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mxvladdy · 3 years

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True Form- Belphegor

*collapses dramatically* Oh Gods its done! Sorry for the break! I hope my edits are good!

More to come in this series soon :)

Hope y’all enjoy!

True Form- Belphegor

Keeping a defined for is hard. Too hard for him anyway.

His true form is inconspicuous. He just naturally doesn’t take up much space in the physical realm. He likes it this way though.

An overlooked predator is a dangerous one.

If he is ever seen in this form it looks like a thin film. He drapes over everything, like dust in an unopened room, or the cling of fresh dew in the morning in the rose garden.

He never uses it when awake. His human form is more palatable and functional in all honesty. Don’t get me wrong though, he doesn’t hate it. It used to be really useful when he wanted to nap and Lucifer was on the prowl. But, such good things can only last for so long. Now Lucifer can sniff him out from a mile away incorporeal or no after centuries of practice.

His real form is best implemented in the minds of his slumbering victims. He can cultivate himself there, using his form to feel out the needs and desires of his unsuspecting host.

He is a manipulator, tried and true. His cunning and wile gets him pacts more than a promise of power or wealth.

Belphegor draws them in with promises of grandeur and unexplored inventions. Limitless discoveries all at the very tips of their fingers, if only they take one more step further. One more little slip deeper into the abyss. Then they can stay sleeping forever with him.

Even as an angel he was known as a dreamer. More often then not he could be found in the inner sanctums sleeping with Beel and Lilith during lessons or being carried around by Lucifer. Back then he always had pleasant dreams or innovative ideas that the other angels made use of. The little inventor.

Now that he has fallen, nightmares come to him more often than not, uncontrollable flashes of The War, his sister’s death, and the pain of betrayal. Perhaps that was his punishment, always drowsy with no control over when he sleeps, with nothing but nightmares to accompany him.

When he has control over himself in his slumber he likes to flit around into other’s dreams. Most of the time he goes to Beel’s as they are very pleasant and help distract him from the night terrors he had just escaped from.

Sometimes when bored or pissy he jumps to Lucifer’s dreams. It’s a rare occurrence when they are asleep at the same time, but he takes absolute delight in fucking with his oldest brother’s dreams or looking for secrets to lord over him.

He doesn’t come into your dreams uninvited though. Not after you freed him. You have given him permission to. But he uses it sparingly. When he needs a break from his own head he might control when you are tired. Just so he can have some time out of his head.

He is very controlling in that retrospect. He will form the shape of your dreams at first. But, you ween him out of it. Now he trains you to lucid dream. He lets you shape your reality around you both. You don’t know it, but he is allowing you to shape him as well.

Mini Fic

He watches you from a distance. The grassy knoll you built was bright and airy. Pink and purple flowers sway in the light breeze you created, winking at him as they move. The large willow draping over you pulls a happy little hum from your chest. The swinging branches tickling your sun kissed cheeks. You lounge sprawled out on the ground staring up at the false sun with the largest grin on your face. The rays of sunshine illuminate your prone form, casting stark shadows in its wake. They travel down the hill searching and coiling for shelter from the strong lighting. They find him, latching on to his bare feet and merge with his own disjointed outline. How apropos.

"You can come up here Belphie. Promise I won't bite." You call out into the sky. Your eyes were still closed, but you tilt your head in his direction none the less. The smile you throw down at him is more blinding than the sun you dreamt up.

“I don’t want to intrude.” He steps out from the tree line blinking owlishly. Being welcomed in a dream had been unheard of before you. The mindscape was an intimate and private space. He was meant to be an invader, a taint. Before this he had been nothing but a rogue clinging to the edges. A whisper of temptation carried on the wind, or the hollow thud of a heel echoing down an empty street. It’s different here, with you. You expected to see him or sense him in whatever form he chooses. It was-nice.

“You're never an intrusion.” Your raw honesty floors him still, even after all this time together. “Had a rough night?” You ask patting the space beside you.

“Something like that.” He murmurs dropping down next to you. He is distracted momentarily by the heat radiating off your body. “You’ve been practicing.” You beam, proud that he noticed so quickly. His lessons on dream walking and lucid dreaming were hard, but looks like they were finally paying off.

It had been difficult at first, keeping a solid detailed form while knowing you were asleep. Then trying to stay asleep while doing it. You had to fight against the instinct to wake up constantly. It was like somewhere deep inside your psyche was trying to protect you, like it knew what happened when a human ventures too far into this place. Almost like it knew that a cunning little demon was lurking somewhere down here.

“How’d you guess?” You ask rolling onto your side. He answers by reaching out to you and dragging a soft finger down your bare arm. You shiver at the cool touch, little goosebumps awakening under his touch. Your picturesque scene wavers at the corners from his touch. The caress breaking your concentration for a moment. Belphegor smirks. “I’m still working on it!” You blush.

“I don’t mind, as long as I’m the only one that that can shake you so.” He pulls away to summon a large pillow for himself. You watch him try to get comfortable. He punches and rolls around the poof for a moment trying to get comfortable. You could tell something was troubling him. The energy in his gaze was borderline manic. His usually relaxed stature was strung taut, right on the border of snapping. He would murder you again if you said it; but he looked so much like Lucifer right now. Tight, cold, and rigid. A clear signal of distress.

“You want to take the helm?” You wave around the small scene offering him a distraction. He could expand the scene far further than you could, probably ever could. “Or do you want to let your hair down?” You wiggle your eyebrows at him. You smile at his little snort, that human saying always got him to laugh.

“Sure you don’t mind?” You shake your head and sit up. Truth be told, you liked his weird demon form. You could never entirely place where he was when he was in it, but you just knew he was there and close. It was reassuring.

He breathes a sigh of relief before flopping backward. He disappears on impact with the soft ground. The grass and flowers coming up to engulf him as he takes over. He flows around you into every corner of your mind, stretching himself to the furthest corners of your dream. He weaves himself in your fantasy. You get swept up in it for a moment. The raw force of him pulling at your center. It is suffocating for a moment, the oppressive weight of his magic. It brings out a bone-deep weariness in you without meaning to. You feel the growing need to just rest. Just a moment.

“Back with me?” You open your eyes. When had you closed them?

“Ye, sorry.” You lean up onto your elbow and shake your head to clear the fog that still clung to it. It was always a head rush when he did that. Blinking the rest of his magic away you take in your now joint dream. The sun was gone, replaced with twin moons and awash with multicolored stars. His sky bled colors, dripping purples and blues onto the green grass around the edges of your vision. The more you focus the more the field grows and stretches. Off in the distances, tiny tents emerge, sprouting up like shoots from the blackness. “Really?” You eye the tents with a wry smile. If you strained your ear you could hear faint carnival music.

A low rumble bounces around you. “You suddenly have an issue with the circus?”

“Absolutely not!” You raise, calling out into the vastness around you. “You better make a carousel!” You could feel him chuckle around you as you began your trek down the hill.

Belphegor is quiet while you navigate the forest. He’s whole being hyper focused on building the world around your quick steps. His was divided and working overtime in an attempt to distract himself. Part of him was busy building the carnival, another working on making sure you don’t stir from your slumber, and the other awake and aware. He hasn’t done this in a while, splitting his consciousness so thin like this. His human body lumbering along in the physical world while his mind was busy in the subconscious one. Hopefully, none of his brothers were awake and would try to intervene. He wanted to be close to you, in both body and mind tonight. You reach the edge of the woods and he turns his full attention back to you.

He had gone all out for you. Bright lights and the echoing laughter of imaginary guests assault your senses. You could even taste buttered popcorn and caramel on the tip of your tongue. A warm hand takes yours causing you to jump. Belphie gives you an apologetic grin for startling you before dragging you off into the park without a word. Who knows how long the two of you spent. Time, as you understood it, worked differently here. Faster or slower you had no idea. But, right now you didn’t care. He needs you here in the present.

“So-” You start hesitantly much later in the evening. You lick at some cotton candy that had gotten stuck on your fingers. “Want to talk about it?” Belphegor shoots you a look from where he perched. His feet dangling from a study steel fence. He watches you ride the slow-moving carousel as it goes round and round in lazy circles. He mulls over what to say as you make a rotation.

“I dreamt of Lilith again.” He admits. He comes to sit on the metal animal beside you, disappearing and reappearing in a puff of smoke at your side.

“I’m sorry.”

“Ye. Me too.” He pats the kelpie he sits on. Its listless eyes bore into his. His old nightmares reflecting in their ruby gaze. He wanted to be over this. Why wasn’t he over this? The longer he stares into the horses dead eyes the more his nightmares creep back onto him.The dream shifts around you. The air dropping in temperature drastically. The merry background noises choked off and replace with a buzzing that made your head hurt. The sound of metal striking metal and shouts start to grow at the base of your neck.

“Belphie-” You reach out for him, cupping his face. He doesn’t notice you anymore. His mind going somewhere you shouldn’t venture. His expression turns stormy, closing off to you completely. Fear begins to build up inside of you. Something uncontrollable riding in on the fast building winds. The night sky he built changes. Stars blinking out one after another like blown bulbs. The moons swelling in size, crashing into each other as your dream begins to crumble. “Shit.” You had to wake up, and fast.

You awake with a start back in your bed. Eyes snapping open while your body lays motionless. An odd sensation of sleep paralysis locking your joints. Something radiates behind you, a lanky body drawn close to yours. Sweet breath tickles the nape of your neck. Fighting the paralysis that held you, you turn to greet your bed guest.

Belphie’s half-lidded eyes seem to look through you. His body was icy, a ghostly vapor wafted over of his pale skin. You tried to wake him but your tongue was stuck. All you could do was stare wide-eyed as he dreamt. He comes back to you slowly. His eyes twitch and roll sporadically until he blinks, drawing in a ragged breath as he comes to. His skin warms with each passing tick of your alarm clock. As your drowsy demon stirs the stiffness in your body begins to ebbs. His chokehold on your mind weakening. After what seemed like an eternity he awakens. He takes you in for a moment and then he’s on you, lurches forward to drag your pliant body to his. “Scared me for a second there Belphie.” You mutter into his soft hair.

He sighs, breathing in your scent and focusing on your strong pulse. It had been a while since he had lost control of himself like that. Building up a world was easy. Tearing it down was even easier. The thread that kept people under was thin, like a single strand of silk. To lose himself to a nightmare in another being’s head? It was unheard of. It terrified him. “Did I hurt you?” He rasps.

“No,” You reassure him, pressing a kiss to his sweaty brow. “I woke up in time.” He goes quiet again trying to keep his breathing steady. “Hey.” You stroke a few strands of hair from his face. “You’re thinking pretty hard there, can I help?”

Could you help? If he was losing control of his dreamscape again… He would have to tell Lucifer. A shudder runs up his spine at the thought of retraining. No, he was still strong enough to keep it under control “Just keep stroking my hair, please?” He yawns widely, lethargy hitting him hard. He drifts off to the feel of your fingers flowing smoothly through his hair. The lingering fears slip further and further from his mind with each soft caress.

#obey me #obey me fandom #obey me belphegor #obey me fanfic

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exmortia · 3 years

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Shadowgast soulmate ficlet: Found Familiars

Essek/Caleb soulmate AU where a wizard’s familiar manifests from a fragment of their soul, but if they have a soulmate, the familiar comes from their soulmate’s soul instead. Regular D&D familiar mechanics don’t apply here except for pocket dimension poofing and un-poofing. Rated T for someone almost dying.

Like every student at the Soltryce Academy, the time finally comes when Bren learns how to summon a familiar.

It’s a week-long elective course he wasn’t planning on taking yet, preferring to focus his current semester on the fundamentals of magic, but Eadwulf is the first of their friend group to enroll, and he walks into the dorms next week with a raven perched on his shoulder. It becomes a nearly permanent addition to his friend, large and jet-black, with a deceptively strong beak and eyes filled with confidence and intelligence. Eadwulf spends the next few days answering the same standard question from their peers and teachers - “no, it’s mine.”

Astrid borrows Eadwulf’s notes on the spell and summons her own familiar not long after, a razor-eyed falcon that never stops scanning their surroundings and quietly observing anyone within range. Bren is only a little disappointed when she says “it’s mine, I can tell.” He knows, like everyone else, that soulmates are rare.

Soon it’s his turn, and his friends are making good-natured jokes about what form his familiar will take. They’re hoping for another bird just for the irony of it. “Maybe an owl,” Astrid says with a smile. They make bets. Eadwulf puts ten silver on a songbird, and Astrid puts twenty on a bird of prey.

Bren performs the ritual that night in the privacy of his room. As the incense drifts into the air, he secretly hopes for a feline companion, like the one he knew in childhood. Something soft and warm, curled up in his lap and welcoming him back to his room after a long day of classes. He keeps his eyes closed until the spell completes.

When he looks down, there’s an unexpected shape on his desk, like a scarf dropped lengthwise into a pile. Then it begins to move, glinting with iridescent color in the candlelight as its body slides and shifts on itself, and then he recognizes the creature when a rounded head emerges, tongue flicking out to taste the air in his direction.

“A snake?” he whispers to himself, confused and disappointed. Where he’d hoped for fur (or even feathers in retrospect), he sees shiny black scales like an inkspill across his desk where the light doesn’t hit. There are no emotions in its tapered face and round, lidless eyes. When the initial shock wears off, he takes a moment to focus and reach for his connection with it, hoping that what he finds is a reflection of himself, just like what his friends have, but what greets him is a feeling so new and foreign that he can’t lie to himself anymore.

Bren dismisses the familiar in a moment of panicked shame. He spends the night agonizing over what he’ll say to his friends and what their reactions will be. “It’s not mine,” he whispers to himself, dreading the moment when he’ll say it to them in person tomorrow. “I don’t know whose it is, but it isn’t mine.”

“You have a soulmate,” Astrid will say with a small, tight smile, the words neutral on the surface, but there’s a guarded expression in her eyes. Bren can only nod in reply, feeling like he’s wronged her somehow, as Eadwulf inspects the coiled snake presented to them in Bren’s outstretched hands.

“I’m sure it will come in handy,” he declares, trying to soothe Bren’s worries the only way he knows how. Astrid agrees, and the tension passes as they walk to their first class of the day. Bren considers dismissing his familiar again, but then he looks longingly at the companions perched on his friends and carefully tucks the serpent into the neck of his shirt beneath his robe. Its cool weight settles across his shoulders, the movement a slow, shifting pressure that feels good in the summer heat and even better when he’s working through a difficult assignment later.

Bren doesn’t find out until a few weeks later that his familiar is dangerous. An altercation with another classmate leads to him being shoved against a wall, the other boy’s grip twisted into the front of his robe with one hand while the other pulls back for a swing at Bren’s face, and suddenly there’s a blur of motion and the boy is stumbling back with a pair of tiny red dots on his chin. He almost dies right there on the floor, lips blue and foaming at the mouth, before one of the professors is drawn to the shouting of gathered students. Bren is instructed, under threat of expulsion, to keep his familiar dismissed while in the presence of others.

Ten years ago and hundreds of miles away, Essek Thelyss stands in his laboratory, blinking incredulously at the small, furry creature that has manifested in front of him. The trouble with being a wizard of a long-lived race who can’t summon a familiar is that you don’t know whether your soulmate has already died or just hasn’t been born yet. Essek didn’t think he needed a familiar, particularly, but he’d gotten into the habit of trying the spell once every few years when he remembered, partly because it stung to be an accomplished wizard who couldn’t summon one, and also because he secretly hoped that his soulmate, the one chosen for him by The Weave itself, had not already departed this world.

He’d lost count of the attempts, but it was somewhere between twenty and twenty-three when the spell finally worked, much to his surprise. His new familiar, with its striped orange fur and long tail curled neatly around its legs, sat on his ritual table and looked back at him with eyes that glinted in the low, ambient light. ‘My soulmate is alive out there,’ Essek thought with a relief he would never admit to, reaching out to stroke the cat’s soft fur as it stretched and began exploring the table, then his workbench, and then anywhere it could possibly get into.

In his youth, Essek had hoped for a more suitable familiar - something that could blend in, yet contribute to his image as a formidable spellcaster, like a snake or a spider, but he’d grown accustomed to not having one. His new feline companion becomes a sort of household pet. It’s not physically affectionate beyond the occasional rub against his legs. Mostly, it prefers to sit elsewhere in the room and watch him work from a distance. When he trances, it patrolls the halls and kills any small, unfortunate animal that dares enter his home. He wonders about the sort of person his soulmate might be, to have their soul reflected in this mindful, intelligent, and often ruthless creature.

One night, a little over ten years after he first summoned his familiar, Essek returns from his work at the Lucid Bastion and begins going about his routine, only to find that his familiar is nowhere to be found. He wonders if something has happened to make it decorporealize, like accidentally toppling a heavy object onto itself (unlikely), or maybe it had gotten outside somehow and didn’t care to return yet (a common recurring event). His familiar had changed over the past few months, becoming even more standoffish and less receptive to physical touch than before, so Essek doesn’t worry about its absence until the following day, when his familiar is still nowhere to be found. Before using his components to repeat the summoning ritual, he decides to make a quick search of his tower, and there, crouched in the furthest corner beneath a display cabinet in an unused room, his familiar stares back at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

When Essek reaches for his companion, its sudden, piercing, feline scream sends him pitching backwards in shock, until he’s on the floor and his familiar has left behind a series of long scratch marks where it fled. Essek is shaken for the few moments he sits there, confused, and then later, deeply concerned for someone he’s never met before.

This state of mind becomes normal for Essek over the next eleven years. His familiar is a ghost, hiding and wedging itself under furniture and bursting from its hiding spot in a terrified, screaming bolt of fur and claws when Essek unknowingly gets too close. Sometimes he goes weeks without catching sight of it, but Essek finds himself too sentimental to dismiss his former companion. He fears for the source of his familiar’s soul fragment, whoever this person is, and whatever it was that must have happened to them to cause this.

Hundreds of miles away and a few months later, Bren, now Caleb, accepts a torn-off piece of stolen bread from his new goblin companion, and hundreds of miles away, Essek’s familiar creeps out from beneath the workbench in his lab and slinks out of the room, but not before making brief eye contact with Essek, who stares back in disbelief with a set of alchemical reagents forgotten in his hands.

A few weeks later, after being roughed up and chased out of town again, Caleb remembers his silent protector from his school days, and Nott watches with fascination as a black snake appears in Caleb’s hands with a snap of his fingers. Nott’s fascination turns to concern as he spends a long moment staring at it, drowning in the memory of those days at the academy before he and his friends caught Trent Ikithon’s eye. Later that evening, Nott asks to hold his familiar, and Caleb worries for a moment, but it allows itself to be handed over, and Nott must constantly adjust her grip as its body moves and slips between her fingers.

“I think he prefers his master,” she says kindly, and although Caleb hadn’t cared to gender his familiar, the pronoun rings true somehow. Caleb accepts the snake from her and tucks it back into the neck of his coat where its cool, comforting weight helps quiet his intrusive thoughts.

It takes a few more months before Essek can run his fingers through his familiar’s striped fur again. Progress has been slow, but steady, and Essek is relieved not just for his familiar, but for the unnamed soul attached to it.

Things eventually return to the way they were before, and then continue to change. His familiar becomes his shadow, dutifully following him into every room of his tower. Where before it would perch out of arm’s reach to watch him work, now it walks across the paperwork on his desk and jumps into his lap and demands attention, before it’ll curl up and allow him to keep working. It’s an adjustment compared to what he’s used to, but there’s a weight lifted from his shoulders when he thinks about his soulmate now. At least, most of the time. His familiar refuses to leave his home and still vanishes for hours when he gets visitors, even when they remain on his doorstep and converse with him briefly through the open door.

The day comes when a group of strangers walk into the Lucid Bastion. Even among the chaos that follows, Essek’s attention is drawn, inexplicably, to one of their group - a surprisingly well-spoken human with copper-colored hair and pink, freckled skin, covered in mud and Luxon knows what else.

Caleb, dressed in nothing but leather straps, had dismissed his snake familiar out of necessity back in Asarius. When the situation in the Bright Queen’s throne room eventually dies down, his attention is drawn to a figure sitting near the dias, imposing in equal measure to the other high-ranking drow around them, but something about this individual catches his attention and keeps it indefinitely.

Later, when he and the Nein are free to wander Rosohna, Caleb decides not to risk going about with his venomous, spring-coiled companion for now, just in case there’s a misunderstanding with the locals or the guards.

Essek has his work cut out for him, and these new people don’t stay strangers for long. Despite his frustration at their behavior (often disrespectful and almost always culturally inappropriate), he finds himself responding eagerly to their requests for help when needed. When he sees them, his attention is always drawn first to their wizard, Caleb Widogast, and when he teaches Caleb that first dunamantic spell, it’s a challenge to monitor Caleb’s attention to the correct page of Essek’s spellbook, rather than Caleb himself. Everything about this human man, from the way he murmurs to himself while he works, to how he wrings his hands together during tense conversations, to the purely unexpected talent and raw power in the spells he demonstrates, has captivated Essek over the time he’s spent with these newcomers.

Caleb quietly scolds himself whenever the Shadowhand catches him staring. He’s not accustomed to being around dark elves, and even after the novelty wears off, something about their assigned handler, his new and unexpectedly generous teacher in the dunamantic arts, is drawing his attention and thoughts like an arcane compulsion. Caleb carefully keeps this to himself, not wanting to jeopardize their tenuous position in Roshona or the Shadowhand’s willingness to share his knowledge.

Eventually, as the weeks pass and their relationship with Essek grows out of familiarity and Jester’s brute force method of making friends, the Nein are invited to the Shadowhand’s tower for breakfast and the promise of some collaborative spellwork.

Caleb is regrettably late to the event as he makes a detour to find spell supplies, not wanting to impose on their host any more than necessary. When he arrives, there’s an awkward, semi-private moment where Essek answers the door and greets him. Then he’s led further inside where the others are gathered around a large table, and there’s a weird sort of prickling in the back of his mind as he enters the room. Fjord and Beau are talking and leaning against the table while the others are seated in a small group on the opposite side, except for Jester who is kneeling on the floor and talking to someone or something in a high-pitched voice.

A moment later, Jester makes a sad sound and watches Essek’s familiar slip out from under her hands to go trotting across the floor towards its master, or so she thinks. The cat’s gait breaks into a run, and she gasps as Caleb suddenly falls to his knees, his expression that of a mother who’s been searching all day for their missing child as the cat jumps into his arms. Essek’s familiar must be super friendly with other wizards, she thinks, until she sees the startled look on their host’s face. ‘This is the first time in many years that my familiar has not hidden itself from visitors,’ she remembers him saying as they arrived at the tower, and then he coaxed the cat towards them after she asked if she could pet it, which it accepted with mild, friendly interest. Now Caleb is clutching at its orange striped fur as it rubs against his face over and over again, purring loud enough for everyone to hear, and she’s not sure, but it looks like he might be crying a little.

Caleb carefully stands with the cat cradled in one arm, its outstretched paws making biscuits in the air. He reaches out towards Essek, and there’s a small flash of arcane magic before Caleb’s serpentine familiar appears there, balanced in a tight knot of coils in his upturned hand. Essek stares at it, motionless, until the snake begins to move, its body quickly sliding away from its master and into the space between Essek and Caleb, apparently not caring if it falls before it’s caught.

Essek reaches out with both hands to meet the snake’s trajectory, and soon the familiar is wrapped around Essek’s forearm, coiled tightly in place like a permanent fixture. Essek lifts his arm and stares into its eyes, carefully running his fingers across the black, iridescent scales with a gentle reverence.

“He’s yours,” Caleb chokes out in joyful tears, knowing but not caring that his friends are watching with a combination of amusement and concerned looks. “I always wondered, but I never dared hope . . .” Caleb clears his throat as Essek stares at him, the drow’s expression hard to read. “He, uh, likes to be up high, around your neck, where he can, um . . . he’s v-venomous by the way. I had to learn that. From experience. But he is a good snake, a very good snake,” Caleb insists as more tears threaten to wet his face. In Caleb’s arms, his new familiar trills and then purrs louder, satisfied, when he bends down to nuzzle his face into its wonderful, beautiful orange fur.

Essek makes a quick decision not to ask about what happened to his feline familiar over that eleven-year period. Maybe later when they’re comfortable and alone. For now, he admires his snake companion, the subtle magical thread of connection between master and familiar already transitioned, painlessly, from old to new. He feels whole and complete, and not just from finding his true familiar. Essek’s affection is quiet and immeasurable as he meets Caleb’s overjoyed grin with his own soft smile.

“Thank you for this,” is all Essek can say without his voice breaking. Later, after Caleb’s friends have staged a friendly interrogation about what happened and what it means for two wizards to exchange familiars (and after he’s taken Caleb’s advice and tucked his new companion into the neck of his robe where it fits perfectly), he’ll take Caleb upstairs, his former familiar dutifully following its new master, and spend a few hours alone with his soulmate. At the end of trading stories about their lives and hardships and hopes for the future, he’ll hold the human’s face in his hands and take the first step towards sealing their bond with a kiss.

#shadowgast #caleb widogast #essek thelyss #critical role #critical role fanfiction #can't watch the new episode until later tonight so I wrote this instead #non-wizards could probably gain a familiar this way #I've got another ficlet idea too hmmm

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comic-brew · 4 years

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On Smoldering Ashes

Chapter Two: If any more blood is to be spilt

@whumptober2020 days 3. Held At Gunpoint, 6. "Stop, Please", 9. "Take Me Instead", 14. Branding and 21. Stitches (Altprompt)

Series summary: Bruce Wayne has gotten vulnerable. Bruce Wayne has found love. His love and his kids are all he needs to find happiness. Some sick concept of fate doesn't like him being happy.

Notes: Forgive me for I have sinned. Oh god, oh lord, what in the blazing hells is this. Shitty shitty but I'm tired and late *drops mic* (37 mins/4.6k words I've exhausted tumblr's paragraph limit)

Warnings: RATED MATURE. Graphic depictions of child abuse and torture, graphic depictions of violence, blood, swearing, heavy I guess angst

AO3 | Prev Chapter | Next Chapter

***

"Why" Dick hears Bruce's voice implore. "Why are you doing this? I thought-"

Bruce's merely balancing on his toes inches from the end of the cliff, Dick can figure just by the way his voice wavers like it has only ever done no more than a couple times in the past.

Cecile knows this. She knows Bruce, and she knows this. And quite possibly she's enjoying it way too much.

"Because, dear, who can say they're getting paid to practise their hobbies?"

Dick can only gawk at her, an frankly that's the only thing all the others seem able to do as well.

Hobbies?

They're nothing but a plaything to her.

It doesn't seem right. This shouldn't be happening. Dick should be helping B plan the wedding that made him beam just at the thought of taking place.

Not being held in an unknown location by his could-be step mother.

They really dodged a bullet, but in doing so they fell right into a different trap.

His family's unable to speak, stunned by the sudden revelations. He can't blame them, nor can he blame Jason for cursing under his breath.

Barbara's the first to snap out of their trance.

"What could you possibly want that Bruce's money couldn't get you?" she asks. Her true goal though, expertly weaved inside is search of Cecile's motive.

There's none.

Cecile giggles. "Oh dear. It's never about money. It's not personal either, if that's what's bugging all of you. And although my client does pay a fair amount, in reality.. pain and suffering are simply way too enjoyable."

Client, Dick notes. Somebody's paying for this. Somebody that most likely knows who they are when night falls. Somebody dangerous.

Cecile then turns to look directly at Bruce, as she expertly hides her poison inside cheerfully spoken words.

"And you, love, with as many kids as you have here,-" she says, and Bruce's face crumples, "-are going to be a very, very interesting subject"

Duke shakes his head in disbelief at the woman.

"You're sick"

Cecile sits back and ponders on this statement for a bit. Just for a split second, so it's enough to pass across that message, but not quite long to let them be freed from that entrapping mist of concurrent desire for knowledge, and repulse keeping them bound to every word that falls from her lips.

"Perhaps I am" she ventures.

"Perhaps we're all sick, just in different ways. Have you ever thought of that?"

Dick has in fact thought of that, but his answer would never share meaning with Cecile's. How different really are they from the people they fight? They lock all those costumed freaks up in Arkham, but they themselves could very well be described in the exact same way. Sometimes he wonders if they're insane for choosing this life, and the answer that his mind spits out is always yes.

Every life they save is worth it. That's the truth that makes him continue to put on the suit every night, even though the wounds inflicted on him the previous night are still healing.

But are they really making a difference? Aren't they just lunatics running around in kevlar and spandex. Isn't all the grime and mold of the city simply feeding off of them like leeches?

Dick can't focus on that now. Questioning his life choices might have to wait until he's not that tied up.

Heh. Tied up.

Meanwhile Cecile has exploited the moment of nonplussed silence she's created to tighten her sleek ponytail.

Keeping the attention to herself. Every move is calculated to milliseconds.

"Okay, so here's how this is going to go" she begins, clasping her hands together, then motioning towards their hanging limbs. "Do you see those cool little bracelets on your hands?"

On cue, nine heads tilt upwards to test Cecile's statement. And there, right on his forearm Dick can spot a faint blue light shining dully on what seems to be the middle of a silver-like device.

"Those give us, the immense pleasure of electrocuting you whenever you folks might try to escape, or cause any unwanted trouble" she informs, with her mouth taut into a completely mechanical smile.

"Or.. you know. If we're just bored and feel like it"

"And this little screen right in front of you, it's pretty bland now, if you ask me"

She then starts pacing around in the segregated room, seeming to find great amusement in hearing how her heels click against the concrete.

"Well what if I told you the sight will get more entertaining?"

Dick doesn't like this.

"Before you ask, I will not spoil the experience for you. But I will give you this: you will be the stars of a grand performance. You in particular, circus boy should be thrilled by this fact"

He flinches when he mentions him in that way. It's then that his mind fully comprehend just how much she knows them.

It's not just some kidnapping, of those they've had many before. But it's never been like this. Never has a stranger gotten so close only to betray them for laughs.

Some could argue that it was a similar case when Jason had come back, but Jason had always had a motivation. A goal.

Cecile's doing this for nothing else than pleasure.

Before he can compose himself and reply her voice strikes again, this time in the form of a snarl. "So? Any volunteers?"

No, Dick doesn't like this at all.

"Leave them alone" Bruce demands, only it's not precisely Bruce anymore. Not only has his voice assumed the dark edge of the Knight, but his speech is completely neutral, apathetic. Somehow, his emotional state is even more prominent that way.

"It's me you want to get back to"

"Oh, no" Cecile frowns. "No, no Brucie. This is not about you. Hell, it's not even about them. It's about me. And I say it will be nicer to leave you for last."

She rests a finger on her chin contemplatively, but it's fake. It's all fake, and provocatively so. Cecile's head twists around so that her malicious glare lands on Damian.

"How about our little asshole over here?"

No. Not Damian. Never in a million years. Never in a billion years.

"If you value your life you'll stay away you imbecilic Jezebel" Damian hisses, but Cecile makes no motion to enter their space. Instead, the man in black leaves his post to disappear behind the door Cecile had previously entered from, most likely leading even further away.

"I do value my life"

He comes back with three more identically dressed men, one slightly leaner than the other, and one slightly taller.

"Plenty, for that" she says loftily, and while one of the men returns to his post by her side, the other two barge in through a barely visible door next to the right end of the glass.

There's an outrage as the men quickly advance towards the boy. Everything's blurry and spinning and his ears are ringing so that Dick can't quite figure out if he's shouting along with his brothers and sisters or if he's simply been trapped in a lucid dream all this time.

Voices and bangs and thuds and yells, it all gets lost in the end. So much thunderous noice, yet still it can he broken down to its core. Raw and frantic cries of dissent, repeated over and over in a canon, until the words and senses are but a blurred collage of ire and desolation.

Cecile whips a rectangular device from her suit's pocket and before her finger has enough time to hover above one of the polished buttons, the last is pressed and Damian's body is released from the pipeline.

The boy wastes no time, immediately lunging for the men, and despite any rust slowing down his joints because of their inactivity, he manages to hold off the two men looming over him with size thrice his own.

Dick wants to hold hope inside his heart, but he knows it's futile. He also knows Damian is aware that this fight was lost before it even began, but his baby brother isn't a quitter, nor a coward by his own standards.

If Cecile is startled by Damian's fierce resistance, she doesn't let it show. Her finger finds the device held loosely in her grasp, and a different button is pushed. Sparks that are birthed from the device on Damian's forearm begin to climb throughout his every inch of flesh, until he soon collapses to the ground -like lifeless weight.

The men drag him out of their view, and Dick swears he witnessed a smirk manifesting on their faces while they yelled with all their might, yet completely powerless.

***

It starts with low and hollow grunts. It starts with insults, it starts with defiance, it starts with barely discernible hisses.

Most importantly, it starts with no image.

Only screams. Separated by breathless gasps.

"Please, stop"

Dick's heart shrinks into his chest, sinking deep, deep down, until his lungs are under too much pressure to expand.

The screen flickers to life only after the first hollow screams have subsided.

It's.. not a good sight. Nobody expected it to be.

The room is small and dark, the camera feed is black and white and grainy, but that doesn't help in reducing the horror.

The image focuses enough for Dick to make out Cecile finishing stitching deep gashes on Damian's torso back together in the worst way possible.

Cecile retracts her hand hastily, like she's forgotten something. She lolls her head to the side, waving primly towards the camera.

"Stay tuned for a surprise" she whispers almost conspiratorially before turning to Damian, severing the thread with her own fingers, picking at flesh and stretching it out until he's bleeding again all over the gurney he's tied onto.

Damian struggles not to let her hear the sound she would find oh so hedonic. He grits his teeth and grinds his jaw, but groans emanate from him without his consent.

Cecile sets the sutures and her other tools on a filthy table standing miserably beside her.

"Your brother's such an ass" she declares almost smugly, while shifting in her place to face the camera

Without a warning she pokes a finger inside Damian's open wound, evoking a strangled yelp of agony. Soon enough Cecile's retracted her finger. She brings her hand up to her face. She makes a show of admiring the fresh blood coating it, before she tastes it.

She giggles nonchalantly, but there's that certain grace to everything she does.

"Don't worry. We're not done yet"

No. No, this can't happen. He can't let this go on any longer than it already has.

He has to take his place. He'll take his brother's place. Just, god. Just please listen..

"Take me instead!" Dick screams at the top of his lungs, and the dread climbing up his ribcage seeps into his voice. Bent in ways abnormal, tuning in with his despair.

"Do you hear me?!"

He's flailing around wildly and almost hysterically, his voice is getting hoarser by the second. Kicking and bumping the air, but the chains are relentless, so that he's supposed to sit idly by and watch while his little brother is being tortured.

All alone in a dark room.

The man standing tall and unmoving on the other side of the glass only smirks slightly.

"Leave Damian alone!" Dick roars at the screen, and roars at the man, but he knows it's pointless.

Cecile smiles once again to the direction of the camera as she elegantly walks away from Damian, leaving him alone strapped to the gurney -panting, sweat dripping down his forehead.

Damian's head follows the woman even as she disappears out of Dick's sight. The boy's face crumples. Breathless pleas escape his trembling lips, in swift exhales of air that hold no power.

"Please no"

She reemerges cradling an incandescent piece of metal. The sickening calmness on her face is doused in its fiery glow, and all Dick can utter as he goes deathly pale and still is a breathless "No"

Dick finally has enough contact with reality to register his brothers and sisters' own twisting and shouting. The sounds are earpiercing but all hollow to his ears, and Dick only does acknowledge their existence by sight of tears on enraged faces, jaws snapping open with enough force to dislocate, muscles toned and clenched uncomfortably, bodies bent and struggling, in futile attempts to raise enough force and reach the glass to perhaps create a distraction.

Dick can't figure out the faces from his peripheral vision, nor does he care enough to try.

"No."

His eyes are stubbornly fixed on Damian's own, shining wide with terror as the metal illuminates his skin more and more clearly on the screen. On Damian, desperately tugging against the straps keeping him bound to the gurney to no avail, struggling to be freed before the red-hot iron burns the exposed skin of his chest.

"No.. please no" Damian mumbles, and he looks so small. Smaller than a child his age should look. More frightened than a child his age should be.

Dick had promised -to him and to himself- that he'd always be there for his little brother.

He watches helplessly as the metal sizzles the first layer of flesh. He watches as his little brother writhes and squirmes helplessly under the red-hot iron melting into his skin, and he realizes he can't keep his promise.

No, no, no, no, no

Damian is screaming with all his soul and all Cecile does is laugh. Cecile is laughing, and Damian is being tortured because Dick couldn't keep his promise.

He failed him.

"Take me!"

Please no. Not Dami.

Every inch and acre of Dick's skin feels set aflame, but the pain is nothing but the child of wildfire blazing and burning in his chest. Its smoke has filled his eyes with tears burning like acid.

Failed him.

In his ears buzz cracking woods and falling towers. Not his brother's screams and pleas for mercy, not the echoes of laughter, not the thundering cries of their family.

Failed.

And because of his failure his little robin is expected to endure agonizing pain, as also the wounds inflicted on him are what make Dick's failure not only discernible but grievous.

Failure equals repercussions.

Failure equals punishment.

Perhaps it's irrational, and perhaps he's lost his mind long, long ago. Perhaps this is all a nightmare that he can't wake up from, but Dick's senses don't deceive him.

His every cell is howling in despair but yelling and praying are not enough to relieve them of their pain. Flowers buried deep in ice, frantically searching for sunlight- too frantically to know that they're dead.

Dick failed him. Dick should have been the one punished for this failure.

Only moments have passed but the agony grabs them and twists them, draws them out until seconds can't be told apart by eons.

Dick's eyes are fixed on the form spasming on the screen, but those eyes are empty and hollow.

Their azure blue has evaporated, their glossy white has been burnt to the ground. Obsidian vortexes shining with the life they've stolen from his soul in the half light, is all that is left of them.

Damian's voice is rough from the perpetual screaming, but Dick can hear no more.

So he prays to whatever deity listens that Cecile is reached by his own cries tearing through his throat with fading intensity. Perhaps so loudly the air is grazing his vocal cords more harshly than it should.

Perhaps so loudly he is already silent.

But Dick won't mind it even if they fail to produce a sound ever after these, as long as his flesh is torn and burnt instead of Dami's.

The flesh being torn and burnt is his, in a way, but not in any way that matters.

The iron is removed and Damian's face slowly appears behind the sparse smoke of his own smoldering skin.

***

Cecile reappears behind the glass, walking ever so elegantly towards the barrier separating her from them. She peers at each and every one of them in amusement, deaf to te insults so full of hatred being hurled at her from every corner.

She smiles at the teary paths staining Cass and Barbara's cheeks,

"You fucking-"

"-embodiment of evil and-"

"go-"

She laughs at the veins popping on Duke, Jason and Stephanie's necks as they shout their lungs out, feebly attempting to stop the world from sinking,

"I'm gonna fucking kill you"

"Jay calm down-"

"You repulsive.. abomination-"

"-to hell-"

She gracefully snickers at Tim and Bruce's state of dishevelled resignation, a progression of the rage and agony to the point where they're no more prominent than their breathing,

"You hear me? You're going to burn-"

"Don't you dare tell me to calm the fuck down, replacement"

"-in hell"

"He's right Jason, this doesn't help Dam-"

"you'll wish you were dead before I get my hands on you"

But she stops in her track when her piercing hazel eyes land on Dick. So visibly worn out, yet determinedly burning holes through her with his glare.

She stops, and can only regard him in newfound interest.

Dick doesn't shift in his place. Doesn't bat an eye as he speaks with the power of a thousand thunderstorms enhancing the calmness in his voice.

He's made up his mind.

It's his failure.

His decision.

"You'll stop" he says, almost nonchalantly.

Cecile cocks an eyebrow, scoffing.

"Excuse me?"

"You'll bring Damian back here with us. And you'll stop."

Cecile smirks ever so slightly. "I'm afraid I'm not quite done with your brother yet. Besides, why would I do that?"

"Because you will" Dick growls, but soon enough he masks his outburst beneath a carefully tailored poker face.

Something unreadable passes across the woman's face. Dick assumes she's caught up to his thinking. Of course she has.

"Well, you wound me!" Cecile exaggerates, clasping a hand to her chest. Overacting the entire thing, on purpose no less. She's proven to be too much of a hypocrite for Dick to know she's only acting terribly on purpose.

His stomach is urging him once more to let its contents out, only this time he's not sure it's just a lingering side effect of the drug.

"Although, while wounded, you can consider me intrigued."

Dick swallows thickly. He hopes Cecile doesn't hear him gulp as loudly as he sounds to his own ears.

"You'll stop. Leave Damian alone" he says and although his heart is beating a hundred times faster than it should, his stare is unyielding.

"And you'll take me instead"

Cecile eyes him half incredulously, half entertained, for moments that feels like an eternity. Dick is convinced his soul has already left his body, and the woman is simply left staring blankly at his hanging corpse.

She's still staring vacantly at his direction, with no indication of the fact changing.

But then she chuckles.

She chuckles, and soon snickers are finding their way up her throat one after the other, until her shoulders are shaking with laughter.

Yet the laughs escaping her are perfectly normal. Perfectly contained, just the average sound that could be prompted by an oddly funny joke. A joke so ridiculous it fulfills its purpose.

Perhaps that's the most terrifying part. How human it is.

And Dick is showered in cold sweat when he repeats himself, voice sounding just a little more tight and frantic than need be, but Cecile pays him no mind, laughing silently on her own.

Cecile -most likely pointedly- ignores his protests, which are growing more and more despondent as he's fumbling for words, caught somewhere in the crevasse dividing dread and ire.

"Do whatever you want to do to me! Just-"

He's just a child. Just an innocent child.

"-just leave Damian alone. And take me." Dick says.

An innocent boy caught in the crossfire of a war he never swore to fight, but was instead compelled to win.

His brother caught in the crossfire. His Dami.

His fault.

Dick's stuck in a loop. It doesn't end, it never does. Once it's starts there's no end to look forward to, there's merely one he can imagine, and they won't let him follow it.

All air leaves his lungs. Everything seems so peaceful when the flames tingling his heart have no more smoke to give.

"Take me."

His fault. His responsibility.

"Dick, no," Bruce pleads from behind him. Only then is it that he realizes the rest of them have grown silent, all eyes on him, reflecting the light nearly pensively.

Only then is it that he realizes he's been toeing the line of hysteria. That he doesn't know how to stop.

"B, I have to. I can't let Damia-"

"And I can't let any of you!" Bruce snaps. Dick is taken aback, only not due to the sonorous anger redirected towards him. Rather by the tears he can see glistening all over his father's irises.

Tears.

Shining all across his father's eyes.

Under the enemy's scrutinus gaze, and still he let the sorrow swim all the way up to the surface.

Cecile has stopped laughing. Openly at least, as her palm is covering her mouth in a futile attempt to stifle the giggles, perhaps not wanting to disturb the show. The bright smile lighting her eyes betrays her nonetheless.

"You're my son, Dick. I can't let you do this. I can't let another of my children do this" Bruce concludes, never ending eye contact.

Never trying to deny the tears.

All Dick wants is to give in to the pain of his own, and let Bruce wipe at his eyes and tell him it's all going to be alright, just when he was little.

But he isn't little anymore, is he?

Is he?

Is he strong enough?

No. Not a question. He has to. He has to be-

"I was dead, I should go in next. There's nothing she can do to me that I haven't already gone through" his brother's voice cuts in, disrupting the debate that's been won in his mind, long before it even started.

"Half of us have died, Jason" Stephanie counters. "I don't mind going myself"

"You're not going Steph"

"I'll go then"

"The hell you are, replacement. You didn't make the cut for our club the first time, you'll not make it now.

"Are we seriously having this conversation right now?"

Cass clears her throat to get their attention.

"Me" she offers, and immediately after she's met with loud protests.

Dick watches as the others continue to fight between them, arguing on who should trade places with Damian. They can't understand that he has to do it. He doesn't expect them to. So when Cecile laughs and asks who's it going to be?, his decision is adamant.

"Like I said. It will be me" Dick insists.

He's not little anymore.

"No." Bruce says sternly. "No, you won't go. Do you hear me?"

He is strong enough. He has to be, so he's going to be.

Dick hears him, although elects to ignore him, staring proudly ahead, at the two men walking inside to retrieve him.

Bruce then is yelling, and the others protest, some are still fighting over which one of them should take Damian's place but it's already too late. The cuffs clink open and the two men go to stand by either of Dick's side as soon as his feet touch the ground.

Dick doesn't fight them. He doesn't mind being pushed around with his arms pressed behind his back so tightly his already sore muscles hurt as his arms are straining to bend backwards despite his flexibility. He doesn't mind, because he's doing it for his brother.

As long as his brother's safely reunited with the others, it doesn't matter whatever they might do to him.

Dick sends one last look to his family, and another full of a different kind of love directed right at Babs. He hopes his eyes delivers the thousand messages he doesn't have the time to relay with phrases.

The room is left in hush when the door slides closed behind him.

As far as looks go, Dick's were farewells.

As soon as Dick's dragged into the small room whose horrid purpose he's seen on camera, he spots Damian sitting upright against a corner, with a gun pressed to his temple.

Dick's shoulders stiffen and a breath catches on his throat. Still, it's all going to be alright. It's all going to be okay. Damian's going to be okay.

"I'd advise you not to try anything smart, or-"

"I won't" Dick interrupts sharply.

Cecile stands to the side and gestures towards a skeletal armchair with untied restraining straps. Dick shudders at the thought of how many people have suffered on this same chair, and his stomach fills with dread as the knowledge that he's next settles in.

"Grayson wh-"

"It's okay Dames" Dick says softly, scrambling to regain his composure as he's forced onto the blood stained metal by the men.

He winces when they securely latch the straps around his wrists and ankles, so tightly the leather is pressing into his skin, disrupting blood circulation.

Damian looks hurt and afraid, so Dick does his best swallow his own accelerating fear and suppress the shivers running down his spine, triggered by the icy feeling of metal on his skin.

"Everything is going to be okay"

Dick locks eyes with him and plasters something that feels like the poor excuse of a smile on his face, but he knows it must appear somewhat comforting to his little brother.

Masking his unraveling self beneath a charming smile and a lighthearted joke has always been his gift and curse.

Cecile clasps her hands together impatiently and nods towards the man holding the gun. He hastily shoves Damian into the arms of the leanest of the men, while his extended arm is turned around to point at Dick's head instead.

Damian yelps and as his arms are restrained behind his back, the hideous burn on his exposed chest comes into Dick's full view.

Dick's breath hitches despite himself and.. and..

It's...

The ghastly tendrils of burnt skin spreading across his little Robin's chest that spell out the word brat…

Dick could never describe the utter despair and pain and sorrow and ire and helplessness he feels, yet he doesn't have the time to stare right through the monstrosity etched onto his little brother's flesh as suddenly his chin is being pushed uncomfortably upwards by the barrel of the gun being pressed firmly against the soft skin right above his neck.

As Dick gulps, his Adam's apple bobs almost visibly on his inconveniently prolonged neck. The underlying dizziness finds the perfect opportunity to strike him again as his head slightly lolls backwards.

He no longer sees Damian, but amidst the sounds of his heartbeat echoing from inside the veins and taut muscles in his neck, a small and strangled Richard finds its way to his ears.

"I'm fine" Dick assures, even though he's nothing but. "I'll be fine. Love you, lil bro"

The absence of an answer doesn't concern him as much as that of shuffling or any indication that Damian is guided out of the room.

That is, until a delicate stray sniffle rips his heart apart.

If he could glance at his little Dami, he'd be able to see his reflection fall from his watering eyes in teardrops that he can no longer contain.

Dick can imagine the silently crying face, and so he shuts his eyes closed harshly, trapping inside all the pain and anguish lest it makes way to the surface

With a wavering voice he demands:

"Now let Damian go"

When he reopens his eyes with a breathy gasp he's all alone, bound to the metal skeleton of the chair.

Relief floods his heart.

If any more blood is to be spilt, it shall be his.

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lieraburaaisuh · 4 years

Text

The Lady In White [Prologue]

Synopsis:

When the ghostly figure of a strange jedi appears on the field of battle, wielding twin white lightsabers, no one is quite sure how to react. For the droids she’s just another target. For the Jedi she’s a potential Darksider. But for the clones on the front lines she might well be a goddess.

Liera isn't sure how she came to be in the middle of a battlefield. The last thing she remembers is hiding out in an abandoned temple of dubious origins. But when she feels the fading life force of a nearby sentient all speculation is tossed aside. For Liera is and always has been a healer, and she has a job to do.

Warnings: General violence, loss/grief, and war. Some romance in later chapters, both m/m and m/f. There are hints of clonecest as well in later chapters and the side stories, although nothing explicit.

Note: This is the Third Story in my Series; The Ties That Bind. I will be adding the First and Second stories here soon. As well as the AUs spawned from this long project.

Staring at the stark white helmet laying on its side just out of reach he grimaced in confusion. Everything around him was a haze of blaster fire, cacophonous sounds of battle that rang out across the dusty battlefield. Searing pain radiated through his body, starting at his midsection. Hand trembling he reached down and pressed against his abdomen. Gasping in agony he tries to curse, but all that comes out is a gurgling cough of red foam. Closing his eyes he swallows down the metallic tang and lets his head fall back to the ground. Even if he could be saved there would be no one coming to find him until the battle was won. With a shaky breath he tries to gather his resolve but falters as another cough wracks his broken body.

‘All I want is to live. To see my brothers safe and happy.’ He wonders if it’s too much to ask. He knows that under the Republic he doesn’t have the right to wish for it, but it’s all he desperately wants. Darkness clouds the edges of his vision and a startling cold is slowly creeping through him. It isn’t enough to make him feel numb but it is almost comforting.

Just as he’s finally given in and accepted his fate, praying for his brothers and silently reciting the names of those he would soon be joining, a bright flash of light nearby draws his dull gaze. Pure white, blinding in its purity, fills his field of vision and he wonders if he might have lost his ability to see altogether. But then he should be seeing nothing at all, shouldn’t he? A gentle touch against his cheek make him choke on a gasp of surprise. Had one of his brothers come back for him? He knows he will not last long. He’d seen the absolute ruin of his digestive system, knew his lungs were at least punctured. There was no saving him now. But at least, at the very end, he could be with a brother in his final moments. Someone who would remember him not as a random clone, a number, but as a person who lived and fought and died. A true soldier.

He thinks they might be trying to get his armor off but he can’t be sure, everything feels so distant. A gentle voice calls out to him, sounding wholly unfamiliar but clear as a bell. “Shh, be still. I won’t let you go, I’ve got you.” Slowly a feeling he can only describe as a warm cloud chases away the cold numbness suffusing his body. Is this what the final few moments of death are like? Had his fallen brothers felt peaceful right before the end?

The warmth becomes a scorching heat and he cries out in pain. Gasping he opens his eyes and is confused by his ability to see so clearly. Hovering above him with an expression of intense concentration is a humanoid of a species he’s never seen before. Their skin is a milky white and their long hair is a pale pinkish blonde that reminds him of rose gold. Glowing lavender eyes, a sharp splash of color on an otherwise blank canvas, catch his gaze and hold him captive. There is passion in those eyes yet it is tempered by serenity.

As if noticing his newfound lucidity the humanoid gives him a small smile that is both reassuring and kind. “You won’t be dying today, little light.” There is a gentleness in that voice he has seldom heard in his life and it is both beautiful yet unsettling. “What is your name?”

Focusing on the words he comes to the conclusion that the one holding him is a woman. Maybe it’s the way her voice reminds him of a song or maybe it’s the feeling in the air around them. He can’t decide. But he knows he’s right.

“C-Clip, Sir.” He doesn’t know why he tells her his name and not his serial number. It just feels right.

“I’m Liera. Nice to meet you, Clip.” Slowly the warmth begins to ebb as she takes her hands away from his forehead and chest. Around him the sounds of battle reassert themselves as his awareness snaps back into place. He nearly jumps as he realizes they’re still in the middle of the engagement.

Movement behind the woman catches his eye and he has no time to think about why he’s suddenly able to focus, why the pain is no longer present. From behind the scattered debris of a downed gunship a super battledroid stomps closer, guns aimed at the two of them. Clip’s eyes go wide. Instinct kicks in and he grabs his gun, pulling it up and aiming it at the enemy even as he lays prone. “Look out!” He yells, hoping the woman gets out of the way in time.

What happens next leaves him breathless in awe.

Before he’s even finished crying out in warning the woman is on her feet, head turned to face the threat. From her hands twin blinding lights erupt as the droid opens fire. With the woman standing directly between him and the clanker he dared not take a shot, the risk of hitting her was too great. But as she began to move the gun lays forgotten in his lap, his mouth falling open to gape in surprise. From one moment to the next she went from standing in front of him, almost defensively, to carving the droid into multiple pieces of slag. The bolts hadn’t even slowed her down on her way. She’d either dodged them or deflected them.

Clip had seen jedi on the field before, usually from a distance. But he’d never had the chance to watch one up close like this. He tracked her movements, unblinking, afraid to miss any second of the awe inspiring display. Looking at her weapons as she spun then in her hands he had a moment of confusion. In all the stories he’d heard the jedi’s weapons were always one of two colors. Blue or green. But the twin sabers in her hands were both blindingly white. They lit up the air around her, bathing her in a halo of light. Her long hair, which fell down her back and stopped at her knees, shimmered like silken metal as the blades passed by in a sweeping arc.

With the droid turned into a heap of rapidly cooling scrap on the ground she thumbed her weapons off and clipped them to her belt. There was a look of disgust on her face as she turned away from the broken droid. Turning back to him, her expression softened, though her eyes were bright, appraising him carefully. Swallowing he sat up, trying to straighten as much as he was able. As she walked back to him she stopped, eyes darting down to the helmet at her feet. Almost hesitantly she picked it up, dusting it off as she did so.

“Do you need a hand up?” She asked, sounding a little lost or maybe tired.

“No, General. I’m fine.” Her face scrunched in confusion as she held out his helmet for him, to take with trembling fingers. Getting a better look at her now that the excitement had died down he wondered if all jedi looked as strangely as she did. There was no braid behind her ear, like the Padawan Commanders, but she had braided the hair at her temples and tied it back, keeping the majority of her hair out of her face. The robes he’s been trained to recognize are conspicuously missing. In their stead she is wearing a white blouse with sleeves cuffed at the wrist, a pale cream colored vest that hugs her slender curves, and fawn colored tights to match the sash-belt around her waist. A bright splotch of color draws his attention to her left arm and he blanches at the streaks of dark red soaking into the white fabric.

“Sir! Are you injured?” He blurted, getting to his feet with his helmet in one hand and weapon in the other.

“What?” She follows his gaze and sees the blood on her sleeve. “No, the blood isn’t mine.” She looks back up at him in concern and he can’t figure out why. It takes him a little longer than it should have to realize why. Looking down at his body he sucks in a breath. With some of his armor plates missing he can see the large gash in the black undersuit. Blood stains the area but he feels no pain whatsoever. Where once he’d been able to clearly see his own insides there is nothing but perfectly unharmed flesh. Like the last ten minutes had never happened.

“Wh-what?” The squeak that leaves his mouth is wholly undignified as his mind reels, trying and failing to comprehend the new information. Tearing his eyes away from his whole, unharmed, abdomen he gazes down at her with no small amount of awe. “How?” He whispers, almost afraid to ask.

“I used the Force. I’m sorry about the pain, I had to extract shrapnel from your wounds but I don’t have any medical supplies on me a the moment.” Well that sort of made sense to him. The force wasn’t really something he really understood so he just nodded.

Seeming content with his response she begins scanning the area around them, her eyes giving off a faint light as if lit from within. If she hadn’t just saved his life he might have been disturbed by it. As her eyes slid out of focus he knew she was no longer paying him any mind. Either she was seeing something he wasn’t or her mind was currently elsewhere. She came back a moment later, her eyes flicking up to him then away again. “I can feel more weakened life forces nearby.” She stated plainly.

Letting out a small sigh she looked at him fully, mouth a thin line and eyes apologetic yet determined. “I’m sorry I cannot fight with you. I have a duty to the dying and the injured.” In Clip’s opinion that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. If she hadn’t felt responsible for the wounded then he wouldn’t currently be alive and well.

“Don’t worry yourself, Sir. We can handle the fighting.” Her brows knit as a frown tugs at her peach colored lips. She looks like she wants to say something but gives up a moment later. For a jedi he’s surprised how expressive she is. After all the jedi are meant to be calm and serene at all times, showing little or no emotion.

“Force be with you, Clip.” Nodding at him she turns away and runs off. In the distance he can see a fallen brother, leaning against a chunk of rock and head bowed. Clip hesitates. He should be rejoining the fight, taking out as many seppy clankers as he could with his brothers. But… if she was going to help the injured she wouldn’t be able to protect herself at the same time. The sudden urge to watch her back finally overrode his urge to get back to the fight. Jamming his helmet back on he followed behind her at a jog, eyes peeled for danger. With her short stature it wasn’t hard to catch up quickly.

Kneeling next to the wounded trooper she placed her hands on his helmet to remove it but had to back away when the man startled and flailed. Crouching next to her, in front of his brother, he reached out and gripped the man’s shoulder. “It’s alright, Slick. The General is here to help.” Relaxing when he realized he was in no danger his brother allowed his helmet to be removed without any more fuss. Giving him a curt nod of approval Clip stood and kept watch, scanning the surrounding area for danger while the jedi worked her magic.

From this side of things there was nothing special to see as the woman placed her hands on Slick’s forehead and chest place. Only her eyes and the feeling in the air seemed to change at all. Vaguely he recognized the feeling of warmth from his own healing but now there was an undercurrent of something else he couldn’t quite place. An emotion that welled up inside him and filled him with strength… Glancing down at his brother he took in the expression of awe on his face and it clicked.

Hope. The feeling she gave off was hope.

A lump formed in his throat and he had to swallow multiple times to force it away. Tearing his eyes away from the sight he focused on his task, his thoughts tumbling over one another. When was the last time he’d felt this hopeful?

The healing only lasted a few minutes but it felt much longer. Finally the jedi pulled her hands away, giving Slick a small smile. “You’re well enough to move now. I’ve fixed the worst of your injuries but I need to save my energy. You’ll need a medic later for the more minor injuries.” Getting to her feet she stepped away from Slick to give him room to stand and turned her focus back to the battlefield. Like before her eyes began to give off a faint glow as they became unfocused, as if she were seeing into the very fabric of reality. For all he knew- she was.

“Alright Slick?” he asked, reaching down to help his brother to his feet. The awed cross dumbfounded look he got in response to his question made him grin. It took his batch mate a moment to form words.

“What the shab was that?” Clapping the man on the shoulder he looked back at the jedi with a shrug.

“I don’t know, the force?” Slick gave him an unimpressed look. He laughed and switched languages. “All I know is that she’s helping brothers, and if that’s what she’s going to do then I’m going to watch her back.” Slick nodded thoughtfully and slipped his helmet back on before picking up his own weapon.

Without another word the woman was suddenly off running again. If she’d heard their conversation she gave no indication of it. But she hadn’t given them any orders to return to the fight or stay away from her so they took her silence as acceptance and followed, on guard and ready for anything.

They made their way across the battlefield, meandering and sometimes backtracking. It honestly made no logical sense to him but he supposed he wasn’t the one with the mysterious powers. He couldn’t be sure what she was seeing that he couldn’t so he chose to trust she knew what she was doing and follow her lead.

Every now and then they would pass by a wounded brother and her expression would turn sad. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you right now.” The words sounded as if they pained her to say, like she was truly sorry she couldn’t stop their pain. But they were all highly trained soldiers, they understood triage.

The longer they remained with her the more brothers joined their group. At one point Clip almost laughed at the absurdity of it. They had acquired nearly an entire squad at this point. All they needed to do was find a Sergeant and they’d be set.

There were a few hairy moments where they had to stop and fight off an unexpected attack from a group of droids but it wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle. While the jedi wasn’t as skilled as Generals Skywalker or Kenobi she was still a jedi and held her own with no trouble. The fact that she wielded twin lightsabers and cut down the droids with almost vicious intent just boosted her approval among the vode.

The only thing that was a little odd about her was her hesitation when it came to moving debris out of their way. She went out of her way to either carve a hole through it or go around it, whereas their General would have just flung it away like it was nothing. She seemed almost bashful when she explained that her control of telekinesis over inanimate objects was sorely lacking. So while she could lessen the weight of the large metal slab in their way she could not actually move it any significant distance. It took four of them together to lift the slab she indicated was in between them and their trapped brothers but they were able to move it with her assistance.

The moment it was out of her way she bolted inside the wreckage and fell upon a trooper who was covered in blood. Immediately she removed his helmet and was closing her eyes to focus on her task as the two less injured brothers eyed them curiously. Clip let the others explain as he watched the general, concerned by how desperate her movements had been. Sadly his suspicion was proven correct when her hands fell away from their fallen brother. She stared down at him, the air around her filled with a profound silence and grief he could practically taste. It was their first loss. Gently she reached up and closed his eyes, placed his hands over his chest, and set his helmet on the ground above his head. Bowing her head she clasped her hands together, as if in prayer. “Faas nihar juehaa. Mielhaas hiif aouul lalleea.” The words were spoken in a soft yet reverent voice and were absolutely incomprehensible to him. Looking at his brothers he wasn’t surprised to find them equally at a loss.

When she was finished she rose gracefully to her feet. The skin around her eyes was tight but her eyes burned even more fiercely than before. “If you have respects to pay then please do so. But I cannot stay here any longer. There are more lives that can be saved.” She took a deep breath and let it out again, adding a quiet, “I’m sorry.” In those two words he could hear the depths of sadness she felt for the loss of one clone and it left him breathless. There were far too few sentients who viewed them as people in their own right. But even as he and his brothers were trying to wrap their heads around it the jedi was already on the move.

By the time the battle came to a close the jedi had saved forty-one of their brothers from the jaws of death. They lost three of the men she tried to save and he could tell each loss affected the woman deeply, but she didn’t let it stop her from moving on to the next life that could be saved. If there was anything that could convince Clip the jedi were the uncontested good guys in this conflict, this did.

Orders came over the comms and they all relaxed when they realized it was over. They’d won the day and were all expected to report in. The medics were already collecting the wounded. Relief swept through them. Even the jedi gave them a bright smile from the ground before she was finally pulling her hands away from her latest patient. Sidling up next to her Clip took off his helmet and attached it to his belt, holding out his hand to help her up.

“Thank you, General. My brothers were saved because of you.” Looking up at him she gave him a kind smile and took his hand, allowing herself to be lifted to her feet. As he helped her he couldn’t help but feel that something was… off. She was moving slowly, stiffly.

“I’m glad to help. Now then, we should… be…” From one moment to the next her presence diminished and she was falling.

“General!” He cried out, catching her before she could collapse to the ground. Carefully he lifted her into his arms, sharing worried looks with his brothers. Her body was completely limp, head lolling to the side. Placing his ear against her chest he could hear her heartbeat and felt the rise and fall of her lungs. Letting out a relieved sigh he cradled her unconscious form to him.

“What do we do?” He wasn’t a total shiny but Clip was still fairly new to the 501st. He didn’t know what the procedure was for a jedi suddenly falling unconscious for no damn reason. Thankfully Lieutenant Rotor was among the group who’d decided to stay back and protect her. Already he was barking orders into the comm and calling for an emergency transport back to the Resolute.

Someone offered to take the general off his hands, but Clip refused to let her go. Covered in dried blood and dirt, her hair tangled and messy, she was still one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Maybe more so, due to how little she seemed to care about her appearance over helping them.

“Don’t worry, General. I’ve got you.”

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storywonker · 5 years

Text

Series review: Gaunt’s Ghosts

(I posted this a few days ago over at r/fantasy because I’m having a go at their 2019 book bingo; the Hero Mode for that requires you to write a review of every book you read for the bingo)

Originally, I intended to simply read The Warmaster and Anarch for the tie-in Bingo hard mode square. I’ve been a fan of Dan Abnett, and Warhammer 40k’s longest-running book series, since I was a teen, but I hadn’t really read any of the books since about 2014, and I figured: hey, it might be worth rereading the books to see if they hold up.

They do.

For those unfamiliar, Gaunt’s Ghosts is a long-running (15 novels and two short story collections, with three other novels in the same broad chunk of the 40k galaxy) military sci-fi/fantasy series set in the Warhammer 40,000 universe. The books centre around the Tanith First-and-Only, commanded by Colonel-Commissar Ibram Gaunt, a regiment of the Imperial Guard whose world has been destroyed, leaving them the last survivors of their culture. Due to this, and their reconnaissance and stealth specialisation, they’re known, both in-universe and out, as Gaunt’s Ghosts. Their battleground is the Sabbat Worlds Crusade: an Imperial effort to reconquer a sector of space overrun by the forces of Chaos.

The series is roughly divided into four ‘arcs’, although two of these were defined after their release and there are storylines that run through the entire series.

We kick off with the Founding, comprising:

First and Only

Ghostmaker

Necropolis

The Saint:

Honour Guard

The Guns of Tanith

Straight Silver

Sabbat Martyr

The Lost:

Traitor General

His Last Command

The Armour of Contempt

Only In Death

And, latest, The Victory:

Blood Pact

Salvation’s Reach

The Warmaster

Anarch

Of these, I feel the first two books are a little weaker, but from Necropolis on the series hits a consistent level of quality that it never really dips from.

So, what makes such a long series worth reading? Why am I even bothering with this?

First: Dan Abnett writes the best damn battles in fantasy or science fiction. Yes, I understand that’s a bold statement. No, I haven’t read Malazan. I’ll stand by it, though: fifteen books that mostly comprise military engagements of one kind or another, and I can’t say I was bored at any point, or tired of Abnett’s battles. There’s a mix of gritty realism (insofar as anything in 40k is realistic), clear, lucid writing, and an eye for small, vivid details that keeps the firefights both engrossing and easy to understand. I don’t think at any point in the series I was confused about where a character was, or had to reread a passage because I didn’t understand what happened. That’s an impressive piece of craft, and it’s one Abnett’s kept up and improved over the twenty years he’s been writing this series. The little details are great, too: characters noticing how mass laser discharge feels like a visceral shock on a quiet, rainy night; the persistent bruise on a sniper’s shoulder from the heavy kick of an overcharged weapon; characters shouting ‘clear’ so their eardrums survive the backblast of a rocket launcher.

Second: Abnett’s character work and long-form plotting is excellent. He’s referred to it in interviews as ‘soap opera’, and there’s elements of that, certainly. The bonds and rifts between the soldiers of the regiment are a key point of the books, and there are innumerable small moments that humanise the Ghosts in between the shooting; gambling rings, family dramas, comrades discussing the quality of the regiment’s moonshine. This is all great stuff, and, after a while, eclipses the battles as the reason to keep reading, because, at bottom, we don’t want our favourite characters to die.

Which they do. A lot.

Abnett makes expert use of the ensemble cast to both kill enough characters that no-one feels safe and to introduce enough characters that the series doesn’t begin to feel fruitless despite the death toll. Many of the major characters as of The Warmaster and Anarch weren’t even in the first six or seven books, as Abnett keeps the Tanith’s strictly limited manpower pool topped up by periodic drats of new soldiers. Characters who started as broad sketches become more and more detailed as they ping-pong off each other and the enemy; ones who remain spear-carriers (las-carriers?) begin to matter more and more as their minor appearances build up. This cast also injects a lot of variety, as the narrative shifts focus to different parts of the regiment.

Abnett also uses these reinforcements to inject a much-needed influx of female characters. Where the first two books have only two speaking female characters (they’re very much a product of late 90s Games Workshop in that respect), by Anarch female characters are a major presence at every level of the regiment, the majority well-drawn and fleshed-out characters.

Speaking of variety, Abnett also varies each book’s war by changing the kind of military story each one tells. Where Necropolis is a massive, Stalingrad-style siege, Honour Guard is a quest narrative with the Ghosts being part of an armoured column and The Guns of Tanith is an airborne assault on a mountaintop city.

Even where the setup is similar (each of the first three arcs ends in a siege), Abnett varies aspects of the plot and theme to keep things fresh: Sabbat Martyr is part siege, part assassin-hunt; Only In Death is a siege story where the fortress is haunted, alternating between blazing action, the hopelessness of a trapped unit cut off by the enemy, and some utterly chilling psychological horror (it is, in my opinion, the best book in the series). Although the Tanith are usually a small part of whatever war they’re fighting, the length of the series means that the overall course of the war for the Sabbat Worlds develops and twists over time.

All of this means that, by the time we roll around to books 14 and 15, the Sabbat Worlds Crusade feels like it has a tremendous amount of weight and history behind it. Locations that were mentioned in throwaway briefings have become real places that we’ve visited. Enemy warlords mentioned in passing have grown to be massive antagonists. And, above all, the characters at the centre of the Crusade, mentioned only as distant names directing the action from afar, become central to the narrative.

The Warmaster and Anarch are, although released as two novels, best read as one single narrative (indeed, the whole Victory arc is one single narrative, including several novellas and short stories included in the Sabbat Crusade anthology). It takes the Ghosts to the Forge-World of Urdesh, mentioned as a manufacturing centre for the forces of Chaos as far back as book four. A freak warp-accident jumps the Ghosts ten years forward in time, and the crucial nature of the cargo they recovered in Salvation’s Reach thrusts them into the heart of the Crusade. These are novels about change, as the Ghosts adjust to their new position and importance, and the new draftees from Verghast and Belladon introduced in Salvation’s Reach settle in and prove their mettle.

The Warmaster, for all it radically shifts the scope and feel of the books, feels very much like a setup book. It ends without a great climax (lack of denouement is one of my criticisms of the series; generally there’s only a few pages of falling action after the battle turns in the Ghosts’ favour), instead keeping a cliffhanger ready for Anarch. It’s a character-focussed book, mostly setting up things to pay off in Anarch.

And pay off they do. Anarch is one of Abnett’s barnstorming arc-end books, and joins its three predecessors as some of the best in the series. Switching seamlessly between some of Abnett’s best horror-writing (which neatly combines with one of his most impactful character punches), the normal (but still very good) blaze of battlefield action, and tense infiltration, Anarch contains a cool or noteworthy moment for just about every member of the ensemble. It also includes a lot of deaths; I think probably the most of any book so far, and of several major characters. Abnett is ruthless in pruning his cast, but each one feels impactful.

What Anarch does that the other arc-end books don’t is set up more storylines for the future. This may be the consequence of The Victory being the most serialised arc yet, but by the end, not only has the war for the Sabbat Worlds changed for ever, but the Ghosts are set on a trajectory that promises to take them to even deadlier battlefields. Payoff for the plots set up in The Warmaster comes thick and fast, as does the resolution of other, longer-term plots. One in particular seems to have been started all the way back in book 3, a 19-year real-time gap. The regiment that emerges from these two books feels very different from the one that entered them, but no less interesting and engaging for that.

So, in sum: if you like military SFF with strong character-work, want to read some of the best battles in the genre, and want a long-running, interconnected series, check out Gaunt’s Ghosts.

Bingo Square: Tie-In Novel (Hard Mode)

Recommended for fans of: The Black Company, The Heroes, Grimdark, military fantasy.

#gaunt's ghosts #dan abnett #reviews

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michaelmyersmalewife · 6 years

Text

stitches | chapter 4

masterlist | playlist

summary: You’re a nurse for a fairy reputable emergency clinic with a fairly useful quirk. And you also happen to be the hero killer’s closest ally.

words: 3k+

ship: akaguro chizome/stain x reader

warning(s): light gore, smut

A/N: alright uhh so this is gonna be the last chapter for stitches and i gotta say writing for stain’s been fun !! so i hope you guys enjoyed this mini series !!

Given your profession, you were required to be patient.

Patient and precise. But when you were faced with anything that didn't keep you on your feet you found yourself as restless as a busy road. Sitting down for an extended period of time with a book was one of these things but here you were.

Today was one of the rare days you got off of work early (though, "early" was a bit of a stretch), and having nothing to do for the rest of the night you decided to pick up one of the books you had meant to finish months ago. You made yourself as comfortable as possible, wrapped in a thin blanket on your couch with a half-empty cup of tea on the coffee table in front of you. Your tv was left on some channel you hadn't paid any attention to as a form of background noise. The book you picked wasn't a page-turner by any means - it had been recommended to you by a friend actually - but it was just interesting enough that you found yourself flipping through it for the past hour.

You didn't know how much time had passed - you didn't really care enough to be keeping track - but you found yourself nodding off. Eyes becoming heavy and drooping closed for a split second before quickly opening only to repeat that same process a dozen times more. Soon enough you decided to rest your eyes for just a minute, not willing to give into your fatigue just yet.

It wasn't the book in your hands falling to the floor that woke you up too abruptly for your taste.

A slow yet frantic pounding at the window from your room jolted you upright from your seat, immediately causing your grip on the book to slip and go thudding to the floor. You were used to being woken at random by a certain someone knocking on your window, but this felt different. This felt wrong.

You blinked in a rapid succession, eyes stinging from the sudden change in brightness as you clumsily made your way to your room. The pounding from the fire escape hadn't stopped, and neither had your increasing anxiety. It didn't get any better once you heard the sound cease altogether. You squinted once you entered your room, not bothering to turn on the light. It had gotten much darker out than it was the last time you checked, and you could barely see past the curtains outside. Only a dark figure hunched over behind your window was visible, his hand tightly clenched into a fist resting against the glass. From your distance you knew it was Stain, but there was something that struck you as wrong that you couldn't quite place. Shoving aside the curtains, what was wrong couldn't have been clearer.

Where Stain's hand had been were now droplets of drying blood clinging together like small, red beads. You stifled a gasp. This wasn't the first time you had seen him anywhere near this bad, but it always put your nerves in a frenzy. It wasn't easy for a regular person - quirkless or otherwise - to land a hit on Stain, let alone injure him to a certain degree. But now wasn't the time to consider who it was that did this to him. You had a job to do.

Not missing a beat, you lifted the window. Stain struggled to get one hand under to push it up the rest of the way as he usually did, and for the first time in a long time you helped him through. As he put one hand on the window's ledge his arm buckled, almost falling to your floor if it hadn't been for you catching him in time. If there was even a shred of you still tired at this point, you didn't notice. You hooked your arms under his, hesitating for a split second when he let out a strangled hiss. One of his arms reached backward, grabbing one of yours a little too firmly, the other clamping around his side. It wasn't until you pulled him the rest of the way through that you saw the extent of his injuries.

The hand he had covering his stomach was glistening in the dim light of the room with blood. It ran down his waist and onto his legs, and by that time the floor of your room wasn't untouched either. Shrugging him over your shoulder, Stain was practically dead weight, one heavy arm draped around you and head lolling to the side. He was barely conscious, eyes hardly being able to focus on one thing let alone staying open. That whole time he had been muttering something and you wished you could've been able to make out just a shred of it. You had no idea how far he had been from your apartment but you knew that at this point he had lost too much blood for it to matter. You snapped your fingers in front of his face as a desperate attempt to keep him awake.

"Stay with me, tough guy. Can you do that?" There was an urgent underlying tone to your voice. In situations like these you hated sounding like anything other than level-headed, but it was hard seeing someone like this. Especially Stain.

He was so much taller than you. And it didn't really occur to you how heavy the man actually was until you started walking to your bathroom only to stumble over yourself after a handful of steps. He was barely able to walk even with your help, his knees threatening to give out from under him the more you moved. You stopped, allowing him to lean on your small form.

"You're gonna have to help me, okay? You've gotta try to walk with me." you spoke through gritted teeth, muscles straining to keep him upright.

With Stain's weight on your shoulders, you were only able to take a step or two before he began to nod off. You had to think of something. You had to keep him at least a little lucid.

"So who got you this time? Was it some new guy or-"

Stain's head lolled to the side, uncomfortably resting on top of yours. His voice was strained, barely able to wheeze out a single word.

"No," He took in a short, labored breath.

"Mind telling me more?"

Stain didn't respond, only letting out a pained growl. As he exhaled, a labored and wheezing noise, another small gush of blood spilled from his fingers and onto the floor. You'd definitely have to clean that up later.

"Shit," you hissed. This wasn't going to work.

Your bathroom never seemed so far away. Carefully, you lowered him to the floor, sitting him up against the foot of your bed. As you slid your hands out from under his arms you felt his grab at you, a bloodied hand tugging at your shirt. You set your hands on his, gently urging them to let go of you.

"I - Stain, please - I'll only be gone for a second."

Quickly, he let go of you, and without missing a beat you sped off to your bathroom. It was like you were on autopilot, grabbing what you needed without having to think. First aid kit, check. Water, check. Towels, check. Before you forgot, you washed your hands, not even bothering to dry them. When you returned, Stain was still struggling to keep himself conscious. His breathing was ragged, and you could see his hands shaking against the wound that still oozed blood with every breath. You sat by his side, carefully moving his hand away and replacing it with a towel. He inhaled sharply, eyes clamped shut.

"Alright, now I gotta clean it okay?"

He nodded.

Stain shifted as you removed his vest that served as a portable knife collection and set it down next to you. You leaned forward, lifting his shirt up and finally see the source of all the blood. You could see the injury he had gotten much clearer, a thin, deep gash across his stomach that was slightly visible through the tear in his shirt. He wheezed, hands clenched into tight fists that trembled every time he let out a labored breath. You had seen injuries like these more than you'd like to count, and you were well-equipped to deal with something like this at any moment.

You gripped the small cup of water you managed to snag from your bathroom in one hand. This was probably going to hurt him, but you'd seen him handle worse. He'd be fine. You repeated that to yourself as you poured the cool water over his gash, flushing out the fresh blood that dripped down his body and onto his lap. You grabbed a pair of antiseptic wipes, ripping them open in one expert move and hastily wiping away the caked-on blood that still clung to his skin. You had to hand it to Stain, he was taking this pretty well. You fidgeted with your hands for a second, unintentionally cracking your knuckles.

"Try to stay still for me."

There was a slight hesitation, but he nodded.

Stain hissed when your fingers pinched his gash together. It took all your concentration to keep your growing emotions at bay, burying them under a layer of professionalism that you had naturally built up over the years. Like molding clay, you began to work. Painstakingly dragging your fingers across his skin, pushing down harder on the areas where it was deepest. You connected muscle to muscle, tissue to tissue, stitching together the damaged blood vessels to the best of your ability and finally closing the top layer of flesh. Stain's breathing began to steady itself. He laid his head back against your bed frame, eyes closed and arms limp at his side. You were halfway done when he started speaking again.

"This one's all on me," he snickered to himself, a short, raspy sound.

You paused for just a fraction of a second, startled by the sudden break in the drawn out silence.

"They were experienced. I'll give them that."

You gave yourself a second to glance up at him. There was the ghost of a smile on his face as he became lost in thought.

"I underestimated them, misjudged their character and I paid the price."

"How so?" It came out sounding more like a statement than a question but you were too focused on putting him back together. At this rate you didn't think it would take you long to finish.

"I thought they were worthy. And like a fool I spared their life at the cost of my own."

After what felt like hours you finally reached the end of his wound, what was left would likely heal on its own without help. You sat upright, resting your tired hands on your lap.

"Well, you're okay now so stop beating yourself up about it."

You didn't mean to come off as sounding so forceful, but you couldn't help it. You spoke with such conviction that not even Stain responded. He only stared at you, though his expression softened, it seemed like he was deep in thought.

You tenderly placed your hand on his freshly formed scar.

You heard him breathe in sharply, and your hand flew away as quickly as you had put it there.

"Shit, does it still hurt? I have some painkillers in the-"

"I'm fine." Stain put his hand to his forehead, brushing away the shaggy hair that fell in front of his face.

You huffed. You'd think he'd be used to this by now.

Gently, you lifted his shirt, eyes scanning for any more injuries you missed in the rush to get the big one out of the way. You ran your hands along the area close to the scar, fingers brushing across his sensitive skin. You never really payed that much attention to how toned he was but seeing him this close was Stain was exceptionally good at pretending he wasn't hurt, so it wasn't exactly easy for you to take his protests seriously at face value.

It didn't take you long, only a few seconds at most, but by the time you made a move to pull away you caught a glimpse of Stain's expression. That whole time you were inspecting him for any more damages he had his head turned to the side, and the parts of his face that weren't covered up were as red as his headband. You rolled your eyes.

"Dude you don't have to be embarrassed this isn't the first time it's happened."

Stain said nothing, only staring at you out of the corner of his eye. It didn't take you long to notice you were sitting between his legs, your hands still placed on his bare abdomen.

"S-Seriously?" You sat upright, crossing your arms in an attempt to ignore how you could feel your face flush. "Ugh after all these years you'd think you'd be a little more mature." You briskly mumbled to yourself.

"You, um," you pressed your hands against the floor, making a move to stand up. "You know the way out."

Before you could so much as twitch a muscle, you felt one strong arm nudge your back, pressing you forward. Not hesitating, you shifted yourself, letting those calloused hands glued to your side pulling you down so that you were straddling him. You framed his face with your hands, bringing his gaze back to you. You sighed, stroking his cheek with your thumb.

"I was just worried about you, idiot."

He laughed, eyes shutting. You felt one of his hands wrap around the back of your head, lightly guiding you to rest against his chest. Even now he still smelled like blood and rain. His other hand snaked its way to the small of your back, playing with the edge of your leggings.

"I know."

His hand trailed down further, and you felt your body tense.

"Really? Now?" you asked with a mocking smile.

Stain kissed the top of your head all while stroking one long finger against the fabric of your leggings, right where your opening would be. Your breath hitched, a jolt of arousal rippling up your abdomen. You looked up at him.

"Are you sure you're feeling up to tha - h-haa,"

You could feel your vision getting hazy the more he rubbed against your entrance, the friction building an ache in your abdomen.

"You're so good to me," you could almost hear him smile. "You also deserve at least a little relief."

"You h-hha-have no shame, d-do you?" your voice was shaky, and you could feel your chest rising and falling at a growing pace with every second Stain spent between your legs.

You tucked your head into the space between his neck and his shoulder, trying desperately to keep your breathing under control. Stain leaned his head against yours, and you could feel your face grow hotter. Even through the barrier your leggings made between you, you could feel yourself growing damp. But as soon as it started the feeling stopped, only for you to feel that same hand tugging down your leggings. You moved your arms, pushing yourself away from him so that you could pull them down as far as they could go and kicking the rest off your legs. Stain laughed, pressing a deep kiss to your forehead.

He wasted no time returning to his previous position, continuing to rub circles against your clit. You let a weak moan escape you as you rolled your hips down on his hand, desperately trying to push him deeper. Stain stroked the back of your head, fingers entwining themselves in your hair as he pushed one finger past your underwear and into your folds. You exhaled, one of your hands flying to grip his shoulder like an anchor while the other was pressed down onto your thigh.

Stain plunged another finger into you, eliciting a louder, breathy moan that rumbled against his skin. You heard his normally controlled breathing waver, a low husky growl reverberating through you as he continued slipping in and out of your core.

You turned your head to the side, lips brushing against his neck as you pressed light kisses in time with his pumping. With one particularly rough curl of his fingers, you bit back a cry, instead gently scraping your teeth against his flesh. Stain bent his head back, letting out a choked hiss. He always had been sensitive there.

After that he was relentless, rhythmically thrusting his fingers between your clit and your folds, curling and stretching inside you until you could feel a pressure building at the base of your stomach. You looked up, catching Stain in a kiss. Admittedly, he wasn't the best. It was messy and ravenous and always ended in his tongue engulfing yours. But you'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy it.

Pulling away to give yourself a moment to breathe, you could feel the muscles in your legs threatening to give out the more your now swollen clit throbbed. Stain's pace slowed as you rocked against his hand, drawing out your orgasm as long as he could.

"Stain I-I-"

His lips returned to yours, teeth grazing your bottom lip as you moaned into his mouth, letting your climax wash over you like a wave. You could feel yourself dripping onto his hand, gasping when Stain slowly slipped his fingers out of you.

"S-Sorry." you breathed out as you rested your head against his chest.

Stain smirked, holding up the two fingers coated in your release and bringing them to his mouth. You feigned a disgusted expression at the sight of his tongue curling around his fingers. You jokingly shoved his head to the side.

"Pfft, gross." you giggled.

"Who's mature now?"

"Ha ha. Didn't know Hero Killer Stain had jokes." you said as you made a move to stand up, only to fail and stumble against your bed frame.

You clung to its arms, trying to gain your balance. Stain didn't move, instead watching you pull yourself onto your bed, flopping over face-first on the mattress. After a second you turned your head to the side, grabbing the phone you left on your nightstand. It was 1am. You groaned, planting your face back on the mattress. Stain peeked his head out from the other side of the bed.

"What is it?"

"I got an early shift today." you mumbled.

You heard him chuckle, though it always came out sounding more like a raspy exhale.

"I'll see myself out." he said while shrugging on his vest, knives clanking against each other.

You looked up, watching him unlatch your window and push it upward, curtains wavering against the crisp night air. He leaned forward, stepping one foot out onto the fire escape. Before he could fully exit your room, you called out to him.

"Hey, Chizome," the fatigue in your voice was palpable.

Stain paused.

"I, uh," your voice was just above a whisper, only audible in the silence of your room. "Love you."

God, you were probably blushing like a high schooler.

His expression was unreadable, not surprisingly managing to keep his reaction hidden. Even so, not even Stain could hide the lump in his throat.

"I know."

You could feel your eyes getting heavy, and just before you drifted off into sleep the last thing you heard was the sound of your window closing shut.

#hero killer stain #akaguro chizome #my hero academia #bnha #stitchesfic #takenbytheweeds fics #takenbytheweeds

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briangroth27 · 6 years

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The Exorcist Season 2 Review

I came into Season 2 wary of the show’s direction—in Season 1, I loved the Rance family plotline but found the papal conspiracy boring—so I was glad the show shifted focus almost completely to the “possession of the season.” Not only is a family in peril easier for me to relate to and invest in, but the conspiracy element has never felt very “Exorcist” to me and I’m glad it all but disappeared by the end of the season (even if the homage to Exorcist III’s famous hospital hallway scene was well done). In Season 2, a family was once again under siege by a demon and only Fathers Ortega (Alfonso Herrera) and Keane (Ben Daniels) could help them. This time, the family consisted of Andy Kim (John Cho) and the several foster children under his care (Brianna Hildebrand, Cyrus Arnold, Hunter Dillon, Alex Barmia, Amelie Eve, and eventually Beatrice Kitsos). I liked that the kids’ diversities—be they blindness, homosexuality, developmental issues, etc.—were utilized for characterization, but those were never the kids’ sole defining characteristics. I really hope fans didn’t take issue with the kids, Andy, and Rose (Li Jun Li) all representing some facet of diversity; this is what the world looks like and I’m glad the show fully embraced it. It’s also cool that a foster home run by a single dad was treated as just as viable a family as a traditional nuclear family.

Full spoilers…

I liked what all the kids brought to the family, particularly when their differences collided with each other, like Shelby’s religious beliefs and Verity’s torture at the hands of “pray out the gay” conditioning. However, it did seem like there might’ve been one too many children to fully dig into in terms of screentime. It felt like they all had solid, distinct personalities; they just didn’t have much to do. Early on it seemed like Caleb might have a bigger role to play, but outside of his initial adventure on the old well and a few moments of his blindness being used to create tension when he couldn’t see the possessed Andy, it felt like his story was a little thinner than it could’ve been. Ditto for Truck, who was sent away midway through the season. I definitely expected Shelby to become something of a junior exorcist when Marcus and Tomas arrived at the Kim household, but not doing so didn’t feel unfinished (particularly when you take into account what we learned of Marcus’ past with eager exorcists). I liked that he was identifying the unholy signs early on, though, and perhaps they could’ve nodded at him wanting to become an exorcist one day in the future. Harper didn’t get much time at the Kim house before things went crazy, but I did like that we got to see how the family adjusted to a new kid through her introduction. Verity got the most mileage out of the writing and Hildebrand crafted a compelling teen who didn’t always get along with her new family, but clearly loved them despite the front she sometimes put up. Going back for a book Andy had given her was a touching moment and I was happy she was the one to stick by Andy longest. I totally fell for the trick that “agoraphobic” Grace wasn’t real, though her “brave face”—the creepiest pillow case-turned-mask ever—should’ve been a major clue.

John Cho brilliantly balanced Andy’s grief over his wife Nicole’s (Alicia Witt) suicide, guilt for not seeing the signs of her depression, care for the kids, affection for Rose, and the demonic side that overtook him as the series progressed. I loved the layers of hallucinations the demon inflicted on him as it attempted to bond with him permanently by enticing him with a “fairy tale” life with his wife. Witt did a great job playing both the caring and troubled Nicole and the maliciously tempting demon trying to entrap him. I’m a fan of puns, so “the kids are in the garden” was a particularly fun bit of dark and ominous humor from her. The battle for Andy’s soul was intense and I liked that Andy had moments of lucidity where he was able to keep the demon from harming Verity, despite the demon’s attempts to convince him the kids distracted him from seeing Nicole’s depression and that Verity might’ve had a hand in driving Nicole to suicide by mocking her issues. Andy’s final act—keeping the demon tethered to his soul so it couldn’t possess anyone else, even if killing it meant dying with it—was tragically perfect. I wanted him to survive, but Verity was right: once he started killing people, no one would believe him. It wouldn’t have been much of a life for him to be arrested for murders he didn’t commit, but maybe he could’ve gone on the run with the priests or something. As things turned out, Andy’s sacrifice worked on an emotional level and the final battle with the demon was tense, touching, and scary in all the right ways; Andy’s goodbye to his kids almost made me cry. I liked that the kids got to start a new family with Rose, who Li Jun Li had made into a solid, supportive, and strong presence the entire season. I also liked that Rose was so open to inviting exorcists into the home to examine Andy; usually there’s a lot more skepticism to break through before the people around the possessed open themselves up to that possibility.

The tests of Tomas’ resolve when it came to saving Andy this season worked very well. I had a hard time knowing when he was in reality and when he wasn’t, making for some great twists and putting me in his confused mindset perfectly, particularly when the demon turned the exorcism around on Tomas. The demon dangling a vision of Tomas as a bishop was great, especially when it included Casey Rance (Hannah Kasulka) to try and guilt him for leaving his parishioners in Chicago to become an exorcist. I was a little surprised they didn’t have the demon play up Tomas’ temptation to stray from the strict celibacy commanded by the church, as we saw in Season 1, but I suppose we’ve already seen that and Tomas has grown. His apology on behalf of the church officials who tried to force Verity to be straight was a great moment and a nice recognition that not everyone in the church—even priests—is opposed to homosexuality. It was good getting to know Ben Marcus’ past more this year. Both his tragic family history and his past with Mouse (Zuleikha Robinson) worked well to illuminate him. I was surprised he left Mouse behind after her possession and I liked that his inaction then was juxtaposed with his resolution to stay and kill the demon possessing Andy in the present. Not wanting to repeat that mistake has probably driven much of his dedication to exorcising demons, even after falling from grace within the church. Marcus’ father killing his mother was also a clever tie to the island’s history of parents killing their families. Finding a bit of romance with Peter (Christopher Cousins) rather than continuing to drown in sadness was another nice touch. I wonder if Marcus actually did get a message from God at the end. If so—and if they can do something different than what Supernatural and Constantine have done—bringing in angels and God could be an interesting, fresh spin on The Exorcist mythos. Mouse joining Tomas as his new partner should make for a cool change in the exorcist dynamic, given she’s much quicker to jump to killing whoever needs to be killed as long as the demons are vanquished. That should play off Tomas’ relative pacifistic nature very well, unless he’s been changed by the experience with Andy. Mouse having been possessed herself and Tomas’ mental link with the demon here—opening him up to being possessed as well—should also give them a unique background to bond over. Since Tomas’ true desire was to see the demon die moreso than an eventual shot at the papacy, I wonder if Mouse will propel him along a more violent path or if she’ll recognize her own past eagerness to be an exorcist in him and council him against it. Either way, the two of them are going to have some very interesting discussions about a lot of things, including being mentored by Ben! And if Marcus has a new directive that’s different from anything we’ve seen from exorcists or the church, it should throw the three of them into an even more interesting dynamic. What if he shows up saying that demons possessing people is somehow part of God’s plan and they should stop exorcising demons altogether?

I really enjoyed the evil history of the island and the season’s shift to a self-contained demon after revisiting Captain Howdy (Robert Emmet Lunney) and Reagan MacNeil (Geena Davis) in Season 1 proved the series doesn’t need to rely on direct connections to The Exorcist to create compelling monsters. The demon forcing multiple parents to kill their children was scary, particularly played against a found family like this one, where the foster kids depended on Andy to keep them together. The series once again found a polished yet creepy aesthetic that didn’t avoid gore, but also never reveled in it. That worked very well to set the tone and setting things on a remote island gave the season a totally different feel than Season 1’s Chicago. Making everything more remote worked to establish classic horror tropes, but the season never felt derivative. If the show gets another season, I wonder where they’ll take it to create an entirely different feel this fall.

Like last season, I'm content with where the story ended with the priests and the Kim family, so if they end up not getting a third season, I would accept it. I like that it's mostly contained each year; focusing on a single family in danger makes for smart insurance against cancellation. It would be a shame to lose characters like Tomas, Marcus, and Mouse, though. Even if I’m not a fan of the papal conspiracy, seeing them grow with each new case and the threat of each new demon makes for a strong series arc for them. A message from God does seem like it holds more promise than whatever the demons are planning with the papacy, so it would be a shame to see this always solid show end here.

#the exorcist #fox #tomas #marcus keane #ben daniels #alfonso herrera #andy kim #john cho #nichole kim #alicia witt #rose #li jun li #verity #brianna hildebrand #mouse #Zuleikha Robinson

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bahannah01writes · 7 years

Text

Bring Me a Dream (Pt. 1)

You find yourself back into the world of Dreamers with a determined heart and a curious mind, along with questions you hope won't go unanswered. Once again, Mark will be elated to have you back- but he can tell you're hiding something. Mark may not have any inkling as to what you're really hiding, but he's as stubborn as his dog is golden to do his best and find out. Though, like anything in this world, there is always more to a story than what it seems. And above all, there is only one question far more important than any... What flavor slushee will you drink first?

Sequel to SDMD is finally here, loves! And goodness hopefully you all love it just as much! (Also, so happy my wifi is working, for the last hour it’s been glitching ;^; so now I can finally post it! :D )

Next!

Read the first part of this series here!

Tages: @kourt-kay @twizzlersnizzler @bananakid42 if you want to be tagged, please message me :)

Enjoy!

~~~

The night is dark, stars reach higher than any soul could on Earth. The moon hangs above and watches over all of its sleepy creatures below it. Serene silence envelops the world and the house is no exception. The sweet laughter that filled it during the day disappeared into soft snoring and hardly audible fans; they kept the house cool from the hot Californian sun in the morning and afternoon. The sun seemed so energetic, always ready to brighten the day- both metaphorically and literally. But now, now it is the moon's turn and he decides to keep the lights low with only the stars, that freckle the sky so perfectly, aiding him. Other than that, the darkness blankets the sky accompanied by a cloud or two that'd dim the lights even further.

And even so, Mark’s curtains currently block out the sight to make his room even darker. His golden dog lays at his feet as he sleeps; breathing steady and light as the night pulls him further into the realm of dreaming. It is a little bit past midnight, he had spent his time editing videos until deciding it was enough and he would finish the rest tomorrow. Nonetheless, he had to keep in mind that the very next morning he would have to exercise early- Mark was determined to stick to his routine and would always make sure he had a decent night of sleep so the morning wouldn’t be so bad. In this moment, he’s doing just that- getting a good night sleep.

Albeit, it wouldn’t last long.

A few hours later, Mark could hear the wind howling and banging outside his house. A groan escapes his lungs as he sits up in bed, his tired eyes looking around his room. He sees that Chica must have left at some point during the night, he figures that she merely wanted water or something of the sort. Nothing big.

Is it raining too? What the Hell? The forecast said nothing about rain, Mark would remember if they said anything about it, he would have to adjust his jogging route otherwise. Now that he thinks about it, he couldn’t even remember anything about high winds either. Odd. Then, he hears what sounds like a few knocks on the walls around his room. Including one on the wall along the side of his house, where no one- unless of course they really wanted to and brought a ladder- would be able to knock on. This overwhelming sense of dread overcame him, a sinking feeling in the pit of stomach set in- it’s growing heavier and heavier with each passing moment. Mark isn’t exactly sure what is going on, nor does he understand why he feels so afraid; which possibly only adds onto his fear. The knocking seems to grow louder, harsher even, around him and not only could he feel how hard his heart is beating, but he can hear it too.

God, it is so loud! He is tempted to just get up and go splash some water in his face or do something, anything to get rid of this feeling. This sinking feeling that nothing good is about to happen- no, the feeling that only pain and torment were in store. He doesn’t like it one bit, yet, he can’t bring his legs to move from his bed. Mark knows it sounds crazy but he feels as though if he were to step on the floor, it would somehow bring him pain. He isn’t sure how; he just knows it will.

His senses are getting overwhelmed; eyes darting from one part of the room to the next repeatedly- he can’t shake this odd sense of being watched. Mark feels eyes on him as he lies helplessly in his bed- too scared to move a muscle. He’s paralyzed. The only sense spared is scent and taste, and he isn’t all that interested in seeing how they may be involved. He tries to shut his eyes, hoping that if he pretends this isn’t happening, it will all disappear. That everything he is feeling, everything he is experiencing, everything that is going on around him, it will all somehow go away and leave him to fall asleep in peace. That this personal Hell can end and let him rest once more.

Only when he opens his eyes, he realizes that nothing has changed.

That simply adds onto the overbearing sense of despair and fright in his heart and mind.

His chest rises and falls with each breath; one after the another, they gradually become faster. His panicked eyes still searching the room as paranoia fills his brain; there’s someone here. There has to be! Why else would he feel like he’s being watched?

The storm continues to pour outside as Mark’s eyes finally spot something, someone, in the darkness. Everything that once filled his senses and clouded his mind disappeared- all of his focus is now with the figure on the left side of his room. Their eyes meet and the stare lingers if only for a few seconds before the figure vanishes into the unknown and Mark suddenly gains a stinging pain over every inch of his body. It feels like a wave, beginning at his feet and rising up to his head to fill his whole body with this unimaginable sensation, one that no one should ever have to endure. Like the lightening bolts that rage on outside, the pain burns and stings, never faltering- if anything, it gets worse and worse with each passing second. It’s horrendous.

He screams as his body contorts in all sorts of ways to try and cope with the terrible sensation. Curling into himself and then spreading out, spasms of the muscles in reaction to whatever it is that he is feeling. Mark’s heart feels like it could jump out of his chest at any moment, his bones act as though they desperately try to escape his body, all while his throat grows dry and sore from yelling. Eyes shut tightly as his head throws itself into the pillow- back arched- pained groans escape his lungs due to the torturous feelings engulfing his whole being. In one last fight against the sensation, he makes a quick move.

He lurches forward in his bed, sweaty and out of breath. He woke up. Mark’s brown hues wide with panic and confusion, they search the room around him and find no evidence of the figure’s existence. The pain’s disappearance is similar, not a trace nor a last twinge of it in his body, he feels fine. Tired, but fine. Instead, Mark notices a sleeping Chica at the foot of his bed- undisturbed and relaxed as ever. Brows knit together as a hand runs through the messy black strands, was that another nightmare? While the YouTuber is familiar with the haunted dreams, he hasn’t had one of that sort in, well, he actually can’t remember having a nightmare like that. Maybe in his childhood? He’s not sure. Either way, it was so vivid, he feels like it was all real. But that couldn’t be, could it? No, it was just a really weird, lucid, and fucked up nightmare. That’s all.

Giving the golden dog a quick pet, Mark gets out of bed and goes to his bathroom counter. The bright lights sting his eyes so he blinks a few times to help adjust to them, he takes in his reflection and chuckles. Yeah, he looks like a mess. A crooked smirk crosses his expression as he turns the water on- making sure the dial is on cold- he cups his hands below the faucet and once satisfied with the amount, proceeds to splash the cool water over his face to help bring him back into reality. Mark does this one more time- just to make sure it’s really working after all. Why splash water on your face if it doesn’t wake you up, right? If it didn’t work, then it was just a waste of time and now you're not only tired, but cold too. So, it’s always better to be thorough with these things.

Nonetheless, it does work and Mark, out of pure curiosity, looks over his hands in case the pain he experienced in the dream possibly had a real life source. He doesn’t see anything, even after stretching his fingers and what not, there is simply not an answer for it- or at least in real life there isn’t. In one’s dreaming world, who knows how many answers there are.

He shrugs and tries to rub the remaining sleep out of his eyes as he turns off the lights and heads back to his bed. Sadly, he finds that he’s too awake by now to try and fall back asleep. He looks over to his clock and reads the red numbers: 4:12am. Damn, he really is up early. Groaning, Mark’s eyes shift to the window.

The sky is still painted a dark blue with the little white and yellow stars, the pale full moon shines brightly. Mark really does love space; being reminded of how beautiful it all is, it sends a soft smile to his lips despite everything else. Even if the random rain continues to come down, it’s a far lighter storm than depicted in his dream and he has an odd but hopeful feeling that soon there will be clearing skies as the sun rise. Albeit, it may take another hour or two- yet, it’s all worth it, isn’t it? To see the beauty of the Earth unravel, as night turns to day, the dim sky changing into a splendid display of oranges, pinks, and blues? The clouds reflecting and reveling in the color change as well, he finds it refreshing. With each new day, a new sun rise and a new sun set, shaking away the existence of yesterday as the Earth rotates in this ginormous universe of ours. It reminds him that there really isn’t any point in focusing on the past or the negatives, rather, living for now and for the happiness one deserves. The idea of looking up instead of down has helped in more than one situation; the latest still fresh in heart and mind.

Mark hears an adorable little snore behind him, he laughs lightly and turns around to offer Chica an early morning belly rub. She happily welcomes it and even rolls over further, he couldn’t help the laughs escaping him by that point. She’s too cute!

His eyes go back and forth between the bed and the door, again- trying to decide if he should at least try to go back to sleep or accept the situation and just make some breakfast already. The rain outside tempts him to do the first, even if it may take a while.

Although, a bang reaches his ears and he looks out towards the window. Was that thunder? Mark doesn’t think so and is only assured of that when the noise echoes out in his house again. His eyes narrow and with a peculiar feeling of paranoia sneaking into his mind; he looks for a quick thing to defend himself with, he settles for a heavy book that was on his nightstand. Mark’s long legs carry him, albeit cautiously, out of his room and down the stairs into the hallway. The floorboards creak ever so slightly beneath him and fuel his paranoia. Logically, yes, he knows it’s probably nothing and it may simply be his mind playing tricks with him in the night. But right now, the lack of sleep has made him a bit more susceptible to his cruel imagination. Mark waits for a moment, the silence making it easy to listen for another bang. And sooner than expected, another one came. Though this time, he realizes it to be a knock, which adds to his confusion.

Who’s at his house at 4am in the morning?

With furrowed brows, Mark makes his way over to the front door. He debates with himself on whether or not he should really answer it or leave it alone. For all he knows, it could be a murderer just waiting for some dummy stupid enough to open their door to a stranger at 4am. The thought hits him once he’s about a foot away from the door, his lips purse and he begins to ponder the outcomes. It took him a moment to decide and during that moment he heard two more knocks, his decision is to simply open the door a crack to see exactly who it is that’s out there. However, it then dawns on him that he does in fact have a peephole and that this situation is, quite frankly, the exact reason why peepholes are made.

The darkness still surrounds the person outside, and as if will help, he squints in an attempt to make out their features better. From what he can tell, he thinks that they’re a girl. They’re about to raise their hand to knock on the door once more, even just by watching their actions, he can tell they’re hesitant. That’s good news, he thinks, most spontaneous murderers aren’t hesitant right? Mark chews on his bottom lip, his gaze leaves them and goes to the book in his hand, with a heavy sigh he decides to open the door.

His free hand grabs the door knob and twist it slowly, he opens the door a few inches. It’s just enough to peek his head out, offer a smile, and try to get a good look at whoever is standing, soaked, on his front porch. “Can I help you, miss?” Mark also really hopes that his assumptions in the person being of the female gender is true, he doesn’t want to seem like an ass this early in the day already.

Although, when he hears their response, the raven haired sweetheart finds himself frozen.

“Mark?”

~~~

And boom! First chapter out of the way! If you have the time, please write some lovely feedback about what you guys think about it so far! Hopefully it wasn't too bad of a beginning lol but there is definitely more to come, with plenty of secrets and lore to unravel, so stick with me kid if you wanna see (or rather read) more! :D

#bring me a dream #sequel of sdmd #SDMD sequel #BMD?#BMAD?#nah BMD definitely #please enjoy!#goodness I hope you enjoyed!#markiplier x reader #mark fischbach x reader #markiplier fanfiction #bahannah01

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taikoturtle · 7 years

Text

Mini Trimberly fic

Dedicated to @gay-ass-sideblog who gave me the tumblr prompt “telling the rest of the rangers they’re together”. I couldn’t start writing until after work and I had a million ideas for this (initially more humorous I don’t know what happened??) but I hope you enjoy it. :)

Read it on AO3

Rated M? Some allusions to sex, a little bit of violence, but nothing too crazy.

More under the cut

“Trini, we should really–”

The rest of Kimberly’s words catch in her throat as the shorter girl’s mouth presses against her neck in a series of feverish kisses, each one shooting waves of heat through her body and melting her from the inside out.

Kimberly’s breath exhales in shaky, drawn out bursts as if she was actually in control of the relentless desire boiling to the surface, but she knows it’s a damn lie and just a couple more minutes is all it would take to hurl her past the point of no return.

They shouldn’t be doing this – especially not here of all places.

Kimberly can feel the cool tile of the girl’s bathroom wall at school rubbing against her back – a stark contrast to the raging inferno of her skin – as Trini closes whatever miniscule gap that remained between their bodies by leaning in with all her weight. Her heart hammers away in her chest with such force that she’s almost certain Trini can feel it too.

She feels a hand snake under her shirt and palm at her stomach. Trini’s hands are the perfect mixture of soft and gentle, yet firmly demanding and her touch instantly short-circuits Kimberly’s senses. A quiet moan escapes her lips, surprising her enough into a vaguely lucid state long enough to string words together.

“I’m… missing AP biology… r-right now.”

Trini pauses and laughs – an actual genuine laugh – relenting in her onslaught for a brief moment to address her concerns.

“This ain’t enough bio for you, princess?”

Her breath is hot against her skin and Kimberly shudders involuntarily as a small smile tugs at her lips. “God, you’re so lame.”

“Whatever, you know you like it.”

In a flash, Trini’s lips are back on her neck, her teeth biting down just hard enough to elicit another moan, much louder than before, as Kimberly throws her head back against the wall because she's definitely loving this.

Her eyes squeeze shut and she’s far beyond the point of self-control, so she figures fuck it, who even needs bio these days? It’s not like missing one class will be the end of the world.

So she squeezes Trini tighter, drawing her in closer than anyone has ever been before, closer to her heart than she’d ever admit out loud, and lets herself get lost in the moment.

Kimberly doesn’t know when it started.

Sure, she can pinpoint the exact moment when she thought holy shit this girl is hot – it was while they were doing just a routine training, because goddamn the vivid image of Trini in a low-cut tanktop with glistening skin – but the gradual developing feelings over time? Hell no.

Was it their first one-on-one at their favorite coffee shop?

Or was it when she pulled Trini down into the ravine for the first time? Her eyes wide all at once with fear, shock, and rage as if shouting I can’t believe you just fucking tricked me.

Could it have been when they were being pushed back into the pit against Goldar, hope seemingly lost and their lives all but forfeit?

No, she doesn’t know when it started but what she does know now is that she’s falling hard for this pint-sized, feisty ranger and she really couldn’t care less.

About a month after Rita Repulsa’s failed attack on Angel Grove, they were fighting off another terrible villain claiming to be all-powerful and beyond their mortal comprehension. With a name like Lord Zedd? Yeah right, whatever.

Regardless, he gave them a good run for their money, what with a large zord to match their own and immense strength in his own right, but more importantly he essentially served as the catalyst to Kimberly’s emotional epiphany.

Trini’s zord had been struck hard by an oversized monster, courtesy of Lord Zedd, and launched into a hill before catching fire. She struggled to crawl out of the cockpit amidst the burning flames and though she seemed to be holding up just fine, the moment she stood up on the snout of her sabertooth tiger her legs gave way and her body collapsed like a rag doll.

All the way up in the sky, Kimberly sensed Trini’s energy slowly beginning to fade, and when she laid eyes on her crumpled figure, something in her utterly snapped.

Screaming with fury, she unleashed a maelstrom of rockets and lasers - any and every firepower at her disposal she just let the monster have it. The Ptera zord rained down destruction on the oversized beast, and though the others followed suit with their own range of weaponry, nothing rivaled the unbridled rage coursing through Kimberly’s veins.

When the dust settled and the monster was vanquished, Kimberly piloted her zord over to be the first one over to Trini. Leaping down from her own machine midair, she landed roughly in a somersaulting roll before skidding to a stop by the yellow ranger.

She yanked off Trini’s helmet to give her more space to breathe, revealing a scratched up, battered face, and it took all of Kimberly’s willpower not to scream and break down into a sobbing mess.

“Trini. Trini! Don’t you dare do this to me!”

She pulled the smaller girl into her arms and cradled her tenderly before it suddenly hit her like a tidal wave. Flashes of memories, snippets of their time together brief as it may have been, but it all came together and inundated her senses with unbearable emotions until she was one step away from the edge of oblivion. Kimberly cared for her on such a deep level that she felt like a blindsided fool for not knowing how she couldn’t recognize it before.

This moment of loss, this level of absence, the absolute void that was threatening to form in her heart and swallow her whole - it all pointed to one glaring conclusion that seemed so painfully obvious in retrospect.

Pulling off her own helmet, Kimberly pressed her forehead to Trini’s and felt warm tears trickle down her cheeks.

“You dummy. Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me - please. ”

The rest of the zords started to catch up to their location and through the cacophony of grinding metal and roaring flames licking up around their surroundings, Kimberly could only focus on the rough cough that reverberated through Trini’s body like a miracle.

“W-who you callin’ a dummy?”

Kimberly didn’t know whether she should laugh or cry, and instead managed an ugly combination of the two resulting in an unceremonious choked snorting sound. It was ugly and on any other day she’d loathe for anyone to hear it, but all that mattered was that Trini was safe in her arms and very much alive.

Trini’s arms wrapped loosely around Kimberly for support in more ways than one and she whispered weakly for just her to hear.

“I’ll never leave you.”

The bond between the two shifted that day. Kimberly hated herself for not realizing how she felt sooner, how it took Trini nearly dying again for her to see it so crystal clear, but somewhere along the journey of becoming rangers together and fighting off evil, she developed feelings for this feisty yellow ranger and now she can't imagine her life without Trini in it.

“We’re going to have to tell the others.”

Kimberly munches on a donut thoughtfully as Trini’s words cut through the mellow drone of ambient noise in their favorite coffee shop.

“I mean, c’mon, you know they’ll find out eventually. Especially Zack. The dude is insane and can probably hear us talking about him right now through weird telepathy or some shit. Plus what if this affects our morphing abilities?”

Trini takes a bite of her own donut covered with a healthy layer of sugar, and though her words always poke fun at their black ranger comrade, Kimberly knows it’s always just a front – Trini and Zack are nearly inseparable. They’re the dynamic duo of mayhem to the point where if Trini isn’t with Kimberly, then they know she’s with Zack.

It’s a ‘bromance’ made in heaven, according to Zack who enjoys exclaiming this fact out loud as they train against putties, to which Trini merely rolls her eyes with exasperation in response, but when she turns away and thinks nobody is watching, a small grin overtakes her features. It’s a minute gesture that never escapes Kimberly and reminds her that becoming the power rangers meant welcoming a new formed family.

No matter how rough things may get, they know they would always have each other.

With their powers constantly keeping them finely in tune with one another though, Trini does make a valid point that any secrets could possibly begin to disrupt their synchronicity.

Shrugging nonchalantly, Kimberly keeps her gaze averted to her half-eaten donut rather than look the other girl in the eyes.

“We’ll tell them. Eventually.”

The clatter of cups and chatting customers fills the gap of silence that follows, and when Trini doesn’t respond, Kimberly glances up and her heart sinks. Trini’s shoulders are slumped, her eyes low and crestfallen, and her overall aura likens to that of a deflating balloon.

Kimberly can practically feel Trini’s disappointment as her own, radiating out in a near tangible fashion, as if it’s reaching out and touching her soul through their power ranger connection, and suddenly her heart feels suffocated and heavy like an anchor cast out at sea.

She reaches out and takes Trini’s free hand in her own, lacing their fingers together in a comfortable, intimate grip as if they were made for each other, and gives her a reassuring squeeze.

I’m not ashamed of you, I swear.

These words flash through Kimberly’s mind and as Trini looks up and into her eyes, the pain in her chest diminishes somewhat.

She knows telepathy isn’t a thing, or at least she really hopes it isn’t considering all of the things that have run through her mind when they’re alone together, but she can’t seem to find the right words to say to put Trini at ease.

Truth be told, Kimberly doesn’t know why they haven’t told the rest of the group. It’s always boiled down to ‘this just isn’t the best time’ or something along those lines, but honestly when is it ever a good time?

There’s no fear as to whether the group would accept it, seeing as how they seemed fine when Trini made her nondescript declaration at the campfire some odd months ago, so that reason for hesitation is out of the picture.

Nobody seemed romantically interested in anybody else within the group, as far as she could tell anyways, so no toes would be stepped on and no feelings would be hurt. Another reason for hesitation scratched off.

So that settles it.

“We can say something by the end of the week. That sound okay to you?”

Kimberly proposes a sort of pseudo-ultimatum, one that if it fails to follow through wouldn’t spell the end of the world, but would still mean a great deal to Trini.

Nodding with renewed vigor and higher spirits, Trini cocks her head to the side and smiles gratefully.

“Sounds perfect.”

“Where are Trini and Kimberly? They were supposed to be here by now!”

Jason paces around the cliff top above the ravine, dust kicking up in his wake as he checks his watch every couple of minutes as if it would help the two girls magically appear out of thin air.

“W-well they have been acting awfully strange this past week. Perhaps they are in the middle of an argument? Maybe some personal issues have arisen?” Billy proposes, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of the absent rangers.

“Personal or not, we have training to keep up with,” Jason retorts, annoyance dripping in his words, “and we have to stick by it or we’re going to get our butts kicked if we start getting lazy.”

A light breeze blows through the air, rustling the plants and adding to the dust kicking up from Jason’s impatience. Nobody could blame him though. The bright overhead sun, coupled with relatively clear skies spells the perfect day for outdoor activities. Biking, hiking, sports, pretty much anything would be better than being cooped up in an underground alien facility yet here they are, ready to put in their time.

“Dude, let’s just start without them. I’m sure they’ll catch up later,” says Zack before diving down into the water below.

Billy shrugs his shoulders in agreement. “We shouldn’t be held back from our training just because the girls are late. I do believe we should begin and they’ll get here when they get here.”

Grumbling because it’s definitely not okay for members of their team to just go rogue, Jason finally acquiesces and figures he has no other choice but to go along with the members who are actually present.

“Fine, you’re right. We’ll get started on our own, but if they’re not here in a half hour then I’m going to go looking for them. They could just be slacking off but what if there’s a problem? What if they ran into trouble? What if--“

His voice trails off and images of Rita flashes through his mind and he thinks of the terrible things that almost came to pass. He thinks of his team who he led recklessly into danger, of his team who was willing to die with him to defend the world, of his team member who actually did die to selflessly protect everyone.

A hand rests on his shoulder and Jason looks up into Billy’s twinkling eyes, his infectiously optimistic smile lifting a weight off his shoulders that he barely knew was there.

“Jason, I’m sure they’re fine. Can we go train now? I really need to be home in two hours or my mom is going to have some very stern words with me.”

Chuckling softly Jason nods. “Yeah, let’s go.”

The pair dive into the deep ravine like it’s second nature and swim through to the power rangers headquarters. They navigate through the winding underground rock paths and though in the very beginning it seemed cavernous and infinitely maze-like, now it just feels like home.

With their eyes adjusted to the darker light of the tunnels, the pair spot Zack doing push-ups on the ground outside of the entrance to the training room. Upon hearing their arrival, he shoots up and claps his hands together eagerly.

“Took you long enough! Okay so I was thinking that maybe after our typical hand-to-hand combat we can take the zords out for a spin, do a little group training, maybe do some cool tricks and—“

“Last time you took a zord out for a ‘spin’ you almost crashed it on us.” Billy says very manner-of-factly, his eyes contorted in a curious frown.

“Okay, that was like, one time and that was so long ago! We pilot our zords all the time now, why can’t we do something more awesome?”

Continuing to walk towards the makeshift training room, Jason rubs his forehead and sighs.

“No Zack, we’ve gone over this before.” He pauses momentarily before they finally leap down into the training room, or ‘glorified cave’ as Zack once called it, and continues on.

“No tricks, no stunts, no joyrides, no—oh my God!”

Zack's head whips into the direction of Jason's line of sight and he instantly falls to the ground, cackling like an elated child, because he sees exactly what stopped Jason in his tracks mere seconds after the exclamation. Kimberly had been leaning up against one of the larger rock formations, but with Jason’s yelp she had practically shoved the other girl away in panicked surprise.

Sprawled out on the ground like a kicked puppy, Trini scoops up her shirt and quickly shoves it over her head in an attempt to make herself somewhat decent as Kimberly scrambles to put her pants back on. Wiping her mouth unabashedly, Trini smirks at her girlfriend.

“Looks like we didn’t have to say anything to them after all.”

The remark garners her a light slap on the back of her head as Kimberly’s face completely flush from embarrassment shoots her a look of indignation, but Trini thinks the boys’ expressions are totally worth it.

“In-in here? Why. How. Wh-what? What you were you doing?!"

Jason’s shrill voice echoes through the training room before Billy chimes in.

“Well I think they were having se-“

“THANK YOU BILLY.”

#trimberly #power rangers 2017 #trini #power rangers movie #kimberly hart #gay-ass-sideblog #myfanfic

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clarenecessities · 7 years

Text

The Dread Pirate Ladybug, Ch. 9

Chapters: 9/13 Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Implied death, may contain horses

Chapter Summary: it’s time Chapter Warnings: Mild violence, blood mention, blade cw, attempted murder, poorly written romance

AO3

They tore across the hills, the woman in red not releasing Adrien’s arm until she tossed him unceremoniously against a standing stone, telling him without looking at him, “Catch your breath.”

“What is this?” asked Adrien, panting. He leaned back against the cool stone, grateful for its shade. There had been too much hiking and running and life-threatening situations that day, and he really hadn’t gotten enough sleep. “You want a ransom? You could just send a letter to the palace. There’s no need for all this… physical activity. Princess Chloé would hardly refuse you.”

She laughed at him—a cruel laugh, void of humor.

“A bit winded, are we? Don’t worry Your Highness, I’m sure your dearest love will come and save you soon.”

“I never said she was my dearest love,” he protested immediately, “but she certainly won’t let me be kidnapped for long. She’s far too concerned with her image to let two packs of hooligans make off with me.”

The woman in red stilled, staring at him. Her gaze was unfathomable, and Adrien met it with defiant confusion. Granted, he’d already been kidnapped by one pack of hooligans, but he didn’t think it was unrealistic to expect Chloé’s intervention—particularly when his new captor seemed to be solidly in the ‘don’t murder hostage’ camp.

“You admit to me you do not love your fiancée,” she said finally, after so long a pause that Adrien had actually managed to catch his breath. Her voice was as inscrutable as her expression, and Adrien’s confusion deepened.

“She knows I do not love her,” he said after a moment.

“Does she? Or are you filling her head with empty promises? I shouldn’t wonder to find you incapable of love entirely,” said the woman in red, and her tone was suddenly heavy with contempt.

Adrien reared to his full height, back coming away from the support of the boulder. His hands were balled into fists, his jaw clenched, his mouth warped into a terrible grimace.

“I have loved more deeply than a killer like yourself could ever dream,” he spat, voice shaking with fury. This woman could do whatever she planned on with him, murder him, ransom him off, whatever—but he would not stand by and allow her to demean, however unknowingly, the way he had felt about Marinette.

Unbidden, his nightmares from the previous evening sprang to his mind. Marinette, the sea, the screaming. The screaming that felt like it was ripping from his own throat when he had seen her torn away from him again.

The way he had felt about Marinette? The way he still felt. The way he’d always feel. And this woman, just because she’d saved his life, felt entitled to debasing the constant agony he struggled to bury? He glared at her more ferociously than he’d known he could. It had been a long time since he’d felt anger.

Abruptly though, the woman in red looked just as furious.

“Do not,” she hissed, “talk to me about dreams.” She lunged towards him, and he flinched instinctively, raising an arm in defense. But her hand simply clamped around his wrist, and she pulled them back into a run, Adrien dragged bewildered and seething in her wake.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

They stopped at the lip of a ravine, and she set him on a low rock a little more gently than the previous shove.

“Rest, Highness,” she said, turning away from him again.

Adrien was so angry he was shaking. All five years of lost and suppressed emotion seemed to be catching up with him at once.

“I know who you are,” he accused, his voice deep and rough, almost a snarl. “You’re not a mercenary. You’re the Dread Pirate Ladybug, admit it!”

“With pride,” she said, with a mocking bow, “What can I do for you?”

“You can die slowly, suffering under teeth of wolves and tongues of flame.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Hardly complimentary, Your Highness. Why loose your venom on me?”

“You killed my love,” Adrien whispered, and had to shut his eyes against the flood of emotion. He had no idea how to regulate the feelings and images that assaulted him. Her laugh, the way she chewed her lips when she was drawing, the songs she made up when she didn’t know he could hear.

Knowing that they would always be together. Knowing that she loved him.

Knowing she was gone.

“It’s possible,” said Ladybug, and the detachment with which she spoke jolted him back to the present. “I kill a lot of people. Who was this love of yours? Another princess? Striking, rich, selfish?”

“No,” he bit out, “A farm girl. Poor. Poor and perfect. With eyes like the sky in early autumn.”

Her eyes. Her beautiful, endless eyes that he felt he could have stared into forever. She’d been so lovely in the crisp air, laughing and twirling and promising to bring him a present to match her earring necklace from the harvest festival.

“In early autumn your ship attacked,” he heard himself saying. He was having a hard time staying rooted in their conversation, which really wouldn’t do. He was pretty sure he had never wanted to do anything more than he had wanted to avenge Marinette, except to have never lost her. So he had to stay ready, and lucid. He had to wait for his chance and kill Ladybug before she realized what he was doing and stabbed him or something equally drastic.

Purpose sharpened his vision, and things came into focus. “The Dread Pirate Ladybug never takes prisoners.”

She just looked at him. Expressionless, emotionless, not even bothering with excuses.

Another tremor of fury racked Adrien’s body.

“Do you even care?” he demanded of her, jaw white from the force with which he clenched his teeth. “Do you feel bad about all the lives you’ve taken? Do you feel anything?”

This seemed to get to her. “Do you?” she challenged, barking out a cruel laugh.

They glared at each other again, until Ladybug’s face smoothed back into its usual calm.

“I remember this farm girl of yours, I think,” she said conversationally, “This would have been what, five years ago?”

Adrien clamped his mouth shut. Five years. A quarter of his life without her. At the prospect of living another five and diminishing the fraction, his anger was almost (almost) overcome with a wave of despair.

“Does it bother you to hear?” asked Ladybug, when he remained silent.

“Nothing you can say will upset me.”

Well, that was a lie. He wished he could return to his emotionless fugue. What he wouldn’t give for some good old fashioned hysteria right about now.

“She died well—that should please you. No bribe attempts or blubbering. She just said she needed to live, she absolutely had to. When I asked why, she said ‘true love.’”

Ladybug looked at him. Adrien struggled to maintain his composure. He’d done so well before the crowds yesterday; why was this damnable woman any different? He had to stay calm. He had to get the upper hand.

“And then she spoke of a boy of surpassing beauty and character; I can only assume she meant you.” She stalked around him as she spoke, her arms crossed loosely over her chest in an obviously deliberate attempt to look casual. It only served to enrage Adrien further.

She turned her piercing eyes on him. “You should bless me for destroying her before she found out what you really are,” she told him, low and rough and accusing.

“And what am I?” Adrien erupted, shooting to his feet. He was at least a head taller than Ladybug, but she didn’t so much as flinch beneath his glare. He had anticipated her backing up a step or two, and now found himself uncomfortably close, close enough she could simply push him over the edge of the ravine.

The danger was nothing; all his half-cocked plans for revenge were abandoned in the face of her accusations. He’d sooner die than let her carry on.

“She thought you loved her, she told me of your enduring faithfulness, your unwavering support. She told me you would be waiting for her and scarcely a month after, news reached my ship of the Princess’s betrothal. Tell me, did you get engaged that same hour, or did you wait a whole week out of respect for the dead?” Ladybug demanded, fists clenched at her sides, stance wide. She looked about as willing to attack as he was.

“Do not mock my grief! What have I to wait for? She’s gone! She’s gone and I’ll never see her again, and I can’t—I can’t even—follow! It doesn’t matter what I do! You should have just let them kill me—damn it—Damn you! Everyone would be h-happier if I were dead—” Adrien told her, hot tears finally coursing down his cheeks. They made up for lost time by pricking at his eyes and burning in his throat, choking him as he glowered at the one who had taken all the light from the world and asked to be blessed for it.

She stared at him, startled either by his words or the way he was now weeping defiantly at her. Her eyes were round with shock and blue, too blue, too much like his lady’s—

There was a distant rumble of hoof beats, and Ladybug turned, momentarily distracted. The Princess was coming.

As Ladybug stared, distracted, Adrien lunged, one hand grabbing at Ladybug’s mask, pulling it into her eyes, while the other grappled for the sword at her side. His hand had just closed over the pommel when she yanked away from him, her mask torn violently from her face as she sprang back.

Adrien had a split second to gape at the unmasked Ladybug, to take in her rueful grin and all-too-familiar face, before she vanished over the side of the ravine.

His stomach, his heart, his whole world, dropped out from under him.

“Mari—” he began to stammer, but before he could even finish he had launched himself down the hillside.

Tossed and spinning, crashing, torn, out of all control, he rolled and twisted and plunged, cartwheeling head over heels towards what was left of his beloved. Everything was a whirl of color and a series of harsh collisions and hope and fear and hope, hope he hadn’t felt since the day he lost her.

He came to a rest at the bottom, groaning and clutching his head where it had banged painfully against the ground. It was a sharp pain, but his fingers felt dry where they threaded along his scalp, even as it throbbed in protest. His eyes were still burning from his crying.

And then he was enveloped in a pair of familiar arms, and felt he’d never know pain again.

Marinette lay draped over him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She was tanner than he’d even seen her, and had more freckles than she used to. Adrien ran his thumb along them, tracing her every feature as if she were a dream he could will into reality. He brushed her hair with the very tips of his fingers, ghosting along her ears (they were pierced! When had that happened?) and the side of her neck, finding the cord of the necklace he’d made her.

She was still wearing it.

He was sobbing in earnest now, coughing out broken laughter as he struggled to blink the tears away enough to look at her. She was smiling at him, touching his face, lingering on the bite he’d received from the eels, pressing her palm into his cheek and running her thumb along his tremulous smile.

“Are you okay? I—well—are you hurt?” she asked him, and he laughed even harder.

“Hurt? You’re alive!” he declared, burying his face in her neck.

Pressed against the bottom of the ravine, they clung to each other like survivors of a shipwreck clinging to driftwood. Adrien gulped in lungfuls of her scent, his hands still roaming her face and neck and shoulders, desperate to relearn every dip and contour. Her cheek was against his hair and she clutched at him like he might disappear, fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt and at the nape of his neck. Her gloves had been torn from her hands in the fall, and her bare skin felt like brands against his.

“Why didn’t you wait for me?” she whispered, drawing back to look him in the eye.

His face contorted as he tried to find the words.

“You were dead,” he managed, “You w-were dead a-and, oh god Marinette, you were dead.”

He broke down completely, nearly howling with pent-up grief and joy and gratefulness that she was here, that she was alive. He pressed his face against her chest, nose flattened against her heart. He could feel it beating. Her heart, her indomitable, impossible heart, his very favorite part of her, strong and loud and fierce against his tear-streaked face.

“I love you,” he told her sternum, rolling his head around the anchor of his nose. The cool stones on her necklace were a shock against the heat of his closed eyes, another reminder that this was real. “I l-love you so much, I couldn’t—it wasn’t—without you, I—you w-were dead.”

“Death cannot stop true love,” she told him, her hand gently pulling his face away from her. He let his head fall back against the ground to drink her in again. She was crying now too, her cheeks blotchy and flushed, and so beautiful, so full of vitality he swore he could see her pulse beneath her skin.

“I shouldn’t have doubted. I never will. Not again,” he promised. She was here. She was alive and they were together and she loved him.

“There will never be a need,” she returned, and kissed him.

It was almost chaste, scarcely more than pressing their lips together; they were both in absolute ruins, and tasted more of the salt of their tears than one another, but Adrien’s heart stuttered in his chest at the familiar weight of her, the tickling of her damp eyelashes against his cheek, the heat of her shuddering breath as she tried to breathe and cry and kiss him all at once.

Alive, alive, alive.

They started laughing in delight and broke apart, Marinette pressing her forehead against his as he gazed awestruck into her blue eyes. He’d managed to stop sobbing, but he could still feel tears leaking from the corners of his own.

“I haven’t cried in five years,” he told her, “I haven’t felt… I haven’t been anything. I’m nothing, without you.” In the plainest, truest sense of the word.

“You’re everything,” she told him, tightening her grip on him. “You’re everything, and you’ll always have me. I will always come for you.”

“I’m sorry I told you I wanted you to be set on fire and eaten by wolves,” said Adrien, “…and pushed you off a cliff.”

“Well, you thought I had killed me,” she told him, grinning, absolving him immediately. “It’s not like I can’t relate; if someone so much as shoved you I’d be absolutely murderous.”

“I noticed,” said Adrien, chuckling as he touched the thin cut at his throat, thinking of Papillon. He’d have regretted staining Marinette’s hands over it, but knowing that the older man had been trying to kill his true love all day, Adrien kind of wished he’d been the one to dole out the poison.

They both looked up at the sound of approaching horses. Marinette sighed heavily.

“We need more time,” she said, scowling up the walls of the ravine. The princess’s party was not yet in sight, but doubtless would be soon. “I haven’t explained anything.”

“I get an explanation?” he teased, stretching up to kiss her cheek. She rolled her eyes and climbed off of him, standing and pulling him to his feet with one sure hand.

“Unless you’d prefer the allure of mystery,” she replied. He stood close, their raised hands clasped between them, and looked down at her, not even bothering to answer.

She stretched up and kissed his chin, then took off, pulling him into a run.

“More running?” he groaned as they raced along the ravine floor. “I haven’t slept much lately, my lady.”

Her hand tightened around his at the nickname, and she flashed him an apologetic smile.

“Just a bit further,” she assured him, “a few more steps and we’ll be safe in the fire swamp.”

“Safe,” Adrien repeated flatly, “in the fire swamp.”

“Well we can always double back and meet with your fiancée, but I don’t particularly fancy being shot today. I haven’t slept much either, you know.”

“If I explained the situation—”

“She would extra shoot me,” Marinette finished for him with a laugh. High and clear, a delicate sound that didn’t match what she was saying. She was bouncing with reckless energy, and the grin she carried as she spoke so lightly of injury had Adrien hesitating. He paused at the mouth of the fire swamp, looking at the ground.

She looked back at him, and her face immediately softened.

“Hey,” she said softly, reaching up to touch his face again. With anyone else Adrien wouldn’t have understood the constant need, but here, before the face he’d missed so desperately for five years, it was all he could do not to return the gesture. Touching her was a confirmation, a reassurance he knew he needed.

“Adrien,” said Marinette, and hearing her say his name almost had him breaking down again, “It’ll be okay. I won’t let her take you.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he muttered, still refusing to meet her eye.

She waited, patient as ever.

“I just—we’ll never survive the fire swamp,” he told his feet, “and with the princess we’ll be taking a chance but if I keep you out of sight until I explain, then—”

“Adrien.”

She said it so gently that he had to look up, and see the way she looked at him. She didn’t say anything else; it was simply a quiet plea. She wanted to know what was wrong.

“I’m scared,” he admitted in a whisper. “This is all my fault and now you’re trapped between the fire swamp and a bunch of angry politicians.”

“I’ll take the fire swamp any day,” she said glibly.

“If I hadn’t have stopped for those three yesterday, or if I had swum to you instead of freezing up against those eels, or—”

“Then we wouldn’t be together,” she told him, smiling again. “None of this is your fault, Adrien; you’re just beautiful enough to be a hot commodity in the kidnapping world. You stopped to help them because you’re kind.” She drew away from him slightly, her fingers tangled with his.

“You tried to swim to me anyway, because you’re brave.” She took a few steps back, not pulling on his arm, but carrying it with her, inviting him to follow.

“You made it very difficult to stay mad at you,” she concluded teasingly, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

He chuckled, letting her lead him where she would. Dried leaves crunched beneath their boots, conspicuous after the softer noises of the grass.

“Besides,” Marinette went on, “we can be scared together.”

He squeezed her hand in reply, moving closer to her as they were enveloped in darkness.

#miraculous ladybug #clare's writing #the dread pirate ladybug #you know when you edit something so much you lose all concept of its quality #and also start to forget the english language a little bit

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