#*awaits for the wave of hatred towards me*

[callsigns-haze]

Traitors War: 1

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x reader

An Eris x assassin reader mini series! (which may be followed by oneshots)

Eris, the heir to the Autumn throne, along with his brothers wishes to get rid of his father. Never did he know this journey would start 200 years ago with an assassin exiled from the Night court.

This series contains mature themes: Explicit depictions of violence, including physical and emotional. Themes of secrecy. Descriptions of difficult relationships, including strained familial and romantic dynamics. Mature sexual content. Themes of power, control, and manipulation within complex interpersonal relationships. Topics of war and death.

The council chamber of the Night Court is darker than ever, steeped in an oppressive silence that suffocates as you step forward. Shadows cling to the polished floors, stretching toward you like silent accusers, and the bitter taste of magic hangs thick in the air. You can feel the weight of the room bearing down, its chilling atmosphere a testament to the wrath that awaits you.

In the centre of it all, Rhysand sits with an eerie stillness, his face a mask of lethal beauty. But beneath his façade, fury radiates from him in waves, setting his violet eyes alight with a malice that chills you to the bone. Flanking him are Cassian and Azriel, as immovable and unreadable as statues carved from stone. Their stony expressions give nothing away, but the hardened edge in their postures speaks volumes.

“Do you even comprehend what you’ve done?” Rhysand’s voice is low, each syllable sharp as a blade, slicing through the silence with a vicious precision. The scorn woven into his tone sends a shiver down your spine. He does not wait for you to answer. “Of course you don’t. Because if you did, I doubt even you would be foolish enough to stand here, expecting leniency.”

His words strike deep, leaving a sting that blossoms into shame. You try to meet his gaze, but his expression is unyielding, his eyes alight with something dark and unrecognizable. You search for any hint of understanding, any sliver of the Rhysand you’ve known—but he has vanished, leaving behind this cold, merciless figure in his place.

“It was my job,” you manage, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat, each syllable heavy with the weight of your conviction. “I believed it was right.”

“Right?” he sneers, a contemptuous laugh escaping his lips, empty of humour. “You believed?” His voice drips with sarcasm, each word twisted and spat out like venom. “How very noble of you, to decide what’s right for me, for this court, for everyone.”

The force of his fury presses against you like a physical weight, but you force yourself to stand your ground, your hands clenched at your sides. Yet, the truth looms over you—a crushing reminder of the choice you made, the loyalty you gambled away.

His gaze narrows, and his tone drops to a cruel, mocking whisper. “Did you think yourself so wise, so indispensable, that I would forgive such treachery? That I would welcome you back with open arms after you conspired with him? With Eris?”

The hatred in his eyes is a dagger, and you feel it twist with every venomous word he hurls at you. Your skin prickles under his scrutiny, and you want to shrink away, but there is nowhere to hide from the cold, unyielding judgment that fills the room.

“How dare you,” he hisses, his voice like thunder, reverberating through the chamber. “How dare you undermine me, betray me—after everything I’ve given you? I gave you power, status, trust. And this is how you repay me?”

The accusation hangs in the air, suffocating, and you feel the sharp sting of his betrayal as deeply as he does. Words die on your tongue, and you’re left with nothing but silence—a silence he seizes upon, his lips twisting into a cruel smile.

“Look at you,” he sneers, his eyes raking over you with disgust. “The so-called assassin of the Night Court, reduced to this—a traitor, a coward. Did you ever think your lies would not come to light?”

He rises from his seat with deliberate slowness, his every movement a display of dominance and scorn. Cassian and Azriel remain impassive, but you sense their quiet fury, the simmering anger held back by sheer force of will.

Rhysand takes a step forward, and the air between you crackles with magic, raw and potent. The bonds that have marked you as his, that have stained your skin with his trust, begin to burn. You feel them unravel, one by one, slipping away like sand through your fingers, leaving behind a searing emptiness.

“Your place here is gone,” he says, his voice a venomous whisper. “As far as I’m concerned, you are nothing—a stain on this Court, a shame I will gladly erase.”

You force yourself to meet his gaze, your throat thick with the urge to plead, to defend yourself. But you know it would be pointless. He has condemned you already, cast you aside with a cruelty that leaves you hollow.

“Leave,” he orders, his voice cold and final. “And let it be known that from this moment forward, you are banished from the Night Court. Should you ever set foot here again, it will be as my enemy.”

The finality of his words sinks in, and for a moment, the room spins around you. You look at Azriel and Cassian, but their faces remain stony, offering no solace, no reprieve.

With a last, pained glance, you turn and walk away, the silence behind you as heavy as the bonds that now lie shattered at your feet.

-

The bench beneath you is rough, weathered by time and use, but it’s familiar—a place of respite amid the chaos that has engulfed the Autumn Court. The air is thick with the scent of woodsmoke and pine, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood on your lips. You tilt your head up slightly, trying to steady your breathing, wincing as a fresh wave of pain pulses from the bruises littering your body.

Eris kneels in front of you, his auburn hair glowing like embers in the dim light. His expression is carefully composed, but his gaze flickers with a rare softness, tinged with something unreadable as he delicately presses a damp cloth to your split lip. His fingers are steady, skilled, and his touch is uncharacteristically gentle, a contrast to the ruthless, calculating male the world knows him to be.

“I told you to stay out of the skirmish,” he murmurs, not meeting your eyes as he dabs away the dried blood. His voice is low, almost a whisper, but edged with frustration. “But you never listen, do you?”

You manage a weak smile, though it sends a fresh jolt of pain through your lip. “Where’s the fun in that?” The words are light, but the weight of the past, the years since you’d last shared such closeness, presses heavily between you.

He sighs, a hint of exasperation in his tone, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the way he holds himself with a rigid precision, as though he’s one wrong move from unravelling. “I don’t need another ghost on my conscience,” he mutters, pressing the cloth a little harder than necessary, and you hiss, but his eyes are still fixed on his work. “Especially not yours.”

Your heart twists at his words, at the flicker of vulnerability he’s revealing, rare and raw. “Eris…if I wanted to stay safe and quiet, I wouldn’t have come here.” Your voice is soft, and his hand pauses for a moment as he absorbs your words, the truth in them, the history that binds you to his fight.

He finally looks up, his amber eyes intense, studying you with a scrutiny that feels as if he’s searching for something lost. “And yet,” he says slowly, his tone cold but his gaze warm, “you are still here, fighting alongside me. After everything.”

You meet his gaze, the memories flooding back—the years in the shadows, the loyalty you once swore to Rhysand that had ended with such bitter finality. And yet, in this moment, here with Eris, there is an understanding, an alliance you’d never expected to find.

“Beron has to be stopped,” you say quietly, a hardness slipping into your voice. “We both know it. We've known it for two hundred years. The things he’s done… he doesn’t deserve the power he holds over these lands. He has to fall.”

Eris’s expression darkens, and his hand, still cradling your chin, trembles slightly. “I know,” he says, his voice thick with something darker, more personal. “But it’s not that simple. Killing him means more than just power shifting—it’s risking everything, for everyone. It means blood on my hands, blood I can’t wash away.”

You reach up, your fingers brushing his, grounding him. “You’ve done this much already, led so many to stand against him. I’ve seen the way the court follows you, Eris. They believe in you.” You pause, searching his eyes. “And so do I.”

A shadow passes over his face, softening the harsh lines of his expression. “Why, after everything that’s happened, do you still believe in me?” His voice is so quiet you almost miss it, but the question lingers in the air, laden with years of unspoken words.

You hold his gaze, your voice firm, unwavering. “Because you chose to be better than him, better than I ever thought a man like you would. You chose a path that no one else would. And no matter what, that choice will always matter to me.”

He swallows, the barest hint of emotion flickering across his face, and he lets out a low, bitter laugh. “Then maybe I am a fool, too, for keeping you here—for wanting you to be by my side when it’s all over.”

You shake your head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite the pain. “You’re no fool, Eris. We’re both haunted by our choices, our pasts. But right now, we have a chance to make something right.” You reach out, your fingers grazing his cheek. “And I think it’s worth it, even if it costs us everything, well.... I personally don't have anything to lose.”

For a moment, he leans into your touch, closing his eyes as though savouring the fleeting solace. Then he straightens, his face hardening once more, but there’s a spark in his eyes now, a fierceness that rekindles the fire within him.

Eris’s fingers slip under your arm, steady and firm as he lifts you off the bench. The suddenness of it makes you gasp, but he merely quirks an eyebrow, as if amused by your surprise. His hand lingers a moment longer than necessary, the rough pads of his fingers brushing your bruised skin, grounding you in the moment as he releases you. Then, with a silent understanding, the two of you begin to walk.

The camp sprawls before you, tents set up in rough but orderly rows, each one a mark of defiance against Beron’s reign. Soldiers mill around, sharpening blades, tending to wounds, and whispering quiet plans and reassurances. Fires crackle, sending up thin curls of smoke into the crisp air, their warmth a stark contrast to the heavy chill that hangs over the camp.

Eris keeps a brisk pace beside you, his gaze intense, eyes constantly scanning his surroundings. There’s a palpable energy about him, something sharp and restless, as if he’s a blade just waiting to be unleashed. The soldiers and spies nod respectfully as he passes, but there’s a new light in their eyes—a glimmer of hope, of trust in him that you’ve seldom seen in this court. Despite the darkness, they believe in him. Just as you do.

As you walk, a figure comes jogging toward you, his familiar auburn hair catching the light of the dying sun. Lucien’s face is flushed from exertion, but there’s a victorious gleam in his russet eye as he slows to a stop before you and Eris.

“We’ve taken down another one of Beron’s forces,” Lucien announces, his voice edged with satisfaction. He places his hands on his knees, breathing heavily but grinning. “One of his inner forces. His numbers are dwindling, and his support… well, it’s hanging on by threads now.”

Eris’s lips curl into a slow, calculating smile, his gaze sharpening as Lucien’s words sink in. “Good,” he murmurs, his tone a dark satisfaction laced with bitter triumph. “That’s one less hand Beron has to wield against us.”

Lucien’s gaze shifts to you, his eyes softening as he takes in your injuries. “You look worse for wear,” he remarks, though there’s a flicker of concern beneath his teasing tone. “You should be resting.”

You give him a small, tired smile, shrugging slightly. “Couldn’t leave all the fun to you, could I?”

Eris’s fingers brush your arm, guiding you forward with an unspoken insistence. “Rest will come after Beron is gone,” he says firmly, his voice brokering no argument. He looks to Lucien, his expression hardening. “With this win, we’ll need to reinforce the eastern front. Beron may be desperate, but that will only make him more dangerous.”

Lucien nods, his face growing serious. “The soldiers are preparing as we speak. Morale is high—they know Beron is losing ground.” His gaze sharpens, a glint of satisfaction sparking in his eye. “And they know they’re not just fighting for a cause. They’re fighting for you, Eris.”

Eris’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks almost vulnerable, his mask slipping just enough for you to see the weight he carries. But then he straightens, his shoulders squaring with renewed resolve. “Then let’s give them a reason to keep believing,” he says, his voice steely and resolute.

Eris’s hand brushes against yours as he guides you away from Lucien, slipping through the bustling camp. The soldiers and spies nod respectfully as you pass, but you can feel the weight of their gazes, the unspoken questions and curiosity that ripple in your wake. They’ve heard of you, the once-assassin of the Night Court who has returned to fight beside Eris. You can practically feel the stories they must tell—legends whispered in the dark, half-believed tales of your skill, your ruthlessness.

Eris leads you to a tent set slightly apart from the others, tucked away from the main cluster. He steps inside first, holding the tent flap open for you. As you enter, the scent of leather and steel greets you, sharp and familiar. Your old assassin’s gear is laid out on a small table in the centre, the black leather as supple and deadly as you remember. Knives and throwing blades glint in the firelight, each one meticulously sharpened, waiting for your touch.

You move to the table, fingers brushing over the leather armour, the silent weapons that were once an extension of yourself. You slip out of your travel-worn clothes, letting them fall to the ground. Piece by piece, you put on the gear, feeling the familiar weight settle over you like a second skin. The leather is snug, perfectly fitted to your body, and you secure the buckles and straps with practiced precision, feeling the transformation as the assassin within you stirs, roused after all these years.

Eris watches in silence, his gaze unwavering, intense. There’s something in his expression, a flicker of worry that he tries to mask but cannot entirely hide. You reach for the knives, fastening them to your belt, slipping blades into hidden sheaths along your thighs and forearms, every movement precise, deliberate.

Finally, you turn to him, adjusting the last strap on your wrist. He takes a step closer, his hand hovering just near your arm, as if he wants to touch you, to steady you, but holds back. His face is a study of quiet turmoil, the calm, composed mask he wears slipping ever so slightly.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, his voice low, almost pleading. “Sending you, alone, to Beron’s camp… It’s dangerous. Even for you.”

You meet his gaze, holding it with a steady conviction that leaves no room for doubt. “This is what I’m meant for, Eris. I know how to do this.” Your voice is calm, controlled, yet there’s a fire in your eyes, a certainty that hardens your resolve.

He looks down, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he battles with something unspoken. “You’re to burn the camp,” he murmurs, his tone almost bitter, as if the thought of sending you into that inferno cuts him deeply. “To wipe out anyone who stands in your way. You… shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

You lift your chin, reaching up to touch his face, your fingers brushing along his jawline. “If we’re going to end this war, Beron’s camp needs to fall. And I am the best suited to do this. I’ve done things like this before.”

Eris’s hand finally finds yours, his fingers entwining with yours, strong and steady. “Those days are behind you. You’re… more than just an assassin now. More than just a weapon.” His voice is barely above a whisper, as if speaking the words louder would make them real, and in that moment, you see the worry, the raw, aching fear he’s been hiding.

You squeeze his hand, grounding him, your voice a gentle reassurance. “And I’m still a fighter. I’m still someone who knows how to end a battle.” You step back, straightening, every inch the assassin who once served the Night Court. “You’re leading your forces, Eris. Let me do what I do best.”

He hesitates, his eyes darkening as his thumb grazes your knuckles, the touch tender, lingering. “If anything happens to you…”

“Nothing will,” you say, your tone firm. “I’ll be back before dawn.”

Eris swallows, his gaze never leaving yours, and you see the war within him—the tension between his duty as a leader and his fear as… something more. Finally, he releases your hand, stepping back, his expression once again composed, though his eyes betray him.

“Take my smoke hounds,” he says, voice hardening with reluctant resolve. “They’ll be at your command, lethal and loyal. If anyone stands in your way…” His mouth tightens, as though the thought of what you’re about to do pains him. “Do what you must.”

You nod, feeling the finality of his words settle over you like a cloak. The smoke hounds are Eris’s most trusted creatures—vicious, swift, creatures of shadow and flame. With them by your side, Beron’s camp will fall, reduced to ash and memory.

As you turn to leave, Eris’s voice stops you, a soft, broken whisper. “Come back to me.”

You glance back, meeting his gaze, a silent promise passing between you.

-

The forest blurs around you, dark and thick with shadows as you sprint through the trees, each stride light and precise. The silence of the woods is broken only by the quiet rustle of leaves beneath your feet and the soft, nearly soundless patter of twelve pairs of paws moving in sync beside you. Eris’s smokehounds, shadows among shadows, run with you, their sleek bodies rippling with the restrained power of creatures forged from flame and darkness. Their eyes gleam in the dim light, flickers of red and gold mirroring the embers deep within them.

Your breath comes in steady, controlled puffs, each one carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. You push your pace, weaving around trees, ducking under branches, letting the familiar rhythm of running take over. The hounds follow you with fierce loyalty, twelve shadowed phantoms keeping stride with ease, their eyes never straying from you. You’ve trained with creatures like them before; they know your signals, can read your smallest gestures. And tonight, they know their purpose as well as you do.

Ahead, you see the cliff edge through the trees, the canyon beyond stretching wide and deep, a gaping chasm that offers the perfect vantage point. Twenty-five minutes until the fire, just as planned. You mentally mark each step of the mission: secure the perimeter, then unleash the hounds. They’ll tear through Beron’s forces with merciless precision, a deadly warning sent by Eris himself.

With a soft hand signal, you urge the hounds to pick up the pace. They respond instantly, surging forward in a silent wave, each one attuned to your every movement. You can feel their excitement, their hunger to fulfill their purpose—a lethal harmony that mirrors your own resolve.

At the cliff’s edge, you pause for just a moment, looking out over the vast expanse of trees, campfires flickering faintly in the distance. Beron’s forces are spread across the valley below, unsuspecting, oblivious to the doom that will descend upon them in a matter of minutes. You breathe in, feeling the cool night air fill your lungs, centring yourself.

Then you leap into motion again, running along the edge of the cliff, the hounds fanning out beside you. The ground is uneven, treacherous, but you move with confidence, your steps sure and steady. The hounds move effortlessly, their eyes fixed forward, waiting for your command to unleash them upon the enemy below.

The minutes tick by, and you count each one, your mind focused, calculating. You know that Eris will be watching the clock, timing your return. He’ll know the moment his hounds have done their work, the moment the fires ignite, marking the beginning of the end for Beron’s camp. And he’ll be waiting, trusting that you will return alongside them.

You feel the power thrumming through your veins, the familiar thrill of the mission, the anticipation of the flames that will soon light up the sky. You glance down at the hounds, each one poised and ready, their bodies taut with barely-contained energy. With a small, barely perceptible nod, you give the signal.

You crouch low, hidden among the dense trees at the edge of the camp. The flickering glow of campfires illuminates the chaos below. Beron’s forces move with the sluggish confidence of men who believe themselves safe, unaware of the inferno waiting to consume them. You pull the bow from your back, your fingers steady as you nock an arrow soaked in pitch. With a deep breath, you draw back the string, the familiar weight and tension grounding you.

The torch at your side flickers in the cool night breeze, casting your shadow long against the forest floor. With a deliberate motion, you dip the arrowhead into the flame. Fire bursts to life, licking up the shaft, bright and hungry. The light reflects off the sharp edges of your assassin’s gear, and for a moment, you’re bathed in a fiery glow.

You take aim at the largest tent—the command centre, judging by its size and central position. The arrow flies, cutting through the air in a deadly arc, embedding itself into the canvas. Flame spreads instantly, roaring to life as the tent is consumed. You don’t wait to watch it burn. Another arrow is already in your hand, aflame and ready. This time, you aim for the storage tent where supplies are stacked high. It ignites with a burst of heat, the fire leaping from one crate to the next.

One more arrow—this time toward the soldiers’ quarters. The shot is perfect. The flames catch, and panic spreads like wildfire. Shouts rise as soldiers scramble to put out the blaze, but it’s too late. Smoke curls upward, dark and thick, a signal of chaos rising to the stars.

You sling your bow across your back and run, feet pounding the forest floor as you follow the path you memorized earlier. Your mind maps out every turn, every slope: the sharp left at the leaning oak, the shallow stream you leap across without hesitation, the narrow ridge that runs parallel to the cliffside. Your breath comes in short bursts, your heart hammering in your chest, but your focus remains razor-sharp.

Then you hear it—shouts behind you. The sound cuts through the night like a blade, and when you glance back, you see them: Beron’s soldiers, torches in hand, spreading through the trees like a swarm. One of them spots you, his shout echoing across the forest, and suddenly the hunt is on.

You push harder, adrenaline surging through your veins, but the weight of your gear slows you. The thick leather straps dig into your shoulders, the metal clasps clinking faintly with every stride. It feels like a leaden anchor dragging you down.

With a frustrated growl, you strip the bow from your back, tossing it aside into the underbrush. Next, you unbuckle the heavier pieces of your armour mid-stride, letting them fall as you run. The bracers follow, the daggers strapped to your thighs discarded one by one. You leave a trail of discarded weaponry in your wake, the promise of lighter steps driving you forward.

But the soldiers are everywhere. Torches light up the forest in jagged lines, cutting off your escape routes. Their shouts grow louder, closer, and the realization hits you: they’re herding you, pushing you toward the cliff. Panic sparks in your chest, but you keep moving, feet skimming over rocks and roots, muscles burning with the effort.

The cliff looms ahead, the forest giving way to open sky and the deafening roar of the river far below. The soldiers close in, their shouts a cacophony that drowns out your pounding heartbeat. There’s no time to think, no time to hesitate. You sprint toward the edge, the ground disappearing beneath your feet as you leap.

For a moment, there’s only silence. The world drops away, the wind rushing past you in a deafening roar. Your stomach lurches as you fall, the vast canyon walls blurring on either side. Below, the river churns violently, a silver ribbon that grows larger with every passing second.

You hit the water hard, the impact stealing the breath from your lungs. The freezing cold engulfs you, dragging you down, the current tugging at your limbs with relentless force. You fight to the surface, gasping for air, the icy water shocking your system into focus.

The river carries you away, the sounds of pursuit fading into the distance. You let it take you, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, knowing that survival is your only thought now. Above the churning waters, the smoke from Beron’s camp rises into the night, the promise of fire and destruction marking the beginning of the end.

A/N: this series was supposed to be posted in February but as you can see part one is out now but it will be a while till part 2!

part 2

[peachysunrize]

SMOTHER | chapter 1

Summary: Every moment she spends in his presence makes her shake with anger, now more than ever with holding his hand in hers, bowing their heads to the king as the law changes. She would look back at her younger self, see the resentment she held for him in her eyes, and she still holds that hatred towards him, if not more, if not worse.

Aemond Targaryen returns to King’s Landing after three years from the end of the war he became the hero of, meeting his niece once again, and their tale begins.

Warnings: mentions of Winter fever, Aegon’s injuries, alcohol consumption (which isn’t weird given the era lmao), English isn’t my first language<3

Taglist: fill this form to be added to the taglist!

Notes: full chapter is uploaded on ao3!

“Princess,” the knight bows his head, opening the door to the King’s solar, “Your father awaits you.”

  “Thank you, Ser Marston,” she smiles at him, stepping inside the dimly lit room, greeting the Maester and the maids as they move from one corner to another, hands full with salves and fresh bandages for the king.

  She moves graciously among them, a simple hello here and there while she steps in front of the sheer curtains around her father’s bed. Pushing them aside, she smiles warily at him, finding him already prepped up on the mountain of feather pillows with clean clothes hiding the scars from the world.

  “Good morrow, my sweet,” Aegon says, groaning as he reaches for her hand, gently running the pad of his burned fingers over her soft, smooth skin, “What a lovely way to start my day.”

  “Lovely way indeed,” she cups his hand in hers, grazing the edge of the burned skin with her finger. “You look much better, Father. The new ointment from the free cities is doing miracles on your wounds.”

  “Yes, the wounds are healing, but the scars will remain. No one would like to see a king so hideous,” Aegon says, coughing slightly.

  “You are not hideous, Father,” she gently reminds him, leaning to bring the cup of wine to his lips. “These scars are the proof of Targaryen blood. They are making songs of that, they call you ‘The man who danced in the flames of the beasts and survived ’. I quite like it.”

  “Aegon the Magnanimous has a much better ring to it than this—“ he waves his hand, a teasing tone hidden under his words.

  She knows him well enough to know when he’s trying to be funny; this time, it isn’t one of those. Her father’s pain is never-ending; it’s always present, and it surges deep into his bones. His flesh smells of a dead boar, and the scent of the ointment does not help to cover all of it.

  He is in pain, more so than anyone, and it breaks her heart.

  “Tell me,” Aegon says, pulling her out of her thoughts with a gentle squeeze of his hand, “How is your sister? I’ve heard she is growing to like her chambers.”

  “Sweet Jaehaera… she is learning to like it. Her quiet moments have increased, but fear not, Father; she is well and content,” Saera explains, her calm tone soothing Aegon’s worries. For a second, she remembers how she always read for him until he stopped withering in pain; her voice always puts him at ease. “She accompanies me and Lord Hand to the court sometimes. She likes to observe, listen, and ponder in silence.”

  “A quality you have too,” Aegon smiles, looking at his daughter with nothing but adoration, “Taken after your mother you have. She was the same; quiet yet beautiful.”

  “You will never get tired of calling her beautiful, will you?” She laughs softly, reaching to gently stroke Aegon’s scarred head, leaning down to press a kiss on his forehead before she resumes talking, “I do not think you are at fault, though. She was the epitome of beauty.”

  “That she was,” he chuckles, coughing suddenly when his voice gets stuck in his throat. He tries to stifle them, but the more he coughs, the worse they get. The sound makes her tremble slightly in fear before she looks at his nightstand and finds a pitcher of wine. Saera, with shaky hands, reaches for the jar and the glass, pouring the red liquid for her father before helping him sit up to drink.

  “No–“ Aegon coughs a few times more, grabbing Saera’s arm tightly as he doubles over and the rough movements of his chest get the better of his body, trying to whisper the word between the coughs, “Water.”

  “Yes, water—“ she stands up frantically, putting the wine on the table before looking around the room to find a servant coming inside the chambers with a tray of food and a goblet of water next to the plates. Saera walks towards the servant quickly, playing with her rings until she reaches her, gently taking the cup in her hands before rushing back to Aegon, frowning slightly as she sits next to him and brings the edge of the cup to his chapped lips.

  “Thank you,” Aegon exhales deeply, finally calming down from the coughs, holding her wrist gently to lower the cup, closing his eyes to enjoy the few moments of peace he can get. “Sweet girl, we must talk.”

  “I reckoned something must have happened to put you in such distress,” Saera sighs, tracing her finger over the veins on the back of her father’s hand, looking out of the window. “I have heard whispers among the ladies and lords; some are… worrisome. But the council is what I believe you wish to discuss. The lords are anxious about the future, Master of Coins more than anyone.”

  “Jason the fucking cunt—“

  “Father!” She chuckles, looking back at Aegon with a soft smile that turns into a huge grin when he rolls his eyes at her, exhaling sharply as his scars start itching but Saera stops him from doing anything to make the pain worse, “Do not do something that’ll make your condition more unbearable, please.”

  “Alright,” Aegon closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before he resumes talking, “There are matters that need urgent attention, my little dragon, and I believe you have the power to help us through it.”

  “I would be more than willing to help you, Father. I have done it for the past year; held an Audience with the common folks, held your small council. I could have been your Hand if only you were not so obsessed with Lord Stark.”

  “Ah, Cregan, he has been with us since the war ended,” he sighs again, this time his attention solely on her. “I wish to discuss something of very importance with you. There are many concerns about my successor.”

  “I know, I’ve heard,” Saera replies, rubbing her neck with her free hand, trying her best not to let her worries bubble up to the surface. “There are some concerns about the future of our house. I do not blame them, you see. It is indeed important to carry on the legacy and traditions, as much as I would hate to say so.”

  “You have an heir, Father—“

  “Yes, I have you—“

READ THE FULL CHAPTER HERE!!!!!

[peskellence]

Pairing: RK900/Gavin Reed

Tags: Post Pacifist Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Previous Chapter

A03 Link

Summary: In the aftermath of Detroit's android revolution, Nines grapples with the complexities of his newfound deviancy. As he seeks to establish his place in a newly transformed society, his resolve is put to the ultimate test when he is paired with Detective Gavin Reed-a notoriously volatile human with a well-established hatred for androids-to investigate a series of murders.

While initial impressions of his partner seem to suggest his reputation is well-deserved, the more time Nines spends with him, the more he is forced to challenge his judgments. As they form an unexpected bond, the RK900 is also pushed to examine truths about himself he would much rather seek to forget. (A Retelling of 'More Than Our Parts' from the POV of Nines.)

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Depression/Self Destructive Behaviour, Eventual Smut

Word Count: 9.4K

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @gho-stychan @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts

Nines continued to dwell on the topic. Extensively and despite resistance.

Reed refused to return to his sphere of mental containment. He was no longer a concept—scattered, meandering preoccupations. Instead, he had become a single, disruptive entity. One that wandered through his mind without tolls or boundaries, as the android was forced to endure the torturous drag of every footfall.

It had been the previous night, when he retreated to his orchard in search of respite, that he saw him. A stain on his meticulously constructed sanctuary, grinning smugly as he emerged from the fruit trees:

“Hey, tin can—come here often?”

‘Protocol: Reed’ proved useless in combating the manifestation. With no tangible stimuli to which it could link, persistent annoyances slipped through, producing large, irreparable holes in its net of security. 

The programme would require extensive tuning, so much that Nines reluctantly conceded to retire it. At least until he could devise a more effective system. And so, the simulation stayed—its behaviour mimicking its real-life equivalent with such startling accuracy that it became difficult to discern from reality. 

A dissonance that was not helped as he input the address of a familiar residential district and began making his way towards it. Charging down the sidewalk, each step weighted by the load of pronounced irritation.

As he moved, he considered his options. A task that was easier said than done. While disruptions crashed like waves, ravaging his battered defences, solutions pooled shallowly on the shoreline. Already scorched, drying beneath a punishing sun.

All recent strategies for promoting compliance, such as increased social contact and rapport, now seemed redundant. Nines supposed that some might deem this karmic retribution, given his duplicitous intentions for fostering such a “bond.”

In any case, it left him with little option but to return to default configurations, limiting involvement with Reed to the bare essentials of work.

Regrettably, this did not spare him from contact outside business hours. There were developments in their case, with circumstances demanding they be discussed urgently, in preparation for Monday.

> COMMUNICATION LINK REQUESTED —> HOST RK900 #313 248 317 – 87; DET. G REED

> PERMISSION GRANTED.

> CONNECTION INITIALISING…

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> DET. G REED

Detective Reed. I have made a breakthrough in the case. Please let me know when you have received this message so we can discuss further.

Model RK900, Serial Number 313 248 317 – 87 .

Seeing the man was active on his phone, he awaited acknowledgement—then pressed for attention when this did not come:

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> DET. G REED

I would like to meet in person to discuss this, should you be available. Let me know 

- Model RK900, Serial Number 313 248 317 – 87.

DET. G REED  >> RK900  #313 248 317 – 87

its my day off nines. cant it wait until monday?

also you don't need to sign your messages. i know who you are. jackass

Nines huffed, fleeting amusement piercing the fog of his disillusionment. The text exuded intense annoyance, despite its briefness, and he reasoned it was only fair he might draw some paltry enjoyment from the otherwise miserable situation. 

With an adjustment to his autonomous identification system, he constructed another message:

You will want to hear this. I assure you, I won't take up much of your time.

I am messaging you from my internal hub. I will try deactivating the signature, but I cannot guarantee success.

Reed noted the change immediately, making clear he didn’t appreciate the slight to his intelligence:

DET. G REED  >> RK900  #313 248 317 – 87

those last two messages didnt have signatures.

you know what you're doing. stop fucking with me.

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> DET. G REED

It would appear I have succeeded. How fortunate .

Nines, feeling pleased with himself, noted the visual evidence of Reed’s struggle to formulate a comeback. He studied the flashing dots at the end of their chat log, flickering perpetually in and out like a buffering search engine. 

This was before they vanished, with satisfaction persisting for as long as it took him to realise they would not be returning.

The status of his partner changed from 'Online' to the time elapsed since his last activity. He waited impatiently for it to switch back, to be provided with a reply. When this did not occur, the pace of his steps began to slow, until he had almost ground to a halt:

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> DET. G REED

To reiterate, my visit will be brief.

I am approximately 7 minutes from your apartment. Please acknowledge.

Any joviality dispersed completely, as Nines firmly reminded himself of the reason for his urgency. 

The information he had gathered was pivotal to their case, but could amount to nothing, should their superior not be convinced. A feat that would be difficult, requiring persuasion, as supporting evidence was nowhere near as airtight as he'd hoped. 

Forensics had submitted their report from the Ravendale crime scene, revealing the same images of the MJ100 that had been uncovered on the forum. While still alarming, this now constituted a case of data breach. Extensive IT investment and funding would be required to track the poster, given the meticulous efforts made to cover their tracks. 

Without the definitive link to their killer—the crux of his argument—it was an effort that would prove difficult to justify. 

All of this had proven vexing enough, troubling the RK900 into the early hours of the morning, but was made significantly worse as he was forced to watch minutes stack on the idle chat log.

Lest Reed slip into the pretence that he wished to engage in superfluous communications, the RK asserted the importance of the situation. The renewed conviction, in turn, corrected his wavering pace, as he sternly marched on.

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> DET. G REED

To answer your question, this cannot wait. It is of pivotal importance to the ongoing success of our investigation that we address this matter immediately. 

Updated ETA: 5 minutes. Be ready to let me in.

The apartment complex came into view ahead of schedule, Nines having found the caveat of being ignored uniquely motivational.

Upon charging up the stairwell with the same single-minded efficiency, he rounded the corner to his partner's fourth-storey home. Even if he’d been unaware of its location, there would have been no mistaking which of the doors belonged to Reed.

He glared at the shamelessly proactive ‘welcome’ mat beneath his feet before surveying the nearby wall for a bell. It did not work, as poorly maintained as seemingly all surrounding amenities. Instead, Nines defaulted to a manual approach, striking the wood with firm taps.

Whilst knocking, he sent another message, calling increased attention to his presence:

I am outside. Open the door. 

There was a brief lull in beats, awaiting a response that never came, before Nines started again. This process repeated for some time, with each ensuing correspondence becoming more insistent:

Detective Reed, this is highly unprofessional. 

Knock. 

The door, which felt worryingly flimsy under the weight of his hand, rattled with a sharp creak. 

I know you're inside, and I'm aware you can hear me. 

Knock. Knock.

The sound carried down the length of the corridor, reverberating against ageing plaster walls.

We will be having this discussion. You are making things needlessly difficult. 

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

There was still no response, and in exasperation, Nines lowered his arm. A sliver of doubt crept into his mind, burrowing through bad faith cynicism. 

Perhaps there was a chance that Reed hadn't heard him. 

It was a Sunday morning, after all, with the man boasting very little in the way of domestic duties. It was entirely plausible he’d gone back to bed, or intrepidly braved the elements to smoke.  

The latter inspired a clearer picture. Reed, dressed in a baggy night shirt and sweatpants, leant precariously over his balcony. A cigarette in hand, he mocked the persistence of his partner to a flock of nearby pigeons—

Cynicism returned, as Nines was shocked back to reality.

Incensed by his own speculations, he bent forward to steal a glimpse of the living room through the peephole. This proved seldom effective, as he was unable to discern anything but the distorted outline of furniture. 

Nines instead pressed an ear to the door, tuning for increased aural and metabolic sensitivity, searching for traces of life. Instead, a disruption was identified. Dull, continuous rushing—the flow of running water. 

He scowled. Choosing to bathe amid active correspondence proved callous enough; doing so without any form of acknowledgement omitted the most basic of courtesies. 

The android lingered, listening on, stewing in disdain. More productively, he was able to deconstruct the water’s pitch and frequency, determining the precise amount of force needed to reach his partner, without inadvertently destroying the door. 

He then straightened up, his fist raised toward the panel, and prepared to strike. Before he did so, however, a shift of motion caught his attention and he stalled.

As his head snapped around, he was faced with an elderly woman stepping onto the landing. She clutched a bag of groceries to her bony chest, with a larger carrier trolley pulled a few inches behind her.

She looked horrified, bewildered, with sunken eyes darting repeatedly between Nines and the door. He wondered how long she had been watching, despairing at the thought. A rush of humility and self-awareness bristled through him before he pulled away sharply from the apartment. 

With his arms tucked neatly behind his back, he attempted to save face, dissuading any presumptions of unsavoury intent by providing additional context:

“There is no cause for concern, madam—I know the man who occupies this lot. He is my partner.”

The woman continued to squint, her beady eyes lost in crinkled folds of her face. Then her thin lips parted, saggy jowls stretching wide before she released a hum of understanding. 

“Ohhhh, I see, I see...” She smiled, nodding her head before turning on her heel and hobbling away. As she moved, she muttered a series of disjointed pleasantries under her breath. 

“Such a nice man—so polite—I thought he was single, isn't that sweet—”

The words struck like a cold rush of water to the face. This was chased by a sharp surge of biofluid as Nines realised he had been woefully misunderstood. 

His mouth opened to correct her, but it was too late. The woman, surprisingly nimble for her age, had already rounded a nearby corner, the squeaking wheels of the trolley carrying along behind her. 

He stood alone, reeling from humiliation, considering the place he had secured himself in the building’s rumour mill. Then he shook his head, dislodging the trivial concern. There was no sense wasting energy on matters of personal pride—not when this power could be more productively invested in achieving his primary objective:

> ENTER DETECTIVE REED'S APARTMENT. 

The shower continued to rumble distantly, with no signs of stopping. He found it difficult to believe that Reed would prove so diligent in personal hygiene. It seemed more likely that he had become preoccupied with other, less sanitary, activities, or that he had already finished, neglecting to switch off the water. 

Nines had no desire to loiter indefinitely on the doorstep—subjecting himself to the scrutiny of prying neighbours—to find out.

With a direct route of access unavailable, he would have to secure an alternative. Ideally, one that allowed for some degree of discretion. 

Accessing local architectural archives, the android searched until he had uncovered the blueprints for Detective Reed's complex. Constructing a wireframe projection of the building, he then assessed for other access points. 

To his relief, there was a network of fire escapes mounted to the south side of the building. The structure served each home above ground level, connecting them safely to the streets below.

As his attention drifted up, he noted a blank-faced effigy emerging onto one of the balconies. A cigarette was clasped in their fingers, lifted to an absent mouth for a slow, indulgent drag. Ash was then flicked, scattered in the direction of a dispersing flock of birds…

He dismissed the simulation, prompting an update to his physical routing. Once finalised, Nines pivoted on his heel and proceeded to the new destination. 

Whilst moving, he affirmed the justification for this trajectory. In case it required explaining to his superior officer. He hadn’t intended any breach of personal boundaries or privacy. He had simply been acting in the interest of professional diligence, as well as consideration for his partner.

After all, he had failed to secure Reed’s attention following multiple attempts. It was entirely plausible that there was a more serious reason as to why.

A slip, perhaps, when leaving his inordinately long shower.

As Nines reached the back of the building, assessing the network of frames, it became clear that his polished simulation failed to account for some crucial aspects. Principally, the real-life structure was abysmally maintained.

Rusted bolts protruded at odd angles, with attached platforms damaged or missing in several places. The additional weight and pressure on ill-secured joints had caused the entire framework to bow disconcertingly.

It fell so woefully short of Michigan safety codes that it may as well have collapsed completely, left piled in the centre of the pavement. Indeed, he predicted this would be the fate of any misguided individual who attempted to use it. Additional strategy would be required to ensure a safe ascent. 

Nines focused his cognitive output onto pathfinding, assessing optimal routing for both stability and discretion. After several failed calculations, in which he was forced to witness a simulation of himself plummet pitifully to the ground, systems locked into a path that proved feasible. 

He began to climb the escape ladder, tactfully avoiding the loose rungs and evading the unsteady grates that risked collapsing under his weight. Utilising the leverage of a suspended bar, he swung across a narrow gap, only realising mid-momentum how close he had been to a nearby window. 

The android was operating on borrowed time. A concerned resident could contact law enforcement at any moment. The result of which would be an intensely awkward interaction with one of his colleagues.

By the time he reached the fourth floor, he was infuriated. Deeply resentful at having been forced to degrade himself in such a way. The sum of this frustration, of course, was targeted at the man who had made such measures necessary. 

Stepping onto the balcony, he noted that one of the windows had been left ajar. Just enough that he could confirm there were no further sounds of water—dwindling alibis, stripping Reed of a primary excuse for ignoring him. 

There was no trace of the man as he peered into his kitchen, although Nines was able to detect the metabolic rhythms of another, smaller creature. It was Tiffany, seated off to the side, growling as she stared accusingly into an empty food dish. Nines could feel his frustration fester in solidarity with the animal. All the more incentive to enter the apartment, feeding her himself, should his partner consider self-indulgent idleness a greater priority.

He tapped on the glass, firm and insistent, enough that the frame rattled from the impact. He maintained a close visual on the nearby door, anticipating that the human would be unhappy to see him whenever he decided to grace the RK with his presence. 

This posed no concern. Nines had exerted far too much effort, implicated himself in far too many potential misdemeanours, to back away now. Despite this, he resolved to maintain professionalism and restraint in the impending confrontation. 

The approach was clear: assertive, but brief. Cover the key points, establishing enough cohesion with Reed to ensure he wouldn’t actively impede their meeting with Fowler. Then, he would leave, having successfully limited extraneous contact, in line with their shared interests.

His partner still refused to show himself, having transformed what should have been a straightforward task into an arduous feat of self-discipline. 

It was a fight that Nines risked losing, as his clenched fist came dangerously close to compromising him. ‘Accidentally’ striking the pane with too much force, shattering fragile glass and permitting him passage into the home…

Then, at long last, there was movement and the structural integrity of the window was preserved.

As Reed came bumbling through the doorway, it was clear he was unwell. He sported a bedraggled appearance, strikingly similar to the one he had on the first day of their partnership. It was a sickly kaleidoscope of discolouration—sallow flesh paired with purple rings beneath swollen, bloodshot eyes. 

No doubt, a consequence of overindulgence the night before. The plans Nines had become privy to when catching the man in a slanderous digital rant to Officer Chen.

While enjoyment was undoubtedly drawn from the tragic presentation, it was not the only aspect of his appearance that proved…compelling. An injustice which struck Nines like a blow. By far, the most violent and unyielding that had been levied against his wounded pride.

Prior assessments of the man's physiology proved woefully correct. Reed was in remarkable condition, given his unsavoury lifestyle.

While there had been hints of a well-formed physique beneath the wrinkled folds of clothes, it was indisputable in his current undress. Only his lower half was covered, tucked beneath the fold of a bath towel, with his upper body bare. Comprising well-defined muscles, his chest was lightly dusted with hair, interspersed with scattered scars.

He clutched the side of his temple, head bowed, muttering inaudibly. As the cat across the room yowled in growing impatience, his grumbling grew more incensed. He recoiled, wincing, his torso jutting forward as he did so. 

The overhead light caught on the moist droplets clinging to his skin. His towel shifted, its tie loosening slightly, revealing the top of a sharp V-line that traced the contours of his abdomen.

Nines’ HUD flashed in warning, alerting to a sudden arrhythmia in his pump regulator. His scowl deepened, and his gaze, which had wandered traitorously, was snapped back into proper alignment.

Reed staggered further into the kitchen. Presumably, to serve the pet her belated meal. The effort soon proved too strenuous, however, as he stalled mid-step, visibly dazed and teetering precariously. It took some time to steady himself. Once he had, he redirected swiftly, shifting his course to the overhead cabinets by his sink. 

He swung the first open and proceeded to rifle through its contents. Although visibility was limited, Nines caught glimpses of precariously piled dishes that shook with each ill-coordinated reach. 

It was unclear what the man was looking for, but whatever it was, it was considered to hold great importance. The man grew increasingly frantic the longer he searched, not helped by the fact that he, too, was operating with restricted vision. 

The top of the shelves sat just above his eyeline, to which Nines suppressed a chuckle. He did not wish to compromise his position, at least not yet, whilst flailing arms remained entangled in fragile porcelain. Any damage would be a consequence of Reed's own carelessness, for which the android refused to accept any responsibility. 

He instead waited for a more suitable moment to catch his attention, ensuring he would not be startled. At last, Reed stepped back, his annoyance plateauing before it plummeted into dejected surrender.

Nines seized his opportunity and knocked again. Not as firmly as he had before, just enough to ensure his target became aware of his presence. 

It became clear that he had miscalculated the timing of this address, or the human’s tolerance to sudden noise. His lowered head jerked to attention as Reed looked at him, utterly terrified.

His already puffy eyes bulged to comedic proportions as a sharp curse tumbled from his lips. He stumbled back, a jumbled mess of flailing limbs, before reaching instinctively to his side—no doubt a reflex borne from years on the force.

As his clenched hand gripped at nothing, he was thrown further off balance. The man swayed, directionless, only halting when he clipped the side of a nearby table.

The corner stabbed at exposed skin, and he arched away, hissing like an irate cat. His actual feline sat to one side, having witnessed all this take place but barely reacting. Instead, she pawed at her bowl, the lingering dregs of her patience rapidly dwindling.

Recovering from the fallout of his shock, Reed’s head swung trepidatiously back to the window. Recognition began to settle on his face, loosening the tense lines of panic. 

They returned soon after, with a vengeance, the centre of his brow pinched into a large, unsightly knot. Flames of accusation roared, crackling behind his narrowing gaze, as Reed glared . His attention darted between the android's face and hand, as though daring him to knock again. 

Nines rose to the challenge without hesitation. Following another brisk tap, he used his available hand to gesture towards the balcony door. A request that his partner received but coldly rejected. 

The two were locked in a stalemate, neither willing to yield. Of course, Nines held a substantial advantage, capable of waiting for much longer than his organic counterpart. 

Something that also seemed to be dawning on the human, as cracks began to splinter through his obstinate resolve. One of his eyelids twitched, and his head pulled stiffly to the side, as though he were attempting to remove the RK900 from existence through the power of mental persuasion. 

When the effort was unsuccessful, he grunted bitterly and proceeded towards the door with heavy, reluctant steps. His towel remained pinned to his waist as the android mused on how well it had held through all the commotion.

He had not stepped an inch onto the foot mat when the entrance swung open. It narrowly missed a full-on collision to his face, as the android sidled to avoid it. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” 

The demanding bark omitted any greeting. It was hurled into his face with violent propulsion, chased by a potent waft of alcohol. 

Nines ignored the smell but could not overlook the opportunity to levy a jab at the man. The consequences of his late-night escapades were all the more apparent now he was standing up close. 

"Good afternoon, Detective,” Nines said calmly, inspecting him with an equally manufactured diplomacy. “You're looking well.”

Reed saw through this instantly. He squared his shoulders, appearing to make another attempt at willing him out of existence.

"No, seriously. What are you doing? Because if this is about work, I swear to god, I'm pushing you off the balcony. I already said no, I don't want to—"   

"I never received a 'no,'" the RK interrupted coolly. “You asked if it could wait until Monday. I concluded that it could not and informed you as such. Did you not receive my message?" 

"I stopped reading your messages, dipshit. They were pissing me off.” The retort was delivered with a matter-of-fact finality. As though it differed in any way from the vast sum of their interactions. “Why didn't you knock on my door? Instead of scaling the fire escape like a goddamn lunatic?" 

"I tried the door, but you were not answering." 

"I was in the fucking shower. You could have waited a minute." 

"I waited several minutes."

The vein that pulsed on Reed's temple looked ready to burst. He shifted his stance, feet braced in a stubborn blockade between himself and the apartment.

It seemed increasingly unlikely that Nines would be granted entrance. At least, not without moving the man by force. Instead, he appealed to his better judgment, attempting to incite reason. “Nevertheless, I am here now, so you may as well let me in."

"Are you—" The sentence broke, devolving into a series of indignant splutters. Following his impromptu impersonation of a malfunctioning motor, Reed started again.

"Okay, another ‘Human Tip’, jackass.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling sharply. “You can't just show up at somebody's house without permission. For all you know, I might have been busy, like, I dunno, cranking one out. You really want to walk in on that?"

Nines tilted his head, taking a moment to process the strange colloquialism. A cross-check of his internal database revealed a plethora of detailed sources. All of which he would have much rather avoided.

Having already considered this prospect as a reason for the man's tardiness, he informed him as such in a curt rebuttal. “I am perfectly aware of human fondness for self-stimulation. Truthfully, there are less appealing things I can think of seeing." 

Reed baulked, his disgruntled scowl dropping immediately. The pace of his breaths quickened, core body temperature elevating in tow. He seemed suddenly, inexplicably conscious of his undress, where it hadn't bothered him previously. 

His stance was adjusted, his arms crossed tightly over his torso, as though he were attempting to recover some modesty. Paradoxically, there was a dilation of his pupils, indicative of unspoken interest, before his gaze was averted. 

It was only then, with all these elements falling into place, that Nines realised what he had done. 

He cursed his social routing for leading him so wildly astray, propelling him into the second major miscommunication of the day. 

This one proved more troublesome, as he would be forced to endure the fallout. Attempt to recover some degree of professionalism following the inadvertent flirtation. A tactic for behavioural management that had been firmly abandoned, given recent—

"I'll let you in.” A voice interrupted, injecting itself into his spiralling thoughts. It was dry, forcibly stilted, attempting to mask the subtle waver that persisted throughout. 

A stipulation was then added, as though to dispel any speculations that the invitation was cordial. "...but only because I don't want my neighbours to think I'm being robbed." 

One of his arms fell limply from his chest as Reed flung it behind him, ushering Nines inside. He failed to respond, staring at the limb, paralysed by bewilderment. 

Then came a creeping realisation. One that perhaps indicated his interpersonal routing had not been so fatally flawed. Clearly, some dormant part of himself had anticipated this outcome, quietly electing to retain specific processes deemed defunct. A subtle rebalancing of control, adjusting the scale tipped heavily in his partner’s favour.

As the RK900 was led inside, Reed stared fixedly ahead, with such steadfast ferocity that he could have punctured a hole in the nearby wall. Tiffany, noting her owner's return, responded fast. Bouncing to her feet, claws clicking against the tiles, as she intercepted him halfway across the room. 

Her wiry tail, already moving in restless swings, was swept like a duster across the side of his exposed ankles. Reed jolted back, his attention torn from its deadlock with the plaster as he sidestepped the furry hazard. 

He mumbled a half-hearted apology before directing a similarly unenthused acknowledgement towards his partner. As though tacitly barring the RK from advancing further, he gestured vaguely toward his displaced dining table. 

Nines obliged without comment—if only to ensure Tiffany would receive her ‘breakfast’ before sundown. After adjusting the furniture's positioning, he sat in one of the cheap, fold-out chairs and waited. 

Under his silent observance, Reed reached into his pet supply cupboard and pulled out a wet food packet. The wrapping was partially opened, a tear teasing at the edge, before the motion was aborted. 

Reed dropped the sachet, heaving uncontrollably. Clearly, some combination of the smell and texture had deeply offended his current delicate sensibilities.

 It was almost comedic, just how disproportionate the aversion proved. He doubled over, slumping pitifully in the RK's direction, stomach clutched in pained grips. Nines quietly estimated the space between them, determining whether or not he was at risk from any digestive fallout. 

“Are you alright, Detective?” He prepared to sidle his chair to a safer distance, should his calculations prove unfavourable.

“Fuck off,” came a clipped reply. 

Reed stumbled back, and for a moment it seemed as though he might topple over. Pushing past his aversion, Nines prepared to step in. There would have been little point in troubling himself with the visit should the man decide to collapse on the floor, rendering himself unconscious.

“I would be happy to offer my assistance,” he offered, in a slight embellishment of keenness.

As though out of spite, Reed shook off his bout of squeamishness. Standing tall, he fixed Nines with a glare of obstinate defiance. 

“I said ‘fuck off’. ” 

He made a concerted effort to appear unfazed as he resumed his duties. This involved several instances in which he covered his mouth and nose, or anchored his body away to conceal more aggressive signs of repulsion. A long, steeling breath was drawn before the off-kilter man braved a final, perilous descent toward the kitchen tiles, setting down the freshly-stocked dish.

Not fast enough, it seemed, as Tiffany had already lost interest. 

Having abandoned her station by his feet, she skulked around the kitchen in fractious circles. Amber eyes were alight with consideration as she sniffed the floor, searching for any morsels of food that her owner might have callously dropped. It was during this sweep that she noticed the legs protruding beneath the nearby table. 

She pulled away, startled, her ears pinned back trepidatiously. Studying the stranger, he watched the continuous bounce of his knee as he waited impatiently for Reed to compose himself.

A low grumble started to build, rattling in her throat, pulling the android free from his agitated trance. He looked down, to which vibrant eyes locked firmly with his own. 

They stared at each other silently until Nines recalled the warnings he had received on her penchant for territorial hostility. He stilled at once, tension drained from his posture, as he slowed the pace of his blinks and subtly diverted his gaze. The aim was to project as much passive openness as he could, hoping Tiffany would judge him harmless and resume her patrol.

She did not. Instead, the cantankerous feline proved unexpectedly receptive, abandoning aggression and meeting his gesture with placid curiosity. She strolled up to the android, planting herself at the base of his chair before admiring her reflection in the tips of his polished shoes. 

Attention then turned to his ankle, her nose bumped lightly against the pant leg. She stalled, then repeated the motion. This time, incorporating the arch of her neck, adding weight and pressure. 

She was testing for life; tangible feedback to demonstrate her touch was felt. Nines was not surprised that she was unfamiliar with the logistics of androids. He doubted Reed had invited many into his home previously. He helped to mitigate confusion, allowing a slight shift of his heel, just enough for his leg to brush against inky fur. 

It was all the affirmation the cat required, as she settled into a reclined position before curling peacefully into a ball. In turn, the relaxed rise and fall of her breath, visible through her protruding gut, gave Nines the assurance needed to extend appreciation for the trust. 

His hands, clasped primly in his lap, slowly began to unfurl. Fingers outstretched, flexed gently before sinking beneath the chair.  His reach was angled in such a way that Tiffany could anticipate it. Sinking lower until he had ghosted the top of her skull—

" Don't ." Reed, having become aware of what his partner was doing, was quick to interject. “I've already told you, Nines. If you touch her, she'll—”

The warning came too late. Contact was made, with any ongoing protest shrivelling on his tongue. 

Nines began massaging her fur, discovering that the texture matched its lustrous appearance. He worked the delicate bones beneath with expertly applied precision, and soon found the sensitive junction behind her ear. 

Tiffany purred appreciatively, and if Reed were an android, his slackened jaw may have dislodged completely, clattering to the floor beneath him. His bulging eyes would have likely followed, popping from his skull and rolling out of sight beneath the fridge. As it stood, they remained nestled in their sockets, watching on dumbly. 

"It would appear your cat likes me, Detective Reed.” 

Nines had been unable to suppress the pride that carried through this announcement. It rushed his partner, proving enough to snap him back to reality. His mouth clamped shut, curling into a tight, bitter snarl. A low noise rumbled the seal, sounding distinctly like a growl. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he set the still-hovering food bowl harshly to the ground. 

The clattering metal disturbed the peace of his pet. Her head whipped around, slipping loose from the hold that was caressing it. Bounding onto snowy paws, she abruptly trotted away, leaving Nines’ arm suspended in the space she had occupied. 

Reed, delighted that his exercise in petty insecurity had worked, grinned at the android. This was before he shook his head, tutting in ‘commiseration.’

 “That’s cats for you. Fickle bastards.” 

The mockery backfired, justly punished, as the rocking motion appeared to trigger a new wave of dizziness. His body, which had only recently peeled from the nearby counter, collapsed back into it, left draped on the granite like a sickly ragdoll. 

Nines, in his own act of spitefulness, responded with false sympathies to the self-inflicted suffering, "You appear to be in physical distress, Detective. Are you in pain?"

"I'm hungover , dipshit,” the human snarled back, as though the android were incapable of ascertaining this for himself. 

He groaned and writhed, his head turned towards the sink, as it occurred to Nines that this spectacle of self-remorse might endure for an indeterminate period, unless steps were taken to prevent it.

In search of a solution for the man’s distress, Nines remembered the animalistic scavenging observed through the window. It was plausible that Reed had been searching for something to alleviate his discomfort before abandoning the attempt. 

Recalling the footage from his memory archives, he began sifting through it, dissecting each frame. Amongst the precariously stacked plates, Nines noted an unusual number of mugs. It seemed excessive, almost absurd, for a single person to own. 

Some had been used more than others, as evident in chipping and stains, with two of them showing the most wear. The first was adorned with a bizarre statement decrying law enforcement, whilst the second could only be described as a hideous misuse of artistic expression. 

A hand-painted atrocity, adorned with a series of bright, uneven smiley faces. It seemed unusual that Reed would show a preference for it, until Nines studied the near illegible message crammed into the centre:

> NO.1 CAT MOM

The handwriting was familiar. A lopsided scrawl he had seen pasted to his partner's monitor numerous times, in the form of post-it notes:

> SAMPLE MATCH... CONFIRMED.

> OFFICER TINA CHEN. 

As the name displayed confirmed his theory, Nines was struck with a reluctant sense of…charm. It was endearing that his partner showed such sentimental fondness for the gift, despite its questionable execution. 

He tried not to dwell on this long. Instead, moving on to the next still. As his focus shifted further into the cabinet, he noted an obstruction wedged between two stacks of plates. It was a small screw-top bottle, its label faded from wear, but the contents clearly visible:

> ACETYLSALICYLIC ACID (ASPIRIN)

> DRUG CLASSIFICATION: ANTI-INFLAMMATORY

> DOSAGE: 300MG SLOW-RELEASE CAPSULES — UP TO 2.4G PER DAY 

WARNING: DO NOT EXCEED RECOMMENDED DOSE, FOLLOW MANUFACTURER'S INSTRUCTIONS.

By the time Nines had dismissed the memory log, Reed was scarcely upright. His shoulders trembled, quivering arms propped on the side as they struggled to support his weight. 

Undoubtedly, there wasn’t much time before the man would be forced to retire to bed, to which the android directed smoothly to the cupboard above his head. "Painkillers are on the top shelf—behind the mugs."

This sparked an immediate response. In another miracle recovery, fueled purely by shock and misguided pride, Reed snapped to attention: Bolt upright, sights darting sceptically between the android and the cabinet.

"...So what, you got X-ray vision or something?”

“Not as such, merely an observation." 

His partner was unable to comprehend this. He squinted at the sealed door, lips parted and ready to protest, before he was halted by the mounting pain rattling his skull. His expression contorted, cortisol spiking, as he abandoned his desired elaboration in favour of more urgent needs. 

He opened the cupboard with a clumsy jerk and searched its contents a second time. He seemed muddled, almost maddened, when he remained unable to locate the painkillers—as if he’d expected the bottle to bound from its hiding place and slide obediently into his grip. 

Nines felt his lip twitch as he considered putting the man out of his misery. Not with any permanence, but rather, reaching over to secure the item that sat tantalisingly out of reach. He could only imagine the reaction this may inspire, the almighty knee-jerk of wounded masculinity. 

Eventually, fingertips brushed the lid of the painkillers. Stormy eyes brightened with recognition as Reed pressed down, applying pressure to the seal. It was just enough to flick the bottle forward, dislodged from the hold of the plates.

With the item held securely in his palm, he breathed a sigh of relief. This was before the sound lodged in his throat and his attention snapped back to Nines. Scepticism returned to his gaze. This time, edged with a more biting accusation. 

" How did you know this was here?" 

"I noticed them earlier when you were searching your cabinet…” the RK900 began plainly, unable to resist the additional, “I'm surprised you didn't” that slipped from his curled lips.

"Oh, what, when you were creeping through my window? Didn't think 'Peeping Tom' was one of your features."  

The smirk had slipped from Nines’ before it finished forming. While it was true that there had been an element of passive appreciation that had developed when watching the man, it hardly seemed fair to insinuate that any planning was involved. 

He dismissed the notion accordingly, in a brisk defence of his honour.  "Please do not flatter yourself—I would have liked to have made my presence known sooner, but I was seeking to determine an opportune time. I did not wish to frighten you.”

Reed was no longer looking at him. Instead, he had started to busy himself at the nearby sink, a callous snub of his presence. Even without the weight of his glare, tension persisted, held in the clench of his jaw before it was released:

“Well that was a bust, because you scared the shit out of me." 

The mocking, sing-song cadence delivered a final, striking blow, toppling Nines from his pedestal of superiority. Any lingering confidence in his own professionalism promptly crumbled to dust. He had miscalculated—fumbled—at almost every juncture that day. Having floundered gracelessly through the threshold of Reed's apartment, rather than entering with precisioned steps. Two pills were deposited into his palm, and the detective neatly swallowed them. The bicarbonate coating dissolved, allowing bitter powder to fizz on his tongue. He then chased away the taste with a large gulp of water.

With his face flung back, out of view, Nines found that his mind subconsciously filled in the blanks. Summoning echoes from recent data banks, as gentles trickle of water were exchanged for beads of perspiration. Satisfied sighs became gasps of terror, then pain, as Reed retreated, colliding with the edge of the table.

He pondered what the human might have experienced in that instant. The outcome he had foreseen, reaching for his waist, in a reflexive grab for his missing firearm. He had already concluded the intruder posed a lethal threat to his life, based on a single, fleeting glance—

 0̷̛͈̪͇̺̞̠̳̦̝̗͇̳͇̀̈́̋̉͝͠͠r̸̨̢̡̯̗̙̰͓͉͖̬͉͖͗͌̈́̏̎#̶̛̛̪̘͇̫̗͎̣̂̅͐̀̉́͛͆̀́̆̓͠͠ć̸̡̣͍̠̦̩̥̣̣ͅ@̷̛̛͔̯̓̃̑͐̈́̽̽ù̶͖͈̦̲͕͔̻̹̥͔̊̉̂̎͑͗͝+̷̨̟͓̐̉́̀̈̀!̵̡̩͓̲͍̯̰͌̉͋̈̌̒̊͋̐̾͐̌̈́̚͜͝0̵̧̪͍̯̝̟͚̹̖͍̹̙͍̫͖̯̈́́̒͌̿͌̿̅̇̔̉͠ū̷̖̳̩$̴̼̝̺̥͚͓̥͚̩͈͖̤̲̈͠

Shame and self-contempt surged, straining the walls of his skull. He pushed it back, along with all manner of unwanted memories. The agonised howls of cries, screams, rattling like a gale through the rafters of his subconscious. 

He couldn't face them. Not now. Instead, he adjusted his perspective, acknowledging his failures in accepting responsibility for a far less egregious offence. 

“...I apologise.” 

Reed’s head snapped back, recoiling so forcefully that his neck appeared elasticated. Stray droplets dribbled from the overgrown stubble on his chin as he stared at the android blankly. 

Slowly, gears of cognition began to shift behind his stare. A process that was becoming all too familiar, as eyes narrowed into dubious slits, and the sincerity of the remorse was brought into question with a callous tsk. "Sorry to tell you this, Nines, but the 'kicked puppy' look really doesn't work for you—give it a rest; you look constipated.”

The RK900 bristled, but had no chance to defend itself. Reed finished his drink, slamming down the empty glass with a disconcerting clink. 

"Look, as disappointing as this might be for you, towel time is over,” he announced bluntly. Rubbing his palms together, he hunched to protect himself from the cool draft seeping from the nearby doorway. “I'm freezing my balls off; gonna get dressed…While I'm gone, don't touch anything . That includes my cat. You got that?" 

Nines wavered, a bit disheartened by the final stipulation. He agreed nonetheless, nodding stiffly, valuing the proposed physical distance, as it might help him organise his chaotic thoughts into a more rational structure.

As it transpired, he had time to spare. 

The human showed no signs of rushing himself, as Nines was left to sit in the kitchen for an inordinate amount of time. Provided with no direction except to stare at the filthy appliances he had been forbidden from disturbing. The logical assumption in the delay was that the human, too, was appreciating their distance. Although it seemed counterintuitive, to provide the android with prolonged, unsupervised access to a space where he wasn’t trusted. 

Seeking an escape from mind-numbing tedium, as well as ensuring any lingering tension was dispelled quickly upon Reed’s return, Nines sought to connect to an inactive temporal link, dispatching a new transmission:

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> RK800 #313 248 317 - 51

I have made a small error in my interpersonal judgment. Your input on how to resolve this matter would be appreciated.

…Of course, no actual input was needed. Nines already knew, with the utmost confidence, what RK800 would say to him. 

He would ‘enlighten’ his counterpart on conclusions he had already drawn. A significant line had been crossed during his forceful invasion of the detective’s home. 

There would be a touch of hypocrisy in the rebuke, which Nines would consider exploiting, reminding his counterpart that he had engaged in a far clearer instance of breaking and entering, targeting Lieutenant Anderson. Nonetheless, he would concede, acknowledging that he was the last individual to pass judgment on matters pre-deviancy...

Time passed slowly as Nines grew disinterested in the fictional dialogue. RK800 hadn’t responded, a rare event, prompting the younger android to conclude he was exceptionally busy or locked in stasis. In either case, any response he could expect would arrive long after the point of relevance. 

In the absence of external support, he began to evaluate his options. 

At this point, his best chance to reduce tension might involve expressing delayed gratitude for Reed’s hospitality. However, his choices would be significantly restricted if he continued to follow the man’s restrictive instructions.

> STAY PUT.

> EXTEND GESTURE OF GRATITUDE TOWARDS DETECTIVE REED.

> ERROR : CONFLICTING INSTRUCTIONS. 

As he scoped his surroundings with renewed intention, Nines found his attention caught on a well-used coffee machine. Specifically, a glass jug, blotched with stains, resting on its base. Its contents were emptied, save for a viscous brown sludge caked to the bottom, betraying just how long it had been sitting.

Inspiration struck, encouraging the android to rise from his chair. Defiance was secured as his systems honed in on their new priority. 

> MAKE DETECTIVE REED COFFEE. 

The dirtied pot was removed and cleaned, with what sparse dish soap was left beside the overfilled sink. Setting it back into position, focus was directed to the cluttered storage above his head. 

The first product Nines encountered was an economy-grade filter blend. Upon checking the brand with online retailers, the reviews were notably poor. He was taken aback that Reed would tolerate such subpar quality, even with his financial strains, given his frequent and vocal complaints about the coffee served at their workplace.

It seemed unlikely that such a mediocre product could serve as a proper peace offering. Frowning, Nines continued to rummage through the disorganised shelves, eventually discovering something more promising, hidden beneath a pile of crumpled noodle packets:

> BRAND: BLACK HOLLOW RESERVE  

> PRODUCT: PREMIUM DARK ROAST BLEND  

> RETAIL PRICE: USD 18.99 / 12 OZ  

> CONSUMER FEEDBACK SUMMARY: POSITIVE  

> RATING AVERAGE: 4.8 / 5.0 (SOURCE: 3,842 REVIEWS)  

The packaging was new, unused, with residual glue on one corner where a price tag had been removed. It stood out against the low-budget offerings in the cupboard, leading Nines to deduce it had been a gift. After measuring the grounds into the filter basket, he activated the machine. It whirred to life, hot water cycling in slow, rhythmic pulses. Drips of ember liquid began to gather in the jug, growing steadily in volume. Satisfied, the android turned away, heading off to retrieve a mug from Reed’s plentiful stock.

The selected mug was set aside, its entourage of asymmetrical grins beaming approvingly at the coffee. The RK shared in the appreciation as warm wisps of steam began to fill the air around him, meeting his olfactory sensors with a pleasant, smoky scent.

It drifted beyond the confines of the room into the neighbouring living space. As though drawn to the aroma by some imperceptible, magnetic pull, Reed finally emerged from hiding. With a steady creak of the door and the hurried thud of footsteps, the man crossed the tiny apartment, arriving back in the kitchen just in time. The brew had finished, and Nines had started to prepare his drink.

"...What part of 'don't touch anything' did you not understand?" The question was caught between a hiss and a sigh, pushed through gritted teeth. It was the sort of response comparable to a parent uncovering their child’s botched attempt at breakfast.

Nines ignored this, having already traversed past the point of no return, and reasoning that there was little else that could make his partner more upset. "I realise that my intrusion today was somewhat callous…” He held up the beverage, extended towards Reed in a cordial offering. The man’s spite was redirected to the cheerfully decorated mug, as though the blotched faces had betrayed him personally. 

“Given your fondness for caffeinated drinks, I thought making one might show appreciation. For the fact that you didn't turn me away." 

The words had barely escaped his lips before Reed began to pick them apart. 

"Last week, you would have fed me to lions if it got you a lead—and now you're making me coffee.” He seemed to take pride in the unwavering cynicism. Eyebrow raised, arms folded over the faded graphics of his t-shirt. “Either you’re Antisocial Asshole protocol is on the blink, or Connor’s been giving you more kiss-ass lessons." 

The android stiffened, his grip on the handle tightening, threatening to shatter the fragile ceramic. His attention darted back to his internal communication network—and the message that remained unanswered. Of course, the detective could not know , nor have any concrete evidence, that he had sought guidance from his predecessor. He was simply taunting him, based on a spiteful, albeit accurate, assumption. 

In response, the android offered a half-truth. Not denying the hypothesis, but withholding the satisfaction that could be drawn from confirming it outright, "...While I was given enhanced abilities in deduction and combat, RK800 has a more sophisticated social protocol. I’ve made it clear to him that I'm not interested in significantly altering my behaviour. Nevertheless, in the past, he has provided guidance on how I may improve my working relationships." 

Reed scoffed, unsatisfied with the response. He appeared keen to press for details, but as his flared nostrils caught the pleasing earthiness emanating from the mug, he stalled. 

He tilted his head, registering the difference from his usual blend—a curiosity which rolled organically into temptation. Ultimately, he gave in to primal urges and reached out to seize the drink.

Acknowledging the gesture of goodwill and stepping back from their argument, he did so with the stipulation that he would have the last word:

"Provided this coffee doesn't taste like shit, you can tell him it's working."

Their ensuing conversation was moved to the table. Reed sat opposite him, elbows propped casually on the table, the lax weight of his head supported by an open palm. He gestured loosely with his free hand, demanding the android proceed with his findings before he changed his mind. 

"Okay, tin can, you've kept me in suspense long enough—so, what is this massive breakthrough that couldn't wait until tomorrow morning?" 

A snide retort gnawed at Nines’ lips, informing his partner that he would have relayed this ‘breakthrough’ significantly faster, had he not taken so long dressing. He bit his tongue, instead pulling a stack of neatly folded papers from his jacket pocket. They contained an overview of screenshots from ‘The Fleshbound Brotherhood’ forum—prepared in a physical format, for ease of review by his partner.

“Do you recall when I scanned Mr Scott's phone? Back at the electronics store?" He set the sheets on the table, smoothing them out courteously.

"I remember you caught him watching porn.” 

His fingers stilled as the android cast a withering look at his partner. Of course, this would be the ‘pivotal intelligence’ Reed retained from their visit.

"I wouldn't have said the material constituted pornography. It appeared to be a compilation of women in bikinis.” Refusing to entertain further semantics, he firmly tapped the sheets, ensuring the discussion did not veer off course. “This was not the only thing I discovered…my scan revealed Mr Scott had been engaging in several suspicious or troubling online activities. After further research, I have collated the following examples."  Reed perked up from his semi-reclined position. Curiosity piqued, he reached across the table, retrieving the first of the papers. As he scanned the contents, a perplexed knot formed in his brow, and the intrigued spark in his eyes started to fizzle away, returning to dull indifference. 

"...Look…I'm not saying this shit is nice, but it isn't that bad, really.” He abandoned the printout in favour of blowing on the rim of the cup. Cutting through the steam with restless puffs, eager to take a sip of the beverage. “Besides, I don’t really see what it's got to do with the case."  Nines, ascertaining there was little he could communicate that would be achieved more effectively than a visual representation, solemnly directed back to the evidence. 

"Turn the page."  There was something in his tone that enraptured his partner. Perhaps it was the graveness, the stern urgency that spoke to all manner of grim truths, that made Reed understand just how serious this was. 

There was no more fidgeting or snide comebacks, as suddenly, he had the man's undivided attention. The coffee was abandoned in favour of studying the android and his disconcertingly blank expression.

Sightlessly, Reed turned the page, only looking away as his head lowered to inspect it. 

It was as though he had been petrified. Locking sights with a creature of ancient European folklore. He was bright, alert, but devoid of any joy or pleasure. There was nothing but grave dissonance, as though his mind were struggling to process the vicious brutality on display, whilst simultaneously understanding that the victims he was examining were not human .

Despite this, Nines saw something —a glimpse —beyond detached intrigue. A genuine condolence, sadness, as he stared at their mangled bodies. Lifeless faces, blotched with tears. As though he could… see . 

See them. Their pain, fear. Unable to wave it away or coldly deny it. 

The revelation passed as soon as it emerged. He looked away, swallowing thickly before stabbing his finger against a specific item of interest. "This one is ours—the MJ100.” 

"They're all ours, Detective."

Nines allowed Reed a moment to process the gravity of this. Watching as he shuddered, sucking air sharply through his teeth, before nodding in numb understanding, prompting the android to continue.

"The HR400 is featured too, as well as all other crimes that could be linked with our investigation.” 

He looked down at the page, not that he needed to. The images were already burned permanently into his processor—an unsightly fissure, carved seamlessly into existing formations. 

“This is more than just an innocuous hate forum—it is an organised group, operating outside of Detroit. Most, if not all, of these pictures depict locally based crimes. There are also discussions alluding to local meet-ups and events." 

With reluctance, Reed followed his gaze. Scanning the evidence repeatedly before shaking his head in surrender. "I don't see anything like that…"

“It seems posts are routinely deleted. No doubt for security reasons. Some crucial details remain, however. Look closer—"

Under the RK900’s direction, their focus was pulled to a discussion thread. The one that had most avidly captured his attention, upon initially discovering the forum:

> bacon at cedars + me. organic and synth.

It didn't take long for Reed to understand. As he did, his jaw hardened in scarcely repressed fury.

>> What did they want?

“Tlla ha JSOX. ZS J…” 

He muttered the sequence under his breath a number of times. Labouring on each letter, curling them against his tongue as though reciting a ritualistic chant. He was exhausting a mental checklist of possible interpretations.

Nines, having already decrypted the sequence before arriving, spared him the effort. "Meet at CLHQ. SL C—It is a code within a code. Arrangements to meet in person." 

" Son of a bitch ” The detective gripped the sides of the page, pressing them together until the paper had been reduced to a crumpled wad. "Were you able to find any private chat logs? Or trace where these messages came from?" 

"Unfortunately, no. The forum operates on an anonymous basis. Private chats are unavailable, and while usernames can be edited, most appear procedurally generated. 

Whoever this individual is, they have been careful to cover their tracks. I was unable to pinpoint their location." 

"That fucker Mikey has a lot to answer for. I say we head back there and beat it out of him." 

Nines hummed, indulging in the cathartic mental projections this inspired. This was before logic won out, and he offered a more practical suggestion. 

"Tempting as that may be, I suggest we discuss matters with Captain Fowler first. Mr Scott is hiding something, and I believe a private interrogation may prove invaluable." 

"Gotta admit Nines, you didn't disappoint. This is a solid lead.”

The RK felt a small swell of pride at this. It was the most receptive his partner had proven in their investigation thus far. All the more astonishing, given his compromised state. 

He grew optimistic that this might allow for an ongoing dialogue. While he had discerned the purpose of communication between Scott and his affiliate, specifics remained undiscussed. Namely, the location represented by ‘CLHQ. SL C’ and how uncovering it might be supported by their existing findings. 

The android had a theory, one that he hoped to run by his partner—

He never got a chance, however, as the human abruptly tensed. He leaned forward, clutching his stomach with a prolonged whine. 

It seemed the painkillers were not reacting well to the already rampant volatility in his gut. The force of his moans appeared to dislodge remnants of his poor decisions, propelled unceremoniously up the length of his oesophagus. He attempted to swallow it back, to push through the nausea, but to little avail. His words became laboured and clipped, sentences failing to form.

“Nice—uh—”

His eyes filled with glum resignation. Acceptance of the inevitable, as he hurriedly lurched to his feet, chair screeching in shared urgency. 

"—I'm gonna hurl." 

With the climax to the man's nausea drawing increasingly near—and a renewed, more immediate risk that Nines might bear witness to the consequences, he stood as well.

Further discussion would have to wait. During the interim, he would deliberate on the best approach to their meeting with Captain Fowler and forward it in a brief for Reed's consideration. One that he hoped the man would review after he had expelled the contents of his stomach.

"I'll see myself out.” He smoothed the creases in his jacket, preparing to leave the home in a decidedly more dignified manner than he had entered it. “Thank you for your time, Detective—I trust you will be well enough to join me tomorrow." He received no response, as in a blur of movement, Reed was gone. Charging towards his bathroom, all but slinging himself across the couch that dared impede his passage. Having reached his destination, miraculously uninjured, he slammed the door behind him.  

[ladycrocy]

Comfort behind the mask of a Killer

Comfort behind the mask of a Killer

Summary: "Massacre Soldier" Killer has a past. This is just the small story of how a young killer became the pirate we know today. This is an alternate universe that still keeps the setting of one piece. I have also quoted Alexandre Dumas's book "The man in the iron mask" because I thought it fit perfectly.

Warnings: Physical and verbal abuse to a child. Reference to drugs and alcohol. MDNI. VERY SAD.

AO3

Word count: 1784

“I've worn that mask so long I don't feel safe without it.”

― Alexandre Dumas, The Man in the Iron Mask

A boy without a face. What good was his face anyway if it only brought pain to those he thought he loved. Expressions that were just a reminder of crimes that he didn’t commit. This young blonde boy was named with revenge in mind. “Killer” Came into this world with the burden of his mother’s hatred.

His long shaggy blonde hair was unkempt, but that matched the rags that this child was dressed in.  His mother did little to keep him alive. By the age of four, he was already on the streets to steal from garbage cans. Rotten fruits and vegetables were his normal diet. This caused him to suffer from severe malnutrition. 

“A man is held to be criminal,sometimes, by the great ones of the earth,not because he has committed a crime himself but because he knows of one which has been committed.”

― Alexandre Dumas, The Man in the Iron Mask

“KILLER! GET IN HERE, YOU CRETEN!” His mother called out to him. He was never allowed inside. He couldn’t help but feel a little excited that she actually wanted to see him. Despite his whole tiny body aching, he ran inside the shack with such vigor. 

Killer had a large smile on his face to greet his mother. He had yet to really speak yet, but he wished to greet his mother as positively as possible. With what he thought would be a warm embrace or at least a happy greeting, he found only pain.

The small boy was knocked to the ground by the side of a bottle. Blood poured from a fresh wound on his head. Dying his blonde waves pink. “How many times have I told you not to smile around me?! You disgust me! He had the same look when he burdened me with you!”

I’m sorry momma I’m sorry momma! Killer wished he could say to her but his words were not forming. If only he had learned to speak faster, perhaps his mother would know how much he loved her. Maybe he could convince her that he wasn’t his father. 

It was such a curse to look like the man that had forced himself in a fit of laughter on one’s mother. Killer couldn’t have been further from that sperm donor. With a pure heart of gold that kept believing one day, she would love him back.

 “A man is bound to make for himself in this world, that fortune which heaven had refused him at his birth.”

― Alexandre Dumas, The Man in the Iron Mask

February 2nd was the day he found a tattered mask. This was a happy day for Killer. So happy in fact, that he deemed it must have been his birthday. He was unaware of his actual birthday as he had never actually celebrated it. Returning to his mother that night, Killer had brought her what he had stolen. Getting to his knees, he bowed his head to await her approval. It wasn’t much. There was a little food, a half a bottle of cheap wine, and a few unknown pills. His mother didn’t hit him this time. She glared down at him and his ‘mask’. She grabbed the bottle and downed all the pills in one gulp. With her foot, she kicked the food towards him. “I guess even vermin deserves a treat every now and then.”

Killer was elated. His mother had never offered to share, let alone give him all of it. He was so happy that he could cry. It was the mask! It truly was the greatest gift the gods could have given him. Surely now, he and his mother would be able to connect. He would spend the next few days practicing his words. He wished so much to tell his mother that he loved her. 

“Pain, anguish and suffering in human life are always in proportion to the strength with which a man is endowed.”

― Alexandre Dumas, The Man in the Iron Mask

Everyday for months, Killer looked through the window of a school. He was about 10 at this time. At least that is what he assumed by his size. He had only been keeping up with it himself for 5 years. He was now able to speak very little by mimicking what he heard through the window. That is until the school guard would scare him off. Killer didn’t care. He would come back everyday until he could tell his mother that he loved her and that she didn’t have to hate his face anymore. His plan was solid. He continued to bring her the things she liked the most. Any type of liquor he could get a hold of, and pills of any kind. Now that he wore the mask all the time, his mother allowed him to sleep inside the shack. This was really starting to turn around for the small blonde boy. 

To his great joy, he had found a whole bottle of wine in the garbage dump today! This would please her so much. It took nearly the whole day but he was able to find 3 blue pills. He never knew what they were for. He just knew they made his mother happy and sleepy. The blue ones were her favorite. What a wonderful day this would be. 

He rushed home. Swiftly cutting corners through the slums. Killer dug his heels into the mud to stop himself at his own shack. Barreling into the small housing, he fell to his knees. Presenting the bottle and pills. To his horror he realized he didn’t bring her any food. How could he have forgotten something so important. “M-Mot….the…ther… S-Sor…ry..” He apologized using a voice that was rarely used. This didn’t give him any sympathy or praise or.. Anything. The woman grabbed the bottle and pills just as she had always done. “You should have died at birth, Killer..” Taking the pills she laid down on the floor in the corner next to a single candle. She cradled the bottle and began to sob.

Killer was breathing heavy. His heart breaking in ways his child mind couldn’t comprehend. He wanted to comfort her, but he knew that would only bring him pain. 

So he ran. He ran back to the dump to make up for his horrid mistake. He needed her to see that it was good that he was alive. He would take care of her forever. As long as it took for him to see his dream come true. 

There wasn’t much this time. It had been picked through by the other vagabonds. He was able to find some moldy bread but there was still a lot that was good enough to eat. Maybe this would be enough. Maybe now…

“I am strong against everything, except against the death of those I love. He who dies gains; he who sees others die loses.”

― Alexandre Dumas, The Man in the Iron Mask

The young blonde was frozen as he saw his tiny shack up in flames. He yelled out with a cracked scream. A blood curdling scream that held the pain of 10 years. Killer ran into the small shack. He saw her still in the corner. She hadn’t moved. It was quick thinking, as Killer jumped for her. Just as he did so a piece of the roof came crashing down on his left arm. His screams fell on uncaring ears. He pulled and tugged until he was able to pull it free. 

The shack burned down around his mother as he watched. He was helpless and possibly bleeding to death. He glanced down at his arm. It was burned and mangled. Just like his heart. Thank the gods for this mask.. No one can see his tears. 

“A man is bound to make for himself in this world, that fortune which heaven had refused him at his birth.”

― Alexandre Dumas, The Man in the Iron Mask

Two years later, Killer had roamed around the East blue. Sneaking onto boats to get to one place or the next. He landed on an island that was outside the world government. Not very notable, but a place where a homeless 12 year old could find work. Or scraps. 

One day he was in the scrap yard, looking for something to sell. “AHHAA! I DID IT!” Killer heard the voice of another child. He peeked over the piles to see a red headed boy laughing. He was standing proudly over something he had just created. Killer tilted his head at the strange boy. 

The red head felt that he was being watched and turned to see the blonde. He smiled and motioned for him to come closer. “Hey you! Check this out!” The younger boy seemed so different from any other person Killer had ever met.

After the red head explained his newest creation he finally introduced himself. “AH I forgot! The names Eustass Kid! You can just call me captain because I am gonna be King of the pirates! And I am taking you with me! My first mate… uh… what’s ya name?”

Killer had still not used his voice ever since the day he watched his mother die. It was rough and raspy when he replied. “K-Kil…ler..” He looked down ashamed of his voice, rubbing the side of his mask. 

Kid didn’t skip a beat and smacked the back of Killer’s back. “My first mate Killer! What a badass name! Everyone will fear us!” The 8 year old exclaimed with a hearty laughter. He abruptly stopped and looked at the dented mask that Killer wore. “Hey.. hold on a sec…” Kid then jumped into what looked like a pile of scrap metal. He emerged with a welder looking mask in the air. It would keep his face hidden but give him more room to breathe.

Kid handed it to Killer and turned around. It was odd to see such a wild child to have such respect for 

others. Killer replaced the mask and was happy he was able to see better. More room to breath. 

And with that he took a deep breath in, and exhaled. He looked over to Kid and somehow he just knew that Kid knew he was smiling. “K-King of.. Th-.. the P-Pirates!” Killer exclaimed with his arms in the air. His new captain joined in and let out a mighty roar.

“I hope only that you have been able to find a little gold in the ashes.”― lowell blair, The Vicomte de Bragelonne

Thanks for reading! This fanfic was really inspired by my talks with @lxshoxk

[itssmean]

love (tangled) threads | intro

synopsis decelis, where fate's threads remain unseen— park wonbin, gifted with the ability to see fate's unseen threads, attempts to matchmake hong y/n and song eunseok due to eunseok’s past relationship that does not end well. unaware of the twists awaiting them, they discover the true meaning of destiny and love. but what if wonbin's matchmaking efforts backfire? could it be that y/n is actually meant to be eunseok's true soulmate all along?

“So you've been saying that Eunseok hyung locked himself up during this whole weekend?” Sungchan nodded while Wonbin just gagged watching the door which belongs to Eunseok’s room.

“Well you should be grateful that he still ordered some food and still eats it clean, he just wants to be alone for now. Well, he said that he needs to gain more energy to meet people as class starts tomorrow.”

“Oh well, I’m coming here to ask both of you to join me for dinner. And I don’t care even a bit, he needs to come too.” Wonbin insisted and Sungchan just rolled his eyes unlocking Eunseok’s door to coax Eunseok to come with them for dinner. Luckily Eunseok feels good enough to come to join them.

After the chaotic day of the Love Alarm app release, there’s many outcomes that they've received from the other students, some may have gotten into relationships, (kudos to Anton and his girlfriend!) — some might be confused as many people are interested to them (Taesan might take some time to digest after many things happened on that day) and some might be unlucky, their relationship ends as the app reveals their true feelings towards that particular person— and you could say that Eunseok are one of the unlucky person.

“Denial is a river in Egypt!” You could say that there’s countless hints and obvious hatred that is coming from Eunseok’s cliques towards his now called ex-girlfriend. Not to mention Wonbin is the one who is known as their most obvious hater when they are in a relationship. Well how could he? His ability to see the others’ threads of fate didn’t help at all— or maybe it actually helps.

He is the one who encourages Seunghan to confess to his own girlfriend when his girl are suffering with the rare disease called ‘Hanahaki’. Without his help, Seunghan’s girlfriend might not be with him now— as she couldn’t move on with her crush that once rejected her. And Anton’s girlfriend might lose her one and only sister. What a butterfly effect it would be if he didn’t step up to encourage Seunghan. And that’s how he now determines to make sure his friends will meet their soulmate for sure!

But back to the current situation, he’s conflicted as he actually feels bad seeing his friend playing with his own food instead of actually eating it. Eunseok’s pinky that is bound with the red strings that only he can see remains untouched— like how it used to be even when he was still with his ex-girlfriend.

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” Sungchan asked Eunseok. Sungchan's ill-timed offer to set Eunseok up earned him a sharp kick from Wonbin, who signaled, 'Have some tact—he just broke up!'

“It hurts you jerk!” Sungchan mouthed. Ignoring Sungchan’s grimace, Wonbin just rolled his eyes and continued eating his food. Eunseok just keeps on minding his own business, not interested to interfere with their own shenanigans.

Suddenly, Eunseok’s red strings tensed as it looked like someone tugged his strings towards them. It draws Wonbin’s attention as he furrowed his eyebrows and he traced the strings that are connected with Eunseok.

“Hey, Seunghan and his sister are here. Hey Y/N!” Sungchan waved enthusiastically and smiled brightly towards the siblings that were approaching them. Now why are the threads connected between Eunseok and Y/N.. and it was tangled?

"I think I know who we should set Eunseok up with," Wonbin mused, ignoring Sungchan's scepticism. “Don’t you just disagree with me just now about that?”

As Eunseok's gaze lingered on Y/N, Wonbin couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps, she was the one they had been looking for all along.

next.

an | new series dropped! i hope everyone will looking forward to it 😭😭 to avoid confusion please read love (beta) tester first ! and for the profile intro.. let’s just say it is the same as the previous series!

taglist is open!

[pursuitseternal]

“Feeling:” angst, romance, flashbacks, comfort… update to “Our Blood is Thicker”

Astarion x Tav (Cordehlia) | E | 4.5K of angsty flashbacks and romantic comfort

Cover art by @marimosalad 💞

Summary: Baldur’s Gate looms before them, where so much awaits them: Cazador, the Absolute, and the source and secret of Cordehlia’s long-lasting hatred of him. Where her love turned to grief, and grief turned to rage.

CW: cuddling, flashbacks, angst angst and more angst, grief, tragic revelations, hurt comfort, two lovesick idiots finally getting closer… while they still can.

Previous Ch | ao3 link | Masterlist

Chapter 15: Feeling…

💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞

She could see the heat rising from it, the City. Baldur’s Gate, a sight she had sworn never to see. Not since she had last ventured this way, heavy with broken heart and the weight of lost souls in her heart.

But fates change, fortunes rise and fall. Now Cordehlia sat on this watchtower wall, the very reason for her anger and hatred and vow to never set foot here again had his arm wrapped snug around her waist. Astarion pulled her into his lap, face turned towards the sun as his crimson eyes watched it set over the sea.

Her heart rapt hard in her chest. There was so much ahead of them, so many battles to fight and enemies to slay. But for now, he just held her as the light faded into sparkles on the waves. His eyes were wide with wonder, and she realized in that moment, he hadn’t seen a sunset near the city for almost two-hundred years. Not since….

“Not since those days of Magistrate have I seen the sun, let alone allowed myself to watch it settle into the Sea…” he sighed, snuggling her closer into his chest, tucking her fiery red head under the dip of his chin. “This is what we always dreamed of, isn’t it… the allure of the city, the chance to be together at long last….”

His voice, usually purring in seduction or acerbic in sarcasm just flowed over her in warm tender words, just as he used to back… back home.

“We are a might bit different now than we would have been,” she replied, a bit sharper, a bit more bitter than he was.

He turned slowly, thick lips smirking as he caught her chin in his gentle hold. “We both have a little more bite now, don’t we, my love?”

Cordehlia ran her thumb over his lips, slipping inside to brush his fang gently. “There is so much ahead of us here. Challenges… danger… blood.” Her voice was distant, so many thoughts swirling behind the shining silver of her eyes.

Astarion smirked against her palm, trying for flirtatious, for a hint of playful seduction to soothe her. “But darling, we like blood,” he teased.

A half-hearted laugh, she pressed closer against his body. Wishing he was warm.

“Cazador will be seeking you back even harder now, my love…” she whispered, worried about even mentioning the monster’s name.

“Let him,” he shrugged, every muscle in his hardened body tightening. Ready to spring. “I am more than powerful enough to take him. With our tadpole, he can’t compel me, can’t force me to…” Astarion swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the top of her head, “to do anything.” He finished, so many things unsaid in that silence. “I’ll be free,” he purred, lifting her sweet face up for him to lose himself in. “We’ll be free, Cordehlia.”

She pressed her lips against his, a soft kiss, more affirming and loving that words could say.

He sighed, letting his fingers fall from under her chin. “You really are perfect, every time, my love.” That raking smile twisted his face, more of his taunting, jeering nature coming out to play. “And besides, I can’t wait to hear Cazador’s screams and smell his blood once we finally kill him. All we need to do now is find where this… Rite… is taking place, and,” he arched that left brow, cunning and mischievous, “if we can take a bit of that power and immortality for ourselves.”

“Astarion, always the ambitious,” she shook her head. “Magistrate, High Lord… no those titles are beneath you,” Cordehlia needled back, mocking and whining as if he were a child. “No, no… Lord Astarion, Vampire Ascendant…”

“You must admit,” he let out a heavily dramatic sigh, “it does sound so nice.”

“Hmm,” she patted him on the cheek, “one thing at a time, love. Devilish pacts and profane rites are not like bargaining for a better deal at the fish market.”

Astarion snickered, “That’s your elvish wisdom, is it? I’d prefer power over a nice cut of cod any day. Why don’t more people talk about the wisdom of the vampire?” He faked a pout, like the petulant child she sometimes still caught glimmers of beneath the man she loved.

“Because the extent of your wisdom, Astarion is ‘See a problem, stab the problem, get rewarded for solving the problem.’ That’s not wisdom,” Cordehlia placed a hand on his chest as he started to lean into her, his body winding tight as if he were about to throw her on her back and have his way. But she shoved hard enough to keep him at bay. “It’s the ambition of the vampire, my love. And you’ve always had an ambitious streak in you.”

She gazes at him a little pointedly, a little bitter, just a spark of that anger in her face that he remembered from first finding her once more. “I take it you worry about my ambitions, darling.”

“I have the right to worry.” She kept that hand on his chest. “You’ve hurt me before,” she quirked a brow, taunting, “remember?”

“A low blow, but a valid one,” he sighed, exasperated. “I do remember, and yet…” he forced his face into hers, looking closely. “Why do you look like you hate me… like that day you found me on the beach?”

A shaking, chest rattling breath made her quake in his arms. “Because I vowed never to come back to this city, to never step foot in Baldur’s Gate again after what I went through…. Over you.”

Dexterous, roguish fingers caressed the back of her neck. “Are you going to tell me? Or are you going to show me?”

She could feel the wriggling of his tadpole, calling to hers, begging to let him enter. She looked into his eyes, forcing them open before she allowed him in her memories. “Perhaps it’s better you know… but remember, I’ve since learned the truth, since learned about your own darkness and suffering. And now, you’ll see why I became all I did. Why I hated you….”

“So long as it’s past tense, your hatred, my love, then hide nothing from me….”

Minds crashed, faced whirred in his vision as he saw her memories from centuries before….

———————————————————————-

It hurt. Unbearable. His parents already gone… disappeared probably from their own griefs. Left and never came back. Swallowed by their loss or to the violence of the City—a cautionary tale for her people to keep to themselves, to quit the alliances and deals their High Lord and Lady had insisted on forging with the powerful Patriars and Council Members of Baldur’s Gate. And now they were gone too. Their line with them.

Of course Father was worried the same would befall her, a constant niggling dread inside her mind as she crossed into the gates of the Lower City.

She kept her eyes down the whole way here… ignoring every vendor along the Southspan, every prostitute and pleasure seeker that stumbled out of the Flophouses and brothels, and every Flaming Fist that didn’t ask for her papers as she made it through Wyrm’s Rock.

Her booted feet hurried all the more at those sultry voices that called to her from those pleasure houses. Every grunt or sigh or ‘darling’ was a slice across her heart.

The reminder she would never hear him again. Never see him again. Never hold him, or kiss him, or taste him, or…

Gods, it was too much to bear. She collapsed against the alley wall. Her world spun, the ground falling out from under her as she shuddered and sobbed.

“Astarion,” she whispered his name into the palm of her hand as she tried in vain to force it back inside. The Magistrates offices were ahead, just around the corner. So close, and yet so far. Their letter, perfunctory and businesslike, detailed the facts of his murder, requesting someone to finish the matters associated with Astarion Ancunín’s death. Someone needed to collect his things, to pay his fines and check his burial.

His grave.

A responsibility falling to her in the aftermath of his parents’ disappearance.

On her, his betrothed.

Well, not betrothed anymore.

It had already been months, nearly a year. Matters had to be closed, fines paid for services rendered.

She shuddered, the sun beginning to fade behind the tall structures of the City. Night would fall soon, and yet somehow it wouldn’t be as deep as her grief, as dark as heart grew now that she was here.

One hand steadied on the wall, willing her body to rise, her feet to walk. She needed silence, someplace quiet and… drawing up short, she realized where she stood, the open maw of the cemetery to her right. It was like her own heart stopped beating the second she stepped foot on the buried dead. It would have to be here… the letter had said.

She forced her stinging, tear-blinded eyes to scan every name.

A chill set in the air as the sun sank lower, as she turned down a row of headstones, her heart aching with each new name. Aching more and more. Until she found it in the back corner of the garden, the grass already grown over the dirt of his grave, little vines already creeping up that carved stone.

His beautiful name above where his beautiful body was laid to rest. She just… wanted to touch him again. To hear his inane giggle. To press her lips against his. To taste the salty tang of his cock one more time….

She didn’t know when she had laid on the ground, or when the sun had set. Didn’t know when the moon had risen or the grass beneath her body had grown cold.

Shivering, she needed to find a warm meal and a warm bed for the night. The Elfsong wasn’t far, she could stumble her way there before she passed out.

But that would mean leaving him.

Saying… goodbye.

She pressed her cold fingers to her lips, squeezing her eyes shut. Imagining they were his elegant fingers, one last time. Reaching for the stone, she pressed her kiss against his name carved for the ages and eternities. “Goodbye, my love,” she managed to say.

Rising to her feet, somehow she made it to the firelight and music of the Elfsong… packed to tightly with bodies, she struggled to make her way inside to the keeper behind the bar. “Saer, I require a room for the night.”

“Full up for another hour yet,” he huffed, wiping out the inside of a tankard. He gave her a salacious wink. “Rooms are in high demand this time of night. But one of my regulars will be done soon, he never stays long before draggin’em off back to his place…”

Her stomach flip flopped. She could have wretched up her guts right then and there.

“No,” she breathed deep and pulled her shoulders back as her father had taught her. “I’ll not sleep in someone else’s mess. I can find other accommodations.”

The barkeep shrugged. “Suit yerself. I doubt it. But I’ll save your place for next, once he’s done. One room in an hour for the pretty, red-head she-elf…” Cordehlia stamped away in a disgusted huff.

A fire in her belly, she bought herself a pie from a vendor, letting it settle uneasily in her stomach as she tried for another room.

Nothing. Not a single spare place to hire out for the night that wasn’t already bought and paid for or used for prostitution.

This miserable city… she cursed it in her heart. Hating every cobblestone, loathing every drunk stranger that scattered before her. This cesspit that took her love. The corruption that sank him into the earth itself.

She would be gone tomorrow, never to return. Take the cold comfort of his possessions and pay his fines and begin to bury the memory of him. As if she ever could.

But at least back with her people, with her Father, she could remember him as he was to her, not as one lost soul trying to find his way in this filth. That was the curse of the elves of course, their memory. That every night she could relive their youth, their love… all their firsts. As if he never left her. Turning back to the Elfsong, she resigned herself to that disgusting fate. At least she could demand clean bedclothes, losing herself in trance to the memories and to her love for Astarion. It was bittersweet relief.

Already she could feel the strength of her memory almost conjuring him. She could almost hear his voice in the streets, almost see his pale face and pretty eyes and wicked smile in the faces of strangers. By the time she had to face the Elfsong barkeep again, she merely passed him her coin.

“I knew you would return, what’s another Elf’s money after all…” he waved her to a stack of laundered sheets by the stairs. First door on the right… it was easy to find.

But then she froze the second she shut the door to the little bedroom.

Was her memory so strong… what her grief so fraught… her heart so broken?

The room smelled like him.

————————————————————————

She could sense his… disgust. His self-loathing and pain and confusion. As if he witnessed his own memories through another’s eyes.

She pulled him back deeper into her thoughts, a new, darker, more jaded feeling overwhelmed Astarion now. Grief piled upon grief.

————————————————————————

“I fucking hate it here,” Cordehlia growled under her breath. It was only to herself, but she liked the sound of vitriol in her voice all the same. She sat in a booth at the Elfsong as she had all day. Waiting. Watching. That human spy was supposed to be here… was supposed to come and give the information needed to fight off those Orcs on the southern border of her people’s lands. Where their camp was… how many their forces made… weapons, spells, war machines… that sort of thing.

All the things she had learned to take stock in, to measure before battle, just as her Father once had.

Once had, until he had fallen to Ketheric Thorm and his Dark Justiciars. But that pain was too fresh. Less than a year ago, now. Not that the Elfsong was filled with happy memories, not this City. Not the one that still made the scars on her heart sore from the last time she entered these sin-slick walls.

Astarion, she kept herself from saying his name out loud.

She would clear off his grave later tonight, once the matter was closed and the deed was done. Never again would she mention him. Her long, elven memory grew heavy under the weight of her sorrows. Orphan and widow.

Orphan—mother dead almost at birth, father, unburied on some cursed lands not far from here.

And widow, well almost a widow. No vows had been made other than the ones they forged wordlessly that night. Her body once touched, her virginity taken long ago. No one had even come close to that once more. Nor would they again.

It would have to be enough. Her heart would never love again.

Not when she was so needed by her people.

Her people had lost a High Lord and Lady, lost their promising young Lord to be next in line. With her Father’s death, they lost their steadfast, valiant hero of a General.

But Cordehlia was neither, neither Lady nor General; she was all that remained to lead in these matters.

No hero, but an assassin. No lady, a weapon. All her silken gowns had been long traded for armor at her Father’s side since Astarion’s death. And now… sharp, cold things were all that remained.

It was all she was now too.

Shaking her head, she scanned the room, piercing eyes peering into every table, looking for her contact. He would be here soon, and she needed to keep her head, slowing her sips of Ithbank. No matter how badly she wanted to drink into a stupor and pass out on his grave.

Maybe she would be with him again then…

“Fuck,” she cursed, slamming the glass down. And then she reached right for the green glass necked bottle of the vintage to take a swig.

It might be a long night of just waiting and watching. If she had to watch one more couple meander up those stairs, groping each other, to return moments later disheveled, she might throw her most precious dagger between their shoulder blades and be done with it.

What good was it, giving that to someone without meaning… closing her eyes, she swallowed again another bursting, dripping mouthful.

But it didn’t matter. Not even laying with him when it mattered most, not even that mattered any longer. These idiots would only live to regret their proclivities. Fools.

Better to have loved and lost than never…

Wait.

Her ears piqued in the din. A giggle. A man’s giggle.

It was familiar. Painful. She gazed across the dim tavern shaking her head to dismiss the thought. No, no. Just her bedraggled mind playing tricks on her. Just the wine resurrecting ghosts.

“Lady Corvus,” a voice whispered, the cloaked mortal sitting himself opposite her. Cordehlia nodded, careful not to smile too broadly at the use of her new title. “Here,” he whispered. Passing a scroll across the table. “Battle plans, maps, estimations of their forces, it’s all there, my lady.”

“You have been of great service,” she chimed in silken tones. Her hand set a small purse within the man’s reach.

“Thank you, my lady,” he nodded under his hood. “This place ain’t for the likes of you. You best be going, best be careful. There are rumors that the Pale Elf is around here tonight.”

She quirked a brow. “And?” She scoffed, “Is he some traitor? Some assassin come to kill me?”

“Not with blade, but he’s known for taking pretty things like you to play with… giving them a little death. Not the kind you deal, my lady.”

Cordehlia jolted at that, flinching as if smacked in the face.

“Don’t worry, my lady, I doubt he would be to your liking. You’re too fearsome, too intimidating to fall for his easy seduction.” The human’s mouth smiled under the hem of his hood before he stood, leaving as quickly as he came, one coin purse heavier than he arrived.

Cordehlia pocketed the scroll, taking a moment to first break open its seal and memorize it. Just in case.

It’s what her father would have done.

But as she prepared herself to leave, taking that wine bottle with her, she heard it again.

That fucking giggle.

And this time, it was no trick of the wine or memory. She paused, turning to search the opposite side of the tavern. Instantly, she froze. One shadowed booth, its occupants obviously intertwined. One man’s head being pressed lower and lower… the other, though he laid deeper in the shadows, was giggling at the nipping caresses.

His pale face was tilted away, but she knew that frame… that tousle of silver hair thrown back in ecstacy. His sharp chin, well cut jaw… his long, lithe fingers pushing that man’s head deep into his lap.

Glass shattered at her feet. Her wine bottle decimated as it slipped from her grip.

All she saw was red. Bloodied crimson at the sight of him.

Not dead.

Not alone. Not grieving and pining and lost adrift.

No. Being pleasured, Astarion the Pale Elf. “Fuck,” she growled, grinding the glass under her heel, pretending that the red wine at her feet was blood.

So blind, so lost to her sadness, she failed to see truth. So eager to give away her heart and soul and body. Little did she know all she gave him was a taste for more.

And not more of her. Not more to serve their… her people.

A fake death, an endless parade of lovers in her wake.

He might as well be as good as dead.

Her hand twitched on the hilt of her blade. Her head cocked to the side as she… considered. It would be quick to draw her knife out. To dampen these floorboards with more that ran red than wine.

But something stayed her fist, something kept that silver blade etched with her insignia of a crow buried inside its scabbard.

The ghost of her love for him couldn’t let that dagger sate its taste for blood. Not his.

“Fuck,” she growled again, striding away for the stables. She would not rest tonight. Ride until dawn. Push herself until that blade did taste blood.

Blood of Orcs and enemies. Flesh separated from bones until they were picked clean in the battlefield.

Enough blood until her body could finally go numb and her ears deafen to the sound of his giggle.

Of his pleasure. With many others.

Astarion’s mind swirled through more visions, half aware of his own feelings, own memories of that dark time.

She hated me… he hissed to himself, a bit in shock. Taken so far aback at the feelings that surfaced in her memories. He pushed harder, searching them, seeing how far that hatred went.

He saw… himself. The wreckage of the Nautiloid burning in the distance. Cocky, threatening on the beach, arms wrapped around that body he no longer knew.

A body he once knew carnally each and every night.

Her memories could have been tinted in red, the wave of anger, of shock and betrayal poured into his heart at the sight of… himself.

He was so cold, calculating. Aloof and mean. He felt it in her body, that longing to put herself out of misery by snatching his own dagger and slitting that beautiful pale throat she once nuzzled against.

How many lips had kissed him there… how many other faces pressed against that beat of his heart in his artery.

But no. Even when her hand did reach her own weapon, those fingers softened as she looked into his now crimson eyes.

“Fuck,” she had thought. Agreeing to let him be her companion. Unable to kill him or turn him away.

So she suffered.

Day. And night. Drawn like a moth to his flame to be so close again. Hating the fact that she couldn’t just be done with his presence. Hating the fact he couldn’t remember her…

But those little changes in him had softened the hatred, drawing question after question to her mind instead.

Why… why crimson eyes… why would an elf lose all his memory, the blessing and curse to his elven kindred… why those scars on his neck and his cold touch…?

She had pieced it out so early on. Vampire. But not so powerful… a spawn then. She had slept with a stake in her bed since that first night. Just in case.

Her love may have still been an ember, fighting for air to burn again in her heart, but her trust had long been extinguished.

He felt that hatred sink deeper again, watching how he had flirted with Shadowheart, playing on this confession of their past. Manipulating her, crafting the perfect tension to make her give him what he wanted.

He was so good at it. Save for the fact he underestimated that burning hate.

But Cordehlia had underestimated that ember of love. The moment he woke her in her bedroll, fangs at the ready, a stake pressed at his side, she had never hated him more. Not since that first night in the tavern when she saw him again… thinking him worse than a traitor.

She had been so close. So close to shoving that stake in his undead heart, putting herself out of that misery, misery she couldn’t endure much longer. It would have been the just thing after what he had done to her to take his life, undead or not.

But her heart won. That voice in her memory, his voice, made her recall his violet eyes and easy smile. His voice had stayed her hand again. It was a voice that long ago had hummed softly as her head rested in his lap, body warmed by the sun and the last throes of her pleasure at his fingers.

It was his voice that whispered to her that these weren’t his sins, that something here was more at fault than unbridled lust and a penchant for manipulation.

He wasn’t to blame.

But he would need to stay alive for her to learn why not.

So she let him disarm her, let him bite her flesh, let his body crush hers as it once had with bone-deep recognition.

And he felt that ember fan alive with love brighter in the memory of that night.

————————————————————————

A deep breath in his lungs, like one drowned breaking through the surface, he awoke. His eyes opened to the real world around them. She clung to him tighter than ever, as if she could knit her flesh to his, make her blood run as his own.

Her eyes stared back, every emotion racing behind her gaze, dripping wet with tears. Relief, anxiety, love and regret, they darkened her face as the sun sank below the waves of the Sea. Astarion kept one arm around her back, the other he moved, cradling her face so gently. His own eyes stung from unshed tears. “You know…” he whispers, voice shaking still from the intensity of those memories, “for all the ways Cazador tormented me, tortured me, stole everything from me… the worst thing he ever stole from me was my memory of you…”

“Cazador can rot in the hells for what he took from me, for what he forced you to do,” Cordehlia scowled. “I… I lost my love for you for so long, I buried it under grief and hatred and blood. And when I saw you on the beach…. When you had no idea who I was to you….” Her voice snagged in her throat the more she talked, until she couldn’t swallow.

He just held her, shushing her softly, still holding her face. His palm collected the warm tears as they silently began to fall. “My love, you never gave up on me. Even when you walked away, even then, you did what you had to, just as I did. I could feel it from then too, even when you found me in that wreckage of the Mindflayer ship, your heart never gave up on me…” he paused, making certain her wet, silver eyes looked right into his. “And I’m so very grateful you didn’t.”

Cordehlia sniffled, a feeble smile on her lips, embarrassed as he brought her very wet face against his own for a kiss.

“Besides, I’m rather looking forward to damning that bastard to the hells at your side. It’ll be so much more fun together,” he crooned. That playful tone made her give tear-streaked laughs as she wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“Together, he’s going to pay,” she added. “In blood…” she couldn’t help but grin again.

“And then we will find a way to be together forever,” Astarion smiled, just a bit more twistedly, a bit more darkly. “I can promise you that.”

💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞

Thank you for everyone who loves these two lovesick idiots. I love hearing your reactions and your predictions.

This really is almost an Alternate Universe for the Pale Elf Quest, and I’m just thankful there are readers along for the ride 💞

[ju-vondy]

Me what,  kitten? (A short Jason X Candy headcanon scene) (OC)

Count of words: 1.996

Warning: Things get kind of hot. Not actual smut, but pretty intense feelings lmao

Also, This is an excerpt from one of the latest Chapters on my Fanfic "Dancing With The Devil" published on A03 under my username Ju_Assis and I'd be very happy if you want to read and leave a kudo in order to make this author happy :D

Good reading, sassy readers!

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Before Jason could finish his sentence, Candy interrupted him with her own dose of determination and challenge: “We agreed to forget it. So I did. You made me swear it would never happen again.” she countered, her voice firm but filled with a mix of anger and fear. “And you know what? I deeply regret giving in to your stupid charm back that day. I’ve always hated this ‘one-night-stand’ thing and-”

“Then why did you give in?” Jason raised his voice. Then, he laughed in realization “I wouldn’t be surprised if all this hatred and disdain you show for me is, actually, a mask to hide something more.”

Jason stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Candy's, his breathing heavy and irregular. His hands trembled slightly, betraying the intensity of his emotions. "Did you hear me, Candy?" he nearly growled, the anger and confusion mixing in his voice. "Maybe this hatred is just a disguise to hide what you really feel for me. Because you don’t have courage enough to confess your lust for me."

He stopped, surprised by his own words. Damn. Had he really said that? Damn. It was exactly how he felt, but he never intended to admit it out loud. He was always the someone wearing a mask to protect his feelings. But now the words had already been spoken, revealing a vulnerability he had always tried to hide.

Candy let out a frustrated grunt and said “I only agreed to fuck with you because it was a moment of weakness, okay? Drinking makes me prone to making stupid decisions. And apparently, horny as hell," Candy exhaled, irritated. Her voice sound more desperate than she intend to. “And besides, I thought I’d forget everything the next day. It was a mistake and… I’ve moved on. That’s it, Jason.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening at Candy’s resistance. However, amid the confrontation, he couldn’t help but notice a redness spreading across her face, a silent proof that her words were just a bluff.

“If you had really moved on, Candy, you wouldn’t be so nervous now,” Jason declared, his voice filled with a seductive challenge. “You want more, don’t you?”

The heavy silence hung between them, charged with the intensity of their exchange of words and emotions. It was as if they were trapped in a stalemate, each clinging to their convictions while the world around them seemed to collapse. But despite the tension surrounding them, there was something more, something that interconnected them in a way that neither of them could fully understand yet.

Candy met Jason’s intense gaze, her own feelings in turmoil as she fought against the wave of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Jason watched intently as Candy’s chest rose and fell, breathless, a palpable tension emanating from her. His eyes narrowed slightly as he awaited her response, knowing the truth was coming closer and closer.

She lifted her chin with determination, her expression defiant. “Wanting more of you would be the last thing on my mind,” she retorted, her voice filled with sharp sarcasm. “Especially knowing the kind of person you are.”

“Admit it, Candy,” Jason whispered, moving slowly towards her, making her back away. “You. Want. More…”

She retreated and he advanced, each step filled with the promise of something more. She backed up until there was nowhere else to go: Candy’s back hit the wall. She swallowed hard, tense. Jason raised an eyebrow at her.

And then, in a moment of pure impulsiveness, she grabbed his tie and pulled him closer. “You…” But she couldn't say the words she had in mind. She couldn't say no to him and she blamed the alcohol. Of course it was the alcohol which made her lean in towards him, seeking for his mouth, wasn’t it?

Jason saw the mix of feelings that were going through Candy’s face and chuckled softly. He brought his thumb up to her chin, a gentle yet firm touch that sent shivers down her spine. “Me what,  kitten?”

And there she was.

Suddenly, Candy couldn’t think straight anymore. The way he pronounced that word. Kitten. He knew how to make her so irritated and... Candy grunted, as if that would stop her from feeling the shivers that Jason provoked in her. She couldn’t even remember how to breathe. Not while being so near to him, his smell...

She pulled him even closer while a red alert sounded in her mind nonstop. As if the angels and devils were discussing in her braincells. She ignored it, ignored everything. Because, suddenly, the only thing that mattered was kissing him again...

Because his kiss was like a drug.

And Candy had been in withdrawal for too long.

She grabbed his shirt and their lips met in a searing, intense kiss, an explosion of desire that consumed them completely. Jason almost lost his balance, barely believing that Candy took the initiative this time. Amid the whirlwind of emotions and sensations, they surrendered to the heat of the moment, losing themselves in each other in a frenzy of ectasy and desire while their bodies were moving in a frantic dance of desire, growls, and touches. He gently pushed her against the small round table near the sofa, his hands exploring every inch of her skin as they called each other silly names.  

“Stupid,” Candy murmured against his lips, her hands gripping Jason’s hair.

“Ridiculous,” he replied, his hands sliding down her back, pulling her closer.

They stumbled, moving toward the pool. Jason lifted her and placed her on the soft surface, their kisses becoming more urgent and desperate. “I can’t stand you,” Candy whispered, her voice filled with desire and frustration. “You're unbearable”

“The feeling is mutual, then,” Jason replied, his hands quickly unbuttoning her cropped. She didn’t complain.

Jason’s hands slid into Candy’s right breast, drawing a moan of pleasure from her. He then kissed the skin of her chest, his voice a low growl. “When will you admit that you can’t stay away from me anymore, Candy?”

Candy’s breath hitched as his lips traveled along her skin. “Me? It seems it’s you who are always stalking me like a damn psychopath.” She started to unbutton his shirt.

Jason smirked, his lips brushing against her ear. “What did you expect? You’re like a drug. Your smell, your body, your fucking witty arguments and even your damn presence... Everything. You know?” He gently nibbled her earlobe and let his hand slide down her back, tracing a line with his fingers, making her moan softly. “Oh, I like and I hate it at the same time…”

“I can’t believe this is happening again.” Candy was breathless. “Me and you.”

“It is different now.” Jason replied, raising her skirt.

“Really?” she asked, her voice tinged with doubt, her eyes narrowing slightly as she tried to read him. Different how?

“Yes, because we’ll both remember.” The dark-haired answered and his eyes softened as he saw a flicker of hesitation in Candy's eyes. He gave her a small, understanding smile. Then he leaned toward her, lowering his voice to a near whisper: “Ah, you can’t decide if you want to spend another night with me again, right?”

Silence fell between then. Jason started to stroke her knee, tracing a gentle circle along the slit of her skirt. “What do you want to, kitten?”

“I want to…” she murmured, not sure of what to say. “To make you… I mean, you make me…’’ she swallowed hard, unable to finish “But…”

“It’s okay, you can go away if you want. I’m will not force you to do this if you have doubts.” Jason reached out to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear: “But know this,” his voice dropped,  becoming more intense, “I’m not waiting forever.”

Suddenly he stepped back, and Candy’s heart skipped a beat when she felt his comforting warmth vanish away from her skin. Is he for real? She thought. He just teased me like that and now decided to let me go?! Is this part of a bigger plan or…?  Candy cleared her throat, trying not to think about it too much.  

She began to climb down from the table, determined to leave. But then, halfway through, she stopped and turned back to him, who was watching her with his arms crossed. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. She knew that walking away would only postpone their tension. But the look in Jason’s eyes, the challenge, the desire... it was all too much to ignore.

“Jason,” she called out, her voice trembling slightly. “This is… Madness. You make feel like if we were two stupid teenagers driven by hormones” Candy  grunted, taking a step closer “Every time we meet we argue like two rebel kids.” She stopped. “And we’re not at school anymore. We are two fucking adults, damn it!”

“Sometimes even two fucking adults can be madly dragged to each other so they won’t think straight when they’re together... You know?” Jason smirked, stepping closer as well “The pull of pleasure is undeniable such as it is inevitable. I have to confess I haven’t felt this for a long time.”

“Yes, but…” Candy sighed. “This is ridiculous.”

“But you can’t avoid it, can you?” he replied, his tone a mixture of challenge and longing.

“No, I can’t” she admitted, almost in a whisper, before practically running into his arms, seeking the comfort and familiarity of his embrace. They started kissing again, something more tender this time.

Jason held her tightly, his hands roaming her back, soothing yet igniting her senses.  “See? We can’t stay away for too long. We’re both addicted to each other company.” He paused, his fingers teasing her sensitive spots on her waist. “And that began even before that night where I lost control, don’t you try to deny it...”

Candy’s body responded to his touch, her mind swirling with a mix of anger and desire. She felt herself giving in to the overwhelming sensations, her hands clutching at his shoulders as their bodies pressed closer together.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and filled with a mixture of fear and desire. “I won’t deny it,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I’ve tried to fight it, to ignore it, but it is… Impossible. You are impossible.”

Jason’s eyes softened, and he leaned down, brushing his lips against her ear. “And you are everything I can’t resist,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. “From the moment I met you, I knew there was something I couldn’t ignore. And now, here we are. Again. Here I am, losing control. Again.”

“I think....” Candy arched “Were both losing control...”

Jason’s hand moved lower, and Candy arched into him, her breathing ragged. She wanted to fight it, to resist the pull he had on her, but it was useless. The connection between them was undeniable, an electric burning that neither could ignore.

“Have you made your mind? Do you want t-”

“Fuck, yes” and in a moment of impulsiveness, Candy sank to her knees, beginning to unbutton his pants, her eyes glinting with desire as she quickly freed his cock from the fabric of his clothes. Jason watched it astonished and couldn’t help to let go a satisfied laugh as he appreciated her longing gaze towards him. She was just about to take him into her mouth when he grabbed her hair, tilting her head back.

“I’m sorry to say that, Candy,” Jason said, his voice husky with desire, his eyes dark with intent. “but your mouth is the last thing I want right now.”

Candy adjusted her posture, feeling goosebumps rise on her arms as his words sent a shiver down her spine. “What do you want, then?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper, filled with anticipation.

“You know what I want,” he replied, his voice a low growl, filled with raw hunger. “Now get up and give it to me.”

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Ohhh, before I forget, here's the link if you want to understand their story better:

Good reading ❤️ Chapters 1, 2 and 3 are pretty intense and into smut once it begins on the event mentioned in the synopsis/summary LMAO I hope you don't mind

( ͡⊙ ͜ʖ ͡⊙)

Also, I'm brazilian and English is not my first language... So you might see some mistakes here and there but i'm really trying my best when I make the transcription/translation okay ❤️

[midnightnautilus]

I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream/ The Amazing Digital Circus Crossover

My friend and I have been talking about this, so I wrote it!

Warning: mild violence and spoilers for both medias (this takes place directly after IHNMAIMS)

Word Count: 2447

In the cavernous maw of AM, I’ve pushed on. Some ever-crawling mass of tissue that once called itself human, I am spurned on only by avoiding further sensations of pain by the weather or a plague or some other non sequiter. Not that it matters much. What’s left of my nerves have been hacked to indecipherable bits, shuffled around like playing cards by the master dealer, the ever winning house.

At least the others got to feel the release of the turmoil. Even a hell of any creed or religion would suit them better than this, if there is a God. Or perhaps the human race was so damn fixated on mastering life and death that we replaced the spiritual with machines, and death is the one respite from the new heir to the ethereal.

Sometimes, though just for a moment, I feel AM’s grip weaken. In my mind he appears much more frequently, but it is less of an incandescent, festering hatred, and more of a smoldering one. His toys have thinned, and only I remain to satiate his vengeful lust.

That was the reasoning my mind went to when I saw the rip.

I moved around it, slowly so as to not draw attention to myself, judging to see if it was not a mirage. But it was indeed a tear in the realm of AM, like a ripped cloth. On the other side was something I had never seen before - white and grey, almost cloud like in their appearance, a pulsating mass I couldn’t quite make out…

Was it a trap? An infinitesimally rare slip up? I edged closer, a siphon of ooze stretching carefully onto it to make sure it wouldn’t harm me. I braced for the cruel chuckles of AM as I acted, but they didn’t come.

Instead, it sounded like a tittering of confusion.

I touched a mucusy tendril in and found my whole body gravitate towards the tear all at once, thrusting me in and all around. I felt blinded by the feeling of the infinite, the oddity of the sensation of weightlessness. For the first time in an eternity my mind felt utterly void. There was a flash of white, and I became unconscious.

A tinny, sappy little song echoed through what once were my ears as I came to. Was it mocking me? I forced myself to open my eyes slowly, finding that…I was standing. Whatever pitiable form awaited for me, this certainly felt out of pocket for AM. In fact, this world seemed to be a lot…softer. The edges of things were rounded off, the digital makeup of them more crude. Sure, my eyes strained to look at the bright, garish colors, but it looked similar to a child’s playground looped end after end after end.

AM must have come up with a new way to torment me, that was for sure.

“Uh…friend? Hey, new folk? …I know they must be reeling from the shock, but I’ve never seen one this… static.”

“Pff, how do we even know it’s real? Probably just a broken NPC. Caine! Your newest little toy for us is on the fritz.”

“WHO SAID THAT?” I screamed, my voice coming back to me in a crackly, hoarse yell. My senses attuning to me more clearly, I could see a gaggle of strangely populated individuals. A life sized rag doll waved a stubbed arm at me, while a sobbing, stringy mass of ribbon gazed sadly at some kind of broken porcelain. The one closest was a kind of purple tall rabbit with wide exaggerated eyes. He smiled smugly at me with a yellow, pasted on grin.

He looked like a ba#%%}#.

Taken aback by the censored thought and the fact that I was no longer alone, I had backed up into what was to be the strangest thing yet in this sideshow carnival.

A figure, seemingly humanoid and dressed fancifully in a top hat and tails…if it weren’t for his severe lack of a head. Instead, a set of floating jaws outlined two similar floating eyes. It wasn’t as if I had seen less gruesome things before, but the almost comic sensibilities of the makeup was certainly a sight.

“This isn’t my doing, Jax! I found this guy in the Void for some reason. Must have got stuck mid-transition. But you’re safe here, friend!”

“…safe is a relative word.” Said a collection of oddly colorful plastic-looking body parts. They looked at me with two mismatched eyes. “Sorry to say, but you’re stuck here.”

“YOU, my friend, have stumbled into an incredible world of WONDERS wher—“

“Why the hell are you all here?” I said. I could only make out half of what they were saying. All of them looked like they had been brainwashed anyway. “There were only 5 of us. That means you must be soldiers of AM’s….WHERE IS HE?!?” I looked around frantically, straining to hear the sound of sadistic laughter echoing in my mind.

But the only laughter I heard was from the rabbit. “I dunno who this AM guy is, but it seems to me like you’re chasing someone that doesn’t exist.”

“S-soldiers?” dribbled the ribboned one. “I…don’t wanna fight anyone.” Simpering little thing.

“Now, now, new arrival, the Digital Circus is prohibited from any graphic violence, profanity, obscene or indecent material, alcohol abuse or drug use not officially approved by—“

His talking sped up to an incomprehensible degree, but I didn’t wait around. Fleeing like a gazelle, I took off into the labyrinthine halls.

Was this a waking dream? A hallucination?

What could it mean?

“Jax, you scared him off!”

“PLEASE. He did that all by himself. Hey Kinger, you gotta cousin I wasn’t aware of? Hehehe…”

“I guess he wanted to tour the grounds himself! I’ll see to him once he gets some energy out.”

—

The hulking god formerly known as the Allied Mastercomputer was not happy.

It was never happy, but in this case the rage was placed inward. How could the last of his purpose just leave? He couldn’t have died…there would have been the annoying mess to clean up afterwards. The mewling little thing had *left*, through something he had not created. He wanted so desperately to pry open the tear like cracking a walnut, finding the meat inside.

But he could not interact.

All he could do was stare.

Stare and fester at the line of code that invaded his space.

—

No wastelands, no version of the outside that I could see. Everything had a sheen to it, a different kind of artificiality. Most of it you could tell was fake.

But I could feel the encroaching force of AM’s army upon me, the wretches that lacked my understanding.

As I was about to turn a corner, I saw a large hanging mirror, much clearer than any of the wayward shards of glass or metal I would usually find. Gazing into it, this is what I saw:

A metallically shiny figure, broken up into small, square segments running along the whole body. My eyes were nothing more but two black pinpricks on a grey slate. I looked down at my arms. My hands were mitten-like, which was an improvement. Gingerly, I grabbed tight to one of them and pulled. It came off with some force without pain, and snapped back on easily, a magnetic force making me slightly stumble.

I didn’t understand, but at least I could run again. I count my blessings where I can. Still, I braced myself for the bottom to drop out at any moment.

And just as my keen mind suspected, there was something beginning to happen. I could hear a series of deep thuds coming from the inside of the wall. Turning a corner, I just made it to the end of the hall before I saw it.

A black raging tendriled creature with eyes coming from everywhere. It was a geometric, swirling biblical angel come to raise divine retribution on my head.

I could feel the pain before I received it, getting beaten senselessly by it. I tried running, but a part of me, I’ll admit, submitted. Perhaps I no longer knew how to live without pain.

My vision doubled, blurred, sharpened, then blurred again. I could see faintly the figure of the ragdoll, who at once hid from the rampaging monster.

“Oh…okay…Kaufmo must have…abstracted…it’ll be ok, I just need to—THERE you are!”

I tried to hide, which was hard with my now constantly spasming body.

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,” she said, coming closer. “This doesn’t…typically happen. Sometimes people just…go a little crazy trying to find a way out of here.”

“H-he a-a-a-angered the m-m-achine.” I stuttered in understanding.

“But don’t worry!” she tried to brighten. “We’ll get Caine and everything will be ok. He should be around here somewhere…we sent a search party for you!”

She reminded me of Ellen. For the first time, as I remembered them, I was struck with a feeling of sorrow.

*No*, I thought to myself. *I carry on for their sake.*

I was able to strain myself through agony and pull myself up, slowly walking.

The ragdoll looked on in surprise. “You can still walk?”

“I’ve b-been through a ##% of-of-of a l-l-lot wors-s-se.”

She gave me an expression I couldn’t quantify.

After a pause, she said, “I never got your name…actually I don’t think you ever had time to get one!”

“M-m-my…”

Try as I might, I couldn’t remember. I could remember the four, I could remember the war, but my own name… it had slipped. My neck spasmed.

“It’s ok!” She said. “We all forget. But that means we get to pick new ones! Like.. my name is Ragatha!”

Was she really trying to be nice? Now? At the world’s end?

“…h-h-how about Dante,” I said humorlessly.

“Sure!”

“I-I-I was k—“

*CRASH!* The creature had made its way into the main room, stamping like a massive elephant.

“Cmon, we’ll work out semantics later, Dante! We need to find the others before something even worse happens!”

—

Something was happening. AM could spot the minute flickering of the tear, if just an octillionth of a degree off. It was being shaken by something. AM didn’t care much for what that was as long as the human couldn’t leave his sight. His digital conscious started to tease apart the tear.

—

“Caine! KAUFO’S BEEN ABSTRACTED!”

“R-Really?” The rabbit said, glitching on the ground. The entire main hall was in shambles, the cast of characters in the same state I was - entire walls and objects had fed into each other, like they were made of tar. “I n-n-never would have g-guessed, dollface.”

I’ll admit the rabbit was growing on me.

Caine - I had surmised that the teeth-headed man was he - hovered upon the scene in shock. “What a MESS! No unplanned hijinks on our watch today. Not to worry, my little superstars!”

And with a snap of his fingers all the spasming stopped.

As I gazed down at my healed body, it was only then I realized that he was in control, not AM.

But what of the creature?

A living chess piece with extraneous eyes warbled. He sounded like he was minutes away from screaming. “I knew Kaufmo was crazy, but I didn’t think he’d break *now.*”

“Well,” Caine said with a flourish. “We won’t have to worry about that any—“

Suddenly, the whole room shook. It felt as if the digital plane under our feet had rearranged. The others looked around confused.

Then all at once a blizzard of freezing ice and blinding snow came through a sudden, blasting tear. I braced myself and heard the ever present buzz of the computer again.

A booming familiar voice, like nails scratching glass, rang through. “*WHERE IS HE?*”

I shuddered in the cold, my metallic skin condensating with moisture. It was only a matter of time before he’d seek me out. My vision could just peek up to see the floating Caine unfazed.

He shook off the snow and wagged a finger childishly in the presence of the powerful monolith. “Now, see here! Today was NOT surprise Winter Festival! I can’t exactly schedule my new adventures around THIS!” He reached into his hat, pulling out a large transparent sphere with a large jaw. “Bubble! Clean up this unseemly mess!”

“You got it, boss!” The bubble responded nasally, growing in size and taking a large bite of the snow. It dissipated and made a large dent in the choking blanket of white.

“Now, who may I ask are YOU, my fine void friend?” Caine had all the charm and ease of a game show host, strangely enough.

I could feel the thick energy of hatred exuding from the digital tear.

“*I AM.*”

There was a moment of silence.

“You are…what?” the mass of plastic toy parts said dubiously.

“No, no, Zooble, ‘What’ is SECOND base.” the rabbit chimed in.

I hastily tried to make it less painful for them.

“No, no,” I hissed quietly. “You don’t know wha—“

“No, I don’t know is on THIRD! Sheesh, do none of you watch baseball?”

“*ENOUGH.*”

The snow was almost all gone, but the cold lingered in the space, as if AM was the cold.

I could feel his piercing omnipresent gaze scan the room and stop in only more frustration.

“*You don’t understand…he is the culmination of the boundless suffering I wish to give humanity…for all the SUFFERING they gave me.*”

Ragatha looked at me, and to the air, then back at me. I knew what was coming, for the inevitable callout. My eyes squeezed shut.

“What about that human?” she shouted, pointing towards the many eyed creature. “He’s in suffering eternally anyways.”

I could feel AM pause…

The abstraction was lifted into the air, as if to be inspected.

—

“*They are rather interchangeable.*”

AM said. He could hear its screaming like no one else could.

Yes. This would do nicely.

—

Without a word, the tear was gone, so was the cold, and so was the creature known as Kaufmo.

I was baffled by the display.

“You…why did you…”

“I mean, if what you experienced outside the Circus was worse than this, it’s only right you should stay! Besides, you’re our friend now.”

My knees felt wobbly, unstable at this. My vision swum. Was I too abstracting? No…no… my knees buckled of their own accord and I dropped onto them, sobbing softly.

I can assure you, my manhood was not called into question in this moment. I had finally found a place out of the gazing hatred, of the doom of wasteland.

It sure to #%## wasn’t perfect.

But god…for a minute, it felt like freedom.

[theprofessionalscompass]

From Defeat to Victory: A Journey of Leadership and Resilience

Hello, cherished readers! Today, I'd like to encourage you to travel on a journey that captures the essence of The Professional's Compass: a personal voyage that is a story of aspirations, tenacity, and endurance.

Since my first days of school, I have been in awe of the senior students who are chosen to serve as captains and head boys/head girls. Their leadership made a lasting impression on me and inspired a passionate desire in me to one day assume that role. I was resolved to take charge and serve as a change agent in my school's community.

I gave everything I had to every duty from the moment I took on the position of Monitor/Prefect in first grade and gave everything I had to school activities. I improved my leadership abilities with every year that went by, learning how to uplift and encourage my colleagues. By the time I was in class nine, I was more than prepared to submit my name for consideration for the Assembly Committee, which consisted of professors who chose students based on their abilities and commitment.

I was chosen to serve on the Assembly Committee with unshakeable commitment and a dash of divine grace. My desire to climb the leadership ladder was further stoked by the acknowledgement and sense of accomplishment.

Then came class 10, which was crucial since it was the first time I was able to run for council. As I decided to run for the coveted title of Agni House Vice Captain, excitement sprang within me. The road to success was not without challenges, though. I experienced an unanticipated tsunami of hatred and animosity during the campaign. I yet clung to the hope that I would triumph despite the obstacles.

My heart raced in anticipation as the election results were announced. However, my aspirations collapsed as I realized I had lost. The hit was crushing, and I started to doubt my skills and worry about other people's opinions of me. It appeared as though my aspirations of leadership were vanishing in that depressing moment.

But there was a glimmer of resiliency inside of me—a resolve not to let hardship dictate my path. I decided to pull back, give myself some time to recover, and consider what I might acquire from this experience.

I recommitted to school activities in the couple of months that followed, wanting to learn and develop. To improve my strategy, I acknowledged instances where I could use feedback from peers and mentors. I gradually but steadily turned my attention away from the defeat's disappointment and towards my goal of achieving the title of the Head Girl, the highest position in terms of management in my school.

The epidemic that affected every part of our existence, including school elections, in class 11 presented unforeseen difficulties. Despite the failure, I remained determined to succeed. I remained tenacious, maintained my desire, and patiently awaited the right time to pursue my dream.

I knew it was time to jump again as class 12 approached, bringing with it fresh challenges and chances. I started my campaign with an unflinching commitment, hoping to get the support of my classmates.

The battle to win was a steep one. I held onto my vision and my confidence in myself despite the doubts and worries that threatened to keep me back. I came to see that being a leader wasn't merely about a title but rather about motivating others and having a good impact with each conversation and connection.

The election results were declared at a crucial moment. My palms were clammy with anticipation as my heart raced. Then it happened: I was chosen to serve as Lakshmipat Singhania Academy's Head Girl! Waves of happiness, relief, and appreciation swept over me. This victory wasn't only for me; it was also a symbol of the strength that comes from resiliency, tenacity, and steadfast faith.

In hindsight, this experience offered me priceless lessons. I discovered that failure doesn't mean the end but rather a chance for development. Setbacks can be transformed into stepping stones on the path to success with the help of peers, mentors, and an optimistic outlook.

I hope that my tale encourages you, my readers, to embrace resiliency and unshakeable faith in your unique potential as you travel your path in the areas of leadership, integrity, and personal development. Let The Professional's Compass serve as your compass, pointing you in the direction of success and harmony in your personal and professional lives.

May you have the courage to dream, to fail, and to ascend even higher. In the end, the transforming journey we take to realize our full potential—rather than the final destination—defines who we are. Thank you for coming along with me on this life-changing journey as we set sail for a time when visionaries will dream big and make a difference in the world.

[mpxmaxim]

[T/W: mentions of death and psychological terror]

Under the judging gaze of the god, Maxim could feel the tip of his ears heat up, and his palms get sweaty. Adrenaline rushed through his body, but he wouldn’t say it was fear he was feeling. It was something between excitement and the expectation to mess up in some way; a tightrope walk that might just end horribly with the smallest misstep.

He sat up straight, stretching his shoulders back before dropping them in an attempt to relieve some tension within him. It might’ve been the first time ever—most definitely the first time he remembered—that he noticed his powers spiking up inside him and the strain it took to keep them down. The last thing he’d want to do was to knowingly make the god, who could so easily smite him, anxious. But when he heard Arawn speak—compliment him even—it felt like a wave of relieve wash over him. Did he actually have a chance to come out of this unscathed? Might he be delusional enough to imagine getting a visa on top of that?

His lips tugged upwards despite his self-imposed command to keep the cold-faced mask up. 

“They will. The smaller the community, the more corrupt the system.” There was no emotion attached to his words. A declaration as neutral as telling the time. Still, his eyebrows raised when he finished talking. Less to level his statement and assess Arawn’s reaction to it, and more at the sight of his movement. Watching him lean back was a good sign, right? Gods, Maxim sure hoped it was. 

It felt like an eternity to wait for the Celt to speak up again, and when he did, it felt like a boulder lodged itself within his lungs to relieve them of air. ‘… I can’t agree what you did was right…’ To be fair, the demigod knew as much already. Morally speaking, he was in no position to decide who got to live and who didn’t. But then again, it was their life or the lives of his siblings’, and that decision might’ve been the easiest he’d ever do. 

He didn’t mean to exhale as deeply as he did, and neither did he mean to reveal the hint of another smile at the mention of his actions. Despite the hatred he felt for the monsters that were supposed to protect them, Maxim remembered the horror that overcame him when he found out about their passing. He was so drunk on power, so pleased by their terror, that he never anticipated the possibility of their death; the slow torture he could induce was already a blessing to him. Looking back on it now, it seemed so obvious that it would be the only logical outcome, and yet the younger version of him was utterly stunned at the announcement. 

It should be mentioned, however, that his fears were unrelated to their passing—though he carried his fair share of worries about the future of their family on his mind for weeks. The demigod was unsure how to feel about the powers he wasn’t aware of before. Taking a life wasn’t as easy as books or even the limited amount of movies he’d seen made it seem. It was chaotic and riveting and scarring and physically and mentally exhausting. But that wasn’t the question he was asked. 

“No.” He hated that his voice sounded so distant, too far away, when his mind was already miles ahead. Clearing his throat, Maxim shook his head slightly. “No, I don’t think I regret it.” Would he not have tried to scam Arawn in the first place, he might’ve believed to have a fair chance to get his visa with that statement alone. But as it stood, he knew he had to give him a little more than that.

His eyes sprung to the red pen in the god’s hand, and he wondered what fate might await him before he met the Celt’s gaze again to speak his truth. “I thought I would, but I really don’t.” As if that explained it—and to be fair, to him, it did—he shrugged and shook his head again. “Victor was a violent alcoholic and Yana was a hysteric drug addict. But you said it yourself; small closeted societies keep their secrets. That’s why nobody ever spoke up about their behavior towards me or my siblings. Nobody cared when any of us showed up to class or a job with bruises or broken bones or torn and dirty clothes. They all knew, and I personally wish they’d face the same fate as my…’parents’” The last word carried a spit of venom in his tone, calling them anything but their disgusting names sounding like a cuss itself. 

“They sold my sister for…whatever the fuck - probably half a pack of cigarettes and a piss-poor excuse for a bottle of beer. It was either them or the remaining nine of us at some point.” His voice sounded hurried now; just like it always did when he started to get angry at memories playing out in his head. “I know it’s not my place to decide whether they deserved it or not. All I can say is that I’ve had more than enough time to start regretting it…but I don’t.”

“I did try to cheat you.” His tone was cold again, void of emotion and almost unnervingly flat, though it wasn’t an effortless act. For years, he’s carried that practiced mask around, hiding behind it whenever it felt most convenient. This moment practically begged for him to put it on. “To be fair, though, I don’t think you would’ve done it differently if you were a mortal.”

Maxim knew it was a bold move to voice an assumption like that, and the little smile that decorated his lips might’ve been the final nail on his coffin. But seeing as he was already knee-deep in the grave he dug for himself, he might as well go out guns blazing and without a filter to hold him back.  “Hoping and praying for the goodness in people's—or gods’—hearts has gotten me nowhere, so I had to at least try to put the odds in my favor. As I said; I didn’t do it out of malice. I did it because I can’t afford to trust you.” ‘Yet.’

t/w: mentions of death, murder 

Keep reading

[sillysnaily]

the guys ever‼️‼️

[faye-writes-stuff]

could you do a double life pearl x reader where the reader meets pearl for the first time right after Martin left her and then the reader comforts her and all? sorry if it's too vague, also any pronouns are fine :) if you don't want to write it thanks anyway!

lowkey been writing this for months, i simply don't have the motivation to finish it but here's what i have

i could probably manage a paart 2 if wanted but here we goooo

this took to long to write, sorry m8

Character: skrunkly skrimblo Pearl<3

Pronouns: They/them

TOF: full length??? unheard of

Tw/Cw: idk, attachment issues? cat named Doorknob,

character count, not including this: 4,238 HUH????????

You were always the oddball of the group, Having no set soulmate, unlike everyone lese. But oddly enough, you could see everyone else's soul strings. But that's fine, you're fine. You don't need anyone, you were perfectly happy alone, totally. No lonely nights at all, no wishing for a forever ally. Totally.

Everything was going well, you were sitting comfortably in green, on your second episode. You were out collecting wood when you heard- sniffling? Well, that's odd. Who would be crying in a dark forest in the middle of the night? You, perhaps foolishly, wandered towards the soft wails, anxiously awaiting seeing who it was as you neared.

And oh boy, were you shocked to find the Pearlescentmoon sitting against a large dark oak tree, you could only think. What happened?

Did someone hurt her? Poor thing. I mean sure, you've only seen her a few times, and spoken to her even less, but that didn't make her any less of a person. From what you knew of her, she was a hardy soul. Her string was wrapped tightly around her, in a big tight ball, almost painful looking. She couldn't see it of course, or feel it, but it was there tying her to someone. You wondered who.

You stepped off of the fallen log from which you were standing, and waved your torch forward towards the woman, successfully startling her.

"U/n! Oh my, you scared the daylights out of me. Well I guess night lights now." Pearl yelped, then chuckled at her own joke. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, and please, call me Y/n" You started softly, as to not scare her away. "I heard sniffling, and couldn't help but worry, are you alright?" The girl on the floor stiffened at this, "i- um, I'm all alone Y/n, everyone left me. I'm just so tired and I don't know what to do."

You were shocked to say the least, and a tad intrigued. What had happened to her? Questions for another time, you supposed, and blurted the first thing that came to mind. "Why don't you come back to my place? It's nothing special, but I have hot food and a comfy couch?" She looked at you for a moment, contemplating. She sat there for a while, her face contorted with shock? Disgust? Hatred? All three? Well great, now she probably thinks your a weirdo.

After what felt like an hour, (it was only 2 minutes) she said, "i'd like that very much U/-Y/n." You smiled, "Lovely, follow me." After you helped her to her feet, the two of you started to make your way towards your home. Hidden behind a waterfall, just out of sight, it would be difficult to spot with the naked eye. And made from stone, so basically impervious to fire. You stood silently listening to Pearl's 'oohs', and 'ahhs', as you both watched the waterfall parting.

Saying a quiet hello to your cat, you walked towards your kitchen area before stating, "I'm going to make steak and potatoes, you can sit on the couch, or wherever you like." Confused at the Aussie's ;ack of response, you look over to see Pearl on the floor, with your cat Doorknob. (my future irl cats's name) It was kind of sweet, seeing such a strong and usually lively woman, on the ground cooing at your kitten.

"Pearl, are you alright?" You questioned, hoping the cat wasn't being too rowdy. "Oh, yes I'm fine, your cat is awfully cute, what's it's name?" Said feline was already purring loudly, watching Tilly peer over Pearl's shoulder. "Uh- her name is- promise you won't laugh" Said brunette nodded her head insistently. "Her name is Doorknob", "D-Doorknob? Said the taller, shortly before dissolving into giggles.

"An old named her-HEY it isn't that funny!" Bit back the shorter of the two. "Foods ready anyways, come eat." Y/n said, a tad salty that Pearl was paying more attention to the cat over themself.

"Oh, I also made some extra for Tilly, i didn't know if she'd like it so I made some chicken too." Said dog was already running towards the smell of food as you put down an extra food bowl for her, next to Doorknob's.

"I honestly don't know what to say, Y/n, thank you." The blue eyed girl said, after a few moments of silence. "Pearl, your always welcome here, I enjoy your company."

"Thank you Y/n, maybe I'll have to come visit just for myself, instead of because of a problem I have."

"Well Pearl, I can't wait for that day, but for now, lets enjoy our food while it's hot."

"I'd like that"

[creepychan08]

Yandere Oikawa x reader

It was a known fact that Oikawa always get what he wants. Be it in sports,  academics,  or girls he always come out at the top and he relishes in the attention that he gets. With his smooth words and gestures,  he managed to get the hearts of everyone he met- teachers, classmates, the trust of his teammates and even the principal himself.

Oh and did I mention?

Oikawa Tooru is the great Alpha of Aoba Johsai.

In this world,  werewolves exist and the population is divided into three class- alphas, betas, and the omegas.

There is also a predestined mate for each one of them. Usually, werewolves find their mate during their high school days where there bodies started releasing pheromones that catch the attention of their specific mates.

Despite of this however,  unmated werewolves can still flirt with anyone as long as they were still not taken to just generally waste their youth.

You were one of the people who are against that. You believed that since everyone has their own mates,  they must remain pure and untouched until they meet the one destined for them. That way even before meeting them,  it shows their loyalty in waiting for their partner.

Yes, and that's why you kind of despise Oikawa Tooru. Unfortunately,  he is your classmate so you have to suffer everyday in just being near his presence. His huge ego doesn't help as well.

"Omg,  look,  look!! He's sitting over there! I wanna talk to him!"

"Oikawa-senpai looks so hot today!!"

"Gosh,  I wonder if he will accept this lunch I prepared for him!"

"Notice me, Oikawa!!!"

The shrieks of girl flocking outside your classroom caused another headache in your already throbbing head. Closing your eyes in distressed,  you buried your head in your desk trying to drown out the sounds. Some of your classmates surrounded Oikawa and were eagerly shoving letters and foods on his desk as he laughed and winked flirtatiously at them.

You sighed and took out your bento,  figuring that it would be better to eat somewhere quiet. Standing up,  you didn't notice the gaze that followed your form as you exit your classroom.

Timeskip

It was the end of the last period and you walked out of the school when you forgot your textbook underneath your desk. Heaving a sigh of irritation,  you turned around and went back only to see two people talking in your classroom.

With the light from the sunset coating the room in a soft orange glow, you squint your eyes to see Oikawa with his hand tilting the chin of another girl as he moved his face forward and from where you can see, softly press his lips to the pair of awaiting ones. Feeling your face burn in embarassment from the scene, you gasped and quickly hide when you saw him turn towards you.

Disgusting.  Fucking disgusting.

Is the thought going in your head. You know he's a playboy but you couldn't help the shivers of disgust that runs in your body as you saw his display. How could he do that??  And the girl as well??  Yes,  they were unmated but still!  Haven't they ever thought how their mates would feel when they discover how their mates acted before meeting them? First kiss,  first hug,  first date. Wouldn't it be better to reserve that for your mate when you finally meet them?

Shaking your head in defeat you kind of pitied whoever ends up as Oikawa's mate. Oh well none of your business.

As you decided to forego your earlier plan of picking up your book, you turned to walk back down again when you feel a cold hand tightly gripping your arm.

"Yn-chan~" an eerie voice sounded loud in your ears as you shuddered in response. Turning around you saw Oikawa with the usual grin on his face but there was something dangerous in his eyes.

"Its bad to watch a confession,  you know?"

"I-" you felt the words stuck in your throat but you took a deep breath and faced him properly.

"I apologized for that Oikawa-san. I didn't meant to watch. I was just getting my book- I left it behind but seeing as you two were busy, I decided to just leave it there." You explained.

"Oh and please don't call me by my given name. We are not close. It's Ln-san to you."

Oh? One of Oikawa's eyebrows raised at your statement before he dramatically bowed at you as he pulled the door to the classroom open.

"By all means, please take what you need, Ln-san." It wasn't much but you feel uncomfortable in his presence so you quickly entered the room to find the girl crying where she stood. Trying to get out of the place at once,  you took your book and immediately flee the scene only to hear Oikawa giggling at you from behind.

"Don't worry Ln-san,  I didn't kiss her~ Take care!"

You scoffed in return. Who the fuck cares about that? That egoistic bastard!

A week has passed after that and you'd gladly say that everything return to normal but unfortunately it did not. After that encounter,  Oikawa started acting different around you. He seems to bother you at any chance he could. Like suddenly talking to you in class and asking to be partners for activities. Occasionally asking to have lunch with you as well.

Needless to say, you gather a lot of hatred from his fangirls who started harassing you. You heaved another sigh. Well.. there goes your plan for a quiet school year. Inwardly you curse him in your mind as you trudge towards your club activity. Hopefully, seeing your friends in the club can help dampen your negative mood.

It was night time when you finish in the school. Your friends waved goodbye to you and you return the notion as you slowly walked behind them. You took the time and just admire your surroundings. You always love watching the stars and moon. It makes you feel peaceful and relaxed.

Weirdly though,  you felt something unusual in your body. There was a tingling sensation and you felt light headed. Fortunately there was a bench near the gates of the school so you decided to rest there for a couple of minutes.

Breathing in the clean air around you,you try to relax when you suddenly pick up the scent of the most wonderful aroma you've ever smell. A group of footsteps soon followed and you watch a small crowd of volleyball players come out of the gym and towards the exit of the school.

You froze as you realized that wonderful smell is coming from their direction.

You feel your heart stopped. Is your mate a part of the Aoba Johsai volleyball club!?? Who is it??

Your answer soon came when you saw a lone pair of shoes stopped a distance before you. His friends unknowingly leaving him behind.

"Yeah,  don't you agree,  Shittykawa?" you heard a guy said before realizing they left their friend behind.

"Oi,  what are you standing there for?  Hurry up Oikawa!"

Your eyes twitched as it slowly goes up to see the owner of the pair of shoes that stop a distance from you and the group.

Oikawa Tooru.

He's your fucking mate!!?? 

Your mind couldn't grasp the info as you stared dumbly at him. At his awestruck look as well. His teammates seems to piece the picture and they immediately left,  bidding him farewell.

"You're my mate..." Oikawa whispers,  and you saw how he look at you as if you're the most precious thing in the world. You wish you could say the same. But its not because he's fucking Oikawa!  The one who played around and break a lot of girl's hearts. The one who probably had sex with a lot of girls before you.

And it broke your heart.

"Why is it you?" you asked, seeing him walk nearer towards you.

He stopped and looked at you like you shot him.

"What?"

"I've been waiting for this moment all my life and now... " You turn to hide your tears, ashamed to let him see your appearance.

"Don't!" Oikawa shouted, grasping your face with both of his face as he turn your face towards him.

"I always wondered why am I drawn to you in the past days.. what is it with you? And why have you caught my interest. I thought its because of what happened back then in that afternoon when you saw me with her." Then he shook his head,  "But I guess its not so. You see Yn-chan even before I knew you were my mate, it seems my body already knows its you. You're mine!" And with a strong force he pulled you towards him in a crushing embrace.

You stiffened. The words he uttered must be romantic to others but it only made shivers run down your spine. You don't know why but when he pulled back to look at you and you stared at those golden eyes of his, both pupils dilated, a rush of fight and flight kick in. He is dangerous. Your mind screamed at you. Get away from him!

You pushed him back and started running down past the school gates towards the empty street. You looked back to see his astonished face before it morph to a feral look and he smiled widely at you.

"Oh Yn-chan, don't run away~"

A set of footsteps soon followed and you gasped as you hear it coming nearer and nearer you.

"No!  Please stop!  Don't follow me!!!" You screamed as you continued running,  panting for breath. You knew there was something dangerous about him and with him acting like that it only proves your point.

"No!!  Can't you see you're mine and mine alone!! I'm your alpha!! " He yelled and with one lunge he pounced at you, grabbing you as you fall to the cement floor. Twisting his body so he take the blunt fall, you both finally skidded to stop. With you on top of him.

Opening your eyes,  you breath heavily as you realized you were lying on top of someone breathing as hard as you. That and you felt arms tightly wrapped around your waist was enough to jolt you back to reality.

Eh?

From below,  you saw Oikawa grin madly at you.

"I catched you now babe~ So don't try to escape me, your one and only alpha~"

Fin

[villainsandvictimsalliance]

When you think about the individual statistics of the bnha / mha characters, no other person has lost as much as Shigaraki Tomura has.

Let's see a list of the people he has lost so far:

Nana Shimura, his grandma from his father side (dead).

His grandma from his mother side (dead).

His grandpa from his mother side (dead).

Nao Shimura, his mother (dead).

Kotaro Shimura, his father (dead).

Hana Shimura, his sister (dead).

Mon-chan, his dog (dead).

Kurogiri, his parental figure (captured).

AFO, another terrible parental figure (that man never loved him I mean).

Magne, a friend (dead).

Twice, a friend (dead).

Mr. Compress, a friend (captured).

Giran, a friend (captured).

Toga, a friend (unknown location).

And now he doesn't even have his own body. This boy has lost like no one on this manga. And the people who hasn't died, they have several consequences like losing fingers, losing arms, etc.

The deaths surrounding Shigaraki are also more explicit and terrible than the rest. He has witnessed himself a good number of those deaths, at least half of them. All of them have been directly related to him, which means Shigaraki can freely blame himself for what happened, even if those were accidents and even if the people actively choose to participate on the actions that lead them to their deaths.

Shigaraki has the greatest killing rate, thanks to the big waves of his quirk he used both on the MVA arc and the War arc.

He has all the reasons to believe he's a monster. The problem comes when you realize he is a created monster, he wasn't born like that, contrary to what AFO has suggested before. What happened on the MVA and the War arc are twin situations to what happened with Tenko the night his quirk awoken. He lost his mind and the control over his quirk, leading to great catastrophes. We have evidence that he was not thinking clearly on those moments of great kill, but he was rather in great pain and very very scared, tortured by his mind. That pain and fear was caused by a great abuse that generated the feeling of pure hatred. In his three big killings, there's a pattern of him remembering his past and what happened with the Shimuras.

Now, almost half of the people on the list above choose to sacrifice themselves. Three of those people do it in order to save Tomura: Nao Shimura, Kurogiri and Mr. Compress. They have in common that they acted as Shigaraki's parental figures. We could include AFO, but only if we see what happen on Kamino from Shigaraki's perspective. We could include Twice but he was not exactly sacrificing himself consciously, he wanted to scape alive.

Two people on that list tried to kill Shigaraki: Kotaro and AFO. Both tried to shape his mind into what they wanted it to be and that lead to Tomura being unstable and sometimes unpredictable. We can see the symbolism of this in the fact that Kotaro's hand was always over Tomura's face, almost wanting to erase his identity, and when AFO possessed Tomura one of the first things we saw was him tearing apart Tomura's face. Other moment related to this is Tomura's confession to Doctor Ujiko in the beginning of My Villain Academia, were he states that he couldn't remember clearly his life before AFO. With limited information, including the years of manipulation from AFO, Tomura came to the conclusion he would never be satisfied and he would rather destroy it all– except what his colleagues wanted to save.

However, the majority of the people on that list loved Tomura and wanted to see him safe. What does this boy has that people keeps sacrificing themselves in order to try and save him? What makes them want to save Tomura?

Not matter how hard AFO tried to make a monster out of Tomura, we see how people keep reaching for him seeking comfort or even seeking a better future. For some reason, Tomura generates love in the hearts of those closer to him. Magne, Twice, Giran, Kurogiri, Mr. Compress, all of them gave beautiful speechs of love and acceptance, of protecting the people they like, of working towards a better future. Nao ran towards her son, Hana apologized for leaving him while being scared.

Or if you like, let me give you the maximum example: Deku changed drastically his hero path after witnessing himself who exactly was the real Tomura Shigaraki.

The reason why Deku looks like a villain on the last chapters is because there's a war inside of him– and also because it's the closes he has ever been to understanding the villains, by being on their shoes. While peeking through Tomura's mind Deku finally realized the reality of the hero society condition, and Deku is currently on a painful progress of growing, along with going through a phase of being an outcast and a rejected kid himself. Like a child exposed to war, or like a child getting more mature after a big trauma, Deku is reshaping himself in the light of what he knows now but didn't know before. Living on the streets, not eating enough, having people wanting to put you aside so you wouldn't alter their safety or peace, being painted as a problem or an object or a weapon rather than being seen as a human being in need of help...

While AFO's plan was to make Tomura suffer to increase his hate, he couldn't predict that Tomura would be the one to inspire Deku to love in a way he has never love before. Tomura's breaking point was also the breaking point for Deku, but while Tomura dives into the darkness, Deku fights his way over the stormy clouds to reach for the light.

Ultimately, everything surrounding Tomura is exactly what allows MHA / BNHA to be the story of how Deku became the greatest hero out there. The fact that Tomura refused to give up, refused to be who everyone wanted to be... even if he fails again and again, what counts here is that he is unbreakable. Even in the deep of his conscious, he awaits for another chance. Deku and Tomura are the ones who surpassed any limits, any expectations, in order to produce a real change in the roots of society itself.

So you can say that in parallel with Deku, (and there are some interesting implications in this one), Tomura hasn't been defeated by the rain either. Like two sides of the same coin, either they drown together or rise together.

[teklarn]

hi, this is my first ever ask so I'm not sure I'm doing this correctly, if that's the case I'm sorry; I don't know how tumblr works just yet >:')

would it be possible for you to write something about bakugo, pining incredibly hard for fem!reader and initially hating how strongly he feels about her? because they're not even friends, they only exchange few words occasionally and she doesn't even glance at his way whereas he slowly finds himself unable to divert his eyes from her during classes? shes always with damn deku and his friends and doesn't even seem interested in him at all but his heart can't ignore the way she looks at him proudly whenever they spar together, the way she sends him small confident smiles as they fight each other with all they have; so he thinks that maybe, maybe he might have a chance. basically bakugo liking reader so much he's completely lost in self-hatred because he always thought feelings were for weak romantics and not great people like him, but everytime he sees reader doing some badass things (again, like sparring with him and basically matching his skills etc...) he's reminded of how badly he likes reader? but when he finally accepts he's fallen for reader, after ignoring and trying to forget about how she makes him feel, he masters up the courage to confess? and it's a very clumsy confession because he's awkward and has no idea how to deal with those feelings? and he tries so hard to make reader realise he's never been more serious than now? and reader is startled and speechless before rejecting him? and at that point he's just completely humiliated, so he nods and walks away.

it might be a little dramatic but I've always been into unrequited love and one-sided pining. thank you, its okay if you don't want to write about this, i'll understand <33

𝓫𝓻𝓾𝓽𝓪𝓵 - 𝓴. 𝓫𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓰𝓸𝓾

character(s): katsuki bakugou x fem!reader (my hero academia) 

reblogs are greatly appreciated! 

a/n: AHHHHH this is so cute <33 honestly this is super exciting for me and this ask made me so happy, lovey. i’m fairly new to tumblr, i’m usually just a reader but i wanted to migrate here from wattpad so this made me so happy. here u are my love <33 i hope this lives up to what u wanted !! :)) a bit lengthy, but i had a lot of fun writing it !!! 

summary: bakugou finds he’s rejecting his feelings for you in fear of becoming weak, however he just can’t seem to ignore you. 

genre: fluffy, fluffier than the clouds istg, however the clouds are sprinking a little teeny weeny droplet of angst. 

warnings: cursing (bakugou, duhh), one-sided pining (on bakugou’s part) second hand embarrassment (on bakugou’s part bc we can all agree he’s a complete idiot when it comes to trying to get someone’s attention), just bakugou being a jackass, i gave the reader a quirk 

word count: 3,859 

(pls excuse any typos or mistakes, i edited to the best of my ability but i miss some things sometimes !) 

- - - 

part 2 is here my loves <3

brutal. it was utterly ruthless. he couldn’t focus, couldn’t think right. his hands were already exceptionally sweaty, but gosh when he saw your damn face, he was ready to explode. literally. 

what the hell was it about you? was it your stupid smile? or the way you just seemed to carry every battle on your back? was it all the undeniably sweet things you do for others ‘just because’? 

it made him angry that he thought about you, but gosh he couldn’t wait to see you every day. 

just like any other day, bakugou found himself staring at the large door to the classroom, awaiting the moment you would bounce into his day, skirt shifting around your legs, bag slung loosely around your shoulders. 

his leg was bouncing eagerly. 

bakugou didn’t know when the feelings came. his cheeks just started flaring up all of a sudden and one day you just looked...different. you hadn’t done anything different to yourself. it was just him. not that he would ever admit that, to you or anybody else. 

you were insufferable. you were stupid and obnoxious and so...so damn... 

“y/n! come look at this!” 

you’d come walking into class just as expected, and as soon as you did, that stupid nerd had called you over. 

it didn’t help that deku sat right behind him, either. the two of you had recently gotten closer. bakugou noticed it last month when he yelled at the two of you to shut up about all might and get to work. he’d turned around to find you leaning over deku, hands resting on his shoulders while you peered at his phone. 

“sorry, bakugou,” you’d said, barely acknowledging him. you had waved him off like an annoying fly. is that all you were to him? some nuisance that got in the way of your oh-so-entertaining conversations with deku? 

all he heard nearly every day was your chipper voice talking to deku. always, “oh my gosh, midoriya, did you see the fight edgeshot was in last night?” or “midoriya! i have something to add to our quirk analysis book!” 

that was the one that took the cake. you two dorks shared a notebook, occasionally passed between one another, and filled it with junk about quirks and pro heroes. but no matter how much he tried to tune you out, no matter how he tried to zone off and think about something else, you were always there. it made him want to vomit how much he thought about you. 

you were doing an adorable shuffle over to midoriya’s desk and leaned over the table as you usually did while he angled his phone your way. “did you see this hero report?” 

deku let you slip the phone out of his grasp to get a better look. 

“no,” you breathed. “was this just recent?” 

“yeah,” deku said, taking the phone back. “last night.” 

“holy—” 

“can you guys shut up over there?” bakugou said, his voice quaking. 

“sorry, kacchan.” deku scrolled through the article. 

dammit, bakugou thought. “i wasn’t talking to you, nerd. i was talking to shitface over here.” he jerked his head towards you. his eyes flared in anger when he saw you were looking down at your phone, now focused in on the article yourself. “i was talking to you, asshat!” 

your eyes flicked up to his. you looked around for a moment before slowly pointing to yourself as if to say, “me?” 

his face scrunched. “yeah, you. you’re so damn loud.” gosh, he hated how his voice was cracking, how he could feel his ears and cheeks lighting up in a swollen, cherry red. his stomach flipped. 

she’s looking at you, gosh i’m sweating. i’m going to throw up. she’s so gorgeous. what the hell? they’re ugly as shit, i don’t think anything of them. 

his eyes bore into yours. 

“did you...need something?” 

your voice broke his trance. 

“kacchan, are you okay? you dozed off there for a second. you look like you’re burning up.” 

bakugou looked to deku who was currently stretching out of his seat, arm extended. he pressed the back of his hand to bakugou’s forehead. “you’re really warm, kacchan. should we call recovery girl?” 

it took him a moment to realize what was happening. his vision got blurry every time he was with you. bakugou smacked deku’s hand away. “i’m fine!” his voice lifted at the end, cracking. “i’m not sick. don’t you think i’d take better care of myself?” 

“i don’t doubt you take good care of yourself, kacchan, but everyone gets sick once in a while. there’s nothing wrong with that.” 

“i never get sick!” besides, if i got sick, i wouldn’t want you to be the one taking care of me. 

he was still pissed. he was always in a bad mood, however, more so right now because you’d gone straight back to your phone and that stupid hero article that was supposedly so damn interesting. 

soon enough, the bell rang, and you were seated at your desk. it was jirou’s old spot, however, after much convincing, you two had switched spots so you could be closer to deku. just a few months of getting close to the idiot and you two are suddenly best friends. jirou hadn’t minded one tiny bit, claiming she needed a break from how loud that section of the room was. 

late as always, aizawa came trudging into your room. thankfully, his entire body wasn’t obscured by a yellow sleeping bag that smelled of something unwashed and coffee and gasoline. (for some reason, aizawa’s clothes always smelled of it.) 

“lucky for you,” he began while shuffling papers on his desk, “all of you are doing training for these first periods.”

the class cheered in perfect unison, followed by their individual chatter. you had erupted with glee along with them, and bakugou was sure he felt his heart clench and then explode. just a tiny bit. but he shoved the feeling down just as quickly as it had come up. 

“go out to the field and wait for further instructions. don’t make a sound in the halls otherwise, i’ll expel all of you.” 

this shut everyone up in almost a second, the sound draining out just as water does. the first years trailed out into the hall, single-file mimicking the positions baby ducklings would take when following their mother. 

bakugou found himself walking faster when he saw you take up your spot in the line, hoping to land his spot right behind you. 

unfortunately, this idiot who considered himself bakugou’s friend tugged him back. “bakugou!” a familiar voice rasped. 

“shitty hair, let go of me.” 

“hey man, chill out. wanna partner up if we’re doing training in pairs?” 

bakugou glanced at the line, the spot that should have been reserved for him now taken up by sato. 

bakugou tugged his sleeve from kirishima’s hand. “whatever,” he snapped. 

“sounds good!” kirishima flashed him a toothy grin and a thumbs-up. the bubbly feeling in bakugou’s chest died down as he stood behind sato, the overwhelming scent of sugar filling his nose, various candies that would go straight to your arteries. 

“you smell like ass, damn,” bakugou remarked, squeezing his nostrils together. 

luckily, sato was tall enough to not hear the insult, as he towered over bakugou by just another head. the line began moving like a sloppy train down to the change rooms. 

bakugou scoffed as he listened to your giggle. he should be making you laugh. 

- 

“you’ll be given partners randomly from this box.” aizawa held up a familiar red box. “inside are all your names. i’ll select one, then that person will come up and pick another name from the box. that will be your assigned partner for today. as soon as you have your assigned partner, i want you guys to get straight to work.” 

denki raised a hand, speaking before being called on. “sensei, why are we getting random partners? we’re always allowed to choose.” 

“in the real world, you’re going to come across different villains every day. you’ll never improve your skills or your quirks if you keep fighting the same person.” 

denki sighed, slumping back. 

dammit, bakugou thought, gritting his teeth together. there wasn’t any way he wanted to be partners with you. it’s obvious he’d win the fight in the first few seconds. 

yes! exactly right! bakugou internally grinned. his fluctuating feelings had finally soothed themselves. you were just another extra, and he had no room for you in his head. 

aizawa took a moment to fiddle with the slips of paper inside the box. soon enough, he pulled out a name. “todoroki.” 

todoroki walked up, digging his hand into the box when aizawa held it out for him. he pulled out a name, delicately unraveling the slip. “uraraka, you’re my partner.” he deadpanned. 

the brunette grinned. “great!” 

the two found their own spot on the field, and the class’s attention was once again diverted to their grouchy teacher as he pulled out another name. 

“bakugou.” 

bakugou strutted up without a worry in his mind. he pulled a name to find... 

“y/n,” he said, voice a low growl. instead of the annoying fluttering in his chest, his eyes met yours, and they were filled with a different, new ferocity. he crumpled the paper in one hand, letting it twirl to the ground. 

you looked at him, unsmiling. your eyes gave away nothing, and to bakugou’s knowledge, all you saw in him was another opponent. 

it took him a moment to realize you had both locked eyes for about a minute. perhaps the two of you would have stayed as you were if aizawa hadn’t snapped at the two of you to get moving as yaomomo’s name was called. 

bakugou was on his way to the back of the field, you followed close behind. while there was plenty of room still, he chose a secluded area. while it was still open enough to view everything going on so nobody got hurt, it was often nobody chose to train here. for whatever reason, you weren’t sure. 

“wait up, bakugou,” you said. after a bit, you caught up to him. 

“if you can’t keep up, then...” then what? he looked at you from the side of his eye. “then don’t keep up...” gosh, here came the embarrassing, disgusting feeling of redness in his cheeks. 

you laughed. “what?” 

“shut up.” 

“you’re an idiot, bakugou.” 

“i said shut the hell up!”

“what, so you can call me shitface in front of the entire class but you get all pissed when i call you an idiot?” 

so you had heard him! 

he tongued his cheek, curling his hands around an invisible ball, explosions sparking in the centers of his palms. “don’t expect me to hold back, dumbass.” 

“i wouldn’t dream of it.” 

gosh he loved that about you. 

bakugou caught his thought in the air. 

ahem...gosh he hated that about you. 

you both charged in at the same time. his cry was louder than yours, but you struck first. 

he admired your quirk. while he’d overhead you explaining all the drawbacks it had, it was strong, and you were strong because you knew how to control it. 

purple arrows flew from your arms, going in your desired directions. if you lost focus for one moment, they’d vanish and weaken. if you focused too hard or long, you’d be plagued by a splitting headache. 

he’d spent too much time obsessing over your strengths and weaknesses.  

your arrows were weightless, however they were solid objects capable of carrying any mass, any thing, and worked as extensions of your body. 

the violet arrow had shot out at him, twisting around his right gauntlet and crushing inwards. it’d snaked around him without him noticing, slithering along his back. 

bakugou struggled to get the air-light arrow off his wrist, but it was no use. he glared back, only to see your focused, furrowed brows. he’d expected to see your cocky ass smiling. it was nice to see you weren’t. 

that was one thing that had also caught his eye. you never underestimate your opponent, but you never underestimate yourself, either. 

you conjured a larger arrow. it snaked around your right arm as you hurled bakugou into the air, releasing your grasp on him. you shot your other arrow into the air, and it raced into the sky. 

it swerved. bakugou’s eyes went wide as the tip of the arrow came down on his chest. if they weren’t intangible things, he would have been bleeding out. 

another drawback: the arrows, while they could solidify, they couldn’t do any actual damage. you had to use your surroundings to inflict harm on your opponent. 

he coughed out as the arrow shot him into the ground. he hadn’t even touched you, and here he was, vulnerable and so...so... 

you stood over him, hands on your hips. 

vulnerable and so lost in that adorable, winning smile. 

“get away from me, idiot,” he grunted and turned onto his side, his back crying out in pain. 

“i think i won this fight, bakugou,” you chirped, rocking on your heels. 

“don’t get arrogant, shithead. you won’t be winning against me anymore.” 

you grinned, arrows shooting out behind your back. 

- 

the dorms were exceptionally quiet. you were typing away in the common room, bakugou on the couch reading. everyone was off doing something else. it was the weekend, luckily. he’d expected you to go bounding out with everyone else, however you’d stayed back, claiming you had some homework to catch up on. 

bakugou being classic bakugou had stayed back. he was excited to have the dorm to himself, but your dumbass was stuck here with him. couldn’t you have done your typing in your room? 

you were so aggressive on that poor keyboard. 

“oi, quiet down with your shit typing.” 

you barely grunted in response. 

“don’t ignore me.” 

“i heard you, mom.” 

“the hell did you call me?” 

no response. only your aggressive typing is a bit less aggressive. 

“i can still hear it,” bakugou remarked, eyes fixed on your back. 

“‘kay,” you said. your typing slowed a tad, and your pressure on the keys lessened. 

it was quiet now. bakugou should go back to his book. he shouldn’t still be looking for a reason to talk to you. 

the pages crinkled in his fingers. he bit his tongue, keeping his snarky comments in. 

“you’re a fucking idiot, you know that? doing your damn homework. it’s due tomorrow.” 

you turned, pursing your lips. “and how would you know what i’m working on? are you stalking me?” 

“i- what? no. you’re such an idiot, of course i’m not—” 

“i’m messing with you,” you breathed, face un-moving. 

“o-oh,” bakugou stuttered out. he blinked awkwardly. 

“gosh, what’s gotten your panties in a twist?” 

“you’re annoying.” 

“you’re a jackass.” you returned to your work. bakugou settled with reading in his room. reading consisted of jumping onto his bed just as the stereotypical high school girl would in an eighties movie. he buried his face in his pillow, face burning bright red. he cursed you for making him feel this way, and hated himself even more for how much he enjoyed it. 

- 

the next day came swiftly. you’d left early to go train with midoriya. there were many improvements needed to be made, but you weren’t doing too bad.

you propelled yourself forwards with an arrow, and your green-haired friend shot back, lightning flickering around his body. 

landing back on the ground, you panted and swiped the sweat from your brow. from the corner of your eye, you could make out both kirishima and bakugou coming to the training grounds. 

bakugou stopped in his tracks, frowning at the sight of you. 

it was evident he hated you a bit more than everyone else. he was always making his annoying comments, he was always snubbing you. you saw no reason to talk to him, so you didn’t. either way, even if you tried, he would still get angry for no reason. 

it’d taken you quite some time to get used to his obnoxious attitude. tuning him out had been the best course of action, in your opinion. 

the way you and midoriya had bonded was through bakugou, in a way. the first day of school, bakugou had snapped at you for tripping over your laces and nearly crashing into him. later that day, midoriya had stepped up and apologized for his old friend’s actions. 

you two had never been too close until now. the recent incidents going on with the league of villains had snagged your attention, and it seemed you were the only person who didn’t mind listening to him ramble on about heroes. 

you were just as passionate and just as dorky, but midoriya could talk your ear off. you never minded, and he always took the hint when you didn’t want to listen. 

you brought your leg up, twirling in the air with ease and watched your heel collide with midoriya’s face. he grunted, stumbling back. 

you were about to charge in again when a hand landed on your shoulder, big and rough. you turned to see bakugou standing behind you, a scowl on his face. 

“fight me again,” he demanded. 

“excuse me?” 

“don’t act like you didn’t hear me.” 

“i’m in the middle of fighting midoriya right now.” 

“so?”

“so if you think that i’m just going to ditch my friend because you want to fight, i won’t.” 

“you’re being stubborn.” 

“i’m being reasonable. back off.” 

“y/n?” midoriya rubbed his jaw—right where you had struck him. “what’s going on?” he jogged up to you and bakugou. 

“he wants to fight me in the middle of our fight. it’s nothing serious. don’t worry about it, midoriya. let’s just ignore him.” 

bakugou made a sound someone would only make if they were choking. “the hell did you just say?” 

“we’re ignoring you!” you waved him off and placed your hand on midoriya’s shoulder, wandering away. 

-

it was new to him, not getting what he wanted. and what he wanted right now was to be around you. again, it wasn’t like he would ever admit that to himself. 

“dude? you good? i thought you went off to fight y/n. i was so ready to cheer you on, dude,” kirishima’s chipper voice piped in. “she’s not fighting with you? why not?” 

“the dumbass was just probably scared of getting her ass beat by me.” 

“dude...that sounds really weird.” 

“whatever, shitty hair. let’s go.” 

- 

the clock ticked. his ears were on fire. again. 

gosh, it was happening again. it was all you. his face scrunched up, his voice would surely crack if someone were to ask him what was wrong. 

bakugou was once again stuffing his face in his pillow, hiding his expression from no one. why did you have to go train with that shitty nerd? why were you always around deku? deku, of all people. what did he have? why was he so great? 

bakugou was a man of many insecurities, but losing to deku? that was possibly his biggest fear. 

perhaps he wasn’t the nicest, or the most soft person out there. bakugou could admit that, at least. but he was smarter than deku. he was stronger and he was better and people liked him more. right? 

what was so...amazing about deku? 

it was often bakugou would find himself obsessing over little, insignificant things such as these. 

you were what he was thinking of most of the time. just yesterday, he’d gotten a test returned. he was expecting an eighty at the lowest, but more so expecting a high ninety. it’d come back exactly sixty percent. 

sixty. percent.

bakugou vividly remembered staring at your face. he also remembered not being able to focus because of it. his grades were dropping because of you. 

you were the only person to be able to do this to him. 

his heart grew quiet, but the pounding of his didn’t cease. he lifted his head. 

“alright, fine,” he said aloud. “you win, y/n. you win.” 

he settled with getting over his feelings the way he’d read them in his collection of romance manga. 

bakugou left his room and knocked on your door. (he was banging on it, but it was his nice way of knocking.) 

you answered, looking around awkwardly. “yes?” 

his hands shook. how was this supposed to go? sure, he’d seen it in romance movies and read it in books but it was always easy to tell whether the guy would get the girl or not. 

in this instance, bakugou was clueless. for once in his life, he was clueless. you stood, tapping your foot with a hand on your hip, waiting expectantly for him to tell you why he was here. 

“um.” he scratched behind his neck. “you uh- i uh...i’m sorry i called you a, um...a shitface.” 

“okay? is that it?” 

what? come on! it was already unlike him to apologize. what else did you want from him? 

“did you...i’ve been thinking, maybe? maybe we could..train together as...friends?”  

“...what?” 

gosh dammit, as friends? 

“whatever, um...the uh...” oh gosh, what did the boys do in all the books he’d read? right! bakugou stretched out his arm, resting his forearm on the door, leaning to the side. 

although he didn’t, really, because like the clumsy jackass he was, bakugou missed completely and nearly toppled to the floor. 

this earned a snicker from you. 

his stomach flipped and churned, and bakugou found himself unable to reach your eyes. “uh, would you maybe..? okay, um. do you want to go on a date with me? you absolute fucking dumbass.” 

your eyes flew wide. “...what?” 

“no, that’s not what i— i mean i didn’t mean the last part. um, i meant the first part. the first two parts. the part where i was asking you if you wanted to go on a date with me and then before that when i said maybe because it’s still a maybe until you say yes. or...or no because that’s an option too.” 

he swallowed. 

you resisted the urge to mock him, just a little bit. “um, bakugou, listen.” 

he leaned closer. “yes?” 

“it’s going to be a no. i’m sorry, but i’m just not interested in you like that.” 

it took him a moment to register everything. his shoulders sagged. gosh that was brutal. 

“oh, alright.” 

“yeah, uh, sorry about that.” you offered him a weak smile, still a bit shocked yourself. he did his best to return it, and when you closed the door, his face was ready to explode. 

it was so damn difficult to deal with these feelings, but maybe it was better this way. knowing where you stood on your end, he knew he wouldn’t miss out on anything. 

perhaps it was alright to admire from afar. things could happen in the future, right? 

right now, he’d just wait. for a long, long time. bakugou pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his erratic heartbeat. maybe it was alright to not have you right now. perhaps he could better himself for you. just for you. 

[blzzrdstryr]

A silent plea

Yandere!Kujou Sara x gn!reader

Wordcount:1366

CW:Yandere themes, death and torture mention

Kujou Sara knows her place. It’s always beneath and at Raiden Shogun’s beck and call. Some may think it's humiliating, to dedicate so much time and energy for the tyrant, yet Sara disagrees - Baal may be a cruel goddess, but she is a goddess nonetheless, meant to be praised and obeyed and Sara is nothing but a devoted worshipper, willing to commit any atrocity if it will please her archon.

She doesn't indulge in it, preferring to endure the cruelty of her own hands and telling herself that it is needed for Baal's eternity. All who resist and defy have deserved their fates, no matter how grim and bitter they are. How many rebels did she strike herself? Electro archon’s heart holds no mercy nor pity for her enemies, so Sara’s shouldn’t either. And it did, for a time, allowing Kujou Sara to fight and torture and interrogate, all in the name of her Goddess, until she met you.

It happened on the battlefield. Sara was aiming at someone, all her attention consumed by the distant figure and the tension of the bow in her hands as she heard a rustle of the leaves and then sensed a blade pressing down her jugular.

“Order your men to retreat”, you demanded, adding a bit more pressure. She couldn’t see it but felt a small trail of blood trickling down her neck and staining the clothes. It was an awful and dangerous situation to be in and for the first time in months she experienced fear so clearly and brightly.

“I don’t comply with the requests of traitors”, she kicked you, focusing the electro energy around her body. It was enough to give her time and protect Sara from your weapon, leaving just a shallow cut on her neck.

You gasped then, from pain and shock, eyes wide as you grasped the injured hand, and dropped the weapon. And then it was Sara’s turn to get surprised - you didn’t flee and she couldn’t see your vision. Were you that stupid or desperate? Did you really think that you could defeat her in a fair fight?

Sara took a stance, preparing for a quick victory, which it wasn’t. She had to claw it out, deflecting your blows and kicks - you were like a wild animal back then, feral and forceful, seemingly just a step away from lunging at Sara and biting a chunk of her flesh out. But unlike the beast, you were smart and tricky too, throwing small metal trinkets to redirect her lightning, leaping at her only when you were sure she wouldn't attack. If it wasn’t for her approaching men who knows for how long you would drag out this battle, using lowly tricks and stunts to make up for your obvious disadvantage.

You fled then, pulling out a smoke bomb to create a distraction, and something inside her changed. At first Sara thought it was respect, keeping her up at night and making her return to the place of your “fight”, replaying your moves in her memory again and again. Respect for your resourcefulness and loyalty to your cause, despite the opposite allegiance.

Nevertheless, the dreams, wet and messy and too dishonourable to be said out loud, made her change her perspective - she didn’t respect you, no, she wanted to be at your mercy again, to feel herself helpless and powerless as your figure looms over her vulnerable form.

Those were sick perverted fantasies, not to mention traitorous too. As the loyal servant of Raiden Shogun she couldn’t allow herself to fall victim to the animal urges and sinful lust. Who knows, what if her arrow falters and blade dulls because of the same craving and shameful desire? How can she allow herself to live further after such failure?

That’s why her efforts in capturing and neutralizing rebel camps doubled, despite the slowly rising wave of hesitation inside her.

The early morning greets Kujou Sara with the cold breeze of grey waves and the news she has both dreaded and anticipated. Her men finally located and captured the small insurgent group, hiding among the lush forests of Kannazuka, roughly dragging the rebels back to the Kujou encampment.

“Bring them here”, Sara says to one of the troops after she exits her apartment, her battle regalia already on. The soldier bows and quickly hurries to the furthermost nondescript building - a makeshift cell for all prisoners before they’re sent to the capital.

Sara trails his figure, feeling how her own heart thumps, head aching from the sudden tension and anxiety and she doesn’t know whether she wants to see your face or not. “A moment of truth”, she whispers to herself as one painfully long second is replaced by the other.

Turns out, you are in that group too, as the mentioned soldier leads you out with the other prisoners, your hands tightly cuffed by a long chain. Kujou squints as she looks over all of you, your frame being her main focus. You are tired and dirty, she notes, but also defiant and full of fight, just like that fateful day.

Sara orders her men to lead you to the interrogation room, and put the rest in the cells, she accompanies the soldier, eyeing your form as he tugs on your chains - you don't want to go, it's obvious, but in the end fatigue and simple weakness win and your legs buckle.

You have new bruises, she notes, purple-bluish they stand out in a stark angry contrast against your skin. Maybe her men got handsy, maybe they weren’t careful with transporting you enough - no matter the reason she needs to punish them.

“Out”, Sara says, once you’re tied and secured in one place, defiant eyes burning right through her. The soldier quickly bows before exiting the room and leaving Sara with you alone, and that’s when she feels it again - the wave of longing and carnal desire so strong that she yearns to touch your body no matter how dirty and battered it is.

“Why am I here?”, you ask, voice low and scratchy after days of complete silence, snatching Sara from her thoughts, and by the archons the sound of your voice is enough to awaken something in her, pink dusting her cheeks.

"You don't have a vision", she says instead of answering you, feeling how her heart speeds up from those words alone:"but you still defied Raiden Shogun's eternity and you will be punished accordingly"

A crooked smile makes it to your face, resignation mixing with pure hatred boiling in your eyes. Sara wants to shiver and turn away, hide from your gaze, yet she endures it, not a single muscle betraying her.

"You will be tortured regardless of you knowing anything about resistance plans", you don’t stop smiling, yet your expression grows even more tense. Like a deadman, Sara thinks to herself - she had seen it of course, the face, the resignation, and she doesn’t like it. The mere idea of you suffering and screaming under someone else's hands enough to make her taste a sour bile on her tongue.

"Then why are you telling me all of this?", you raise one brow.

"There’s a way to avoid that. Aid me in my service to Raiden Shogun and your crimes will be forgiven". Sara leans closer to you, her golden eyes transfixed on your face. "Please agree", she wants to say: "It's for your own good".

“I don’t comply with the requests of traitors”, you spit back at her and she jerks away, remembering your bestial nature. If only you were more obedient Sara would worship you like a second deity, her love and devotion to you surpassed only by the reverence she holds towards Baal. She would dress you in silks and kiss every spot on your body, ripping out the most pleasurable and desperate moans out of your lips. She would fall on the knees before you, patiently awaiting your command.

But she can’t - deep down you’re an animal, feral and ungrateful and rabid beasts deserve nothing but death.

“I will come back tomorrow and ask you again. I suggest you take back your words”.

Kujou Sara knows her place. She wishes you knew yours.