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whumble-beeee · 1 year ago

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The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping

The First Day of the Rest of Your Life, pt. 1

Masterlist

CW: disabled whumpee, gun mention, restrained to chair, knife

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[Welcome to The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for super-villains and bounty hunters! In this self-help manual written by villains, for villains, we will go over various techniques, tips and tricks, and other useful skills for all different types of villains needed to keep those pesky heroes safely and securely kidnapped, nicely out of the way for your dastardly deeds!

Torture tips, mind games, knot-tying step-by-steps, and more, all the knowledge you will ever need in order to capture and contain a super-powered person is kept right here, in The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping! Time to seize the day, villain! Heretofore, may your endeavors forever be hero-free!]

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Stan screamed himself awake, but he couldn’t hear anything over the deafening flaring in his ears, his heart racing, body burning, every muscle seizing.

He couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t that there was anything strictly in the way of his breathing, it was just as if his lungs had succumbed to death's dark embrace and were about to glide through to heaven’s pearly gates when some malevolent force clawed into them and ripped them asunder, shoved them back into his body, and ordered them to get back to work.

And they were not happy about it.

Neither were his heart, nor his brain, or any normal bodily function for that matter, because for a brief moment, they all seemed utterly appalled and offended that Stan had the audacity to still be alive.

It only took a couple eternal seconds for his bodily functions to fully reaccept their lot in life, but now he was fully aware of every fiber of his being that insisting “wait, aren’t you supposed to be dead?” which made him immediately spiral into a blind panic.

His chest heaved as it tried to force in air, his head buzzed in a horrible all-consuming way, the lights and colors and sounds around him were all way too bright and loud and whooshing around him faster than he could ever process fully. So he just screamed, begging and needing for it to stop, please, please, he couldn’t take this anymore, anything else but this, please.

Slowly, unfathomably slowly, the panic began to ebb away. His surroundings finally started to infiltrate his overloaded consciousness; the gray concrete, the cinderblock walls, a mostly empty room that immediately set him on edge, because he knew exactly what this type of room was for.

He sat in a chair. Or rather, his arms were wrenched behind him and his wrists were secured to the back of the chair with what must have been twine. Then some ropes connected to his wrists crisscrossed around and across his stomach several times over to keep him bound tight. So it was more like he was imprisoned in the chair.

He thrashed out against the rope, only succeeding in momentarily stealing the breath from his lungs again. No give at all. He held in a sob and blinked the tears away, trying to fight off the angrily buzzing head and desperately weak appendages.

Then he saw him.

Another person in the room; a man sitting in his own chair a few feet away, only with the good fortune to not be tied to it. He held his phone limply in his hand and tilted his head at Stan with some mild amusement, as if he had just paused his internet browsing to watch the captive struggle.

There really wasn’t that much special about him, at least considering he was probably a villain; he dressed like a cyber-punk cowboy, with blond hair, a darker complexion, and a couple of scars scattered about the small amount of skin he had exposed, including a pretty nasty burn scar that peaked out from his collar and up over his jawline. He wore a mask to cover the bottom half of his face, and a tool belt with various little pockets and cases, among which was an actual leather holster housing an actual shining metal gun. It was some sort of old-timey-looking revolver, sparsely decorated to match the rest of the man.

Stan stared wide-eyed at him. He wished that he wasn’t a panicking lurching mess in front of the person who must have been his kidnapper. The guy returned his terrified glare with half-lidded eyes and a light-hearted smile.

“Let-let… Let me go-o.�� Stan finally sputtered out.

The man raised an amused eyebrow. “What, no hi, hello? Would have thought you to be the polite type…”

A tickle in the back of Stan’s mind told him that he knew that voice from somewhere, but a much more prominent voice in the front of his mind screamed danger danger DANGER!!

“Let me go!” Stan shouted through gritted teeth, straining against the ropes. The man didn’t so much as flinch. “Let me go and we can forget all about this! I’ll let you off with a warning! But you need to let me go, you have no idea who you’re dealing with here!”

The captor rolled his eyes, slid his phone into his pocket, and casually strolled over to Stan, which Stan reciprocated by leaning back into his chair as much as physically possible. He tried not to eye the revolver too noticeably.

“You’ll let me go off with a warning, huh?” The man teased with a soft lilt. “That’s a relief. Y’know I was worried there for a second, since I’m dealing with THE Stan McKellen, right?” He said the name as if Stan were some movie star, instead of some super-powered nobody.

“Age twenty-two, five foot four, brownish-redish hair, green eyes, buncha fuckin’ freckles. Pretty bad limp in your right leg, and you’ve got this cute little magic cane that you use to walk and make your powers just… so much more powerful.”

His eyes practically sparkled as he knelt down in front of Stan. “Telekinesis, or something of that sort. Y'know, I saw you in full action before I nabbed you. Really impressive. The swirly magician cape really adds to the magic of it, I think.”

Stan tried to kick him in his stupid smug face, but the man was sadly just out of kicking range. He smiled a shit-eating grin and stood up to slowly meander around Stan.

“But I wouldn’t know about all that, especially the part about keeping that cane the hell away from you because could lay me on my ass if you had it. Because I don’t know who I’m dealing with, right?”

Stan's face flushed. “You can’t just take–!”

“You’ve also got some pretty shady history, yeah? I mean, did you know you don’t even legally exist? Like, not that you've been declared dead or something, I’ve seen that before, I mean you don't exist at all, in any database. It's like you've been erased. You don't exist. That, of course, got my attention, so I did some digging, loads of recon and llave, you've got some of the most insane powers I’ve ever seen, just throwing shit around and pushing people around like ragdolls. I’ve been in this business for quite some time, and it wouldn’t be a stretch to say you’re probably one of the most powerful I’ve seen. It's really a shame that you need that cane to do anything with them, and even more so that your leg doesn’t work right–”

“Okay, OKAY, I get it, you know who I am! Stop talking about the cane, or– give it back, I need it!”

“Preeetty sure I implied you’re not getting that thing back.”

Stan jolted in his restraints, and immediately regretted it when he was sure he felt new bruises forming on his wrists. “I need it! Give it back.”

The man paused behind him. Long enough that Stan almost called out to him to demand what the hell he was doing. Then he sat on top of the back of Stan's chair, forcing Stan to either take his full weight on his upper back or lean forward and strain against the already too-tight rope. Stan quickly chose the latter with a strangled grunt.

“I do what I want, chiquito,” the man said, deceptively calm. Friendly, even. “You'd do best to learn that quickly.”

Stan bucked back against the weight and let out a frustrated groan when the whole man on top of him didn't budge. The ropes dug painfully into his stomach.

“Get. Off of me.” He seethed.

“What's the magic word?”

“Fuck you.”

His captor leaned back onto him a little bit more, and the rough tendrils of the twine bit into his wrists like sandpaper. His shoulders tugged back, stuck behind the chair and protesting the weight folding him forward by tugging him rebelliously back, caging in his ribcage, forcing the air out of his lungs. He let out a pained wheeze before he could stop himself.

“Still not quite right.”

Stan squirmed in his seat, trying to shove up and get the captor off of his back, but it was proving increasingly hard to try and shove such a big guy off with only the use of one knee to push back, his protesting noodle arms, and the increasing desperation banging against his skull.

“Okay, okay, fine!” he squeaked breathlessly, hoping he sounded like he was just conceding instead of near panicking. “Get off of me, please! Please!”

The man stood back up and Stan slammed back up against the back of his chair, breathing deep and fast, only now feeling the bone-deep soreness and probable ring of bruises around his aching wrists. He couldn’t even feel his hands, the bonds were so tight. How long had he been tied up? How long had he been here?

He felt a hand ruffle his hair. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Stan wanted to scream. “Yes. It was hard.”

The voice snorted. “That's what she said.”

Stan could have sworn he saw red. He closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath to turn down the boiling rage and rising panic in his stomach. It did absolutely nothing. He pulled on the ropes yet again, more out of desperation than any actual notion that he might be able to tug loose, and another jolt of pain branched up along his forearms.

Tears threatened his eyes again. He was at the complete mercy of a man who made ‘that’s what she said’ jokes.

He did his best to shove down the emotions and tried to focus on the positives. This guy obviously didn’t care about experimenting on him or trying to steal his powers, or torturing him until he was just a husk of himself, or trying to mold him into a living weapon who just lived to do as he was told without question or hesitation. Hopefully…

There was also still that nagging feeling that Stan knew this guy from somewhere, a small piece of vital information buried deep in his brain screaming to get out, shoved down under years of trauma and intentional burying of memories until it couldn’t find its way to the front of Stan’s mind if it had a map, a compass, and the sun to guide its way.

He clenched his fists. Why was his brain being so stupid?! He was smarter than this!

“Who are you…” Stan grunted under his breath, not even fully meaning for it to be verbal, but the pent-up emotion was starting to bubble over.

“Hm?”

“Who!” He shouted, surprising both himself and his captor. “Who are you?! Why are you doing this, why am I here, how am I here, why did you kidnap me?”

The man narrowed his eyes at Stan, and his heart may as well have stopped. He cringed in anticipation of some sort of punishment for yelling. He knew the man’s type. Power-hungry. Easily pissed off. Eager to make someone suffer, especially when they’re given a reason to, which Stan just did. Why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut?

Instead of doing any of that, the kidnapper just picked up his chair and slid it closer so the two of them could talk face-to-face.

“Alright, you're right, I should probably explain,” he started with a sigh. Despite the sudden bewildering tone shift, Stan couldn't help but tentatively lean into the promise of answers. He hadn't expected any sort of positive response from his outburst.

“Can’t tell you much, but I’ll give you a few free questions, yeah?" The man started. "The deal is, I’m basically gonna be your babysitter. I'm really just supposed to keep you here for the time being.”

“You're... my–… my babysitter?” Stan sputtered.

“Basically.”

Stan waited for an elaboration, but the man seemed perfectly content with his answer. But he did say Stan could ask questions, right?

“Okay, so you’re…” he started tentatively. This was a delicate game. “You’re holding me for someone else? Or you’re gonna let me go in a little while?”

“Can’t say.”

Stan scrunched his eyebrows. “Why not?”

“You’ll learn soon enough.”

Ominous.

He sighed, searching his brain for a different line of questioning.

“Then why are you holding me here?” he ventured.

“Can’t say.”

Stan groaned. Was this how it was gonna be? “Why not? Are you like a villain or something? Got some big plans to use me to destroy the world or some crap?”

“If you wanna describe me as a villain, sure. I’m just a mercenary. A bounty hunter, if you like.”

Okay, that felt like important information, but all it did was make Stan want to kick himself for not realizing sooner. Obviously the guy was a mercenary, just look at him. He felt some puzzle pieces click together within his brain. Mercenaries do other people’s dirty work.

“What’re you gonna do to me here?”

“Depends entirely on you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Can’t say.”

He must be messing with him on purpose, this was egregious.

“Who are you working for?”

“Can’t say.”

Stan was getting tired of this. “Can’t, or won’t?”

“Won’t.”

“Why are you even letting me ask you questions if you’re not gonna answer them?”

He shrugged. “It’s a helpful pacifier.”

“Come again?”

He shrugged again.

“Okay, okay, fine,” Stan conceded. “Can you at least tell me who you are? I don’t even know your name.” and I feel like I’ve seen you before.

The man chuckled. “Bud, I think you can use your smart-brain to know what I’m going to say at this point.”

Stan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Won’t say?”

“What can I say? If you knew my name I’d have to kill you,” he said in an almost sing-songy voice.

Stan nearly laughed at the cliché before he realized there was probably some truth behind the joke. It turned into a more strangled cough.

“...uh. What do I call you then?”

“Usually I’ll say ‘DB’ if the target isn’t creative enough to come up with some derogatory nickname on their own.”

“I’m not calling you Deeby, that’s stupid.”

“It’s even stupider when you know what it’s based on.”

“What’s it based on?”

“Can’t say.”

“This is bullshit.”

The man snorted and shot up from his chair fast enough for it to skitter backward. Stan recoiled into himself at the sudden flurry of movement and sound.

“Wonderful, I hope you found your little impromptu interrogation session enlightening.” the mercenary smiled. “Now back to business.”

He fiddled around in one of his belt pockets, then tsked when he apparently couldn’t find what he was looking for and switched to another pocket instead. Stan felt a horrible churning feeling start to stir in his gut. He didn’t like how the man had just suddenly sprung to life, how giddy he seemed to be for whatever he was searching for.

His heart sunk into his shoes when he finally saw what the mercenary held up for him to see. “So, runt,” he drawled, fiddling with an egregiously large pocket knife and locking it open with a deafening click. The blade glistened in the clinical lighting. “How do you feel about knives?”

#whump #hero whump #whump writing #whumper #whumpee #defiant whumpee #kidnapping whump #whump story #heroes and villains #(un)official guide #been waiting so long to finally upload this #very excited for it hehehehe #hope everyone enjoys #also pacing issues? what pacing issues? never heard of 'em

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koolaidoverliving · 6 months ago

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Could you talk more about Candy Pop and Night Terror? What are they like in your AU? How did Candy Pop seal Night Terror?

AAAAAA (spontaneously combusts) YES! I CAN ALWAYS TALK MORE ABOUT CANDY POP AND NIGHT TERRORS, THANK YOU—their story in my AU doesn't stray too far from umbra canon, but there are major differences. it's a LOT to take in and there are terms you might not even know. i'll have like a glossary at the end of the post. HAHA

again this is just my rewrite. please refer to danceofangels' post if you want to learn more about the canon candy pop. it's a fun read, too. :)

CW: Violence, Sexual Trauma

So when a malevolent entity gets sealed away, the only way to free them is by breaking the object which they're sealed into. This is how Candy Pop freed Night Terrors for the first time.

BEGINNING

Candy Pop—being the son of Jesterca and Calicifur—had it in him to seal away powerful entities, and this included Night Terrors. Before the Genyr/Serant war, Candy Pop encountered him. He lurked silently among the Genyrs, preying on Candy Pop in particular. I'm not sure on the details yet, but this is how it goes: Candy Pop and Night Terrors got into a small fight; Candy Pop managed to send Night Terrors in a mirror inside of an artefact shop.

Years passed and Night Terrors was hardly a threat, but now there was a new problem—Serants. I won't get into the war because that's a separate post on its own, but I will say that Candy Pop got into a tedious fight with one of the commanding Serants. This fight moved into the artefact shop. Candy Pop defeated the Serant, but he was mortally wounded.

Candy Pop collapsed on the floor, legs too weak to support him. His vision began to blur at the edges; everything felt faint and his body went numb. He couldn't even tell how much blood and mucus he was coughing up. Just as darkness overtook his vision, he heard the muffled voice of his girlfriend, April Fools.

He turned around. She was inside of a mirror, begging for Candy Pop to help her. Her pleas echoed in Candy Pop's mind. With the last of his strength, Candy Pop punched the mirror, shattering the glass, freeing April...

...No.

That wasn't April. April was dead.

Candy Pop freed Night Terrors.

Night Terrors despised Candy Pop for sealing him away, for stopping him from achieving his goals. Now, that same jester was in front of him, wounded and shaking with fear—sadness, anger. He tried to take Candy Pop's soul, but Candy Pop, in a feeble attempt to seal him away, fused their souls together.

FUSION

Okay, great! Night Terrors has to share a body with this stupid jester now! Night Terrors has never been more pissed off in his life (note: this is a hyperbole). The two of them venture out to the human world after massacring every inhabitant in the Forest of Light.

A majority of Candy Pop's life would be spent in the Abyss, a dark void where he's tormented by the wails of damned souls. Meanwhile, Night Terrors does one of three things. One, breed. Two, add souls to his cluster. And three, gain cult followers. But whenever Night Terrors slept, Candy Pop would be out roaming, making connections with humans, taking care of Night Terrors' children. Candy Pop still wanted to experience the joys of life. He's an optimist at heart, even though his entire life's been bent over and fucked.

Candy Pop isn't safe for long. Night Terrors suspects that Candy Pop's making connections, and he brainwashes his children into hating Candy Pop. They watch Candy Pop while Night Terrors is asleep.

Night Terrors often—when he's out of energy—forces Candy Pop to carry out his plans. This includes harvesting souls and sleeping with women himself. Candy Pop doesn't want to; he's never had a physically intimate relationship with anyone (his relationship with April Fools was purely chaste). He despises having to entice these women he doesn't even love. Candy Pop breaks down sobbing and apologising. Night Terrors finds it pathetic, really.

The only reason Candy Pop obeys Night Terrors' command is because he's well aware of how badly Night Terrors can hurt him and his allies. Candy Pop is willing to strip away his innocence, willing to hurt himself; because if he's patient enough, Night Terrors will grow weak and Candy Pop can seal him away.

SEALING

3,000+ years pass and Candy Pop is still fused with Night Terrors. His soul corrupts gradually, but he's become less of a doormat over the years. Instead of waiting for Night Terrors to fall asleep, he begins to fight for control. Candy Pop's rebellion and their constant inner battles are factors to the end of Night Terrors' reign.

The modern era is when Candy Pop seals away Night Terrors. They have one final battle, internally; two souls fighting for control. Night Terrors is approaching hibernation with the lack of souls they've accumulated due to Candy Pop's resistance. Candy Pop knows this. He planned this. He's well aware of Night Terrors' wavering strength.

I haven't exactly coordinated the details for this, but: Candy Pop successfully performs a sealing technique to seal Night Terrors away. Because they were fighting in the same body, Candy Pop's best option was to seal Night Terrors into his own heart. Therefore, if Candy Pop's heart were to leave his body and break, Night Terrors would escape again. They're technically one in the same, it's just that Night Terrors can no longer take over.

Traces of Night Terrors' personality remain. Candy Pop's soul is still corrupted and he still harvests souls to stay alive. In addition, he has to fight off the Anathemas who try to kill him.

okay, this is the best summary i can give. i tried to keep it brief, but i can always elaborate on these bullet points if you want me to. just ask! i am always willing to talk about this guy, hehe.

extra info: candy pop, in the present, is living with nathan the nobody. he's not infected by the slendersickness nor is he working for slenderman. his role in the story is a supporting character for nathan and jason. candy pop has a shit load of racked up guilt. he blames himself for everything. after all, he broke the mirror containing night terrors. candy pop doesn't look into mirrors anymore. it brings back bad memories. his appearance is the one night terrors used to trick all those humans. he can't stand to look at himself without feeling sorry for all the shit night terrors did. candy pop also struggles with hypersexuality due to night terrors' influence. it's a way to cope with all of the sexual abuse, and he regrets it 10/10 times. really, he despises his body, his voice, every minute detail about himself... but he's the genyr of amusement! a colourful jester! and jesters aren't sad, right?

GLOSSARY

Jesterca - Candy Pop's mother. She was the first Genyr of Amusement and a famous wariorress. She disappeared shortly after Candy Pop was born. Her brother Payazo Pop watched after him in her absence.

Calicifur - Candy Pop's father. King of Dhokkalfers (dark elves). He was locked up after Candy Pop was born, but escaped during the war.

Genyrs - Fairies who specialise in sealing away malicious entities.

Serants - Vampiric demons who have terrorised Genyrs for centuries. Most of them were wiped out during the war.

Anathemas - Night Terrors' brainwashed children. Also referred to as "The Chosen". They don't like Candy Pop and their main goal is to get rid of him.

#creepypasta #candy pop #night terrors #creepypasta rewrite #creepypasta headcanon #candy pop is my favourite jester ever #THE WAY I STILL HAVE MORE TO TALK ABOUT #PLEASE SEND ASKS ABT THEM IF YOU HAVE ANY

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seaweedsoup · 2 years ago

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A Review of Katja Hoyer's fascinating new book on East Germany 'Beyond the Wall'

East Germany was a filthy, malevolent little state created and run by wicked men and women in the service of the monster, Stalin. Take for example the ‘Purple Witch’, as East Germans referred to their Education Minister Margot Honecker. This woman, with her famously tinted locks, just happened to be married to the country’s shrieky-voiced little despot, Erich Honecker. And she stole the children of jailed political dissidents. Then she gave them to childless Communists to bring up, or lodged them in forbidding orphanages. And then she cut them off forever from their real parents. Many years after she was driven from power and died in exile, thousands of Germans were still searching for their lost children or parents, thanks to this Leninist harridan.

As this enthralling, fascinating and very readable book makes clear, it was a mad nation as well as a grim one. It is well known that its leaders fenced in the entire country to stop anyone from escaping. But it is less well-known that they then walled themselves up in their own sealed compound outside East Berlin, where they lived comfortable lives quite separate from their subjects. Signs in the surrounding forest lied that it was a ‘Wildlife Research Area’, to keep citizens from getting too close.

Thousands made serious efforts to get out of the GDR. Many were slung into horrible prisons for even thinking about leaving. And then nearly 35,000 men, women and children – many of them wrongly imprisoned - were, literally, sold to the West. In one case a group were handed over in return for three wagon loads of fertilizer. But mostly East Berlin wanted hard cash, and the obscene trade raised about a billion pounds. Now, it is true that the GDR was a luckless little country. It would have been poor even if Marxist dogma had not made it poorer. Its dingy, crumbling appearance, its dreary food and bitter fake coffee, were not wholly its fault, though Communist spite and rigidity made everything even worse than it needed to be. Weirdly, it did not really believe in its own claimed superiority. The GDR piped West German TV (officially disapproved of) to remote areas, to reduce discontent. It openly encouraged the sale of Western goods in special shops, and allowed East Germans to receive Western money, unMarxist blue jeans and gadgets from their relatives in the capitalist Federal Republic.

But much of its nastiness was due to a special, pointless savage intolerance. The author of this extraordinary book, Katja Hoyer, tells of how her own father, an air force officer, was arrested and locked up for making a joke, Even more disturbingly he was then forced to join the SED, the local version of the Communist Party, the body which had demanded and caused his punishment. There was no true freedom in that place. Christians, for example, were cruelly offered well-paid promotions on condition they left the church. The path to university was through special ‘extended upper schools’. These were mainly (though not entirely) open to activists in the Communist Youth, to those prepared to promise years of military service, or to those whose parents were ready to kowtow in other ways to the SED. This is why the notorious Stasi secret police held such sway. Conformism meant privilege. Dissent meant misery. What a moral pigsty it all was. Yet Katja Hoyer (who was a tiny child when it all ended) can’t quite break off a sort of love affair with her socialist motherland, occasionally slipping in a good word, or an excuse. Ms Hoyer’s real weakness is for the GDR’s forced march of its young mothers into offices and factories. This war on the Christian family, and its replacement by the state, was in fact the absolute core of Communism, and still is. Since the Wall fell, the European left have abandoned much of the old-fashioned doctrine the GDR embodied. But ‘liberating’ women by turning them into wage-slaves is the one thing the Honeckers did which fashionable leftists still applaud. More than once, she gushes about this cruel nationalisation of childcare as if it was and is a benefit, at one point carolling (p.205) ‘On the whole, East German women enjoyed greater professional and economic autonomy than their Western counterparts’. She is especially pleased that the GDR’s unlovely Army allowed women to qualify as officers as long ago as 1988, ‘a remarkable step towards equality’. Equality of what? I still possess a 40-year-old GDR propaganda pamphlet which boasts that East Germany has ‘no women’s rights organisations or liberation movements. Nobody has forbidden or dissolved them. They are quite simply superfluous’. Didn’t anyone ever wonder why a Communist prison state regarded that as a good thing?

via Hitchen’s Blog. Mail on Sunday

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defectivehero · 3 years ago

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Consider, Whumper and Whumpee are the same person. To get extra specific and I mean really specific lets say Whumpee fused bodies with this evil entity, the whumper. Whumpee no longer has sense of indentity, he is not himself, and this evil entity is all there is. He makes himself present within the mind and body, if whumpee disobeys an evil command, he is met with a throbbing headache, forcing him to double over in pain. Whumper twists memories, and destroys the mind, whumper forces whumpee to fill his stomach with high calorie junk just because whumper craves it. This garbage diet is detrimental to whumpee's health but he cant stop it. Whumpee gets sick very often because of this, his immune system is poor, his bones are weak. Whumpee hates it all, obviously, the bouts of pain the illness the isolation, its crippling. Go nuts with this!! I would adore to see what you come up with!

It was now one week since the hero became imprisoned in their own body and mind. It was a constant battle- one the hero wasn’t confident in winning. The first few days, they just felt a faint buzzing behind their eyes- like a swarm of flies was in their skull.

Evidently, the villain didn’t think that simple mind control was enough. They had to have more- they were greedy like that. That morning, just four days ago, the hero woke as a puppet. They were the puppet, and the villain was the puppeteer- bending them to their will.

The hero was forced to watch in mute horror as the villain kept up a pretense of normalcy, even going as far as to socialize with their friends and make small-talk with their boss. It was a gut-wrenching feeling- watching from an outside perspective as someone else acted as you. The hero felt rather like a prisoner.

The worst part was that the villain was clearly enjoying themselves. It was like a game to them- wreaking havoc on the hero’s personal life. The hero had tried their best to keep their personal life separate from their work life, but the villain didn’t seem to have a problem with breaching the gap between the two.

The villain had only had control over the hero’s life for a week, and somehow they had managed to fuck it all up. The hero watched from under their own skin and bones, as the villain forced words of hatred and contempt down their throat. They vomited spews of cruelty, all aimed at the insecurities of their families and friends.

The social ostracism was combined with sugar-coated smiles and enthusiastic waves, in a malevolent twist of fate that left the hero struggling to stay afloat. They genuinely had no idea what the villain would say to each person they came across. They were perfectly unpredictable.

One of the villain’s favorite hobbies seemed to be forcing the hero into doing things they hated to do. At first, the hero was curious as to how they knew these things, but they then realized that the villain had access to their entire mind, and lost their curiosity. That didn’t seem to stop the villain, though. Anything from an awkward conversation with an ex to purposefully triggering their anxiety was fair game.

The hero met with their therapist at one point in the week. They weren’t quite sure when, as time seemed to be completely lost on them. It must’ve been later on, they supposed.

Their therapist asked them what was wrong. The hero choked out a laugh that sounded far too strangled to be the villain’s. Where would they even start?

Yes, Mrs. Jones, I have been feeling particularly bad lately. The villain decided it would be a good idea to take control of my mind and body. I was forced to surrender the reins, and watch as everything in my life crumbled around me. Relationships, friendships, and everything else are fair game to the villain. Even now, on the sixth day that the villain inhabits my mind, I am floundering about in confusion and barely restrained horror. Do you know what it feels like... to not be alone in your own mind?

I’m doing fine, they say instead. The hero watched in horror as the villain guides them through a therapy session with the fake smile plastered on their face. The second they arrived home, they were forced into their bedroom- the door locked and the covers drawn over their head. The hero knew that isolation would make their mental state far worse, but they suspected that the villain had that in mind when they forced them in.

The hero craved privacy. They had never expected to be wrenched from their body and mind in such a brutal manner, and the constant company of the villain was not welcome. Even if their body was alone, their mind never was. The villain had a monopoly over the hero’s thoughts, and it had gotten to the point where their thoughts had molded together. The hero wasn’t sure which thoughts were theirs, and which were the villain’s.

The hero killed someone on the ninth day of the villain’s control.

The villain’s presence had been muted that day- as if they had other things to focus on. The hero welcomed their semi-absence. The villain still resided over their body, but their mind was left relatively untouched. The hero should’ve known something was amiss.

They didn’t quite realize it until it was too late- until they were towering over an innocent, cowering civilian with a knife in their hand and a grin on their face. No matter how much the hero resisted, their body didn’t listen. They were forced to watch themselves brutally take the life of an innocent.

The hero didn’t quite feel like a hero anymore. It didn’t matter that the villain forced them to kill, because the knife was in the hero’s hand. They heard the sickening crack as it went into the civilian’s rib cage. The blood splattered over their clothes, not the villain’s. They collapsed to the floor, with an iron grip on the knife they had used to take another’s life. The villain might have thought it out, but the hero did it. It didn’t matter what the hero wanted, in the end. The villain just took and took, until the hero was left with nothing to give.

The villain finally left their mind and body a grueling twelve days later. The prospect of being alone in their mind once more was just about the only thing that kept them alive through that time. The hero had spent those twelve days praying for the day when they would be set free from the prison of their own body.

The hero felt the exact moment when the villain relinquished control. They were sitting at their kitchen table, watching as their hand spooned cereal into their mouth. At first, they had objected to the villain’s breakfasts. The hero hadn’t really eaten much of breakfast before. But, by the twelfth day, they had given in.

The hero had just finished their bowl and was preparing themselves for another day of the villain’s control when they felt a strange sensation. They could only describe it as a release of tension- a string being cut or ties being severed. They fell to the floor immediately, head hitting the floor so hard that they had stars in their eyes. The hero laid there for a while, as the world seemed to move around them. They hesitantly raised their arm and wiggled their fingers in front of their eyes.

The villain had relinquished control, it seemed. After twelve long and taxing days of living as a guest in their own body, the hero was finally back. They slowly got up and sat back in the chair at their kitchen table. Their body felt weird now. Before, it felt fluid and loose. Now, it felt extremely tense and wound-up.

The hero supposed they should have been happy. After all, regaining control over their body was the one prospect that kept them going through the villain’s abuse. They should be jumping for joy, running to their friends and family. Instead, they sat mutely with their hands clasped. As the hero sat at their kitchen table, completely alone for the first time in twelve days, all they could feel was loss. They ached for the familiar buzzing feeling in their skull- the subtle presence of the villain in their body and mind. They ached for the unsettling feeling of being seen. The hero swallowed hard, trying their best to ignore the burning feeling prickling behind their eyes.

The hero wasn’t sure what was more painful- the severing of their bond, or the knowing grin on the villain’s face when they appeared on their doorstep, just hours later.

#NOT A PROMPT #whumpee #whumper #hero whumpee #villain whumper #mind control #hero x villain #hero and villain #angst #ig? idfk #uhhhhh #ya #writing #short fic #snippet #writeblr

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witchofthesouls · 3 years ago

Text

Where the Lost Light Liaison is very much used to Strange Things and is not human. Not anymore.

You’re fond of Rodimus. Brash. Flirtatious. Charismatic. He burns. Potent and alive in so many ways; an ardent believer in the ways that would turn the eyes of forgotten Titans and distant Gods. He has so much potential that it makes the cosmos in your bones ache, the divinity in your soul yearns for such fierce devotion.

Whatever runs in your veins is too hot to be blood, too cool to be fire. Around this goofball of a Prime, you could taste lightning on your tongue and vaguely feel scales shifting beneath your skin. Hands clenched tight to feel human blunt fingernails and not metal talons.

You recognize Rung for what he is and what he was. Rung doesn’t recognize you, nor himself. With immense focus, the orange melts away to liquid gold and the blazing suns behind those glasses, swords murmur incoherently at his sides, a massive black-hole in his chassis bleeding, bleeding, bleeding-

A blink and you see Rung’s concerned face and you smile at the slowly hollowed out God, sipping tea to wash away the rust at the back of your throat.

You pity this Old God, surrounded by his own acolytes and believers -the quiet, the zealous, and the confused. Yet they have no idea Who walks among them.

You traveled to his dreams a few times to find an amalgamation between the divine and mortal, sharp features and a soft voice rolling across an empty battlefield, fixed in a chant, swords singing victory and their blood-lust sated. In the far distance, plasma and blades are ignited in the shadowplay as night is devoid of stars.

While not their divine protector or guardian deity, you do pick off the parasites and insidious predators. For all the presence of a Prime and an Old God, the Matrix is worn down and Rodimus has little-to-no understanding how to defend from hidden spirits and malevolent forces.

Rung’s very proximity is a warning and temptation. He tries; but he acts in the stead of a doctor treating his patients rather than an invoked Primus.

You’re already known to walk around the hallways. Restlessness or insomnia are your deflections. Sometimes you get company. You carefully watch for shadows that don’t belong or shift the pebble in your shoe to break weak, yet subtle illusions.

Once, Primus had focused on you, his optics still set forward, fixed upon the distant battles, the litany on his lips slowing to a stop.

Thank you, he murmured, swords glinting on his lap, crooning approval over your stained fingers and dripping mouth, gore still fresh.

The Matrix calls out to you. Its voice is thousands of others, gone and dead and merely stardust. Some demand, others plead. Quite a few attempt to bargain for their planet’s sake. More attempt to curse your presence.

You ignore their wails during meetings. The ghostly tendrils that reach out through walls and bodies. At their loudest, Rodimus will focus on you. Optics lit with the intensity of the past bearers.

As you dream, they pull to them and you laugh at the audacity. Who are they to try to force you into a foreign pantheon? Forgotten and wandering you may be, but you're no fool to take up their empty spaces.

The void bleeds in your mad laughter, teeth jagged as your bones grind painfully, skeleton fracturing with your insides liquefying to magma and you breathe stardust, feet melding to the ground, firmly rooted. They cannot, will not forcibly remake your body to suit themselves.

Their gods are gone. Even Primus, although present and walking, is sealed away. These little priests have no power over you.

Cybertronians and humans overlap. They see your face and judge your ability and competence. Too soft, too harsh. Too pretty, too ugly. Too sharp, too fragile. A long time ago, you hailed from a small village forgotten to Time, and ventured deep in the Outerlands to gain the favor of spirits and gods, saw the dead rise, and inverted the land and sky. You killed a mad god and it made you what you are now. (It was a blessing. It was a curse.)

Violence lurks beneath your skin. A deep Hunger made its home in your bones. (When they see a hint of it, they will flinch.)

There are Things remain unspoken. Things remain unwritten, lost in the far past.

You bury those Things deep in your sluggish heart.

#transformers #transformers idw #MTMTE #IDW #reader insert #Rung #Primus #Rodimus Prime #rodimus #creature #body horror #cosmic horror #My writing #maccadam

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years ago

Note

if you’re still doing the ask game, I’d kill to see number five for either Jake, Jameson, or Jax. you know how I love my drug whump

I have so many prompts sitting in my inbox that are numbers to ask games that I can't remember what the prompts were... but I remember this one. This is as good a time as any...

CW: Pet whump, dehumanization, drugged whumpee, beating, described body/bones, brief emeto ref, restrained, sadistic whumper, collared, chained up

Direct Sequel to Deep Breath / I'm Ready. Part of the Jameson's Backstory mini-series.

"I have a system, dog. I have a method. I have a way these things are done."

Robert punctuates each sentence with another kick to his ribs, and the pet grunts with the impact, telling himself to let some of the pain bleed out into the man's boot. With his hands tied behind his back, a short rope linking them to his ankles, he's forced into an arch that leaves his most vulnerable places entirely unprotected.

Open.

On display.

Inviting the next blow.

At least whatever was forced down his throat dulls things a little bit. It's a mercy, he thinks, because Robert isn't done with him yet. The world roils and spins around him like the ocean on a stormy day. The pet is a white-capped wave when the next kick comes and something snaps inside him.

Watch it rain, a soft voice says somewhere inside him. A small hand grabs his own. Watch the rain fall, Johnny. Don't you love rain?

He whimpers, sweating into the blindfold, shivering reflexively as cool air hits the sheen of wet over his skin. He doesn't know who Johnny is.

"Please... please..." His pleading is weak, voice cracked and breaking.

But he just wanted to do the only thing he could to help the young man in the bathtub. He just wanted to help.

Now he's helpless.

Robert's boot, pulled back for the next kick, pauses at the sound. "What's that? You not enjoying this?" He exhales, letting out a thready laugh, before he drops into a crouch, running his hands over the pet's hair. Robert watches him flinch back, unable to see it coming. His thumb finds a spot rubbed bald by the straps of the muzzle and he runs over it, humming, finding the scarred places where the muzzle has cut in enough to make him bleed, over and over. The pad of his thumb is rough, calloused from his job. "You don't like taking your punishment, hm? Is that it?"

The pet holds as still as he can, panting, trying to push past the throbbing ache on his left side. Broken rib, maybe, or just bruised. He'll find out if it heals right or doesn't.

"Please-... please stop," He whispers.

That only gets him another laugh, meaner this time. "That boy had two more weeks of life left in him," Robert says, in a tone of perfect rationality. "I chose him special, and you got it in your head to ruin everything. I just don't see how I'm the bad guy here."

He sighs, and rips the blindfold off over the pet's head.

The pet looks up, struggling to focus, only to take a fist to the face as soon as he does. Knuckles crack into his jaw, but nothing breaks. It's a miracle he hasn't lost any teeth.

His head bounces off the floor, a flash of white behind his eyes. He hears a rough voice cry out in pain and realizes it's his own. The world, already a seasick cruise ship, bobs even more dangerously around him.

He's being blown around in circles, saltwater coming in too fast to bail out. He's going to be sick. He's going to throw up on the floor and drown.

Just like he drowned the man in the bathtub who begged him to do it, who said I'm ready, who held his hand, who struggled at the end and then stopped, and then-

And then...

The air had gone briefly cold after the man had stopped moving and the pet had felt a breeze through his hair, as if something in the man was leaving and moved past him on its way somewhere else.

He starts to cry, unwillingly.

His sobs comes out through gritted teeth, tears forced out of eyes he's closed as tightly as he can to try and keep them hidden. His body shakes.

"Two weeks you've robbed me of," Robert says, standing back up. He groans, and the pet can hear him moving around the room. He doesn't dare look up to watch him, not now. "Two weeks, and now it's all wrong. Now nothing happened the right way, it's all fucked up now. I have a system. I have a method, I have a routine, and you fucked it all up!"

The last words come out a deafening scream, and the pet cries out again, trying as hard as he can to duck his head and hunch his shoulders, wanting only to protect himself in whatever meager way he can. The sound of Robert's voice bounces around inside his fucked-up skull. The water is pulling him under now.

The waves lurch and break against him as Robert grabs him by the arms and drags him. Hog-tied, he can do little more than squirm as he's pulled back into the hallway, to the grimy bathroom.

The young man isn't in there anymore.

"I should kill you," Robert snaps, depositing him back on the cold tile, wet now with water splashed out from when Robert found what he had done and had dragged the body out, trying to revive it so he could hurt the young man more. "I should fucking kill you, you stupid dog. You ruined everything!"

The pet tips his head back until it touches the floor, looks up at Robert looming over him, all malevolence and rage. Beyond his fear, the pet finds a core of something that burns bright and hot, stronger than the smell from the basement. Something sharper than the knives he is cut with, something stronger than Robert's shouting or his fists.

The pet makes an expression that could be a smile or could be a snarl. It could be appeasement or bared fangs. His lip busted at some point and he feels blood on his teeth, tastes it on his tongue.

It makes him think of Nanda.

He lets the blood shift into his mouth, lets it pool on his tongue. Tastes the copper-salt, the hint of sweet. The taste of love, of Nanda's mouth, of his low voice, hands in his hair or on his hips.

Once he has enough, the pet spits blood into Robert's stupid fucking face.

"I hope the next one goddamn kills you first!"

Robert goes still, and silent. His eyes are ringed in white, like a horse about to bolt. Then his hand comes up to slowly wipe away the smear of pink-tinged saliva on his cheekbone running down to his jaw, marked with a five o'clock shadow.

"Fucking dogs don't know how to stop their bark," He mutters to himself. Whatever his plan in the bathroom had been, it's clearly not enough. He pulls the pet up, then lets him fall again. Stares around, eyes bouncing over the still-full tub, the ring of grime around the tub where the water still sits.

Then he just shakes his head. "No, no, no," He mumbles. "No no. Calm it, Bobby. Calm it. Think think think."

The pet stares up at him. His body holds more disgust in that moment than he ever thought possible.

Robert disappears back into the hallway, leaving the pet where he is. Outside the barred bathroom window there's a soft birdsong and the faint hint of sunlight. What time even is it? The pet never knows. The bathroom is the only window that isn't covered with heavy blackout drapes almost all the time.

He focuses on breathing, keeping things shallow to hold the pain in his ribs at bay as best he can. His wrists hurt from the ropes rubbing them raw, his muscles are pulled painfully taut and stretched.

Robert returns with the gag-muzzle, forcing the plastic bit between his teeth. His tongue pushes against it uselessly, working to try and make it comfortable even as his jaw already protests what it knows is coming. The straps slide over the bald spots, buckle into place. The pet shudders at the familiarity of the feeling and tries instinctively to jerk his head to the side.

Robert grabs him by the hair and forces his head back, giving a humorless rictus grin at the pained grunt forced from the pet's throat. "Oh, you don't like that, huh? Shoulda thought of that before you fucking ruined my system. My method. My routine."

You said that already, the pet thinks, but it occurs to him Robert probably doesn't remember that. He's never sure what Robert actually knows about his own words, how much sinks in to memory. He's always repeating things like it's the first time he's ever said them.

The rope between his wrists and ankles is cut and Robert pulls him up to his feet, shoving him forward. The drugs keep the pet struggling to hold himself upright, stumbling to one side or the other. He can still feel the waves - inside him, battering, trying to pull him back under the cold dark water.

He goes willingly enough, shuffling with his hobbled ankles, until Robert has him at the basement door.

The pet rears back in a sudden panicked realization, a muffled, unintelligible babbled plea coming out around the bit, behind the leather muzzle already making his skin pour sweat. He shakes his head wildly back and forth, tries to yank himself free.

Robert's laugh is wild and crazed this time as he shoves the pet forwards and it's either go down the stairs or fall.

The pet's foot finds cool smooth old wood that creaks and he whimpers, the smell flooding his nose making his stomach twist and turn. The next step. A third. A fourth.

The light is on in the basement, a single bare bulb shining a thin circle of light over the disturbed earth on one side. The other side is untouched except for some boxes and the chemical barrels, wreathed in dark shadows that let nothing escape.

"You like 'em so much, you can spend the night with 'em, huh? Just have a little sleepover with my friends here, hm? How's that sound? How that fucking sound?!"

The pet whines as Robert screams in his ear, shaking his head again and again as he is forced step by step down into the basement where they die, where he buries them. His bare feet touch down onto the earthen floor, coolly dry down here, chilly compared to the upstairs. The pet is shivering but it isn't really from the cold.

Goosebumps burst all over his arms and legs, a thrill of terror down his spine as Robert pulls him over to the shadowed corner where the boxes are. There's a hinged metal collar with a chain that attaches to the wall, and the pet realizes that Robert must use it when they're down here just before Robert throws him down on the ground and closes the metal with a snnnnkt over his leather collar, around his neck.

There's thigh bones, he thinks, in a pile over underneath the lightbulb. Just a bunch of fucking goddamn femurs, like Robert comes down here to play fucking barbie dolls with dead people, taking them apart and putting them back together.

Welcome to Malibu Barbie Dreamhouse, he thinks, and a manic horrified laugh bubbles up his throat. John Wayne Gacy edition.

A padlock is hooked through the front of the collar, cold metal slapping down against the top of the pet's collarbone. He looks up at Robert, who is right in front of the light bulb from his perspective, his face black and unreadable.

Please, he tries to say. I'm sorry. Please. All that comes out is muffled animal whines.

"You love them so fucking much, you can be best friends." Robert ruffles his hair. He grins, and the yellowy white of his teeth is all the pet can see of his face. "Enjoy your sleepover, dog."

He turns and leaves, ignoring the pleading whines of the pet as he climbs up the stairs, the creaking like a chorus, a harmony to the pet's cries for this to not be real.

The light seems to shimmer around its edges - it's just the drugs, he tells himself, it's just whatever was in those pills - and shift. Dead people could hide down here in the dark places, with their bony fingers reaching out to grab him.

He whimpers again, softer this time.

He manages to shuffle himself on his ass backwards until he hits the basement wall, smooth stone older than the house itself. His hands are still tied behind him and his ankles are still hobbled. Tears run from his eyes, drift along the edge of the muzzle, drip down from his jaw into the dirt. He sobs around the bit gag, whining until he can't remember if he even is human at all any longer.

Then he sees a face and gives a full-body shudder.

At first he thinks it's the drugs, but it's not. The young man who begged him for help, the reason he's down here at all, isn't buried yet. He's just lying on the ground under a worktable on the other side of the basement. His hands are still tied together in front of him, his soaking wet hair has begun to dry, frizzy and tangled.

Something about the face, though, gives him pause.

He's seen them dead before, their faces etched in horrified screaming, empty eyes wide and terrified. He's seen them trapped in their final agonies long after they're gone.

But the young man across the basement looks like he's gone to sleep there on the floor, that's all. His color's all wrong but the dim light keeps that from being too obvious.

He looks like he's sleeping.

He didn't die screaming under Robert's knife, or begging for it to stop as the blows kept raining down. He isn't tied to Robert's bed, he isn't anything like that at all.

The pet's fear is still in him, heart beating jackrabbit-fast against the inside of his chest, but he stares and stares at the young man's body and begins to understand that... he doesn't need to be afraid of them.

He doesn't need to be afraid.

He needs to be angry that they die like this, not afraid of them.

Anger is what keeps him breathing, what keeps him thinking, what keeps him alive.

He made Robert furious, but more importantly he took a victory from him, he took power from him. He took away control. He made it so Robert can't feel like he owns the young man in his death, like the body is his because he made it.

No.

As long as he isn't dead, that means he isn't out of time. As long as he keeps breathing, as long as he keeps thinking, as long as there are parts of him that Robert doesn't know, doesn't own, that he can't control.

As long as he stays angry.

As long as he has hope.

I'm going to get out of here, he promises the young man's body, the pile of bones, the rest of them under the soil. I'm going to escape. I'm going to do something, someday, when he gives me the chance.

I'm not like him.

I'm not like any of them.

I want to be like you, instead, but alive. I want to live.

I'm going to live.

For a second he smells water, he hears a voice he can't understand and tastes the young man's voice on his tongue, the taste of sage tea with milk.

The pet swallows and closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose, holding the air, breathing out again. The air shifts around him, touches his face just above the muzzle.

In the perfectly still basement, a breeze shifts along his skin, rustles his hair just a little.

Something moving past him on its way to somewhere else.

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @eatyourdamnpears @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @boxboysandotherwhump @outofangband @whumptywhumpdump @thehopelessopus @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @butwhatifyouwrite @newandfiguringitout @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @oops-its-whump @endless-whump @cubeswhump @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whumpiary @burtlederp

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sonoftatooine · 3 years ago

Text

Whumptober 2021

DAY 1: ‘ALL TRUSSED UP AND NOWHERE TO GO’ - BOUND

Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Jabba the Hutt, Grand Inquisitor

Warnings: Slavery, implied assault, attempted mind reading (?)

Summary: AU - The Clone Wars started early, and Anakin was never found by the Jedi on Tatooine. Instead, he was sold to Jabba the Hutt after his success in the Boonta Eve Classic. Years later, the Empire has formed, and its Emperor has set his sights on Tatooine and the Force sensitive slave that has been discovered there.

***

"The mighty Jabba bids you welcome, Grand Inquisitor."

The voice of TC-70, translator droid to Jabba Desilijic Tiure, kadijic lord of Tatooine, sounded clear through the halls of the Hutt's palace amid the echoes of his master's booming chuckle as the pale, yellow-eyed alien that had introduced himself as the Grand Inquisitor, Master of the Inquisitorius of the Galactic Empire bowed his head before the slug's raised dais in a show of respect as false and as manufactured as Jabba's show of welcome. Animosity was thick in the air, so tangible that each and every one of Jabba's slaves could sense it like the crack of a whip across their backs. This too was known to Anakin Skywalker, in the way that things had always been known to him—inexplicably, instinctively, no matter how much another being may try to hide the truth of their feelings—as he knelt on the hard stone at the tip of his master's tail, held down by by the rough grip of two Gamorean guards on his shoulders. He paid it little mind—he doubted he could make the slug any angrier with him, and soon, his opinion would no longer matter. Instead, he tried to focus purely on sensation. Of the pain in his head from the blow he had been struck when he'd tried to run the night before. The taste of the dry, dusty cloth that had been forced into his mouth, and the burn of the rough robes that had been twined tight around his wrists, rubbed raw and bleeding from attempts to escape. Anything not to have to think about the Inquisitor. About why the Inquisitor was here. About what was going to happen next.

"The great Jabba wishes to ask how you found your journey from the Core," TC-70 said courteously. "He expresses concern over whether you faced any complications on your way here."

That, Anakin thought, a little woozily as the wound on his temple throbbed painfully, was a pretty way of translating Jabba's words, which were something closer towards "this Imperial scum had better have a good reason for making me wait" than any true concern towards his guest. But this was a man that, for once, Jabba could neither afford to deride nor intimidate. The Empire's power was reaching ever further into the Outer Rim—ever since it had risen from the ashes of the Republic several years ago, when Anakin was fourteen. Now it had turned its attention to Tatooine, and the continued non-interference with Hutt rule on the planet had a price.

That price, it seemed, was Anakin.

"No complications, Lord Jabba," the Inquisitor replied with a sharp smile, a glint in his eye that said he knew that the Hutt's word had been nowhere near as polite as the droid had made them appear. "But the work of the Empire rests for no one. I am not hear to exchange pleasantries. Shall we get down to business?"

Anakin felt the slug's anger in the back of his mind, but it didn't show on his face. Instead, he let out one of his rumbling, full-bodied laughs, and waved a small, stubby arm towards the place where Anakin was held restrained in a gesture that was almost a shrug.

"If you think I have any intention of allowing you to overstay your welcome, you are a fool as all Outlanders are," he sneered. "Take the little shag and get off my planet."

"Glorious Jabba," TC-70 translated, ever obsequious, "invites you to inspect your purchase."

The Inquisitor's yellow eyes turned slowly towards Anakin, like an anooba that had caught the scent of blood in the air. An overpowering sense of wrongness, of danger shot through him, worse than any he had ever felt before, and he reeled back, tugging against the grip of the two Gamorean guards that held him in place. Two pairs of hands clamped down on him with bruising force, and he was hauled roughly to his feet. The cry of protest that escaped his lips was muffled by the gag, and his bound hands flew up to his chest, desperately trying to shield himself as he was dragged in front of the Inquisitor and held there in an unrelenting grasp. He never stopped struggling—anything to get out of the reach of this man that felt dark and dangerous and whose strange eyes were fixed on him with an unwavering intensity that he could neither understand nor explain—but after the beating he had received last night, and the meal he had been denied that morning, he felt as weak as a newly hatched bonegnawer chick. Small and helpless, fallen from the nest. No one to protect him from the cruel mercies of the desert. Defeated, he slumped in the guards' grip, head lolling down to the floor.

"Look at me, boy," the Inquisitor hissed.

No. Anakin felt the command reverberate in his head, but he refused to obey it. He screwed his eyes shut and held himself stock still, head bowed.

"I said look at me."

The only warning he had was a sense of a strange malevolence filling the air before his head was caught in an intangible yet vice-like grip, like an invisible hand wrenching his chin up to stare into the man's face. Startled and alarmed, his eyes shot open wide, crying out beneath the gag. What—? What was—?

He froze, suddenly choking on a terror so absolute that it stole what little of his voice the cloth forced into his mouth had left him as the malevolence he had sensed surged to supercritical. It whirled around him, stinging raw at the edges of his mind like grit against exposed skin in a sandstorm. Then, it was pushing against his barriers, pushing deep into his head. Even further, into the depths of his heart, where his most precious secrets were kept, scrutinising relentlessly until the hall of the Hutt's palace seemed to melt away in shadows. He had to get away, had to get this man away from him, but he didn't know— He didn't know how—

Consumed by panic, he felt something in him push back. Push and push and push, burning out the darkness like the blazing heat of Tatooine's binary suns. Faintly, like a distant echo across the horizon of the Dune Sea, he heard a shocked yell and an angry roar. The darkness retreated, and he was dragged back into reality by the remorseless tug of a Gamorean fist in his hair. Another fist, he saw as his vision cleared, was poised to strike a blow across his face, but it was held back by the same invisible grip Anakin had been caught in not moments before.

"No." The Grand Inquisitor's voice cut through the tension in the air like a vibroblade. A gesture of one long-fingered hand, and the guard's arm dropped sharply to his side. "No, this is fascinating. Fascinating. Yes, he shall do very nicely indeed."

Even confused and disorientated as he was, not sure what had just been done to him, nor what he had done in turn, it did nothing to stop the wave of horrified nausea that threatened to overcome him at those words. The fear that had been festering in him ever since he had been hauled before Jabba's throne and informed that he had been sold to the karking Emperor of the Galaxy in exchange for the Hutt's undisturbed sovereignty on Tatooine had reached a fever pitch that was on the verge of burning him from the inside out—and anyone else who happened to be in range along with him. He had spent all his life being passed from master to master—from Gardulla, who had seen no use for him except as winnings to throw into a betting pool, to Watto, who had valued his talents but hadn't had the strength to keep him, and finally to Jabba, the champion podracer who had defeated Sebulba another addition to his collection of costly slaves that he surrounded himself with in lieu of rich jewels and lavish furnishings. But this master, this master who wanted him for reasons that were a mystery to him—reasons that he wasn't sure he would have understood even if he were told, who wanted him so much that he was prepared to part with a considerable sum of money and potential territory, however insignificant, on the Outer Rim in order to acquire him... At least he had known why Jabba had torn him away from his mother after he'd won the Boonta Eve Classic. This master, poised to tear him from his homeworld, was an unknown, and one that terrified him beyond anyone or anything he had ever encountered on Tatooine.

"What happened here?" Anakin flinched as he felt the fingertips of the Inquisitor's black-gloved hand brush lightly across his injured temple. He didn't want the man touching him. He didn't want him touching him. But the guard still held him by the hair and he couldn't—

"The boy is defiant," came Jabba's voice from behind him. Ha, defiant. The slug had always called him defiant. Maybe defiant enough that the Emperor wouldn't even want him and—"He tried to run. My guards were forced to subdue him."

The sound of TC-70 dutifully repeating the slug's words in that officious tone of his lit a spark in Anakin's chest that turned his fear into a blazing inferno. Rage and terror, remembered from the previous night, from his flight across the desert under a binary sunset, guided by the whispers on the wind that had led him through the worst of Tatooine's dangers ever since he was a child. Those whispers had been so insistent that he must not under any circumstances fall into his new master's hands that in his desperation to get away, he hadn't even cared that his transmitter chip was still in. He had known, instinctively, that Jabba wouldn't detonate it—not when he still needed him alive. But those whispers had failed him. The guards had caught up to him, knocked him unconscious when he'd tried to fight back, and dragged him, bound, back to the Hutt's palace to be thrown into a cell to await the arrival of the Emperor's representative the next day. The whispers hadn't saved him, just as they had never freed him from a single one of his masters. They had left him to his fate, and he could see no way out of it.

"Is that so?"

The Inquisitor's finger trailed down from his temple to his cheek. Again, Anakin tried—futilely—to jerk away. He would have bared his teeth if he could, but instead he made do with a hot glare and a faint growl behind the gag. Anger wasn't safe for a slave, but he doubted he would ever be safe again now, and anger made him feel far less small than fear.

"Such fury...," the Inquisitor murmured, with a soft chuckle that set Anakin's teeth on edge. He made no move to withdraw his hand from his cheek. "The Emperor will be most pleased."

Your Emperor can choke, Anakin snarled in his head, but he could fast feel himself spiralling back into terror. The Emperor, who had sent this man to fetch him, who would surely rule over his slaves as ruthlessly he ruled over the Galaxy. He wouldn't let him take him. He couldn't— But he was bound, injured, helpless, and the Inquisitor had already proven that he didn't need to lay a finger on him to restrain him.

There was nothing he could do.

"I wonder," Jabba scoffed derisively; though Anakin couldn't see his face, he could easily picture the expression that was on it - bulbous eyes narrowed to slits, "how your Emperor keeps control of the Galaxy if he finds disobedience so appealing in a slave."

Once again, TC-70's translation rang throughout the room. The Inquisitor smiled, sharp and cruel.

"Not disobedience, Lord Jabba."

His smile widened and his eyes, fixed on Anakin, glinted with a promise that chilled him to his core.

"Besides, disobedience can be curbed. Some traits, however... They are more valuable than you could possibly imagine, and I'm afraid those cannot be taught."

#whumptober2021 #no.1 #bound #fandom #fic #slavery #implied assault #mind reading #star wars #star wars fic #star wars au #anakin skywalker #jabba the hutt #grand inquisitor #mine #my fic #sfw

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nahimjustfeelingit-writes · 4 years ago

Text

A Calm Storm Raged.

Chapter One.

Ororo Munroe x Erik Killmonger x T’Challa

N’Jadaka,”

T’Challa made his way into Erik’s rather large and extra palace suite, arms behind his back and shoulders straight. He had on a beautiful gold and purple Dashiki with matching linen pants, feet covered in Shuri’s new collection of sneakers that were sound proof and made with vibranium.

“What?” He replied malevolently.

Erik was in the middle of being rubbed down with fresh, raw Wakandan Shea Butter from the popular and historic Shea Trees of the Wakandan jungle. Supposedly the butter has long lasting protection for days and healing elements for scars, bumps, and bruises. The palace maid looked timid as she applied the butter to Eriks naked form, avoiding his ass and dick completely. T’Challa looked on with annoyance, not really thrilled to see his cousins bare behind with his doors wide open.

“I SAID WHAT?” His cousin's sharp tone caused the girl to drop the container of butter.

“We are having a royal dinner and I would like you to meet my fiancé.” T’Challa didn’t feel like getting into a banter with N’Jadaka today.

“Fiancé? What ever happened with you and that annoying ass bitch Nakia?” Erik admired himself in his full length mirror like he was the fairest of them all, stroking his goatee and looking at his muscles glistening from the melted Shea butter on his skin. T’Challa rolled his eyes at Erik’s vain personality.

“Nakia is NOT a bitch… and it did not work out for us.” T’Challa wanted to get past that, move on. He was getting married to Ororo Munroe. She was more so known as Storm being a part of the X-men. T’Challa did have his doubts with Erik meeting Ororo but this was his family and the Kenyan princess would be a part of the Royal family as well.

“Yeah, she's not a bitch, you were.” Erik laughs, “she had you wrapped around her finger, bruh.”

“For one SECOND N’Jadaka can you please act civil! Ororo doesn’t need to witness nor be apart of your mess-“

“What am I doing? You’re the one that walked up here all high and mighty trying to tell me to act right. I’m a grown ass man, T’Challa. I’ll play nice for your little Fiancé though,” Erik looked down at the wakandan maid, admiring her pretty braided hair and chocolate skin. Puckering his lips, he air kissed her dangerously, his dick all in her face making her shiver.

“Sakra, you may leave,” T’Challa called to the girl, glaring at Erik for toying with her like that.

“Yes, my king,” Sakra lifts from her crouched position, capping the butter and bowing to Erik before making her leave. T’Challa smiles softly at her, brushing her past as he focused back on his maddening cousin, finally wearing black linen pants and a wool black robe to match.

“Remember, N’Jadaka, you are a royal prince now. You can’t go around doing such things like that. ufanele ube neentloni,” T’Challa could feel his beads buzzing, preferring it on silent when he was within the palace.

“Shuri, is dinner ready?” T'Challa looked at his younger sister’s holographic figure, a big grin on her face and hair out in its natural afro.

“Why else would I be calling, brother?!”

“A new discovery? Maybe to annoy me like the sister you are?” T’Challa bantered.

“I’ll save that for later. Where are you?!”

“N’Jadaka’s room. Tell Queen Mother to hold on for us. Is Ororo there?”

“She is, and she looks so beautiful! Nakia would be jealous!”

“Aye! Stop it!” T'Challa's African accent was strong.

“All good fun, hurry up!” Shuri ended the call.

Erik was putting on his last minute jewelry that was unnecessary. Golden Jaguar necklace, gold fangs, kimono beads, and even gold rings.

“It’s just food, N’Jadaka.” T’Challa shakes his head.

“Mad you can’t pull this off?” He teased his cousin, smiling with those killer dimples.

“ndingathini? Kumkani” T’Challa finally breaks his shell, arrogance showing through. Erik’s jaw clenched with anger, annoyed with the fact that T’Challa had to constantly remind him that he was the fucking King. Just months ago he YEET his ass over the cliff damn near killed him. He would YEET his ass over the balcony of his palace room right now if it wasn’t for his more civil nature.

“You love using that against me, don’t you?” Erik’s tone was dark just like the jade color of his eyes.

“Just a gentle reminder since you enjoy being an ass,” T’Challa laughs, turning to leave.

“Enjoy it while you can, nigga.” Erik could only hope that T’Challa would fall ill or some shit. Maybe if Iron man didn’t reverse the effects of the snap Erik would still be king while filling the space. Being a ruler of Wakanda felt good. He missed that. Now, he was back to being Prince N’Jadaka and lead General for the Wakandan War Dogs.

“Calm yourself, N’Jadaka. Remember who spared your life.” T’Challa didn’t wait for a response, closing Erik’s double doors made of pure gold.

—-

Ororo Munroe sat within the grand dining hall that was surrounded by the tropics. She had a long backless lilac dress on with her silver hair flowing over her pretty brown shoulders. The layout was simply too much but she understood the reasoning. Looking down at the rare amethyst rock carved into a ring on her finger, she twirled it back and forth to watch it catch the rainbows.

T’Challa was going to be her husband. She said yes before she could stop herself. There were strong mutual feelings back when she was a teen after finding her way to Serengeti. Deciding it was best to part ways, Ororo hadn’t seen him again until a year ago when he joined up with The Avengers.

Ororo sipped her aged wakandan rum, thinking about how she would become the Queen in only a few short weeks. Pressing a hand to her forehead, Ororo tried to calm her anxiety, the feeling of walls closing in around her triggering her claustrophobia. She needed some wild mava kush blend that a friend of hers of the Botanical Society of South Africa made. The kush always calmed her nerves when she felt on edge.

Three large raps of a gold staff alerted everyone in that room, all of them standing to their feet followed by Ororo. First entered Shuri, then came the Queen Mother, Ramonda. Ororo smiles, bowing her head respectively at Ramonda as she took her place next to Shuri who waved animatedly at Ororo. Next came a face she hadn’t seen before but heard about. The unknown cousin to T’Challa that seemed to stir everyone within that room.

N’Jadaka.

Ororo noticed his rather loose form, egotistical walk, and dark eyes. Seating himself next to Shuri, N’Jadaka doesn’t even look her way, grabbing the bottle of aged rum and pouring himself a generous amount that slushed wildly within his golden goblet covered in African gemstones. Ramonda gave him a warning look, causing Erik to kiss his teeth, sitting the bottle back in the center.

“KING T'CHALLA. King of Wakanda!!!”

Everyone stood, even Erik out of respect even though he looked as if it pained him. T’Challa enters, that same rigid form and intense authoritarian eyes sweeping across the room silencing everyone.

“kulilungelo ukuba nive nonke. wakanda naphakade!”

T’Challa did the signature Wakanda symbol, everyone in that room following up including Ororo.

“WAKANDA FOREVER!!!!!”

T’Challa smiles warmly, walking forward with his eyes on Ororo. She returned the same gaze, waiting for her fiancée to speak.

“Today’s meal is a celebration for my beautiful Fiancé, Ororo.” Eyes were the spotlights for Ororo.

“She will be the new Queen of Wakanda beside me, and I could not have chosen a better woman. Beautiful, strong, caring. Me and Ororo have a history that none of you would understand. I am the luckiest that I’ve ever been, and that is luckier than being King.”

Ororo watched as T’Challa walked towards her, the dining hall silent as their king approached the future queen. Even in a room full of people he looked like he wanted to eat her. Storms name, Ororo, translated in her language as beauty which best suited her. The magical aura she possesses from her ancestors being sorceresses and priestesses automatically gave her appeal aside from her striking beauty. Full lips, eyes that changed the color of her hair when her powers were in full force, skin so smooth it was chocolate silk, smell of tropical rain and peppermint scented pelargonium on her skin. She was T'Challa's weakness. Ororo stood, taking T’Challa’s hands in hers, watching as he brought them to his mouth to kiss gently. His inviting mocha eyes made her eyelids flutter. He gave her a teasing smile and a wink in return.

“So beautiful,” he rubbed her cheek with his knuckles, causing the powerful woman to blush.

“Panther Goddess Bast sent you to me,” T’Challa whispers between them before placing a kiss to her lips again. What they hadn’t realized was that every man at that table looked at her like a piece of meat. Their mouths watered, skin prickled, hearts pounded. The strong magical pull affected them all. Even Erik. He never looked at Nakia…but Ororo…

“Let’s eat! We can’t let this wonderful Wakandan meal go to waste!” T’Challa’s voice snapped everyone out of their reverie.

Everyone agreed cheerfully, cooks and palace maids passing around meals and filling goblets with rum or pomegranate juice. T’Challa seats himself next to Ororo, pouring his own glass of rum. Raising his glass, Ororo follows suit, clinking glasses with him before taking a long sip. She needed that drink with how intense things were going. Eyes sweeping about the room, Ororo watched everyone talk Xhosa, eat delicious food, and drink the strong rum like they were chugging water. Placing a lock of her thick hair behind her ear, Ororo’s cinnamon gaze landed on a pair of obsidian colored ones. Locked in a staring contest, she watched the brewing flame within his eyes almost spark her. Scanning her body painfully slow, N’Jadaka takes her in like it was for the first time, learning her from across the table. She felt completely bare under his eyes, a hand coming up to clutch her chest. He smiled smugly.

“That would be N’Jadaka. My cousin.”

Ororo blinked, looking over at T’Challa’s handsome face as he chewed his slow cooked Oxtail.

“N’Jobu’s son?”

“Yes. He looks like him, doesn’t he?”

“A little, not the dimples...they must be his mothers.” Ororo wondered who his mother could be.

“His mother is American.” T’Challa grabs a Chapatis to scoop up some spicy red sauce. He was so invested in his food that he hadn’t noticed the lust and interest in his own cousin's eyes towards his fiancé.

“Arabella is the Cairo princess, correct?” T’Challa asks.

“Yes, not particularly a favorite with her bending of the rules but she’s getting better.”

“I wonder if we could get her and N’Jadaka to meet? Maybe he would be interested.”

Ororo looked at T’Challa quizzically, “You would like to arrange that?”

“Why not? He could use a distraction. Erik needs a companion besides his five cats that roam the castle. A prince single? He should be with someone.” T’Challa laughed to himself, humor and mischief in his eyes.

“We both know how horrible Arabella is. She wouldn’t be a great girlfriend or wife, T’Challa.” Ororo senses that T’Challa wanted to do this on purpose because of the tension between them both.

“You aren’t playing fair, T’Challa,” Ororo spoke with a soft and alluring tone, “just because you are upset with how things are with your cousin doesn’t mean you should interfere with who he falls in love with.”

T’Challa breathes out a sigh, shaking his head before forking a potato, “He talks to me like I didn’t heal his wound. He doesn’t respect me as King.” That was a personal situation Ororo did not want to get into at the moment. She decided to leave the matter alone for now, turning to her food.

—-

Throughout the dinner, Ororo avoided Eriks heated eyes and kept her glass of rum close. Why was he so interested? He clearly had no respect for T’Challa with the way he looked at her like he wanted to fuck her. She considered sweeping him away with a sudden tornado but that would only kill everyone in that room minus her. Plates were replaced with dessert and at this point Ororo couldn’t take any more food. Just when things were going well, the doors to the dining hall opened revealing two women wrapped beautifully in gold traditional wakandan gowns, natural hair in goddess locs. One was slightly shorter and plump while the other was tall and slender. Silence filled the large open space as the two women stood firm at the tail end of the table, waiting for a response or instruction. Wiping his mouth with a cloth, T’Challa takes his stand, the same ruling stance that hushed the room. Erik looked from the women to T’Challa, a knowing look on his face and the urge to laugh ready to explode within him.

Did this nigga really just do this?

All that power made his head swell and Erik couldn’t wait to see Ororo’s reaction to this. Erik chanced a look at Queen Mother, he could even see the disgust that she tried to hide. Everyone else was clueless and it made Erik want to beat it into their skulls with his Nguni stick that he used for combat.

“Bold,” Erik drinks more rum, wiping the sneer from his face quickly. He wanted to have a little fun. Why not fake surprise just like the rest? He could look at Ororo and give her a reassuring look to calm her hurt. Erik couldn’t keep his eyes off her for a second. The woman was beautiful. It was her skin mostly, it glowed. No… maybe it’s her eyes. She had sexy eyes.

On second thought it was her lips. Erik almost broke his goblet in half from how hard he held it. She was gonna marry T’Challa. How unfortunate. T’Challa cleared his throat, motioning for the two women to speak.

“I am Chioma, daughter to G’foru, warrior of the water tribe.” She was the plump one.

“And I am Hadiya, daughter to Akuchi, Jabari tribe.” The taller one spoke.

T’Challa watched as the Dora followed suit standing from their seats. Ororo waited with confused eyes, flickering from the women to T’Challa. She shifted slightly, clearly feeling out of place.

“We are here to serve our king as sisterwives for Queen Ororo.”

An entire uproar filled the room, some outraged while others agreed.

“SILENCE!” T’Challa spoke loudly, quieting the room.

Erik could not keep his composure. His laugh was the only sound in that room. After about five glasses of the strong rum, Erik’s mouth was sure to get him in trouble.

“I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU WENT AND GOT TWO OTHER WOMEN TO BE YOUR WIFE!” Ororo screamed so loud that her glass shattered.

Shuri stomped on Eriks toes, shutting him up. He looked at her like she was stupid, toes burning from the pain. Ororo sat still and stared at the women who looked straight ahead like two dumb ass statues. She could feel her ears ringing now from her rising anger.

“Thank you, N’JADAKA, for your amusement. My cousin always knows when to make light of a situation, right, cousin?” T’Challa spoke sarcastically.

Erik could see the scorching rage in T'Challa's eyes that was masked with a forced smile. Huffing, he keeps eye contact until he looks at Ororo with a lopsided grin. He could see her energy crackling around her. T’Challa didn’t need to worry about Erik, more so Ororo.

“My King, should we go?” Hadiya asks, eyes reading otherwise.

“No,” T’Challa looked over at Ororo’s angry face, “You will stay. The Dora can take you to your rooms and food will be there waiting for you. I’ll be there soon.”

Excitement poured through both women as they followed behind the Dora, excluding Okoye who even had a look of utmost shock on her face.

“THE DINNER WILL CONTINUE AS BEFORE!”

T’Challa took his seat again, grabbing up his fork to continue eating. He completely blocked out Ororo’s glare towards him. Her eyes could be felt briefly changing from cinnamon to silver but all that changed when Ramonda’s warm and nurturing hand gripped hers.

——

After dinner, everyone joined T’Challa in the throne room where he sat alongside Ororo watching his Wakandan people dance and drink the night away. He felt proud to be the ruler of these people. Ororo however sat lazily in her chair, twirling her eighth glass of rum with great interest. Her long claw shaped nails painted black could be sharp enough to scratch the grins off of her sister wives faces. They danced seductively for T’Challa, gaining his attention in the eyes and in his crotch. Ororo almost gagged. She and T’Challa had a lot to discuss after this unnecessary party.

“I think I need to get some air. My claustrophobia is making me suffocate.” Ororo whispered to T’Challa softly.

“Take as much time as you need, Ororo. I will be here waiting for you.”

Accepting his kiss, Ororo stood from her throne chair, walking down the platform with her pretty bare feet and towards the large royal balcony of the palace. The noise faded out as she sipped her rum and walked. The smell of the fresh wakandan air was always soothing and pulled to her aura. Sitting her glass down and causing it to shatter, Ororo gripped the vibranium edge of the balcony, letting out calming breaths.

How could he do this to her? How could he still make her feel second? When things didn’t work out for them in the beginning he ended up with Nakia. Now that things didn’t work out between them he made his way back to Ororo. She always fell for his dazzling smile and chocolate skin. Her hands were in her hair now, scrunching the long silver strands like a mad woman. She adored this man, but he was fgoing to marry two other women to ‘sow his Royal oats’.

“You want some company, beautiful?”

Turning, Ororo spotted N’Jadaka approaching, a cigar in hand and a drink in the other. Taking a puff, he blew out smoke into the fresh air, licking his lips afterward to take a drink. Ororo looked him over, noticing the scarring on his torso. Imagine how much pain he had to be in to do that to himself. This man that T’Challa despised had a story that caught Ororo’s attention.

“It represents the people I’ve killed. I don’t think you want to know the number.” Sneering, Erik approached her, skin smelling like African fantasy: luscious fruit and musk giving him a sweet but sexy aroma. Ororo turned away, breathing in through her nose. The rum was clouding her brain. She can’t be attracted to T'Challa's cousin...that was wrong.

“That’s the second glass you broke within the past two hours, you good?” That Oakland drag made her belly flutter. It felt good to hear an American speak. She faked an American accent living there for so long as a reporter turned X-men.

“As you can see, N’Jadaka, I’m not all well.” Ororo brushed her hair over her shoulder.

“He is a fucking idiot,” chuckling, N’Jadaka offered some of his rum to Ororo, but she kindly declined.

“Just more for me then, Isondo,” she could hear the flirty nature in his tone.

“Don’t call me that. It’s disrespectful to refer to me as sexy when I am your cousin's fiancé.” Ororo gripped her upper arms as if covering herself.

“You cold?” N’Jadaka’s husky voice practically singing in her ear.

“No. Can you back up?” She shot daggers at him with her eyes, causing N’Jadaka to step away.

“Fiery. I like that,” he laughs smugly, drowning the rest of the rum and focusing on his cigar, “He doesn’t deserve a woman like you. T’Challa thinks he can have whatever the fuck he wants and clearly having you is the golden egg. Too bad you look like you’re ready to rage a fucking storm.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She sassed him.

“I would actually. I heard about what you can do. Show me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Show me what storm is all about,” N’Jadaka invades her space again, eyes on the evening sky.

“Show me lightning.” Blinking away from the stars, he looked down on her, “Show me a thunderstorm, no...a hurricane.”

His eyes were wild and lustful. Ororo blinked away tears, her psionic powers over weather affected by her emotions. She often suppresses extreme feelings to prevent her emotional state from resulting in violent weather.

“And I heard about how cunning you are. You used to be a thief, right? So did I. I bet me and you could have made the perfect team. Stealing vibranium, giving back to our people the proper way, beating niggas asses and snapping necks,” N’Jadaka took his fingers to touch her soft hair, “You’re dangerous just like me.”

Ororo smacked his hand away, touching her hair as if it were infested, “You’re disgusting. You can have any woman you want and you choose to chase me?”

“I always get what I want.” He said with a dangerous smile

“You sure? You didn’t get the throne. T’Challa did that.”

“Yeah...he did. That’s where I fell short but I’m here. I’m in Wakanda now and I still bark orders and make decisions. I’m the one that pushed T’Challa to open the Outreach Centers. If it wasn’t for me, none of that shit would have fucking happened.”

Ororo looked at N’Jadaka with great interest, “That was you? You made him do that?”

“In a fucked up way that resulted in me getting stabbed through the chest, yeah.” Her pretty cinnamon eyes had him hooked.

“Wow...I praised him for that and I should be praising you.” Forgetting her recent disinterest in touching him, Ororo grabbed his hands, grateful eyes dancing with tears.

“I’m happy he finally opened his eyes. You made that happen.” As quickly as she held his hands she let go. N’Jadaka felt a void.

“You didn’t have to stop touching me. Your skin feels good against mine.” His face was dangerously close to hers, their noses almost connecting.

“Did I make you feel better?” He asks in a hushed tone.

“...Not so much. But thank you.” Ororo tucks her chin bashfully only for N’Jadaka to lift it, forcing her to look at him.

“I like what I see...and apparently so do you.”

“I’m not...I can’t N’Jadaka.”

“Erik.”

Confused Ororo looks down at his chest, “Who is Erik?”

“Me. My American name. My alias,” he looked at her juicy lips, “I prefer that anyway.”

“You’re too close, Erik. What if someone sees?”

“So what? I don’t give a fuck about their opinion of me. They already have their minds made up about me anyway so fuck them.” His hard exterior caused Ororo to step back. He was a force to be reckoned with. Erik was the type of man to ruin her in good and bad ways. The temptation to allow this man to use her body was slowly surfacing. His wild nature was like a drug to her.

“I have to go. T’Challa will be wondering where I am.”

“Only if you give him a reason to. I can take you to my private Villa in the mountains? You can let me fuck you like I know you want me to. I bet T’Challa never ate the pussy.”

Ororo gasped from the vulgar comment, covering her cleavage with her silk lilac dress. This man had no pause. He had no filter. Just blunt and obscene.

“You know about the irvingia gabonensis of African trees? There are some planted in the Wakandan jungle,” Erik takes her hair, placing it behind her ear,

“some people call them wild mango, African mango, bush mango, dika or ogbono.”

Ororo’s eyes went low from his smell and the warmth of his touch against her ear. He was enticing her.

“They Bear these edible mango-like fruits that if extracted of their juices can arouse the person,” Erik takes her fingers, kissing each one slowly with his eyes on her. She couldn’t breath at all, her phobia back again like the wakandan air didn’t matter.

“You can ask any woman in Wakanda where they like that juice to be,” Erik nibbled the tips of her fingers, Ororo gasping with pleasure.

“I bet your pussy tastes like irvingia mangos,” his dark chuckle finally did its job with making her pussy wet. Her pussy hadn’t been this wet in a very long time. She thought T’Challa was the only man to ever make her drip as much as she did but here comes Erik with the same effect on her horny body. It was wrong, but sexual desire could cloud your better judgment.

Leaning in close, Erik whispers against her ear, his nose in her good smelling hair.

“If you let me eat I’ll show you just how good I can juice that sweet pussy over and over on my tongue.”

Ororo bit her lip, fingertips sparking. She imagined laying on Eriks bed, allowing this man to please her with his tongue for hours and making her scream and shout. It was so nasty and bad to think of doing that in the same space as the King but the old Ororo didn’t have remorse. He had those perfect lips to sit her pussy on and ride his face.

“I’m getting married, Erik, I can’t do this.”

“You don’t wanna be in a poly relationship, Ororo. You telling me you would rather torture yourself? Nah, I don’t believe that. I’m finna take you back to my room and fuck some sense into you.”

“Are you hearing yourself?!!!” Ororo looked around to be sure no one could hear, “You’re insisting on sleeping with me and without a thought as to how this will hurt the royal family?”

Erik kisses his teeth, “Ramonda doesn’t approve, Shuri sure as hell doesn’t and neither should you. The Dora will kiss T’Challa feet before going against him. We ain’t gotta deal with that!”

Erik gripped the sides of her face, eyes boring into hers intensely.

“All you gotta do is say yes. And it’s not the rum talking. I really wanna take you away from him.”

“You don’t even know me. What makes you think I would jump and do that?”

“Because I already got your attention. All you need is a little push.”

Ororo took one look at his lips, biting her own before leaning in to taste him. His tongue deep down her throat and grunts deep, Ororo moaned. His tongue wiggles and curls like a garden snake and his lips rubbed hers like soft pillows against her face.

“Mmm,” she moaned into his mouth, allowing Erik to suck on her tongue. He was so nasty and demanding. Gripping the back of his head, Ororo battles him, the sloppy passionate kiss making her stomach tightened and her pussy wetter. She could even feel the hardening of her nipples rubbing his studded chest through her silk dress.

“Mhm,” he moaned in return, pleased with his accomplishment. She was so tasty. Ororo pulled away, gasping for air only to give Erik room to invade her neck with his long pink tongue that stroked like a slippery reptile. She shuddered, back arching like his tongue was deep in her pussy. Ororo bounces slightly with need, mimicking the way she would bounce on his tongue if he told her to. Her eyes turned silver, night sky swirling until a strong wind brushed past, closing the balcony doors. Pausing their kiss, Erik looks her dead in the eyes with a sly smirk, getting on his knees now and lifting her dress up and over his head. The high split of the dress revealed her long toned legs draped over his shoulder. Bracing herself on the balcony edge, Ororo could feel her panties slipping to the side while Erik pulled her petals apart.

“Fuck,” she widened her legs, Eriks flat and thick tongue brushing everywhere like he was licking a plate clean. He wiggles that damn tongue against the underside of her clit, alternating between sucking and slurping. Mouth wide and wordless, Ororo clawed the vibranium, hips moving in conjunction with his tongue. She closed her eyes in defeat, all regrets long gone as this man ate her pussy like no other. He circled her clit with his pointed tongue, earning a cry. The tears in the back of her eyes fought to fall from how amazing he ate her.

“Erik,” she whined. He had her begging.

Now he had the nerve to tongue fuck her pussy. Careful not to fall over the edge Ororo held her legs open wider, sliding down on his tongue to give him all of her.

“You’re so good at this, ahhh, it feels so good, N’Jadaka.” She cradled his head closer, rubbing over him gently. Her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, heart racing at the thought of being caught by T’Challa or anyone for that matter. The long billowing curtains that covered the Palace doors did hide them but that didn’t mean that someone couldn’t be peeking right now. She repeatedly moaned out with every movement Erik made, her intoxicated body moving in slow motion. Drunk or not this felt AMAZING.

“Right there, fuck, yes, right there,” her hitched breath caught in her throat, body frozen as Erik decided to add two fingers inside of her. She could hear him laughing beneath her. Tired of him hiding, Ororo lifted her dress away from his head, lust filled eyes holding his dark and sinister gaze. This man was pure evil sucking on her pussy like a beast. She grabbed a fist full of his tapered dreads, guiding his head as he sucked her clit and finger fucked her pussy.

“Erik!” She was ready to explode.

“Give me all that juice, baby,” he pushed her and pushed, coaxing her with a curl of his fingers.

“Cum on my fucking tongue.” With his command, Ororo shouted so loud it felt like the party beyond those doors ended to see what the screams of pleasure were all about.

“You taste so damn good. Your pretty sweet pussy tastes just like I like it. So pretty and good, baby.”

Erik kisses her entire pussy with love, watching with greedy and admiring eyes as the Storm goddess moaned and weakly spoke his name.

“Erik...oh, Erik...Erik…”

He savagely started eating her again.

#killmonger smut #Erik Killmonger #tchalla #black panther #storm #nahimjustfeelingit writes

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pi-cat000 · 4 years ago

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MSA time travel idea (part 42)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, Vivi POV, 8, 9, 10, Lewis POV, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Lance POV 18, 19, Lewis POV 2, 21 , 22, Vivi POV 2, 24, 25 Lewis POV 3, Mystery POV , Vivi POV 3, 29, Lewis POV 4, 31, ViVi POV 4 , 33, 34, Lewis POV 5, Mystery POV 2, Lewis POV 6, Vivi POV 5, Lewis POV 7 Vivi POV 6 Vivi POV 7

Part 43: here

...

(ARTHUR POV)

“Maybe, if you’d been even half of what he was, you wouldn’t have been possessed so damn easily. I mean, this kid put up more of a fight, and he’s pretty much a walking collection of neurosis,” the demon taunts.

“I said shut up!”

The demon, and by default, Arthur, narrows their eyes. Micky’s sudden appearance has thrown a wrench into its plans, drawing its full and undivided attention. Irritation curls around Arthur, replacing the previous sensations of smug satisfaction and amusement. The emotion is unpleasant, making Arthur’s mind crawl but it’s better than the sadistic joy he had been forced to endure as it was stabbing Lewis. For the first time since that disastrous meeting in the hospital’s car-park, Arthur finds himself completely free of surveillance. The demon’s attention is focused solely on Micky and the gun. The shift is so sudden and is Arthur so panicked, that he almost doesn’t recognise the opportunity.

Luckily-the only luck he’s had in a long while-he does recognise his opening. His one chance to make things right.

A desperate calm settles over him. Lightning flashes, illuminating the faint blue and purple of Vivi and Lewis’s clothes. Mystery glows ever brighter, casting a red tint on the concrete around him. Everything else is darker shades of grey, fading into black.

In his new state of calm, Arthur can envision how the next few seconds would play out. Micky would shoot. The demon would dodge. Even now, he can feel how his body is tensing, preparing to duck to the side. The demon is hyper-focus on the gun, watching Micky’s every muscle twitch. To dodge, the demon would have to already be moving even before the gun went off. It would need precise control and a split-second warning just before the shot. After the gun fired, Vivi would run forward to ‘save’ him, putting herself in danger. Then, Mystery would be forced to transform and save her. In the commotion, the demon would make their escape.

“Did you even go back to bury him, or did you just leave him there? What happened to all the ritual, funeral nonsense to send his soul on its merry way? How disrespectful.” The demon’s voice is full of malice, coloured with amusement, aiming to both harm and insult.

The gun clicks in Micky’s hand. Already, Arthur can feel himself tensing, preparing to move fast.

“Stop!” Vivi lurches upright and Mystery blocks her from jumping between them. “If you shoot, you’ll kill Arthur!”

This is okay. Arthur has already accepted that he might never see his friends again. The demon would run, take him away, and they would be safe. Mystery would pass along his apology and it would be fine. The only one to really suffer would be him and he thinks he can live with that. Is that true though?

“That fucking brat sent us to our deaths. He’s just as guilty.”

It wasn’t just him that would suffer was it? This thing would keep on killing. It would use his body to kill other people and maybe, one day, it would go after Lewis or Vivi again. The creature wanted Arthur specifically and he is aware enough to know that the demon has got some sort of plan involving his messed-up soul.

The body snatcher sniggers, “I’m sure Dan would be very unimpressed with how you're threatening this poor innocent human. I mean, if he weren’t a shish-kebab at the bottom of a cave.”

Micky yells, loud, animalistic, full of pain and rage. Arthur feels a pang of empathy for the man who had had the misfortune of running into him and being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like Darrel.

In that fraction of a second before the gun goes off, his body, under the direction of the demon, lunches to the right. Everything slows, time crawling by. Arthur can already see Mystery leaping, his dog form rapidly expanding. Vivi is also running towards him, face white with fear.

His way out was suddenly blindingly clear.

With all his remaining will power, throws himself to the left. He slams into the mental barrier separating him from his body. Similar to when he’d first tried this in the van, the demon falters ever so briefly, its attention refocusing onto him and away from Micky. For a fraction of a second, in between heartbeats, the demon’s movements slow. Unlike when he had tried this before, there is no time for the demon to react.

“ARTHUR!”

The shout rings in his ears alongside the loud CRACK of a shotgun discharging.

A sudden weight smacks him in the chest and he stumbles back. This time, Arthur’s sense of fear is mixed in with his own cold vindication. In a moment of role reversal, it is Arthur feeling spiteful and the demon experiencing surprise.

“You little shit,” He feels himself spit the words out, angry, even as new wetness clogs his throat and the metallic taste of blood floods his mouth. Time accelerates again. Arthur hits the pavement and doesn’t even care that his head cracks on the hard surface. All bodily sensation is fuzzy now. Any pain one would expect to feel after getting shot is dulled. Surprise quickly turns to anger. The demon is almost brittle with furry, its full attention bearing down on him from all angles, pressing in. Suffocating.

“Shit. Shit. Shit…Bleeding…that’s a lot of blood. Need to control the bleeding.” Arthur focuses on Vivi’s face which materialises above him. For the first time since his possession, Arthur managers to move of his own violation, taking a hash breath. The process is an immense struggle and he’s not sure if it’s because of the demon or blood loss.

“Vi…” His tong feels heavy and foreign, the words he tries to say are garbled by the blood coming up through his throat. He doesn’t get more than a syllable out before the control is wrestled away.

‘You think this is over?’ The voice echoes in his head, low and threatening.

“Shh. Don’t speak. Everything will be okay. I don’t think its hit anything important. Just lie still.” Her expression is a mix of horror and worry. Regret quickly roles over his vindication because the last thing he wants is for Vivi to have to watch her friend bleed out and die.

His vision blurs. A purple outline appears alongside Vivi. It’s Lewis, equally, if not more panic-stricken. He can feel to demon’s attention re-centre, staring Lewis right in the eye.

“What’s…up. You…goin…watch him die …with me?” The demon jerks, trying to grab a hold of Lewis’s bear unprotected hands.

‘You can’t have Lewis.’

Arthur slams his full mental weight into malicious presence, pushing it to one side, cutting it off mid-sentence. As his body weakens so does its control. They’re both weak now.

‘Sharing is caring.’ Is sneered. A wave of malicious intent chips away at his control, paralysing rational thought with uncontained fear. Arthur feels his hand lift under the demon’s renewed power, reaching weakly for Lewis, beckoning.

“Lew…is.” Arthur tries to speak and warn his friend off.

‘Don’t do it.’ He can’t get the words out, his control failing. It is like being back in the cave, unable to stop the unimaginably terrible from happening. His vision distorts, made worse by the night around them. He can barely see the conflict waring across his friend’s face. His arm is numb. He and Lewis are standing on a ledge overlooking a steep drop…green is pooling at the edges of his vision. It doesn’t matter that they are both weak, the demon’s got him beat in the willpower department. Too many past mistakes occupy his thoughts, distracting him.

Lewis’s hand hovers then closes around his, drawing his focus. The hand is warm almost comforting.

NO.

He claws at the demon, ripping and tearing at anything he can reach, trying to drag it down with him. A patronising laugh bounces around and there is the sensation of something rushing to escape. Arthur scratches and grasps but it is hard to hold onto something that hardly exists. The result is an exercise in futility like he’s trying to dig his nails into loose shale.

‘Nice try but you’re a few centuries too inexperienced to hold me down.’ The demon slips away, leaving him to sink downwards, alone. ‘Try not to die while I’m out would you. I would hate for all this drama to be for nothing,’ Arthur can still feel the echo of rage and malevolence underlining its final amused jab as it fades from his consciousness. The demon is angry. He knows it is going to do its level best to hurt Lewis. There is nothing he can do to stop it. And, suddenly, Arthur is alone in his own mind.

“Why?” He coughs, wishing he could shake an answer out of Lewis. ‘Why did you do that Lewis?’ The last he sees of Lewis is a green discolouration creeping up the other’s arm. Lewis stumbles away, swallowed by the night.

Vivi’s shocked face fades to nothing a second later. Then there is only darkness. No demon, just himself and all his mistakes. No snarky running commentary on how screwed up and pathetic he was. No weird dissonance as he experienced two sets of emotional responses. He is just Arthur existing alone. He should feel relieved. This should be a triumph.

It's not...

It’s dark and he’s falling, slamming into a stone spike. Two sets of memories blur together, becoming one extended nightmare. Two failed timelines are laid before him in a spread of damning evidence against his very existence.

Lewis is dead…then alive, grinning, eyes flashing bright green as he looks down on him, “Once in a millennia chance and you managed to screw it up.” There is fire rising around him, growing increasingly not, framing Lewis’s human visage. “This is your fault.”

He coughs, gripping the spike piercing up through his chest.

“How many can say they’ve had a second chance? None. That’s how many?” Lewis growls and the flames become unbearably hot till even the air itself hurts. “Face it. I just wasn’t that important to you.” Arthur should just stop trying to fight and let the fire burn away all that was left of him.

It’s what he deserves.

“So that’s it.” The female voice cuts through the crackle of the fire, “You’re just going to give up?"

The stone around him shifts, colours mutating from purple and green to a gleaming, blue-tinted ice. Gone is the stone spike, the cliff, and the cave, to be replaced by an empty snow-filled field. He is no longer in pain. He is kneeling, half-buried in snow, surrounded be an empty silver-grey landscape.

“What about your promise to answer my questions. You’re going to leave everyone behind wondering what the heck happened?” Lewis and his fire disappear, replaced with cold air and a familiar voice. He squints up at the blurry Vivi-shaped outline but can’t make out her face. The word around him is too blindingly bright to make out any details.

“I can’t…” he pleads, “I’ve made so many mistakes.”

“So what. That’s never stopped you before.”

He drops his gaze, ignoring the the rustle of fabric as a person knelt in front of him.

“We all make mistakes.” Her voice is soft.

“I don’t know what to do?”

If there’s one thing the demon has taught him it was that things could always get worse.

“It’ll be okay Arthur. Just explain what happened. I’ll understand.”

He looks up, desperately searching for the face of a familiar older Vivi.

“I miss you.” He doesn’t care that he is angsting over what was probably a figment of his imagination. The shadow of a Vivi he’d left behind in a future that would never happen.

“Silly, I never left.”

The white space above him splinters, shattering like glass, falling on him like flakes of snow.

His next breath is heavy like he is struggling against some immense weight. It is nothing like being on the cliff, struggling to breathe against the heat and having it cut with frigid cold, this is real. The sensation of forcing his lungs to expand and take in the dry air is almost too real. A dull ache settles over him and he can’t tell if it is coming from his body or somewhere deep in his chest. Everything feels floaty and unreal and he struggles to pull together a coherent thought. Arthur wills his eyes to open, almost afraid to try and have this illusion of control snatched away.

Light eclipses the dark. The imprint of spikes, fire and ice, fade into a nightmare. He stares up at a familiar off-white ceiling. A pattern of square panels, broken by two overhead lights, one of which is switched off, meaning the room in only half lit. The faint smell of anaesthetic and bleach lingers in the air. Absently, he recognises the hospital ceiling. The dejavu is painful.

Slowly, almost too afraid to try, he turns his head, scanning for his arm. There is a needle disappearing into his skin just above his wrist which is connected to a machine beeping a faint rhythmic pattern. It is his flesh and blood arm. This is his original arm, meaning this is the other timeline. The one he had just royally screwed up. His fingers twitch when he wills them to move, jerking inwards to grasp at nothing. This is the timeline where his Uncle is dead, and Lewis is probably off somewhere killing people under the demon’s control. An unbearable sadness descends upon him. He takes solace in the melancholy, welcoming it, wrapping it around himself like a familiar blanket. Maybe, if he waited long enough, the demon would return, and he would be able to save Lewis. Arthur doubts it, he has nothing of value to trade aside from himself and Lewis is ten times more valuable than him. It was pointless. Maybe he hadn’t learnt his lesson about wanting things. Maybe he will just lie here forever, wasting away.

Maybe that didn’t sound so bad.

“Arthur.” The surprised voice cuts into him, slicing apart his thoughts.

He blinks, twitching to glance to the side, focus shifting past the empty hospital chair placed next to his bed and towards the doorway. Vivi. She is standing in the entrance. Her clothes are wrinkled, speckled with dirt, and she has smudges across her face that look a bit like wood ash. Her eyes are wild with open surprise.

Her surprise becomes relief, mixed with conflicting joy and apprehension.

“You’re awake.” She speaks slowly, voice halting.

“V…” His throat is far too dry to speak so the word comes out as a wheeze.

Whatever misgivings had Vivi frozen in the doorway, they don’t hold her for long and she is across the room in a flash of blue. The next thing he knows her weight is resting across his shoulder and chest, gripping onto him. There is a brief flash of purely physical pain as she bumps the wad of bandages he only just notices are covering the upper half of his torso, wrapping his collar bone. Her face is awkwardly pressed against his opposite shoulder.

When his vision blurs, he panics, momentarily thinking he was losing his control. However, he quickly recognises it as a different sort of loss of control. A normal loss of control. There is water pooling in his eyes, running down his face. He’s crying, making breathing hard.

“You idiot.” Vivi’s voice is unsteady now, full of hurt, “You colossal idiot.”

“I'm…sor…” He swallows, coughing out the apology “…ry” He doesn’t know what exactly he’s apologising for but he’s made so many mistakes that it’s the only thing he can think to say.

“I thought you were going to die.”

Sluggishly, Arthur tries to raise a hand, the one without a needle sticking into it, to hold onto the fabric of her jacket. His muscles feel a bit like jelly, spasming occasionally, as his mind re-associates mental commands with movement. He realises with a pang of grief that she is wearing Lewis’s jacket. What happened to Lewis? He tries to speak, to explain, to ask questions, but his throat is still too dry. After attempting this a few more times he gives up and allows himself the small comfort of being able to hug Vivi again.

NOTE: Happy Holidays!! Have an update as a gift :) Hope everyone is safe and wish you all good luck transitioning into the new year. Thank you for another years worth of support of this fic, it means a lot.

Part 43: here

#MSA #mystery skulls animated #arthur kingsmen #Vivi Yukino #angst #angst overload #depression #Suicidal Thoughts #tw suicide #descriptions of violence #fic is sad and angsty what else is new #hopefuly the worse is over...hopefuly...#arthur and vivi angst stuff #arthur and vivi friendship #time travel au #fanfiction

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imaginedisish · 5 years ago

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Rebellion - Lies (Ben Solo x Reader) (Star Wars TROS) Part 1

A/N: HEYYYY GUYS OMG!!! So this is my first fanfic in a pretty long time. I haven’t written since June I think. I’m so sorry I’ve been gone...BUT I’M BACK!!! AND I’M HERE WITH A STAR WARS IMAGINE :) I really hope you guys like it. I’m a little rusty, so I’m sorry! I hope you guys enjoy though :) Also, I’ll write for any character, so please don’t hesitate to request. ENJOY!!!! (ps yes the title is based on an Arcade Fire song)

Summary: You (the reader) have an incredibly strong force connection with Ben Solo. You two grew close, training together, constantly being together. It was once you and he that created balance in the galaxy. However, what happens now that Ben is chasing after Rey? jealous!reader.

Warnings: This is a TROS world!!!! So please be aware of spoilers! Language, that’s about it...

Word Count: 2,163

Part 1:

The ground beneath you is cold and harsh. Rocks and rubble poke relentlessly against your skin. Your eyes open slowly. You don’t know exactly where you are, but the room is large. It almost feels like a cave. Stone walls surround you. It’s dark. There’s something in the distance. You squint, and realize it’s a silhouette. Within a second, you recognize who it is. You knew the shape of his body like the back of your hand.

It was Ben Solo.

You push yourself up. “B-Ben,” Your voice is hoarse. You come up to your knees, brushing the pebbles and such off of your arms. You feel so weak. Your head throbs in pain.

Your knees buckle as you attempt to stand up, practically sending you straight back down to the ground. Something makes you feel as though Ben needs you, so you power through the pain. Something wasn’t right. There was palpable tension in the room. It was almost as if the force was telling you something.

Something evil was here.

Ben feels so close, yet so far. “Ben,” You call out, much louder this time. But there’s no response. You walk closer to him. Suddenly, another figure reveals itself. The figure stands in front of Ben.

“You are weak, like a child! Wasted ability and potential!” The figure’s voice is familiar. It's filled with a hatred you had heard before, possibly in a dream, or a voice in your head.

A voice that once beckoned you to the darkness…

“No,” you whisper. It was Palpatine. His face is clear now. The man’s wrinkles are deep, his eyes are dark, filled with malevolence, and sunken in. “Ben!”

You’re running towards the two of them now, but you aren’t getting any closer. He and Palpatine seem to be moving farther and farther into the distance. You feel so helpless. Palpatine extends a hand out towards Ben.

Almost instantly, Ben rises up into the air. You reach for your light saber, pulling it out of its holder. It ignites as you continue to charge forward, its yellow light shining brightly in the dark room.

“I will end the Skywalker line once and for all!” Palpatine’s voice echoes against the ancient stone walls, sending chills down your spine.

You extend your hand out, hoping to to use the force to push Palpatine against the throne that stood behind him, but it doesn’t work. You’re stuck, powerless, forced to watch the man you love die. It feels as though you are trapped behind a wall of glass, or as if there’s some barrier that you can’t cross. You continue running nevertheless, refusing to give up.

Ben rises higher in the air. Palpatine seems to be using the force to pull something out of Ben. It was white and bright. Then it hits you. You know exactly what Palpatine is doing. That’s why he tricked Ben into joining him.

“His life force,” You say, stopping in your tracks.

“Ben!” You scream, wishing that Palpatine could hear you and possibly drop Ben in the process.

“I know you’re here girl,” His voice reaches you. “But there’s nothing you can do. You’re powerless!” Palpatine cackles, his evil laughter makes the walls shake. Rubble travels down the walls.

Palpatine grows stronger and stronger as each second goes by. But there’s nothing you can do. His face begins to gain color, and his wrinkles begin to disappear. His fingers take shape. He’s become human again.

Suddenly, Ben falls to the ground.

You begin to run towards Palpatine and Ben again. You’re quickly realize that you’re able to travel towards the Ben this time. Now that Palpatine had gotten what he wanted, there was nothing you could do to stop him. The damage had already been done.

You reach the foot of the throne, and crash down on your knees next to Ben. You move him so that he lays in your lap. You run your hands through his dark black hair.

“B-Ben, I-I’m so sorry,” You stutter as tears fall down your cheeks.

“You failed him just as your grandfather failed Anakin. Just as your parents failed you,” Palpatine says as he approaches you. “You never even told the boy you loved him. Such a shame. You know, you would’ve lived with this guilt for centuries, just as Obi Wan Kenobi had before you. Yet, you were too stupid and naive to recognize this is all just…”

Your eyes flicker open.

A dream.

Palpatine’s whisper floats around your room. You’re in your bed. You instinctively reach over to the other side, but there’s no one there. Ben hadn’t been there in months. You wanted nothing more than to be reunited with him. You missed him.

Before the First Order, before Luke had betrayed Ben, you and Ben were friends. You were connected through the force from birth. The connection was strong and intense. It didn’t take long to realize why you were connecting with him. After all, Ben was a Skywalker, and you were a Kenobi.

Ben told Luke of your powers, and Luke took you from your home planet to train you. Luke had told you that you belonged with the Jedi, that you belonged with Ben. He said that the force had chosen you two to keep balance within the galaxy and the force.

But that was never a question for you. From the moment you made your first connection with Ben, you knew you were destined to rule the galaxy together. You had always felt as though, together, you could serve the galaxy and make your grandfathers proud.

However, ever since the girl had come out of no where, out of thin air, Ben had been gone. You longed for him. More than all else, you feared for his life. Palpatine had been slipping into your dreams almost every night. You would talk to Ben through the force after each dream, but lately he failed to connect back.

You sit up, and swing your legs over to the side so that you can sit on the edge of the bed.

“Ben,” you whisper, hoping to get through to him.

“(Y/N),” Ben responds. Your heart flutters in your chest. It had been weeks since you had last heard his voice. But you can’t see his face. You feel a hand rest against your shoulder. You whip your head around to look behind you.

There he was. It was Ben.

You take a deep breath. “You’re here.”

“I promised you I wouldn’t be gone forever. I meant that,” Ben says, a small smile playing at his lips. You stand up and run over to him, crashing into his arms the second you get the chance. Your head presses into his chest. You inhale, taking in his scent. You feel like you’re home.

He isn’t wearing his First Order uniform. When he was with you, he was never Kylo Ren, he was always the Ben Solo you knew and came to love. He wore a long sleeved black shirt, scrunched up around his elbows, exposing his lower arms, and loose black pants. His hair was still long, just as it always had been. You pull apart from his chest to get a look at his face. His dark brown eyes glimmer in the light, and his smile stretches across his lips. But you can’t smile back. You begin to think about her; the girl you saw him extend his hand out to in your dreams and visions. You knew it was true. He had feelings for her.

And he was losing his feelings for you.

In truth, Ben had never confirmed his feelings for you. There was never a conversation about a relationship, or romance. You had always just enjoyed each other’s connection and company. It was clear there was something there, but you never verbally communicated those feelings with each other.

That, of course, doesn’t mean you never wanted to. You thought every day about expressing your love for him. Your connection had always been strong enough that you felt as though he already knew without talking about it, but you wanted to tell him yourself.

You continue on. “I thought you might not come back. You’re so wrapped up in-,”

Ben cuts you off, “Her?”

“You asked her to join you, but not me?” You move further away from him. “Explain that. Explain that to me.” There’s a familiar feeling in your gut that you’ve felt before. It’s a fire, a burning sensation that fills you with anger. You had been told throughout your life to ignore those feelings. But now it’s impossible to.

“I chased after her because of Palpatine, (Y/N). He tricked me. You know that better than anyone else. I didn’t mean to leave you.”

“But you did,” You respond. “You left me after all we’ve been through together. I’ve been here for you longer than she has. Why her, Ben? Why?”

Ben shakes his head. “It’s not that simple, you don’t under-,”

“Understand? I don’t understand? You promised me forever, and then you went chasing after her, Ben. You and I are supposed to bring balance the galaxy. I’m supposed to lead you to the light. Hell, I’ve never stopped calling you Ben. I’ve called you Ben from the beginning, and you’ve never stopped me once. I know you, and she doesn’t,” You say, your voice filled with anger. You were channeling the very energy Luke and everyone else in your life had warned you not to engage with. But you didn’t care. It was how you felt.

He steps closer to you. “I’m sorry. That’s why I’m here. I’m going to Exogol, too. I’m ending everything. When it’s all over, you and I can join the Resistance. All of this will be behind us. We can be happy again, (Y/N). ”

You shake your head. “You can’t go to Exogol. My visions, my dreams, you die there, Ben. You can’t,” You plead. You know that if he goes, it could be the end.

No. It will be the end. You had seen it a million different times and a million different ways. He couldn’t escape Palpatine, there was no way he could ever do that. Palpatine would kill him, just as he had done in every vision you had ever had.

“I need to end this, (Y/N). I need to do what my grandfather couldn’t. My old saber is gone. I’ve left the First Order. It’s done. Now I have to finish this,” Ben says.

Tears fill your eyes, and you fall into Ben’s arms. You sob into his chest.

“Shh, (Y/N). It’s all going to be okay. Please don’t worry. I’m going to be fine,” Ben says as his fingers comb gently through your hair.

He would never listen to you. He was far too headstrong; that was always how he was. Ben always wanted to do things his way. Even growing up, he handled training differently than the other padawans. He was always so critical of himself too. Because of all this, you had learned how to talk him off the ledge, but this time was different. There was no talking him out of this one. In his mind, he was already on Exogol, he was already killing Palpatine.

“Please let me go with you Ben. You can’t go alone,” You say into his chest.

“I need to do this myself, (Y/N),” Ben says back.

You lift your head from his chest. “Ben, if you go alone, you’re going to die. I need you to understand that you are not making it out of the fight if you go in alone,” You explain.

Ben shakes his head in disagreement. “I will. I’ll take him on by myself.” Ben pauses, looking down at you.

“Then I need to tell you something Ben. I need to tell you something I’ve always wanted to,” You say to him. It was time. You had waited far too long to tell him how you really felt.

“Don’t. Please don’t say anything. I’m going to make it out of this. You can tell me after all of this is done,” Ben says back.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. You had a bad feeling about this. You knew something was going to go wrong.

An idea comes to you. You know exactly how to protect him. “Let me go to Exogol with you. I’ll stay on the ship, and I won’t go into the fight with you. But please, let me come with you to Exogol,” You beg, staring deeply into Ben’s eyes. Ben looks away.

“Fine.”

“And promise me that if you need help, you’ll call for-,”

Ben interrupts you. “I won’t need help.”

“You’re being stubborn. If you need help, promise you’ll call for me, please,” You say to him, hoping you’ll be able to sway his opinion.

“I promise.”

To be continued…

Part two

Tags:

@w0nder-marie @loveablecharacterxreader

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wu-sisyphus-gang · 3 years ago

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Motion Sickness Chapter 46

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Wutai was burning when we returned. We could see the smoke a ways off. I rushed to help, flying with Limit Breaker. People were trapped under rubble, a collapsed house and I picked it up off them allowing them to escape despite the flames licking out at me.

With my aura I was amongst the safest.

Neo caught up to me but I was already moving. I'd seen enough burnt down villages for a life-time.

I found Godo in the middle of town, he was directing the firefighting crews about.

"What happened here?"

"Strife-San? We were attacked. Bandits in the woods. Ever since Branwen took over they've been getting bolder. They took my daughter."

"Why would they do that?" My hands itched. I was jumping out of my skin. That murderous something rose up in me. The Grimm we'd slaughtered on the way back had satisfied me none.

"Ransom. They believe they'll be able to hold her over me and receive our supplies. It's not the first time we have been attacked in such a way. Though I was stronger back then. I fear for my daughter's life."

"I'll help you. You just worry about putting out the fires. I'll see about getting you your daughter back."

I had a great deal of pent up rage that could only be quelled against human opponents. Things prone to suffering deserved my attention, not like the Grimm.

"I would be in your debt."

I dismissed him with a wave of my gloved hand and turned to the tracks in the earth. My preternatural ability to track Grimm wouldn't help here but the footprints were clear in the soft ground and I was faster than even your average hunter. I'd catch up to them.

I flew through the woods. One hand out and the other back holding Crocea Mors up in its broadest form. I hungered for violence. The little book about my construction in my pocket felt as heavy as the relic by my side. It felt as heavy as Crocea Mors, even.

I wanted to use both my sword and the relic. After this… after this I'd give it a try. I needed something to help me cope and I wasn't sure murder and drugs were going to do it for me. I really wanted to kill something, though, something that could feel pain. And I really wanted to get these bugs out of my eyes.

Maybe knowledge would be the key. It was one of the four most powerful relics on Remnant's face. I'd be a fool to not try something with it.

I glid inches above the forest floor. The bramble and uneven ground which might have tripped me up couldn't slow me. I leaned forward over the vines and flew faster. It was dusk, only getting darker. Someone who couldn't fly would be seriously slowed and hampered by the terrain. I low profiled the tree branches and flew right through them where they might delay me, my aura and I weren't to be halted by this.

There was a reason most horror stories took place in the woods and at the moment I felt like such a terror.

I must have flown kilometers, chasing them through the underbrush they trampled and I merely breezed past. I left Neo behind but she'd be able to catch up if she was decent at tracking. Teleporting would also help her match me.

I could make out a light in the woods ahead. A small light which burned beneath the great pine trees.

I hovered forward and transitioned to easy footsteps. "Found you…" I murmured. I wanted to murder. I wanted death. I wanted to kill.

The bandits had a building made from hewn logs to make walls. I could spot the light of their campfire inside and a few tents. They didn't have wide enough walls for battlements and had no sentries. Instead it sounded like a party inside.

Neo appeared beside me. She panted hard for a minute or two as I took stock of the situation.

"Like I said, go nuts." I told her. "Personally I'm taking no prisoners."

She laughed silently beside me.

I front-flipped over the logs and landed in the middle of their camp near the blazing fire.

I spotted Yuma tied up with rope by the fire. She was surrounded by celebrating bandits who slowly went for their weapons. Well slowly relative to the speed I was running at.

"Things may not work out for you," I whispered, holding the broadsword level. Blue light streamed off my body and I felt good in the elevated state.

Some of them wore armor imitating Grimm bone. If they wanted Grimm I'd show them Grimm. I was a can of that type of worm. I would show them the trouble that meant. The beast in my chest roared something angry and malevolent.

I attacked. One nearest me went for a sword at his belt. I slashed him. Biting deep into aura, I knocked him to the ground. I brought my sword down in a hacking motion once, twice, three times and I sliced through him at the neck and sent his head rolling.

I felt the violent spirit inside me only grow louder. It was hungry for bloodshed and I was going to give it to it.

Spears, axes, guns all pointed at me. Neo flickered into place beside me and bullets bounced off her bullet proof umbrella.

I rolled behind her taking cover from the storm of bullets that ensued. When there was a reprieve I flew out from behind her and slashed down at a girl nearby me wearing that Grimm white bone on her shoulders. She flinched back and raised her pistol. I swung upwards and clipped her arms. Another man came at me with a spear but I blocked it to the side.

I Cross Slashed him and he fell into four pieces. Even without Limit I was feeling good. I… I wasn't sure I wanted to stop at these bandits. Wutai was weak. I could kill everyone there and no one would be the wiser.

I came back to the girl with the pistol and slashed her across the ribs. Then brought my blade down at her shoulder. Her aura flared and shattered as I thrust the wide blade into her chest. I gave it a shaking motion, bringing the Titania up and she fell off with a shlick noise.

I swung horizontally at one with a rifle and he tried to block with his weapon but I cut right through it and knocked him to the ground. I kicked him in the chest where he fell with my right foot in a snapping tai-kick. Then I stepped forward and snapped out a round kick with my left. Then I brought the blade around lightning fast and cut him at the torso, just above the arm, and all the way through his rib cage.

Another still I punished with a devastating falling aerieal attack. I sliced at him and tore away a chunk of aura. Then I side-flipped and slashed with the motion cutting him again. He tried to stab down at me but I caught it easily on my massive blade. I lifted my weapon and the motion tossed him backwards and I was on him with the cuts until he fell forever. Horizontal. Vertical. Diagonal. Vertical.

Neo landed beside me and pulled at my sleeve. She got my attention. I glanced at her face to see something like fear on her expression. I'd never seen her look like that. I followed her gaze. I turned to look at a woman in a Grimm faced mask with a long red katana. She had a wild mane of black hair that went waist length.

"You have some nerve attacking me."

"I have no idea who you are."

She laughed beneath her mask. "I'm the Khan of Khans."

"Raven Branwen. I know your daughter," I confessed.

"I have no daughter."

I charged Limit for a beat and was rewarded with the trailing, glowing, blue wisps. I twirled my weapon about and placed it between us. She waved her Katana at me, it was nearly four feet long but it looked fragile in comparison to Crocea Mors.

"I would know your name, Warrior. You know mine."

"I'm Cloud Strife. Your reign of destruction and pillaging ends here."

"Doubtful. Many have tried and stood where you now stand."

"None of them were like me. I am danger's oldest son."

She blurred forward as though to get around me but I matched her speed and blocked her. She lowered her weapon slightly. Because of the mask, I couldn't identify what emotion she felt. She was fast, like Cinder or Tyrian fast.

But I'd kept pace with Cinder when last we met. Raven blurred to one side, trying to flank me again but I matched her once more and our weapons collided in a flash of blue and red. She stumbled back and took stock of her situation. I was faster than her with my semblance active. I might even be outright stronger than her too by a degree. Perhaps even without my semblance. My range was superior to her too and of course, one way to look at that was that she is slower than Ruby who I was able to match at times.

I raised my weapon parallel to my face. I thrust at her but she swept it to the side. She front-flipped at me but I caught both her and her downward swing with a horizontal roof block. I held one hand on the handle and the other against the back of the blade. I held up the force of her strike and her entire body weight easily. I pressed her back and she landed on her feet neatly.

I wasn't about to back down from this fight. I felt like I had a real shot at winning it.

The beast in my chest let out a low wary murmur. It was not satisfied. I wasn't satisfied. Both I and it wanted Raven to die, just for getting in my way. It shrieked for more blood to be spilled. A devouring volume that kept rising. A drum that beat in time with my heart.

Raven came at me and slashed her katana then when I shielded she reversed it and tried to stab at me. I deflected that too and quickly brought the weight of Crocea Mors down on her head. She stepped back out of my range hurriedly, desperately avoiding the massive strike. The power of it left the earth grooved. For five feet out in front of the tip of the blade. It would have splashed that energy across her body if it had come into contact with her.

She jumped somersaulting acrobatically towards me and I just flew straight at her. Our blades met twice in a crossing gesture while in mid-air but I had some force propelling me as I flew and with a low guiding hum of metal on metal I flung her back into one of the tents.

She landed ungracefully and rolled to the side as I brought Crocea Mors thrusting vertically down where she had laid fallen. She kicked at me and I stumbled back from the force of it.

She swept her blade at my legs but I hovered over it, grabbed her and pushed her all the way back to the wall where the bandits had hurried logs to make up their camp.

I tried to push her straight through it but I only managed to slam her into it. At this range neither of our swords could be brought to bear and it turned into a melee.

She elbowed me in the face and down across my eye as I went to knee her in the gut. She knocked my knee back down, catching it on her one open palm.

I grabbed her by the shoulder and stuck out one leg and tossed her back all the way across the clearing. She rolled to her feet. Bringing her katana up to handle what came at her next.

I slashed at her twice before I thrust forward and caught her by the belly. I pulled twenty feet straight up in the air and came slamming back down on her with a Climb-Hazard. She dodged out of the way of the second hit. And sliced me across the chest. She went for another cut about mid-height but I deflected it and with a shout I slung her away and into the wall of the camp once more.

I ran up to her and slashed horizontally in a move that brought the fifteen foot high wall of logs down on us. She flickered out of the way but I cut my path up through the falling tree trunks.

"You know I thought you'd have a whole entourage with you, following the queen of the bandits. Seems to me you're mostly alone. Why is that?"

She jumped at me and I Limit Break blade-beamed her. The tall beam caught her by the legs and dragged her into it. The move blended against her aura until it began to crackle, then it tossed her away.

No longer glowing blue I found myself still propelled on nothing more than my will. I was tractionless above the ground and I slid at her on a pocket of air until I slashed at her baseball style and it connected across her body and sent her rebounding off the ground.

"Vernal is dead. I didn't kill her but your little spring maiden is gone." I went on.

I stood still, just charging away at my next Limit Break. I'd get it eventually and once I did I'd be in a comfortable position to end her.

"You work for her, for Salem."

"Yes." I breathed. "And no. We have a complicated relationship. Family is like that, though. I'm sure you understand."

She moved fast enough to leave behind an after-image. She sliced at me and I blocked the first attack but the second caught me under the ribs. It buffeted me back but I quickly regained my balance. She came around for a third but I twisted my much wider blade around to catch it.

She front kicked at me and caught me in the center of the chest. I was once more knocked back but I wasn't losing any real ground. I laughed. She cut me four more times in the blink of an eye. Slashing back and forth with her long red katana. The pain felt amazing. There was a popping sound as the air expanded around me and my semblance returned.

Blue flames licked out and I caught her sword arm, picked her up and slammed her face first into the ground once. Twice. Three times. Then I delivered a boot to her head that sent her rolling. I swept after her on a pocket of air and gave her an upwards gold swing.. It was a strike upwards that caught her by the chest.

It launched her into the air and I chased after her. I slashed at her with my heavy weapon while she was airborn and helpless. I spent Limit on an eight cut move. I hit her with two diagonal cuts that rebounded off her aura. Then I hit her with four horizontal ones. Then I front-flipped and delivered two more massive vertical ones alternating each direction.

The final hit sent her rocketing to earth where she threw up dust and dirt. I landed gently nearby and began to pace over to where she was slowly struggling to rise.

She sheathed her blade, I watched the compartment cycle for a moment until she withdrew it and shot a current of electricity at me. It came at me like a curtain and I watched the yellow blade she had drawn shatter as she spent the dust forged into it.

It hardly mattered since the bolt threw me off my feet into the encampment wall and left me singed. She slashed at the air and a red portal appeared. She stepped into it and was gone as the portal faded and collapsed.

I screamed. When I picked myself up I howled and stabbed some poor bandit soul who was still standing too close, perhaps waiting to finish me off. My aura was indeed on the lower side, but not so low that I'd be finished by scum like that.

I reached out with my sword and slashed at the man's purple aura until it gave way and I sliced through his body too.

Neo reappeared beside me and for a moment I wanted to kill her too. I breathed in and out, nice and easy.

"I'm fine," I said through grit teeth. "Just pissed off she escaped me. I fucking had her dead to rights with that Octa-Slash."

She gestured at the remaining bandits.

"Kill them. Torture them. Whatever pleases you." She nodded looking relieved and pleased. She vanished, flickering away.

I walked over to Yuma and sheathed my broadsword. I pulled the longsword free from my back and cut her loose. I pulled the gag that had been in her mouth out.

She reached out and embraced me and the monster in my heart that I'd discovered in Merlot's laboratory died down. I just held the young girl in my arms and shushed her.

She looked over at what Neo was doing and I pulled her head back.

"Look at me, sweetheart. Don't pay that any attention." There was screaming coming from behind us.

"You saved me."

"It was the right thing to do." I said it gruffly like I didn't want to believe it. Ruby… Pyrrha… neither would be proud of they'd seen what I'd become and before this young girl I felt a crawling sense of shame.

I was ashamed of letting the darkness in my heart rule me.

So what if I was a puppet? So what if I was born a monster? So what even if I had to kill people? Even if I have to torture people?

I didn't have to like it. I wasn't sure if that was enough of a difference to set me free. I wasn't even sure if it gave me a sense of hope. More than anything I still felt an inching dread. Maybe I was hopeless. Maybe I was doomed.

But there was a difference between doing what I must for the sake of doing what I had to and doing what I wanted to because I could.

I didn't have to be like Tyrian. I didn't have to be like Salem's agents. I could still choose what I wanted. And tonight I'd chosen death and torture over everything else. I'd wanted that. Me.

And I couldn't take it back.

And a thousand saved little girls didn't change that.

It didn't change the fact that if Wutai hadn't been burning when I arrived, I might have been the one to burn it down. If there hadn't been a drive, something for me to focus my rage on I'd have been the cold creature that stalks the night. Just a puppet all the same.

I pulled the relic from my side and pulled the top off of it.

Blue gas floated free of it as it drifted loose of my fingers. The fire stopped flickering and held in place. Yuma held her shuddering sobs still.

A woman formed of that mist. She stretched over her golden chains and yawned.

"Ah- tell me now. What knowledge do you seek? Three questions yet remain this century. So ask, and I shall answer."

"Mother...How do I stop her? She can control me. So how do I stop Salem?" I choked out.

The floating woman gave me a small sad smile.

"Stop her? Or vanquish her?"

"There's a difference?"

"You tell me."

"Either."

"You cannot vanquish her. As long as this planet turns, she shall walk it's face," the blue woman spoke. She floated forward and cupped my face in her hands. I looked away and where I touched her, her fingers faded into that blue mist.

"She's immortal? She's unbeatable, then."

"Perhaps. Only her mind. Her body can be injured, however temporarily. She can be cut and she can be lanced."

"Then… then she can be stopped. Just… just…"

"Just not forever. She will never be just a memory."

pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq

-WG

#rwby #jaune arc #cloud strife #neo #neapolitan #ff7 #ffvii #cloud!jaune arc #sephiroth!Jaune arc #raven branwen #motion sickness #war of the roses #lancaster #whiteknight #white knight #white rose #whiterose #ruby rose x jaune arc x weiss schnee

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 4 years ago

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Speak No Evil (Part 25)

“I am going to focus on one fanfiction at a time.” I vowed before not doing that.

She can feel it in her throat, it is an itch like she had swallowed a living fly. Now apprehension takes the place of longing. And it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense to have yearned so relentlessly to speak, only to find herself completely tongue tied for the first time in her life. For all of the words that she wants to speak, she can’t seem to grasp onto any of them.

What if her voice no longer sounds lovely when it comes from her own body. The spirit could tweak and shape her voice in the most pleasant ways, work it into a crystalline smoothness that she isn’t sure she can manage anymore.

“Go on, say something.” Zuko urges.

She sifts in her mind for something worthwhile to say. Perhaps it would do her well to thank the spirit for giving her, her voice back. Maybe she should take the easy route and ask him what she should say. But she isn’t sure that she wants to speak anything more than a single word.

She reaches for her waterskin and has a generous sip, the water is pleasant on her throat. “Seicho…” She finally manages. Her voice is softer than she remembers, significantly breathiter.

She isn’t sure how she feel about it. Isn’t sure that she wants to hear it a second time. But Seicho beams at her. She presses her fingers to her throat, feeling faint vibrations run up and down it as she repeats the woman’s name.

“You have a pretty voice.” Seicho notes. “It’s really...relaxing.”

She clears her throat, “thank you.” But her voice is still rather husky. She absently brushes her fingers over the parchment, they are shaking slightly and she can’t say why. She should be elated rather than apprehensive. She looks towards the spirit.

It regards her silently, coldly. She really ought to thank it if she knows what is good for her. She reaches for the parchment and her brushes and writes a quick thank you. She is growing increasingly uncomfortable under the gazes of all of the smaller spirits. She feels as though they are poised to attack her at any minute.

“Why are you still using the parchment?” Mai quirks a brow.

Azula offers only a shrug as she moves to stand closer to Seicho and Zhang-Zin. The spirit closes the distance just as quickly. She supposes that it wouldn’t be a spirit encounter if she wasn’t left with some lesson or warning. She thinks that her last visit had been the lesson, and she is fairly certain that she has learned it well enough. At the very least, she is decently afraid to speak malevolently. She wonders if she should speak at all, lest she lose her voice again. And so she finds herself a new paradox.

She decides that she will speak minimally; her vocal cords feel so taut that she isn’t sure she has a choice regardless…

The spirit lowers itself to eye level. With hers no longer shimmering upon the base of its throat, the voice that takes dominance over the others is thundering and feminine. Wrapped around it are lighter voices like ocean waves and rustling leaves. It’s warning is quite simple, efficiently so. “Speak carefully.”

Azula supposes that, that shouldn’t be a problem, she has always cultivated her words choice with tedious thinking. As though every sentence could be her last. As though every word could be her ruin. With Ozai’s sharp ear, any wrong word could have been her downfall.

Perhaps she ought to live her life in silence afterall, it is easier knowing that the choice is hers.

Seicho takes her hand as she gives the spirit a nod. She holds out her arm, the one that Seicho is holding and gestures to the bitemarks. She suppose that now is as good a time as any to test out new tones and inflections. “Tell them to stop?” But she falls short--the pitch isn’t right. Her lower lip trembles.

Agni, it has been so long since she has put laryngeal muscles to use that they seem to have gone useless. She has missed her chance to speak with feeling. She has been forced into tonelessness when she could most benefit from expression.

The spirit doesn’t humor her with an answer. Its wisps break apart and disperse like scintalling flutterbats back into the canopy and under the rocks. The smaller spirits swoop down and close in. “Let’s get out of here, they’re starting to freak me out.” Zhang-Zin shudders.

.oOo.

Every now and then a spirit tugs at Azula’s hair and Seicho finds herself swatting it away. Perhaps the misdeed will come back and catch up with her, but she can sense that the princess is sinking again. Anxiousness and anger have given way to weariness and confliction, she can see it in the woman’s tired eyes. And with those tired eyes, Azula watches another spirit hiss and flit away. At least a small flicker of relief appears in them.

They have been trekking for almost half of the day and thus far, “tell them to stop” has been the last of her vocalization.

“I can have Katara try to heal your vocal cords.” Zuko offers.

Azula returns his offer with only a nod, albeit an affirmative one.

Healing… It dawns upon her, a reason for the reluctance, “does it hurt to talk?”

And Azula finally speaks again, “I--no...I don’t think so.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Mai asks.

“Do you not like how your voice sounds?” Seicho guesses. “It’s a little hoarse, but it’s still nice to listen to.” She promises. And that is an understatement, really she thinks that she could listen to that voice for hours.

.oOo.

It isn’t that so much as it is that there is too much to say and too many people to say things to. Really, she should have settled for that one I love you. She rubs her hands over her face, she hates herself for even thinking so weak mindedly. What she should do is speak until her voice finds its strength again. What she should do is speak regardless.

And yet she finds herself as mute as ever and, suddenly, with less to say than ever. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’ She writes upon the parchment.

Her whole body feels heavy with self manifested helplessness. It shouldn’t be so hard to just talk. She finds herself touching her tongue, cringing at the earthly mossy taste that taints her fingers. She doesn’t think that the scarring on her tongue is so obstructive as to impede her speech. The blockage comes from her mind, her mind and her underused vocal cords.

“You just have to get used to talking again. That’s all.” Seicho smiles.

She wants to believe her, she wishes that she could. But it grows harder to do so as the days wear on without being able to muster up a word. She knows that she is only making her condition worse by leaving her laryngeal muscle to rust.

She decides that she will make a habit of saying at least one thing a night. She doesn’t know what that thing will be. Not until they bring their hiking to a halt for the night. Like clockwork, Zuko asks if she is still feeling okay. And like clockwork she nods her head. She supposes that she is feeling as well as she can.

At least now she can take comfort in that healing is an option should she work up the courage to take it. At least now, with every time he asks, she can find herself reassured that she doesn’t have to work through her barriers alone.

She helps Mai cook their hunt over a flame that pleasantly warms her face. “I don’t have a problem with you talking.” The woman sighs. “If that’s the problem.”

And on the parchment she writes, “it isn’t.” Though a small pang of relief has her thinking otherwise. At the very least it takes some pressure away to know that her voice isn’t unwelcomed.

She passes a strip of meat to Zhan-Zin and then busies herself with her own. She makes her way back to her sleeping bag and bundles herself up as tightly as possible, leaving as little room for the spirits as she can--though they haven’t been bothering her as much lately. She thinks that they are finally growing to accept that she isn’t a particularly antagonistic force.

“Mind if I join you?” Seicho asks.

She looks about the camp and makes a vague gesture towards Zuko and Zhang-Zin. Seicho laughs, “they’ll get over it.”

Azula unzips the sleeping bag and lets Seicho crawl in. The woman wiggles in close and presses her forehead to Azula’s. She closes her eyes and she feels a small kiss upon her nose. “Good night, Azula.” Azula puts her arm around the woman.

If she can only manage to say one thing a night, she knows what it will be. And Seicho beams from ear to ear when she says it, “good night, Seicho. I love you.”

#Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #Azula/Cupholder girl #Azucho #Fanfiction

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revchainsaw · 4 years ago

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Buffy: the Vampire Slayer (1997)

Season 1

Hello and Welcome back my creepy congregation! We will be taking todays service from the Big Screen into your living room for our first Personal Devotional. That's Right! We're reviewing full seasons of television series now and what better way to bring the spirit of the genre film to the idiots lantern that with the 90s Television sensation and all around love letter to the horror genre, Buffy the Vampire Slayer!

The Message

Regardless of how one may feel about Mr. Whedon we can't deny how much we love Buffy Summers and the Kids who live and die in Sunnydale! Season one of Buffy was a spin off/reboot of the earlier film and an attempt by Whedon to course correct the franchise by breathing a little charm and attention into the subject matter.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Season 1) focuses on Buffy Summers, a not so typical California high school student who, due to the events of the movie, has been relocated to Sunnydale High. Buffy is not just a cute, athletic, teenage girl looking to enjoy the prime of her life, though she is those things, she is also the Slayer, an anointed warrior who has been reincarnated throughout the generations to protect our vulnerable weak human world from the forces of evil; particularly Vampires. Buffy is a sort of supernatural Captain America, that is a peak human being, but instead of Nazi Science she was born with her powers.

Joining Buffy are; High School outcasts Willow and Xander (a nerd and a nice guy respectively), The ridiculously sexy librarian Rupert Giles (her mentor, guardian, high school librarian, and all around precious papa bear), Jenny Calendar (a technopagan computer teacher armed with all the mystery an ignorant 90s boomer could attribute to the internet), Angel (Spoiler: He's a Vampire, but he's a good guy. A hunky, broody, good guy vampire love interest), and her loving but entirely oblivious mother. The Scoobies as they have come to be called aid Buffy in her quest to protect Sunnydale from Dark Forces.

And Speaking of those Dark Forces, they are primarily vampires, led by the Master; an ancient vampire who resembles to some degree Nosferatu and a Bat, a look that Guillermo Del Toro would later perfect in his own series the Strain. The Master seeks to fulfill an ancient prophecy that would open the Hellmouth (a portal to hell, exactly what it sounds like) and free him in order that he and his kind should conquer the world.

The first season is fairly short consisting of the following adventures.

1. Welcome to the Hellmouth - Buffy moves to Sunnydale seeking to leave her Vampire ways behind, but the vampires just won't let her catch a break.

2. The Harvest - Vampire Shenanigans continues. Buffy learns of the Master.

3. Witch - A fellow Cheerleader is possessed by her witchy mom.

4. Teachers Pet - Buffy vs Giant Mantis

5. Never Kill a Boy on the First Date - Buffy vs the Anointed One (Not Really)

6. The Pack - Buffy vs Hyena Possessed High School Bullies

7. Angel - Buffy vs Angel but actually Darla

8. I, Robot ... you, Jane - Buffy vs Internet Demon

9. The Puppet Show - Buffy and Sid the Dummy vs Organ Harvesting Demon

10. Nightmares - Buffy has bad dreams

11. Out of Mind, Out of Sight - Buffy vs Invisible Nerd

12. Prophecy Girl - Buffy vs The Master (also Buffy Dies)

Overall the short season, while not allowing for too much world building, kept the show to a format that allowed very little filler. So although we mostly only get vampires as villains, we don't have enough time to really be bored of it. Some of the shows dynamics and cultural concerns definitely date the series but overall Season 1 of Buffy is definitely not a difficult watch, and can be enjoyed over and over again.

Let's get to the Benediction:

Best Character: Slay Girl, Slay!

As far as season one goes the titular Buffy Summers is the best character. Sarah Michelle Gellar is absolutely charismatic in the lead role and though at times she may seem selfish or reckless it makes perfect sense for the character. The character is allowed to be weak, to be selfish, and to be unlikeable. She avoids the foibles of a Luke Skywalker or a Harry Potter. She joins the ranks of primary protagonists who are not constantly outshined by their supporting cast. I believe when Buffy is sad, I believe when she throws a punch, I believe she struggles with her destiny. The only thing I don't believe is how ditsy she let's on.

Best Actor: Head's Up!

Anthony Stewart Head. Head as Giles is just fantastic. His balance of frustration with Buffy and genuinely parental concern is heartwarming and absolutely makes Giles one of the warmest father figures in television history.

Best Episode: A 'Master'ful Finale

It all builds up to Prophecy Girl and for good reason. Television shows often have mini-finale's at the end of their first seasons because the teams behind the series are not sure they will have a chance to tell more of their story. For that reason you can see just the first season of most television series and feel like you've heard the whole deal. I wish this habit was kept up in other seasons as we wouldn't still be wondering what the hell happened to Joel at the end of the Santa Clarita Diet. Buffy is no exception to this phenomenon and therefor attempted to tie up much of it's narrative in Prophecy Girl. While that often means big bads will be dispatched, I think it's a small price to pay for not winding up in a cliff hanger. Buffy and Giles just shine in this episode, Angel is given a more heroic role, Willow finally values herself as she should and Xander stops being a fucking horrible human being for once. This episode really satisfies in all areas.

Best Villain: Sweet, Sweetheart Killer

It's such a shame that Darla was killed so early on in the franchise. She is such a great presence on the screen that she overshadows all the villains that play alongside her, even the Master. I would have loved to have seen an alternate season where she offs the old coot and assumes the role of big bad much like Spike does in Season 2. Lucky for everyone that Darla is featured throughout the show in flashbacks and I hear she is even resurrected in Angel. Also, for Scott Pilgrim fans I feel like she and Envy Adams are very much sympatico. Maybe if they reboot Buffy all my dreams will come true.

I'd also like to take this time to recommend the song Angels and Darlas by Say Hi! It's pretty good.

Best Monster Design: Internet Troll!

While I can't speak for where the money in Season 1 of Buffy went, I can say that at least some decent cash was spent on both the forms of Moloch the Corruptor from the Episode "I, Robot ... You, Jane". Moloch was pretty wicked looking as a machine toward the end of the episode, he looked like a Mortal Kombat villain, but it's the green scales and ram horns the actor is sporting at the beginning of the episode that really catches the eye. In fact, I'm feeling compelled to hunt down any Moloch the Corruptor merch that may be out there on the internet. It's certainly no mystery why the demon's face is featured prominently in the theme song. It just looks great! Good job to the make up department there.

Most WTF moment: "Pack"s a Punch on Principle

While not the greatest episode in season one "the Pack" is certainly worth the watch if for no other reason than the horror is kicked up when a group of high school students under the influence of a malevolent Hyena God, decide that the School Mascot is not enough to satisfy their bloodlust turn on the principal, and yes, THEY EAT HIM. I remember being completely caught of guard the first time I saw that scene, and it kickstarted the running gag of Sunnydale high principles meeting their demise in horrific ways.

Worst Character: No More Mr. Nice Guy

When I was in college I often felt bad for Xander. The funny guy who just had no luck with women. He was sarcastic but had a big heart, and used a horny gimmick to mask his loneliness, or so I thought. But now I am older, I am wiser, I have known the touch of another human being and I have to say that Xander Harris is a really scummy fellow. I don't remember thinking so poorly and I wonder if the character develops a more nuanced view of women as the show goes on. As it stands there's barely a point in the series that Xander does not view the female cast as objects for him to enjoy or be embittered towards for one reason or another. It's not charming, it's foul. Xander Harris of season one is absolutely a terrorist attack waiting to happen, if Buffy had happened today it would be much more concerning to see someone so embittered, horny, and entitled to womens time and energy as Xander Harris. Dude is one step away from pulling an Elliot Rogers. Calm down buddy and maybe actually listen to a woman and you may find you aren't as much of a 'nice guy' as you think.

Worst Episode(s): If you're not first ...

It's a toss up on this one. Season One of Buffy is actually so short and concise that the 'Monster of the Week' episodes will have to be up for grabs as the worst episode by default, but even they are pretty watchable and don't warrant the vitriol a "worst" dub usually entails. I'd say there is not a worst episode of season one, just some episodes that aren't as good as the rest. In that vain, take your pick from "Witch", "Out of Mind, Out of Sight", or "The Puppet Show". However, I'd be doing a disservice to those episodes not to mention that each one of them takes what could just be a basic Buffy Vs (insert Villain), and does something unique and interesting with the idea. The villain of "Witch" actually turns out to be a has been cheerleader actually possessing the body of her innocent daughter to relive her glory years, The Invisible Girl is actually the victim of social cruelty, her peers disinterest in her manifesting in her condition becoming quite literal and she is picked up by the military in the end, then the Puppet show, well, it's just about the stupidest most absurd thing that could possibly happen and it's completely unafraid of that fact.

Summary:

Buffy The Vampire Slayer (Season 1) is not the most groundbreaking TV, but it is absolutely evident why the show was such a phenomenon. Season 1 is particularly rewatchable. It does not demand too much investment or attention, but it will get it from you, especially on a first viewing. It's not afraid to take itself absolutely seriously or to plant it's tongue firmly in it's cheeks. It is to a degree a product of it's time, but in many other aspects feels timeless.

Overall Grade: B

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casualcatte · 4 years ago

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[Story] Egress

Egress

“My Lord, Cohorts I and VIII are moving through the palace as we speak, but the ranks of void-sent are endless. There must be a portal somewhere giving them unfettered access to the inner halls!” A Centurion tapped a finger upon the map laid across the table; the halls and rooms of the Inner Palace delineated clearly. “Most likely the Magus’ Bailey, the confluence of leylines there are strongest, easily exploitable by these aether-supping monstrosities.”

Valerian sas Camena rested his closed fists upon the map, knuckles wrinkling the parchment beneath. “Send Cohorts IV and IX to keep those demons busy until the Primus can reach the Bailey.” His eyes bore into the lines of the map, their blue-grey depths clouded by the ruthless decisions he was forced to make this day. There was no other choice, however, if there was any hope of keeping Aurora alight. Sacrifices, hard as they were, had to be made. “Issue the order, Centurion.” He commanded when the armored soldier beside him hesitated.

“... yes, my Lord,” came the drawn reply. The Centurion approved of it no more than he did, but like him understood the necessity of it. “I will join the First Co--”

“You will not.” Valerian said firmly. “Your duty is first to me and my family, is it not? I need you to get Valeria out of here before the void-sent overrun the Living Quarters.” He looked up at the armored soldier; the visage of the battle-hardened commander melted away for the briefest instant, the concerned, drawn face of a father gazing on in entreaty. “I must know she is safe.”

The Centurion saluted. “It is ever my honor to serve the House of Camena.” Turning on a heel, the Centurion strode away from the command table, booted heels click-clacking with a militant, metronomic precision. Exiting the double doors, one gloved hand lifted, flicking in a single gesture at the wrist. Another armored soldier fell into step alongside the Centurion, though the armor was not as silver and resplendent; his cloak a indeterminate grey compared to the royal blue, a notable difference in their ranks. The orders that issued forth from the Centurion’s helm were clear and unmistakable. “Tessarius Laevinius, I leave His Lordship’s protection in your hands. Do not fail me.”

“Never, Centurion!” The Tessarius saluted, turning smartly on his heel to double-back to the war room to position himself near-at-hand to the Lord-Chanter. Clear blue eyes within the Centurion’s helm watched this obedience only briefly, expecting no less of tried and tested men.

As the Centurion passed from the Militant Wing of the palace into the more common halls, the screams of dying and wounded men filled the air along with the screeching wails of things far more sinister. The Living Quarters would be down the hall to the main entry, then left and onward, deeper into the heart of the palace. With luck, the void-sent would not have gotten that far. With the hazardous nature of magic, the Magus’ Bailey was set apart from the main body of the palace, just off the main courtyard. If the Centurion’s assessment of the situation was correct, which it often was, then the void-portal was somewhere within the Bailey and the void-sent were flooding the main courtyard and gaining access to the palace commons through weak points like the kitchens or the ballroom.

They were well-prepared and well-aware of the weaknesses in the palace design and several Legions had been left in both places to stymie the advance of their ancient enemy. Or, at least, that had been their hope. These void-sent were powerful, far stronger than anything they’d yet encountered. The Legions were quickly being wiped out to a man, leaving next to nothing behind. Battlefields did not afford one the luxury of panic or doubt. Again, sacrifices had to be made for the good of all.

Turning at the intersection of the Main Entry, the Centurion made for deeper into the palace, seeking out the charge with which they’d been entrusted. A single, fat ahriman flapped its way in a side door, one likely leading to the main dining hall and onward to the kitchens. Its singular, blood-shot eye turned the Centurion’s way.

There was no hesitation. The weighted shield strapped to the Centurion’s right arm swung up and impacted with the side of the ahriman’s bulbous head, sending it careening into the wall. With awkward flaps of its wings, it managed to stay aloft, but it afforded it little opportunity to stop the Centurion’s advance. Shield was followed by thirty-six ilms of tested, blood-stained steel that impaled directly through the side of the ahriman’s head, piercing its enormous eye in a horrific gush of blood and fluids. Pulling the sword free, the Centurion slung the sword arm sharply for a moment, sending a smattering of blood arcing in a gory trail along the marbled floors. Ichor from the creature continued to cling to the Centurion’s armor from fingertips to elbow, but they paid it little heed.

A femine scream broke the air and the Centurion’s helm snapped up to attention like a lodestone finding North. Breaking into a run, the soldier clang-clattered down the hall in search of the source of that scream. The pitter-patter of small, sandaled feet echoed down the corridors, but it was difficult to pin-point exactly where they emanated from. Turning blindly down one hall, the knight kicked in doors one by one, systematically clearing each room so as not to miss their quarry. Again, another scream resounded through the halls, hastening the Centurion’s pace.

Light, let me not be too late… Shouldering through a door, the knight burst into a room where a Soul Flayer loomed over a small child curled up in a ball in the corner. Using what forward momentum remained, the soldier lunged forward, sword sweeping in a glittering, dangerous arc that slashed across the undefended back of the voidsent creature. It let out a malevolent shriek, turning its attention from the child to the armored knight that dared harm it.

Clutching a rod made of bone in one hand, it raised its arms and began to call upon the latent Fire Aspected energy around them. Taking the shield still bound to their arm, the Centurion brought the topmost edge of it upward into the Flayer’s forearms. If there was one weakness to most casters, it was that they needed to flail their arms to get any spell-work done. The bone rod flew from the Flayer’s hand, clattering across the marbled floors to come to a stop in the corner. Paying it no need, the Centurion advanced, stabbing forward in a brutal strike for the Flayer’s midsection. There was a momentary jarring as the blade bit home, the gleam of satisfaction lit the blue eyes beneath the Centurion’s helm.

“Go back to the Void that spawned you,” came the hiss beneath the helm. The longsword within the creature suddenly erupted into both Light and Flame, a searing blue-white energy that ate away at the Flayer’s flesh until it was naught more than a pillar of ash. When the Centurion pulled the blade free, the pillar burst into a thousand ashen motes, scattering across the floor. Sliding the blade home in its sheath, the knight turned toward the child in the corner.

Only to find her standing across the room, the bone rod in hand. A malevolent aura surrounded the child, an inky, violet darkness that made her pale features ghastly. The child turned, leveling the rod at the Centurion. “Tell the Lord-Chanter he is next.” The voice that reverberated through the room was wholly masculine and filled with dire portent. It was fleeting and the aura dissipated, sending the child slumping to the ground, unconscious.

“Valeria!” The Centurion cried out, one hand going to the helm and jerking it off as they threw it aside. Sweat-dampened, silver hair fell over the pauldroned shoulders, as the woman beneath strode forward to kneel at the child’s side. Carefully, she gathered the pale, dark-haired child in her arms, cradling her against her breastplate. “I have you, Valeria. I have you.”

The face that looked up at her was almost cherubic. A child so young should never know horrors such as these. A fierce will to protect and shield this innocent soul filled the Centurion, as it had so many times before. This was her charge, after all, and this was the future of all Aurora. It had been entrusted to her and she had sworn innumerable oaths that she would safe-guard it for as long as she lived -- and after.

Carrying the child out of the carnage of the palace, Justinia crested a hill that overlooked the city. The delicate spires of Aurora seemed almost tarnished in the inky chaos of the Void magic that filled her streets. Yet, eternally at its heart, the Mothercrystal shone like a beacon for those who could see her Light. As long as there was Light, there was hope. As long as there was hope, there would be a future for Valeria. Justinia would see to it.

For now, her duty was clear: get Valeria to safety and ensure that she grew into the woman all of them would need. Gazing at the city, Justinia bowed her head in a silent, momentary prayer for their safety and their victory. They would need a city to come back to, after all.

Walk in the Light of the Crystal, my brothers, my sisters. We will see each other again…

#Gospel Lightfaith #Justinia Tutor #Worlds of Darkness Worlds of Light #Storyline The Seventh Chantry #The Seventh Chantry Free Company #The Seventh Chantry FC #The Seventh Chantry FFXIV #Ongoing Storylines #Alternate Lives

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delicioussshame · 5 years ago

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Here is the Luo Binghe route for the prostitution AU.

I don’t know how obvious that was, but Shen Jiu stumbling on Yue Qingyuan and Shen Yuan was an accident. Let’s say he was visiting his own favourite brothel. The thing is, that’s not what he told his disciples, and Luo Binghe and a few others came to the city with him. Luo Binghe might have been curious about his Shizun’s whereabouts, so he was following him from afar, and while he didn’t get the details, he got enough to guess that the man both Shizun and Yue Qingyuan followed into that brothel had to be a prostitute.

For everyone’s peace of mind, let’s agree Binghe is at least in his late teens. Also for the sake of my peace of mind, Shen Jiu is a bit nicer in this, because I’m not getting him killed after I got him laid. So Luo Binghe is supposed to be a stallion protagonist, so hormones are raging, and even if Shen Jiu isn’t Shen Yuan I guess Luo Binghe would still think he’s Fine. So when he sees a Shizun lookalike good enough for Yue Qingyuan, one that he could just… pay and get over with his attraction to Shizun, he’s very, very tempted. So he puts some money aside, gathers his courage and visits Shen Yuan’s brothel.

The moment he sets foot in the place everything that can fuck is after him, because hello, Luo Binghe here. But Binghe knows what he wants and asks for Shen Yuan.

Shen Yuan doesn’t get why a man as overwhelmingly attractive as Luo Binghe has to pay a prostitute to have sex when he could ask out any married woman and no one would blame them for cheating, but Luo Binghe knows what he wants, and any attempt at sending him off toward someone more age-appropriate, because Shen Yuan feels like a cradle robber (despite not being that old) are firmly rejected, so he figures he might as well enjoy it. Cue giving Luo Binghe the time of his life. That doesn’t stop him from being Shen Yuan, so weak to Binghe and giving him advice and worrying about everything being fine. Luo Binghe is kind of charmed and has had a very good night, and figures he’ll come again when he can. Which he does. Often.

Shen Yuan gets a bit worried that Luo Binghe is wasting his money and not eating right and not serious enough about his cultivation since he’s so young and pure. Anyone could take advantage of him! He sees Binghe as his cute horny puppy.

Obviously Luo Binghe falls for Shen Yuan, because duh, he’s Luo Binghe.

And that continues until Luo Binghe falls into the Abyss.

Shen Yuan gets worried enough after not having seen Binghe around that he gets around to writing a Very Formal Letter to Yue Qingyuan, whom he hasn’t seen since the man had very gently let him known he wouldn’t return to his brothel because Xiao Jiu disapproved (while looking overjoyed), asking about the wellbeing of one of his disciples. He gets a Very Formal Letter back telling him that Binghe died.

Shen Yuan mourns for real. He also gets very, very sick of being a prostitute, but hey, he has a contract so he’s stuck there.

The first thing Binghe does when he returns to the human realm is show up at the brothel with an obscene amount of gold, looking to buy off Shen Yuan’s contract. The Madam tries to argue. Luo Binghe puts even more gold on the front desk and tells him he’ll pay as much as necessary, but he’s not leaving without Shen Yuan. This point is accompanied by demonic qi so strong everyone in the brothel can feel it and Xin Mo oozing malevolence, so the Madam shuts the fuck up, takes the gold and has someone fetch Shen Yuan. Who is very into slightly older and much richer/stronger Binghe spiriting him away, thanks. He has no issues at all with Luo Binghe setting him up in his palace and keeping him buried under luxury and love, none at all.

At some point in the future, Luo Binghe has to visit the sect for some reason or another and decides to bring Shen Yuan just because. Yue Qingyuan chokes when he sees who Luo Binghe’s spouse is. Shen Jiu isn’t a fan either.

Shen Yuan might possibly still be a little bitter about how the whole thing turned out, so he waits for the right moment and calls Yue Qingyuan Qi-ge right in front of Shen Jiu. Who breaks his fan in rage while Yue Qingyuan sweats all the water off his body, because Shen Jiu knew Shen Yuan looked like him, but he didn’t know how much Yue Qingyuan shared about him or that he basically had him roleplay him.

Shen Yuan is having the time of his life creating chaos.

Shen Jiu is pissed as hell and turns his hostility toward Shen Yuan for half a second before Binghe, who has no idea what happened, radiates demonic qi strongly enough that disciples run away in fright, and tell Shen Jiu that even if he is his Shizun, if he touches one hair of Shen Yuan’s head he’s dead. And he means it. Shen Jiu sneers but he retreats because he knows he has no chance of beating him, and Yue Qingyuan is way too mortified to do anything.

Shen Yuan is very happy because out of all of them, he’s the one who got the better deal.

The End.

And now, a fic about Luo Binghe’s return.

“Shen Yuan! Shen Yuan! Go downstairs now! The madam needs you.”

Shen Yuan blinks at the shaken serving girl. “I would rather not.” Whatever is causing the waves of unease that are disturbing everyone, he wants nothing to do with.

The girl seems close to tears. “You have to! He looks nice, but I bet he’ll kill her if you don’t.”

Shen Yuan definitely doesn’t want to go down now. Why would he go meet a murderer. He will regret the madam dying a lot less than losing his own life. “Who is “he”?”

She starts crying. “I don’t know! But he wants to buy your contract! Why did you get involved with someone so dangerous!”

Someone who wants to buy his contract? A few names come to mind, but none stick. The only person with both the means and the will to do so hasn’t stopped by in years. Not to mention Yue Qingyuan isn’t the kind of man that would kill for him. “I have no idea who it could be. Are you sure he asked for me? It must be some mistake.” He isn’t dumb. While some of the courtesans here court disaster by entertaining thieves and killers, Shen Yuan always favored scholars and public servants, much less prone to turning against him.

“There’s no mistake! He asked for you by name!” The serving girl pulls at his sleeve with force.

This tiny slip of a girl could never hope to bring him anywhere he doesn’t want to go, but he has to admit to himself that if the man is that insistent, he will come to get him himself if Shen Yuan doesn’t come down, and that would make deescalating this situation that much harder. “Fine. Stop pulling, you’ll rip the fabric. I’ll come along.” Shen Yuan puts on his most placid mask and follows the girl to the front desk.

Where a very, very attractive man is waiting. For a moment, Shen Yuan is too blinded by the man’s sheer physical perfection to realise who he is. The next moment, he’s convinced he has gone insane. Dead men do not return from the grave.

And yet, there’s no mistaking that flawless visage. “…Binghe?”

His voice wavers against his will.

Luo Binghe turns toward him, polite smile fading into true happiness. “Shen Yuan!”

For a moment, Shen Yuan thinks Luo Binghe will jump on him and take him here and now, for anyone to see, considering how hungry for him he looks.

But Luo Binghe controls himself. “I came here to buy off your contract. Is that something you’re amenable to?”

…What? Why? What is happening? A mere disciple could never hope to buy off his contract. Then again, from the luxury of the robes he’s wearing, he probably isn’t just a disciple anymore. “Your sect master told me you were dead.” Important matters must be addressed first. Shen Yuan won’t be bought by a ghost, thank you.

“He was wrong. I had… family obligations to deal with, but now that they are dealt with, I returned to free you. Afterward, Shen Yuan can do whatever he wants.” His voice lowers and trembles a little. “He doesn’t have to come with me, if he would prefer not to. All I ask is that he doesn’t remain here. Shen Yuan is so talented, there are many things he could do if he chose to. Whatever path he wants to walk, this Luo Binghe will happily support, if Shen Yuan would let him.”

Shen Yuan stands frozen where he is. Not only Luo Binghe is back, he’s offering to free him? Why? Shen Yuan doesn’t understand anything.

This is unbecoming. “If you would follow me to my room? There are many things I would like to ask.”

“Yes!” Luo Binghe follows him almost too eagerly.

The moment the door closes behind them, Luo Binghe traps him into an embrace too strong to be escaped from. “Shen Yuan! Shen Yuan! It really is you! I missed you so much.”

All anxiety he might have held melts into nothing. Ah, this is still his cute Binghe, too innocent for this place and yet refusing to let it corrupt him.

He goes to return the embrace, but before he can, Luo Binghe pushes him away gently, leaving him destabilised.

“I pray Shen Yuan forgive my presumptuousness. It had been years. He might not even remember me.”

Shen Yuan rolls his eyes. “Did I not call your name as soon as I saw you? Of course I remember you. I would like to know what happened to you, though.” From up close, Luo Binghe looks like the son of a rich nobleman, or maybe even a prince. Everything he wears screams wealth. He is startlingly out of place in Shen Yuan’s small and proper room. “Is Luo Binghe the scion of some rich family? Or did he marry a princess?”

“I would never! The only want I would share my life with is you!”

Shen Yuan blinks at this declaration as Luo Binghe blushes. “Shen Yuan must forgive me again. I didn’t intend to be so blunt, but since it has been said, Shen Yuan must know only his memory keep me sane during those years. I would love nothing more than repay him for what he has done for me. All the wealth and power I control are his to command, if he wants to. But, as I said before, if he would rather try his fortune by himself, I will wish him well and let him go. I just don’t want Shen Yuan to have to share his bed with people he doesn’t desire. Even if it is how we met, he deserves better.”

Shen Yuan notices Luo Binghe’s eyes are full of tears. He mindlessly uses his sleeve to wipe them off, a gesture familiar to them both. Luo Binghe has always been easily overwhelmed.

The proposition is very appealing. Shen Yuan wants nothing more than be freed of this place. And since it is obvious that buying him wouldn’t even set him back… “Luo Binghe really wants to use his money to free this old man? Doesn’t he have better things to use it for?”

But Luo Binghe isn’t looking at him anymore. Through the open door to his bedroom, his eyes have caught the little altar with incense still smoking. “Shen Yuan, is this, can I dare ask if…”

Shen Yuan blushes. How ridiculous this seems now. Luo Binghe isn’t dead. He needs no offering. “Yes. I thought you were dead, and you told me you had no family, so I got into the habit of preparing offerings for you in case no one else would and just… never stopped. You can laugh at this sentimental fool, if you want.”

Luo Binghe kisses him, wet and hot and messy, hands tangling into his hair and keeping him there. “Let me take you to my home. Let me treat you the way you deserve to be treated. You will never lack for anything, I promise. If you don’t want to share my bed, that’s fine, but please, let me keep you by my side.”

His little Binghe is no liar. Shen Yuan could always read the truth of him on his face, on his body, in his every gesture. He knows too much of Luo Binghe to be scared of him, or to doubt him.

Also, Shen Yuan has eyes. Who but the blinds would not want to share this man’s bed? It’s a good thing Luo Binghe put an end to the kiss, because if he hadn’t, they might not have left today. “If, for some reason, Binghe has taken a fancy to this old whore, I would love nothing more than accompany him away from here and into his bed, if he wants me to.”

“Shen Yuan!” Luo Binghe kisses him so more, and this time, Shen Yuan kisses back, allowing himself for the first time to accept just how much he missed this dear little client of his.

“Is there anything Shen Yuan wants to bring along?”

Shen Yuan looks at the garish robes, the maquillage and the fans he held on to for whatever reasons. “No. But I should bring some clothes. I have little money to buy new robes.”

“Shen Yuan doesn’t have to worry. From now on, only the finest silk will adorn his body. If he doesn’t like his current robes, he can leave them here.” His own eyes travel over the room, before they falter. “I just, if Shen Yuan agrees, I would like to take the altar back? He won’t have to look at it if it brings back bad memories. I will keep it in my room, as proof of his affection.”

The blush returns to Shen Yuan’s face. He will never stop feeling stupid for tending to an altar for a living man.

Still. If it made Luo Binghe happy, it was less useless than it seems. “Luo Binghe can have it, of course.”

Luo Binghe seems ecstatic. “Thank you!” He extends his hand to Shen Yuan. “Well then, if Shen Yuan would come with me?”

Resolved, Shen Yuan takes his hand.

It’s so big now, strong and firm. Luo Binghe can easily hold all of Shen Yuan’s hand in his.

It only brings him reassurance.

His fingers curl around Luo Binghe’s, and his heart warms when they curl back.

He knows they won’t let go.

#The Scum Villain Self Serving System #Scum Villain #BingQiu

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