#you cannot rip these two boys from my cold dead hands | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

callmeshakespurr · 4 years ago

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Hey, if you're requests are open could you do a Rick Flag × Male Villian Reader (fluff) idk something cute where Rick Flag ends up falling in love with Male Reader, and the feeling is mutual. Idk you can fo what you want with it. ❤

Rick Flag x Male Reader

Requested: yes

Category: fluff, just a little bit of angst

Warnings: slight torture (?), i mention a knife like,, once

Note: I haven’t watched Suicide Squad in some time, so this could’ve turned out just the tiniest bit yandere, I hope you don’t mind! Also- I kinda struggled with this cause its my first time writing an actual one shot, but I hope you enjoyed it anyways (:

Tysm for requesting, hope you enjoy it <3

“Where is he?”, Amanda Waller called out as she walked down the hallway, towards the high security room you were currently kept in — Colonal Richard ‘Rick’ Flag not far behind her.

Her call grabbed the attention of the two guards, who stood in front of your cell.

“Is he in there?”, Amanda asked again, approaching the door with fast steps. One of the guards nodded and opened the thick metal door to let the director and the colonel in.

Amanda Waller had tried to get her hands on you for almost five years now, after you first made an apperiance in a club, killing two people. After that, several assassinations followed. Nobody knew who you exactly were, what you looked like, who you worked for; you were like a shadow — what people then came to call you, Shadow.

The major reason of why nobody could get a hold of you even in the slightest bit, was because you always vanished before anybody could even spot you.

After two years of not being able to catch you, the police gave up on further investigation in your cases. Amanda didn’t break so easily though. She wanted you in one of those cells she kept so many freaks in already, and she wasn’t going to give up until she had you sitting behind one of those metal doors, unable to escape her.

After all these years of going after you, she did manage to find out two major things about you. Why you always managed to escape without anyone catching a glimpse of you, and what your weakness was.

All these things led to the present situation.

You sat in a dark room, the only light source being a small lamp, dangling from the ceiling. Your ankles were tightly cuffed to the chair you were sitting on, on your wrists and neck you felt something cold and heavy, which seemed to send small electric shocks through your body every few seconds.

You weren’t sure where you exactly were, since you passed out before they got you. Hell, you didn’t even know who ‘they’ were.

You closed your eyes, trying to concentrate on your thoughts, which was not as easy as you hoped it would be. To say that you were in pain was an understatement. The electricity flowing through your body kept you from thinking straight, and send a wave of pure pain through your limbs with every shock you got.

A female voice ripped you from your trance, and you slowly opened your eyes again, head still hanging low. You knew that voice and you knew that you didn’t stand a chance anymore.

“Your powers won’t work anymore, unless i allow you to use them, so don’t even try.”, that voice belonged to none other than Amanda Waller, probably the only person on this planet you actually feared. You were never scared of what her minions could do to you, no. You were scared of what she could do to you if she ever managed to get you — which almost happened on several occasions.

You clenched your fists, trying to ignore the pain that came over you again, as you frantically tried to somehow sort your thoughts and find a way out of this, but nothing seemed to work. There was no way out of this. There was no escaping this. The feeling of helplessness washed over you, a feeling you didn’t like at all.

“You’re Y/N L/N, you’re a teleporter, thats how you managed to always vanish before the police got to the crime scene”, Amanda spoke, watching you as you sat there on the chair, staring at the ground, unable to move a single muscle. “It took me some time, but i managed to figure out how to block your powers”, she continued, taking slow steps towards you “Teleporters are extremely sensitive to electricity, some mightve even already died due to the constant pain if they were in your place.” She stopped right in front of you, looking down at your slumped figure, the only thing restraining you from falling over being the thick metallic handcuffs that kept your hands tied behind the chair.

Amanda grabbed your chin, forcing you to look up at her. Your sight was blurry and it cost you a lot of strength to even keep your eyes open, but you did manage to make out the silhouette of a rather tall person standing at the entrance of the cell, watching the whole scene, before your focus was back on the woman in front of you. “You’re actually a very pretty boy, Y/N, and very smart too, it’s a shame that you decided to end up like this.”, she said, before letting your face go. “Rick, take him to get the injection, then get his things and introduce him to the team. After that, you can take him to his provided cell.”

The man standing at the door — Rick, you assumed — made his way towards you, as Waller left the room, leaving you to the colonel.

Rick helped you out of the cuffs, that kept you strapped to the chair. Looking at you, he almost felt bad, you looked so drained and helpless. He had never exactly agreed with anything Amanda Waller did, but seeing what just a few hours under her control did with you was another level of not agreeing with something she did.

“Can you stand?”, the colonel asked and you nodded, slowly rising from the chair. Your legs wobbled beneath your weight and you instinctively grabbed onto whats next to you, which just so happened to be Ricks Arm.

After making sure you had gathered enough strength, he began to walk with you towards the door.

time skip

It’s been a little over a week now since they’ve brought you here — you think. Every day was the same. Sitting on the cold floor of your cell, staring at the camera in the corner of your ceiling, some guard bringing you food, you not eating it, some guard taking it away again and reporting everything to someone, more staring at the camera, someone bringing you food again, you not eating it again, the guard taking it away again and reporting everything, all over again, everyday.

The only slightest bit good and entertaining thing was the colonel — Rick Flag, as you learned was his name — checking up on you every now and then when he didn’t have anything better to do. You didn’t quite understand why Rick was making efforts to look after you, just for you to not answer his questions anyways, but you appreciated it. It made everything a little more bearable.

Of course, you were one of the bad guys, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t have a life outside of assassinations.

When you weren’t working for other bad guys, you loved to just sit in your apartment and read, you loved to go onto high buildings and watch over the city. You dreamed of leaving everything behind and exploring the world someday. You worked at your favourite coffee shop, hell you even had a cat. The thought of your only friend being probably already dead or suffering made you sad, but what could you do about it?

Sometimes, you wish you hadn’t picked the path you were on, but looking back at the time you chose to work for the bad guys, you didn’t really have a choice.

Your train of thoughts was interrupted, when you heard the door to your cell open. Hoping it would be Rick, you looked up, your eyes only half open from the lack of strength you had. What you did not expect was to see Amanda Waller standing in front of you, Rick Flag behind her.

“Stand up”, the woman demanded. You listened, as it was of no use to resist her orders. You slowly got up on your feet, which didn’t last long, since you almost immediately fell over, landing painfully hard on your knees. To your suprise, Rick immediately rushed to your side, helping you stand up again.

“I don’t need him on missions like this”, Waller spoke as she watched you lean onto Rick for support. “Take him to the base, the council and I will be waiting there in the meeting room for him.” With that, Waller left again.

The way to the car wasn’t long, but with you almost not being able to stand on you own, let alone walk on your own, it took a little longer, which only fueled your anxiety. The ride to the base was even worse though, since nobody talked and you had five guards sitting around you.

Finally arriving at the door of the meeting room, which was located in the base, the two guards standing in front of it immediately opened the door as soon as they saw the colonel.

The room was quiet at an instance, when you stepped a food inside, Rick following very close behind you — just in case something should happen.

Amanda Waller stood in front of a group of suit wearing men who all sat at one big round table, most likely discussing something. She gestured you to come next to her, to which you complied.

“And who is this now, Director Waller? A new addition to your group of- freaks?”, asked one of the men as he looked you up and down, probably doubting that someone like you could be much of an good asset.

“This, Gentlemen,”, she grabbed your arm and moved you a little forward, making you almost tumble “is Y/N L/N or ‘Shadow’, he was an assassin for almost five years now, working for several other bad guys. Nobody got a hold of him till now due to his teleporting ability. He has over a hundred confirmed kills and not once did anyone ever get near him. I’m using these electric cuffs”, she grabbed your arm again and lifted it up to present the metal cuff, which was secured around your arm “to block his powers, which means he cannot teleport, as long as the electric shocks are on full power. As soon as I turn down the power a little, he can use his power, it is more draining and limited to a certain radius, but it works. I have him under full control and I want him on the team.” Murmurs broke out between the people in the room, as soon as she finished.

“I’m sorry, director, but do you really think it’s a good idea to put another- another misfit on that team? They’re bad guys and will always stay bad guys, and their freaky abilities make them even more dangerous.”, one of the men in suits spoke.

“As I said, I have him under full control, gentlemen. Let me demonstrate.”, Amanda spoke, turning to you, as the people sitting at the table sat back.

Waller took out some kind of remote and tapped on something. First your body tensed due to all the stress and pain you were under at the moment, but as soon as Amanda tapped on the remote, the electric shocks suddenly weren’t as intense as they were before, and your whole body relaxed, your eyes almost watering due to the wave of relief washing over you.

Rick was more than tense while watched the whole situation, only realizing in how much pain you actually were when Waller turned down the intensity of the electric shocks emmitting from the metallic cuffs you were wearing.

Waller looked you in the eyes with a serious expression on her face. “You disobey, you die, got that?” And suddenly you remembered the injection they gave you, when they first brought you here.

Seeing you had no other choice than obeying her, you simply gave her a small nod and looked around the room, taking in every detail. You looked at the small table in front of you, spotting a sharp knife, which you figured was put there by Amanda specifically for you in this exact situation.

With fast movements, you grabbed the knife and teleported to the other side of the room, holding the knife to one of the mens throat. Everyone in the room stiffened even more, and you heard at least three guns clicking.

Looking up, your eyes met Rick’s, before you looked over to Waller, who was already fixated on you. You slowly pressed the knife more against the man’s throat, wanting to see what Waller was going to do. The next electric shock came and you almost yelled out in pain, letting the knife fall, teleporting back to Waller and falling to your knees, clutching the metal around your neck.

Rick wanted to rush to help you, but was quickly held back by Amanda, gesturing him to wait.

“As you can see, I can control his powers however i want to, and should he disobey in any way, or should his powers bolt”, she tilted your head with her finger, than pressed onto the spot on your neck where they injected you, “he dies.”

Still staring at the ground, you swallowed harshly. You’ve never wanted to go back in time and undo all the bad things that happened so badly like in this specific moment. Maybe if you’re parents hadn’t ever found about your ability, you would still be at home, with your family, not here, being tortured by some government lady who wanted to use you as a weapon.

“There’s one more thing. I don’t need him on any mission in this shape. He needs to recover, quickly, and while doing so, I want him under Rick Flags complete supervision. It might cost a little more effort, but think about of how much use he will be for us”, Amanda said, a mischievous expression crossing her face for a few seconds, that going unnoticed by you and pretty much everyone else in the room.

time skip

Three whole months had passed. You’ve been staying with Rick ever since Amanda Waller announced that he had to fully supervise you.

The time you spent with Rick made you feel as if everything wasn’t so bad after all. Occasional talking here and there, Rick cooking something for the both of you every now and then, you almost felt normal again — weren’t there the electric cuffs reminding you of what was real every few minutes.

Over the past three months, your sleep only got worse. You got used to the constant pain by now, but the electricity didn’t only affect you physically, it also messed up your thoughts like hell. Sometimes you didn’t know where up and down was anymore, everything was all over the place inside your mind.

That was also the reason, you were up right now, in the middle of the night, sitting at the big window in your bedroom, looking over the city. You hugged your knees tightly to your chest, and rested you chin on them, letting a few tears slip. You hadn’t cried in a long time, but you were just so exhausted. You were never this close to giving up than right now. Nothing seemed to ever be okay again, you couldn’t do anything but accept your fate.

Being to entangled in your own thoughts, you didn’t hear your bedroom door open.

It didn’t take Rick a long time to spot you in your place at the window. He just came home from a mission that Amanda Waller had wanted you on, but Rick insisted on giving you a little more time to deal with everything.

The tall man closed the door as quietly as he could behind him, which seemed to not be quiet enough, since you jumped slightly at the noise, quickly standing up and turning around. Rick gave you an apologetic look, before slowly walking towards you, “I’m sorry, I should’ve knocked, I just wanted to check up on you and see if you’re alright-“ “It’s fine, I’m fine”, you interrupted him, wiping your tears quickly, taking a deep breath.

Rick frowned, he had never seen you cry before. He cared too much for you and he knew it, he just couldn’t help himself. Stopping in front of you, he looked down at you, only for his eyes to meet yours. For a moment, you both got lost in each others eyes, before you ripped your gaze away, looking to the side.

“Do you want anything else from me?”, you asked shakily, getting a little nervous with his burning stare on you.

“I actually do, yes-“, he hesitated for a moment. You looked up at him with a questioning expression. “Close your eyes”, you complied, closing your eyes slightly, one hand moving to hold onto Rick’s shirt so you didn’t lose your balance. You felt him lean down slightly, till you could fell his warm breath on your cheek. You surpressed a shiver, as he carefully tilted your head.

Now, you didn’t really know what to expect; you and Rick had gotten closer but you weren’t sure, if there were actual romantic feelings, or if he just pitied you, so a kiss wasn’t exactly what you expected. But you definitely would’ve expected it more than what happened next.

A small ‘click’ echoed through the dark room, the next thing you knew was, that all the pain suddenly disappeared. Your eyes watered when you felt Rick’s fingers carefully removing the heavy metallic cuffs around your wrists and neco, pure relief washing over you. Your leaned your body onto Rick’s, unable to support your own weight for a few moments.

When you had finally gained control over your own body again, you moved back a few centimetres and looked up to Rick, who met your confused eyes. “I couldn’t bear to see you in so much pain any longer, so I triedmy best to convince her and I’d say I’m lucky that she trusts me with you.”, the colonel smiled a little, raising a hand to softly carress your cheek. Your eyes widened. He quickly removed his hand again and apologized, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

Rick took a step back, still being careful so you didn’t lose balance again, “I should go, and you should sleep, you need to be well rested and-“

You were fast to interrupt him by taking a quick step towards him, getting a little on your tiptoes, before pressing a small kiss to Rick’s lips. You carefully looked him in the eyes again, “I don’t know either, but it just felt like the right thing to do.”

It took the man a few seconds to process what just happened, but when he did, he was quick to kiss you again, his soft lips over yours, moving slowly, as you kissed back. He put his hands on your waist, while you locked yours behind his neck. You kissed for a few moments, before the both of you had to breathe again. “Thank you”, you whispered against Rick’s lips, before receiving another small peck. “Sleep with me tonight?”, he asked quietly, getting lost in your eyes again. You gave him a small nod, allowing him to pick you up and carry you to his room, both of you smiling as you fell onto the mattress.

#suicide squad #rick flag #y/n #rick flag x male reader #male reader

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loversandantiheroes · 4 years ago

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Okay my whiskey fantasy. It’s a holiday, anniversary, I dunno. But he comes home. You’re in lingerie, teddy, the garter belt, the thigh high tights (I am having an absolute brain fart and can not remember the name), the high heels. you’re cooking him dinner in it. Somethin real texas for dinner. He wants to immediately fuck yiu, BUT NO he has to WAIT bc its dinner time and you worked hard. He’s waiting, and he’s watching you, you’re bending over at the stove, all that. Dinner is served, you —-

You lounge on the table to eat like a decadent and gorgeous pain in the ass, so he can see you’re whole body while he eats, forced to be patient. You’re being an absolute menace. He’s running his mouth the whole time OBVIOUSLY. Then he fucking wrecks you

No Candles Necessary

As I am a bonafide yeehonk foole (and I have the t-shirt to prove it), I could hardly resist this idea. Nonny, I hope like hell I did you proud.💗

Shameless Whiskey/F!Reader smut (18+ and yes that means you), 5.3k+ words (they just wouldn’t shut up), mildly beta’d and lightly edited.

Warnings: established relationship, unsafe food preparation practices, light foodplay (it only goes in appropriate places I swear), egregious dirty talk, improper use of a dining table, Switch!Whiskey returns, Switch!Reader by extension, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), deepthroating, PIV sex, unprotected sex (do as I say, not as I fictionalize), cream pie (bc I’m lazy quite frankly), actual pie (peach!), a little soft schmoop in between the smut just because I can.

Permatag: @missredherring @dovesnroses @astroboots @magpierhymes @alienprincesspoop @aasimarr @maythxthirstbxwithyou @recklesswit

Pedro Permatag: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa (sorry bab, more yeehonk) @corvueros @thirstworldproblemss @littleferal @krissology @frannyzooey @forallthstarsinthesky @princess76179 @keeper0fthestars @venusandromedadjarin

Cooking your boyfriend a birthday dinner in lingerie is probably not the best idea you've ever had. The man isn’t even home yet to witness the trouble you’ve gone to, still wrapping up a day’s work at HQ after closing out another mission. So you didn’t jump right into cooking in your frillies. No, you did the bulk of the work in sweats and a t-shirt, only stopping to change once you were down to the last stretch and the steaks had come off to rest. You've got sense enough at least to put on an apron, not wanting to risk getting hot grease on the delicate fabric or the vast amounts of bare skin the thing doesn't cover, and while you've already donned the garter belt and stockings you've left your heels up against the island counter so you can slip them on quickly when you hear the door. Still you can't quite help but feel less sexy and more silly as you stand there carving up a pair of garlic butter basted steaks while your forehead prickles with sweat and your ass, covered by neither the teddy or the apron, feels ice cold.

The things I do for love of a goddamn cowboy, you think with a shake of your head. Your whole plan is honestly on the high end of ridiculous. But then Jack is a ridiculous man, and he always seems to drag you headlong into absurdity with him. Some days it's his only saving grace - the boyish playfulness that tempers his arrogance into something charming rather than infuriating. It seems only right to be a little ridiculous for the occasion.

Once the carving’s done you give yourself a second to go over the spread and make sure everything's ready to go. It's early yet, but you're expecting to hear Jack's key in the front door any minute. He's made no mention of returning home early, of course, but he is every bit the sort that would try to surprise you on his birthday, and you’ve developed an uncanny ability to anticipate his moves ahead of time.

As it turns out, you have just enough time to slip on your heels before you hear the front door open and Jack calls out your name. You allow yourself a moment of satisfaction - you do love being right when it comes to this sort of thing - and slip into your heels.

“In here, baby,” you call back, stepping out to lean against the door frame.

“Somethin’ smells like heaven,” Jack says, rounding the corner into the dining room. He stops dead when he gets a look at you, mouth falling open in surprise. He’s hung his hat at the door, his hair already flopping over in a revolt against the slicked-back way he styles it in the morning, his suit jacket still on and buttoned. “Looks like it, too,” he finishes, the corner of his mouth curling into a grin. “I feel overdressed all of a sudden.”

You can’t help but answer that grin. “Happy birthday, cowboy,” you tell him, beckoning him over.

He all but rushes across the room to slide up against you, hands curling around your hips and playing with the tie to the apron. “Sure as hell is now,” he mutters. His palms slide down, cupping your ass to pull you in close. You bite back a hiss at the warmth, and he gives a low approving hum at the expanse of cool, bare skin. “Looks like I don’t even need to unwrap my present.”

“Patience,” you insist, pushing his shoulders back and grazing your lips over the tip of his nose as you evade the kiss he tries to pull you into. “No dessert until after dinner.”

“Dinner can wait-”

“No it cannot. I did not just spend the afternoon trying to keep hot butter off my tits so you could get impatient and let your supper get cold.” He traces a finger across your cleavage as you talk, tugging at the top of the apron to get a better look at the skin underneath. You feel the quip coming before he even opens his mouth, so you take the opportunity to give him a little push and show him just what he’s in for tonight. You bring up your hand, fingers curling under his wrist, turning his hand away and using it to pull him flush to you, the line of your thigh landing against the covered denim crotch of his jeans with just enough force to make him jolt.

“Be a good boy, Jack,” you say against his open, breathless mouth, “or you won’t get any dessert at all.”

Whiskey pouts, but his eyes have that dark glint that says he knows he’s in for trouble and he is just as pleased as punch about it. “You mean to torture a man on his birthday, honeybee?”

The smirk you give him makes his heartbeat kick up a little faster - you can feel the quickening of it in the pulse point against your fingertips. “Absolutely.” You stretch up enough for one brief, warm kiss and then step back, jerking your chin towards the dining table where there’s already two glasses of wine poured at the ready. “Sit. I’ll bring out dinner.”

He nods, tongue rolling slowly against his bottom lip. “Yes ma’am.”

His gaze is a heavy weight on your body as you walk away, raking down across so much exposed skin. You hear him groan at the sight, low and appreciative. He’s always been fond of seeing you wrapped up in lingerie, even more fond of tearing up the expensive scraps just to get you bare for him. You’d chided him about it the first time - the bodysuit he’d ripped clean in half from gusset to tit hadn’t been cheap, even though that little display had thrilled you far more than you’d ever want to admit - but he always replaced what he ruined without fail.

When you come back, divested of the apron with plates in hand, Whiskey is sitting just as instructed, elbow on the table, chin resting on his knuckles. He tracks every move you make, every sway of your hips, a playful smile hiding the effort of his restraint as you set his dinner in front of him. He barely spares the food a glance when you elect to forego your own chair and simply hop up onto the table, setting your plate near his and dragging over your glass of wine.

“You’ve outdone yourself, honeybee,” Whiskey rumbles, sliding a hand up your knee to your thigh, and he could not be talking less about the food.

You only smile, taking an unhurried sip. “Somehow I thought you’d prefer this to a new tie. How old are you now, anyway?” you tease.

“Sweet sixteen,” he says dryly, hiking an eyebrow while he squeezes your thigh for your cheek.

You chuckle. “Uh-huh, and I’m Mother Theresa.” You lean in, spearing a slice of steak on his plate with your fork and holding it out for him. “Now, I worked very hard on this, and I am going to be very disappointed if you try to skip dinner on me just ‘cause you can’t quit eyeballing your dessert. Open.”

He tips you a wink before dutifully opening his mouth, letting you feed him. The soft, indulgent moan that leaves him as his eyes slip closed is too subdued to be anything but real. “Honeybee that is gorgeous. My compliments to the chef.”

“The chef is glad to hear it.” You swipe your thumb over his lip, collecting the sheen of juice and garlicky butter and bringing it to your own mouth, delicately sucking it off. “Could’ve used a bit more rosemary.”

Whiskey shakes his head. “Mm-mm. This is perfection on a plate, baby. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

The smile that earns him is genuine, and you bend to give him a quick kiss. He presses it, just a little, a swipe of his tongue that you open for just enough to nip at before pulling away. “Eat.” You gesture meaningfully at his plate.

All told, there isn’t actually much on it. Steak, roasted new potatoes, and asparagus with hollandaise sauce. You’ve only served up maybe half of what you’d usually set in front of him for dinner, opting for more reserved portions. It’s a favor to you both - his patience wouldn’t last through a full meal without the need for physical restraints. There’s more in the kitchen, of course, and an actual pie for dessert if you happen to get that far. You’re both bound to be hungry again after.

Whiskey tucks in, fork in his left hand while his right stays comfortably curled around your thigh, slowly creeping higher and higher until he’s playing with the lacy top of your stocking. You give him a warning tilt of your head, your own fork poised halfway to your mouth. All you get in return is those plaintive, innocent puppy dog eyes of his, but his hand doesn’t advance further.

All in all you’re rather proud of his restraint, at least until one spear of asparagus manages to drip hollandaise down onto your cleavage. Suddenly that quietly repressed hunger cracks and he’s surging up towards you, mouth half-open and tongue peaking out, ready to clean you up.

But that won’t do. Not yet. Your reflexes might not be as good as his, but they’re nothing to balk at, either. You brace yourself back on one hand, leaning away and planting one of your high heels against his shoulder to shove him back into his seat. The look on his face is priceless; mouth agape and pupils blown.

Slowly you shake your head. “You know better, Jack.”

His eyes track up the inside of your thigh to the crotch of your bodysuit - or rather, the lack thereof - and the split strips of lace that don’t cover your mound, but frame it prettily for him. “Fuck, honeybee,” he mutters breathlessly.

Dinner and a show was always the plan. So you take your time, dipping your finger and swiping up the stripe of creamy yellow and holding it out to him. Whiskey stares you down as he takes the tip of your finger into his mouth and sucks dutifully, his tongue plush and soft and working against the pad of your finger the same way he worries it over your clit. A rush of heat rockets through you, leaving your belly warm and a sweet tingle tripping down your spine in its wake.

Biting your lip hard to rein in the impulse to just slide into his lap, you drag your finger out of his mouth. It’s what he wants; to make you break first, to make you lose at your own game. And where’s the fun in that?

“It is your birthday, so I’m going to cut you a little bit of slack, but if you can’t mind your manners and do as you’re fucking told, you’re gonna get a lot worse than a birthday spanking, pretty boy. Now, I told you: no dessert until you finish your dinner.” There’s precious little left on his plate; a few scraps of steak, a couple potatoes, one lone spear of asparagus. You stab this last with your fork and hold it out to him. “Last chance, baby. You open your mouth for me and be a good boy, and you can have me any way you want.”

Whiskey looks dazed; seething and starved and love-struck all at once. You don’t even need to look down to know he’s hard. But he hesitates just for a moment, whether it’s deliberate or accidental you’re not really sure - sometimes the man just really wants to be punished - but in that space you see his body jerk, hunching slightly as his abdominal muscles contract involuntarily. You follow the movement with your eyes and sure enough, there he is. Full mast and straining hard against thick denim.

Smiling sweetly, you wave the fork at him. “Your choice, Jack.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he says, and the roughshod timbre of his voice says it’d be a fine way to go.

Whiskey opens his mouth and takes what you give him.

You’re slow about it. Careful. Admonishing him when he tries to chew a little too quickly. Whiskey stares you down with eyes like coal seconds away from ignition. He holds your gaze while you slip another bite of food into his mouth, then lets his eyes slip down until they fix firmly on your half-exposed and already glistening cunt, and you know the moment you give him an inch he’s going to wreck the hell out of you for this.

When the last bite passes his lips he curls his hand around your ankle, squeezing. Always pushing his luck, this man of yours. You set his plate aside, glancing away like it’s no effort at all as he very methodically wipes his mouth with his napkin.

“Now can I have my dessert?” Impatience roughens the low gravel of his voice into something dangerously sharp.

You smile, leaning back on one hand. “There’s peach pie in the kitchen.”

He presses forward, left hand sliding big and warm up the inside of your thigh. The motion presses the leg you’ve used to pin him to his chair back until your knee is nearly flush with your chest, opening you up wider, the rush of air between your legs now shockingly cold against the wetness that had gathered there.

“Woman, the only pie I want a piece of is the one sitting right in front of me.”

The stretch along the back of your thigh burns, so you shift, hooking your leg over his shoulder instead. “I haven’t finished my dinner yet,” you protest cooly, reaching down to snag a strip of steak off your still half-full plate and popping it into your mouth.

Whiskey’s hands slip higher, and this time you don’t stop him, too busy sucking the buttery juices off your fingers. When the very very tips of his fingers brush the spread lace at the crux of your thighs he freezes, waiting for the rebuke, for fingers around his neck or your other heel to plant square in his chest. You consider it, sure; it’s certainly not a prospect without its merits. A man that enjoys being under your thumb is satisfying in a way that few things in life ever fully measure up to.

But honestly, you’ve worked hard enough tonight. Time to let him put in a little effort.

A tilt of your head and a curl of your foot against his shoulder is permission enough; slipping off the leash by way of a gesture, and the low smolder in his eyes blooms to a full burn. Whiskey stands to his full height, looming close enough for you to feel the heat bake off him as he shrugs off his jacket and unbuttons the cuffs on his dress shirt, rolling them up with a few quick turns of his wrists.

“Can’t let my girl go hungry now,” he hums in a voice like burnt molasses. “Lemme give you a hand there, honeybee.”

Smirking, Whiskey wraps an arm around you, brushing the tip of his nose against yours as you wriggle against solid heat of his body. His left hand wanders out of sight on the table as his lips meet yours, teasing your mouth open with the barest brush of his tongue, while his right hand trails warm and slow around your side and down and down to cup your mound.

It’s hard to believe you ever felt cold. You’re burning up now, skin flushed hot as his mouth grazes yours and breathes out: “Open up for me.”

And just like magic, you do. No input needed on your behalf; your mouth simply drops open and your legs shift wider in accommodation for him. There’s a clink of silverware and then he’s waving a fork at you, a strip of steak speared on the end. Whiskey’s eyes glitter as he pushes it into your waiting mouth. Each bite he feeds you is accompanied by a teasing dip of his fingers into your core, feeding you with his left hand while he touches you with his right. Your slickened folds part smooth and easy as he pushes his fingers inside you, a welcome but all too brief intrusion, before they trail up again to stroke at your clit. Again and again you rock your hips up, trying to encourage him to slip into you deeper, to give you a taste of the fullness and pressure of his cock, but every time his touch retreats.

You whine; a strange mix of frustration and pleasure. “Tease.”

“Takes one to know one,” he coos, the hand between your legs working faster. Heat builds quickly under his fingertips, a friction far more appetizing than anything else you’ve set on the table tonight. “You made the rules, honeybee. No dessert until after you finish supper. You do want your dessert, don’t you?”

He brings the next bite up, holds it tantalizingly close. You stretch out and he draws it back, and suddenly his fingers are rubbing a firm, determined circle on your clit. Your whole body jolts, gasping air with a pitiful little whine. There’s nothing but mischief on his face as he watches you, tongue sweeping against his bottom lip. He slows his fingers, brings the fork down again, closer this time. The food brushes your bottom lip before he pulls it away, fingers quickening again.

“Jesus,” you all but squeak. “Jack, don’t be mean.”

Whiskey gives you a considering hum, leaning forward to suck the sheen of butter off your bottom lip. “Oh darlin’ I would never,” he insists, punctuating the sentiment with a kiss that’s tender enough to be very nearly sincere if it weren’t for the fact that the motion of his hand never slows. A sweet, bright heat begins to build under his fingertips. “How could I be mean to my girl when she worked so hard for me, hm? I’m just paying that back in kind is all. You wanna come on my fingers, baby, you can do that all you like. I’ll make you come ‘til those pretty little legs can’t do much more than shimmy. You know I can. But you ain’t gettin’ nothin’ else until you clean your plate like a good girl.”

“H-ha-ah, fuck-how much more?”

He grins devilishly. “Just this last bite.”

“Oh you f-fucking jackass!”

Whiskey laughs. “Guilty as charged. Open up, baby, take what I got for you.”

He pushes the last bite past your lips and immediately delves his fingers into your warm and waiting cunt. The breath shudders out of you, fingers digging into the tablecloth as you try to hang onto enough composure to remember to chew and swallow. He’s slow for a moment, pumping and curling his fingers gently while he watches you eat. There’s a clink of silverware as he discards the fork and puts his arm around you, pressing his lips against your forehead.

“Good girl,” he murmurs sweetly.

Mouth empty now, you nudge your nose against his chin, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Jack-”

And then his grip becomes determined. The fingers inside you flex, the heel of his hand pressing hard against your clit and all you can do is cry out against the soft skin of his neck and hang on for dear life while he works you up and over the edge with shocking speed.

Trembling, you lock your legs around him as you come down, dragging his collar aside to bite lazily into the place where his neck and shoulder meet.

“Fuck,” he groans, hips rutting up against the back of his hand between your legs. “How do you want me, honeybee?”

That earns him a breathless laugh, goosebumps raising along his neck. “It’s your birthday, Jack. What do you want?”

Whiskey’s eyes drop to your mouth and he makes a considering sound, pulling back to suck you delicately off his fingers. “I think I want your mouth. And then I think I want to fuck you right here on this table until that divinely sweet little pussy wrings me fucking dry. Sound good to you, honeybee?”

“That can be arranged.” His eyelids flutter as you reach down to his zipper, not even bothering with his belt before you reach inside his jeans and the button fly of his boxers to tug his cock free, cupping your fingers to draw his balls out, too.

You move to stand and he shakes his head, caging you in. “No. Not on your knees, baby. On the table. I wanna see you all spread out for me. My pretty little present.”

He helps you. Sweeps your hair back as you lie flat on the dining table, scooting back to let your head hang just a bit. It’s not exactly comfortable. The edge of the table digs into your neck a bit, and the way the blood rushes to your head is not entirely pleasant either. But you watch Whiskey pace around you to take his place in front of your waiting mouth, cock bobbing and just barely beginning to leak for you, and you feel a gorgeous rush of heat at the sight.

Whiskey slides his palm up your stomach to cup one barely-covered breast. “Gorgeous,” he mutters, squeezing. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“Jack.”

“I know, darlin’, I know. But my God you’re a picture.” He cups your cheek, absently brushes the corner of your mouth with his thumb before sliding his hand back to give your head a little support. “Open up for me, angel.”

And once again, you open up for what he gives you. The angle makes it strange, the topography of Jack’s body less familiar as he slips into your mouth, your tongue dragging wet and slow over foreign terrain. The taste of him, hot skin and the tang of bitter salt, that you know well enough. You close your eyes at it, bring your hands up to his hips to tug him slowly forward and listen to the way he moans.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, breathless and a little awe-struck. “Jesus fucking Christ. You spoil me, baby. Sweet as fucking honey, my god.”

A light touch against your breast makes you shiver, goosebumps raising as it draws lightly over your skin. A single fingertip, sliding the lace of the bodysuit aside to bare your breasts to the chill of the room and the warmth of Whiskey’s hands.

He mutters sweet things as he begins to move; sweet, tender, unconscionably filthy things. All the things you do to him. Do for him. The rocking of his hips is gentle at first, feeding you his cock inch by cautious inch. When he hits the back of your throat he pulls back on reflex, but the light scrape of your teeth and the sudden tightness of your grip on the plush meat of his ass sends him forward again. The angle eases the motion, and you relax into the pressure as he pushes in and in and...oh.

You feel the resistance at the back of your throat give gently; strange, but not uncomfortable. Above you, Whiskey lets out a pained groan.

“Shit. Oh shit yes, honeybee. Take it. Ohhh s-shit. Take all of it. Every goddamn inch. Fuck.”

And then his hips are flush with your mouth, the soft skin of his balls pressed up against your nose. Panting, he wraps a hand around the stretched column of your throat, swearing breathlessly. He moves, a small, careful thrust, and you can feel the tremor that ripples through him at the feeling.

“Just a little more baby,” he mumbles, pulling back until just the head of his cock rests within the warmth of your mouth. You suckle at it, working it eagerly with your lips and tongue while you breathe raggedly through your nose. Your hips jut up into thin air on their own accord, just as eager for him as your mouth is.

“I got you, honeybee.” The hand at your neck slips down, skimming over skin and lace until he finds your clit. The first touch jolts you, your cry stifled on his cock as you shudder up against him. “Good girl. I got you, baby. Jack’s got you. Keep going. Just a little more. Just a little more and then I’ll fill you right on up. Fuck my sweet girl’s brains right out of her head. Prettiest fuckin’ thing I ever fuckin seen, baby, holy fuck.”

You moan something against him - pleasure, acquiescence, god only knows - but the sound of it is lost as his cock slides steadily back into your mouth. The pressure in your head is distracting, tears prickling your eyes when he pushes in deep, but the stroking of his fingers and the feel of him in your mouth, sliding hard and slick and effortlessly down your throat is far more consuming than the discomfort.

He rocks into you. Fucks into you. Moans and gasping praises falling thick and fast from his lips as he moves. You don’t need to feel the way his balls draw up tight to know how close he is, how tight he’s riding the line between what he wants to do and what his body wants to do. You’re lost in it all the same; his pleasure and the fraying thread of his restraint. Your own pleasure, building quick and low and locking down the muscles in your thighs until they tremble. You float in it, overwhelmed and dizzy, until, very suddenly, you break.

Whiskey curses, pulling back to listen to you cry out, to let you curl up and clutch at him as he pants above you, muttering broken, desperate please of: “yes god yes honeybee all of it, gimme all of it, every last bit.”

You’re a wreck in the aftermath; pliant and limp, face teary and slick with spit and precome. He draws you up, wiping your face with a clean napkin before pulling you into a kiss that steals away whatever remained of your breath. He gathers you up, turns you until you can wrap your still-tingling limbs around him. Nudges his hips against yours, his wet cock dragging against slick skin and fragile lace.

“You okay, baby?” he asks, trailing soft kisses over your face.

You have to clear your throat before you can respond, the sound of it harsh and ragged like an engine turning over. “Y-yeah. Yeah I’m good. Dizzy, but good.”

“You ain’t the only one, honeybee. Almost didn’t make it in time. Wanted to fill up that pretty mouth so bad. You just about did me in.”

He laughs and you join him, breathing ragged joy into each other’s lungs.

“Still want me to fuck you?” The question should be coarse, but somehow isn’t. Not with his sweat-slick forehead pressed to yours and his lips ghosting kisses against your mouth with every breath.

“So sweet,” you mutter, combing your hands through his hair.

“LIke hell,” he scoffs, holding you tight to his chest. “I ain’t and you know it.”

“You are to me,” you insist, pressing a kiss against the tip of his nose. He smiles, softens everywhere but that place that throbs with impatient heat against you. “Now fuck me, pretty boy.”

A flash of a grin is the only warning you get before he’s hooking his arms under your knees and pulling you to the edge of the table. “Yes ma’am,” he says obligingly, planting a hand between your breasts to push you back against the table as he lines himself up, sliding into you with one smooth, achingly deep stroke.

You moan, knees drawing up as his hips meet yours and he fills the space inside you that’s been aching for him all day. Whiskey lets out a groaning sigh, leaning into you like he wants to bury himself whole inside you. He hoists one of your legs up against his chest, nuzzles the inside of your knee while he tries to find his breath again. The length of him inside you is rigid as steel and blindingly hot, still so close to his own end that he has to wait, worrying his teeth over your skin, until the urge to just rut against you like an animal until he comes finally passes.

And when it does, when he opens his eyes at last, he looks down at you with a dazed, hungry smile. He presses a kiss to the tip of his finger and brings it down to your lips.

“Love you, honeybee.”

Heavy-lidded and so wonderfully full, you kiss his finger and arch your back. “Love you, too, cowboy.”

And that’s the last intelligent thing you manage to say. Finally - finally! - Whiskey fucks you, each pounding swing of his hips making the china rattle like nervous teeth. Your arms strike out, curling and flailing, trying to find something to grab onto as he fucks you. The heel of your hand strikes one of the wine glasses and sends it tumbling to the floor where it shatters. The breath leaves your body in tiny bursts with each impact; little monosyllabic cries punctuating each one.

“Fuck, that’s my girl,” Whiskey murmurs. He cups your breasts, thumbing the pebbled sharpness of your nipples before his hands slide lower, finding the deep notch of the bodysuit between them. “Wrapped up so pretty for me.”

The lace tears away like it’s nothing, a clean rip down the center. Oh well. He’ll buy you another.

Whiskey folds over you, pulling you down closer so he can get an arm under your back, his hand grasping the back of your neck and pulling you up to meet his mouth. He’s still wearing his tie, the drape of fabric laying cool against your chest. Blessedly he’s not wearing his usual belt buckle. Foresight or oversight you’re not quite sure, but you’re grateful all the same as he grinds into you, a press of cold metal and leather against your belly.

He’s not going to last long, but it hardly matters. You’re too worked up, two orgasms down already, cunt so swollen and sensitive it’s hardly an effort to get you there again. But the feeling of him inside you turns that bright burn into something lower, deeper. Something that makes your muscles lock and tremble, straining up against him and gasping into his mouth.

“Jaaaack,” you whine, arms locked around his neck.

“Yes, baby,” he groans, voice quivering with every thrust. “Fuck yes I’m right there too, c’mon. Come with me, honeybee, come with me.”

His rhythm falters, grinding deeper and deeper, and all that strained tension in your body snaps like a rubberband. You sob, grabbing fistfuls of his dress shirt, twisting and jerking as you come apart under him.

All Whiskey can do is growl as you bear down on him, gritting a litany of “yes, yes, fuck yes, god yes, that’s my girl that’s my girl that’s my fucking girl.” And then he’s gone, too, driving into you with a sudden jolt and crying out against the side of your neck as he comes.

You’re holding him too tight, clutching him to you as you both lie there, panting and shuddering, a spreading stain of red wine pooling next to your head.

“Jesus,” he whispers, tries to shift up to find your mouth, but even that amount of drag on his oversensitive cock is enough to make him hiss and jerk. “Fuck.”

“Mm-hm,” you agreed dumbly.

Whiskey lets out a growling hum, smoothing your hair. “You good, honeybee?”

You trail kisses up to his ear, still breathless. “What do you think?”

He wheezes a laugh. “I think I gotta replace a lot more than your frillies this time.” The laugh turns giddy, and Whiskey presses his forehead against your temple. “And I think I’m hungry.”

“Pie in the kitchen,” you mumble, too drowsy to do much more than nuzzle into the damp tangle of Whiskey’s hair.

“What kind?”

“Peach.”

He hums, smiling drowsily. “My favorite.”

You give a slow nod. “I know. Happy birthday, Jack.”

He kisses you, slow and sweet. “Best I ever had,” he murmurs.

#Anonymous #agent whiskey #jack whiskey daniels #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fic #citrus variations

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kenganparadise · 4 years ago

Note

How would Raian and Agito react to find there s/o masurbating to a picture of them or maybe the other other way around ?

Ohhhh my god I love this so much! YESSSSS IT GETS Spicy 🥵

🔞WARNING NSFW AHEAD🔞

Raian-

• Raian would most likely be out on a mission for a week or two. He’d managed to finish up early and decided he come home unannounced. He’d probably want to surprise his S/O- or most likely hide then jump out and scare them shitless.

• he sneaks though the door, carefully taking off his shoes and sneaking in. Little did he know the surprise he’d find would be so much sweeter.

• His S/O would be flat on their backs feverishly masturbating to one of the only pictures of Raian they managed to have. They’d be moaning out his name so beautifully.

• Raian’s already half hard. He’s believes it to be a beautiful sight. The blood in him is pumping unbelievably and his heart is squeezing in his chest. He’d carefully sneak up, careful not to disturb them. Then he’d pounce.

• he’d snatch the photo out of their hand, tossing it behind him. He’d also snatch their fingers from their dripping core. “How about the real thing, Huh?” He’d say as he takes off his shirt. He’d fuck them so hard and good. He’d definitely make up for lost time. His mate is going to get marked up and fucked up.

• he’ll pump them full of cum and make them wish he’d never leave again. They’re going to be left a complete fucked out hot mess. He’d probably want to go all night long. Plus he wants to punish his S/O a little bit of course.

• NOW the other way around it quite different. Raian’s S/O would probably be out of town for something. Maybe a family emergency or something related to work.

• Despite what you think, Raian does feel regular human emotions occasionally. And if his S/O is special to him- or especially if they’re his mate- he will miss them. Its small of course. He’ll never admit it. Not even to himself. But there’s still a small ache in his heart when he rolls over in bed to find that they’re not there.

• But the bed smells like them, and he finds himself rolling over to side of the bed that belongs to them in his sleep. He wakes up horny and thinking about them. He’s been horny since they left. He shoves his face In Their pillow and takes a deep breath. Raian’s got a scent kink for sure.

• fuck he’s in trouble now.

• it’s the dead of night and Raian is one grumpy boy. He bored, horny, and misses his mate. He gets up to get a drink of something cold. He thinks about calling his S/O but he doesn’t want them to think he’s gone soft also they’d probably be asleep.

• He’s already got a bit of a boner in his boxers. He passes a picture on the wall. It’s a picture of his S/O smirking in a picture with some other loser- probably a friend or something. God he wants to fuck that smirk of their face so bad. He wants them cowering and babbling under him.

• He rips the picture off the wall and goes back to the bedroom. He makes quick work of himself. Spitting in his hand and pumping himself rapidly. He wants to make this quick so he can go back to sleep.

• He’s pumping cock hard, wishing it was deep inside his mate as they scream and writhe under him. He sneaks peeks for the picture and his S/O’s confident smirk.

• He thinks about sifting through their clothing drawer to find something that was potent with their smell.

• He groans through closed teeth. He groans his S/O’s name. He squeezes his eyes shut as he jacks himself off as quickly as possible.

• That is until he feels soft lips on the nape of his neck. He freezes then whips around to see his exhausted looking mate. They’ve got a coy smile on their face.

• He realizes he’s been caught red handed. He didn’t even hear them come in. Before he can think of something snarky to say his mate’s lips are on his, and their hand has replaced his on his dick.

• He flips them onto their back, ripping a hole in their bottoms wide enough for him to have access to their entrance. He fucks them rough and quick, he makes a mess out of them.

• then after all that is said and done, he pulls them into his chest. In the morning he’ll act like nothing ever happened.

Agito-

• Agito fantasizes about his S/O touching themselves to the thought of him. It makes him so hot under the collar when he thinks about his S/O touching themselves in general.

• Though his fantasy comes true one evening. He was out one evening to only come home to a beautiful sight.

• He watches his S/O touch themselves through a cracked door. They were sprawled out on the bed, propped up on soft pillows. They held the Kengan bulletin, in it was a photo of him In his skintight bodysuit he wore during some of the matches.

• He feels his manhood become uncomfortable in his pants. His cock strains against his zipper. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

• He knows it’s rude to stare. He knows he should go in there and help them, they’re moaning his name over and over again. He feels bad for watching his S/O without their knowledge. But this moment is too good to pass up. He doesn’t want to get caught and spoil this perfect moment.

• He frees himself from his pants and begins stroking himself softly. Paying most attention to the head. He tries to even his breath, his heart hammering in chest.

• He matches his S/O’s speed. He watches every little move they make. Every single twitch in their face, the way their toes curl, and especially how intently they stare at his picture, nothing goes unnoticed by him. His beloved’s moans are music to his ears. Finally they call out his name again. Loudly this time. He knows their body well enough to know they’re close. He bites his tongue trying not to make noise.

• He’s slightly surprised as his S/O looks over at him through the crack of the door. Apparently he didn’t hide well enough. They smile lazily at him as his S/Os pulls their hand out from between their legs and reach out their slick covered hand out to him. He cannot deny them. He enter the room and into the their arms.

• Now the other way around. Agito Can pretty much only masturbate thinking about his S/O. They are the object of his desires. He probably imagines them in all types of situations, he has a couple fantasies.

• if he’s feeling hot a bothered he would usually wait for them to get home and they’d help him. He rarely ever masturbates by himself. Only in front of or with his S/O if that is what they request.

• His S/O would have to be on his mind ALL DAY. He can’t get their face out of his head. He comes to their shared home and searches for them. Only to find a note saying they left for the store. He can’t wait any longer.

• He sits of their shared bed and unzips his pants. He starts jerking himself off slowly. He imagines it’s his S/O’s hand and not his. He closes his eyes and imagines their face twisted in pleasure. He remembers each and very curve of their body. He remembers how their heat feels as he plunges his cock in and out of them.

• He feels himself close to cumming but it’s not enough. He need to see their face. Finds a picture of him and his S/O together from a vacation. He and his S/O are standing side by side, they are hugging him, or well they’re struggling to fit their arms around his frame. His arm is on their shoulder.

• He looks into his lover’s smiling eyes. He pumps his cock more rapidly. So badly does he want to pin them to the ground and fuck them senseless. He’s so pent up.

• unbeknownst to him, his S/O arrives home with an arm full of groceries. They set them down then begin searching for their partner. They look into their shared bedroom to See him rapidly jacking off.

• Agito freezes when he feels arms wrap around him from behind. His S/O’s hands begin to replace his. “Need some help, Ag?” They whisper into ear. Though they’re cut off when Agito spins around and pushes them to the nearest surface. His S/O is able to deduce quickly that he’s in the mood to fuck them senseless. He undress his S/O quickly and shows them just how wild they drive him.

#kengan ashura x reader #kengan x reader #kengan omega #kenganverse #kengan ashura #kengan asura #kanoh agito #kure raian #nasty

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theataerravoltartist · 2 years ago

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I think, possibly, I might have found the best arc for Locke while hitting all of the bases. So basically rolling the two versions of him(writing wise) into one.

It would go something like this. He would get that vision of Knuckles dying( sorta obligatory at this point), go to Athair just for him to say something basic and cryptic like,"prepare yourself." Of course he internalizes it. Going out of his way to run tests on himself for the most optimal out come.

Knuckles is born but Locke is still second guessing as the perfectionist he is. He wants nothing more than his son to live a long life. So he takes the egg in the dead of night and used the chaos chamber without asking any other guardian. Why go through the chain of command when your are the youngest?(I really feel like age would hold much power with how the guardians are set up) Of course the doctors are confused but cannot question the guardian. One of them probably asks Laura-Le if she knew what he was up to and confused she sorta shrugs it off cause of baby brain.

Now every guardian is mad at Locke, specifically Spectre for such sudden action to be taken. Rules are placed specifically on Locke, making him more jaded in the process. "All of you would have done this for your children!"

Later down the line Locke proposes that the Master Emerald be brought underground making it harder to find and less of a risk. The idea is shot down primarily by Tobor and Thunderhawk.

When Knuckles is twelve he gets injured terribly. Locke having taken Sabre's advice walks a lap around Haven. Upon his return to the serveilance room he is mortified, remembering the vision of his son dying. Breaking all protocol, Locke rushes to Knuckles side bringing him back to Haven to tend to his wounds. For a full day Locke is able to treat Knuckles in peace, but the next day Sabre arrives. While happy his grandson is alive he gives Locke a verbal lashing for going against protocol. Locke retorts that Sabre would have done the same thing for him... right? Sabre shakes his head in a mournful fashion. Locke senses some unrest but is preoocupied with Knuckles.

As Knuckles heals and becomes more lively Locke realizes how much of his life he has missed out on. Living in fear wasn't the answer. Is being a guardian even worth the hassle? Locke enters the meeting room, every guardian alive is there. His own father standing at the opposing end. Sabre doesn't seem very enthused by what is about to take place, yet Locke can tell Sabre is falling back on his leadership persona for such an occassion. The guardians have deduced that Locke should not be allowed among their ranks any longer. His disreguard for protocols and previously ignoring the chain of command has netted him distrust among the others. Surprised by such a sudden scolding Locke asks why he wasn't given any warnings. None of them answer until Sabre remarks that he took the oath and knew the rules. He had warnings from the start. As Locke leaves, Sabre's voice breaks as he tells him Knuckles is no longer in his custody. Knuckles now belongs to the leader. Locke turns back, betrayal written on his face. He sees a single tear coming down Sabre's face."Then you will have to rip him from my cold, dead, hands."

Locke makes valiant attempts to retrieve Knuckles from the med bay only for the doors to shut. With Knuckles still in his weakened state teleporting the boy isn't an option. Locke beligerently leaves as it dawns on him that this is how Laura-Le undoubtedly felt when they divorced.

He has been getting calls from his mother periodically. The poor woman has no clue that her own family split. Locke gently tells her if she wants to speak with him it will have to be in person. He pulls his and Knuckles credit into new accounts before the others think to withdraw their lifes-earnings. Taking on a new name Locke finds a job within the medical field in IT. he still lurks in the areas he hopes to find Knuckles training at, yet so far those attempts have been fruitless.

He thought he could pull himself together by making friends in new places. He must be coming off as jaded since most of his colleagues tend to not acknowledge his existence. On his way home he sees Laura-Le at a coffee shop. Knowing she wanted space he avoids her only to abruptly feel a hand on his shoulder. She must have seen him through the window. She can see something is off from his uniform up to his face. He is tired, hopeless. Not the confident man she had married so long ago. She invites him to catch up with her at her place. Knowing she is an empath, he abliges. The insurmountable pain and pressure build as she guides him to be seated. Man up she doesn't need your sobstory. The moment she asks about Knuckles the dam breaks. He tells her everything that he can fumble from his mouth. He makes sure to apologize, she was right for her doubts. She was right to worry. "I knew this was wrong the moment we left college, but I didn't know how." Soothing him, she reminds him that the man he truly is is burried beneath the generational trauma, the lies, the gaslighting. Holding his face, she wipes some of his tears. Telling him that she can still see the man she fell in love with deep within, but he will have to fight hard to bring that man out to the forefront.

Life isn't perfect. He wants Knuckles at his side dearly. However, Laura-Le is showing him that he can be who he was thirteen years ago. She will help him in this journey. He asks her how she could still love him after all of this time. "I did not divorce you because I hated you. I hated who you became."

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Danggggg that was much longer than I anticipated! There is an alternative version where he could easily become an anti-hero, but I prefer this path. To note the,"cause I said so", attitude Locke bears in the comics is not reflected in this. I personally think it conflicts with the loving father theme that had been pushed in earlier issues. My go to for Locke is, Scientist dad who tries his hardest and is often misunderstood.

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Why am I still writing/thinking of obscure legacy characters? The child in my brain says I must. So anytime I rant about old echidnas the child in me has taken the reigns. It's also great practice for character analysis!

#archie sonic #locke the echidna #what if #wow this was long #thanks for reading

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grumpyhedgehogs · 4 years ago

Text

Rose Colored Glasses

Summary: Ethan sacrifices everything for family. Then, with help from a familiar face, he moves on.

Notes: Just a little something brought on by me lamenting the fact that there aren't enough fics out there that just have the Winterses and Bakers being normal friends and family.

AO3

The third time Ethan dies, he wakes up warm.

It’s a large step up from the frozen wasteland Eveline greeted him in, but the process of coming back is still just as painful. This time, it’s not his chest feeling hollow or his ribs burning as they scraped together after being shoved into the cavity where his heart was supposed to be. Now it’s mostly a full body ache; for a moment, before his thoughts reorder into some semblance of sense, Ethan thinks wildly that he has the flu, that everything since Mia had finished making dinner had to be a fever dream. She made soup--maybe because he’s been sick? She was always better at noticing when something was wrong than Ethan was. She probably put him to bed after dinner, gave him a cold compress maybe, and he’d passed out and thought up the entire nightmare because of that stupid children’s story.

The ache eases, though, almost immediately, leaving behind the warmth sinking into his bones. Ethan sighs but doesn’t open his eyes. It was all real--he knows that. He died--again--and now he’s...somewhere else. But the air isn’t cloying in his lungs, and he doesn’t hurt anymore, and it’s so, so comfortable, so he doesn’t suppose he minds too much. Rose is safe, Mia is safe, even Chris is safe. Hasn’t he earned a little rest? Hasn’t he earned the right to close his eyes for a while?

Sensation filters back in gradually, and Ethan realizes all of a sudden that he isn’t wearing his jacket or hoodie anymore. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbow. He doesn’t feel the heavy weight of his hiking boots on his ankles. His pants feel clean and unwrinkled, rather than stiff with bloodstains. There’s a constant pressure at his back holding him up, like lying on a brand new mattress. Then sound fills his ears; rain against a windowpane, his own soft breathing, the far-off sound of pots and pans and a stove turning on. His nose twitches when he smells something spicy and full-bodied, a good home-cooked meal. But Ethan still does not open his eyes. They’re too heavy. The ache has passed, but Ethan’s body is so very heavy.

Even when a hand passes over his brow, Ethan can’t seem to find the strength to open his eyes. The fingertips are square and blunt, the skin worn from hard work. The palm rests gently over his brow before moving on. Ethan thinks of Mia, running her fingers through his hair every time he’d get sick, and cannot keep in a tiny, miserable noise.

“Shh, you're alright, son,” says a familiar voice. It’s less rough now, less demented than Ethan remembers it. Kinder, definitely. “You’re alright now. You’ve gone through enough pain to warrant a little rest.”

Ethan murmurs incomprehensibly, even to himself, and drifts.

When he wakes again, he is still warm. It makes him sigh and settle before finally, finally, opening his eyes.

The room he is in is rustic, with old, worn carpets and wooden furniture. The bedframe is wood too, and his blanket a deep blue, obviously hand-knit. The rain still patters away at the window above his head, but it's gentle and calm. A pair of loafers he recognizes as his own wait at the foot of his bed.

Sitting at his bedside, his glasses slipping halfway down a sloping nose, is Jack Baker.

“Hello, Ethan.”

“Hello, Jack.”

Ethan sits up, scrubs a hand through his hair and over his eyes. A phantom pain twinges through his wrist and he hisses, but it’s gone the next second. Jack hums and nods. “You’re feelin’ some pain?”

“Just the old ones,” Ethan tells him, letting resignation drip from his words. Waking up to a dead man-turned-monster after his own death is just par for the course at this point. Somewhere between getting his hand chopped off by a monstrous version of his wife and realizing that Mother Miranda ripping his heart out was not, in fact, the first time he died, Ethan stopped trying to make the world make sense. Jack Baker waiting for him in the afterlife? Fine. Sure. Why not?

“That’ll happen for a while,” Jack tells him, still gentle as a lamb. “The older they are, the more the pains stick around. They’ll leave you eventually. Just takes some time.”

Ethan nods and swings his legs out of bed. He looks up, considering, and at the openness of Jack Baker’s face, quirks the corners of his mouth up. “This is it then, huh? This is the end.”

Jack smiles too, wider than Ethan thinks he could manage. “Don’t know ‘bout that--but this is what we have for now. Reminds you of old times, huh?”

“Just not the good times,” Ethan says.

“No,” Jack agrees tiredly. “Not the good ones.”

His companion is silent as Ethan slips on his shoes and, after another pause, clumsily folds the blanket he has been given. Afterwards, he has to admit he can’t prolong the inevitable any more. “What are you doing here, Jack?”

Jack seems to take him at his real meaning, take his words for what are you doing here with me, Jack? “You remember what I told you the last time we saw each other, son? What I asked you to do?”

“‘Free my family.’” Ethan repeats. Those words have haunted him for longer than he’d have thought possible. All that death and the blood resting squarely on his hands--could it really be labeled as freedom?

Jack leans forward and, telegraphing his movements, slowly places his hand over one of Ethan’s. His fingers are square and strong and soft against Ethan’s reflexive fist. He finds himself relaxing far more quickly than he’d have expected. “You did as I asked you, Ethan,” Jack tells him. “Even though it pained you, even though it was the most difficult thing in the world for me to ask of you, you helped us. You didn’t have to.”

Ethan stares at him blankly. “Sure I did.”

“Oh?” Jack smiles, leans back and crosses his arms. His rocking chair is more stable than the one they’d had Eveline’s old body stored in back in Dulvey. It creaks with his movements. “You could’ve broken a window and run for it. You found your wife and could’ve gone off into the woods instead of facing Eveline. But you stayed, and you helped, and now we’re here instead of stuck in that mold.”

“Well--but--it wasn’t like I had a choice--” Ethan tries, his tongue feeling thick and strange in his mouth. No one has ever actually sat and talked with him about what happened in Louisiana, never acknowledged what he’d had to sacrifice before Ethan himself brought it up. Even Mia shied away from it. Taking a deep breath, Ethan tried again. “It was just the right thing to do.”

“But you did it, Ethan. No one else. So thank you.”

And well, that is true, so Ethan keeps his mouth shut. He shrugs, feeling awkward and embarrassed and not sure why. Jack Baker takes pity on him after a silent moment. “Since you helped us, we decided to wait for you. To make sure y’all are safe and sound when it came to be your time.” Jack looks over the rim of his glasses at Ethan, and for a second Ethan feels like a little boy about to be scolded. “We thought it would be quite a while before you showed back up, son.”

Ethan snorts. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Don't see why you should apologize for saving your daughter. There is nothing disappointing about you, Ethan.”

That warmth increases in Ethan’s chest. “Who else is here? Marguerite?”

Jack nods and softly claps his hands on his thighs. “She was fit to be tied when you showed up so unexpectedly. She’s downstairs now, getting some supper ready. We figured you’d be a bit peckish.”

For how well his last dinner with the Bakers went, Ethan feels considerably less apprehensive at the smells wafting upstairs. “What about Eveline? Lucas?”

“Lucas comes and goes,” Jack tells him. “He’s--he’s Lucas. It’s been harder for him than the two of us. He’ll come around.”

Ethan privately thinks that is the absolute last thing Lucas Baker will ever do, but keeps it to himself. “Eveline?”

“Nowhere we can see.”

He thinks of the cold, the snow, the mud and dirt and loneliness he woke to when he died at Miranda’s hand. “She probably doesn’t like company these days,” Ethan mutters.

If he hears Ethan’s comment, Jack doesn’t react. He stands then, and cracks his back, letting out a loud groan. Ethan smiles a little more at the humanity in the action. This is who Jack must have been before--well, before everything. Perhaps, if he and Mia had met them under different circumstances, they'd have been friends with the Bakers. Perhaps neighbors. Perhaps they’d have let the Bakers babysit Rose once in a while.

“Zoe is the last one we’re waiting for,” Jack says. “She won’t be here for a long while, God willing. You’re welcome to wait with us for as long as you like, of course.”

“I’ll need to stay for Mia and Rose.”

“Of course. Would you like some company?”

Ethan blinks before taking Jack’s offered hand, letting the older man pull him to his feet. “You’d wait with me? Even if Zoe comes first?”

Jack claps a hand to Ethan’s shoulder and lets it rest there, warm and reassuring. “For as long as you’ll have us, Ethan, it would be our privilege.”

The gorge in his throat swells, his face grows tight and his eyes prick. “Thanks, Jack.”

Jack inclines his head and leaves the words hanging in the air between them, comfortable and knowing. As he turns to lead Ethan out of the room, Jack pauses. “Oh, you got any good stories about little Rosie? I’m sure Marguerite would love to hear some. Been such a long time since we had a baby in the house.”

Ethan smiles, and nods, and lets the warm glow of the home beyond his doorway guide him out.

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atlasshrugd · 4 years ago

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Hi seeing as you seem to be the only sorta active britin blog I can find lol I wanted to ask you about some of your favourite moments for them, as I'm kinda new to the fandom whatevers around lol, and would like to hear peoples thoughts on them if you don't mind answering 😊

Hey there! Sorry I am answering so late, but WOW this is a big ask because there are SO many favorite moments.

So I have narrowed it down to my Top 5:

1. Prom (obviously)

Okay this is a no-brainer. This is literally the most romantic sequence in all of television history. I still have not found something more beautiful, moving, triumphant, loving, and groundbreaking than when Brian and Justin danced to 'Save the Last Dance for Me' at prom. Obviously barring the horrific events of what followed, this scene transcended all stereotypes and barriers and allowed us as the viewers to feel pure happiness and pride as queer people. I remember seeing it for the first time at 14 and feeling so unadulteratedly happy and validated. This was a scene of two gay people unapologetically showing the world that they did not give a shit what anyone thought of them. The only thing that mattered was this thing between them; this unspoken understanding, solace, love, and pride. I still moves me to this day whenever I watch it, no matter how many times I do.

And of course we must talk about the implications of Brian's character in this scene. Throughout season 1, he has been an emotionally stunted and cold individual who does not believe in love, relationships, or trying to make other people happy. Here, in the finale, we see Brian finally putting away all his ego bullshit ("I wouldn't be caught dead in a room full of 18 year olds"), and going out of his way to make someone he cares about happy. The fact that he even showed up at Justin's prom is a direct U-turn from the moral principles he has been reinforcing all season. And by dancing to a "ridiculously romantic" corny song, waltzing, and kissing Justin in front of everyone without giving a shit — that is pride. That is one of Brian's long-accustomed walls tumbling down.

"And don't forget whose taking you home and in whose arms you're gonna be..."

2. When they make love for the first time after the bashing

Now these scenes...how do I describe the sheer profundity? After Justin's bashing at prom, Brian is left in shambles. He blames himself for everything, and it is just further proof that Brian's love always causes further destruction. Justin has lost all memory of that night at prom, and this is one of the big tragedies. Justin had promised that he'd never forget it, and that it was the best night of his life. That proof of Brian's love that he had for so long been longing to experience — has disappeared as if it never happened. Now, Justin's confidence and surety of the world has been distorted. He is no longer sure of anything, including himself and Brian. He needs reassurance and things spelled out for him.

When Brian and Justin sleep together for the first time after the bashing, it is not like all the other times they had sex. This, in fact, is the first time they make love. Justin is telling Brian that he trusts him wholeheartedly, enough to allow him in his body again after his own agency had been ripped away from him. This is where Justin absolves Brian of his guilt. He takes the blood-stained scarf off his shoulders, lets it fall to the ground. He gives Brian the forgiveness that Brian cannot offer himself.

"Like the first time?" Brian asks, because it is the anniversary of their first meeting, but at the same time—it is nothing like the first time. Now, they are not strangers. They are more acquainted with each other than they have ever sought to be; know each other in such profound depths. They are forever linked by this thing they have both experienced, but it is not just that shared trauma. It is based off deep understanding and love. They have, somehow along the way, become more each other than themselves. They know that they have become irreplaceable and inseparable parts of each other. And Brian has been holding onto that guilt for so long that it has become rooted deeply within him. SO when Justin absolves him of it, Brian allows himself to truly feel for the first time since the bashing. He gives himself to Justin, in that moment, as Justin gives himself to Brian. It is a brilliant and tender scene of trust, devotion, acceptance, and absolution. Something they both needed to soothe their troubled souls, and a new basis for their relationship.

3. When Brian helps Justin walk down the street after the bashing

Again, this is Brian showing nurturing, care, patience, compassion, and selflessness to another person. Justin trusts him enough to rely on him, and Brian doesn't take this trust lightly. These are some of the sweetest scenes of the whole show, because this is when Brian is completely focused and devoted to Justin. He wants to help him, more than anything, to get better. And he accepts and takes up this role of carer, not because he has to, or because he is obligated or forced to. But because he will do anything to ensure that Justin will be okay, and that he gets the life he deserves.

Specifically, my favorite scene is when the song 'Grand pianos crash together, when my boy walks down the street...' is playing. Justin is walking through a crowd and Brian has his arms outstretched. When they come together, they hug deeply and easily. This scene is so simple and pure, so chaste, but it shows the true essence of their relationship, beyond all the facades and bells and whistles. At the heart of it, Brian and Justin care about each other more than they care about themselves. They have established a stable foundation of trust that they can rely on. And it also perfectly encapsulates just how far Brian has come once again. He is showing such selfless care and devotion to a boy in public daylight, kissing and hugging him and not wanting to let go of his hand. Season 1 Brian would have never even considered that. This just shows how much the events of the prom changed him, and shows how his desire for responsibility of another person has matured him. He had been forced to face his inner feelings, fears, and truths. Now, they are out in the open for the first time and Brian accepts this. This alone is a huge development.

Brian is also afraid to let go of Justin. When Justin says he can walk back himself and says 'Later,' Brian repeats it apprehensively as he holds Justin's hand until he can't anymore. Then, he watches Justin go, walking through the crowds. The look on his face is wistful, a little troubled. He hasn't wanted to face just how much he enjoys Justin's presence and how much happier and content he is when Justin is with him. He hasn't wanted to face just how afraid he is to lose Justin again. Their words of 'Later' are a direct mirror of their last words on prom night, just before Justin got bashed. Brian had watched Justin walk away, too. And a second later, he was gone.

4. Pride

This is probably one of my all-time favorite scenes in television ever. I have cried each time I've seen it. There is something so pure, essential, liberating, triumphant and tender about this scene, and the song that plays (Chiquitita by ABBA) certainly shows it. Firstly, Justin accepts Brian in his entirety and doesn't expect him to change. He knows how much Brian has been devoting to Justin in his recovery, and how strange that role is for Brian. Here, he tells Brian to 'go find a stud, ask him to dance,' — because he knows how much Brian has been sacrificing for him. This alone shows Justin's maturity and inner strength. He loves Brian, so he will not try to change him or shackle him. He wants Brian to be free to choose and live the way he wants, and that is what he fell in love with.

But when Justin shows this sacrifical and detached love for him, Brian realises that there is nothing he wants to do; no one he wants to be with more — than Justin. He is aware of the myriads of choices he has. But he chooses Justin. (Technically, for the first time, perhaps aside from prom. But even at prom, he had been running from something [turning 30]. Here, he chooses Justin without pressure for the first time.)

So, he follows him outside. He ask him "Hey, stud. Wanna dance?" Justin doesn't believe him at first, because he is not used to Brian choosing him by his own volition. He cannot imaging Brian passing up getting laid, especially after being celibate for the whole day. He also feels like a burden; like Justin's recovery has been inflicted on Brian, stopping him from living his life normally. Justin loves Brian enough to let him be free, but the biggest part? Brian loves Justin enough to choose him in that freedom.

So this marks another checkpoint in their relationship. Not only is there trust, understanding, and love — there is also desire. Sure, they have always desired each other. But this desire is not the physical kind or one born out of loneliness. This is desire for the other person as a whole. This is desiring another person's company because theirs is the only company you want. This is desiring to be with someone when there are so many other options. This is real desire — the kind that originates from the heart and not the flesh.

"I promise you won't forget this one." Brian is promising Justin that this dance will be theirs, just theirs. Not to stick it to anyone, to show anyone anything, to make some kind of point, or to make somebody happy. This dance is theirs, for the reason that Brian wants Justin to have this: this moment where Brian only wants Justin, where he dances with him simply because he wants to. And he wants Justin to have this memory, to overcome all the vague blurriness of their past. He wants this dance to be the one he remembers when he questions himself. And so they dance, and they sway, and they kiss, and they press their heads together, and the lights are bright and colored on Liberty Avenue, and everywhere people are free and joyful, and there is nothing to prove, no one to run from, nothing to hide. Their arms are wrapped around each other and the sound of 'You'll be dancing once again...and the pain will end...you will have no time for grieving...' tumbles through the air and all around them. 'But the sun is still in the sky and shining above you.' Now: there is nothing to be afraid of, and everyday life is full of reasons to be alive. To be proud.

5. Their reunification

This is one of their main checkpoints. This scene is the moment they finally become equals. Justin had left Brian for the reason that Brian could not give him what he needed to be happy, which was: reassurance. After the bashing, Justin lost all sense of who he was. There was a huge gap in his memory, therefore a huge part of himself he could not claim. He had lost partial use of his dominant hand which took away the only thing that gave him solace; his drawing ability. He was no longer sure of anything and needed things spelled out for him. He needed to talk about it.

But Brian was not willing to do that, because he himself was struggling with trauma from the incident that he did not want to face. Where his love language is in acts of service (letting Justin live with him, paying for his tuition, helping him recover) — Justin needed to hear the words. He needed verbal affirmation to prove that he wasn't crazy and just projecting his feelings onto Brian. He could no longer trust his own perception and interpretation of things whereas in the past he could read Brian's mixed signals easily without needing confirmation. This is the part Brian failed to understand. He was not willing to concede his identified notions of 'relationships' and 'love' — no matter how far he came. He had not accepted that his feelings for Justin were love, and that scared him. So he refused to compromise with Justin, believing that his actions were enough when they weren't. But all Justin needed was to be heard, and for someone to love him enough to give hime what he needed sometimes (which was, verbal and emotional affirmation).

So their relationship ended, and Justin thought he could get what he needed from Ethan, which proved to be another big lie. So at the end, Justin still cannot trust his own perception, but — he finally knows what he wants.

He comes to the realization that while Brian could not give him the words, he gave him honesty. He learned from Ethan that words without action had no meaning. So he prioritized what mattered more to him: hearing that Brian loved him? Or, knowing that Brian loved him. So he chose honesty.

And this is when they could get back together without that imbalance and insecurity.

"And you are never to play violin music in my presence again." This single line is the only thing Brian needed to say to indicate to Justin that he was hurt by Justin leaving. Brian has been putting up a front of indifference for their entire break up, only indulging in pain management in private. Justin leaving him irrefutably hurt him more than he could have ever anticipated. But he did not show it.

So, Justin smiles — a little nod of awareness — because that is all Brian needed to say. And he says, "I promise."

"And it's time...that we...grow old and so some shit..." plays in the background (Lover's Spit) as they start to undress each other, because they are now on the same playing field. They have no illusions, misunderstandings, and misinterpretations anymore. They are starting anew; a little older and a little wiser than before. Brian knows how painful it is to lose Justin. Justin knows how skewed his perception had been, because he had been so caught up in his isolation that he could not see the truth of Brian's actions.

But they both know at least one thing: that life is better together than apart.

Tbh I could go ON and write a dissertation about each of these individual scenes, but I hope this made sense and gave a little more insight on these scenes and characters. Thank you for the great question!

#queer as folk #ask #britin #qaf #brian kinney #justin taylor #brian x justin #mine

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lucyintheskywithxanax · 4 years ago

Text

At 11:08pm In The Music Room, I Was Saved (Part 2)

Pairing: Wilhemina Venable x Fem Reader

Part 1

A/N: second and last part, lovelies. Thank you again anon for this prompt (I may have, once again, deviated from your original idea bear with me), and thank you @venablemayfairgoode for helping me figure out the end (tw: the death of a dog is mentioned :))))))) ). As always, English isn’t my first language. x

Word count: ≈ 7 000

You were so fucking pissed. Also, you couldn’t stop crying. The world had ended on a beautiful late spring afternoon and now, for some reason, you were trapped in a gloomy building with people you didn’t know and the woman who had broken your heart bossing you around.

And the worst was, you had been so relieved to know she had survived. And you shouldn’t have. But the tears you had cried on the plane to Outpost 3 had not only been for your family and friends; they had also been for her. They had mostly been for her. And you hated yourself because of that.

She looked different. Her clothes were darker, her hair was darker, her eyes were darker and they were glazed. They looked as if they were made of stone. Tourmaline maybe. Something bad must have happened to her, but you decided you didn’t care. Bad things had happened to you, too, and one of them she had caused.

“There’s been a mistake,” she said, voice very deep and very slow. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I don’t want to be here,” you sobbed.

“You were assigned at Outpost 2.”

You were so mad at her. Had she done this? Ripped you from your family and sent you to this dark place to spend the rest of your life consumed by grief and guilt and hatred? She couldn’t have done this, she wouldn’t have done this but then again and was that panic in her eyes? It was gone before you had time to take a good look at it, but you knew her. You knew how to read her.

“Why are you here?” she asked, as if you had chosen to, as if it had been your decision.

“Because some rude guys barged into my flat and shoved me into a plane,” you sobbed, wiping your nose on the back of your hand. “I don’t want to be here,” you repeated.

“You should’ve been sent to Outpost 2,” she said. She was trying so hard to hide the confusion from her face, but you saw it, and you saw that flash in her eyes again and it was panic.

Suddenly it hit you: how could she know where you should have been sent? How could she –

“Did you…” It was hard to speak. Your throat was too tight. Your eyes widened with horror, and hers hardened. “Are you the reason why I’m here?”

You were vaguely aware that everyone else in the room was staring at you and Wilhemina. You should have felt ill-at-ease, should have felt shy. But all you could feel was anger.

“I don’t want to be here!” you cried again, but this time it was fierce. This time it was a cry of rage.

Wilhemina tapped her cane on the ground. The sound echoed off the walls.

“Better sad than dead,” she said coldly. And then she proceeded to ignore you as she explained the house rules.

You barely heard what she said. You were burning, and you couldn’t stop your tears from falling. This was not happening. You were in a dream. You would wake up and everything would be alright. You would count to ten and the nightmare would end.

You counted to ten. It didn’t end.

What you did hear of Wilhemina’s speech sounded ridiculous. No technology? No sex? Death punishment for intimacy? People basically being your slaves? Her eyes were too cold. They were glazed. This wasn’t the Wilhemina you knew. The Wilhemina you knew had used cruelty for protection. This one used cruelty for fun.

A few people protested, but the protests didn’t last long. This Wilhemina was just as scary as the one you knew.

And then she was leaving, to the sound of her cane, every tap a stab to your heart. A Grey led you to your room and you collapsed on your bed, hugged your pillow, and cried.

The next few days you didn’t leave your room often. You felt so empty. You spent most of your time lying on your bed and grieving the people you had lost. You got up for lunch and dinner. Sat at the table and stared at your plate as the others tried to make small talk. The food cube had no taste. It felt like jelly in your mouth. You hated it. You hated having to swallow it. You hated how it never soothed the hunger in your stomach.

You sat on the left side of the table. Wilhemina sat at the head of it. The light from the candles would glint off your food cube and fork. Coco sat on your left, a girl named Mary on your right. Coco would do most of the talking. Complaining, really. Sometimes – but only sometimes – you would glance in Wilhemina’s direction. Once or twice, she met your eyes. Hers were cold and like a black hole.

After the first week your tears finally subsided. You spent more time in the music room with the others, playing board games, reading, talking. Coco was a bitch, but she made you laugh, and you soon befriended the girl named Mary. She was about your age, was very shy and didn’t speak often. She kept in her pocket a photo of the dog she had owned and loved more than anything else, a small, sweet thing with big black eyes named Sam.

You didn’t know how Wilhemina spent her days. You barely ever saw her. You could forget her, you thought, if you didn’t dream of her every night. You would forget her if only your stupid heart would stop skipping a beat and break into a gallop every time you heard the familiar sound of her cane, letting you know she was coming, she was coming! in a second you would see her and be near her and hear her voice. You would forget her if she wasn’t your first thought every damn morning when you woke up. If when she was near you, you didn’t feel like you were burning and suddenly became aware of every single sound that was her, the rustle of her dress, her breathing, her heart beating, her eyelashes fluttering, everything.

You barely ever saw her, but when you did, time stopped, and it lasted forever.

You fell into a routine. Aimless, dreary. Getting out of bed every morning. Eating your food cube. Making small talk with the other residents. A teary-eyed Mary showing you her picture of Sam. Trying not to think, not to remember. It went on like this for a week and a half, until two Greys were found having sex and were sentenced to death.

It was Mary who told you the news, just before dinner. At first you thought she was joking. But then every soul at the Outpost was talking about it and even Coco seemed scared.

You didn’t know the Grey girl, but you had spoken to the boy once or twice. His name was Mark. He smiled at you every time you would meet him in a corridor.

You ate your food cube in complete silence and shock. When dinner was over, when Wilhemina stood up and walked off, you didn’t think. You stood up, too, and followed her.

She didn’t become aware of your presence until she was halfway down the corridor to her room. You saw her slow down, come to a halt. She tapped her cane on the floor, then turned on her heel.

Time slowed down. You noticed every detail, even the smallest ones. The way the candlelight glided over her cheekbones as she turned. You were still so attuned to her, every inch of her.

You stopped breathing as her eyes locked with yours. And it would have been so easy, to take a step forward, to wrap your arms around her waist, to pull her close and go back home. It seemed her eyes were pleading you to do just that.

But then she blinked, and her eyes turned cold. Glazed. Tourmaline. You felt your body stiffen.

“May I speak to you?” you asked, almost a hiss. Then you added, “Ms Venable.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly at you, raised her chin. “I do not care to hear what you have to say,” she said coldly.

You took a step forward and snarled, “I will say it. You can either listen to me here, or in your room. Office. Whatever.”

Her nostrils flared, and for a second you thought she was going to slap you. You had seen her slap some of the other residents who had dared question her rules. That was one of the things the new Wilhemina had no problem doing.

But she merely nodded, almost imperceptibly, and led you to her room.

You tried not to look. At the bed, perfectly made, at the pillow where she laid her head every night. At the vanity where she did her hair and make-up every morning. All the small rituals you knew so well.

It hurt. Merely standing there in her room felt like someone was crushing your heart between cold fingers.

You came to a halt in the middle of the room and tried to swallow past the lump in your throat. Wilhemina stopped in front of you, rested both her hands on the head of her cane.

How did she look so different? Why was her face so hard and so cold? She reminded you of the ancient statues of Greek or Italian gods. The powerful, lifeless stare. The dangerous power. How she could destroy you – how she had destroyed you – with one word or one tap of her cane on the floor.

You searched her face for the light, for the fear, for the love, the shyness and the boldness, the desire to be completely, truly seen and loved. You found nothing.

“Well?” she asked, annoyed, after a while.

You cleared your throat. “I heard you’re gonna have Mark and that Grey girl executed tomorrow morning.”

“You heard right,” she mocked.

You cleared your throat again. Your right hand twitched at your side. “Why?”

She made an annoyed noise. “You know why. They didn’t follow the rules. They put their own little disgusting needs first and compromised the group. We cannot have more mouths to feed.”

“Disgusting needs,” you repeated automatically. You took one step towards her and raised your head defiantly. “I don’t remember you calling sex ‘disgusting’ when we were doing it.”

Something flashed in her eyes. Something that almost looked familiar.

“Don’t be crude,” she hissed.

“You cannot have those two Greys killed,” you went on, ignoring her. “That’s murder, Wilhemina.”

Her name dropped from your mouth before you had time to think. You paused. She didn’t react.

“I know you’re better than that,” you added, taking another step towards her. Closer. You wanted to reach out and touch her. It seemed to you she was leaning forward, forward – towards you. It seemed to you her eyes flicked to your lips.

How you had missed her. How you missed her still. How you wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her and demand an explanation as to why she had destroyed your world, stolen all the stars from your night sky. How had she dared, who did she think she was, and what had happened to her that had stolen all the light from her eyes?

“For God’s sake, Wilhemina,” you cried when still she didn’t react, didn’t speak, didn’t move, “you can’t kill two people for being in love!”

“Why not?”she hissed, low and dangerous, like a snake.”What’s so special about love?”

“You know what’s so special about love. You felt it.” A pause. “And don’t tell me you didn’t. You may think you were good at hiding your feelings, but you weren’t.”

Wilhemina’s gaze hardened. “Those two Greys will die tomorrow at dawn,” she answered emotionlessly.

You raised your hands in frustration. “What’s wrong with you?” you cried. Again, she didn’t react. Her silence only fueled your anger. “If you do that,” you went on, gritting your teeth to stop yourself from yelling the words, “if you have them killed, you’ll be walking down a path I cannot follow you on.” You gave a mirthless laugh. “But I guess you don’t care. Who am I kidding? You don’t want to have anything to do with me anymore. You made that clear months ago. But ask yourself this question, Wilhemina: will you be able to sleep knowing you’ve killed two innocent people?”

Oh, she would. Without a doubt she would. She knew it and you knew it and you saw it on her face. Yours turned sickly pale.

“Okay,” you mumbled, lowering your head in defeat. “Okay. I – you know what, I –“ You met her eyes again. “I don’t even know how I could fall in love with you in the first place.”

She swallowed, but her face remained blank. But that familiar something flashed in her eyes again, something sad, that looked almost like the Wilhemina she used to be.

You knew confronting her would likely make her shut down. You knew that. But you were only human, for God’s sake, and you had been hurt and betrayed and it was a well-known fact, that anger was stronger than Man.

So you took yet another step towards her and clenched your fists.

“I have questions,” you growled, “and you’re going to answer them. Why am I here? What made you think you could dump me with no explanation? Did you even love me, or was it all a game to you?”

By the end of your little outburst you were breathless, and Wilhemina, the Wilhemina you had tried to reach and caught a glimpse of, had been roughly locked away.

“Say one more word,” she enunciated, glazed, empty eyes staring right into yours,” and I’ll have you arrested and whipped every day until you meet your pitiful end.”

You opened your mouth, but she cut you off. “Don’t forget who you are, Y/N. I’m the only one who has authority here. If you question me or my rules again, I’ll make sure that insolent tongue of yours is nicely severed from the rest of your body. And don’t think I won’t enjoy watching.”

Your whole body was shaking. But it wasn’t with fear. It was with rage, and with something else you didn’t like at all, for that something else was love. Love that was terrified and aching because this wasn’t her, this wasn’t right, and part of you desperately wanted to make it right again.

Someone knocked on the door. Your eyes widened.

Don’t, you screamed at Wilhemina in your head. Ignore whoever it is. Talk to me. Let me in, let me help you, let me –

“Yes?” Wilhemina called.

The door opened, and Mary shyly stepped into the room. “I, um, I’m sorry to bother you,” she said in her sweet, low voice. “But, um, Y/N, I need your help with something.”

“Can’t it wait?” you asked her, your gaze not leaving Wilhemina’s face, your voice shaking, your body shaking with rage and love and ache.

“Obviously it cannot,” Wilhemina answered, eyes boring into you. “Or else little Mary wouldn’t have been brave enough to push that door open.”

Mary shot her a scared glance and immediately lowered her eyes again.

Send her off, you begged Wilhemina. Make me stay.

Her gaze was too intense, it was too cold, too dark. You lowered your head and turned to Mary.

“I lied,” Mary whispered once she had closed the door behind you two. She glanced up at you with a smile. “I don’t need your help with anything. I just thought I should come and rescue you.”

You swallowed. Your body was still shaking, and you couldn’t unclench your fists. “Right.”

“I heard her threaten you. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you retorted sharply.

Wilhemina wouldn’t hurt you, you thought. She had only tried to scare you, to push you away. She would never carry out her threat.

But then again. You didn’t know what this new Wilhemina was capable of. Fear vaguely sang in your chest. Maybe she had meant every word.

“If there’s anything I can do to help you,” Mary was saying, “please tell me. I’ll be happy to listen.”

You thanked her, told her you wanted to be alone, and went to your room.

Wilhemina had decided the execution would be public to set an example. All the residents of Outpost 3 gathered in the music room and the two Greys who were to die were ordered to sit down on their knees in the middle of the room. They were both crying. Pathetic. Weak. Wilhemina looked down on them and smiled to herself.

A guard walked in with a gun. The Grey boy whimpered.

Someone – the hairdresser – mumbled something, a protest probably, but he was too scared to say it loudly. The old lady who had once been a star nodded at Wilhemina and gave her a smile and a thumbs up. Wilhemina ignored her.

You were standing in front of her slightly on her left, by Mary’s side. Wilhemina was trying not to pay you attention, but somehow you were the only person she could see.

You spent an awful lot of time with Mary, she had noticed. Laughing together, talking together, napping together. Good thing for you. Mary was just the type of person who would treat you right. She’d be kind, and happy, and healthy, and enough.

The Grey boy said something, pleaded for his life, probably. Wilhemina didn’t care. She didn’t listen. She nodded to the guard, and he crossed to him, holding the gun in front of him.

Wilhemina saw Mary grab your hand, saw you touch your shoulder to hers. Oh, you would be alright.

She didn’t know why, but her eyes had started to sting. Her hands were shaking. She willed them not to. They would not stop.

The guard raised his gun, pointed it at the Grey boy’s head, but Wilhemina didn’t see him, not really. She saw you turn your head and look at her, your eyes glossy and pleading, your hand holding Mary’s, and Wilhemina took a sharp intake of breath and felt tears pool in her eyes for she had loved and loved you and she had lost you. And now she was losing you again.

But she couldn’t go back, not now. She would lose her authority, she would be laughed at. And besides, she didn’t want to. This execution was the right thing to do. It would make everyone at the Outpost fear and respect her. They would bow their heads to her and they would hate her but they would never, never laugh at her.

There was a low but fierce shout, “Stop!” Your voice.

The guard lowered his arm slightly. He looked at you, confused, then at Wilhemina, awaiting orders. You stepped forward, letting go of Mary’s hand, came to a halt as if you weren’t sure what to do. A second passed. Then you crossed to Wilhemina, cupped her face in your hands, searched her eyes and murmured, “I love you.”

Something inside of her melted. The warmth from your touch and the warmth from your voice seeped into her and turned ice into water. The water washed down everything and left her insides dripping wet and glinting in the sun like after a hurricane.

You had spoken too low for the others to hear, but they saw the change on Wilhemina’s face. They saw her eyes widen and the light weave in as if she had opened a blind to let the sun in. They saw life and emotion settle back on her face and soften it.

For the first time since the world had ended, since you had walked into this music room sobbing and looked up and met Wilhemina’s eyes, you found her again. And you fell in love with her all over again.

You tried to give her a smile, and it was small and quivering, but it was genuine. It was fond. Wilhemina’s lips parted on a breath as she searched your eyes, wondering, hoping, and when she blinked a tear rolled down her cheek and you caught it with your thumb. You were crying, too, but you smiled again, stroke her cheek. You felt the tension leave your shoulders.

The gunshot echoed off the walls as loud as a crack of thunder. It made everyone in the room jump. The Grey girl screamed as Mark slumped onto the floor at the guard’s feet. The guard moved his hand, pointed his gun at the girl and pulled the trigger.

The second gunshot was louder, somehow. It deafened you and left a ringing in your ears. Your hands fell from Wilhemina’s face as you both turned to stare at the two corpses. Blood slowly pooled around them and shone faintly in the candlelight.

The guard met your horrified gaze and shrugged. “Following orders,” he said nonchalantly. “It was taking too long.”

Wilhemina was staring down at the two dead bodies with an unreadable expression on her face. Then she looked up at the guard, and her eyes were glazed again.

“I didn’t order you to shoot,” she said coldly.

“You did,” the guard argued.

“She told you to stop,” Wilhemina said, nodding at you, her voice growing angry now.

The guard shrugged again. “I only take my orders from you.” He raised his gun and held it to his chest, a defiant look in his eyes.

Someone in the room was crying softly. You didn’t know who. Your mind had gone numb.

Wilhemina turned away from you. Slowly, regally, she walked to the corpses, her dark, glazed eyes fixed on the boy’s head. She stopped in front of him and tapped her cane on the ground. Then she gave orders to carry the corpses outside and burn them.

Dinner was silent that night. You swallowed your food cube and drank your water. You couldn’t look at Wilhemina. Coco tried to diffuse the tension with a few sly remarks that made some of the residents laugh nervously. When dinner was over, you excused yourself and went to your room.

You lay on your bed and prayed for sleep, but sleep, unsurprisingly, didn’t come. You turned and turned until you gave up. You sat up with a groan and buried your face in your hands.

Blood, slowly pooling. The two bodies, not moving. Wilhemina’s eyes, widening. A tear rolling down her face, that you caught with your thumb. You couldn’t chase those images from your mind.

It hadn’t been her fault, not really, you told yourself. She would have spared them in the end. You knew it. Without a doubt.

You buried your fingers in your hair, dug your nails into your skull. She would have spared them, for the Wilhemina you knew had come back, if only for a few seconds – and she had been hopeful, and you had been, too.

And you knew you should still be mad, you knew it was too early to forgive her. But you were ready to surrender and fall back into her arms the second she’d want you back. If she ever decided she wanted you back.

There was a whisper, in your head, that assured you she did.

At 11:00pm you gave up on trying to sleep. You got up and went to the music room, hoping someone would be there and would like to talk to help you pass the time. Maybe Coco, for she would make you laugh. Or Mary, for her kindness would soothe you.

There was only one person, and it was Wilhemina. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of her. You thought it was because of annoyance, or disappointment maybe. Bullshit, your heart told you. She had been the one you had wanted to find.

Wilhemina was sitting in an armchair, her hands resting on the head of her cane, her eyes fixed on the fire. She raised her head when she heard your footsteps, and met your eyes.

“What are you still doing up?” she asked, not unkindly.

“There’s no curfew I know of,” you replied, probably too sharply, but Wilhemina didn’t seem to mind. She nodded, then resumed her staring at the fire.

For a minute you hesitated. Going back to your room was the wisest and safest option. But before you had consciously taken your decision, your feet moved towards Wilhemina. A moth drawn to a flame. Always, when it came to her.

You sat on the armchair opposite the hearth from her. For a long moment there was only silence. The fire crackled lazily and warmed you up.

You glanced up at Wilhemina, only to realize she was staring at you. You quickly lowered your gaze, nervously shifted in your armchair, then glanced at her again.

The expression on her face wasn’t closed, you noticed. There was a wistfulness to it, some sprinkles of curiosity, too. You felt hopeful again.

“So,” you said, assuming a casual tone as if you two were having a friendly conversation in a bar, “what’s your plan in the long run?”

Wilhemina watched you for a few seconds before she answered. Her voice was emotionless. “The Cooperative should contact me soon enough with new instructions.”

That’s not what you had meant. You had meant about her and you. But you let it drop.

“So you’re still following orders, uh?” you taunted. “I thought you were the only boss around here.”

“This is bigger than this outpost,” Wilhemina replied coldly. “This is about building a new, better world, where everyone is at their rightful place according to their worth and abilities.”

“What is my rightful place in this new world, do you think?” You waited, but no answer came.”What is yours?” you tried again. “Let me guess. You are the feared, hated leader. Making sure everyone respects you, making sure everyone survives. Noble work, but it sounds awfully lonely. Wouldn’t you rather fall asleep in somebody’s arms every night?”

Wilhemina’s expression hardened. She kept silent, which surprised you, and averted her eyes from your face to stare at the fire again.

You watched her. You watched the shadows the flames threw on her face. Followed the arch of her brow, the line of her mouth.

Had she done something to her hair, or was it the dim light? It was darker now. She had let you dye it once when you two had been dating. You had frowned at the smell and coughed and splashed the walls with tiny dots of orange. Wilhemina had tried to scold you, but she had burst into laughter instead, her hair piled on top of her head. She had let you wipe the dye splatters from her face and tuck her hair in a shower cap. And while the dye processed, she had sat on the couch reading and you had rested your head on her lap and grinned at her.

Wilhemina cleared her throat, bringing you back to reality.

“What you said earlier, did you really mean it?” she asked in a low voice, still staring at the fire. “Or were you only trying to save the Greys?”

You leaned forward, digging your elbows into your thighs. “I’ll answer that once you’ve answered my own question. Why did you leave me?”

A pause. An annoyed look.

“Because I felt like it,” Wilhemina replied.

Your jaw dropped. “Wow. Because you felt like it?” You shook your head, anger rising in your chest. “I don’t believe you. I’ll ask it again. Why did you leave me?”

Wilhemina’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve just told you why. It’s not my fault you’re too proud to accept it.”

“Why did you leave me?” you repeated, clenching your fists.

Wilhemina made an angry noise. She tapped her cane on the floor, then slowly stood up. You jumped on your feet and followed her when she crossed the room and turned right down a corridor.

“Did you wake up one morning and realize you didn’t love me?” you called, as she opened the door to her room. You stepped inside after her. “You’d had your fun, but now it was time to plan the end of the world? Uh? Do you have any idea,” you growled, voice growing louder and angrier, “how it felt to watch you leave without even knowing what I did wrong?”

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Wilhemina said, voice quavering.

“Then why the fuck did you leave?” you growled, taking one step toward her. “Tell me! For fuck’s sake, I deserve an explanation!”

She couldn’t meet your eyes anymore. She was staring at the floor and her breathing was quickening at it always would when she was trying not to cry. And suddenly you were in the company of the Wilhemina you knew, the one you loved, the one who didn’t think she should be soft and kind but was still willing to try, for you.

“Elijah came to see me,” she answered, so low you barely heard it.

“So what?” you growled. “You fucked him and realized he was your one true love?”

She winced, and you bit your cheek, thinking that maybe you had gone a bit too far. But she deserved it, part of you thought. She had hurt you too badly.

You waited, but she didn’t add anything after that. So, rage beating inside your chest instead of your heart, you strode to her and planted yourself right in front of her, fuming, and she flinched but held her ground.

“Tell me,” you hissed through gritted teeth. “Why did you leave me?”

She drew in a breath, turned away from you and crossed to her chest of drawers. You were about to yell at her when she opened one of the drawers, closed it again. She crossed back to you and dropped something into your hand.

A lighter. Small and black and plain. You stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“What…?”

Wilhemina had never been good with words. But when you two had been dating, she had been willing to open herself up to you in any way she could. Actions sometimes were easier, she had found.

You glanced up at her, then back down at the lighter in your palm. “I don’t understand,” you said.

Wilhemina had averted her gaze from you again. “I couldn’t pick it up from the floor,” she whispered brokenly.

It didn’t hit you all at once like a revelation. Instead it felt like something spreading inside your head. A bubble. Slowly inflating until it burst.

“What?”

Somehow, it was the only thing you could say.

Wilhemina squared her shoulders, raised her chin, built up her walls. She met your eyes and glared.

“You got what you wanted. Now leave before I feed you to the monsters outside.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but instead you burst into tears.

Your chin dropped to your chest and you sobbed, as Wilhemina stared at you in shock. She extended one hand towards you, hesitated, changed her mind. Her brow pushed up in confusion and concern as she waited for you to calm down, dying to touch and comfort you, but not daring to. She had lost you, after all. She hadn’t been enough.

Some people are just too fucked up to be loved, Elijah had said. She could hear his voice now as if he were saying it again, remembered his exact intonation, the way he had pronounced every syllable.

“It’s alright,” she tried after a little while. “He was right.”

“Who was right?” you sobbed, wiping your eyes.

“Elijah. I did the right thing for you.”

That made you burst into tears again. Except this time, you wrapped your arms around Wilhemina’s waist and pulled her close.

She stiffened against you, but you buried your face in her chest and held her tight and cried and cried at how blind you had been. Your heart broke, but this time it didn’t break for you. It broke for her. For how low her self-esteem was, how she had tried over and over again to be kinder and softer and yet had still been convinced loving her was a burden. Loving her had been the best thing in your whole goddamn life.

Tentatively, Wilhemina slipped one arm around your waist and rested her chin on top of your head.

“I’m gonna bring Elijah back from Hell and kill him,” you mumbled against her chest.

“But he didn’t do anything wrong,” Wilhemina replied. “He was right. All he did was love you so much he only wanted the best for you.”

You shook your head, wailing as Wilhemina brought her free hand up to your head and started stroking your hair.

“I’m so sorry,” you choked. “I’m so sorry.”

Wilhemina’s fingers stuttered in your hair. “What for?” she asked, and you couldn’t see her face but you knew what her expression must be like right now, brow pushed up in confusion, eyes wide as she tried to think of something to say or do to help you calm down.

You sobbed against her chest and tightened your grip on her. “I’m so sorry he did this to you and I let him.”

“I don’t –“She paused, hesitated. “I don’t understand,” she breathed after a moment, which only made you cry harder.

You felt her body stiffen again. “No no no, please don’t cry,” she pleaded. Her hand hovered over your head, afraid to touch you now. “I’ll stop talking, I’m sorry, I’m going to shut up. But please don’t cry.”

You clung to her, clutching the back of her dress, wishing that you could… you didn’t really know what. Let her creep inside of you, let her nestle by your heart so the outside world could never hurt her ever again.

When you had calmed down enough to speak, you asked her what Elijah had told her exactly. You wanted to hear every word, so you could erase them from her brain and replace them with words of truth and love.

You had expected her to refuse, to shut down and keep silent. But to your utter surprise, she let out a shaky breath, pressed her cheek against your head, and started to speak.

It was barely a whisper, and at first she paused and hesitated every second or so; but then, words poured out of her, ashamed and painful. You closed your eyes against a fresh wave of tears as you listened.

It didn’t last long. When she was done, her whole body slackened and you tightened your grip on her, afraid she was going to collapse on the floor. She didn’t, though. She nuzzled your hair and sighed.

She hadn’t broken up with you because of you. She had done it for you. Or at least, she had thought so. And it made everything worse, for you had said hurtful things to her. Accused her of things that had never even crossed her mind. Rubbed salt on the wound.

Not your fault, said a voice in your head. You hadn’t known.

After a quiet moment had passed, you took a deep breath and pulled away. Wilhemina let out a faint noise of protest, but you cupped her face and locked eyes with her.

“Have you ever thought that, maybe,” you whispered, offering her a small, teary smile, “I’m the only one who can decide what and who’s enough for me?”

Wilhemina’s eyes widened a bit. You gave her another smile, then let go of her face and looked around the room.

“You said Elijah told you you could never be enough for me and you believed him,” you said, gathering unlit candles in your hands. “I know this kind of thoughts don’t go away easily. I know it takes time and work. But let me show you something.”

You came to a halt in front of Wilhemina and held out the lighter. She glanced at it, then met your eyes, frowning. You leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on her mouth. Wilhemina’s lips parted on a breath as you pulled away.

You smiled. “Let’s pretend these candles are my heart. Shush, let me finish. Sit down. Let me show you how you light up my heart.”

You set the first candle down on the bedside table. “Remember the day we met at the supermarket? I was blocking the aisle with my cart and you snapped at me. Told me my ass was too big for this world.” You chuckled softly at the memory. “My life was so boring before that day. I hadn’t realized it, but it lacked challenges, it lacked passion. It’s like my brain was asleep, and with just a few words, you awoke it.”

You flicked the lighter and lit the candle. The flame flickered, then grew. You glanced at Wilhemina, gave her a smile.

“Remember the first time we made love?” Wilhemina’s eyes were riveted on the burning candle. You bit your lower lip, set a second candle on the chest of drawers. “You were so nervous, and you tried to hide it, but Mina, honestly, I can tell you now, you weren’t very successful. You thought you would hurt me or not know how to pleasure me. Remember how many times you made me come that night? You’re a great lover, Mina. And you sure have talent in these fingers and tongue of yours,” you teased. Wilhemina’s eyes, wide and shining, flicked to you. “But do you know what you’re even better at? The way you take care of me after. The way you cannot seem to be able to stay away, how you always snuggle up to me and hold me and ask me if it was good.” You lit up the second candle.

You took a third one, put it on the floor by the door. “Remember my birthday?” you went on. “I’d spent the last one alone. You brought me breakfast in bed, bought me flowers and a cake.”

“I ruined your birthday cake,” Wilhemina whispered sadly.

You shook your head, flicking the lighter again. “But you bought it. For me. To celebrate me.”

You crossed to the other side of the room, set two candles on the vanity. “I don’t know if you’re even aware you did it, but you’d always fluff my pillow when you’d make our bed in the morning. You’d never fluff yours. Only mine.”

Wilhemina let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“It’s only one example of all the things you did that made me feel so loved. Like how you’d always buy pears even though you don’t like the taste of them, just because you knew I do. Or how you read the whole of War and Peace just because I said it’s one of my favorite books. That’s more than a thousand pages, Mina.” Your voice broke as your lips parted on a smile. “You didn’t even think it was that good. But you read the whole thing. Valentine’s Day. You said you hated Valentine’s Day. You bought me flowers and chocolates and tickets for Carmen. Front row center seats, Mina.”

You were crying again by now, but these tears were happy. You set the last candle by the bed. “You made sure I’d survive the Apocalypse. It was you, wasn’t it? I don’t know how you did it, but I’m sure it was you. I used to be mad at you for having saved me but left all my friends and family to die. But you saved me. Gave me another chance at life. Because you still cared about me.”

Wilhemina sniffed, wiped her nose on the back of her hand. You walked around the bed and took her hand.

The whole room was studded with bright, dancing dots of light, as if you had stuck your head into the night sky. Wilhemina’s hand was shaking, but she laced her fingers with yours and gave them a tight squeeze.

“So, you see,” you whispered, “see how bright you make my heart shine.”

A sob pushed out of Wilhemina’s throat. She wrapped her free arm around her waist, hugging herself as she cried. You leaned towards hers, bumping her shoulder with yours. For a while she didn’t move; then she, tentatively, laid her head on your shoulder. And then, as you did not protest, did not push her away, she slipped her arm around your waist and pulled you close.

Her hand cupped your face and her mouth crashed against yours as she sobbed and you sobbed and kissed her fervently back. How you had missed this. How you had missed her. One of your arms wrapped around her shoulders to press her closer still, tongue sliding inside her mouth. You were shaking, entirely too hot and so, so alive.

Something seemed to break loose inside Wilhemina. She let out a noise like a whimper, and suddenly she was crying over and over again “I’m so sorry” and “please” and “don’t go”. You pulled away slightly, cupped her face to make her look at you.

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered. “I forgive you.”

Her shoulders slumped with relief as another sob pushed up her throat. “But what about Mary?” she hiccupped.

You frowned, stroking her cheek. “What about Mary?”

“And what about the two Greys?” she went on, voice growing frantic and breathless. “What about the rules? I’ll hurt you again, I’ll hold you back, I’m too fucked up –“

“None of that,” you shushed her gently.

“But I –“

“No.” A kiss on her mouth, slow and sweet, meant to reassure. You tugged softly at her lip, and she moaned, dug her fingers into your skin. She let out a breath that went all the way down into your lungs, and sank into you.

After a moment, she rested her cheek on your shoulder and opened her eyes to look at all the lighted candles. You held her, stroking the nape of her neck, rubbing circles on her back.

The candles were burning. They lit up the room.

Tag list: @sapphicsarahpaulson @mssallymckenna @supremeinlilac @pluied-ete @rainbow-hedgehog @pearplate @angelxsarahp @paulawand @asktammyr @peggycarter-steverogers @coconutlipss @saucy-sapphic @thesupremewife @coxmicbabygirl

#does reader forgive wilhemina too quickly in that one?#yes #but i want to give w all the love and no one but god can stop me #ahs #ahs imagines #sarah paulson #sarah paulson x reader #wilhemina venable x reader #wilhemina venable #fics

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tinydooms · 3 years ago

Note

I don't know if you're aware of the Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries television series (and movie!). But given that it's set in the same era, I'd love to see a cross over story with The Mummy series. Please? (But only if you feel so inclined. No pressure).

I am familiar with Miss Fisher! I prefer the books over the series, but both are fun and I love that Phryne was an ambulance driver in the war. Here is your fic! I hope you like it. :-)

The Somme, Flanders, October 1916

The mud is cold and putrid and wet with blood and shit and bits of corpses, and Jonathan is deeply offended that this is where he is going to die. He has no idea where the bullet came from, but he’s only about fifty feet from the trench. Fifty feet. If he can just crawl back fifty feet, maybe, maybe, he will survive this. Jonathan swallows. Mustard gas is falling all around him. He lies at the edge of a pit filled with gas. One false move and he will fall into that pit, and then it’s curtains. There is nowhere to go, either; to his right, barbed wire tangles around dead bodies. Jonathan sinks his fingers into the mud, trying to gain a purchase that will keep him out of the gas. The pain in his leg is incredible. He is so terrified he can barely think.

“Help!” he tries to shout, only it comes out a whisper. Help, help me, I want to go home.

“Hey!” someone behind him bellows. A hand wraps around Jonathan’s ankle. “Don’t move! I’ve got you.”

“I’ve been shot,” Jonathan says.

The voice, lightly accented, is calm, almost unperturbed, which is extraordinary in this chaos. “I see that. Don’t worry and keep still. I’m going to pull you back.”

Hands on his ankles, tugging. Pain rips through Jonathan; he screams, but his rescuer doesn’t stop pulling. Slowly, slowly, he slides backwards through the stinking mud, away from the gas pit. The hands gripping his ankles move to his trousers, then up to his belt, and then an arm wraps itself around Jonathan’s waist. Another arm around his chest. Then under his arms, until Jonathan finds himself level with an Indian soldier.

“Hello,” the man says, a smile flashing across his face. “We’re going to stay low. Can you wrap your arms around me? That’s it. I’m going to get you out of here.”

“Remind me to buy you a drink when this is over,” Jonathan gasps.

The soldier laughs. “Two whiskeys, taken neat. Can you move your legs at all?”

“No,” Jonathan gasps as they begin to crawl back towards the trench. “Bloody machine guns.”

The Indian man shifts so that Jonathan is lying across his back, taking most of his weight. Jonathan clings to him and bites his lip. If he starts crying for his mother now, he will never stop.

Somehow they gain the trench, fall back into safety and knee-deep water. The Indian picks Jonathan up over his shoulders and hurries along, shouting for a stretcher bearer. Improbably, it’s a woman who answers.

“I’ve an ambulance here!”

The Indian shouts back, but Jonathan cannot make out his words over the cannons and the machine guns and the pain that rockets through him with every breath. Something about fishing? But that makes no sense. Everything goes dark as they stumble forward. Then there are hands again, lifting him off of the Indian’s shoulders and onto a stretcher. A tiny dark-haired girl bends over Jonathan, stabs him in the arm with a needle, throws a blanket over him. The Indian soldier squeezes Jonathan’s arm, smiles, vanishes. Jonathan closes his eyes and when he opens them again, he is in an ambulance, bouncing along uneven ground, and the driver is bellowing at the top of her lungs.

“You’re not allowed to die on my watch!” she bawls. “You’re going to live, you hear me? A handsome man like you; we’re going out for drinks after!”

“Whiskey,” Jonathan whispers. Someone said that to him moments ago. Who was it?

The ambulance bounces through another pothole, jostling Jonathan and sending another wave of pain crashing through him. He just wants to go home to Mum and Father and Evie, to archaeology and Oxford. He goes away again.

He awakens to the ambulance driver screaming obscenities in a distinctly Australian accent. The ambulance screeches to a halt. The doors open. Two more soldiers are hauled inside by the tiny, black-haired, improbably Australian girl.

“Come on, boys!” she bellows. “Hold on, we’re almost to the hospital! And then we’re going for a proper booze-up!”

Jonathan goes away again, but not before he realizes that the soldier lying next to him is dead.

He wakes up in a field hospital, lying on his stomach on a narrow cot. His legs and back are killing him. For a while it is all Jonathan can do to lie there, trying to summon the courage to look over his shoulder at his legs to see if they’re still there.

“You’ll be alright.” It’s a nurse in a grubby white uniform. She pats Jonathan’s shoulder and holds a teacup to his lips so that he can drink. “We’re sending you on; you need another surgery. We got the bullet out, though, and you’ll be able to walk again, eventually. Fisher got you here in record time; we were able to save your legs.”

Jonathan swallows, remembering the Indian soldier and the tiny ambulance driver. Fisher. And what was the Indian’s name? Did Jonathan thank him for saving his life? He can’t remember. He closes his eyes.

Later he will learn that the bullet entered his thigh and came to rest in his buttocks, and that it narrowly missed severing an artery. It’s ruined his ability to walk, let alone fight, and Jonathan finds himself invalided home. The shock of it is too much. Shot in the arse and saved by two strangers. If it hadn’t been for the Indian and that Fisher person, Jonathan knows he would have died. He wants to thank them, to buy them drinks, to do something good for them. But he never sees either again.

#asks and answers #prompts #The Mummy #Phryne Fisher #Jonathan Carnahan #this is still rough and I'll probably go back and edit it #my fanfics

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btssmutficslovingfan01 · 4 years ago

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Omegaverse Horny

Summary: You’re conveniently left alone with your crush who also happens to be an alpha. What happens when your heat strikes and all you can do is listen to your instincts?

Words: 2.9k

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

Genre: Smut

Warnings: Producer! Namjoon, Camerawoman! reader, breeding kink, knotting, unprotected sex, Alpha/Omega/Beta Dynamics, Big dick Joon (his cock can grow), Y/n is omega-horny

A/N: Happy belated b-day Joon! 🥳 🥳 🥳 I wrote this on a whim, completely unplanned.

“You’re doing it wrong. You’re supposed to staple it like this.”

“Oh-oh. I’m sorry producer-nim. Today’s shooting was hard. The head cameraman made me redo shots and my arm is all numb from holding it in one place for so long.”

You vent to the dimpled man as he gazes at you with familiar golden eyes. His wolf is calling to you, you can almost hear him from within, playfully tugging at your wolf’s ears. Alphas and omegas are supposed to be the best mates after all.

The newest laws were placed about a year ago, to ensure that Omegas weren’t mistreated, because of your infamous reputation for being weak and just breeding holes for your alphas’ knots.

Werewolves have existed in human culture for hundreds of years now, the two integrating fully in peace since humans were just dormant werewolves, technically. They were what you would call “betas,” and these people do not have a heat or a rut as strong as alphas and omegas possess. Unfortunately, they also cannot help inner wolves with their heat, since their Hydes are in a state of comatose. A dead Hyde means they can never reproduce with a wolf. Which is why most betas stick to other betas.

Alphas and omegas have been pretty equal in numbers as of late, enabling most werewolves to have one mate. Before, in 2010, numbers of omegas were so scarce that some alphas had to latch onto omegas in groups, sharing that poor soul until they all successfully knotted them.

Luckily, this reduced the primal urge to be greedy in alphas and made polyamory much accepted in the werewolf community. Betas turned a blind eye to it since in the eyes of society, it was a sin. Especially for women, since most of the time, omega women were being shared by throngs of alpha males. Alpha women were also sharing omega males and it went on like that for any other combinations.

Now, society has reached a point where breeding is less for reproduction purposes as it is for the thrill of sex. Still, if a werewolf is mated, of course, they’d want to impregnate their partner with pups.

And boy did you have hopes for your crush, Namjoon. He aided you through most of your heats when you were locked in your bedroom alone with just a pile of cock-shaped sex toys.

You were too shy to ask him out on a date, much less ask him to fuck you senseless. You couldn’t even admit that you had a crush on him to his face! You were the weakest omega there ever was.

“Why didn’t he just make you use the crane?” He snaps you back to the real world as you feel a strange liquid pooling down in your pants. You weren’t due for your period, it finished about a week ago. What could this be? The sudden wave of pain in your gut strikes, making you stumble forward and grab onto the desk. “Oh god, are you okay?” Namjoon runs towards you, his sweet scent of pine filling your nose and making your omega whine. His eyes turn a darker shade of yellow, as he peers down at your figure with a frown. “Your scent...why do you smell so sweet little omega?” You bite back a groan as you clutch your stomach, a wave of arousal coursing through your entire body before you turn to look at him.

“M’ sorry alpha. Just didn’t think it would come so soon.”

“On the floor, sweet. I need to breed you.” A carnal rush of adrenaline kicks in, your heart beating erratically quickly as your crush takes dominion of the situation.

“Why do you wanna do that? I haven’t even told you about how I feel yet…” Your words slur as you drop to the floor, kicking off your ankle boots as Namjoon crawls over you with need. He has an unnatural glow as he leans over you, his lips ghosting your neck as he mutters something under his breath.

“I thought it was obvious, little one. I’m sorry but with your scent, I can’t let you walk out of here without at least knotting you first. My wolf won’t allow it.” You understand, your wolf is just screaming “BREED,” but you’re just barely restraining yourself, helplessly listening to your alpha’s commands. It’s just a state of mind that you can’t control, like your period, or breathing, or another natural function that just happens with no explanation.

“What are you waiting for alpha? Aren’t you gonna knot me?” Namjoon curses under his breath as you press your lips against his in a hasty kiss as if he would run away if you didn’t take action. He kisses back just as aggressively, shoving you back into the floor as he tugs at your clothes and they come off with ease. He takes off his shirt in turn, revealing his glorious abs as he glows in the fluorescent light from the studio. You were currently on the set of an idol-based drama, on the interior of a room made to look like a dance practice room. So there were mirrors and barres and the entire set stretched till the ceiling.

No one could interrupt you here, since shooting wrapped up a long time ago and you were supposed to stay back with Namjoon to sort through and pick the final shots for the project. You were too wrapped up in each other to care about your work now, you still had about five hours to go.

“J-Joon!” You moan out his name, scratching his back with your claw-like nails as he sucks your nipples harshly through his teeth. Your lower body is shuddering, arousal coating your clit as Namjoon casts away your skirt and panties.

“Mmm smells so good.” Without hesitation, he laps at your folds, your entire body shuddering with desire and a grin spreading across your face as you bite back a moan.

“Namjoon,” You moan again, as he delivers kitten licks to your core and swirls his tongue around your pearl before coating your hole in spit. He spits on your clit, the cold saliva making you tense up but loosened up your pussy so he could fuck you as he wanted. “Don’t hold back.” Your omega squeaks as Joon pushes himself in with no warning, your entire body thrashing beneath him as you climax all too quickly.

“Ahhhhh, you’re squeezing me. This little omega pussy is taking my cock so well.” Your inner walls clamp down on him as he moves quickly, his speed decreasing in response to your weak body’s reaction. Your body couldn’t simply take a big dick like his so easily if it wasn’t for your heat releasing extra fluids. Thanks to that, Namjoon was able to slide his generous length into your narrow hole. You were so tiny compared to him, the only thing that was “big” about you was your breasts.

Namjoon rips off your shirt next, and then he unhooks your bra and tosses it aside before squeezing your breasts between his warm hands and inhaling your delectable scent. He was wholeheartedly ready to devour you, but his wolf was not going to let him do anything else if he did not fill you with his knot.

You knew the day would come when you turn to an alpha to satisfy your needs and fuck you until you’re pregnant with his pups, but this was happening all too fast. You were unmarried, unhinged, and practically bouncing off the walls. You’ve never even had sex. You were a virgin, so stupid and silly for thinking things would work out for the last 26 years of your pathetic life.

“Joon.” You call out his name, eyes glazed over with lust as he crawls between your legs, and in all his naked glory, he thrusts his unsheathed cock into your sopping hole. Salacious sounds of cock and pussy echo throughout the room, sweat dripping from his forehead as he pushes in and pulls out, his cock covered in your essence, a putrid stench of cum clinging to his perfectly shaped mushroom tip. However, it smells like the best thing in the world to him.

“Take my knot little omega, I’m gonna fuck my knot into you. Just remember, you’ll feel a little bit of pain and once I start I can’t stop so tell me.” You’re in too deep to stop. Your eyes bore into each other as you nod, giving a small “yes,” before allowing Joon to let his wolf take over. “Wanna bite. Smell so good...mmm I bet you’ll look even prettier with your belly swollen with my pups.” You can tell the person speaking isn’t your Joon. It’s his wolf, the one who dictates the more...animalistic decisions for Namjoon. You know it’s him because of the deep rich quality of his voice. Joon doesn’t use a deep voice at all, now that you think about it. You’ve read about it too, the wolf is the only one who can knot you.

“Alpha, your cock is so big..” You trail off, muscles tightening as your core clenches around the exceptionally big dick. Was it always this big or did it just grow? Must be your imagination. Either way, you’re ready to take his knot. At least, every ounce of your wolf is screaming for you to take it. You have a lot more control than your wolf, so luckily it is safer for you to be out while your wolf watches from the sidelines. Mating is something one should not take lightly, and while you may be on your heat, your mind is still clear enough for you to make rational decisions.

It’s just that this time ‘round, you’re horny and your crush just so conveniently happened to be at the same place at the same time. Plus, he seems to be into the whole thing. A man that doesn’t run from you? You weren’t ugly, you weren’t gorgeous. You were just slightly prettier than the average girl. That’s it.

“Stop crying. Your sole purpose is to take my knot, so take it. I know you can, sweet omega. You’re all slicked up for me,” He gathers your slick up with his fingers, before pushing it up your slit and making you buck your hips against his hardening cock as the next wave of arousal pulses through you. His cock is rigid, and all you can do is bite back your screams as your alpha moves slightly. “Shit, at this rate I’m gonna rip you apart.” Namjoon looks down in worry, as he sees that his cock isn’t moving the way he wants it to go. Sometimes men are so humorous as sometimes they are blessed with large assets but they have no clue on how to use it. You loved how he would sometimes take control of his body again, since his wolf was more aggressive and you just really needed reassurance again before he proceeded to fuck his knot into you.

The affection is present in his voice as he apologizes for moving a bit too quickly, as you can feel every inch of him deep in your hole. You didn’t think his dick could reach so many inches, and neither did you have knowledge of your body being able to handle the stretch without a single drop of blood. You were surprised the floor was still clean considering you and Joon had leaked a lot. Whatever didn’t go in your pussy landed on the floor. You were going to have to use a mop..

“I’m okay, just please knot me already so we can get to work. My heat won’t let me off.” Namjoon growls underneath his breath as you shift beneath him, your thighs beginning to ache as the man readjusts your position so that both your thighs were wrapped around his hips.

“I know how you feel. My wolf won’t let me do anything else if I don’t take care of you. It’s my duty, as an alpha,” He groans, sensations of your clenching heat wrapping around his cock overwhelming his alpha hyde. His wolf growls for more, as Namjoon fingers your velvety folds and you watch him through the mirror as he rubs your clit in circles at the same time as he thrusts his cock into you at a relatively fast pace. He’s sped up, since you were keeping up with him. “Oh my god, it’s coming. I’m gonna fill you-” Before he could get another word in, a small squeal leaves your lips.

You were being knotted, truly knotted as his gunky cum gets embedded in your womb, your entrance covered in glistening alpha-slick as he marks you on your neck, biting down on a spot that’s only reserved for mates. Technically, any wolves that do the deed are considered mates, but this mark shows commitment, that you are bound to another wolf by more than just a physical tether.

You knew he liked you more than just a quick fuck. Your omega bows to him, as you quickly get to work on licking his neck too, like the gentle omega you are, you mark his neck too, as softly and painlessly as possible. The golden-eyed alpha smiles at you before covering his retracting penis with his hands. You simply grin at him, too blinded by your affection for him to notice his shrinking penis.

“It’s a normal bodily function. I know how knotting works. Although, I don’t think I’m pregnant. I had a birth control implant placed a year ago in case anything went wrong and I was in danger. You know, small omega, big city.”

Instead of reacting how other alphas normally would, your crush just presses the most gentle, feathery kiss on your forehead. You feel your nipples harden again from the memory of his touch. He lets out a low, sexy chuckle before turning to grab his clothes from the ground.

“Sorry I couldn’t take you out to dinner first. As much as I like wining and dining my women, your heat backed me into a corner. I couldn’t ignore my wolf either, since you were a needy omega who could only be relieved by the help of an alpha.” You blush, as he throws you your clothes as well so you could get changed and finish working.

“Don’t be. Maybe this was supposed to happen one way or another. I mean, how long do you think I would’ve lasted if you continued teasing me so rudely?” Now it’s Namjoon’s turn to be confused. He has no recollection of such a memory, he never intended to tease you with any of his actions in the past.

“Pardon? I don’t understand.” You frown at his feigned innocence. He knew you had a crush on him, so he purposely did all those things.

“Oh, you know what you were doing. “Dropping your papers” so you could pick them up, showing off that nice ass to the entire world. Damn, were you trying to kill me?”

“Actually-”

“And don’t get me started on all those times you raced by my desk so you could get a paperclip. The way you reached up to the top shelf was sinful. With muscles like those, you could do a lot more than carrying boxes, my dear,” He stopped trying to talk in between your rant since you were too busy thirsting over him as he kept his arms folded. “Fuck, I’m getting wet just thinking about how you would sometimes pat your thighs while you worked. It’s so fucking sexy for an alpha to be so built. You’re just a hunk, aren’t you? So hopelessly hot.” After your rant is over, Joon just folds his arms and asks,

“Are you done?”

“Yes.”

“All of those things you mentioned were because of my clumsiness. While you thought I was doing them on purpose, I did drop my papers, and break the paperclips at my desk so I had to get new ones, and the patting thighs thing is a nervous habit. I just don’t get how you made it all sexual in your mind.” You weren’t embarrassed, no. Omegas are sexual creatures, perhaps more sexual than alphas. When you’re horny, it’s a lot more than just getting turned on by a single alpha male. In addition to Joon, the running water from a tap can burst your bundle of nerves, the cameras can make you think about all of the dirty things you could do in front of it, and when you mark up scripts, you can’t help but imagine all kinds of dirty scenarios for the PG-rated scenes you shoot.

“I don’t know, I guess I was just omega-horny.”

“What’s that?” You shrug as he grabs your jacket and you lead him to the PC so you could pick final shots.

“You could guess from the name. Omegas are horny in general. Maybe not all, but I’m one of the ones that get turned on by anything and everything. You better not take advantage of it.” Namjoon smiles sweetly before stealing one last kiss from you.

“Don’t you mean I should take full advantage of it? Use you like my little knothole? Didn’t you say you liked being knotted?” You turn fully red as Namjoon scratches his head in confusion.

“What, did I say something wrong?”

“Nope, I’m just horny.”

#namjoon x reader #bts smut #Smut #namjoon smut #omegaverse #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #alpha joon #omega reader #mature #smutcentralnet #hyunglinenetwork #oneshot

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soyeahitsmiddleearth · 4 years ago

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Hello there! Can I request a Legolas x reader oneshot where the reader suffers from an injury, and Legolas being the best friend takes care of them? Fluff pleasee. Thankyou <3

Safe With Me

---

It happened during the Battle at Helms Deep.

There was death, pain, anguish, and sorrow everywhere. No matter where you turned or where you looked, someone somewhere was suffering (either from the pain of death, grief, or fear).

You've always been confident in your fighting skills; you know that you're good and can hold your own in a fight, but 'holding your own' paired with protecting others never seems to end well.

Those fools thought it better to put weapons in the hands of children rather than the shield maidens who hide down below in the caverns, and though it does make sense that they would be the last line of defense, surely they could still spare some women instead of forcing the children to pick up their slack?

Even so, it's because of this decision that you're in your current state of injury.

After the wall had been blown to bits and everyone began their retreat to the inner levels of Helms Deep, you tried to gather everyone you possibly could.

Being as you're a rather skilled fighter, having trained from a very young age within the confines of Mirkwood, you managed to save a good deal of men and slay an excellent number of orcs, but there is a limit to your victories.

With each stroke of your short swords do orcs fall; every slash and stab reaching a mark that leaves the orc army with one less ally. Try as they might to overwhelm you, you're just too quick for them, so their blows remain useless for the most part (though you do get the occasional cuts and slices that leave you hissing in pain).

You're in the midst of battling those nasty orcs 4 on 1 when it happens. Having been doing all you possibly could to keep the numbers off of the unskilled and dying men and young boys, you begin to focus more attention ahead than behind you, and one of those foul creatures manages to run up on you and finally get in a proper hit.

The initial blow is easy for you to dodge, for you feel its' presence lingering behind you, but you quick duck prevents you from escaping the lower blow dealt to your right leg.

As soon as the blade makes contact with your calf you know you're done for.

The deep slash causes your leg to give out from underneath you and you collapse to one knee, left crying out in shock and pain as your arms grow weak.

Very vaguely do you hear someone yell your name, your sharp elf ears enhancing your hearing so that it may reach you, but you can't turn to look.

In your downed state the enemy begins to overwhelm you, so you push your pain away and drop back as another blade comes swiping above your head, an action that would've taken your head with it had you not moved in time.

You jab your sword up and impale the closest creature, muscles shaking and aching as it goes lax and slumps over towards you.

Your energy wanes quickly, and the heavy, dead orc only further drains what little fight you have left in you.

There is no time for you to reclaim your blade from the body of the dead monstrosity, so you're forced to release your beloved short sword and strategically roll away from the other oncoming attacks, and while it does prove to serve you well, you're now left injured and with only one of your weapons.

The imbalance caused by losing one of your short swords is an alien feeling, for you always have both to fight with, and on rare occasions, neither.

Another one of those dastardly abominations comes for you in when it sees your hasty retreat and weakening form and tries to stab you, but you role low to the ground and knock it off of its' feet, jabbing your remaining sword down into his belly as soon as he's at your level.

Fighting so low to the ground, unable to stand is no easy task, and very quickly are you overtaken again.

A large armored foot comes up and hits you right in the face, and you go down with it having been unable to react in time.

You fall back and land none too gently on your aching spine, and in mere moments is your left shoulder run through and pinned to the ground.

The unnatural feeling of the intruding weapon in your shoulder draws a pained cry from between your parted lips, and you find that you can no longer move that arm (if it were any bigger of a blade, you would've lost the arm altogether), so you rely on the other weaponed arm to stop the killing blow.

With the last of your strength, you jab your sword upwards and stab it through the chest, relishing in the telling squelch and screech as metal and flesh alike are ripped to nothing, and then the wriggling creature stills and slumps heavily atop you.

It's heavy and knocks the wind out of you completely, an unwelcome and suffocating feeling, and you'll later learn that this saves your life.

Moments later, your world fades to black.

---

You were so sure that it was all over. That, while you tried your hardest, you failed.

The last thing you remember was the horrible pain blooming from your shoulder and the blade protruding from your broken and battered body, and then the newly dead orc falling on top of you followed by complete and utter darkness.

The bodies of man and orc alike littered the very ground you once stood on and the enemy was gaining more ground than you had to spare, so when you did finally wake up to see color again, you thought yourself to be dead just like all those around you.

Only, you didn't quite anticipate that the Halls of Mandos would allow you to feel the pain and anguish of your past life.

A quick look around tells you that you are, in fact, not actually in Valinor, for one of the very first sights you see is that of a dim wooden ceiling and your body laid out of a bed of mans creation.

Pain is the first thing you feel once the anesthetic of unconsciousness wears off, and it's quite the pain alright.

A quiet, agonized groan puffs past your chapped lips and your teeth clench together in tandem with your soft whimpers.

You try to sit up, slowly raising your upper body from the bed, when a fresh pang of pain shoots through your shoulder and pins you back down to the bed.

Instead of trying to get up this time, you just angle your head down and analyze your shoulder wound.

It's at this moment that you realize that your outer layer has been removed (probably cut away), and you're left with nothing but the gauze wrapping your shoulder and a covering for your modesty.

When you look further down you see that your cut up calf has been treated much the same, and the only missing layer is that single leg of your trousers.

Your vision suddenly goes blurry and you're forced to squeeze your eyes shut again, but this time when they open, there is another presence in your line of sight.

It takes a few seconds for you to recognize the person hovering above you, but as soon as you do a small smile up turns the corners of your lips.

"Legolas..." Uttering that single name takes quite a bit of energy from your already bone dry reservoir, but you don't regret it for even a moment.

Those sparkling pools of blue shine with relief when your whispered speech reaches his ears, and as soon as he's there does he disappear from your immediate vision.

"I thought you were never going to awaken." He breathes, leaning over you once again with a damp towel in hand this time. "Tell me, how is the pain?"

The towel is most likely to keep you from overheating, though you can't feel any sort of cold or hot like other mortal beings, and you appreciate it greatly.

Your voice is barely a whisper when you reply, and it makes his elven heart throb in his chest with many emotions. "Painful?" Truthfully, it's a rather intense suffering that makes it hard for you to even think straight, but you don't wish to worry him any more than you already have. "Nothing that I cannot handle, I believe."

"That look in your eyes betrays a different story." He counters softly, reaching down to graze your too-warm cheek gently. "I will have to change your dressings soon. But I'm not so sure you will want to be awake for that."

An alluded to promise of pain much worse than what you currently suffer, something you seldom wish to experience, though it's not like you can just pass out on command.

"I will have one of the healers prepare for you a sleeping elixir, should you agree to have it."

"What of the others? Surely I am not the worst of the wounded. You should conserve what you can." The words leave you even though you don't necessarily want to abide by them, but you don't take it back either. If you could prevent pain from anyone else, then you would. There's no guarantee that you'll react promisingly to it any ways.

"There is plenty to go around. Do not worry yourself over others for the time being and allow me to help you." Those words don't make you feel any better.

If there is an abundance, then that means there haven't been enough wounded to use it (and not from a lack of injury either).

A moment of silence washes between the two of you, and then in that same delicate whisper of yours do you ask, "How many...?"

Hesitation rears its' ugly head and morphs his pleasant stare into a sorrowful, crestfallen frown, and it promises you nothing good.

"Too many. But we must worry about that later when you have regained your strength and replenished your health. Please, rest." His places his hand over yours, touch as soft and careful as a feather, and he says no more on the matter. "I shall-"

"Please, don't leave." You plea before you can engage your filter, curling your fingers around the warmth of his own, "I cannot handle the solitude right now."

He hesitates once more but does not require further prompting, for he takes the seat next to your bedside and sits down. "Then I will stay right here with you."

Your head tilts to the side to look over at him and the smallest of smiles brightens your pale face, "Thank you, Legolas. You've always done well by me."

"For you, my friend, I would do anything. This is nothing."

You're in good hands being left in his charge, and this thought lulls you into a pleasant, painless sleep.

#ask box #ask #legolas x reader #legolas greenleaf #legolas #lord of the rings fanfiction #lord of the rings #reader insert #platonic #angst #comfort #fluff #tolkien

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antihero-writings · 4 years ago

Text

If These Walls Could Talk (Ch7)

(^^ Art commissioned from Junki Sakuraba on instagram and deviantart!!)

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too. The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Notes: Hey all! I am SO sorry this chapter took so long to come out. My perfectionism really got the best of me with this chapter. But I saw that S4 was on its way and that really lit a fire under my butt because I really do want to post my season 3 chapter before s4 comes out. I’m highly doubt I’ll accomplish it as it almost always takes me longer than I have to get a chapter out, let alone two, but I'll try, at least.

I really really hope you enjoy it!! If you enjoy this chapter, please please consider commenting. I assure you it’ll be more likely I’ll post the next chapter faster the more people comment on this showing you still enjoy this fic. Each comment is a little shot of energy and motivation for me.

Important! This chapter is meant to have aesthetic indentation in some places. So if you want to read it as-intended, please look it at on Archiveofourown at I_prefer_the_term_antihero on your computer or tablet!!

If you get here and are thinking “Wait, what was this fic about? What were the main themes?” then this would be a good time to reread/skim back through the earlier chapters. This is the climax of the fic and will (hopefully) be more impactful the more you remember about the rest of the fic and its many themes.

Chapter Summary:

"Go back whence you came! Trouble the soul of my Mother no more!" "How? How—How is it that I've been so defeated?" "You have been doomed ever since you lost the ability to love." "Ha—Ah... Sarcasm. 'For what profit is it to a man if he gains the world, and loses his own soul?' Matthew 16:26, I believe. "Tell me. What—What were Lisa's last words?" "She said 'Do not hate humans. If you cannot live with them, then at least do them no harm. For theirs is already a hard lot'. She also said to tell you that she would love you for all of eternity." "Lisa, forgive me. Farewell my son."

Chapter 7: “Heart”

Hey there, Sunshine, the Room adds with a smile.

The Room forgot the sweet tang of breath. How gentle, how vicious. Like honey, like relief, like a cozy blanket and a fireplace. It came in great, gulping gasps, and living was painful after such long breathlessness, but hurt far less than being half dead.

The Room rushes to Castlevania, shaking it, saying, Open your eyes! Open your eyes! It’s Adrian. It’s our boy. My master. My sunlight. And Castlevania limply flickers open its eyes, for it cannot help but obey.

Obey to see the golden man standing in its doorway.

And it feels a jolt of warmth in its broken chest.

Alucard has returned home. He arrives at the doorstep with resolve in his closed fists and a sword on his tongue. The threat to the war they all knew he would be, and the Room promised it would rear him to be.

But he isn’t alone this time.

There are two humans by his side. One with fire in her fists—quite literally—the other with a barbed tongue at his hip.

Castlevania recognizes a crest on the clothing of one of them, gold and proud: The Belmonts. The ones who came with whips and scourges to defeat its master long ago. The ones whom Dracula and his Castle were bound together against in their undead war. The ones whom Dracula trusted his Castle to protect him from. The owner of the hold now beneath Castlevania. He has come to defeat its master like the rest…but this time the boy is by his side, and for that reason, the Castlevania is unsure how this will end.

“I terrify them,” the Belmont explains the plan, “Sypha disorients them, Alucard goes over the top and we support him.”

“Yes.” The Speaker confirms.

Alucard holds his sword out horizontally in front of him, unsheathes it, and speaks:

“Begin.”

Alucard is with the Belmont.

And Castlevania knows when it sees them, the fire in their eyes, that they are the intent that brought it here. That they have indeed come to kill its master once and for all. It had wished when the boy returned, it would be with the promise of hope. But there is no promise of life and the sparing of it this time.

They bring death inside with them; the war room is filled with war, blood and burns on its floors, but it is different this time, because this is not an ambiance, a continuation, a fact of life, it is a swift and fatal kiss—the end they said he would bring, once. The blood is rotten on the floors, but it doesn’t itch or burn. And the boy uses those techniques his father taught him on brighter nights about turning into things with teeth, and the ones his mother once taught him on sunnier days about how to make metal listen.

They did not bring life inside this time, not life of the same kind at least. The war, the death, has followed and swallowed them too, but not in the same way it has its master. They are not bloodthirsty. The cold the dark and the death are merely clothes they wear, they have not reached the deepest parts of them; there are still light-starved Rooms in their hearts waiting to breathe.

There is a song at their heels as they dance in rings of fire, with the wind and the moon, upon the blood and water Castlevania isn’t sure will come out of the carpet. It is a song that is all too familiar. It has been played here before, when other, more, less, holy Belmonts barged in long ago. A song of blood and tears.

Bloody tears its master cried once, for his wife when he realized they had taken something that could not be borrowed, bartered, or souled.

They’re bringing an end to the strife, and all the undead lives that facilitated it, and vice versa. They are cutting the puppet strings, and not all puppets can live without them.

Isaac fights the nameless soldiers on the staircase for its master…until he sees someone who is far from nameless.

Isaac’s reddened eyes meet Alucard’s golden ones. Alucard’s sword aims at him, but it hits the deadened flesh of the nameless instead.

Isaac runs to tell its master—Dracula, busy ripping out the heart of a nameless—who’s here; that his sun has returned, and at his side is magic and might.

Dracula knows the prophecy.

He’s willing to die—Issac. He stands before Dracula, his form barely able to shield three-quarters of Dracula’s, willing to give his feeble human life for Dracula’s indefinite undead one. He believes knowledge and will are more important than the blood of a good man. He believes in love, and loyalty is love of a sort. And it is Castlevania’s understanding that when someone is willing to live for something, they are also willing to die for it. This is the noblest of causes.

“You are the greatest of your people, Isaac. You have a soul, I think.” As Dracula says the words, he raises his hand, and the mirror shards behind them begin to rise. “Perhaps that is more valuable to the world to come than a dusty collection of books and apparatus.”

Lisa looks on from the portrait, and Castlevania thinks it is a look of pride. She always did stand for saving human lives rather than destroying them. Isn’t it funny that in what will perhaps be the deciding battle of this war, the one where his goals should possess him stronger than ever, it is the human who he values more than himself?

“Or perhaps you simply deserve a better fate than to die instead of me.”

“I choose my death, as I chose my life.” The words are stronger than iron.

“Then I regret only that I have taken a choice for you.” A hand at his shoulder.

Dracula throws him halfway across the world, to the kind of place Isaac was born in, and the kind of place Isaac least wants to die in.

Isaac believes in love. And it is for this reason, this belief, that Vlad saves his life, Castlevania knows. Saves his life, by denying the choice he so desperately wanted to make—perhaps his whole life—and had no regrets or apprehensions about making, rather a lot more in being kept alive.

And when the mirror shatters and falls, his son is standing there, like he did a year ago, though this time he is not backed by sunlight. The only light in the room is the fire glinting in his eyes.

A pause. To remember the dead.

“Father.”

A word. To remember the living.

“Son.”

This should be a reunion, perhaps. Better people would think they should happily hug each other, and say they missed each other, and that they love each other all the same. Better people would say that the sunlight should plead with the dark to come back into its embrace. All the sinners know there was no chance of that the moment Dracula scrawled fate on his son’s skin with his own claws.

Instead, there is nothing but bitter, fighting words:

“Your war is over.”

Dracula tilts his head to the side. “Because you say so?”

“It ends.” Alucard looks at his sword, the one she taught him how to use. “In the name of my mother.”

Dracula looks at his son, the one she gave him. “It endures in the name of your mother.”

“I told you before I won’t let you do it.” Alucard’s voice is so soft, yet solid and unwavering. There is no anger, but he will not step aside. Not this time. Even when the claws come. “I grieve with you…but I won’t let you commit genocide.”

“You couldn’t stop me before.” Dark assurance in soft words.

Footsteps. A cue to the magic and the hunt behind the curtain, who step out on either side of him.

“I was alone before.”

And Castlevania understands. Understands that they are not here to talk things out. Understands that they are not here to save Dracula, to appeal to the good in him, as Lisa once had, and the Room once thought. Castlevania itself even hoped, when the boy returned, the song would be a bit more inspirational. But, beaten and broken and bloody, Castlevania understands now, if Alucard stands with the intent, if Alucard brought a Belmont—

Then they do not believe there is a chance. They are not here then, to talk him out of it. They are here to halt this war in its tracks, make it rear up, lose its balance, and fall.

—(And Castlevania knows, deep down, that to do this… they must end something else)—

Alucard is bringing back the sunlight. But there is only one way he can do that, and goodnight is not quiet.

And make no mistake he does intend to bring the full, the warm, the life, and the light back, just like Castlevania and the Room wanted. But there is too much cold, dark, death, and emptiness here to do this quietly. They are here to kill Dracula—the master now puppeteered by Death’s strings rather than his own soul.

The Speaker raises her fingers to her lips as if to say a prayer, or perhaps take a heavenly name in vain for the sake of a little silence. The Belmont’s whip clinks in his hand. Alucard’s sword sings as he raises it.

Alucard drives it towards his father: a bolt of golden lightning through the room, pinning him against the fireplace as books fall to the floor. Castlevania, wincing at the pain, knows that will bruise in the morning.

The picture of his mother cracks and falls, as if she has to close her eyes for this.

Alucard, growling with fierce resolve, pushing the sword into him with all his might. But Dracula has the sword in his hand, rather than his heart. He steps calmly forward, barely having to use any of his strength to combat so much of his son’s, as if he’s about to tell him to put the toy away.

A glint of golden eyes. Alucard pulls back the sword. A slash. Two. Three.

Dracula raises his arm as if to knock the sword from his shoulder.

Instead he bashes his son’s head into the fireplace—and Castlevania cries out at the feeling, feeling its stomach burn.

The Speaker and the Belmont ready for a fight. The floor splinters—(Castlevania grimaces, tasting blood)—as Dracula flashes through the room, and pins the Belmont into the hall, against the wall, sending his sword out of his hand. He keels over onto his hands to cough up blood, the puddle crawling on Castlevania’s skin.

Castlevania never had any qualms with the blood of Belmonts on its floors before, so this hurts less, but this is different, and Castlevania still wonders if Dracula could be a little gentler with his Castle.

A flash of light at his side. He raises his cloak as the Speaker sends tongues and teeth of fire at him.

“Speaker magician!” Its master realizes.

He rushes at her, knocking her hand out of position. She creates an ice shard before her with the other.

He scratches up with a claw, sending her flying with the broken pieces towards the ceiling, and angry gashes appear on her arm as she rolls along the floor.

“Sypha!” The Belmont calls.

He must love her in some way, because in a fit of some sort of emotion—instead of picking up his sword—the Belmont uses his fists. They probably haven’t failed him before. But this is Dracula, and his punches don’t cause the king to so much as flinch.

“You must be the Belmont.”

Castlevania laughs a little at the words; it too thought the method was rather common of his line.

It’s Dracula’s turn, and his punch doesn’t just cause the Belmont to flinch, the sound is as if he hit rock, sending him into the air with the force. He doesn’t give him a second to breathe, rather reaches his claw is around the human’s neck, holding him there.

He raises his other claw level—a blade, more trustworthy than any.

“The end of your line.”

Before he can make these words true, another blade stops him: his son’s, driving itself through both his arms.

While he is pinned the Speaker, knowing this is an opportunity she will not get again, rushes forward—still bleeding, mind—a bead of fire between her fingers. Dracula cannot move to protect himself, and the magician, knowing this, lets the fire loose to lick his face raw.

Dracula drops the Belmont, attempting to get away, deciding his own life takes precedence, but it is hard to get away when your hands are tied together with metal.

The Speaker, seeing that her fire is about to hit Alucard, falters. And in that moment Dracula wrenches his arm off of the blade and uses it to knock her down, before sending his other fist into his son, who goes flying along with his sword hitting the wall. This one may not be so hard as to bruise, but, with everything aching and breaking, the smallest tap hurts Castlevania.

The Belmont pulls a blade of bone from his back-belt, and as Dracula turns he drives it into his chest.

It’s not close enough to his heart, but red distaste fills Dracula’s eyes. He thought this was a game, but they have some amount of ability, and he may have underestimated them. As Alucard and the magician get up he attempts to grab at the Belmont in quick motions, but he has some skill in dodging.

The Speaker rips off her shirt and cauterizes her wound as the Belmont and Dracula dance in the hallway, neither weapon hitting flesh.

Dracula sees the Speaker’s intent over his shoulder, and as the Belmont lunges at him grabs his arm and throws him into her, stopping both their attacks. An effective move, if Castlevania does say so itself.

Alucard sees his opening and rushes forward, pinning his father to the wall, which shatters behind them with a painful lurch.

Dracula puts his hands together and brings them down over his son’s head with such force the floor cracks.

And Castlevania coughs blood.

Alucard pushes his arms away and slaps both sides of his face, getting a grunt this time. Dracula sends him back with such force it almost seems like a shockwave, creating wind and smoke curling around them all.

The Speaker roots him in place by sending ice spears into his leg. The Belmont clears the smoke by spinning his whip, before creating more by sending that whip—the one he fed the vampires that didn’t agree with their compositions—sizzling into Dracula’s chest. There’s an explosion to be sure—a rather big one—but after the smoke dissipates, and a wait with bated breath, Dracula is still standing just as he was before—as Castlevania knew he would—like all he threw at him were words.

…At least at first, to show he isn’t taken down so easily. He does fall to his hands thereafter.

“The Morningstar whip.” The words are scratches in the carpet. “Well played, Belmont. But I am no ordinary vampire to be killed by your human magics.” The words sizzle on his tongue. “I am Vlad Dracula Tepes,” he crosses his arms with purpose. “and I have had ENOUGH!”

His voice is a shockwave of its own across the sea of stone and bone. He sweeps his hands to the sides, his cloak rising like wings as he floats into the air, and creates a ball of magma: the cheat that will end the game. He was going easy on them until now.

It rumbles towards them, eating the carpet as it goes—and Castlevania can feel the burning in its chest. The Belmont’s eyes widen with fear at last. The Speaker rises to the occasion without hesitation, and holds out her hands to stop it with the force of her magic. It’s a force to be reckoned with, for sure: at first she succeeds, but, though it may be slowing, it isn’t stopping, and her feet are slipping. The Belmont puts his back to hers, as any good friend and comrade would. Alucard phases in front of them, the burning wind rushing against his face. He calls his sword, which sings as it reaches his hand, poises it, and drives the point into the magma ball.

They each fight with all their might, the Belmont and the speaker begins to grunt with the weight of it. The ball gives a falter their way, and Castlevania is sure even three cannot match Dracula’s strength, but the Speaker gives a final push, which gives Alucard just the right amount of momentum to drive it back toward his father, who is as caught off guard by the display as Castlevania is. He needs no sword or magic to stop it, however, and puts his hands out to hold it. Gold and red push against each other, until Alucard gives a deciding motion, then another, another, each chipping away at the ball until the sword goes flying and it’s just Alucard’s arm against Dracula’s throat, and their momentum creates a sizzling tunnel in the wall.

Castlevania may not know what guns are, but it knows what it feels like to be shot.

The two burst into the library, shattering the already shattered mirror.

It was so quiet in here. Must they sully the silence with the sound of strife? They read here, once. Sometimes alone, sometimes to each other. Whispered to each other of history and mystery.

Dracula lands on the floor and Alucard floats above him in the room in which he once stood on his level and told his father calmly he wouldn’t stand for genocide.

There’s anger in his eyes now.

Dracula hisses, then gives a war cry, and the two allow their hungry fists to attempt to devour each other as best they can in the air, red and gold flashing.

The Belmont picks up a sword in the other room and, deciding it’d be best not to follow them through the tunnel—(Castlevania is glad for that decision. The wound is still raw and would more than likely sting tremendously if they walked on it)—he and the Speaker run up the stairs to follow them.

They’re on the floor now and their punches fly like starlings—their duel reflected in the shards of mirror fluttering, jittering about, ever awaiting their command, as if attempting to tap their shoulders and ask what they should do, and why they are hurting each other—until they are hitting the bookshelves they once were gentle with—lest the pages rip and the silence tear—the ones they once smiled and discussed philosophy beside.

Castlevania’s head aches, nausea in the back of its throat.

A smiling boy and his father handing him another book, saying if he liked the first he’d like the second too, are all but gone now.

Dracula throws Alucard into the ceiling, and enters the room above with an unearthly sound, in an unearthly way: only his cloak is visible, moving like slime. As his hungry footsteps lick the floor behind him, Alucard is heaving on his side that same floor, his hair falling across his face. He turns around, fear coating the sound he makes as he, without his sword, grabs the nearest block of wood that happens to have a point on the end.

Dracula laughs, like they’re playing a game—(they did once, do they remember? Humans and monsters. Sometimes there were princes, and knights, or pirates. Even a princess or two. And the wolves and the bats were free in the night wind)—and stops.

“You mean to stake me?”

“You want me to.” Alucard murmurs, turning around with some difficulty.

“What?” Dracula chuckles, still with that put-the-toys-away intonation.

“You didn’t kill me before.” Alucard breathes. “You’re not going to kill me now. You want this to end as much as I do.” The look in his eyes is almost crazed.

“DO I?!” The tone is almost crazed in response, the nonchalant edge gone, the words resounding with power and grief.

Alucard scrambles away like an animal, causing Dracula to punch the floor instead of his head—Castlevania’s body lurches. It feels a gentle touch at its chin, someone trying to wipe the blood off perhaps.

“You died when my mother died. You know you did.” He reasons as Dracula’s breathing gains weight. “This entire catastrophe has been nothing but history’s longest suicide note.”

Castlevania jerks its head up, eyes wide at these words.

And Castlevania understands.

The cold, the dark, the empty, the death. They all make sense now.

Alucard rushes at him, Dracula knocks the stake out of Alucard’s hand with ease, but, in a moment of extreme dexterity, Alucard manages to grab it from the air and drive it into his chest still. The look in his eyes is almost pleading, like he’s going to ask “Daddy did I do a good job? Did I do it right? I’ve gotten better at fighting haven’t I?”

“Not quite close enough.” There is a gurgling quality to Dracula’s enunciation.

No more playing.

He shoves Alucard so hard its into the next room.

Castlevania keels over onto the floor, it’s stomach aching and prickling.

Dracula pulls the stake out and heaves before rushing after.

Floors below the magician and the Belmont can hear them, and are trying their best to catch up, to have a say in this fight.

But Castlevania isn’t sure they have much chance of that, as they are flashing through the halls now, Alucard, a foot off the ground, zig-zagging between the walls in the narrow hall as Dracula keeps punching bloodless stone—

—(The stone may be bloodless, but god this hurts)—

Until Alucard punches him back, sending them into a room, a bedroom—(but not that one)—and the room is a pile of rubble with just that. And Castlevania can feel the splinters. That furniture was nice.

Dracula grabs Alucard’s face and shoves him into the dining room, pinning him to the table like he’ll eat him too if they’re not careful, and those chairs were perfectly nice too—

And Castlevania sees a little boy waiting at the table for his birthday surprise, and his father pulling out a burned cake, and his mother laughing. There was no fear then. Though its master was a creature of blood it never thirsted for theirs, and they knew this full well. Can they see it too? Why would they destroy this room if they did? Why would they destroy each other if they did? Are they even the same creatures as those in the memory?

At this point Castlevania is pretty sure they broke a few of its ribs.

Alucard kicks his face and gets on the table on all fours, rushing him into the next room still.

Castlevania’s bleeding, broken heart skips a beat. Surely they must have broken a few ribs, for how else could they get into Castlevania’s heart? The control room, where its gears still lie dripping, glowing as orange as a brand, once beating organs now blazing stalactites.

They punch each other along the platform, Dracula’s cloak whipping about, like a cat’s fur trying to make him look bigger and scarier.

They are framed in the paneless window—those bones have been all but broken too now. The frame where the picture—that is to say, the die—no longer sits. For Castlevania’s heart didn’t just break, it was destroyed when they brought it to this place, the place where its enemies once lived, and still stand today.

—(So why can Castlevania still feel it beat?)—

In the frame now is moon drunk on blood, a night soaked in tears—and the wind whispers to their cloaks, bidding them to whip around them.

Dracula draws in a hissing breath.

Alucard stands tall, his eyes aglow, gold melting into something new in this forge, his hair whipping about him as he raises his fist yet again.

They are getting tired. Their snarls have a weakened quality to them now.

—Can they see the father and son in this room, the father teaching his son that his Castle is special?—

But instead of just punching him, Alucard teleports beside his father, hitting his shoulder, sending a gust of wind to his face, then teleports around the room to send his fist into him over and over, from every possible angle, and some of his kick-offs create cracks in the already breaking bindings of the room.

It feels like pins and needles, but it’s okay. It’s okay.

Why?

Dracula’s grits his teeth, sharp as ever, his eyes alight with bloody determination, his hair playing about this gaze. To end it, on the next hit he grabs his face, shoving him by it onto the stone platform. He shoves him once, twice, a third, the metal cracking, the metal creaking—

Castlevania’s gut lurches, and it can taste bile and iron at the back of its throat, and it’s hard to breathe.

Then its master raises Alucard back up, holds him by the face in the air a moment, and punches him with such force he is blown across the length of the platform and through the thick stone wall into the next room—

And Castlevania vomits blood.

Dracula bolts after him, the dust creating patterns in his wake—and Castlevania could gaze in the clouds if it weren’t for whoever’s trying to slap it awake.

Alucard coughs, and it sounded deep.

Its master is nothing human now. There’s a growl in his throat as he marches towards him, and another cough in Alucard’s as he struggles to stand.

Another punch, but this one is not fast like the rest, nor is it blocked. Alucard tries to stand up, to rush towards him, but he is getting tired, and Dracula hits him again. Another growl. Alucard takes a single step back, soft against the floors. An exhale. Another of both, and as Dracula raises his fist the murmur—plea?—on his son’s lips sounds a lot like “Father,” as if he’s reached his limit, and has to stop the game.

It’s too late to hit quit now.

The vampire king doesn’t grant the plea—or perhaps even hear it; with a belabored punch he sends him into the next Room, rolling this time, instead of flying, the contents of the Room staying in tact…all except the bed, which catches the boy.

The next Room. But this one is not like the rest. It is not just a room.

This one breathes.

A gasp, another growl, a scratch against the wall, and—

Castlevania burned today in this bloody fight, on this bloody night. Its skin, its legs. Even its heart broke.

Castlevania. The thing that Vlad Tepes brought to life with a little bit of lightning, several gears, and a few words. No magic words, just words: the ones he spoke on lonely nights to the walls about how he’d like to be something more than ruthless.

Castlevania did everything it could. It lies burned and broken and unable to fight now because of it.

But none of that burned half as much as those scratches on its walls.

There have been many stories told about Dracula, and there will one day be more stories told about Dracula, books written, enough that one could fill libraries with just the retellings of his story. And Castlevania has no doubt that one day these scratches will be on their covers. This growl, these scratches are the signet of a vampire, of a monster: the disfigurement of his Castle, bloody intent directed at his son. The dark, the death, and the emptiness have overtaken completely. That is all a monster is, really. That is all he is now.

He marches into the Room, his cloak flowing, dipping and twirling in the broken wind. The sound of Alucard’s breathing fills the Room as he heaves against the bed.

Or maybe the breath is the Room’s own.

The Room has seen all that happened, it has been watching Castlevania beaten bloody till it could barely breathe, or see through the blood dripping down its face, let alone move. Castlevania could barely feel the comforting hands on it, the attempts to bandage the wounds, or at least stop the bleeding that it knew could only belong to the Room. Castlevania could barely hear the Room’s frantic, desperate calls to action, to get up, or just ask if it was okay. And now the Room stands, fists clenched at its sides. The Room wants to fight back. It will fight back.

The Room is not violent. From the very beginning it stood against all the violence, the dark, the empty, and the death. That was what it was made for, after all. As much as it would like to, it does not wrap its hand around Dracula’s throat, claws digging until it draws blood, and demand “How does it feel?! How does it feel to be on the receiving end?!”

The Room’s footsteps are soft as it comes up beside Dracula. It puts its hands over the king’s eyes and whispers in his ear, gently as it can:

“Remember me?”

Then, quietly as it came, it removes them, as if playing peekaboo, revealing that it was there the whole time, his eyes were just covered for a while.

It may as well have been removing scales, because Dracula freezes, his eyes wide, as if he’s seeing, not just the Room, but the whole world for the first in a long time—And he is. The first time with living eyes. And one sees things very differently with living eyes. And Castlevania was his world and it hopes he sees the world differently, for Castlevania is not a thing for him to beat and break. Just when Castlevania thought there was nothing left…there is something more than anger in his eyes now.

Dracula’s angry cloak quiets, falling docile at his feet: a sign of reverence towards the Room, and all it stands for.

Alucard, after allowing his breath to regain itself, looks up, his eyes widening too at his father. His father. No anger, no fear, not even determination now. Not in this Room. This Room is different. He remembers now: in the hush that has fallen across the world like freshly fallen snow, this is his father.

The Room kneels at it’s boy’s side, putting a hand on his shoulder feeling nothing but life and love, so much so it extends to the creature that created the scars on its throat, and on its boy’s chest.

“It’s okay. You can go to him now.” The Room says.

And it knows what that means.

It knows that sometimes peace comes at the price of war.

Dracula curls his hand, the one with the claw that just made marks on the walls that are written in stone, and will never be undone. Within the glow of the window, his reddened eyes too are no longer angry. For so long those eyes sat dormant, empty, and glazed in his skull and at last they contain something. The Room’s words have gotten through the glaze, shattered the glass.

“It’s your Room.”

It’s more than just a statement. He made a promise when he made this Room. This Room was to be his son’s Room. There would be no violence, not in this Room. Not ever. Not today in as much as not ten years ago. He will not hurt this Room. He will not dare touch it, for fear those claws will mark more than just the walls; that all the memories will come crashing down.

The words are not angry. They are not dark. They are not empty. They are not dead. They may seem dry, and stated, but they are dripping with such longing and loss it might fill the whole Castle.

The desk where Vlad taught Adrian of letters, and of numbers, and of the borders of the world. The wardrobe where Lisa dressed him up in fine clothes, and casual ones depending on the occasion—Dracula had so few special occasions to celebrate alone, they were a lovely thing. The bookshelf full of all the knowledge of immortals, and the stories of mortals. The carpet where the boy sat and played with his toys. The nightstand, still with a potion bottle upon it, and the cards of a game they’ve no doubt forgotten how to play, right where they left it long ago. The shelf above it with another bottle, and a tiny satchel of even tinier precious things, and a little toy lamb. The bed upon which Vlad and Lisa once sat and told stories, and sang lullabies, or else lay curled up next to him when the nightmares got too vicious to bear alone.

—(How many did he have to face alone?)—

And Castlevania can see them all. The father teaching his son to count, and to write. The mother running after her naked toddler, trying to convince him clothes really aren’t so bad. The careful pouring of the potions so they change color, or explode just right, the father smiling proudly when he gets the questions correct. The pride of the mother when her son won the game, and the way her husband said “again” like if they just played another round he would win this time. The boy playing with the lamb and the wolf; they they got along in his stories.

The control room never was Castlevania’s heart…was it?

Alucard stands—the motion fluid now—blue light caressing his face as he raises his eyes. Vlad too looks up. But they’re not looking at each other, or the Room, rather into the stars. Not the ones outside, the ones they painted—brushing paint upon each other’s noses, so long ago, and Castlevania can see that too—as if those stars hold all the bottled wishes of childhood. It always was crowning jewel of this Room.

Adrian’s eyes oscillate like perturbed waters, because he knows, he knows he’s about to lose it all. And yes, there’s a sort of childlike yearning in Adrian’s eyes, as if he’s wishing upon those stars that he didn’t have to do this, because he’d really rather find another way to spend this night.

The stars wipe the bloodstains off of Dracula’s eyes. The blood drains off the moon too, as if he is so powerful he can bid the sky to bleed.

His lips shake with long-forgotten words—(or maybe they were just buried, and not everything buried in a grave stays there)—and he holds his hands to his chest, if nothing else to stop them from hurting innocent boys and castles, and shuts his eyes.

“My boy.” The words are said like everything in him is breaking

And it is.

—(The control room never was Castlevania’s heart. Does that mean it never broke?)—

“I’m—I…” The word falls to the floor, so soft, like it’s the only apology he has to shed. “I’m… I’m killing my boy.” And the truth is so gentle and broken its almost more painful than all those punches to the walls.

He steps across the Room, and this time his footsteps are not foreboding, not marching nor stalking. They are soft. He is only walking. This boy is not his prey. Not in this Room.

He walks to the picture on the wall, the one called “Happy.”

Castlevania remembers the day they took it home. The painter really did do a good job, Lisa had said, and Castlevania agreed. Castlevania soon learned that even when they were not here, even when the boy was not small, even when they were not happy, that moment would still be captured upon the wall to return to any time they missed it. Long ago Dracula had no need of pictures and paintings. But those pictures have been everything to him, and everything left him, now that Lisa is gone. They are all the traces left of what they once were in this Castle. That picture—the one Dracula buried and tried to forget existed—that picture bottled happiness, and it gives Vlad back his happiness now. And it makes him so very sad.

“Lisa. I’m killing our boy.” Vlad says to the memory. “We painted this Room. We…made these toys.”

His eyes as they dart around the Room—to the books, to the basket with the wolf and the blocks—are glazed, but not in the same way as before, this time it is with memory, and that makes them more alive than ever, as are his words. And in that moment she is alive too, and he is Vlad, Lisa’s husband, and Adrian’s father.

“It’s our boy, Lisa.”

And then as he looks down his eyes are not glazed at all, rather they hold understanding. He understands what must be done.

Alucard’s foot pushes off the ground, bends the knee, stands, and, no, he is not Adrian, for there is a cracking, a cracking like lightning, a cracking like the world breaking.

And it is the most horrible sound either the Room or Castlevania have ever heard. More horrible than the squelching any heart Dracula ever ripped out. More horrible than the desperate pleas of his victims. More horrible than the cackles of his friends. More horrible than the crying of the child that Castlevania can still hear echoing through the Room.

—(The sound Castlevania hated so so long ago, and now longs for far more than anything else in the world, longs for that painting to swallow the universe and bring it to life again)—

Castlevania and the Room can both feel that sound like a thousand splinters and spider bites, like both of them shattering as if they were made of glass after all. Even the furniture here bleeds.

Vlad backs up, putting his hands over his face—Don’t hurt them, they don’t know what they’re doing—

—(Yet…he hurt them all. So much so he didn’t just disgrace her words, he tried to kill her gift, their son, her blood)—

“Your greatest gift to me. And I’m killing him.”

He lifts his hands from his face and looks into his son’s eyes, his own so alive, despite their glass, tilting his head to the side. Everything slow and gentle now. He is Vlad. He is Adrian’s father. Not the vampire king who put innocents on stakes. But they all know something happened to Vlad on the night Lisa died.

“I must already be dead.”

And Castlevania, burned and bleeding, understands. The final piece of the puzzle has been put into place. It has been dead too. It’s life, bound in red to its master, will break to the call of a stake. Because a reflection cannot exist without the thing it reflects.

Because…they are mortal.

That was the trade, all those years ago: immortality for mortality. Lisa would gain an immortal mind, and Dracula a mortal soul. He would teach Lisa the knowledge of immortals, the methods of healing that must be kept secret to live with a vampire like time held no grip on them. And she would teach him how to live as a man, how to travel as a man, how to care for his son, as a man, as a father. And in that moment his soul was bound to hers.

She brought the undeath in him to life, and Castlevania understands; only things that are alive can die.

It learned through Lisa, through Adrian, what it was to be alive. And it knew that undeath, while not death, is not life. Dracula was undead and his body could not die. But now that she brought him to life, he could die. His soul already died with her. He’s been rotting in an empty shell—no wonder Death could tie those puppet strings to him. That’s why the emptiness in him was so active; cold and dark and empty were only adjectives before, now they are nouns; he was emptiness, death, walking around. And that, too, is what Castlevania has become. It too is mortal. It didn’t die with her, but something in it ceased to tick when Dracula came back without a soul in his chest, and it knows, bruised and burned, broken, and bleeding that that stake in his son’s hand is calling them both.

You knew all along, didn’t you? Castlevania asks the Room, and there is no malice, no blame, there.

The Room jerks its head up to look at Castlevania, then its eyes soften and it grimaces. I hoped I was wrong. The Room replies softly. I…I hoped there was another way.

Alucard’s eyes hold some sympathy, some semblance of the boy they once knew, in fact rather too much, for both threaten to pour out of those eyes and stop all this. He doesn’t want to. But it’s too late for anything else.

Vlad eyes hold some semblance of the man they once knew, so much so they threaten to make him something more than ruthless, something that doesn’t deserve to die. He closes them tilting his head. He knows what must be done.

There is no anger in either of their eyes, no determination, not even resolve. Not anymore. Adrian wants to free his father in the only way he can.

A step forward, and this step has purpose, that stake is silently growling, drooling at his side as he stalks his prey. Another. Another. Like the beating of all their hearts, and the atmosphere is so silent that everything can only break.

And Dracula will not stop him, will not fight back. Not this time. Like all those times he let his son win, because even though he was more skilled at at the game, it was more satisfying to see Adrian smile.

He is not here to talk things out.

Alucard barely raises that stake—

A second horrible cracking, this one in flesh.

This time he aimed higher.

Dracula’s mouth fills with blood, it seeps through the cracks in his teeth. The blood from his chest drains down the stake—the broken piece of childhood—down his son’s arm, collecting on his elbow, and when it hits the carpet a burn begins to appear on the Room’s chest.

A grunt as Vlad leans forward, the blood dripping from his mouth to the floor—another angry gash upon the Room’s skin, and the Room is trying to pretend it’s okay, but it can’t hide the hurt in its eyes.

It knew what had to be done…but the violence goes against its nature.

His eyes fill with blood, but not from undead purpose. The moon is still clean. These are those bloody tears, the ones from the song earlier today. He is free, relieved…and he will never see his son again.

“Son.”

To remember the living, and those who will live on without him.

And the word is spoken very differently than it was earlier today. Then it was solid and hollow. Now it is ghostly, and so full it could hold all the world. Their world, at least.

This Room, this Castle, that word. They are their whole world.

And it is an honor to have been a world to such terrible, wonderful creatures.

“Father.”

To honor the dying, and what they once were while alive.

The word on Adrian’s tongue is the same, though more solid, more alive, and thus able to hold more pain. A faltering breath, a cracking forgiveness.

The word means something now, at the end, where before they were nothing more than titles. They are pleading with each other. They are bleeding with each other.

They don’t want to do this. They shouldn’t have to. It is far too cruel.

Mothers shouldn’t have to bury their daughters, and sons shouldn’t have to kill their fathers. It’s an unspoken rule of life.

But Alucard can’t stop there. He must finish this. The fire, the resolve regurgitates in his eyes, and he pushes harder, like with the magma ball, and, no, this cracking is worse, because Castlevania can feel it in its own chest now.

Castlevania can hear its master’s heartbeat, can feel it with the drops of blood dripping and sizzling on the floor, and it thinks it might just be its own heartbeat.

Alucard does not hate his father: there is pain on his face. But he cannot stop there.

He must end this war. And unlike those given with kisses to his forehead once, this goodnight is not gentle. Not this time.

He inhales,

closes his eyes,

and breaks his father’s chest.

That stake goes right through Castlevania, and something in it involuntary breaks.

The control room never was Castlevania’s heart. The destruction of the die was merely the amputation of both its legs, still bleeding out. This is a breaking, not of skin or bone, but of something deeper. It thinks this might just be what it feels like to cry.

And something happens in the breaking. A change of some sort. Castlevania isn’t quite sure what—pain and disorientation are the best of friends—all it knows is that the world is smaller now, and hurts less.

And as Castlevania’s heart breaks, the reflection in the painting shatters, the reflection of the bond between father and son severing with a stake.

The world is so much smaller now.

Dracula’s head jerks back and, eyes now seeing something other than this world.

Dracula is no ordinary vampire, so he does not die like an ordinary vampire. Rather than catching on fire, there’s just smoke and ash; his face drains, turning from ghostly pale to a charcoal, black without flame, before it really is ash, sliding off his face, his cloak like sludge.

There’s no orange, just the red stain, and the grey his life was marred of. Ash and smoke. The true undeath.

Alucard turns his face away, still holding the stake in place.

Dracula lifts up a hand, a skeleton hand, and Alucard turns to see the skin sloughing off around his ring. Though his spirit may have left, it seems his body won’t quite let go of this world; with mere bones Dracula reaches out, takes a step forward, as if to touch his face, to hold his son one last time, to catch the last embrace he was not afforded.

Adrian has shed that resolve, now he can do nothing but take slow and careful steps back away from the monster he has no sword or shield to fight. He the child again, the one who belonged in this Room, shying away. He is Adrian, the one who didn’t like the stories that were bloody. And in all the years the boy spent in this Room, the sheer fear in Adrian’s eyes as he looks up to see his father’s rotted face, with mouth agape, leaning bloodlessly towards him—an image that Castlevania fears will haunt him the rest of his days—is matchless.

Hurried footsteps at the door. The Speaker and the Belmont, at last, have made it to the show, though it seems they paid for only the final song. They step upon the threshold to see the rotting corpse of the king stepping towards his fearful, tearful price.

The Belmont draws his sword, and Dracula’s deflated head—the one that seemed so alive moments earlier—lies in a bloody pool on the floor. And as the neck bleeds and the Belmont watches the body fall to the floor, he isn’t sure if that was enough.

And Castlevania can’t feel its heartbeat anymore.

“Alucard. Step back.” Sypha’s voice is tempered. “Let me finish this.”

He does, the steps cautious and small, sorrow in his gaze. He holds the unbroken bedpost till his hand shakes.

Castlevania never liked children, the crying, the leaving, the guests, or being controlled.

But it did like Lisa. It did like Adrian. And—be it a sting—it did like the sunlight. And always and forever, it loved its master. A reflection cannot help but adore the thing it reflects. A creation cannot help but be a worshipper of its creator. A dream cannot help but revere its dreamer.

“You want me to.”

Smiling a little at how true the words were, in the end, Castlevania found it quite liked the relief.

Castlevania puts a hand on the Room’s cheek, smiling, and its mouth tastes less like blood now. It looks at the moon—bleeding no longer—and blue calm fills every part of it.

“What a wonderful night to have a curse.”

The Room stares at the castle, a little horrified by the sentiment.

“What…What should I do?” The Room stutters, fear and realization coating its words, for it knows what’s happening.

Castlevania smiles wider than ever, and its voice sounds softer; “The children.”

“What?”

“You should let them in. Any child who needs refuge. Along with as many guests as your master wants to welcome. And you should cry. Cry when you need to—and let your master cry too. Stay, but let him leave, if he must, knowing he will always come back. Let yourself be controlled at times, because sometimes that which feels the least right is the most right.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“Be warm. Let the light in every window. Be full, and most of all, live. Can you do that for me?”

The Room holds onto the Castle to keep it from falling, tears already descending its cheeks.

“I—I will try.”

The Speaker lets the flame loose to eat the pieces, to engulf its master’s body in the fire he stared at all along, as if yearning for its embrace, creating a spiral of flame upon the circle in the carpet.

They were right to assume it wasn’t over, at least, because there are shapes in the flames; from the smoke and ashes rises a tower of skulls, a legion of spirits, more than a one king’s soul should hold. They’re all crying havoc, war, blood and pain from a yesterday long forgotten. Their smoke snuffs out the flame, blight covering the Room, blocking out the stars that so enraptured them earlier. Sypha and the Belmont cover their faces, but Alucard is unsurprised and undaunted by the darkness lurking in his father’s chest, and faces it without looking away. This darkness bursts out the window like a flower bloom, flows like a river out into the hall—the one cracked and bruising—flying over the war Room where the war resides no longer, and escapes into the night, fluttering, spiraling around Castlevania’s parapets like butterflies.

On the charred floor, the only thing left of the king is his wedding ring.

Castlevania sees the vampire king as he once was; young and restless. The skeletons eating stakes. Castlevania remembers what it once was: lightning, books, gears, and a few lonely words. It sees the woman with the knife at the door. It watches them build the Room. It watches the boy grow up into this beautiful thing.

Castlevania always wondered if it could breathe. It was never quite sure. The Room always seemed to possess a kind of life it never had; a life that hid in the breath.

“Take good care of him for me,” Castlevania murmurs to the Room.

“Have I ever failed you before?” The Room tries to smile, wiping its eyes.

As the sun rises over the hills, a single ray filters in through Castlevania’s window, touching it, filling every part of it, and for once it doesn’t sting.

And with the last sigh of the last ghost circling the parapets, Castlevania exhales its last breath.

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