Making out with yourself really is the best way to do it. You can press yourself back into the bed, feel the cushion and the pressure. The heat and the need. The way that one name rings out over and over under hot and heavy breaths. That you can do whatever you want, because you know you'll enjoy it. You know you want it.
Bite and lick and claw and huff and kiss and fuck and growl and yip and mewl and everything everything burning so hot it makes your mind flutter and twist. Do what comes natural, what you crave so dearly.
Now the question is did she sink her claws into you and rewrite something, or did you do it to her? Which of you changed? Or, maybe, you're exactly as you want to be. As you should be.
The kind of wordless intensity as the edges blur and lose meaning, fucking like you might forget what it means to feel otherwise. Leaving yourself dazed, confused, panting under or...over, or under, or...which one again? Your head is fuzzy and you tell yourself not to worry about it.
The thought drives a heavy shudder as someone whispers good girl into one of your ears. You can't think while claws are taking down against your side, causing sharp gasps and whimpers. It seems the night has only begun.
By the time it's over, silly questions like "who" will be easy to answer with "me, of course".
It laces like ice through his chest: this isn’t right. Something’s wrong. Very, very wrong.
The hall’s as familiar as it can be, wreathed in something that rolls like smoke, panels low to the floor and set into the harsh, stone-toned tiles snaking flashes of red and stark white up polished black boots and fitted uniforms. A little slice of Dromund Kaas, wherever you go.
Tyr shifts uneasily in sleep, brow twisting.
Something’s… not right. It’s familiar… It’s not. Uniforms. A glint of sickly green-tinted light off a metal inlay. That’s…
Sparks at the back of his neck - lightning, but physical this time, and racing down his spine, splitting his lips in a silent, but roaring hiss, teeth flashing white in the slim lighting, stark against the looming black halls, sweeping black robes, the dull gray of a uniform jacket.
Wait. The grip around his arms settles in heavy. Two bodies on each side. At least two more - at least one in front, at least two or three behind. His eyes widen. His heels can’t dig against the pristine floors. The resistance is stronger in the durasteel grip tightening around his arms. His grimace turns into a snarl, draws his lips back farther over his teeth, masks for a moment the fear in a bloody kind of defiance.
“Keep him still.” He twists, writhes, tries to throw a shoulder to throw off the way he’s being all but herded, dragged along.
Restless eyes underneath closed lids. Uneasy grip adjusting around the pillows. A sharp jerk of an arm. Twist. Turn. Try to wrench away from the pain.
“Get off,” he finds his voice. A sharp stop, a gloved hand thrown squarely back at him. Heat, a sharp pain, a metallic tang floods his mouth. The restraining hands steady his shoulders from the way his head snaps with the blow and then fingers twist into his hair. The pull’s not gentle. Instinctively, he throws that snarl back across his split lips.
“Spirited this time, are you?” A faceless mask, but he can hear the threat of a smile prowling over the words like a vine cat in the jungle. Robes on this one. Black, red lacing through, long fabric sweeping down shoulders and adding to a solid silhouette still half-shadowed by the lights.
Not for much longer. From smoke and shadow to almost blinding, sterile light.
Three days. Approved for limited use.
“I said, let go of me!” His feet feel solid against the floor this time when he throws his weight back against the push of his would-be captors.
“You were busier than expected, agent. You’ve become quite the liability. Did you think we wouldn't notice your new... alliances?” It doesn’t stop them. There’s too many of them. Resistance hurts, sends fire down his spine, metal biting at the back of his neck until he nearly falters in their hold.
And once he’s down, there’s nowhere else to go.
“Stay the fuck away from me! What are you doing?!” He hates it - the desperation that starts to leak into the words. The restraints bite back at his arms when he pulls. Flared nostrils. Wide eyes. They fix on the threat of a needle glinting in the lab light.
“Settle down. It’s faster if you don’t fight it.”
“Back off! You can’t-!”
“Welcome home, Cipher Nine. Codeword-”
The mere threat is enough to lock up his muscles, the next breath stuttering in his lungs. “Don’t you-! You can't- Not again! Not again!”
It’ll light up like fire in his veins, if they-
Where is he? Where are they? Where is he? If he wasn’t alone. If he wasn’t-
“STAY AWAY-!”
Pressure. Something - another hand? - trying to hold him down. Again. Again?!
Tyr’s eyes fly open, throat aching around the incoherent rage. Void-shrouded faces and blinding lab lights block out his vision. He claws at the first shape he can settle on - technician? Overseer? Inquisitor? Merely the restraints?
“I’m not going back! I’m not-!”
Jellie isn't actually one cat. She's more like a sentient force that can control every Jellie cat she wants, so she's actually all the cats scar tamed over the seasons. She's like, 20 cats or so. Most of the hermits might think the cat just travels with them across worlds. Those that know say nothing.
She can control more Jellies than that if she chooses, but honestly, that sounds like too much work. Why bother bending the wills of hundreds to form her avenging cat army when she could just take one body and nap in Scar's lap instead?
Whumptember 29: "You told me this was the right thing"
Randomly, a sequel to my very first Whumptember snippet.
“You told me this is how we do right. By destroying gods. You were wrong.”
The hero hates how their voice trembles. All this time, and they still brace themself for a scathing comment. A kick to their pride.
They get none of that. Their former mentor just lies there by the wall, motionless, nearly breathless. The hero has to bend down and squint to see the shallow heave of his ribs.
He looks like a broken puppet, the goddess croons at the back of the hero’s mind, utterly delighted.
The hero rather thinks he looks like a toppled statue. They’re caught staring, wondering if the man hears them at all.
The goddess doesn’t say anything more, but she makes her impatience known. It’s in the tension at the back of the hero’s neck, in the spasms in their gut, the ache in their teeth. She wants them to get on with the sacrifice.
I don’t know if I can, they think at her, desperate. He’s...
They don’t know how to encompass everything this man has been to them in a word. It’s not love that keeps their hand away from the blade, for sure. It’s not gratitude.
But it’s something.
It’s something.
Their spine cracks and throbs, the goddess urging them to go on.
He taught me everything I know.
How to fight. How to hate. How to fear. How to be alone.
How to steady their hand and move forth with impossible tasks.
Warmth tingles through their entire body. I’ll teach you so much more, the goddess promises.
They have to believe her. Otherwise, this has all been in vain.
With a ragged sigh, they pull the ritual knife out.
“You were wrong about the gods and the world,” they tell the crumpled body before them, and they believe it, of course they believe it. It’s true, isn’t it? “You were one of those who created the problem... and now you’ll have to be part of the solution.”
They brace themself. They mouth, I’m sorry, and pretend that the goddess can’t hear them; that they can’t feel her distaste.
The first cut, the first scream, the first splash of blood over their hands.
We’re gonna continue FebuWhump out of order cause I wrote this about a few days ago. This was really fun to write and I have not edited it at all. Feel free to send me prompts from the FebuWhump prompts list. I have some ideas, but I’m always interested in a new challege.
This is of course yet another AU, this one with a fae!Alex and not everything as it seems.
TW for mention of blood and wing gore.
FebuWhump Day 3: Imprisonment
...
The creature no longer screams day and night at least, a sound ear piercing and unbearable to listen to. Washington finds this morning quiet, peaceful as he crosses camp with a small tray and steps into the little hut that’s been fashioned into a holding cell. As usual the room is dark, sunlight barely peeking through the boarded windows. The floor creaks. This morning Washington finds the creature curled into a ball in the corner, covered with a thin blanket.
His footsteps often stir the creature from sleep, and today is no different. Washington hasn’t been sent here in some time. There’s no need, he’s told. It doesn’t need to eat every day. It’s not human. It’s different.
Dangerous.
Washington though sees a boy beyond the red eyes and too-sharp teeth. A boy that seems familiar somehow.
When the creature spots Washington he throws himself against the bars that separate them.
“Please- sir! Please let me out! I can fix this. I can… I can, but not from here! They- you don’t understand what they-”
“I am merely here to deliver your food, and harvest more of your magic.” Washington has been told not to listen to the creature prattle on. Even behind iron bars that diminish his magic it may still try to bewitch him.
The creature reaches out, fingers curling tight around the cuff of Washington’s red coat. “No, please listen! I know you don’t remember but please, please let me out and I can fix it. I’ll fix everything! Just let me out!”
Washington pulls his hand away and the creature falls to his knees with a pathetic wail. He sets the food aside and picks up a silver knife from a nearby work table. When he turns back, the creature has shrunk back.
“You’re imprisoned too,” It says, sniffling once. “You don’t remember what they’ve done. I’m Alex! Alexander. You just don’t remember.”
“This will only take a moment,” Washington says without giving the creature a glance. He expertly, lightly carves the symbol into his own hand to draw blood.
The creature lets out another small cry and tries to shift away. It can’t move far enough though. “The British are using you! Trying to make you think you’re one of them. They used my magic to imprison your mind!”
“I am one of them,” Washington responds firmly. He reaches through the bars and grasps the creature’s wrist.
It lets out a piercing shriek as familiar power surges in and around the both of them. Typically the creature struggles, though this time it remains kneeling, limp.
But then it stands abruptly and fingers press lightly against Washington’s temple. He barely has time to shout before the brightness encompasses everything.
Washington stands in a room, frozen. One hand grips the boy’s wrists, the other an iridescent, shimmering wing. Wings. Alexander has wings? These redcoats have done something to Alex. To him. He can’t move. Why can’t he move?
“You’ll come with us, General. We have a place for you.”
No. He wants to refuse, to demand he and Alexander be released immediately. But he cannot speak.
“It’s powerful. More than what we could have hoped for. It will sustain our cause for a century.”
A wicked grin fixes on Washington. Alexander whimpers.
“Tear his wings off.”
And then Alexander screams. He screams, and screams, and screams. Washington has never heard a sound like this.
It’s pure pain, anguish that burrows its way even into Washington’s soul. Blood coats his hands. Screaming, screaming. Alexander is in agony and he’s the cause of it.
Something snaps and Washington abruptly breaks his hold and stumbles backward. He ends up on his knees, gasping and dizzy and he remembers that pain.
Across from him Alexander collapses against the bars. “S-sir?”
He remembers. Oh God, he remembers everything. Washington was forced, manipulated. Alexander was right- imprisoned in his own mind. He maimed this child, a boy who trusted him. He remembers the torn wings and the blood entwined with magical essence and he feels so sick.
“Alexander? I… My boy I’m so… so sorry.”
“We don’t have much time,” Alexander says, motioning to the lock keeping him trapped. “Let me out before more of them come. We have to get out of here.”
Washington stumbles forward again, dizzy, unsteady. Alexander almost gives off his own light in the dim room. The boy is right- free him and they can escape. They’ll be safe. He reaches for the lock and it falls away with ease.
“Let’s go,” Alexander smiles so brightly as he steps through the open door and takes Washington’s hand.
“Of course, my boy,” Washington holds tight. He doesn’t want to let go, he’ll never let this happen again. Alexander pulls his red coat away and lets it drop to the floor. They’ll leave that behind forever. Red… it was never right, was it?
The door abruptly bursts open and there stand two more redcoats with weapons trained on them. Washington reaches for his own pistol, determined to defend the boy.
“It’s all right, sir,” Alexander places a hand on his arm and flashes a smile filled with sharp teeth. The magic is everywhere, enveloping every inch of the room, and the two soldiers in front of them. “Laurens and Lafayette belong with us too, don’t you remember?”
Does he? Yes… yes, of course.
Two more red coats are left on the floor, abandoned. They make their way out of the building, out of camp, together.
Alex is safe, protected.
Life as it should be.
And Alexander… he will make every last Redcoat pay for imprisoning him, for trying to steal his magic.
Even if he has to imprison every mind in the country to do it.
[1, 2, 3, 4, 5] (mind the tense change. it means nothing, i’m just lazy)
Josiah sits in the shitty cane chair in the corner of the living room and watches his unexpected guest sleep. He doesn’t know what else he’s meant to do. He couldn’t leave Cass alone. He couldn’t do anything to help. God knows he couldn’t focus on a book. So he watches.
He’s furious Cass came back. He’s relieved Cass came back. He’s terrified of what’ll happen next or what Cassius will do or what thing is going to come crashing through his door now that Cass has stumbled through it. He hates him for leaving and he hates him for returning and he’s angry. Josiah is so, so angry.
There’s not a scar on Cass’ body. Not a bruise. As far as Josiah can tell, no breaks or sprains or dislocations. It would be so much easier if there was. Then, at least, there’d be something to treat, and Josiah could tell himself a story of some horrible thing that had happened that’d forced Cass to leave and stay away for so long.
Instead there’s just that heaving, empty, near-death body ache of someone who’s pushed their head too far from themselves. Cass will be hollow and aching for a week, maybe two. He’ll shake and phase out. He’ll struggle to walk, to eat. He’ll sleep for days and still feel exhausted.
And then he’ll barely feel normal and do it all over again, Josiah thinks, Like a fucking junkie.
He knows that the thought isn’t fair but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t give a fuck. He hates Cass. He hates every part of him. He’s so fucking relieved he’s back.
There’s a part of him that wishes Cassius was more of a fitful sleeper. Maybe if he twisted in his sleep, or mumbled under his breath, or lashed out from a nightmare he’d be able to figure some of this out. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t conveniently call out the bad guys’ name in his sleep. He doesn’t twitch, or shift sore limbs. He barely breathes. He’s still. Stillness has always out of place on Cassius’ limbs. So Josiah watches.
Every few hours Cassius jerks awake, gasping for air like he’s just re-emerged from freezing water, body shaking, face pale, heart pounding so fast Josiah can see a pulse at his throat.
In those moments of gasping desperation, Josiah forgets himself. For a few seconds, everything is a year ago and Cass never left and nothing went wrong and all Josiah wants is to hold him and run a hand through his hair and tell him everything will be okay. He stops just short each time; catching himself before the fall.
And then Cass will try to speak but it comes out a jittering, stuttering mess of not-words and Josiah feels his anger surge. How dare Cassius come back when he’s like this? How dare he force Josiah to look after him again, to patch him up. They'd thought he was dead. And now he was back, worse than he'd left. Worse than Josiah had ever seen him. It makes him fucking furious.
And sometimes it's even worse. Sometimes Cass whispers a quiet, desperate “J” and Josiah’s heart stops, falls like a rock. He freezes. Terrified. Cass could name him at any second. He could take everything away from him in barely a moment, barely a word. What if all of this is some sort of trick, some sick fucking joke?
Just his name and Cassius could have control over every part of him. All over again. He could be working for them again. Collecting. Maybe he had always been working for them. Never left.
Any second, Cassius could name him. Any second.
Josiah is terrified of him. Josiah wants to kill him. Josiah hates him.
Mistakes were made. You don't really remember what lead up to this but all you know is that you were here now and there was no escaping the demon chasing you but that wouldn't stop you from trying.
"You really think you can escape me? You a mere mortal?" The creature asks as you run faster. You don't answer as you force your legs to go faster. You had woken up in the sewer in a nice bed and now this?
Clutching Claire's shadow staff you kept running terrified of the thing chasing you. The staff wasn't responding to your emotions and that scared you. Was something wrong? You needed to call for helo but you couldn't stop and if you talked he'd hear you... so you keep running and don't think of what'll happen if your caught.
So close to the light and freedom you reach out for it only to be yanked back. You cry out and Rot holds you tightly in his grip now that he has you. He pries the shadow staff away from your grip, smirking at you in his vain attempt at a charming smile.
"A present for me dearest? You are sweet." He mocks as his hand strokes your living cheek and he signs at the soft feeling of flesh under his stone cold fingertips. You flinch and he chuckles. "You will learn to love me and my touch soon." He promises as he grabs your arm keeping a firm grip so there's no chance of escape. You yank and a low guttural growl sends you into submission staring at him with doe eyes. He chuckles pulling you close and trapping you to his chest. "Did I scare you love?" He questions eyes looking over your face still in his creepy version of a smile.
You nod afraid to be anything other than truthful and he kisses your forehead. "Good." He whispers quietly. "I'd hate to think you believe you can run off again." His grip tightens glass eyes staring into your soul. "Without punishment." He hisses out. You start to cry and squirm and he lets you for a minute before you feel something affect you. A whisper in the edge of your mind and suddenly your eyelids are heavy and you feel lighter. Your mouth moves but no words come out as he strokes your face staring at you and waiting.
You pass out against his chest and he runs his hand through your hair happy that your here before turning you to hold you princess style. You groan quietly from the spell clouding your mind and he simply chuckles as he ruffles your hair. "Good night love. You'll change your mind in the morning." He stated snickering. You to protest moving your mouth but no words come out and your to tired...
You pass out in Angors arms unable to fight and he snickers as everything in you goes numb. You only hope someday you will get away.
