and he has to extricate himself from the bed. She’s clearly awake this time, and it seems she’s had enough time without her parents, so Rhodey takes her to the master bedroom.

Tony is too out of it to even move much, so he just lets the baby crawl around him and numbly plays with her hair while she tries to grab his fingers.

“Yeah, kiddo. Daddy’s not much fun today,” Rhodey comments. Tony just shoots him a tired glare.

“You up for some toast?” Rhodey asks.

“Please don’t.” Tony’s face scrunches up with nausea.

Rhodey gets him to very slowly drink half a glass of water during the next fifteen minutes before Tony lies back down fully while Morgan is on her stomach, playing with a War Machine doll that has inexplicably found its way into the bed. After a while, Rhodey wets the washcloth again and drapes it over Tony’s burning forehead, receiving a grateful sigh.

Tony’s breaths eventually even out again and Rhodey gently picks up Morgan. He takes her outside and feeds her dinner, and she stares at him intently with the dark, warm eyes Rhodey knows all too well.

*

When Pepper comes home late that night, Rhodey is on the porch, carrying a crying Morgan in his arms who has decided a few hours ago that she was definitely done sleeping for the day.

“What happened?” Pepper asks, a crease appearing between her brows and worry set in her eyes. It’s been almost two years and the fear is still there, always lingering below the surface, ready to materialise upon the smallest provocation.

“Hey, everything’s okay. Tony’s got the flu, but it’s under control. He was very well-behaved - called me earlier today to help out.”

Pepper raises an eyebrow. “He told me he had a cold when I called him up last night.”

Rhodey sighs. He’s never seen Tony ask for someone to be around when he was sick, thanks to Howard Stark, and he’s sure that he wouldn’t have done it this time if it hadn’t been for Morgan.

Pepper takes the child from his arms and greets her with a kiss before entering the house and making straight for the master bedroom, not bothering to remove her shoes or jacket. Rhodey follows her upstairs, but stops just outside the bedroom door. He watches Pepper step in softly, Tony warily blinking his eyes open and then struggling to sit up when Pepper settles down on the side of the mattress.

Rhodey can’t hear what they are saying, but he sees Tony mumble something and warmth filling his tired eyes. The tension bleeds out of Pepper’s body when she ghosts a kiss on his cheek. Morgan giggles upon seeing her father, not understanding the words, but fully able to feel the completeness, the love, the rightness of it all.

It’s an impossible life they lead, Rhodey thinks, but something right has come out of it after all.

@badthingshappenbingo  - This is the fill for the square “Big Brother Instinct” on my Bingo card.

Link to all my fics

[sheepsandcattle]

Chapter 24

“Curly. What the fuck?” Oscar chucks his cards onto the coffee table and crosses his arms over his chest, sulking. “You’re cheating, man. How are you winning every fucking time? Shit’s rigged.”

“Mate, spend a fortnight in the countryside with my dad and you’ll be sick at Blackjack too. Dead serious.”

Jules shoves his money over the table with force, but he’s laughing. Oscar hands over half as much money but tops it off with an eight-ball. Curly takes his winnings with a smug grin and crams the lot into the pocket of his hoodie as Jules re-packs the deck.

“No wonder you’re both skint if you play like this all the time,” Curly remarks as he pulls his phone from his pocket, buzzing for the dozenth time in the past hour.

He feels Oscar scowl at his words and raises his head again, cracking a smile at the older man. It’s good to see him having a laugh again - although the face he’s currently pulling shows otherwise. Oscar was clean for nearly four days last week, says he’s going to try again starting Monday, “probably.”

He pulls himself from his thoughts as he flips open his phone. His chest and neck burn up as he reads the message.

18:07 - got you alone yet?

So that’s a thing they do now. It seems so daft - like it could mean nothing, really - but Curly knows; can tell, ‘cause it always stars off so vague - so innocent until it isn’t.

It doesn’t usually start until later into the night (when he’s pretty sure Jordan’s in bed already and letting his mind wander) and they don’t talk about it – God they don’t acknowledge it at all when they’re actually together. He’s pretty sure J’s trying not to embarrass him -protecting his honour or something- and for a short while he was glad for it but, just recently, all’s he wants is for the guy to make the move that he’s too nervous to initiate. Heavy make-outs are mint, don’t get him wrong - but sometimes they go on for so bloody long; the banter between kisses becoming hushed conversations before sleep, whilst he wishes he had the guts to make the next move and Jordan stays well behaved.

All because Curly was daft enough to have said, “I don’t think I’m up for more than this,” on the night of their first kiss when Jordan’s hand slipped beneath his top.

Realistically, he knows Jordan is just waiting for the ‘okay’. Shame he’s too bloody awkward to give it.

“Curly!”

“Hm?” His head shoots up and he snaps his phone shut, leaving a half-written response waiting to be sent.

“We’re going out,” Jules repeats as he sets the deck of cards on the table, now packed back up in their battered box. “To Rooney’s. Coming?”

They must be having a laugh. Listening to some bloke kiss Morrissey’s arse until he’s too high to hear him? As if.

“Actually, I’m off out n’all,” he announces as he stands, phone already open again as he makes his swift exit to his bedroom.

18:09 - you will in 20. see you then.

***

The pizza box on the table only holds one slice now, cold and half-eaten as they lay across the couch; Curly on his back with his head turned towards the TV and Jordan stretched along his side. He’s propped up on one elbow as the fingertips of his other hand trace over Curls’ stomach, who tries to keep his eyes on the screen, but J doesn’t half make it difficult for him. He can’t help but glance down every so often at the shapes the man draws.

On the back of his hand is an inked image of a coiled snake that Curly recalls being Jordan’s own work. Yesterday, Jordan had told him, “I’m thinking about taking some classes. Maybe an internship,” over the phone; one of the last things he’d said before they hung up to ‘sleep,’ only for Jordan to text him around fifteen minutes later about how he couldn’t sleep because he was too busy thinking about…

Curly wonders if Jordan can feel his stomach twist before he gets the chance to push the thought to the back of his head. He feels the man’s eyes on the same strip of skin that he touches, but Curly doesn’t dare follow them now. He turns his head back toward the screen, willing away the images Jordan had engrained into his head the night before and replacing them with images of O-Ren Ishii instead as she says, “you didn’t think it was gonna be that easy, did you?”

But Jordan’s left hand is still moving, and every so often, his pinky finger skims along the waistline of his trousers -the plaid ones that he liked so much before- and Curly find himself turning to meet his eyes, his chin jutting up as if to say, ‘go on then.’ 

Jordan’s lips are on his without the need for clarification, leg between Curly’s thighs and tongue between his teeth. This they’re familiar with; kissing and nothing more. Jordan was quick to accept the line Curly had drawn, too bloody patient for their own good.

Tonight though, he’s still wired from last night’s conversation, still trying and failing to shake the mental images, and now Jordan’s hand is feeling over his chest, and the outside of his thigh is pressed to the inside of Curly’s. He doesn’t even think about it before he’s lifting his hips, fingers tangled in the man’s hair to keep his tongue pressed alongside Jordan’s as he presses himself against him.

Something happens in his throat, forcing him to swallow at the feeling he didn’t realise would be so pivotal in this, and when he abandons the kiss, Jordan nips his lower lip, dragging it out a little before he releases it and draws back to catch his eyes.

He wants to say ‘okay,’ or, ‘please,’ or, ‘yes, I realise what I did and yes I want to do it some more,’ but he can’t for the life of him find the nerve to articulate it, so he just pulls him back in again, drags his tongue over Jordan’s lips and moves his hips up against him again.

Jordan must understand, because he’s groaning then, in a way that could be half-exaggerated before he mumbles, “you have no idea,” into his mouth and is grinding back, angling and pressing against him in a way that’s even better than before.

One of his hands has wondered over the man’s spine and he feels his lower back flex as he rolls against him. Curly’s not sure if it’s the sensation or the concept of it all, but the same arousal that’s got his breath catching in his throat also has his lips falling part-open, Jordan licking into his mouth until he trails over Curly’s jaw instead.

He whispers something against his neck, but Curly can’t hear it so much as he feels it, too distracted as Jordan curls a hand behind his knee and pulls his leg up to hook over his hip as heavy breaths fall between the mystery words.

Their groins are pressed together still, but only for a moment before Jordan pulls back once again, and Curly nearly chases his lips, but then his eyes follow where Jordan’s gaze has landed. His top is bunched up above his chest and Jordan’s hand is dragging over his trousers now, over that plaid pattern that he’s taken such a liking to.

He watches Jordan’s hand as his fingers wander over the front, where the zipper breaks the pattern that’s already stretched tightly over—

He’s not used to seeing himself like this; not in comparison to his bedroom; pitch black save from the light from his shit Toshiba, headphones in as the presence of his flatmates at the other side of his door loom over him, and covered by his sheets from the waist, down, because it’s all just a bit embarrassing, ain’t it?

Jordan’s fingers splay over him and he looks up for the ‘okay,’ which Curly gives him in the form of a nod, followed by a shuddered breath when the palm presses against him and Jordan moves to return his mouth to Curly’s, who gasps at the feeling of the man rubbing him through the fabric, just for a short while before his fingers catch his fly and he pulls.

They fall back into it again, the kissing, and Curly forgets to be embarrassed, just for a few seconds and only every so often, just long enough to push himself up into Jordan’s hand. The man manages to pull the article away and suddenly Curly’s stuttered breaths are becoming muffled wines as a hand slides into his underwear, where a warm palm is wrapping around his length and stroking. 

“F--” is just about all he manages as Jordan touches him. He lets his head fall back, panting up at the ceiling as the man’s mouth trails over his body, moving from one tattoo to the next like he’s just now piecing it all together; what he’s been missing.

He’s not sure at which point Jordan gets rid of his boxers, but by the time Curly’s screwed his head back on, they’re gone too and there’s that laugh - that short puff of breath he lets out whenever he catches himself being vulnerable; when he can’t quite bring himself back from it. Jordan drags a hand over his face, mouth parted loosely and leaving Curly with uneven breaths as the other hand lingers just close enough to have his hips fighting to twitch against his better judgment. Jordan mutters, “Jesus,” as he shakes his head. Shakes himself out of it.

“What?” Curly’s not concerned really, not with that faint smile that Jordan’s still wearing when Curly’s braves a glance between them.

Jordan shifts backwards on his knees, nudging Curly’s leg until he’s forced to lower his foot to the ground. He leans over his lower half now, one arm hooked beneath the leg still bent at his side. He attaches his mouth to Curly’s hip, follows the bone to where his thigh ends and the pale skin fades into a hollow.

It’s daft to feel this kind of suspense, he reckons, trying to calm himself as he lets his head rest back again, eyes shutting and breath shuddering at the first hint of Jordan’s mouth on him. His hand winds around the forearm that Jordan has rested over his waist as the man wraps his fingers around the base and slides his lips over the head.

“Jesus,” he whispers before he can catch himself, Jordan’s mouth vibrating so slightly as he hums around him –‘I told you so’- but enough to pull a gasp from Curly. He’s shuddering again as Jordan sucks the head, licking over him before he’s sliding down, mouth hot and tongue smooth over his length and he holds it – stays there as his free hand slips between his legs, a little further back where he cups, rubs, has Curly moaning, no idea when he even opened his mouth again.

He’s usually quiet when he’s alone but, as his fingers grip Jordan’s hair, feels his head move in his lap, the groans that fall from him make it even better somehow.

Curly hears Jordan catch his breath every so often when he draws back to suck on the head and the erratic intakes are just about the best sounds he’s ever heard – that is until Jordan pulls off entirely, hisses, “fuck, Curly,” against him, the words chased by what he swears is a moan. His mouth trails down, over the base of his cock, replacing the hand that moves from his balls to stroke his length instead.

He feels a little helpless, fumbling for words but only breathing instead, only a whispered, “yeah, shit,” escaping him this time.

Jordan breathes heavily now, only sucking when he isn’t blowing hot puffs of air against his skin. It’s like Curly’s brain finally retunes itself as he uses one elbow to push himself up, losing his own breath as he sees the scene that’s been playing out right under his fucking nose this whole time.

He thinks ‘what a waste,’ as he takes in what he’s been missing out on; Jordan’s mouth working over him, one hand stroking Curly as the other disappears somewhere underneath himself. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put the pieces together: Jordan’s gaze, fixed on him now, along with the rough breaths -near-moans- that escape him.

He’s groaning as he touches himself, mouth pressed to wherever it can reach, warm breaths chasing his tongue. Curly would pipe up, but ‘fit’ is the only word that comes to mind and he’s not sure it holds enough weight.

As he pulls away, his eyes leave Curly’s in favour of watching his hand work, pumping his dick a little faster now and Curly fails to swallow his moan again this time. He tugs his hair a little because he really fucking wants to kiss him. Jordan defies the gesture though, eyes sliding shut as his mouth returns to the head of his cock and he hollows his cheeks as he sucks the tip.

Curly’s insides feel hot and twisted, an ache swelling over his spine.

“J,” he whines - doesn’t mean to whine; means to whisper. “Shit J, so close.” He can’t bring himself to lay back again now, watching the muscles of Jordan’s shoulder shift as the hand hidden beneath him strokes over his own dick.

Curly’s in the process of pulling his lower lip into his mouth to silence himself, but a gasp of “keep going,” halts the action before he even has the sense to stop himself.

J must pulls his hand from himself, because it slides over his stomach then, over his chest and neck until Jordan’s thumb’s pressed to his lips, palm splayed over his cheek.

Yeah, Jordan’s definitely done this before.

As Curly’s lips part, the man pulls away from his dick, pumping with his other hand just to get another glimpse of him, eyes half-lidded and chest heaving as he sucks Jordan’s thumb into his mouth. He’s just about conscious enough to find himself closing his eyes under the man’s gaze.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous. Fuck,” Jordan rasps, presumably still watching him because Curly’s squirming from his hand alone now. “Wanna see you come.” Of course, he’s not shy of dirty talk. Curls should have fucking known that but it takes him off guard and his neck grows hotter.

Jordan’s mouth is back on him then, smoother than ever as he sinks straight to the base, holds the length of Curly’s cock in his throat, then pulls back up again to get a steady rhythm. And Curly can fucking hear it. It’s wet and messy and fucking hot as the man swallows around him, using his hand to squeeze the base below the heat of his lips.

Curly’s meant to warn him, he thinks, but Jordan hums like he’s trying to say something before pressing his tongue to the head, rubbing over it just fucking right, lips still tight around him. It aches along the pit of his stomach and between his legs until Curly’s coming in waves as his hips stutter and his fingers tighten on the back of Jordan’s head, mouth slack as the man’s thumb smears over his chin.

Jordan stays there, sucking lightly now as Curly swallows down wines, hips twitching until his lips slide away. As he eases off, Jordan’s hand remains, just barely moving as Curly’s hips settle back down onto the couch and his breaths begin to even out.

J crawls back over him and his lips are prying Curly’s apart in a messy kiss, dominated by tongues as he moans into his mouth.

“Curls,” he shudders, his hand taking Curly’s and guiding.

Fuck knows why he’s taken aback by the feel of Jordan hard under his palm, but he feels his stomach twist pleasantly at the thought of it as he pushes himself to straighten up. He slips his hands beneath Jordan’s boxers and wraps his fingers around his length, pulling a long groan from the man.

J’s big on watching, he finds, as the man withdraws from the half-kiss in favour of watching Curly’s face, then his hand and then back again. He doesn’t know how long Jordan was touching himself for, but he’s worked up already, low moans escaping him as Curly’s thumb rolls over the slit of his cock.

He says, “that’s it,” within another groan and his hand’s in Curly’s hair now, tugging his head back a little like, even with the roles reversed, he’s guiding where this goes. He comes over Curly’s wrist with his mouth on his jaw.

When they break, Jordan’s hand remains in the curls at the back of his head, arm resting on Curly’s shoulder as he tugs his fingers through the strands.

They watch on-screen Uma Thurman staggering and wheezing in the snow, but he can’t hear her breaths over his own or Jordan’s. He doesn’t realise that he’s watching the screen to avoid eye contact, doesn’t realise that he’s suddenly self-conscious until both of J’s hands are on his jaw and turning his head back to face him.

He doesn’t say anything, eyes lingering on Curly’s for a long while, darting but never leaving until they drift over his face. His lower lip’s already wet when he darts his tongue over it before dragging it between his teeth.

“You’ve definitely done that before.” He doesn’t know what else to say.

Jordan chuckles, nods. “You haven’t.” His voice rasps in its half-whisper.

And that’s not a secret - hence how patient J’s been. Hence how content he always is to lead - guide. Still though, Curly wants to know, “is it that obvious?”

“Only by the look on your face.”

Curly’s baffled. Not two minutes ago he got his first blowy and now he’s creasing at Jordan while Uma Thurman gets her head kicked in on the telly.

[crushedbyhyperbole]

Cleared for Duty - Chapter 3

Have you read chapter two?

Chap Summary:  After a chat with Steve, Bucky tortures himself over Edwards’ assessment.  A chance encounter and some eavesdropping gives Bucky some answers but there’s yet more misunderstanding. Will Bucky ever overcome his over self-loathing, and get a grip on himself?

Warnings:  There’s a lot of angst, self-loathing and emotional beratement on Bucky’s part.  Bucky is getting over his past traumas.

Shoe’s on the Other Foot

“You really hurt her, Buck.” Steve rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward with a disappointed expression.

He’d come to my room for a beer and a chat about the possibility of me becoming a more active member of the team, but he’d quickly diverged from that topic onto a one I really didn’t want to entertain.

I sighed and shook my head. If I didn’t respond then it wasn’t a conversation.

Dr Edwards had walked out of the sparring suite on her own two feet, without assistance.  I know she had.  I checked the footage.

A large ball of guilt hung in my gut so I’d watched the recording just to torture myself some more. Yeah, I’d fucked up.  I knew it, Steve knew it, the whole compound knew it. Stark was furious, calling for me to be sent back to Wakanda.  Jokes of Manchurian Candidate aside, he probably wanted to put me back on ice. It wasn’t a bad idea, in fact it was a pretty good one.  Smart. The problem was, there was no helping me while I was under.  Steve wouldn’t allow it.

“Bucky?”

I looked up, glaring at my friend.  I hated that I put him in this position but also hated that he was laying a guilt trip like this on me.  Like I didn’t feel bad enough.

“Whatever it is between you two, you at least owe her an apology.”

He was right, I did. But that didn’t change the fact that seeing her was the last thing I wanted in the whole world right now.

“Have you seen the medical report?”

There was a medical report? Did I beat her that badly?

“Broken ribs, Bucky.” Steve sighed heavily before continuing. “Bruises all over her body.  She’s lucky you didn’t-.”

“Kill her?”  I snapped.  “She gave as good as she got, Steve.  I don’t have bruises to show for it but she was more than capable of defending herself.”

His frown was deep.

“I’ve seen the suit data, yeah, I know she put the hurt on you man, but she’s just a normal person, no serum, no powers, no nothing.”  He seemed to sympathise but it was short-lived.  “Her suit data on the other hand…”

“Just stop, okay.”  I leaned back against the chair and rubbed my hands down my face.  This was painful enough.  My own anguish plus the extra guilt Steve was laying on me.  “I know I fucked up.  I’m not saying it wasn’t my fault, but I can’t take it back, there’s no rewind on this shit.  It’s done.”

“You could say sorry.”

“What’s sorry gonna do, Steve?  She won’t accept it anyway, she hates me, more now than ever.”

“Just talk to her.” Steve stood, putting his unfinished beer on the occasional table.  This was him saying ‘apologise or else’, whatever the ‘or else’ would be.

After Steve left, I paced in my room.  I’d been hiding out in here for a couple of days after the assessments, not wanting to see anyone.  Steve had been my only visitor and I didn’t know whether that was because he’d told everyone to give me space or if they were too pissed off with me to bother checking in.  Either way, I’d worked myself up to a guilty crescendo only made worse by Steve dropping the broken ribs bombshell on me.

“FRIDAY?”

“How may I help you, Sergeant Barnes?”

“Are Monday’s combat assessment files sealed, or can I view them?”

“Yes to both.”

He could almost sense the amusement in her disembodied voice.  Curse Tony for making these A.I. things too human.

“Explain.”

“The files are sealed but as an active member of the assessment team, Sergeant Barnes, you have full access to all data, footage and results from the non-enhanced team assessments.”

“What about medical?”

“That is included in the data, sir.”

Had Steve known I’d look into it after he’d told me what I’d done to her?  Or had he forgot that I had been given access?

“FRIDAY, show me the files from my session with Dr Edwards.”

“Preparing…”  She said before light from above beamed a virtual display right in front of me.

It was all there; video, audio, suit data, energy outputs, efficiency readings, contact stats, medical, assessment result, recommendations for any further action.  I swiped at the medical file, though maybe I should have worked my way up to it.

The report was easy enough to read, two broken ribs on her left side.  I’d done that with my own flesh and bone, not the prosthetic.  Extensive bruising over 70% of her body, no concussion, no contusion.  There were pictures.  Stills taken from the examination immediately after and also from the days after.

My chest ached, seeing what I’d done.  No amount of dislike for a person should have made me lash out like that.  Yeah, sure there were bound to be some bruises.  These people were fighting enhanced avengers, we packed a punch.  But this…

The bruises on her forearms were from blocking my attacks, some of the ones on her legs also, shins in particular.  But her thighs, hips, stomach, ribs, and back were a contiguous blanket of mottled deep purple and bright blue bruises.  One bruise even had enough detail to see the ridges where the articulation of my metal hand had bit into her skin.  I hadn’t struck her face, however.

Feeling sick, I stumbled back, waving away the display.  My room fell into gloominess without the bright images.  Was I good for nothing but destruction, bringing hurt?

I had all but forgotten how she had pushed my buttons, making me angry as we fought.  Now it surfaced again, prickling my scalp with annoyance.  Why would she do this?  Push me into hurting her?  Why didn’t I stop?  Why didn’t I just let Steve switch her with Maria, then this would never have happened. All very good questions that didn’t mean a damn thing because I couldn’t take it back.

Goddamn you!  You broken, fucked up piece of shit.  You can’t escape what you were made for, never could, never will.

It was another couple of days before I ventured out of my room.  The necessity of food drawing me to the communal kitchen.  I had missed the weekly grocery order and the supplies in the fridge in my room had dwindled to nothing but condiments.

I waited until it was late in the evening, when I thought all the staff would have left and everyone else would have retired to their rooms.

I had just pushed the door to the communal area open when I heard voices.  It was Wanda and Dr Edwards.

My heart plummeted into my gut, stopping me in my tracks with the door cracked open no more than a couple of inches.  I was about to leave when I heard my name mentioned.

Out of their direct line of sight but able to see them reflected in the glossy black backsplash of the sink panel, I eavesdropped like a teenager.

“Why are you even asking about him, Vee?  After what he did?”  Wanda took a sip from a large white mug.  She liked tea.

“It wasn’t his fault.”

Edwards was leaning against the counter, uncharacteristically wearing trousers and a sweater in place of her usual skirt and blouse.  Maybe she was here socially.

“Hmph.”  Wanda frowned.  “Don’t make excuses for him, he’s a big boy and can deal with his own consequences.”

“I only asked if you’d seen him.  That’s all. Professional curiosity.”

“The fact that he stormed out of the assessment in the ‘murder strut’ has got nothing to do with it?”

I could hear the teasing in Wanda’s voice.  Wait! Murder strut?  What the hell?

Dr Edwards was silent but she looked down as if hiding her expression.

“Wow, really?”

“Can we talk about something else now?  You’re clearly not going to tell me what I want to know so let’s move on.”

“What did you want to know?” Wanda put her cup down on the counter and crossed her arms, suddenly invested.

“Just that he’s doing ok.” Dr Edwards huffed a breath through her nose.  “I really pushed him and I shouldn’t have.”

“Why did you, then. You know he’s volatile.”

“I don’t know.  I guess I just wanted to show him that not everyone is afraid of him, that I’m here and I’m indomitable.”  Veronica sighed then, defeated.  “Ever since I was put on his detail, back when he first arrived, I’ve been trying to help him through, well everything.  Yeah part of it is orders but there’s a part that’s not. I thought we had a connection but he really hates me for some reason, I have no clue why.”

Funny way of helping. I thought bitterly as I continued to listen in.

“He told Steve that you’re the only person who won’t ever call him Bucky.”  Wanda laughed softly as if it was some cute story.

“Really?”  That was genuine surprise.  “It’s funny you say that actually.  When we first met, he used to call me ‘Ronny’.  It was a name my parents called me when I was a kid, and I kind of liked hearing it again.  Then he started calling me Dr Edwards, in that stiff tone he always does, and I thought he was flirting.”

They both laughed.

“Bucky doesn’t flirt.”

“He does.”

“No he doesn’t.  He’s the type to bash his woman on the head with a club and drag her off to his cave.”  Wanda chortled.  “Anyway, you were saying?”

Dr Edwards, paused a moment to take a big drink from her glass.

“Okay, yeah.  I thought he was flirting.  I won’t lie, I did it back.  I figured it was a prompt, that he liked being called by his title, maybe it was a bit of tension charged camaraderie.  But it wasn’t.”  She shifted. “I didn’t realise how badly he was still damaged, you know, inside.  What I’d thought was a connection was a complete misread.  He closed himself off and made it perfectly clear that he didn’t appreciate my company, and now here we are.”

I felt like I’d been socked in the chest again.  There it was, confirmation that I was the cause of this whole situation.  Me, a broken thing, breaking other things around it.

“You know that’s all bravado though, right?”

“Is it?”

“Of course.”  Wanda laid her hand gently on Edwards’ shoulder. “He’s working through some, uh, things.  Maybe you should try to talk to him.”

“I can’t.  I tried after the arm protocol debacle but as soon as I walk into a room he ghosts.  Gone before I can draw a breath.”

She seemed sad, full of regret maybe.  I knew what that felt like but to me she always looked full of resolve.  When she would stare me down, hold my gaze until I became uncomfortable, there was nothing there but cold regard.  Could she be lying to Wanda right now?  Surely playing the victim would suit her cause better than admitting any fault.

“Can we talk about something else?  This is fucking depressing.”

“Sure, sure.”  Wanda said absently.  “So how did you learn to fight like that?”

Edwards laughed.  It was unexpected and a little bitter.  If I could have seen her face, I knew her smile wouldn’t have reached her eyes.

“You don’t quit do you?”

“Have you only just learned that about me?”  Wanda chuckled.

“I suppose not.” Edwards said wistfully.  “It’s not really a long story so much as it is a strange one.  I’ve done martial arts since I was a kid actually, it’s an unusual style adapted from kung-fu and jeet kune do.  When I was recruited by the CIA as a tech officer, they put me through special ops training.  Undercover work, infiltrating labs is harder than infiltrating governments apparently. Something to do with knowledge and expertise.”

“So you were a nerd version of Romanoff?”  Wanda interrupted.

“Oh, god no!  I was nowhere near her calibre.  She’s a legend.”  Edwards drank.  “Anyway, I was headhunted by SHIELD so I took the job.  Obviously SHIELD wasn’t what we all thought it was so that got me transferred to STARK Industries.”

This was all very interesting but I was getting impatient, wanting to hear how she’d managed to kick my ass.  She said that she was nothing in comparison to Natasha, yet Nat had never bested me the way Edwards had, even when she was fighting for her life back in Washington DC a few years back, when I was him.

Wanda seemed to share my sentiment.

“But that doesn’t explain how you took him down.  Not even Romanoff can do that.”

“It’s really quite simple.” She sighed, saddened further by the memory of their fight.  “I learned him.”

Say what?

“I mean, really learned him.”  Edwards took Wanda’s confusion as a queue.  “When I was put on his recovery detail, I learned everything there was to know about that man.  Who he was before, back in the forties.  The war. His Hydra history.  The arm.  Every mission.  Every kill. His abilities, strength, speed. His style and all of his weaknesses. Even his psychological reports. It’s always best practice to know the terrain, right?  How effective would I be if I didn’t understand him?”

So you were just another experiment to her?

“The only thing I don’t know about him is how he feels.”

The restless simmering of anger burning in my chest increased until I was practically twitching. This made things so much worse. The cold way in which she’d picked out all my flaws in order to exploit them?  Jesus what a piece of work.

“I fought like I did because I know him, down to every scar on his body.  Every, single, one, Wanda.  That’s how much I wanted to put into his recovery.”  She swiped at her face and coughed nervously.

I was already letting the door swing closed, striding down the hall in what Wanda had aptly called my ‘murder strut’.  I didn’t care that the door clunked against the frame after I let it swing shut unhindered. I didn’t care if either of them knew I had heard.  I was done with this shit now.  Steve needed to either send me on mission so I could go hurt some assholes or let me go so I could get away from this place and her.

I supposed this was how she had felt, hearing me and Steve talking about her a few weeks ago.  I couldn’t care enough to feel guilty about it then, and now it felt justified.  Hearing her say she studied me, learned my weaknesses, learned the terrain.  For what?  Manipulation?  Had she resorted to this emotional conflict to try to control me, in place of her failed attempt at friendship early on?  Perhaps it had been pity that had made her try the connection route first. And what for?  To keep me under control?  Hell, I’d rather be put on ice again.

Fuck it!  It’s not worth the stress.

Then why does it hurt?

The slight cracking of her voice as she told Wanda the final piece of her story.  The hasty swipe of fingers against her cheek.  Was she regretting starting this war with me? Had I hurt her more than she was letting on?  Something other than the physical.

Undoubtedly the latter played a part.  She took a beating from me with barely a perceived reaction.  I knew at what point I’d broken her ribs, however, it was the first body blow I got in on her.  And she’d continued to fight afterwards.  That took some control.  Could I hate her and admire her at the same time?

The images of her bruised skin flitted through my mind as I strode up to Steve’s door.  I knocked twice and FRIDAY let me in.  Steve was sat at his desk signing reports.

“I want out.”  I said, not bothering to greet him.

He turned to me and considered me for a moment before signing one final page and closing up the manila folder.

“Care to tell me why?”

“Edwards.”  I said.  “I’m done.”

“You spoke?”

I shook my head, clenching my jaw.

“Then what?”

He laid a hand on my shoulder; a friendly gesture despite my formal stance.  I hadn’t realised I’d stood to attention, army training never too far under the surface.

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk.  Was it what I said earlier?”

“I saw the files.  I can’t be trusted.”

Keeping my answers short was the best way to keep the emotion out of my voice.  I didn’t want to admit it to myself but I was floundering in the shallows of my own mental anguish with the deep water not too far away. Her bruises bringing back memories from a cold place in my mind.  The ice cold feeling was firmly rooted in my soul despite the therapy.  The words were ineffective now but that didn’t matter because The Winter Soldier was always in there, he was me and I was him.  We could only destroy.  If I stayed here the split that had formed in The Avengers over the Sokovia Accords would only grow wider.  I had to go.

“Buck,” he began but I scrunched my face up, not wanting to hear him beg me to stay.  “I don’t want to force the issue but the only reason you’re not in a cell on The Raft right now is because Tony and I took responsibility for you.  You can’t just leave the compound and go live on your own until the government signs off on your rehabilitation.”

“And they wont.”  I murmured, half to myself.  I knew that’s what he’d say.  I could tell him I’d just escape and disappear.  I’d done it before, spent months and months in hiding until Zola framed me for the U.N. bombing.

“No, they wont.”  He sighed.  “Look, you’re not a prisoner here but there are protocols to follow, hence why you’ve always got a buddy or a shadow when you go out.”

I knew that and I accepted it.  I’d never tried to shake them before but if I wanted to vanish there’d be nothing they could do to stop me.

“I’m just hurting right now Steve, I can’t be here.”  I said, hoping he’d understand because I sure as hell didn’t.  “I saw her in the kitchen with Wanda.  They were talking about me.”

Steve raised a sarcastic eyebrow.  Yeah, I knew he was thinking I deserved that for doing exactly the same thing to her. I nudged him with my elbow, my way of saying ‘jerk’.

“I learned a few things, like how she studied me to get the better of me.  She must really hate me, Steve.  Did I kill someone she loved, maybe one of the ones I don’t remember?”

This rollercoaster of feelings was draining my energy faster than a pack of tranq darts.

“She doesn’t hate you Bucky.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Trust me, will you?” Steve said, almost rolling his eyes. “Just talk to her, okay?”

I nodded.  Accepting the fact that he was right.  I did need to have this out with Dr Edwards but I couldn’t bring myself to approach her.  That underlying feeling of unease I got when I was around her was enough to make me stay away, let alone the guilt from my most recent fuck up.

Over the years I’d killed a lot of people.  You’d think that the weight of all of that would completely outweigh this new feeling of helplessness that was threatening to smother me.  No such luck.  At least the PTSD was a known quantity.

“At least book in to see Rodriguez tomorrow, get a few things off your chest.”  Steve had this concerned look on his face that told me I’d zoned out for longer than I thought.  “It might help you get your feelings straight.”

“I don’t want to see the shrink.”  I needed less emotion, not to find more.  I had so much of it right now I was slipping under the surface, close to drowning.

“That wasn’t a request, soldier.”

Figures.

FIN

Like Marvel fics?  Love Bucky Barnes?  Why not check out some of the other marvel works on my Bucky Barnes Masterlist.

[thgfanficinspo]

Fear of the Water, Ch 13

(FINNICK)

I wake up just before dawn in a patron’s bed. I’m surprised I slept at all after what he told me last night about Snow. “They never officially caught who did it,” he says. “Officially, they never even had a suspect. Everybody’s just guessing.”

I’m not surprised, not really. Snow is indirectly responsible for thousands of deaths. It doesn’t make him any less guilty that he doesn’t want to get his hands dirty. But I suppose some things are just too important to delegate, and poison is a way to handle things directly without too much effort.

But it’s not important right now. I can think about all that later. Right now I have to focus on what’s happening in the arena – Annie Cresta and the upcoming feast.

It’s too late to make a break for the Training Center; I’d never get there in time to see the feast. I climb out of bed and head into the living room where an Avox is dusting shelves. He turns on the television without my needing to ask him.

“Thanks,” I say, flopping down on the couch. I didn’t feel the need to cover myself in any way when I left the bedroom since I’m usually naked as often as I’m clothed. Interestingly, all the Avoxes I’ve encountered are unphased by nudity since their employers – owners? – probably have them wiping their riches asses for them.

He mimes eating and drinking. Can I get you anything?

“Sure, thanks.”

He holds up his hands, shrugging. What do you want?

“An apple, if you’ve got any. Maybe a glass of posca.”

He nods and hustles into the kitchen as Caesar appears on screen and begins his introduction. “People of Panem, we find ourselves at the final five tributes of the Seventieth Hunger Games, two Careers and three non-Careers. At this point, it’s anybody’s game. Claudius?”

Claudius Templesmith clears his throat. I’m not sure if Caesar got more sleep or if he just has better makeup artist, but Claudius looks to be in terrible shape compared to him. “Yes, Caesar,” he rasps. “But with very little food available, this feast could be the last shot for some of them.”

They keep twittering as the tributes arrive, each hiding along the tree line or in the doorways of crumbling buildings.

The Avox comes in carrying a round silver tray, which he sets down on the coffee table in front of me. There’s an absurdly large flute of posca at the center, and sliced green apples bloom like flower petals around it. Proteus would appreciate the presentation. “Thank you.”

The Avox bows and exits just as the feast table emerges from the ground in front of the cornucopia. It ascends slowly enough for everyone to get a good look at the items. It’s mostly food but there’s a couple tubes of ointment and even a rain jacket. Nothing’s in a pack or anything, though. It’s all loose, even the berries sprinkled around.

Millet, the Careers, and Hock from are the only  ones to formally show up for the feast. Seegred has hidden herself among the bricks and trees that ring one side of the arena. Annie, of course, remains on her balcony.

Millet has reattached the spearhead to its shaft to make it into a long-range weapon again. She struggled to connect the two at first, but her mentors sent in a ball of twine to help her. it seems secure enough now, but I’m sure she’ll grab another from the Cornucopia if she has the chance.

I’m sure some of them are hoping for clothes in addition to food, since the constant damp leads to the growth of irritating mold. A couple are smart enough to take their clothes out and lay them in the sun during the day, but the mold never totally goes away. The mold causes allergic reactions – congestion, rashes – so medicine is in high demand.

I’m not totally sure why Hock is there. He seems to be doing just fine on his own with those feral cats.

His backpack it already cracked open so he can shovel things into it without fumbling with the zipper. I’m sure some people think he just didn’t notice it was open, but I think it’s deliberate. I think he’s much smarter than people give him credit for. Ryker and Shine don’t have backpacks; they’re probably stashed somewhere.

The gong sounds, marking the beginning of the feast, and Shine, Ryker, and Hock run for the table. But not Millet. She lifts her spear, adjusting it in her hands, and takes aim at Ryker. It lands in his shoulder, the shock of it knocking him to his knees. The very tip of the blade pokes through his shirt on the other side. He’s got enough nerve (and flexibility) to reach around his back and pull it out himself, but he was injured in his throwing arm, so he can’t use the spear himself. Millet dashes for the table while he’s down.

Shine runs to her ally’s aid, but she doesn’t notice Hock barreling toward her and fails to get out of his way in time. He slams into her so hard that we can hear the sound she makes when the air is knocked from her body. He leaves her gasping on the ground.

Ryker has recovered enough to get back in the game. He goes charging toward Hock, Millet, and the table of supplies. He grasps his sword in both hands and starts swinging it runs so that he slashes Millet in the arm the moment he gets close enough. She falls to the ground to avoid the next swing. Hock and Ryker start to face off, and Millet uses the opportunity to gather a spear and two knives from the weapons pile, which everyone else seems to have forgotten about.

She stays crouched on the ground in the hopes that Hock and Ryker will stay too absorbed in their own fight to notice her lying in wait.

Hock drives his dagger through Ryker’s forearm between the bones. He grabs an armful of food and medicine plus a thin windbreaker and runs while he has the chance, leaving the knife imbedded in the other tribute’s flesh.

“Oh!” I can practically hear Caesar flinch. Claudius sharply sucks air in between his teeth, a hiss of sympathetic pain.

Shine chooses to go to Ryker and the table of food rather than pursue Hock.

Millet grabs a long loaf of bread and a tube of medicine and runs in Hock’s direction before Shine gets too close.

Ryker curses through clenched teeth as Shine applies pressure to his wound. She won’t want to pursue the others alone, and even if Ryker wasn’t injured, there would be no reason to track the others since they have what Caesar calls the lion’s share of the food.

Just when all hope seems lost and Caesar has resigned himself to getting no deaths out of the feast, Seegred makes her appearance. “Ooh! Ooh! Look, look, look!” he gasps excitedly.

Hock makes it less than two blocks before Seegred appears in front of him, blocking his path. He charges her, and at the last minute she pulls out her weapon and shocks him. He recovers faster than she expects, though, and she’s forced to flee with only a couple of apples in her arms.

Millet suddenly appears and spears Hock in the gut before he has the chance to get back on his feet. She pulls the pack from his shoulders as he bleeds and yanks the windbreaker from underneath him. She turns her attention to Seegred, but she’s already out of throwing range. She hesitates, nostrils flared, as she considers whether or not to go after the girl who, according to the oddsmakers, is now her top contender.

“You know, I can’t decide who I like better: Millet or Seegred,” Caesar says.

“Seegred might be even sharper than Beetee,” Claudius says. He’s referencing Beetee Latier of District 3, one of Seegred’s mentors, who used his tech savvy to electrocute his remaining six opponents in the arena. He is simultaneously the smartest and weirdest person I’ve ever met. Well, second-weirdest after fellow victor Wiress.

Hock’s throat bobs as he drinks in air. His skin has lost all of its color; he has only minutes left before he bleeds out.

Millet looks behind her and then back in the direction Seegred ran. She’s still making up her mind about whether or not it’s worth it to follow her. She decides it isn’t.

Millet  makes her way deeper into the arena, putting as much distance between herself and the Careers as possible. She walks for at least half an hour while Caesar and Claudius discuss the shifting odds after the feast.

And then she stumbles on Annie’s hiding place. Annie isn’t visible from the ground; it’s the song that gives her away.

My mother, she butchered me My father, he ate me My sister, little Ann-Marie She gathered up the bones of me

And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper       Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!

Annie becomes aware of the other girl’s presence and stops singing. She peers over the edge of her balcony and she and Millet lock eyes for a moment.

Annie regards Millet as she would a stray cat. She settles back into her spot and resumes her song. Millet looks the structure up and down, adjusting her staff in her hands. There are thick vines all across the building’s façade, so climbing up shouldn’t be a problem. Millet’s problem is what to do with her spears and her newly acquired food. She keeps the pack on and lays the spears on her collar bones and tucks her neck against her chest to hold them there.

She manages to climb about five feet up before making a misstep. Her spears fall away. She has the sense to hang on to the vines so she doesn’t fall back to the ground. Instead, it’s an unpleasant, unsteady slide. She falls on her ass of course but at least she doesn’t break anything.

She gets up and dusts herself off, picks up her spears, and looks back up at Annie’s balcony one last time before heading off.

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until it comes out as a sigh of relief. Annie’s all right. At least for now. That’s both a blessing and a curse, though. I don’t want her to die, but she’s going to anyway and I just want to get it over with.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Caesar says. “It would be interesting to see Annie and Millet in combat. Millet would be the obvious favorite to win, but Annie defeated a major contender without any weapons. But her abilities have probably diminished since going into shock.”

The cameras close in on Annie's face. She looks strangely relaxed as she tightens the reeds and grasses in the mat she uses as a roof. I remember somebody saying she weaves nets for a living. I suppose this is a familiar activity for her; that's why it's relaxing.

But she's still singing. She's always singing.

My mother, she butchered me My father, he ate me My sister, little Ann-Marie She gathered up the bones of me

And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper       Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!

“I’ll tell you what, Claudius, Annie may be the one to watch in all of this,” Caesar says. “She’s in shock, obviously, but she’s been feeding herself from the ponds and sinkholes. She knows how to keep herself alive.”

“I hope we get the chance to see her in action,” Claudius agrees.

"That would certainly be something." The camera cuts from the arena to Caesar’s smiling face. “And now for the weather.”

[azrielsiphons]

Shadows and Darkness: One and the Same (ch. 4)

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This fic is meant to be read in connection with my Azriel-centric prequel stories. I would highly suggest reading those first to get the full reading experience of this fic. 

Lucien’s brothers were gone. Vanished. There was no blood or bodies, they were just… gone.

And in their wake, standing across from Feyre, Cassian, Lucien, and Azriel, was a faceless someone hidden beneath the cloak of their hood.

Feyre breathed a sigh of relief, moving to take a step towards her, towards Lena.

But a knife sailed through the air right by Feyre’s ear and Truth Teller embedded itself deep in Lena’s chest.

Feyre screamed.

Azriel was in front of the cloaked stranger a heartbeat later and while he could hear Feyre and Cassian screaming at him, the white noise in his head was louder — the icy rage constantly in his veins had emerged in full.

He leaned down, ripping Truth Teller out of their chest. They made no nose, only slumped over. Blood dripped from beneath their hood from other injuries, but Azriel didn’t care.

He had missed their heart on purpose. He wanted to look them in the eye when he slit their throat, and watch as the life left their eyes. He had been searching for this cloaked fae for almost two centuries, and retribution was in store.

The fae gave a grunt from beneath that damned cloak that haunted Azriel's nightmares as he kicked them in the chest. They fell backwards onto the ice, wheezing. Blood pooled on the ice and snow below them, a horribly familiar sight that only enraged Azriel further.

Feyre was still screaming, but Cassian held her back. He knew when Azriel got that look in his eye, there was no stopping him.

Azriel knelt next to the fae, reaching beneath their hood and gripping a slender throat with his scarred hand.

"This is for Breen," he hissed.

And as he moved to rip their hood off and slit their throat in one smooth motion, a single sound had him freezing less than an inch away from his revenge.

Laughter.

Low, amused, bloodied laughter bubbled out from beneath the fae’s hood.

And he recognized that laughter. Every bone in Azriel’s body seemed to turn to molten liquid as he jerked away, his knife clattering to the ice behind him.

“No,” he whispered.

And then the voice that haunted his dreams spoke clearly as she leaned her head back, letting the hood fall away.

“You missed.”

Cassian cursed, stumbling backwards as his breath caught in his throat.

But Azriel — Azriel’s heart stopped beating for a split second. His very blood stopped pumping as he stared at her. At the face he only dreamed of, covered in blood dripping from cuts above her brow and a broken nose, a thick scar that had been reopened in some places cutting across the left side of her face.

Her face.

Lena’s face.

Blood dripped from her nose, coating her teeth in red as she smiled grimly. This was his worst nightmare come to life. This was a trick, a hallucination, just like before in the Middle so long ago. He was poisoned, it couldn’t be, it couldn’t be.

“Lena!” Feyre cried out, rushing to her side and kneeling, her hand covered in blood when she pulled it away from where Truth Teller had been embedded just above her heart.

Truth Teller. He had thrown Truth Teller. He had almost killed her. He had been going to kill her.

Azriel turned and vomited.

~~~~~

“Lena, stay with me,” Feyre said quickly, her hands shaking as she put pressure on Lena’s chest wound. She groaned in pain, eyes fluttering shut with exhaustion. Blood was still pouring from the cuts on her face, they must have been recent, right before she arrived on the ice. With horror, Feyre realized that there was a wound in her gut as well.

“Faebane,” Lena gritted out. “Hybern’s men, they… they found me when I was tracking you. My powers are almost all the way gone, I can’t — I can’t winnow us out, I—”

“Shh,” Feyre said soothingly, pushing Lena’s blood-saturated hair away from her face. “You’re going to be fine, we’re getting you home.”

Cassian stepped past where Azriel was now dry heaving. He couldn’t bring himself to care that Lucien was staring, completely bewildered. He knelt down other the other side of Lena and cursed himself for his shaking hands.

The moment he knelt, her scent cloaking shield snapped as the last of her powers began to go. When her scent met his senses, he knew that he wasn’t dreaming. It was her — it was truly Lena.

Azriel keeled over, shouting in pain.

Cassian swallowed, making the conscious decision that he would deal with his grief and shock later. With a roll of his shoulders, he placed his hands over Lena’s gut wound. She cried out in pain and he couldn’t help but flinch.

“Take the last of it,” Lena choked out, grabbing Feyre’s forearm with her bloodied fingers. Feyre gasped as Lena poured the last remnants of her power into her High Lady.

“Stop it,” Cassian hissed. “You won’t heal, Lena stop!”

Lena didn’t though, and as the last of her power seeped into Feyre, she slumped over. Cassian froze, but slumped in relief when he realized she was still breathing — albeit shallow, wet breaths.

Feyre was still gasping, shaking at the expanse of power now coursing within her.

“Lucien, Azriel,” she choked out. “Get over here. Now!”

Lucien stumbled over, completely in shock and very confused at the turn of events. He grabbed a stunned Azriel by the arm and hauled him over as well. None of them had ever seen Azriel so unraveled, so out of that perfect control he had mastered over the centuries.

And as Feyre winnowed them across Prythian and into the Night Court lands where Mor was waiting, breaking down in hysterical sobbing when she saw Lena in Cassian’s arms, Lena realized even in her broken, unconscious state, that she was home.

~~~~~

“She is my sister, Feyre, you should have told me. Sent a note, come home with her immediately—”

“I couldn’t! She made me swear, she told me that you would die Rhys.”

“My sister, Feyre—”

“I had full faith in you protecting my sisters here without me, how could you doubt that I would—”

Lena tuned out of the conversation happening just outside of whatever room she was in. Her whole body ached, but she forced herself to remain still. She couldn’t sense much, but she felt a heavy presence at her side and a warm hand holding her own.

“Azriel will you just listen to me!”

That voice that Lena hadn’t heard in centuries resounded through the room as well, but on the opposite side, just outside the door.

“Mor, leave it.”

His voice… that was his voice.

“No! You’ve been sitting out here all night, refusing to go in or even talk to us. I get that you’re devastated, we all are—”

“You have no idea what I’m feeling, Mor,” he growled terrifyingly.

“But your devastation is not her burden to bear,” Mor snapped right back, unperturbed. “She needs you. More than probably any of us, but Cassian and Feyre and I are the only ones with the balls to go in there with her! She needs you and Rhys, Azriel.”

Silence fell once again until Mor scoffed. Lena could almost see in her mind’s eye how the blonde would have thrown her hands up in the air and rolled her eyes.

“Self-absorbed morons,” she snapped, her shoes clacking as she strode off somewhere else.

Lena forced herself to breathe evenly. Feyre and Rhys were still arguing on the other side of the wall, but she tuned it out.

This wasn’t the reunion she had been looking forward to.

“Sounds like mommy and daddy are fighting,” a low voice whispered, squeezing Lena’s hand gently. “Though I’m not sure who is who.”

Lena couldn’t help herself. Her lips twitched upwards.

“I know you’re awake,” he said softly enough that the others outside the room couldn’t hear. “You never could fool me.”

Lena opened one eye and was met with Cassian leaning towards her, his eyes lit with pure joy and amusement. Not a hint of grief.

She closed her eyes tightly once again.

“Come on,” Cassian crooned. “You know you want to see my pretty face.”

Lena huffed, wincing at the tug on her wounds. She could feel Cassian tense at her pain. She opened both eyes slowly, looking up at him.

“You let your hair grow out.”

Cassian huffed. “Back from the dead after five centuries and that sass is still there.”

Lena smiled weakly. “You know what they say. You can kill the girl, but you can’t kill the sass.” Cassian flinched. “Sorry.”

With a huff of amusement, Cassian pressed his forehead against where her hand was captured by both of his. “Don’t apologize,” he said softly, propping his chin up on their hands. “I’m pretty sure you don’t have to apologize to us for anything ever again.”

Lena’s eyes flashed and she swallowed thickly. “Trust me… that’s not true.”

Cassian’s brows drew together before he sighed. He squeezed her hands tightly and leaned forward, pressing his lips to her forehead. Lena couldn’t help it, a tear slipped from her eye.

How long she had waited to see him once again — her Cassian, her friend, her mentor, her brother.

“We’ll worry about all of that later,” he said softly. “We just need you to get better.”

Lena swallowed, looking around the room she was in. It was somewhere she didn’t recognize — not the House of Wind, that much she was sure of. A light blanket over her legs, and her torso was bare, but wrapped completely in bandages. Spots of blood seeped through even still.

A glance to her other side had Lena looking into a small mirror and she flinched when she saw her reflection.

Even after almost two centuries, she tended to forgot about the horrible thick scar that marred her face. Her right eye was bruised purple and yellow, and a cut was still healing on her lip.

“Pretty as ever,” Cassian said softly. She turned her head and glared, but he only grinned. “Prettier than Rhys, at least.”

“Oh, always,” she said back.

And just like that, it hit her that she was home. Sitting there, Cassian’s hands holding hers, her family just outside the door, teasing with him, laughing with him as if the past five centuries hadn’t happened…

She couldn’t have stopped the tears if she tried. The cut on her lip split again as her lip trembled and her shoulders shook with barely restrained sobs.

“Lena…”

Cassian said nothing as he leaned in and pulled her up and into his chest, being careful of her injuries. She was full on sobbing now, clutching onto his shoulders for dear life.

It was all just too much. The way that Azriel had looked at her when he’d kicked her in the chest and moved to slit her throat, her inability to fight back out of complete and total shock, Feyre gripping her hand, her powers being ripped from her body by Hybern’s men, the smell of Velaris, the knowledge that the King’s spell had been a ploy all these centuries, the sound of everyone fighting because of her —

It was all just too much.

And so Lena cried. She cried for her mother, for all those she had killed, for her brother left alone for centuries, for Azriel’s broken heart.

And she cried for herself. For the girl she had once been that died right alongside Wren all those centuries ago.

Lena vaguely registered Rhys, Feyre, and Mor bursting into the room at the sound of her heavy sobs. She felt herself being transferred from Cassian’s arms into Rhys’s, but she only held him all the tighter. She heard Mor crying, holding her hand tighty. She felt Feyre watching them, tears slipping from her own eyes.

And when Lena heard Azriel’s steps taking him further and further away from her, she cried even harder.

~~~~~

The moon was high in the sky when Lena woke up once again.

After hours of crying and holding one another and explanation after awful explanation on Lena’s part, she had finally made Rhys, Cassian, Mor and Feyre leave. She assured them that she was fine, that she could already feel her magic coming back and healing her injuries faster by the second.

It might have been a lie, but it was a small lie. And after scolding Rhys for the guilt on his face when he looked at Feyre, torn between wanting to be with his mate after only a month’s separation or being with his sister and 500 years of separation, she pinched his arm and told him to get out and come see her in the morning. He had looked down at her, utterly devastated and simultaneously delighted that she was acting so much like her old self that he thought long gone.

But Lena knew it for the lie it was. She wasn’t her old self. That girl was dead. And no matter that the King’s spell had all been a lie — she was still a weapon. A living weapon. No longer Daughter of the Night Court.

No longer… anyone.

Cassian and Mor had also been reluctant to leave, but a comment from Feyre about the creature Amren — who Lena still had yet to meet — needing to speak with them as soon as possible had them scurrying after hugging her tightly and promising to be back before first light.

But first light was still a few hours off, and Lena was wide awake. Her magic truly was coming back now, and while her face was still bruised and the wound just above her heart was still healing, everything else was fine.

Lena laughed bitterly as she thought to herself how ironic it was that Azriel’s blade had almost pierced her heart. Of course.

With a grunt, Lena sat up from her bed and tossed her legs over the side. With several deep breaths, she managed to stand to her feet without too much pain, though she had to brace herself on the bedframe to keep from falling over for the first few steps.

With a hand on her still sore gut, Lena slowly limped towards the door. She opened it slowly, looking to the left and the right of the corridor before gingerly stepping out. Her senses were still dulled from the lingering faebane, so she couldn’t smell or hear as well as usual, but it seemed that none of the healers were milling about at that time of night.

As silently as she could — which was still quite silent considering her condition — Lena made her way down the hall barefoot, clad in only bandages covering her torso and linen shorts that one of the healers had changed her into when she had first arrived unconscious.

Lena didn’t need her enhanced senses to smell the Velaris air — she would know that telltale salty breeze anywhere. Her steps hurried and she only stumbled once, catching herself on the wall with a grunt as she made her way to an open balcony.

And then there it was.

Velaris.

Home.

Lena breathed in deeply through her nose, her eyes fluttering shut as she let it wash over her. The King had been very clear that she was never to go near the Night Court during her service to him.

487 years. 487 years apart, but she was home.

With her voice a mere whisper on the wind, Lena said to the shadow behind her, watching silently —

“I know you’re there.”

~~~~~

Azriel froze.

At the sound of her voice, his shadows scattered — ran. She didn’t bother turning around to look, but he saw her shiver when he was in plain sight, no longer hiding as he watched her.

He had been sitting outside her room, he had been all night. Listening to her breathe, inhaling her scent deep within his lungs every few seconds to tell himself that it was real, that it was really her and not just some sick and twisted dream.

But it was her. His Lena. Back from the dead and covered in scars from head to toe, the one beneath her left eye the worst of them all.

And now she would have a new one. Right above her heart. From his blade.

He had heard her getting out of bed, breathing through the pain of her injuries. He had wrapped himself in shadow just one second before she had stepped through the door.

She was right there. His Lena, standing right in front of him, towering over where he sat on the ground leaned against the opposite wall. And all he could do was stare.

When she started walking, hurrying for the open air, he could only follow. The world could have been set on fire all around them, and he would still have only been able to follow her. And when she stumbled, his hands hovered over her waist, ready to protect.

But then he jerked away. What good had his protection done?

And now as she stood on that balcony, the moonlight making her hair look so dark it was almost blue, he was numb. Completely, totally numb.

Lena inhaled deeply through her nose, flinching at… something.

Slowly, almost unbearably so, she turned.

And as Azriel beheld her face, her violet eyes looking right into his very soul, he felt it.

That thread he had pushed away time and time and time again. He had felt it when he took her flying on her twentieth birthday, he had felt it when she had held him close on the bridge over the Sidra, he had felt it every time he pulled her into the shadows with him and kissed him breathless all those years ago, he had felt it when he had been inside her and she had whispered she loved him the last time they had been together.

Azriel felt it. That thread of pure shadows and darkness between them, he thought severed but was only dormant of his own making.

He took a bewildered step forward, his eyes never leaving her face — still so beautiful, so stunning. She was holding her breath, her eyes lined with silver, but she was as unable to look away as he was.

And as he fell to his knees before her, looking up at her as the moon shone down on her as if she were the Mother herself, Azriel only had one word.

“Mate.”

~~~~~

Lena collapsed, but he caught her. Of course he caught her. And the moment his hands touched her skin, the moment she could feel him, she fell into his embrace.

She couldn’t cry — no, there were no tears left within her. She could only hold onto him tightly, breathing in his scent and letting it wrap around her soul. She felt the bond between them, his side of the cord finally coming to fruition after years and years and years of waiting.

He buried his hands in her hair, whispering incoherently how sorry he was over and over again. She had no words, she could only clutch him all the tighter.

And they stayed like that in each other’s arms until the moon fell and the sun rose.

Shadows and darkness, one and the same.

>>Note: This is not the end of Shadows and Darkness: One and the Same

[susan-gampre]

Battle of the Whores; Benny and Susan Fight

The night had assuredly begun like any other night for Susan Gampre. A leisure stroll through the city, aiming to meet and mingle with the passer by’s as they so desired to approach and interact with her herself, but only then would she perform the act of being gracious enough to sit and offer light chatter...

However, at some point in her walk through a narrowed path within the Mage District, Susan could physically tell the entire atmosphere had shifted into that of a tense nature. Unsettling was what it could be described as, at best it was simply chilling.

It all started by a sudden breeze to overwhelm her flank, of which struck the Madam as odd upon inspection. She was trapped between the wall of a ramp leading to a closed shop and the backside of another building. The wind could not easily travel over and down tall buildings such as the homely structures of the Mage District.

Not only the wind had caused her to hesitate but what was carried on it... A faint musky scent... A lingering smell of wild roses and deserts, a scent that was distinctively Benny's seems to flow past for a moment.

With a casual roll of her shoulders, she would begin to resume her walk, throat tightening as angst would fall upon her... Of course, Susan was none so easily deterred from her path, and so she maintained her calm demeanor. It was Anthrel, however, who would begin to snarl loudly in a rib-rattling growl whilst stalking and pacing around the Madam, fully alert and ready to protect.

On the wind would a whisper murmur, voice broken and soft, “I think I have messed up, me Madam...”

Hesitation was present in everything of Susan... Her walk, her speech... Quietly would she atleast attempt to regard the familiar accent: “You know I never favored talking to Shadows, girl...”

The air around her would shift as breath was suddenly against her face,  Benny’s voice mere inches before her, whispering, “Should I run and forget, or staee? Eitha waee seems to hurt, me Madam...”

Having begun to gnaw the inside of her cheek, Susan would murmur in kind, “ I can not make that decision for you, Benazir. You know I would never force a woman to leave, or to stay with the Brothel. You make that choice yourself.”

A laugh sounds as the shadows would contort and shimmer to reveal a blood cut up Benny, her armor drenched in long since dried flakes and splotches of red-- If the blood was her own or that of a victim Susan could not decipher...

”I do not mean... The Brothel, me Madam...”

Susan wasn’t quite certain what to feel beyond that of disappointment... It was a new sensation, seeing her dearest of workers so run down, so broken... Perhaps this is what triggered a sense of resentment deep in Susan’s being, which came forth in a commanding tone, her eyes flickering to and fro in that of suspicion, “ Return to the Shadows. To the Brothel. You will not discuss this in such a public setting-- Only fools who want to be caught do that.”

“Call me a fool then, me Madam,” came the desperate return had Benny murmured, “I want to run, but it hurts, I am scared to staee though...”

The irritation in Susan’s eyes was visible, and her hostility had reached a fairly new height, her voice straining to keep below a shout, “ I didn't stutter, Benazir. To the Brothel. -There- will I humor your worries, and help you reach a decision. Alright?”

"Scared of the Shadows me Madam?"

The challenge in Benny’s tone would cause the woman to tense, her eyes lighting a flame whilst turning to fully offer Benny her undivided attention.

“You fucking know better, Benny. Don’t you fucking test me.”

Despite the warning, she continued: “ o I? It seems not, you alreadee punished me once, me Madam!”

This would cause Susan to outright stop, her chest tightening at the memory of herself blatantly grasping and shoving Benny by the throat to the ground, all based on Benny’s move to remove a gun from Susan’s hands, based on Susan’s... Emotional reactions to being prodded by a hostile force. Which had ultimately resulted in Benny breaking her wrist and ankle in the aftermath.

It wasn’t a secret that Susan regretted hitting her friend, her finest worker...

In this moment she didn’t give a shit. Not enough to calm down at least. It felt too closely toward subordination, despite Benny’s... Abrupt leave from the Brothel.

Susan promptly rounds about, her irritation having reached a surprising height, her anger on the brink of spilling over as, without a hesitation or fear to her motive, gets in the silencer's face. "That was a fucking accident,” she defends, “You shouldn't have tried to pull out of my fucking hand!”

In fairness this next regard from Benny would be murmured, leaving the Madam feeling the slighest disoriented but equally annoyed with how smug the Silencer would resemble after murmuring.

And so... Susan attempts to shove her hands into the woman's chest, so eager to send her backward and into the wall of the ramp behind the cocky Benazir, an unamused and dangerously glaring Susan baring her teeth in a mock snarl, "Don't you fucking patronize bitch. You want help? You needa get your head out of your ass and fucking listen!" Benny only grins, soon to snarl in return, “Or what?! You gonna break mee otha arm?!”

In the next instant has Benny retaliated through reaching forth to shove back against Susan’s shoulder in kind.

Susan staggers back a step, naturally given the decline of the hill and being knocked off balance. Once her footing is regained, however, would Susan launch and aim to shove Benny with the built momentum behind stepping quickly to resume her position of getting into Benny’s face-- Her voice has climbed to a shout, "If you put your fucking hands on me again you're damned right I will!"

With that Benny would let forth a faint, forced laugh, leaning backward against the wall upon being thrown back by the Madam’s shove and, with a sneer, Benny remarks, “Lets go, Madam.”

Launching off the wall had the silencer sprung to tackle the Madam.

Below this cut remains the full fight scene between Susan and Benazir.

This story is a collaboration between myself and @thepersiawhore !

Susan, upon the fine amount of space set between herself and Benny, makes the effort in feigning to the left, a hand reaching upward to add a general push against Benny's shoulder to send the woman to the ground. Once down, Susan wouldn’t hesitate before tugging her left foot backward and launch the toe of her boot against the downed woman’s gut.

Quick to react Benny simply rolls out of the way kick, before placing her hand down and spinning, attempting to kick Susan's other leg out from her.

Susan made the split decision of avoiding the kick a second too late, falling with a hard and heavy thud that leaves the woman breathless for a moment. Her instincts would immediately take over, that pain triggering a desire to overcome in her brain as, swiftly, she'd shift her hands beneath her torso and thrust her weight into her right leg, aiming to kick the woman's face with a twist and roll of her hips. A dexterous and all around nimble attack.

Benny, taking the time to finish her spin, after feeling her foot connect with Susan, is way to slow to avoid the foot crashing into her face, spinning her back around.

The woman growls and turns back toward Susan, jumping to tackle her again, since she would of been given enough time to start standing up again.

Susan would be effectively pinned back down, a vicious glare extended to the ever elusive Benny. In the next instant, however, Sue would reach to gather the back of the woman's head and attempt to anchor her face down whilst Susan thrusts her head forward for a swift headbutt to the woman’s nose.

It was clear as day Susan’s abrupt attack has left the whore dazed, her hand reaching to coddle to her broken nose with a faint grunt in response. Hoping to return the favor would Benny begin the gesture of shoving her head back into the ground.

Alas... Susan made the last second effort to take full advantage of Benny's disorientation, quick to deliver a swift shove into the silencer's shoulder to rock her body off balance and roll the two of them around so that Susan was atop Benny's waist. In the next instant would Susan pull her left elbow backward, fingers balling into a tight fist before springing her arm forward to send a punch to the whore's cheek!

For both of them... This was no longer a scrap or a wrestling match. It had become much more violent, and, to each of them, it was an intense fight until a winner came out unconscious... Maybe even dead. Despite neither daring to draw their weapons. There was a satisfaction with the skin on skin contact.

Sadistic if anything...

Thus, Benny 's head snaps to the side and she spits out some blood before attempting to buck, which would send Susan forward, and Benny would quickly grasp her arm as Susan catches herself, then roll over trapping the arm  in a tight lock, twisting the flesh and bending the bones unnaturally.

Beneath the sudden weight and pressure against her hands would the hiss of air announce a problem upon the brink of disaster and, as suddenly as it was heard, Susan could feel the bone connecting the ligament of her left forearm and hand would give way and snap. The adrenaline of the moment was much too high to consider the pain, numbed by a deeply rooted desire to see Benny suffer for testing her wrath one time too many-- The broken wrist goes ignored, as the minute she finds the opportunity would Susan attempt to drive her knee into the whore's side, "Get off me, bitch!" She hisses.

Benny would release the arm as a knee is suddenly driven into her side, a hiss escaping along with her breath, followed shortly by a lazy attempt to drive her elbow into Susan's ribs.

The gesture would be met with a swift, and perhaps even unnecessary, punch to Benny's throat-- Sure that it would at least deter and, once against, disorient the woman long enough for Susan to gather a fistful of the woman's hair. With a tug and thrash would Susan attempt to bang the back of the woman's head against the dirt beneath them.

Susan... At this point would be seething, her teeth coated in her blood, her nose, too, dribbling... Bruises have already begun to form, her hair in an utter mess and armor tattered...

Benny, too stunned by the throat punch, doesn't resist as her head is slammed into the ground, bouncing up before plummeting with a sickening thud. Her eyes flutter before closing, completely unconscious.

With a spit would a wad of clotted blood spray the grass beside them, a bloody, broken Susan beginning to draw herself to her feet whilst drawing her good hand to rub it’s palm across her busted, bloody lips.

[canaliculi]

Take me somewhere nice (4/?)

Gravity Falls

Bill/Ford

M: slow loving romance between two best buds

Bill edges Ford towards the creation of the portal.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

I can see the beauty in the mess

“You should’ve SEEN this ‘pyramid,’ IQ – talk about YUCK! It was like the guy had never even HEARD of an EQUILATERAL triangle, let ALONE spoke to one NIGHTLY basis! And- HEY!” Dark fingers snap just before his face, close enough that the tip of Ford’s nose is flicked during the action. Ford himself snaps out of his daze and jerks his head back. “ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?”

The truth is unpalatable; no, Ford has not been listening. The man flushes and shifts in his seat, clears his throat while his mind races for excuses, for answers, for anything other than the high pitched, blank whine that sounds eerily like the heart monitor of a patient flat-lining. He shakes his head and the sound is cleared, but Bill is still hovering in front of him, arms crossed over his front, eye scrunched with annoyance.

“Uhhh….” So far so smooth. Ford sighs. “No, Bill. I wasn’t. I’m-”

A frustrated sound from Bill cuts him off, his muse throwing his arms in the air. “What is WRONG with you lately, huh? You’ve been doing this whole SPACE-OUT-and-IGNORE-my-MUSE thing a LOT!” The glowing triangle begins to circle around him, inspecting him.

“I-I’ve just been distracted,” Ford says, voice croaking and heart pounding in his chest. Pounding so hard it might crack his ribcage, but his more immediate fear is the idea that he has finally pushed his luck too far; his muse is going to abandon him here and now. Bill is seeing how unworthy Ford is to be his chosen with every loop around him – can probably see it written in his disheveled hair and the bags beneath his eyes, in the hunched slope of his neck as he slouches forward.

“‘Distracted,’ he says,” Bill echoes with an eye roll. He comes to a stop in front of him, and then smooth black fingers touch the tip of Ford’s chin and guide him to straighten and look upwards again. Ford follows, though his eyes remain downcast and lost in the hidden arms of shimmering constellations. “WELL! I can BELIEVE that! But what’s that GOOPY little BRAIN of yours all WRAPPED UP around?”

Ford’s eyes flick up, looking at his muse almost guiltily. You is the only answer to Bill’s question, and Ford’s mouth feels dry even to think about saying it aloud. His dreams – his personal dreams, the ones he doesn’t share with anyone – have been plagued, utterly dominated by thoughts of his muse. The first - kneeling with a trapped tongue, mouths sliding together while damp fingers tangle in his hair to drag him close - seems to have sprung some spigot within him, unleashed a torrent of suppressed longing that bleeds into his every waking thought, that make him almost fearful to sleep at night.

His worst fear is that these idle fantasies will begin to bleed into this place, the mindscape he openly shares with his muse. Bill is still staring at him, no longer glaring but eye wide and blank, pupil shivering back and forth in tiny and precise twitches. It’s an odd expression, and it takes Ford a moment to realize that the muse’s strange mannerisms are because Ford has placed his hands on Bill’s back plane, and his fingers are already running along the shallow, even crevices between each brick, like he’s done this a thousand times.

Well, in a way he has – in his own mind.

Letting out the most dignified yelp of surprise he can muster, Ford spasms in his armchair, hands moving to fly off the triangle’s warm surface. They’re only an inch away from the glowing gold before a pair of smaller hands are pressing them back down, sharp pin-prick claws scratching puffy red lines across his skin. Bill has four arms now, identical in every detail save for one – his newest set is on backwards, the matte black color of them making it look like an optical illusion, the way they bend the wrong way to hold Ford’s hands flat.

“Bill! I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“You SURE know your way around an ANGLE, huh?” Bill says, his expression softening, eyelid drooping. Ford can hear his own thought process grind to a halt.

“W-What?” Every muscle in Ford’s body is tense and bunched, trembling in minute waves. Any movement might break this moment, cause the avalanche of disappointment he knows is coming to tumble. Bill lets out a chuckle and the claws of one dark hand trace delicately down the side of his face.

“Fordsy, have you been holding out on me?”

“I-I don’t know what you mean, Bill.” His whole face feels hot, the tips of his ears burning. Panic is still thrashing in his gut like a wild animal, and he wants to curl in a ball and hide himself away from the all seeing eye, but he stares, wide-eyed and dumb, because this isn’t what he was expecting. He was expecting Bill to laugh at him, to mock him, to throw him out and wish him well in his endeavors, because he was never coming back.

Instead Bill meets his gaze, and the pads of small, soft fingers trace over his lips. Ford shudders.

“Is there something I don’t know?” Bill asks, and he’s so close the small synapse between them feels alive and sparking with heated potential. “Something you’re keeping from me, smart guy?”

Those fingers follow the dip of his bottom lip and then the bow of his upper, slow, again and again, and each pass sends delicate tingles through his body, to the tips of his feet, to his fingers, to his stomach that feels fluttering. Ford presses his hands harder against Bill.

“I have been keeping something from you,” he admits, surprised and embarrassed when his voice comes out a throaty whisper. The words on his tongue make him dizzy – or maybe it’s just the feeling of his lips brushing back along the warm skin of the black fingers still hovering over them. “Bill, I-”

Can’t stop thinking about you. His eyes creak open and Ford’s waking urge is to throw his pillow across the room in frustration.

Another dream.

Bill radiates heat. In most circumstances it’s a pleasant sensation, an almost buzzing warmth that settles on his head or shoulder and sends little prickles shivering out from their point of contact like cracks spreading across an otherwise unblemished plane of glass. In other circumstances it feels smothering, hangs wet and heavy across him while making him aware of the awkwardness of his own limbs, the sudden dryness of his mouth.

“You’ve been quiet lately, Sixer.” And mouths open in the sky and lick at him. “Primitive notion of fiat currency for your thoughts?”

“I’m dreaming,” Ford says, and it comes out stern until a tongue has parted the bottom button of his shirt and is lapping, wet and warm, directly up his flesh. When his hands rush to pull it away, mouths bite at his wrists and forearms to keep him still.

“Yup!” Bill’s drinking tea. “Is that a problem?”

“It’s getting to be-”

“Tired? Redundant? Clichéd?” Bill stretches out his arm, and with a casual twist of his wrist, is pouring his tea over Ford’s head. The man scrunches up his face as thin rivulets of the liquid dribble down his forehead.

“All of the above?” His arms are still held captive, teeth applying a pressure that stays shy of breaking but Ford can swear he feels a tension behind them, a bear trap quivering in readiness to snap.

“Well whose fault is that? Not MINE!” Bill lets go of the teacup, but it remains in its tilted position, still spilling out a tea that had been glossy brown but now, when Ford catches glimpses of it, looks like a dark night sky thick with clustered stars.

“I know whose fault it is,” he says. He laments, more like; this is crumbling around him in a way he’s never been equipped to deal with in the first place.

“How about we try a THOUGHT EXPERIMENT?” Ford’s getting absolutely drenched and the mouths are chewing at his sleeves, gnawing on him. Two dark hands land on either side of his face, and their fingers crook to press at the line of his jaw, at its hinge, at the far end of his cheek bones. “What would I do if I were here?”

Ford licks his lips, catching tea that tastes biting cold and seems to lash him with electricity. Fat globules of the tea hang in the air around them, suspended on invisible strings. Black speckled with shining things, they seem to bracket Bill as though they were under the pull of some cosmic sway, tiny fluctuating universes floating in lazy tandem. He swallows, and squirms under the wriggling ministration of mouths across his body.

“You would leave.”

“BZZZT!” A huge red X replaces Bill’s pupil. The brash light refracts off the bubbles of tea around them, reflecting in a kaleidoscopic and garish array. “Try again, IQ, and this time actually, you know, TRY!”

“You would be disgusted. Disappointed.”

“BZZZT!” Red X.

“You would mock me.”

“That hurts, Sixer.”

Ford scoffs. “You’re not real.”

“And YOU’RE projecting!” Bill brushes Ford’s wet bangs away from his face. “But you’re right – I would mock you. A little.” And then drifts closer. “But that’s not all I’d do.” And then drifts closer. And then-

Another dream.

Or by now, perhaps they should be classified as nightmares. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Ford berates himself as pathetic as he drags himself to a sitting position. His body is slick enough with sweat that he feels a chill when he tosses his sheets off. It's driving him crazy; these dreams haunt him on a near nightly basis, leaving him aching in the morning and desperate to expunge this obsession from himself. As if he could debride himself from the inside out and flush out whatever strange element has built up inside him, has turned his muse into an object of fantasy.

It doesn’t help that his current research has been utterly fruitless. So far his efforts have turned up, to be precise: zip, nada, and nothing. If there is some common source to the weirdness of Gravity Falls, he’s been unable to find it – and Bill has remained relentless and vague on the matter.

”No LUCK in the SPACE SHIP, huh Fordsy?” The triangle had appeared while Ford, still unshowered and exhausted, lay flopped in his arm chair, a practical treasure trove of scientific wonderments wrenched from the bowels of the ship at his side.

“I found a cryogenics lab,” was his mumbled reply. Bill’s eye widened and he zoomed down to the pile, flickering back and forth over top of it to view it from all angles.

“So you did!” Ford cracked open his eyes and Bill was floating in front of him. Ford was barely able to spare a thought on how anything could look so excited just floating in the air. “Wanna know how it WORKS?”

Even with all his muscles tight and tender, his stomach hollow from the unplanned extension to his trip, a burning in his eyes that begged him to sleep for the next day or two, Ford perked up. Fatigue whittled at his bones, disappointment laid across him like a heavy living thing, but he sat up just a bit straighter.

“Would you tell me?”

“Well, under NORMAL circumstances I WOULDN’T; but FOR YOU I can make an exception or two!” His cane materialized in his hand, and he mimed tapping Ford on the forehead with it. “Now UP! And grab that WHRILIGIG down there – hey, don’t look at me like THAT, I didn’t name it!”

And every avenue Ford has followed since has yielded the same results. His muse has turned up, frequent as an unpredictable sun, and most nights Ford can even hold himself together enough that nothing seems amiss. Even with this issue he’s been dealing with, being around Bill is, easy. Fun. Exciting. Interesting. He never feels more alive than when he wakes from one of their meandering conversations, like all the synapses in his brain are firing at once, like the possibilities before him truly are endless, like he could just reach out and grasp his wildest ambitions.

If, sometimes, he flinches away from one of Bill’s casually, overly-friendly touches, well, that’s not the worst thing in the universe (except for the way Bill stares at him afterwards, looking like he was snared somewhere between suspicion and wonderment). Or if he sometimes finds himself without words, or his mind wandering, or his dreams constantly revolving around one particular being. It’s manageable, Ford tells himself.

Manageable.

Somehow, this has all gotten tied together with his search for this leaky faucet of strange-ity. Logically he knows that figuring out the puzzle Bill has set so graciously before him won’t end the purgatory he’s designed for himself – in his moments of clarity, he is even able to admit that solving it and earning his muse’s praise could, in fact, only worsen whatever illness has taken hold of him. But try as he might, he can’t shake the association, so even as he sketches new findings, new mysteries and weirdness, a desperation has been settling deep into his core.

Ford has felt himself winding tighter and tighter over the recent weeks, pulled taut both by his work and his private obsession (scoff here, because obsession is hardly the right word for it), and his only form of release somehow, inexplicably, is the very same entity that has caused both of his other sources of stress. Maddening, at times. But as much as it galls him to admit it, science is filled with many more losses than wins, and both serve as opportunities.

However, in the scheme of the past month and a half, Ford is in slightly better spirits today, even accounting for the ceaseless dreaming. Because today, he has come up with a new place to search.

The cavern looms before him, a pitch black hole in the bright daylight, looking darker still by the bone white trees that flank its sides. It may have been ominous if not for the fact that Ford already knows precisely what was inside. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Nothing terrible has ever dwelled within this cave. He places his hand on the rough bark of one of those slim trees, and he traces his fingers along the rough and gnarled whirls disrupting its surface.

The trees are interlocked in his mind with Bill, with the confusing rush of their first meeting, and all the rushes that came to follow it. His fingers pause. The bark is coarse beneath his fingertips, and cool to the touch. Not like Bill at all, who is smooth heat and sharp, keen edges. Being here alone is enough to cause his heart to quicken ever so slightly, to inspire the tickling sensation along the back of his neck that he knows is only his own mind’s doing; Bill isn’t around to be watching him, and Ford tries not to give a name to the sinking feeling that admission inspires in him.

He pulls his hand away from the tree and ventures closer to the cave, lighting the lantern he’d bought solely for this purpose. Daylight can only illuminate so much within the cavern – a short few feet before the shadows begin to creep further and further in – and Bill’s section of the hollow is far beyond that point. Ford marches in fearlessly. It must have been months since he last visited this place but the pathway to Bill’s carving is entrenched in his mind. He’s always been gifted with navigation.

And it helps that the cavern is a single path, winding arduously down into the ground but never splintering or branching out.

Ford still isn’t sure what he’s looking for - you’ll know it when you see it, smart guy was the helpful answer Bill had finally been coerced into providing him, and that was only after Ford had spent almost a week camping and mapping out the geographical center of the woods. Also, you maaay be taking things a touch too literally, but what do I know? Oh that’s right – everything! I know everything!

The darkness crowds around him, pressing in almost like a physical force, threatening to swallow the tiny flare of light he holds aloft. It is utterly still inside in the cave and the air smells stiff and stale, a room whose door has stayed locked for too long. There are no sounds aside from his own muffled footsteps, not even accompanied by the hollow backtalk of an echo. It’s hard to keep track of time down here, but it’s either a lifetime or a minute later that the tunnel widens out into the yawning dead end wherein lies the effigy that changed his life.

He walks over to it first, the crude rendition of his muse scrawled across the red clay earth and surrounded by prostrate forms. Bill Cipher. Did he go by that even then, or does his name change to remain a pun in every language? Knowing his sense of humor, the answer is probably the latter. Ford’s stomach twists a bit – does he not even know his muse’s true name?

Ford reaches his hand out, but stops short of the mural, fingertips hovering just shy of the ancient markings. Even if he never intends on leading anyone else here, even if he has already documented these paintings in detail, he can’t deny the historical significance of this place in regards to the aboriginals that once inhabited the strange woods of Gravity Falls. Even if some part of him wants to see the yellow outline surrounding Bill’s form smeared across his fingers, even if some part of him wants to smudge a thick black line across the shakily written incantation that roused Bill from ancient memory.

Sighing, Ford drops his arm to his dangle limp at his side, and then drops to the ground in a heavy plop. He shuffles around so his back is pressed against the stone wall, well below the inscriptions. He sets the lantern on the loose dirt floor and the enormity of what he is doing and searching for crashes in like a clumsy bird of prey. What is he even doing down here, what is he looking for? Disgruntled, Ford kicks a booted foot against the ground, sending up a spray of old dirt and a fine cloud of dust to hang in the torchlight.

His mind wanders as he stares off into the dark. Dark that reminds him of the pitch black of Bill’s limbs, a shade so thick and absorbing that Ford could believe all light, every color could be lost within its depths. Which reminds him of those selfsame limbs splintering and bending at too many angles, to clutch at him and to envelope him, to move in rippling mirages and rest at the small of his back or tangle in his hair. Reminds him of thin black fingers clasped around his hand, warm and silkily smooth, yanking him off the ground or pulling him free from riotous waters. He remembers see you real soon and an outsider’s perspective and from his own yearnings, why don’t you do something and his chest burns and aches in the empty cavern.

He thumps the back of his head against the rock wall behind him and hears ringing in his mind but that’s not all I’d do. His fingers clench in the dirt and gather up fistfuls of grainy earth in each hand. It shifts between his fingers like sand and he lifts one hand and watches a small, steady stream of it flow out from his clenched fist. What am I doing here? he wonders, and then out of the corner of his eye, he spots a golden glint amongst the plain brown backdrop.

At first he is content to write it off as a trick of his mind, as the light from his lantern bouncing odd off a rock with sharp and crisp edges. But Ford focuses on it, and staring, the glint doesn’t fade out or diminish in any way. He leaves the lantern where it rests and shifts forwards, until he is running a hand across smooth and forgotten gold. Again and again, he cards his fingers through dirt and over the strange projection. It doesn’t scatter into the foggy fragments of dreams and slowly Ford becomes more and more excited.

It’s hard to make out what this tip of it represents, but Ford digs with bare hands in the raw earth, carving deep gouges into the cavern’s floor. Without knowing the full shape of the object, there is no way of saying where or how to dig, but Ford presses on, heedless of the grime accumulating under his fingernails, almost frenzied by the fervor he brings to his actions.

His mind races with the possibilities – what could it be? This must be something - Bill said he would know it when he saw it, didn’t he? Slowly he excavates, revealing flames, perhaps? A hand, grasping a scroll, a dull and finely cut gem, and arms leading to a familiar sloping side that brings him to an abrupt halt. Ford leans back, loose mounds of dirt packed together in careless piles all around him.

A statue of Bill. Well, perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised, considering the apparent nature of the cave, but why would it be buried here? Why have they warned so heavily against summoning Bill? Ford could admit that his muse was strange but Bill has as yet displayed nothing except the most gentlemanly manner. And a surprising sense of humor to boot.

“Whatcha UP TO, IQ?” Ford jolts, startled out of his thoughts by his muse’s piercing voice and impeccable timing. Bill’s projection dips down and Ford watches his small black fingers phase through one of the piles he’s made. “Digging in the DIRT! A little OLD FASHIONED, don’t you think?”

“Bill!” Ford brushes his hands against his jeans. It hadn’t really bothered him before, but Ford notices now, of all times, how sweaty he has gotten, how much dirt is really covering his hands and clothes, is probably strewn throughout his hair or swiped across his face. “I, uh, yes. I was digging.”

Bill bursts into laughter. “You guys have SHOVELS now, right? Or did I DREAM UP that little bit of human INGENUITY! Cause if SO, BOY do I have a SURPRISE for you! It might LITERALLY blow your mind!”

“I know what shovels are, Bill,” Ford deadpans, which only causes Bill to launch into another fit of laughter. He adjusts his glasses, feeling silly.

“Awww, hey, come on Sixer, don’t get all WEIRD on me,” Bill says. His muse floats closer, and even without touch Ford can feel the phantom sensations of his warm hands across his skin. “Or better YET – DO! I like weird!”

I like weird. It isn’t a phrase that Ford would have expected to find comforting, but something eases in his chest. Of course, Bill is only saying this because he doesn’t know how weird Ford is.

“So, you decided to spend some time scooping up DIRT in the dark, huh?” Bill continues, drifting away to survey the underground chamber. He comes to a pause before his own mural. “Nice ARTWORK down here!”

“I was looking for the epicenter of weirdness,” Ford says. Bill’s bricks reverse as he flips back around, his expression oddly blank.

“And? Did you FIND it?”

Ford sighs. “No. There’s- no.” A large part of him wants to admit that he has no idea what he’s doing, what he’s looking for – that he’s exhausted every angle he can think of, that this was the last idea he’d been able to come up with. Ford clenches his jaw tight and says nothing.

“Huh. Too bad!” Bill’s projection drops to sit on his shoulder and Ford straightens his posture. “And what made you wanna look around in a PLACE like THIS?”

“You, Bill, to be honest,” Ford says. “You might be the single strangest creature I’ve yet to encounter in these woods. It seemed to make sense that the highest concentration of weirdness would serve as the catalyst for the rest.”

“Hmmm.” Out of the corner of his eye, Ford can make out Bill scrunching up in his eye in thought. Then Bill hops off his shoulder, expanding slightly in size as he moves to hover before him again. “Not a bad THOUGHT there, Fordsy – not bad at all!”

“Yes, well, obviously not a correct thought, either.”

“Well I’M suitably impressed – you’re MUCH closer than you THINK, Sixer!” Ford’s immediate answer is to scoff, but then Bill’s words seem to process and he freezes, staring wide-eyed at his muse.

“I-I’m close?”

“Yup! You’re CERTAINLY on the right TRACK, just not looking at it from the right VIEWPOINT yet!”

It feels like his brain might overclock itself – he was right! Maybe he hasn’t slotted it all together correctly yet, but he has the pieces, at last. Something about this place, maybe the incantations? Some kind of carryover from the ancient rituals practiced here so long ago?

“Aww, there’s the brainiac I KNOW and LOVE!” They both pause. “Uh, you know what I mean! No more DOOM and GLOOM, right?”

“Was I that obvious?” His heart is hammering in his chest, and Ford hopes that that, at least, isn’t obvious.

“I can read you like a geometry text book, Sixer!” Ford tries not to panic as Bill drifts just a few inches closer. “Not that I NEED to – I mean, it’s not like you’re KEEPING anything from me!” Bill fixes him with an apprising stare and Ford might be a statue with how ramrod straight he sits.

“N-No! I mean, yes, I- no, I’m not keeping anything-” The words get caught in his throat when Bill comes even nearer, and Ford swears he can feel the heat Bill gives off in the mindscape cascading over his face. He swallows and manages to clear the lump. “From you.”

Bill stays where he is, so close. Ford digs his hands in the dirt, remembering his dreams, Bill’s shocked expression, his fingernails scraping lightly over shallow interstices. He almost, almost expects Bill to call him out on his bluff. Obvious. His breathing seems to have stuttered as well, holding his breath deep in his chest like a pregnant pause, awaiting disaster. And then Bill just shrugs and moves away again.

“That’s what I thought!”

All the air rushes out of him in one heavy sigh, tension draining so suddenly that he resembles a wooden puppet with its strings cut for a moment as he recovers, shoulders slumping and limbs limp while his heart still thumpthumpthumpthumpthumps a quick staccato beat below his ribs. When he looks up again, Bill is hovering over his hand-dug hole with his back plane to him.

“So THIS is what you were so invested in digging up, huh?” His glowing form drops a little lower to the ground. “Well I can’t say I BLAME you – humans sure don’t show devotion like they USED TO!”

“Devotion?” The word sticks to his insides like thick sap.

“Yeah, they SOMEHOW got it into their MAMMALIAN, JELLY-BASED BRAINS that I was some kind of GOD! Seemed like it would be RUDE to correct them!” Bill settles lightly on the floor and makes a movement as though he was kicking a tiny spray of dirt back into its proper place, but of course nothing in Ford’s dimension moves. “It WAS kind of cute, anyway.”

“Why did they bury it here?” Ford asks. Bill levitates back into the air and shrugs.

“Oh, you know how HUMANS are as well I do, Fordsy; once you OUTLIVE your USEFULNESS, they THROW YOU AWAY like yesterday’s bad news!” Bill doesn’t sound too upset by the topic, but unbidden, Ford is thinking of his father and classmates. Of Stan. “ESPECIALLY when you’re WEIRD!”

“I like weird,” Ford echoes, and he glances at Bill a moment before dropping his gaze to the still half buried sculpture. “That is to say, you like weird – so do I.”

“I KNOW you do, no worries over here!” Bill is in his face in an instant, a weird tingling, prickling sensation across his scalp as Bill mimics ruffling his hair. “You and me til the END, right pal?”

Ford grins up at him. “That’s right.” Whatever that end may be.

“Hey, how about a little REWARD for getting so close to cracking my PUZZLE! One last HINT!” Bill circles around him.

“Oh – right now?”

“Nah, just the next time you’re in the MINDSCAPE – no hurry! Until then, REMEMBER: the FABRIC of REALITY is only as THIN as you BELIEVE it is!” Bill tips his hat and with a bright flare of light that leaves spots swimming across Ford’s vision, he is gone.

Even awake, their meetings have a surrealistic edge to them, fuzzy at all the corners and as Ford sits alone in the cool, dark cave he almost has a moment to wonder if any of it had ever been real at all. He waits a moment or two, and then once he is sure Bill is gone for good for the day, Ford shuffles back over to the statue and continues digging.

When he finally leaves the cavern, the sky is a smeared painting of pinks and golds, the rich colors seeping down from among the clouds to cast their hue dully against the bone white trees. When he gets back to his cabin, he’s almost panting with exertion, arms aching from having carried solid gold through the woods. When he collapses boneless on his couch, it is only for a minute of rest, and then he is running a wet cloth across the statue, over and over again, until its pristine form is clean and gleaming once more and he can see shimmery reflections glistening in the gem’s facets.

When he goes to sleep, the statue sits on his desk across from him and glimmers in the dark.

When he wakes in the morning and rushes over to his journal, he doesn’t notice how its pupil seems to track his every move. And when Ford, overwhelmed, writes one frantic, jubilant sentence, he doesn’t hear the howling laughter echoing just behind his ear.

The muse has spoken!