writing sideblog

"Oh, shit..."

The protagonist stared, with creeping dread, at the TV.

Doomsday unmasked!

Their twin's face stared back at them, eyes a familiar black hole set aflame. Seconds later, the lasers sliced through the cameraman’s skull.

It wasn't so much the shock of their twin being the most notorious supervillain on the planet, because honestly that wasn't all that shocking, as the full name and the fact that within 30 minutes someone had thrown a brick through the protagonist's window.

Within 45 minutes, the fury and disgust and outrage outside turned to terror. The protagonist closed their eyes as the screams began. They willed their legs to move. To go to the window, to scream too.

Stop. You don't have to kill them. Stop!

But their legs would not move. The TV continued to peel through news footage, snapping live to their familiar house, to the carnage of mob and paparazzi and security all slaughtered, before the reporter swore and began to run and then the video cut out.

The TV returned to the news room. The reporters; wide-eyed, pale.

The street was silent as their sibling landed, lightly, in their living room. Their dark cape shivered with the breeze. There wasn't so much a single speck of blood upon them.

The protagonist eyed them, arms wrapped protectively around themselves.

"Come," the villain said. "Pack anything you want in the next ten minutes."

The protagonist didn't move.

The villain's fingers flexed. In an instant, an invisible force had yanked the protagonist shakily up on their feet.

"Or we can just go now," the villain said.

It was pretty impossible to hide from the world's most notorious supervillain. The protagonist had sincerely considered witness protection, or something, except for the fact that they would then have to explain who they were hiding from and why. No, it had been far better to pretend that they didn't know who their sibling was - to smile through the occasional expensive family dinner, to live in different cities far away.

"No," the protagonist said. "No, I don't want to."

"Well, they'll kill you, so I don't care."

The protagonist's jaw tightened. A familiar, impotent fury. Just like the dead mob scattered across the pavement.

"Maybe you should have thought about that before being...you."

Their twin's lip curled.

The protagonist had practiced in the mirror, once, to see if they could make their face look like the villain's did. Desperately hoping they couldn't. Knowing, too well, all the ways that they were moulded from the same clay.

They'd never quite nailed the mocking contempt of the nightmarishly powerful.

It said:

We both know you're coming, do you want to decide how or leave it to me?

And

I'm not the one riddled by self-loathing, so that's cute.

And

Don't try me. You don't like it when you try me.

Sirens wailed, because everyone in the protagonist's quiet, unimportant city hadn't yet realised they couldn't win.

"Got a hero on my tail," the supervillain simply said, softly. "You're down to seven minutes."

The protagonist packed. They'd never allowed themselves to have a to-go-bag ready, though the possibility of the present had haunted them for the last five years. As if preparation might jinx their freedom and bring their twin crashing down on their head like the world's worst gothic double.

Their sibling, for what it was worth, didn't twist the knife which was as kind as they were capable of being. No praise. No commentary on the protagonist's home - though the protagonist could practically feel the villain's gaze snagging on the details.

"You know," the protagonist said, "you could just let them kill me. Then they wouldn't be able to use me against you."

They zipped up a suitcase with trembling fingers. Better than than waking up in the padlocked suitcase themselves, like that one time.

"If I were capable of leaving you to die for me," the villain said, "you wouldn't be much use as leverage."

"Being stuck wherever you're taking me sort of feelings like dying."

"God, you're always so dramatic."

"I had a good life going for me here," the protagonist snapped. "Don't talk to me about drama."

The villain was quiet. The villain watched, just like they always watched, unblinking.

One time, when they'd been at uni, their twin had visited. They hadn't told anyone they had a sibling, and they'd ended up arguing, and the protagonist had ended up transfixed with horror as the villain opened the door, smiled with the protagonist's smile, talked with the protagonist's voice, with their housemates.

Everything is okay.

The protagonist had prayed they wouldn't all die.

"Where are you taking me?" the protagonist asked. They looked around their flat. Dishes to do. Leftovers in the fridge. Thank god they'd never let themselves get a cat. Anywhere except back at their sibling.

"Home."

"Your home."

"Semantics," the villain said. "You'll be safe there."

"Will you ever let me leave home again?"

The villain considered that, thoughtfully, for much longer than the protagonist would have liked.

"With me," they said. Then they simply smiled and held out an arm for the protagonist to take. "Now, come. It's good to see you by the way."

Blue lights flashed beyond the window, the cavalry arrived. The villain's attention flicked that way, considering.

Beneath the smile was a tightness. A hunger. The claws that always itched to slash and rend.

The protagonist took their sibling's hand.

"Stop," they said. "Don't kill them. You don't need to kill them. Let's just go."

The villain hummed.

"Please," the protagonist said.

The villain's gaze moved off the window. They drew the protagonist close, carefully, like they were precious.

"Close your eyes," they said, almost gentle. "You know you get motion sick when we fly."

The protagonist closed their eyes, like a child who thought maybe if they did so long enough, that the monsters would never find them.

It shouldn't really have surprised anyone that he did not move on when he died. He had been the butler of the house when the family had lived there, had become its custodian during their absence, and what was the purpose of a custodian if not to wait with the house for the return of its owners? Except they never returned.

The first time she felt the ghost was when she went to clean the place up. Which is why she came back with a sensible supply of ibuprofen the next time. It was very hard to get anything done with impending migraines stabbing at her temples. The bone chilling cold that seemed to seep from the walls was harder to keep at bay, but she did not hold it against him. If she had been trapped in this place she would be kicking up more fuss than the occasional cold spot. Besides, it was a good incentive to keep busy. It's impossible to be cold while scrubbing a floor. By the time she had gotten around to restoring the fireplaces to their original marble with paint stripper and a scraper, she didn’t even feel chilly anymore.

They might have abandoned the house, but he hadn't. He had kept it tidy, well aired out, and in good repair, decade after decade. Over half a century. What was a century more? It was a good house, a fine house. It did not need “developing”, it did not need these people with grey paint and eggshell paper. They should have left the finials and weathervane in place.

The first time she heard the ghost was while looking for the kitchen door. There were bits and pieces missing of the house, her house. Someone, at some point, must have taken that door off its hinges, in a vain attempt to approach open-plan living. It was nowhere to be found, but she would find it, if only that terrible rattling and wailing would stop. It did stop, once she found the ladder that had dropped down from the attic. The attic the realtor had told her was completely inaccessible. The attic filled with ornaments and antique doorknobs, a battered weathervane, and a panelled kitchen door.

Restore... That was a quaint word. Not at all like “remodel” or “modernise”. There were a lot of words he had never heard before, he had not bothered to listen for a long time. Such a cheerful, appreciative voice.

The first time she saw the ghost was while poring over a sample book, fretting over the few scraps off wallpaper she had found behind a patched-up baseboard. The colours were too faded to make out and she did not want to get it wrong. Victorian reproductions were expensive, and the leaves and the feathers looked so much alike. She had nothing but a corner of paper to go on and she stared and stared and stared, until a hand reached out of nowhere, and turned the page to the maroon one. She barely breathed, she put the scrap of paper on the page, a perfect corner of the pattern, and smiled.

It was a fine house, a beloved house. And people came there again, not to buy and destroy it, to visit. There were people who said they wanted to buy it, people with broad smiles and greedy eyes. But that would not happen now. They were always sent away.

But the first time she met the ghost was on a pale autumn morning, stumbling from the car to the front door with her arms full bolts of damask for the curtains. She had just begun to wonder how she'd reach her keys when the fine oak door swung open, all stately hospitality, and on its doorstep, standing respectfully aside, was the same tall, well groomed man, clad all in black. He bowed and stepped aside, speaking in a hollow voice warmed by respect and satisfaction:

686 words | A centaur’s body (sequel to Aftercare)

Content | Slavery, centaur whumpee & whumpers, aftermath of non-con, multiple whumpers, exhaustion, referenced: branding, beating

Notes | Things get moving :)

Had this and part of(?) the next part sitting for a while and didn't know how to best divvy them up... so just a short episode for now!

Taglist | @phoenixpromptsandstuff @mushiboble @a-commas-a-pause @i-walk-on-the-dark-side @whumpyreader

@scoundrelwithboba @likey23 @sunrise-lemon-bar

»Up you get, little one. Time to get a move on.«

Melay woke, still exhausted; he hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep. Someone had talked to him, almost gently. The big one. Mac. As Melay was blinking his eyes open, he was getting up from under him where he’d served as his pillow.

The protagonist stopped dead, visions ripping through their brain, terror seizing every atom of their body.

"They're coming."

The room around them warped to a massacre. Brutal most of all in how economical it was - like the lives stolen were barely worth the seconds it took for the villain to end them.

"They're coming," the protagonist gasped again. "We need to go. Now."

"How long?"

"I-" In their brain, the villain caught sight of them. Their head tilted. "10 minutes? 20 minutes max. It's-"

The future quivered, pressing close, and the villain smiled. Then, they were gone, and the protagonist was simply standing in the room surrounded by pale faces. Still alive faces.

They would not all make it.

"-It's not an exact art," the protagonist finished. "But I can buy you some time."

Who had the protagonist seen, broken on the floor? No. They couldn't focus on that.

Hope helped. Hope always helped.

Everyone stared back at them, frozen, as if they hadn't bloody heard '10 minutes'.

"Run," the protagonist said, "for your lives."

It broke the dam. They scattered. The protagonist turned and sprinted for the roof.

"They're coming. They're coming. They're coming." They hissed it at every person they hurtled past; ever-made omen and sign. They watched the horror follow them like a ship's wake, but there was no time.

The roof was freezing, wind biting straight through their hoodie. They whirled on the spot, clutching their head as the visions pulsed through them again.

"Please," they said. "Come on, please."

The future-rooms below them shifted, changed, vanished. The protagonist exhaled. They braced, at the sight of a dark shadow on the horizon.

The villain landed lightly upon their arrival. A perfect touch-down a few metres away. Their head tilted.

"Were they smart enough to listen to you this time?" the villain asked. "To run?"

The protagonist braced their feet for a fight, keeping their centre of gravity low, heart hammering.

"Ah." The villain smiled. "They're on their scurrying way, I see. How long are you hoping to give them?"

"As long as I can."

"The rest of your life?"

The protagonist swallowed. Hard.

"How foolish of them," the villain moved closer, "to abandon the only early warning system they have."

"As opposed to what? Coming up here and dying too?"

"Taking you with them to their little rat holes, perhaps?"

"So you can follow them there? Hunt them there too?"

"Hunt you, you mean," the villain said.

The protagonist flinched, despite themselves. "Yeah." They managed to keep their voice steady, if a little hoarse. "Hunt me."

It had become clear, over the last year, that they were the villain's target. They were the thing that the villain wanted, more and more, with every life that the protagonist managed to save by warning people that the villain was coming.

"Did you finally realise that you couldn't run forever?" the villain asked.

"Maybe I just got sick to death of being your harbinger."

The villain laughed, softly, at that. Then, they crooked a finger. Come at me. Fight for their lives.

There was no future, waiting, when the villain was right there. Only the torturous present. Dizzying and claustrophobic. Impossible to predict.

The protagonist feinted, lunged, and then the villain's hand was around their throat. The protagonist was in the air, legs kicking, arms flailing. They clawed at the villain's wrist but their nails wouldn't burrow through skin. They slammed a knee into the villain's body, but the villain didn't seem to notice.

They studied the protagonist, holding them up at face height. If not for the squeeze of fingers around the protagonist's throat, the protagonist had the absurd mental image of a monster scruffing a kitten.

Eventually, exhausted, they sagged in the villain's hold. The villain let through just enough air that they could draw in thin, strained lungfuls.

"Go on then," the protagonist spat. Tears pricked their eyes. "Finish it. Just - finish it."

"I didn't come here to kill you."

What? The protagonist's eyes bugged.

"I simply can't have an early warning system running around," the villain said. "It's very inconvenient. So if you're done with the theatrics, let's go. Can I put you down or are you going to do something silly again?"

"You're taking me with you?" The protagonist's insides bottomed out. They tried, desperately, to shake their head. "No. No. Just - why wouldn't you kill me? You kill everyone else!"

"But you're not everyone else," the villain said, softly. "You're my harbinger."

Before the protagonist could possibly hope to respond to that, a blast sounded in the distance. A missile hurtled towards them. The villain turned their head, eyes narrowing at the interruption, and it disintigrated inches away from impact.

A moment of thick, choking silence followed.

"Oh god," the protagonist whispered.

The villain sighed. "They really should learn to run when you tell them to."

"Don't," the protagonist said. "Please don't. I'll come with you, I won't fight, I-"

The villain slung the protagonist over one shoulder, holding them firmly in place as the protagonist began to thrash all over again. Then, they started stalking in the direction of the attack.

"Fight all you like, my harbinger," the villain said. "It's all the same to me now I have you. But they don't get to. You know that, don't you? You know me."

The future flashed.

The bodies hit the floor.

Ships don’t blow up cleanly in flashes and sparks.  Oh, if you’re in the engine room, you’ll probably die instantly, but away from that?  In the computer core, or the communications hub?  You just lose power.  And have to sit, air going stale and room slowly cooling, while you wait to find out if the battle is won or lost.

If it’s lost, nobody comes for you.

It had been about half a day (that’s a Raithar day, probably a bit shorter than yours) and Kvala and I were pretty sure we had lost.  Kvala was injured, Traav and I were dehydrated and exhausted, and Louv was dead, hit by shrapnel when the conduits blew.

Most fleets give you something, of course.  For Raithari, it’s essence of windgrass.  I looked at the vial.

“It’s too soon,” Traav said.

Kvala gestured negation, shakily.  She had been burned when conduits blew, and her feathers were charred, and her leftmost eye was bubbly and blind now.  Even if we were rescued, she probably wouldn’t survive.  “You know we’re losing the war.”

They couldn’t deny that.  “It doesn’t mean we lost the battle.”

“Doesn’t it?  The Chreee have better technology.  Better resources.  And they have their warrior code.  They don’t care if they die.”

“We can’t give up!” Traav protested.  They were young, a young and reckless thar who had listened to a recruiting officer and still believed scraps of what they had been told.  “Any heartbeat now—”

There was a clunk.  Something had docked with our fragment of the ship.

“You see?!” Traav crowed triumphantly.

Kvala exchanged glances with me.  The Chreee never bothered to hunt down survivors.  What was the point, after all?

The Aushkune did.

There weren’t supposed to be Aushkune here.  They were supposed to hide in nebulas.

But if there were—

If there were, we were too late.  The windgrass couldn’t possibly destroy our nervous systems in time to stop the corpse-reviving implants, and once you were implanted, it was over—or it would never be over, depending on how you looked at it and whether Aushkune drones were aware of anything—

Footsteps.

Bipedal.  The Aushkune were supposed to be bipedal.

And then the blast door opened, and a figure stood in it.  My first thought was, robot?  That’s almost worse than Aushkune . . .  But no, it was a being in some sort of suit.

Who wore suits?

“Friendly contact,” the suit’s sound system blared, as the being moved over to Kvala.  “Urgent treatment.  Evacuation.”

“Who are you?”  Kvala struggled upright.

Despite the primitive suit, the blocky being was using up-to-date medical scanners.  “Low frequency right angle shape,” it explained—or maybe didn’t explain.  Two more figures came into the room and put Kvala firmly onto a stretcher.

“You’re with the Chreee, aren’t you?”  Kvala was not at all happy to be on a stretcher.

“Not Chreee,” the sound system said.  “You Man.  Soil Starship Nichols.”  The being hesitated.  “Rescue Chreee as well.  On ship.  Will separate.”

“You what?” I said faintly.  Who would do that?

“Oath,” the being explained.

“What kind of oath?  To what deity?”

The shoulders of the being moved up and down.  “Several different.  Also none.  For me, none.  Just—oath.”

I exchanged glances with Traav, who looked as unsettled as I was.  I had never, ever heard of groups cooperating when they couldn’t even swear to or by the same power.

The being scanned me.  “Have water,” it said.  “Recommend.”

Raithari have fast metabolisms.  I could—would—die of thirst quickly, and painfully.

“Where will you take us,” Traav asked, “after you give us water?”

“Raithari to Raithar.  Chreee to Chreeeholm.”

“Chreeeholm would kill them for failing,” Traav remarked.

The being hesitated, and then said, “War news sometimes bad.  Sometimes lie.”

We had learned long ago not to believe the recruiting officers, but what did that have to do with anything?

“And you—what?” I asked.  “Just fly around looking for battles and rescuing victims?”

The being seemed to consider this.  “Best invention of soil,” it said finally.

Most of what it was saying didn’t make any sense.  Did it worship soil?  But it had said that it had sworn to no deity . . .

Madness.

On the other hand—war was a deliberate, rational act by deliberate, rational people, and I wanted no more of it.  So why not embrace madness and see what happened?

“Soil Starship—Rrikkol?” I asked, stumbling over the word.

“Yes.  Soil Starship Nichols.”

"It's still me," the vampire said. "You know me. You know I'd never-"

"-I knew you," the vampire hunter said. Their eyes and voice were cold. "Then you died."

Tears pricked the vampire's eyes. They yanked desperately at the chains keeping their hands stuck firmly above their head, but even with their newfound strength there was no give. Worse, the metal burned against their skin.

"Please," they said. "I came to you, didn't I? I came to you for help!"

The vampire hunter - their friend, once their friend - stopped in front of them. Their head tilted.

When the vampire had turned, less than twenty four hours ago, their friend had been the first person they turned to. They hadn't known they were a hunter then. They hadn't known anything, except that they were scared, and their friend used to be the person who made them feel safe.

"Yes," the hunter said softly. "You did."

The hunter reached out a hand to brush the tears from the vampire's cheek and -

- The vampire sunk their fangs into the vampire hunter's wrist.

The blood hit their tongue, rich and perfect and soothing the stinging pain in their body. Their eyes fluttered closed with a moan. They craned closer, as much as the chains allowed, trying to get a better angle.

Then, they froze.

Their eyes snapped open again, to find the hunter watching them.

The vampire made a small, panicked sound.

They willed their fangs to unlatch, but couldn't figure out how. Didn't want to. The thirst opened up inside them, bottomless and devouring, promising that everything would be better if they just drank.

"Newborns are pathetic," the vampire hunter murmured. "Feral little things. You have the most humanity left now than you ever will again and precisely no impulse control whatsover." They raised the stake in their other hand, stroking it down the vampire's neck.

The vampire's eyes widened.

As the vampire swallowed blood, throat bobbing, the stake bit in like an agonising pinprick. They felt blood dribble down into their collar bone and flinched.

"Better to kill you now," the vampire hunter said, "before you kill someone else. You're dangerous."

And you're not?

But the vampire didn't reply, they were too busy suckling at the vampire hunter's blood, with small needy sounds.

The vampire hunter smiled. It wasn't a particularly nice smile. Then, they stabbed the stake deep into the vampire's shoulder.

The vampire screamed.

The hunter took the opportunity to withdraw their wrist, idly inspecting the puncture wounds, the clumsy bite mark, left there.

"But you did come to me for help," the hunter said. "And I did know you, once. I owe my friend, the person I-" For the first time, the hunter faltered. Something other than ice crossed their face. A grief. Bitter and raw and as hungry as any vampire. "Perhaps you can be taught," the hunter said, almost to themselves. "You can't help being a monster."

The vampire's body shook. They writhed, trying to get away from the stake still embedded inside them, but there was no escape. Just the pain of it.

The hunter brought their wrist to their mouth, sucking the wound clean, then spitting onto the floor.

"Please." The vampire felt dizzy. They willed themselves to pass out. "Please, take it out. It hurts. You're hurting me."

"Are you willing to be taught, leech?" the hunter asked. "To control yourself? To not hurt anyone?"

"I don't want to hurt anyone! You know I never wanted to hurt anyone! I didn't mean to! You're the one-"

The hunter tapped the stake and pressed in, gently.

The vampire bit down on their lip hard enough to draw blood. Fresh tears spilled down their cheeks.

"Yes!" the vampire managed. "Yes, I can learn. I'll learn. Whatever you want. Please. Please."

The hunter stopped, hummed. Slow, testing, they raised a hand up to the vampire's face.

The vampire instinctively tracked the movement, muscles tensing with the effort to control themselves. Their nostrils flared. The hunter's fingers just brushed their cheek.

The vampire bit. Fast and hard and involuntarily.

"Nggh." Horror filled them. The fresh blood soothed that too, coaxed it to something sweeter, more pleasurable. Their eyes half-lidded, even as they kept their attention locked on the hunter.

"Good," the hunter said, not breaking their gaze. They stroked their fingers along the vampire's cheek, heedless of the bite. "You'll want to remember that you asked for this. Asked for my help. When it gets hard, when you start to feel that this is unfair."

They reached for another stake.

The vampire shook their head. They willed themselves to let go, stop drinking, pull back.

They were so, so thirsty.

The hunter plunged the stake into the vampire's thigh.

Once again, the vampire screamed. Once again, it allowed the hunter to pull their wrist free.

"I'm sorry," the vampire gasped. "I'm sorry. I'm trying. I don't - if you just give me some space, I-"

"-You are a vampire," the hunter said, back to cold professionalism. "The walking ravenous husk of someone I loved. You deserve to be put down. Tell me you understand that."

The vampire whimpered. They didn't need air, yet their stupid body still panted for it, like that might offer some reprieve. It didn't. They felt airless. Every twitch of movement made it worse.

The hunter raised their eyebrows.

"I u-understand," the vampire said. "I'm sorry. I understand. But I'm not - it's still me. It's still me."

"Yes," the hunter said. "That's always the first of a vampire's lies. It's why their former loved ones so often die first."

The vampire sobbed. "I'm not l-lying. I - you're my friend - I love you - I -"

The hunter yanked both of the stakes out.

Somehow, that hurt almost as much as them going in.

The vampire collapsed limp in the chains, struggling to process, even as their skin began to knit over and heal.

"Be silent," the hunter said. "Unless you're spoken to."

The vampire gulped, trying to choke back the tears, the begging, everything.

The hunter waited a moment to see if they would obey.

They turned the stakes over, considering, in their hand.

"If you ever say that to me again," the hunter said, "I'll kill you. Tell me you understand that."

The vampire nodded, desperately, even as what was left of their heart shattered.

Thread 2

Pausing the Ilya injury timeline for tuna melts in my best friends open secret au

In this au the tuna meltdown also happens. But its different.

It actually starts years earlier, in the summer of 2015. They are young, hot, millionaire, professional athletes and it was the start of the brand trip influencer era. Neither of them is world famous, merely hockey famous, but some sports car brand that Ilya keeps posting all over instagram offers him a villa and f1 tickets for him and his friends in Monaco.

Shane doesn't gamble while he's there but he does spend roughly $20,000 on a nearby hotel room the week so he and Ilya can sneak away and fuck. Because he apparently is too chickenshit to fuck under the same roof as their friends.

Its kinda been the best week of Shane's whole goddamn life and its lying in bed with Ilya at the hotel, resting before they need to shower and meet the others for dinner that he has a great idea.

Earlier that year the league had requested a meeting with his mom, his agent, and Shane. At that meeting they had shown Shane the stats for viewership and fans in Asian. They planned to start a new campaign the next season marketing Shane to, as the white ad executive had put it, “like minded markets”. At the time, the whole thing made Shane sick to his stomach.

But now he remembered that he had hard data that nobody knew them in Asia.

So he turned to Ilya and asked him what he was doing the next week. Then flights were rerouted and appointments rescheduled and then they had showered together and shown up to dinner late.

Shane had thought Monaca had been amazing, seeing and touching and kissing Ilya every day. He thought Japan would be more of the same, only probably they'd have no reason to leave their hotel room.

Honestly he was a little worried about chafing.

For the first day he was right, almost, until it reached dinner time and they had pulled themselves out of their sex craze to wander out for dinner. His shoulders bumped with Ilya's and then suddenly Ilya was holding his hand.

No one knew them here.

When the hostess led them to their seat, Ilya put his hand in the small of Shane's back to guide him along.

There was a very small part of Shane that wondered what he would have to change about his life to get that hand guiding him along every single day of his life. But he smothered that thought before it became to big.

The thing was, it was the happiest week of Shane's life. There was a lot of sex, like a lot, but there was holding hands in the street, and going on hikes where they raced up the hill and then actually kissed in the open because they were the only ones at the top of the trail. Everywhere they went Ilya bought matching trinkets for them, some stupid and some pretty, making Shane promise every time that he'd treasure it forever.

Its amazing, Shane has never felt so good. They're making loose plans to do this every summer but maybe for 2 full weeks. Another tourist asks if they want her to take a picture of Shane with his boyfriend and neither one corrects hers.

Its great. Until its not.

Its great until they board their connection in Tokyo and he sees north americans also heading back to north america tapping away their phones and even though he knows its just paranoia, he's not that famous to the real world, he knows he also can no longer hold Ilya's hand and rest his head on Ilya's shoulder.

They are best friends. Just best friends.

It gets worse. Ilya is also withdrawn, this is their last couple of hours together on this almost 24 hour flight and they can barely speak to each other.

They don't hug goodbye.

When Shane is back in Montreal, he can feel Ilya's absence like a knife. They don't talk about it, they don't text, they don't call, they don't speak to each other at all for 4 months.

Because for Shane, he's just found out that he can want more than he has with Ilya, he has found that there might not be a bottom to this pool of want that he has, there's no real limit to how happy Ilya makes him. But he also knows that what they had in Japan is not for his real life. He will never ever get it and he doesn't know if he can stand only every be really truly happy for 1 or 2 weeks a year. How is he supposed to be normal about that?

For Ilya he has allowed himself to acknowledge that he wants something with Shane that he will never have and eventually Shane will get married and Ilya will have to stand next to him and watch as it happens. Then he thinks he will probably kill himself. Because it should be him, but he knows it wont ever be.

So they don't talk for months, even when they normally spend the United States long holiday weekend at the beginning of the season together. Their first game isnt until October, and they don't talk until then.

Ilya breaks first because he usually does and the day before asks if Shane has plans. They are hooking up again, best friends again, but they are careful. There are unspoken rules again. It takes them until the end of the season to have sleepovers again (doesn't happen until after the girlfriend misunderstanding) and when they do Shane makes sure its one night only.

They do not make vacation plans for summer 2016. They barely get together outside of games. But they're still friends and really they cannot stay away from each other.

So this is the context of this au's tuna meltdown. Its 2017, mid-season and some luck of the schedule has them both with a 4 day stretch of time with nothing to do. Ilya is horny, shane is hornier, they both do not fuck other people at this point, and they both refuse to talk about it. So Ilya invites Shane to Boston to have marathon sex and Shane is so down for that.

Things go great the first day, they barely leave the bed. The second day is also going great, Ilya pulls his signature seduction, hot fish sandwich, yum! When Ilya has to leave to do something, idk what at this point its just a plot device to leave Shane alone in his house to…notice.

Its actually in the bathroom that Shane first sees it. The glass dish that Ilya keeps his soap in was handblown in Japan. Shane knows this because he was there when Ilya bought it. Shane had a matching one but he had given it to his mother because it hurt too bad to look at it. But it's not just the dish. In Ilya's bedroom there's a house plant with a little fishing cat perched on the edge, and in the kitchen there's a bamboo matcha whisk tucked into a drawer, in the living room theres a red ribbon tied around a vase, and there's more.

Every little memory and peice of Japan is scattered–well no not scattered–strategically placed throughout the house like Ilya has planted little peices of Shane's broken heart in every room.

Shane suddenly remembers how good it felt to wake up with Ilya this morning and now remembers how bad it felt when he had to go without that. He is suddenly struck by how deeply, irrevocably, in love with Ilya he is and how he, they, will only ever have scraps.

"Scared?"

"No." The hero's voice cracked. The sound was far too loud, too obvious, in the devouring dark. They pivoted on the spot, squinting, as if that would do them or their hammering heart any good at all.

There was nothing. It did nothing. Of course there wasn't.

They jumped at the touch of a - hand? tendril among the living night? Feather-light, grazing along their throat. Gone when they whirled.

The hero bit back a whimper.

"Your pulse is racing," the villain murmured.

In the fog of the hero's panic, their voice seemed to come from everywhere, and nowhere. As elusive to snatch as the shadows themselves.

"Only because you're annoying!"

The villain laughed. Soft, mocking.

The villain's powers gave them absolute control of the dark, turned it into something physical and concrete, the ever-twisting manifestation of a childhood nightmare. In the light, the villain was a prettier thing.

Light. The hero fumbled for their own powers, but their fingers shook too hard. The dim candlelight they managed to summon to their fingertips felt like it barely penetrated the crowding gloom.

The panic rose in the hero's throat, bubbled over.

In an instant, the darkness pounced. It cradled them softly, wrapped them up in an unbreakable hold, sliding around their wrists, their ankles, like silk upon their eyes. It poured into their mouth until they gagged on it. Tasting of promise, and threat, and nothing at all.

"You look good scared," the villain said. That time, the hero felt a definite touch, the press of them against the hero's back. Lips against their ear. "Especially when you're scared for me."

"It's not for you."

"Isn't it?" the villain asked. Their hand trailed down along the line of the hero's throat once more, along their side. The hero's breath hitched. "Is it not mine?"

The hero closed their eyes, for a moment, because was it a fraction more bearable than staring out into nothingness.

"You don't know what I look like. It's dark."

"You think I can't see in the dark? You think I can't see you?"

"I think this is a cheap trick," the hero snapped. "And you wouldn't dare face me in the sunlight."

"Of course not," the villain said. "I'm not stupid enough to challenge you on home territory. How's it going for you?"

The hero had been determined when they headed out into the night; to face their fears, prove them worthless, to defeat the villain once and for all.

It had, clearly, been a wild miscalculation.

The hero swallowed. They searched for something clever to say and came up empty.

The villain laughed that soft laugh again and placed a kiss just above the hero's damning pulse.

"Don't worry," the villain said. "I'll be merciful."

"I didn't know that was a word in your vocabulary."

"I'll let you go if you answer just one question for me."

The hero turned their head, desperate to see the villain's face, though they couldn't. Their lips brushed the villain's at the motion, though. They both stilled. The villain's breath was warm, human. Maybe that revealed something even their expression couldn't betray. Neither of them recoiled. The villain's free hand rose, grazing along the hero's jaw, their hair.

"What's the question?" the hero asked.

"Is it worse to be in my hands, in the darkness, or to be alone in it?"

The hero faltered. They imagined themselves stumbling through the villain's night, lost and blind, trying to conjure enough light to find some way out of the maze of it all. They shivered. Pressed themselves a little closer to the villain, to their more personal darkness, before they could stop themselves.

The villain hummed. The silence stretched, its own kind of answer.

"I am the worst thing you will ever find in the dark," the villain said. "Let the other monsters scuttle back to the light, where they foolishly think it's safe, and you are waiting for them."

"I - I'm not -"

"Aren't you?"

But the hero was. They'd taken pride in it. The things that scuttled from the dark feared them far more than ever feared the dark itself.

"There is a solace in shadow," the villain said. "Away from prying eyes, and pretence. Is that was frightens you so, then? Knowing exactly what you are in the dark when nobody is watching?"

"You're watching."

"And you're not letting go."

No. The hero wasn't. They were barely even struggling, hadn't thought to try for another light in a while.

"You're scared," the villain said. "But don't worry." They captured the hero's mouth, sweet and aching and hunger-filled. "I don't kiss and tell."

In the breathless aftermath, the hero finally summoned a light. Gentle. Exposing them both. The darkness around them melted away, leaving them uncaged, uncradled. Strangely bereft.

The hero caught a glimpse of the villain's face - not so mocking, raw - and then they stepped back into the darkness and were gone.

The hero was alone, in the light beneath a streetlamp, where they were safe.

And if part of them missed the villain, wondered about that kiss -

Well. They touched a finger to their lip, still tingling, a terrifying and tantalising thing. They were safe.

Some kind of undead

Alternatively, genuinely hollow armour animated by black magic

The latter isn't as popular because there are those who swear they've seen it take off its helmet to feast on the flesh of the fallen

Sharp teeth to that purpose

Metal blood that will turn to sharp, deadly spikes when spilled, potentially infecting anyone they injure with its curse

Not that you'll manage to spill any. It(s armour??) is unbreakable

Deaf to any but its master's voice

829 words | No Warrior (sequel to Warmth, references Fireside)

Prompt | @whump-until-wretched

Content | Referenced past trauma, mostly comfort really

Notes | Surprise! This was such a perfect prompt for them, I had to do something for it.

Taglist | @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @whump-me-all-night-long​​​​ @whumpadump1939 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight​​ @whumpzone​​ @angel-stars​​ @kixngiggles​​ @whumpsy-daisies​​ @yet-another-heathen @rosesareviolentlyread @cupcakes-and-pain @hollowtreesinhollowwoods​​ @pleasancies​​ @much-ado-about-whumping @nine-tailed-whump​ @whump-em @itsleighlove @newbornwhumperfly​​​ @tears-and-lilies @deluxewhump @whump-cravings @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning @neverthelass @whumpsday @silent-orchid-lady @everynameistakencarrots @scoundrelwithboba @fabled-whump @painwithoutplot

The weather was awful, the wind howling around the hut with blinding flurries of snow. Runar, like, he was sure, the entire rest of the village, hadn’t set a foot out the door all day. It wasn’t unusual weather, and like every winter he was prepared to wait it out for days if necessary, firewood and food stocked up.

But for Yves, it appeared to be new. He’d given Runar anxious glances when he’d announced they’d have to stay in, then sat by the window, peering through the cracks of the shutters until they were covered in darkness — snow or night, it could have been either one. His trembling hands fidgeted in his lap. Runar was glad when he came to sit by the fire instead. It seemed to calm him a little, too. He was no longer trembling, at least, but that might have been the warmth.

Now he sat and stared into the flames of the hearth, just like that other night, when-

Yves didn’t flinch when Runar sat down next to him, which was heartening.

»Are you alright, sweetheart?«

Set in one of those fantasy settings that are only interested in political intrigue. Sprawling ancient family line that have been backstabbing each other for generations. Centred around the young heir to a cadet branch¹, who is being taught the art of intrigue by their uncle/aunt (henceforth known as the Schemer).

-

When the Schemer was 13, they realized that their best friend had been hired by the Schemer's parents for the role 8 months before, and was supposed to kill them after 2 years were up. They murdered the friend, not out of betrayal, but out of a realization that this would keep happening until the lesson to 'not trust anyone' stuck.

The Schemer grows up to be their parents' favourite, stealing most of the attention, and getting VERY VERY good at intrigue. Their youngest sibling disappears. Their oldest sibling, who isn't great at intrigue (and possibly autistic) is kept pretty isolated, living a precarious existence with few allies, unsure what will happen when their parents die.

But what happens is that the eldest inherits. And slowly, slowly realizes that the Schemer is protecting them. That their closest ally was hired by the Schemer to stay close and loyal, no matter what their parents did to try and destroy their trust. That their youngest sibling was whisked away from their parents' influence entirely. That the Schemer HATES the game so much, and decided that the best thing they could do was protect other people from having to play it.

The Schemer doesn't fully trust their oldest sibling. The Schemer can't really trust anyone. But they can still hope. Hope for something better for their family.

-

So the main story is about the young heir being taught the distasteful necessity of deceit by someone who hates deceit but is very good at it. Being taught the value of loyalty and integrity by someone who thinks they have none and is very wrong. Being taught that there are good people in the world, but that they, specifically, are unlikely to meet many. And that it isn't their fault.

A flawed mentor and an unsafe environment and the very best of intentions. Supportive parents that are a bit too used to letting a very damaged person make their decisions for them. Nobody quite realizing that getting to grow up with loving parents and siblings has ALREADY changed this kid's trajectory, and that everyone's fear that history will repeat itself is based more on their own trauma then on reality. And relatives that ARE just as dangerous as everyone fears.

-

I want a story of generational trauma that is fundamentally, unmistakeably, about hope and healing. Where family can be a good thing, even though it has historically has been a bad one. Where innocence and goodness aren't the same thing, but it's understood that one can make the other easier. Where many of the characters don't understand optimism, but the narrative does.

-

What happens if they are captured? Do they desperately explain that the standard protocol isn’t going to work, and promise to obey without it? Are they sedated? Restrained more tightly in other ways? More importantly, are they even believed?