#Bet this is what made the Watchers curse you.

[fruitcakebro]

I just realised something about Third life.

HELMET.

Timmy bein a dirty little cheater, hmm? Not that it mattered in this case because he died immediately afterward, but STILL.

[imaginesheaven]

Pilot!Reader x TF 141

Friendship Headcanons

Warnings: cursing

Words spread like fire about your amazing skills in the air. Every team that got assigned to you and your helicopter comes back home safe and sound.

Captain Price demands your transfer to his team after you had the honor to do a mission with the Task Force 141. He only chooses the best of the best to work with.

“John! You can’t demand every good soldier I have for your team.” – “Laswell, I can and I will~”

Needless to say, but Laswell is more than pissed since you are one of the best pilots if not the best pilot on the base, but Price always get what he wants.

With your quite sassy and funny demeanor you win the hearts of the tough men rather quickly.

“Dear Task Force 141, this is your pilot speaking. If you look to the right side of the helicopter you can see Eagle 3 challenging us to a race. So, please keep seated and hold on for dear life because shit is about to get real~”

The team making bets between you and the other pilot of Eagle 3. In the end, you always win.

At first the team makes fun of you naming your helicopter Valkyrie, but after a little nosedive after a hard mission they stop very quickly. They really made the mistake of underestimating you and your helicopter.

Valkyrie actually was ready to be dropped out from the military due to old age. It was love on first sight for you. It took weeks to convince Laswell but, in the end, you got the old birdy and brought her back to her glory. It came in handy that you are literally blessed with a mechanic soul.

In your free time you love to try out new things to improve Valkyrie for the next mission. Gaz really wants to help every time, but ends up standing in the way most of the time.

“Can you give me the screwdriver for the Fillister Head screws?” – “Uh…. this one?” – “Nope, there most be another one.” – “This one?” – “… You know, Gaz, the windows are in need for a good cleaning. Could you do that for me?”

You hit him with the puppy eyes and Gaz goes to clean the windows like you asked. In the end he is just happy to be there with you :)

Soap is really fascinated with the weapons Valkyrie carries for the missions. You always take your time to explain and show him everything. Here and there he is also allowed to help you out during missions to kill a few of the enemies. That makes him literally so happy like a little boy in the candy shop.

Nevertheless, you use every single chance to mess with Soap. Sometimes Price joins you just for the fun of it.

“Get away from my baby, Soap.” – “I’m not doing anything!” – “You are way too close and I don’t like how you look at her.” – “What the hell?” – “Do what (Y/N) says, Soap!” – “But, Captain!” – “No buts.”

Gaz and Ghost know exactly what is going on and try to hold in their snickering.

With you there is literally not a single dull moment before, during and after missions. The boys love and life for those moments.

Once you left behind one of the soldiers because he got on your nerves before take-off.

“Eagle 2, where are you going?” – “Uh, Urzikstan.” – “You forgot one of the soldiers. He’s banging on the window here.” – “Yeah, we kind of had a fight and he’s an asshole so I kind of had to kick him out. I’m sure Eagle 3 has enough space for him.” – “Eagle 2, you can’t do that. Cancel takeoff clearance!” – “Oops, I accidentally put the throttles to TO/GA. See you later alligator~”

Or the other time on the way back to the base.

„Watcher 1, we request medical at the gate. Uh, we beat up another stowaway…” – “Eagle 2… YOU DID WHAT?!” – “Uh… yeah, we found him halfway back to base and he refused to leave the helicopter so we beat him up and tied him like a present gift on Christmas morning…” – “I am not dealing with this! Land like always and contact ground for medical aid.”

To Laswell’s displeasure you take your sweet time after missions to come back to the base. Here and there you make a little stop at the next fast-food chain.

“I think the drive-through will not do it. Someone has to go out and order at the counter…”

Those encounters with Laswell over the comm create a quite close bond between the two of you over the time.

“Look, who’s back!” – “Don’t even say it, Watcher 1.” – “You were supposed to land five hours ago?!” – “You should be happy we came here at all~” – “How about you land on time for once. That’ll make me happy.” – “We got burgers. Do you want one?” – “YOU GOT WHAT, EAGLE 2?!” – “Burgers…” – “… You will be the death of me … Get them over here fast, Eagle 2.”

Of course, Kate would never admit it out loud that you are her favorite pilot.

“Oh, Eagle 2!” – “Shut up and let me concentrate!” – “Five hours late again. At least butter this landing.” – “We are not Eagle 3. At least we know how to land.” – “Let’s learn how to come in on time next… Did you secure the goods?” – “Sure, Watcher 1. Your usual order coming right to you~”

Captain Price lost count how often you saved their lives with Valkyrie. They trust you blind and know you would do anything to bring them back home. But during one special mission you show how the team really mean to you.

“(Y/N)! We need air support! We can’t get to the evac point!”, the team needs your help, but you ran out of ammo a few minutes ago. You know exactly that they won’t make it without your help. This is the hardest and easiest decision at the same time you have to make.

“It was a good time we had together, Valkyrie”, you say your goodbye to the helicopter before you let crash your baby into the pack of enemies.

“NO! (Y/N)!”, the men are devastated to see Valkyrie go down knowing exactly you must be in the helicopter. Their hearts shatter. They couldn’t save you.

“Boys, come on! We need to be at the evac point in five minutes. Eagle 3 will get us!”, you stumble around the house corner quite out of breath. “You are alive!”, they can’t believe their eyes.

“Not much longer!”, you grab the first one by the hand to drag them into the direction where Eagle 3 will collect you. Once in the helicopter you are all safe and sound for now and on the way back to the base.

“(Y/N) … you crashed Valkyrie … for us?”, Gaz looks at you with his big puppy eyes. You only shrug with your shoulder not trying to think about the helicopter trashed into thousand pieces, “I really don’t want to talk about her.”

It might sound strange, but you are mourning Valkyrie like the helicopter would have been a real soldier. You had spent so much time with her. She was part of your family.

Of course, the team would make it up to you as good as they can. So, one day Gaz comes up to you with a blindfold, “Put it on.” You shake your head immediately, “Not for anything in this world.”

He defeats you with your own weapons. The puppy eyes. You put the blindfold on and get dragged over the whole base until you lose track of where you are actually going. “Oh my god, Gaz! I’m getting really sick.”

“TADA!”, he pulls down the blindfold. For a second you were blinded from the sunshine, but then it hits you. “We can’t give you Valkyrie back, but how about Valkyrie II!”, Soap exclaims pointing at the new helicopter. The whole team looks so damn proud of themselves for gifting you an even better helicopter.

“Thank you, boys. You are too sweet”, you get wrapped up in a big bear hug. “So, you know, Laswell doesn’t want you to know she gave us the money to purchase the new helicopter”, Price tells you with a smile on his lips.

“I chose the interior of the helicopter and the color!”, Gaz exclaims and points at Valkyrie II.

“I was responsible for the weapons! I can show you everything!”, Soap adds.

“I coordinated everything”, Price shrugs his shoulders.

You look at Ghost. He holds up an air freshener, “I want it to smell good.”

[cynicalrosebud]

Rumor Has It

Series Masterlist

Task Force 141 x Male OC

“Laswell, info, now!” Price thundered over the radio, ducking quickly to avoid losing his head. The comms remained humming with static as the captain cursed it out wildly. Soap and the rest of the 141 crouched at his side, firing over the destroyed wall.

“Watcher-1, do ye copy! We’re fuckin’ losin’ ground over here!” Soap’s Scottish brogue cut through the chaos, his voice tinged with urgency.

“Bravo Six, you are heard. Would you settle for me, sir?” An unknown male voice answered the call, a touch cheeky in his response, the lilt of a Welsh accent unmistakable.

Price slumped a bit in relief, as did Ghost, much to Soap and Gaz’s confusion. “Rumor, good t’hear ya, love.”

“It’ll be even nicer t’see me when I save yer arses, sir. Buildin’ to the left, hug that wall like yer mam and send it into the treeline. Exfil ETA 4 minutes,” Rumor responded, his tone confident, almost teasing.

“Copy that, Rumor, out here.”

The captain signaled his men to follow the instructions, leaving the two younger males beyond confused.

Soap cast a quick glance at Price as they moved, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Who the hell’s ‘Rumor’? And why does Ghost look like he’s about t’kiss the ground in thanks?”

Price kept his focus forward, leading the team as they hugged the wall and made their way towards the designated building. “Rumor’s a bit of a legend around these parts, Sergeant. Operates on his own terms, but when he shows up, things tend t’go our way.”

“Bloody right,” Ghost muttered, his usual stoicism cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of relief. His voice was deep and gruff, his Mancunian accent giving the words weight. “Best damn spook there is.”

Gaz, still processing, chimed in with his London accent, smooth and quick. “You mean he’s not with us? Just drops in when he feels like it?”

Price smirked slightly. “Somethin’ like that. Bit of an odd duck, but when he’s on our side, you can bet your life on ‘im.”

The chatter ceased as they reached the building. Soap peered through a shattered window, scanning the treeline for any movement. “So, what’s the plan here?”

“Rumor’s plan,” Price corrected, moving to the front. “We’re gonna light up that treeline, give ‘im the cover he needs t’get us out of this mess.”

With a nod, Soap and Gaz got into position, weapons at the ready. The minutes felt like hours as they waited for the signal. The tension was thick, the distant sounds of gunfire and explosions making it clear that this was far from over.

Then, as if on cue, a flash of movement caught their eye. A lone figure emerged from the shadows, moving with a fluidity that seemed almost inhuman. Rumor, in the flesh. Dressed in tactical gear that blended seamlessly with the environment, he moved like a ghost—silent, precise, deadly.

“Bravo Six, this is Rumor. Treeline’s clear for now. Move yer arses; we don’t have all day,” Rumor’s voice crackled over the comms, his Welsh accent carrying a note of urgency.

Price didn’t hesitate. “You heard the man, let’s go!”

As they made their way towards the exfil point, Soap couldn’t help but steal a glance at the mysterious figure leading the charge. There was somethin’ about Rumor—somethin’ both familiar and enigmatic. He moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doin’, yet there was an air of unpredictability about him that kept everyone on edge.

“Nice t’finally see ya in action, Rumor,” Soap called out as they ran, his words tinged with his Scottish inflection.

Rumor glanced back, a smirk playin’ at the corners of his mouth. “Stick with me, Sergeant, an’ you’ll see plenty more.”

They reached the exfil point just as the chopper descended, the downdraft kicking up dust and debris. Rumor motioned for them to board, covering their six as they scrambled into the helicopter.

As the chopper lifted off, Soap leaned back, catching his breath. “So, what’s the story with you, Rumor? You always drop in like this?”

Rumor shrugged, securing his gear before taking a seat across from them. “Only when you’re in over your heads. Which, judgin’ by today, seems t’be pretty often.”

Gaz chuckled, the tension finally easing. “We’ll take whatever help we can get. But seriously, who are you?”

Rumor met his gaze, his expression unreadable behind the tinted visor of his helmet. “Just a man who likes t’keep things interestin’. Stick around, an’ you might just figure it out.”

Price, watching the exchange, couldn’t help but smile. Havin’ Rumor on their side was like holdin’ an ace up their sleeve—unpredictable, but always a winnin’ hand.

Wonder why he's back.

--------------------------------------------------------

[zephyruswrites536]

Short short short fic:

The old men avatar trying to get anything done in pairs/groups~!warning cursing!

Jonah: Hey… Peter could you get me some tea?

Peter: No, you haven’t won a bet

Jonah*Had just been trying to relax after Brutal pipe murder*: OH FOR FUCKS SAKE

-

Peter: Simon, I really don’t want to have to do the institutes party, can you host it?

Simon(drinking a blue coffee): No, you haven’t won a bet against me to allow that-

Peter(cringing inside before phasing to the prison): Elias- if I let you out this one time..:

Jonah(laying down on the metal bench looking at his nails): Fuck off, I’m not hosting an institute party just because your sorry ass is Asocial

-

Simon: So, Jonah… I was thinking- what if I tried making one of your employees-

Jonah(putting his pointer finger up): I’m going to stop you right there and say you don’t have a win on me.

-

Continuation of Peter trying to get somebody to host the party~

Peter: Rayner… could you possibly-

Maxwell: Peter. I Will say this one time and one time only, I do not associate with the institute outside of Jonah- and I do not place bets like you dumb fucks.

Peter(giving his best 😀 smile): Thank you for the insight, Rayner.

-

Jonah: Simon, is it true you only really have two avatars under the vast?

Simon(trying to slip away): Jonah, you know I do not answer questions for the watcher.

Jonah(smirking): ah, well, yes. I know that. But I was just wondering if you’d like to tell me. Not the watcher.

Simon(stopping his escape to give the 😃 smile): You know Jonah- you are not the least bit as clever as you try to come off as… maybe a few more centuries will get you there.

Jonah(grasping at straws): Simon… Please.

Simon: How about a bet?

Jonah(sighing-screaming internally): On what exactly, Simon?

Simon(tapping his cane against the ground as he thinks): How about… how much time it will take for Peter to come how with the idea that he doesn’t have to do the institute party?

Jonah(nodding): Sounds fair… How long do you think?

Simon: About a week.

Jonah(laughing): We’ll see about that…

Simon(realizing he’s just made the dumbest bet of his life with the best manipulator he knows): Oh- wait- no- Jonah come back!

-

Everyone respectively drinking their coffee- Simon’s blue one, Peter’s black coffee(with one pump of vanilla and nothing else), Jonah’s Carmel macchiato, and Maxwell’s seasonal black as night coffee-

Maxwell: So- Jonah- how are things with the new Archivist?

Jonah(seeming quizzical): Since when do you- ah- … How’s your little minuscule and ultimately unsuccessful black hole doing?

Maxwell(suddenly angry): Oh well since you asked so kindly-

Simon(leaning over to talk to Peter while Jonah and Maxwell bicker): When you do think Maxwell will first bring up your great great great great grandpa?

Peter(going rigid at the thought of Mordechai): I’m not making a stupid bet with you, Simon.

Simon(tutting, before giving the 😃 smile): Seems I was right anyways.

Maxwell(having set down his coffee minutes ago): Are you going to fuck them like you fuck every avatar and worker in your inner circle?

Jonah(giving a 😀 but one eye-twitching smile): Edmund, do you want to visit the end? Or do you want me to squeeze the information out of you like twisting out a soaked necktie?

-

Annabelle(got invited while Elias was in prison): This seems like an awfully boring event.

Maxwell(sitting as far back in his seat as possible sipping his black coffee that goes cold every time and deadpan staring at her like she’s committed a capital offense): It’s actually quite eventful when Jonah is here.

Simon (reading the same paper that Gertrude had posted to stop Peter’s ritual in physical format as he does every-time the meet for coffee): Why- it is peculiar that you are acting so upset now that Jonah is gone- or is that your hormones from the new body?

Maxwell(looking like a goth but not the good kind- the 12 y/o kind): Oh shut up!

-

Simon(on his way over to the institute but stopping at the prison to say hi): Don’t you look ravishing.

Jonah, bored to death, sitting upside down for the first time in months): Fuck off. What do you want?

Simon(smirking and looking him over before sighing): We both know that Peter is going to fail.

Jonah(nodding and sitting correctly): Yes.

Simon: But we don’t know how badly he’ll fail.

Jonah(stopping for a second): What are you suggesting?

Simon(giving a cheery laugh): I suggest the good captain will die.

Jonah(thinking it over before nodding and leaning back): Most likely.

Simon: The question is when?

Jonah: Placing a bet, are we?

Simon(nodding like a kid on Cotten candy): Exactly, I estimate after the worlds changed.

Jonah(shaking his head): You’re saying he’d give himself over to the end?

Simon: Precisely.

Jonah: Well- I’m sure you’re wrong and Jon will kill him, good luck then.

[bestworstcase]

a present, for you- another salem meme! (also ironically while rewatching this episode to find a good enough screenshot i thought of salem as cain while listening to the brothers telling her about her curse; but i'm not actually a christian so you probably know what possible allusions she could have better than me)

HRGDHSJCJ

oh the less said about the christian perspective on job the better <3

BUT LISTEN

LIIIIISTENNNNN

the book of job begins with the deity and the satan making a wager on the matter of job’s faith, because the deity points him out to the satan like ‘isn’t my servant job the most righteous man alive’ and the satan goes ‘of course he is, you’ve given him a charmed life, take back your blessings and see how long it takes him to curse your name’ and the deity is like ‘bet.’

so the narrative conceit here is the deity gives the satan free rein to torment job so as to reveal whether his faith is true or not: all of his wealth (livestock) is brutally wiped out or stolen by raiders who put most of his household to the sword, all ten of his children are killed, and finally he’s struck with a debilitatingly painful affliction. then his wife tells him to curse god and die and several of his friends come to sit with him in his ABJECT MISERY and that’s the end of the prologue.

the narrative proper is largely a series of discourses between job and his friends on the subject of whether or not he Deserved This.

his friends (eliphaz, bildad, zophar, and elihu) hold a belief in the absolute justness and rightness of the deity which demands that job’s suffering is either punishment for some grievous wrongdoing or else discipline meant to teach him something important.

job’s position can be summed up as “fuck you, there is nothing i could possibly have done to deserve this, i am being unfairly persecuted and because NONE OF YOU ASSHOLES BELIEVE ME I WILL MOUNT A LAWSUIT AGAINST GOD TO PROVE MY INNOCENCE”

and i just—

quotations are from edward greenstein’s excellent translation (read it it fucks)

JOB!

[3:20–22] Why give light to one in travail?

Or life to those bitter of spirit?—

Those waiting for death, but there is none,

Though they dig for it more than for treasure!

Those singing for joy at the mouth of the tomb,

Who are glad to be reaching the grave.

JOB!!

[7:17–18] What is a mortal that you treat him as important?

Why do you pay him any mind,

Take account of him each morning,

Test him every minute?

[19] Why can’t you just look away from me,

Let go for just a swallow of spit?

[20] If I’ve sinned, what can I do to you,

O Watcher of Humankind?

Why have you made me your target?

How could I be a burden to you?

[21] Why can’t you pardon my transgression,

Commute my punishment?

For I’ll soon be lying in the dirt—

And when you seek me, I’ll be gone.

JOB!!!

[19:21] I am innocent—I care not for my self;

I’m fed up with my life.

[22] It is all the same.

And so I declare:

The innocent and the guilty he brings to (the same) end.

SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP

[10:1] My entire being despises my life.

I would prepare a complaint on my behalf,

I would speak in the bitterness of my being;

[2] I would say to Eloah: “Do not condemn me!

Let me know of what you accuse me!

[3] Does it do you any good to do wrong?

To reject the effort of your hands?

While you shine favor on the schemes of the wicked?

[4–5] Have you eyes that are of flesh?

Do you see as a mortal sees?

Are your days like the days of a mortal?

Are your years like those of a man?

[6–7] When you go looking for my crime,

And investigate my sin,

You know very well I am not guilty—

But no one can rescue from your hand!

[8–9] Your hands formed me and made me,

Put me together—then destroyed me!

Mind now, it is you who made me like clay,

And will return me to the dust!

I WILL TAKE MY FLESH IN MY TEETH

[13:13] Keep silent before me, so that I may speak—

Whatever may come upon me!

[14–15] I will take my flesh in my teeth,

And I will place my life-breath in my hand.

Though he slay me, I will no longer wait—

I will accuse him of his ways to his face!

SO YOU OBLITERATE A MORTAL’S HOPE

[14:18–19] And yet, a cliff will fall and crumble;

A mountain will be moved from its place;

Rocks are worn down by water;

A torrent sweeps away the earth’s dust;

So do you obliterate a mortal’s hope.

[20] You assault him continually—and he passes on;

You disfigure him—and then you dispatch him.

AUGH!!!

[16:6] If I speak out, my pain will not be spared.

But if I desist, how will it leave me?

[7] By now he has worn me down;

You have devastated my entire company.

[8] You have shriveled me, and this has become a stigma;

My gauntness stands up and testifies against me.

[9] As his anger rages, he strikes a hostile pose;

He gnashes his teeth at me;

My enemy sharpens his eyes at me.

[10] People’s mouths gape at me,

They strike my cheeks to shame me;

They all form gangs against me.

I JUST—

[19:21] Have compassion, compassion, you my friends!

For the hand of Eloah has afflicted me.

[22] Why do you like El persecute me?

Why can’t you get your fill of my flesh?

HE SWEARS OVER AND OVER HE ISNT LYING

[27:3–4] So long as there is life-breath within me,

And in my nostrils Eloah’s spirit,

I swear that my lips will speak nothing corrupt,

And my tongue will utter no deceit.

JOB!!!!

[30:26–28] For I hoped for good, but there came bad;

I expected light, but there came darkness,

My insides roil and can’t be still;

I’ve been greeted by days of affliction.

I walk in gloom without a sun;

In the assembly I stand and cry out.

SORRY I LITERALLY CANNOT READ JOB WITHOUT BECOMING DERANGED. (BUT DO YOU SEE. WHERE I AM GETTING THE SALEM CONNECTION)

anyway in chapter 30 job makes an oath of his innocence and (after a very! lengthy! interjection from elihu) the deity turns up in chapter 38 to answer job’s lawsuit by going, in essence, WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? I’M GOD! whereupon job is literally like

[40:3] Up spoke Job to YHWH and he said:

[4–5] Lacking respect, how can I answer you?

My hand I place over my mouth.

I have spoken once and I will not repeat;

Twice—and I will (speak) no more.

“ANSWER MY FUCKING QUESTION IM NOT GOING TO REPEAT MYSELF”

who else is doing it like job

then the deity goes LOOK AT THESE AWESOME CREATURES I MADE. CAN YOU TAME THE LEVIATHAN, JOB? HUH? EVEN GODS TREMBLE BEFORE HIM

and then—well the standard translation reads job’s final statement as repentance but this is notoriously a difficult passage, and as a matter of narrative and the context of the chapter as a whole i think greenstein’s reading makes considerably more sense—anyway job goes:

[42:1] Up spoke Job to YHWH and he said:

[2] I have known you are able to do all;

That you cannot be blocked from any scheme.

[3] “Who is this hiding counsel without knowledge?”

Truly I’ve spoken without comprehending—

Wonders beyond me that I do not know.

[4] “Hear now and I will speak!

I will ask you, and you help me know!”

[5] As a hearing by the ear I have heard you,

And now my eye has seen you.

[6] That is why I am fed up;

I take pity on “dust and ashes!”

(in 42:2 job is echoing the language the deity uses in genesis 11:6 in reference to the builders of the tower of babel; ‘dust and ashes’ is an epithet for wretched humanity and also occurs in chapter 30.)

I TAKE PITY ON DUST AND ASHES.

WHO IS DOING IT LIKE JOB

imagine being so DONE that you have the wherewithal to be scathingly sarcastic TO GOD’S FACE

and then the deity praises his honesty, scolds his friends for bleating platitudes instead of speaking the truth, and restores everything that was taken from job and more THE END.

/lies down

read job. theodicy of all time

one day i am going to calm down about job enough to finish my actual. coherent salem-as-job screed instead of just firehosing out half the passages that make me DERANGED but DO YOU SEE. DO YOU SEEEEEEEEEEE

horrific torment at the hands of divine beings for the pettiest of reasons. unspeakable anguish. isolation and exile! desolation! absolute certainty that his suffering is cruel and unjust! utter scorn for deceit and falsehood! he cannot rest because the deity will not let him die no matter how he begs for death! his wife his friends his community all turn against him, repulsed by his agony! he sues god!! he tells god i hear you, i see you, i feel fucking sorry for all of us who mean nothing to you!!!

[rookfeatherrambles]

Things come in threes I guess. JonElias Week drabble 3

This one comes with a TW. Basically Jon tries to commit die

The prompt was 'Self Destruction"

So I think this fits

I'll put it under a read more

Also s4 spoilers kinda I guess???

SELF DESTRUCTION

"Let me die," Jon begs. "Let this end!"

His voice is ragged, dry and cracking with disuse and Elias is so furious that he might strike him. "No," is all he says, and then clenches his jaw because if he keeps his mouth open any longer he's at risk of vomiting words he knows he cannot take back, and that he's not ready to admit.

"For gods sake, Jon, stay awake," he commands, heaving the weak, starving the Eye informs him, near death man into his arms and leaving Jon's flat, the door wide open, everything fair game for anyone else to take or spoil. Elias doesn't care. In his head he's already decided that Jon will live with him from now on. Where he can keep his real eyes on him. Jon's still protesting, but Elias doesn't care. He's breathing, he's alive, that's all that matters.

Actually, you care very much. So much that you abandoned the plan you've worked two hundred years to achieve.

Elias snarls. "He is the lynchpin to my plan!" Before realizing he's talking to himself. Jon has passed out. Swearing, Elias bundles him into the car after checking that he's still breathing.

It had been a month before that Jon had entered his flat with the intent never to leave.

Elias had been putting the finishing touches on the grand reveal he'd been planning, the culmination of the bet he'd made with Peter Lukas; and then he'd felt it. His Archivist, the one he'd carefully maneuvered into every mark he needed, was dying.

It was so important that he left the confrontation with Peter and that gormless Martin Blackwood, sprinted, even, to get to his car.

And now, he casts glances at Jon's doll-like body slumped in the passenger seat of his sedan, his shallow breath lightly fogging the window his head rests against.

He looks so sick.

How long had he remained in that flat? How long had he starved himself?

The whole month, the Eye supplies. Four weeks, twelve hours, ten minutes, fifty nine seconds. He thought it would only take two. He did not consume any water.

"God, Jon!"

Elias's hands, they shake. He finds this more disturbing then finding his almost complete Archive knocking on death's door. He's just a tool. He can be replaced. It will set me back decades, but I am patient. I have time. There is always enough time.

Jon groans incoherently and Elias nearly rear ends the car in front of him. They're almost there.

"Hold on, Jon," he says, trying to control his breathing. "Hold on."

As soon as the car is parked in his driveway, Elias wrenches the door open and gathers Jon up none too gently, to take him inside.

There may be an eternity awaiting Jonah Magnus, but Jon is out of time.

Elias lets out a loud curse and lays the small, bird boned man onto his couch, before tearing across the hall with absolutely zero decorum to find what he's looking for.

Statements. He needs statements.

Not the kind that haphazardly populate the Archives, no, these are special. The paper is old, brittle, the ink flaked away where rough handling has aged them.

He races back to Jon's side, and carefully props him up with a cushion.

"Jon? Jon, can you hear me?"

Elias takes Jon's hand, squeezes it.

Please, Jon.

"Jon, squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

He all but lets out a sob of relief as he feels the slightest contraction of Jon's fingers in his own.

Elias shudders a breath, full of unwanted emotion.

He parts his lips.

"Statement of Jonah Magnus."

When he's finished, when the Watcher pulls away from the feast, Jon is watching him.

His dark brown eyes are still dull, and his cheeks hollow, and his skin dry, and his lips cracked, but he is alive. Sated enough to keep his heart beating.

Elias smiles so wide his cheeks hurt. The rush of relief is almost euphoric. "Jon..."

Jon's gaze is empty. Elias realizes with a start that he's been marked by the Lonely, though it's not visible. The Eye tells him without inquiry that Jon called out, cried out to anyone who would listen, strained at the cuff that bound him to the sink in his bathroom, begged and pleaded, cursed and cried for anyone to save him.

And when nobody so much as knocked on his door, not even Martin, the one he yearned for— he knew he was going to die alone.

Elias hisses in a sharp breath. That knowledge hurt.

"J-Jon, I—"

"You should have let me die."

The words felt like a knife in his chest. So flat, so.... Final.

Jon's eyes are so dead already that Elias looks away with a shudder. He can see an echo of the End in him.

His apology was spoken to Jon's skeletally thin hands, still clasped within his own. Like a wretched confession.

"I know."

[nyx-draws-things]

Idk here’s a Greek myth story I did for my creative writing class.

———————————————————————

The Tears of Meteorus

(me-TEE-or-iss)

Long ago, back when the gods of old ruled the world, there lived a man named Meteorus. Meteorus, you see, was a troubled and angry man. He had been forced to fight in the Trojan War and had been ditched when it ended without so much as a thank you. He blamed the gods for the war and resented them deeply.

One day, after a particularly taxing day, he looked to the sky and said, “I renounce the gods and all they stand for. They bring nothing but chaos and destruction. Olympus is a broken scale, weighted by corruption. I bet the gods aren’t even real.”

The gods were appalled, annoyed, and above all, angry. The sky began to darken and lightning began to shake the earth. Zeus himself appeared in front of Meteorus in a blaze of fire and wind.

“How dare you say such things?” Zeus thundered.

“I didn’t mean them,” Meteorus pleaded, for he knew he had made a grave mistake, “I-I’m under a l-lot of stress and-”

“It is too late to ask for forgiveness, boy. For as long as you shall live, you will be hunted by the creatures of the Underworld, who exist only to chase you. One day, they will rip you to shreds for what you have done and you will face the gods in Olympus,” Zeus roared.

With that final curse, Zeus’s form exploded in a torrent of wind and rain. The winds whipped Meteorus around like a rag doll. He was thrown many feet into a ditch. He stayed there until the wind subsided. He cautiously peeked his head over the ridge of the ditch. In the spot where Zeus had stood, a hole in the ground reaching to the Underworld was open. Crawling out of it were the most hellish and evil creatures Tartarus had to offer. Many-eyed beasts with wings and tails, hellish birdmen whose cries were filled with the screams of the damned, and a goat the size of a large house with gigantic spiraling horns and spikes traveling down the ridge of its back.

Meteorus ran. He ran far and fast. He ran for the rest of his life, being unable to stay in one place for more than a couple of days. Every place he went, the monsters ravaged the town, leaving a trail of bodies and fire in their wake. He ran till he couldn’t anymore. He ws old and weak when the monsters found him. Just like Zeus had said, the beasts ripped him to shreds in a slow and painful death that left any watcher screaming hysterically for the rest of their life.

Once he died, Meteorus was summoned to Olympus to pay for his crimes. The gods eventually decided to sentence him to eternal confinement in the stars. No matter where the gods went, Meteorus would always be able to see them, knowing that they were very real and very powerful. He also would permanently see the world covered in the destruction caused by the monsters that chased him.

Finally realizing the effect his actions had on the world, Meteorus wept. As his tears fell, they left a trail of fire in their wake across the cosmos, just as he did on Earth. His tears would be known to the world as meteors. It is said he is trapped in the sky today, still weeping his fiery tears. Every once in a while, he will become so overtaken by sadness that his tears will fall in a shower across the sky, being seen from Earth as a meteor shower.

Now you know to never doubt the existence of the gods, for things can turn out in ways you never thought possible.

[gnomeyflamingo]

✮ The Cursed Tea-Party ✮

After leaving the auditorium, Atreo runs home and hides in his room. He leaves all his social bunny messages unread and cries himself to sleep. Soon he starts to dream...

Atreo: *startled* “Huh, what-Where am I? Is this��ugh.”

Atreo: “By the Gnomes, it’s Forgotten Hollow again. I’m dreaming. It’s the Watcher. Arghhhhhhh, I bet they want to gloat.”

*hears cackling and talking somewhere close by*

Velvett: “The protagonist approaches. He’s resentful, looking to shift blame.”

Atreo: “Wait, who-”

The Obsessed Simmer: “-are they?”

The Watcher: “These talented ladies are Watchers in their own regard. People should check out their content."

Atreo: “Ugh whatever, you-”

TOS: “-ruined everything!”

Atreo: “That’s so-”

TOS: “-annoying!” *snickers evilly*

TW: "I barely did anything child… I’m sorry about his rudeness, I’ll upload him to the gallery so you can punish him accordingly."

VelvettB: “I might just use him for a hardcore Rags to Riches vid. Maybe Good vs Evil…”

TW: “Still too merciful. You should make him -really- suffer. He deserves it. Such a bad friend and a cheater now too. How about an ‘every single Sim death’ vid?”

Atreo: “QUIT TALKING NONSENSE! This is your fault, you wanted me to complete the challenge! You made me-”

TOS: “-betray the love of my life.”

Atreo: “Argh!! How do you know-”

TOS: “-exactly what I’m going to say…? We’re doing a whole Norns from Kratos thing, can’t you tell?”

Atreo: “What? No! What even is that?!”

TW: “Please Atreo you’re embarrassing yourself and more importantly me. It could’ve been worse. Plus you enjoyed yourself-”

treo: “I didn’t… I-”

TOS: “-I hated every second of it… Pft, sure you did.”

TW: “Oh but I saw the want you rolled…”

Atreo: “What want?”

TW: “To kiss Zehra. I loved the timing, you rolled it just as you were locking lips with her triplet sister.”

Atreo: “No!”

VB: “The Atherstone heir lies. Despite his high charisma skill, he’s not very convincing.”

Atreo: “I wouldn’t! Not-”

TOS: “-with Zehra! She’s insane! I’d never, you’re a liar.”

VB: “The protagonist is in denial, unwilling to accept his feelings. How unhealthy.”

Tw: “I’d say. We need a therapist game pack or something.”

TW: “I’m enjoying the drama though. You did well, keep going and you’ll complete your aspiration in no time.”

Atreo: “What if I don’t want to? What are you gonna do? Kill me? Because you can go ahead! You ruined my life already, I don’t care anymore!”

TW: “Oh my child, there are far worse fates than death.”

VB: “And so the protagonist decides to abandon reason and embrace stupidity."

TOS: *Amused laugh* He’s such a fool! It almost makes me want to stop reading his thoughts.”

Atreo: “Then stop, get her out-”

TOS: “-of my head!”

Atreo: “Ughhh! But seriously what’s the point of existing-”

TOS: “-if you’re constantly forced to do things you don’t want to do?”

Atreo: “Make her stop!”

Atreo: “I can’t deal-"

TOS: “-with it, it’s so annoying!”

Atreo: “ARGH, SHUT UP! You weird skull faced hag!”

VelvettB: “Er what did he say…?”

TW: “Atreo! NO! If you upset The Obsessed Simmer she’ll-”

TW: *Sigh* “Too late.”

TOS: *whispers and transforms* “Avenge me….”

Atreo: “W-what, she turned into a dragon toy?!”

VelvettB: “Look what you did!”

TW: “I’m so disappointed in you. Hag? Seriously? She made our sexy gothic outfits, she’s a CC queen and you will respect her!”

VB: “Rude and arrogant, the Atherstone heir made a grave error. Now he must face the wrath of the Watchers.”

TW: “You ruined my tea party. Don’t you realise how much effort it took for me not to cancel last minute? I am so anti social.”

Atreo: “I’m… sorry?”

TW: “You should be. Now we float into the sky and t-pose ominously.”

Atreo: “But… But why?”

TW: “We could tell you but we know you won’t listen to us.”

VB: “And thus the dream sequence ends with the protagonist struck down by a mysterious curse…”

Atreo: *wakes up* “What!? What curse?!”

*newly appeared dragon toy stares silently and sinisterly at Atreo*

Atreo: “Oh… Oh no… What’s going to happen to me now?!”

To be continued...

(for app) >> Next Chapter >> Previous Page

(for browser) >> Next Chapter >> Previous Chapter

❧ Back to the Legacy Archive

[danceofwhispers]

Hello Dear Readers, 

We have arrived in Highgarden to nestle between the roses and snakes. It’s always nice to perch myself above the rabble and look down upon them as they spill their secrets across the floor as if it were life’s blood. Marriages, affairs, lies, and shame have taken root and the Gods have died on the vine in a Kingdom where rightful Kings swing from windows. Let us not focus on the old but the new, those who have made their long away arrivals into the Courts of Lies and Loneliness. 

Let us meet Glorie Bolton @northernglorie the young lady of House Bolton, a house marred by flayed men and Bastard brothers who murder the lord of the House and rule in his Bastard name. Watchers have seen the young Bolton wandering where Falcons and Runic men lie. Is she still in arms with her brother? Or does she aspire to higher places than the Northern court like the King’s bedchambers? @rememberences​

Then we have Bloody Ben @ephemerallightx​ who has deigned the flower court important enough to make an appearance and in his arrival he has decided to make moves toward the Arbor Delight. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Doesn’t he know her taste are higher or older? He wears no crown and this Watch hears he has no hair on his balls, it all fell out in battle. How long before @casimirtully​ needs beg @visxionaries​ to call off his wounded hound @omerflorent​ ? Is Bloody Ben trying to buy ships or ensure the Brackens get the deal?

In the West, the ladies have nothing more than their pretty faces and their wombs to keep the alive. And in House Serrett a woman, @ofmystics​ who does not please the lord loses her head. What about the sister in the tower? The one raising the children? Is her womb as rotten as the Queens? Or will she bring some pride back to her family? 

The cursed daughter of house Manderly @manaliimanderly​ has seen another betrothal fall to pieces. This watcher can’t recall if she was the sister denied marriage to the sea dog @torrhen-stark​  but we do know he first betrothed died on the way to battle and the second killed a King for his crown and wife. Whatever will @nasirofmanderlys​ do with his unwanted sister? Shall we place bets on the existence of her maiden head? 

Madness takes shape in the grip of claws from the presence of @vlxyrianclaws Maximus Celtigar who has risen from the hull of Claw Isle to inflict his flavor of Valyrian madness on the Dragon Court. This watcher wonders if @caetargaryen will manage to keep her control sandwiched between dragon’s fire @burneddragon​ and valyrian claw? Or is she fucking one of them and her baby is a bastard? You can never tell with this Targaryens. 

The fire of witches have come to taint what remains of a once grand house. @lightxshadow​ Zialla Antaryon has come to Westeros and rumors say she is a Rhllorist. The Gimp of Oldtown, the broken voice of the tower has invited fire into his room. What will happen when the High Septon learns of a witches closeness to Starry power? Well, at least she can keep @garlandhightower​ warm, this watcher hears the cold is terrible for the crippled. 

The Lefford who has yet to shame her house is doing well in the court of lions. A lady in waiting to the Queen and rumored to be marrying soon. @lencra​ must wonder when the other boot will drop and her life will darken? What does fate have in store for a family as accursed as this one? This Watcher hopes it’s not boring. The divorce was quite humorous, men have spun many a good yarn of that shamble. 

@imaneshahrazad​ The sister of the Hand of the King married into Manderly wealth and status. Her womb remains as empty as her head. Freedom does wonders for a lady let us pray she doesn’t feel the grip of shackles once more. There is far less to say about ladies hidden in towers. 

"And that’s all dear readers, keep sending your tips and remember. We are always watching you.” 

[haru-sen]

Imperial Forces

I’ve written...a lot of words for a fanfic no one asked for, and only one person has confirmed knowing what the hell I am even talking about.  My god. This is a preview of the IAL anniversary gift and may be changed down the road.  Certain people instigated this, you know who you are, and I’m still salty at you.

TW:  This is a darker piece of work compliant with some of the unpleasantness that one expects the Sith Empire.  Includes: dubcon, mentions of previous sexual assaults, attempted sexual assault, bad boundaries, bondage, and improper use of the Force.  Edited: Posted some minor corrections. Part 1/?

You sat at the table, ramrod straight, focusing on the silverware, and your glass of wine. The cut of the crystal was exquisite, and the wine was a Dathomirian Fury Red, if you recalled correctly, which you might not, because the entire day had been an absolute disaster, and you would be so very lucky if you made it to the dessert course. Surviving this situation was highly unlikely. You’d known for awhile that your time was extremely limited. But having dessert before you were murdered by a Sith lord, would be kind of nice.

You glanced up at the masked Sith, and then the bored moff across from you: dinner, dessert, death. At least the dining room was luxuriously decorated. You’d always expected to die in a dark, gross alley. This was an upgrade, really.

But for some reason, all these high-end pre-murder amenities were not making you feel any better.

**

They called you Cipher 13, because your real name was classified, and because the previous Cipher 13 took a one-way trip down a sarlacc pit the night before your spontaneous promotion. In all fairness, the name was probably cursed. You were the “unluckiest” of the Cipher agents, often getting the worst assignments or having your missions interrupted by the most unbelievable accidents.

It was an old joke by now, but you still got regular comments about your unenviable misfortune. Like today, when you’d gone to the quartermaster to stock up on the special blend of stimpacks Ciphers used. Fixer 3 had made an awkward joke about how your formula had “unpredictable results” and looked uncharacteristically scared when you took one right in front of him. Fixer 3 was normally a sensible guy and you liked him. You weren’t sure what he had been thinking today.

But it had been a long week, and you had not been given the regular rest break between assignments. Something “urgent” had come up. Watcher 5 had briefed you of your next mission, which was something convoluted and political. You were working for a Dark Council member. Watcher 5 had slipped in a snide remark along the lines of, “try not to let your personal chaos spill into this operation. Sith Lords have little tolerance for surprises.”

He said this, like you had control over these things. Ridiculous.

For example, how could you anticipate that a rancor would get loose at a diplomatic banquet and eat the person you were supposed to interrogate (along with half a dozen or so other very important people)? Not your fault, and certainly not within your control, and despite slicing the needed information from his personal terminal, the mission had been judged (unfairly!) to be a failure. Then there was that pazaak tournament on Nar Shaddaa where you had been burned by another Cipher, who outed you to the Hutts. It didn’t matter, in the sense that you won the game, shot her in the face, and received the boon you had entered the tournament to acquire. (The Hutts didn’t care who you worked for, as long as you weren’t crossing them.) You received demerits for having your cover blown by another agent’s blatant betrayal. (But she didn’t get any, because she was dead, and Minder 2 was pissy with you after that forever.) Then, there was that time you’d walked right into a Jedi strike team ambush meant for Darth Baras on Corellia… You were lucky to only lose a hand that day. Coincidentally, the officer who had given you the bad intel had also been fatally unlucky. He had a rare and deadly allergic reaction to the nuts in his ryshcate pastries, served at a diplomatic fete that weekend. How tragic it is when one can’t even enjoy their pastries.

But it wasn’t just misfortune. The current Keeper did not like you, had never liked you, and was growing more and more frustrated by the fact that you kept coming back alive, when many others did not. (You knew for a fact that the Minders had a betting pool regarding your survival. Minder 12 had been very helpful in providing you the behind the scenes information. You missed her.) As Keeper effectively ran the ops division of Imperial Intelligence, this was a definite problem.

Watcher 4 had been instrumental in keeping you alive. But now that he was gone, you were on your own with very few allies within your organization. That was why you had been given this newest assignment. (You missed Watcher 4 as well, and while you could not and would not try to prove it, you thought he and Minder 12 might have faked their deaths and run off together. It was a purely fanciful notion, but you could dream, right?) Imperial Intelligence agents didn’t get happy endings. And Ciphers usually didn’t make it to five years.

You had seven.

By all rights, you should have been able to transfer to a Watcher position a long time ago. But that never happened. It was probably because Keeper hated you. You did not know exactly why. You suspected it was because you were not born into the upper echelons of Imperial high society. You had started out a slave, earned some freedom, and trained as a Cipher; but on the Imperial capital planet of Dromund Kaas, that wasn’t enough. Your continual survival offended him, a constant reminder of his own failure to erase you.

And so here you were, assigned to the whims of Darth Thanaton, a member of the Dark Council, a crusty overpowered madman, and worse, an absolutely unmitigated boor. He was urbane enough in his public appearances, but behind closed doors? An absolute drama queen.

You stood in his foyer, Thanaton was shouting now, and you got the impression that he did this a lot, having an audience present was optional. The man himself was older, fit enough to show his face (no mask or rebreather), and had been quite the assassin in his day. The room was black marble, filled with ugly stone antiques, and it felt like a mausoleum, only louder and more oppressive. Your head was pounding and your stomach churning as you struggled to pay attention to his spiel. You were professional enough that you could maintain a mask of respectfulness, despite your growing physical discomfort. You had powered through worse.

Like that time on Tatooine when you’d broken a leg in melee combat with Tusken Raiders…That had been a bad day. Or that time you’d gone undercover as a Hutt’s dancing slave on Nar Shaddaa. Or even when…

Focus. Thanaton was bad enough. You did not need to take a trip down traumatic memory lane in the middle of a Darth’s monologue.

Thanaton spent a good quarter of an hour railing against the failing morals and falling standards of the Sith academy on Korriban. And then another quarter of an hour complaining about the bureaucratic delay in assigning a “suitable” Imperial Intelligence agent to his cause. He went into great detail about how much the Council needed this work done, and how important it was, and how Lord Messor’s habits were unseemly, and Moff Kiljack needed to know his place, and...and...and… It went on much longer. He sprayed spittle when he spoke. It was painfully distracting.

You nodded along, like a good Cipher, even though you could feel the nastiness of his aura crawling along your skin. It worsened your nausea. You were no saint, but being near powerful Sith made you queasy. There was something fundamentally wrong with most of them, and your body knew it. But you stood at attention, masking your disgust, because to cross a Darth was a clear-cut and uncomfortable death, usually with choking, sometimes lightning. You’d seen it up close many times and experienced lighter versions of those punishments yourself. Best avoided if possible.

Keeper knew what he was doing. There was a fifty percent chance that you wouldn’t even make it to the mission. Snotty old Darth Thanaton would take offense at you for simply existing and smite you before you had a chance to get to work.

But you were not unaware of the situation. Lord Messor was an unconventional dark lord, taking more than his share of apprentices from Korriban (and doing who knows what with them? Sith Lords didn’t usually keep more than one alive at a time). Moff Kiljack had been one of those apprentices, and had shown an extreme aptitude for military strategy. He had then been put on a different career track, promoted to head of Messor’s security forces, and given free reign. Eventually however, things between the men soured, and the former security chief had managed to wrangle a promotion from the Imperial army, instead of just wasting away as Messor’s lackey. He gained some powerful allies and rose quickly to the rank of moff. To no one’s surprise, Messor hadn’t taken the change of allegiances well, and now things were awkward, to say the least.

Thanaton claimed that he found the entire situation offensive. You didn’t think it seemed any different from any other horrible day on Dromund Kaas. There were so many betrayals, atrocities, and political cliques, you just tried to keep your head down, and your heart beating. It was more likely that Thanaton feared Messor’s growing power and wanted to eliminate a rival.

If only you had gotten another off-world assignment. You’d already disabled the kill-chip implanted in the base of your skull. You could just fake your death, move to some peaceful, secluded farming planet, and not worry about being flayed alive for accidentally making eye contact with a power-mad sorcerer.

You’d always suspected your cause of death would be “someone else’s ego” or at least “collateral damage,” but you didn’t expect it to play out so literally. By the time Thanaton actually got to the point, you had been standing in his foyer for an hour, watching him froth and rant. Lord Messor or Moff Kiljack had just been assigned to deal with a situation on Hoth or Voss (you couldn’t tell because Thanaton had been going at it for so long that he kept switching the names and not giving you any kriffing context…) But you were to sabotage those efforts, make Messor and the moff lose credibility, fall from grace, and be tossed into the bone pile in the waste dumps outside the city.

That’s it. Ruin them on the basis of his disapproval and use his tenuously plotted scheme to do it. Failure would be met by death.

Success would also probably be treason, and that too was punishable by death.

Hell, if you did succeed, Thanaton would have to kill you to tie up loose ends.

Death, death, or more death, with no obvious way out. Normal mission parameters, really.

Nodding, you told him, “I understand, my lord. It will be done, my lord,” while preparing to take a shuttle off-world and commit very public suicide on Nar Shaddaa. Hell, you could just go throw yourself at the mercy of Theron Shan. He probably would only torture you a little, as a formality, before taking pity on you, and ending your misery himself.

OK, clearly you had been in Darth Thanaton’s dark energy radius for too long, because his madness and depressive thoughts were now rubbing off on you. Plus you still wanted to throw up. And Thanaton might have sensed your urge to flee, because he sent you back to the Imperial High Command with an escort: one of his security advisors, a pompous man of “good breeding” named Captain Prince, and a dozen heavily armed guards.

Druk.

The soldiers weren’t really there for you, you realized once you were already seated in the convoy listening to Prince further explain Thanaton’s “plan.” Lord Messor was taking on a greater role in the war effort against the Republic, and Imperial High Command was providing more men for his military gambits. Prince and his men were being overtly assigned by Imperial High Command, though they were actually loyal to Thanaton. Prince would be reporting to Messor tonight. Your cover was as Prince’s assistant. Your job would be reconnaissance and sabotage, and you would be reporting your progress to both Prince and Thanaton. You also would be expected to produce reports for Keeper, not that Prince understood the workings within Imperial Intelligence.

...It was shit plan. You knew it even before you heard it, though Prince seemed confident that his background would pass muster. That was a little more reassuring than Thanaton’s mad ramblings, but still amateur. Prince was a decorated military man, and had seen some very vicious combat, committed atrocities, and been rewarded for his service. He was not the man you would have put in charge of any operation that required subtlety. If Keeper had wanted this job done right, he would have assigned it to you himself, and given you free reign. There was a lot of subtext to unravel, but right now you had to nod along to Captain Prince’s blathering. He wasn’t nice, he stared at your chest longer than was polite, and he put a hand on your knee. You lightly brushed it off, reminding yourself that you could not kill Thanaton’s representative on the first day.

Like any highborn noble, Lord Messor had an estate outside the city. The route was straight forward, and you were taking a regular speeder to get there. Contrary to your expectations, the ride actually helped clear your head. You were still a little shaky, but less nauseated. Getting away from Thanaton helped. Wind lashed at your skin as you watched the jungle pass by, and you wondered how much of a lead you would have if you left for Nar Shaddaa tonight. With any luck, it would be hours before anyone noticed you were gone.

You waited, hands steady, even as you and Prince exited the vehicle. It was raining, as usual, and the air stunk of ozone. Three more men followed from another transport, and Prince did not offer any introduction, though you could feel them watching you with predatory eyes.

The Messor estate had several outbuildings, and the gates were high. A large fortress had been partially carved out of the cliff, the jungle providing more strategic cover. Though solid, it had the columned facade of an ancient Sith temple. You studied it, not quite sure what Thanaton had been complaining about. Lord Messor seemed to have traditional Sith tastes (gothic and imposing), at least when it came to architecture.

“Come on, kitten,” Prince said with a leer. “If you want to marvel about size, I have something to show you.”

The men behind you laughed.

You just smiled politely, and decided that maybe Prince would lean too far out a window tonight. The jungle provided a lot of ambient noise to cover any screaming. The winds were dangerous. Accidents happened, especially around you. Hell, if Prince was defenestrated, they’d probably be too busy mopping up the meat confetti to look for you…

Prince led the way to the fortress, frowning as an HK droid met you at the bottom of the steps.

“Greetings, Captain. Lord Messor is expecting you. Please come this way.” The droid pointed to a more discrete entrance: a small path leading to a recessed door. With the foliage and the angle of entry, it was well-concealed.

Prince’s upper lip curled in aggravation, but he adjusted course. You followed, noting the placement of the turrets, the thickness of the walls, and the fact that the droid that met you was a high-end assassination model. It spoke like a protocol droid, it had those functions as well, but you were very familiar with the HK series.

You followed Prince through the heavy durasteel door and to a narrow set of stone steps. The lights were low, and the stairwell was mostly in shadow. Then the door slammed shut behind you, leaving the HK droid and the other three men outside.

Prince stopped, he glanced at you questioningly.

“I didn’t shut it,” you said.

Prince pushed past you and tried the handle. The door did not budge. He frowned and drew his blaster pistol.

“Let’s go,” he told you, gesturing with the pistol for you to go first.

“Of course, Captain,” you said, maybe a little sarcastically, as you marched up the stairs, keeping an eye out for trip wires, pressure plates, or any of the other nasty surprises that Sith lords liked to keep around their homes.

...Druk. Sometimes there were creatures. The local fauna was bad enough, but the Sith liked to import nasty things as well as craft their own monsters. You’d seen plenty and you had no desire to face Sithspawn again any time soon.

You stepped lightly. The stairs went up for at least three stories, and then there was another door. You glanced back at Prince.

“Hurry up,” he growled.

You opened the large metal door, and stepped into a cavernous room big enough to serve as a huttball field. Dim lights shone in wall sconces, and two rows of black pillars lined a path to a massive carved throne. All these features seemed to be cut from the same mountain stone.

There was a figure on a throne, black and red robes under a heavy breastplate, a black hood and stylized skull mask covering his face. He wore heavy metal gauntlets, tipped with dangerously sharp talons.

“Captain Prince,” Lord Messor spoke quietly, his voice smoother than you expected, a lot calmer than some other dark lord whom you had met earlier today. The acoustics of the room were amazing, his voice carried through the hall.

“Ah, my lord,” Prince stepped past you, his blaster already holstered. “I am honored to finally- be in your presence.” He gestured for you to follow as he led the way toward the throne.

“I did not give you orders to approach.” He sounded almost bored.

Prince stopped. “My apologies, my lord. I did not-”

“You don’t need to explain,” Lord Messor said, resting his chin in one palm. “And I don’t have patience for your excuses.”

Prince cocked his head to the side and looked almost comically confused.

And then Moff Kiljack – you recognized that striking blonde hair and those icy blue eyes - stepped out from behind a pillar, and pressed his blaster to the back of Prince’s skull. There was no hesitation. He blew the captain’s brains out right there in Lord Messor’s throne room. Prince dropped with a thud.

You barely had time to avoid the splatter, let alone wonder what Moff Kiljack, Lord Messor’s sworn rival, was doing in his throne room. You glanced between the Sith lord and the moff, wondering if you had time to dive for cover while they battled.

Instead, Lord Messor just sighed. “Ensign De Veo,” he said, using your cover name, and giving you hope that he didn’t know exactly what was going on. “Also known as Cipher 13,” he added, crushing that hope. “I’m sorry for the mess. Kiljack can be so...uncivilized.” He stood and began descending from the dais.

You glanced over at Moff Kiljack, not at all surprised to find the blaster pistol aimed at your head.

“That’s unnecessary, Kiljack. I’m sure our dear Cipher understands her position.” Messor swept down the stairs from his throne, red and black fabric swirling behind him. He circled you like a hungry sleen. “Now, I realize this isn’t what you expected. But I’d be delighted to explain everything. So why don’t you join us for dinner, and we can discuss what you’re doing here, why you’re still alive, and what you need to do to stay that way. This should be easy enough for a woman of your caliber.” He chuckled.

There was no room for panic. You survived because you could think on your feet. Because you didn’t get caught up in “what should have happened.” You kept your mouth shut and most of your insubordinate comments in your head.

You gave a stiff bow from the waist. “I would be honored, my lord,” you said, already tasting lightning in the back of your throat. It was very unlikely that you would get through the night without a demonstration of Sith might.

Lord Messor laughed, like he found you genuinely amusing, and headed toward the eastern doors.

“Cipher,” Moff Kiljack was at your side, offering you his right arm. He was a tall man, very fit in his officer grays. There was blood on his cuffs and glove. He stood like he was carved from ice.

You swallowed and tentatively placed your metal hand on his bicep, wondering if you could scratch him with one of your poisoned needles without him noticing.

“I wouldn’t,” Kiljack said, not even turning his head to look at you. “Be a good girl, and you’ll make it out of this alive.”

You shivered, suddenly very cold in your officer’s tunic. The fear crept down your spine, threatening to freeze you in place. But that would not do. You forced yourself to breathe. You had forgotten that the moff had once been a Sith apprentice. Force-users could pick up surface thoughts. Normally though, you were better at shielding. You steered your mind back to nav-charts and the asteroid belts of the Outer Rim. Head held high, you walked with Moff Kiljack to Lord Messor’s banquet hall.

**

And so here you were now, seated to the left of Lord Messor, a very bored Moff Kiljack sitting across from you, watching you with cold eyes.

The table was long, almost the length of the room, and also carved from the same obsidian stone as the chamber. The same with the high-backed chairs, though they were not attached to the floor, and had plush cushions on them.

Your brain was working almost too fast, panic welling in each heart beat. You tried to calm yourself, as you stared at the vividly colored salad in front of you. You turned some of your hyperfocus on that. It was very aesthetically pleasing, and would not be out of place at a restaurant on Alderaan or Coruscant. Perhaps it would pair well with-

-So what the hell was going on? Moff Kiljack and Lord Messor shared a well-known enmity. But now they were working together, likely because they had learned of Darth Thanaton’s intent to bring them both down. Prince’s men were definitely dead. HKs were ruthlessly efficient like that. You were a loose end, but one they could bargain with. They would want to use you against Thanaton, of course, but you were an experienced Cipher. You still had some resources-

-a Starblossom spritzer or a Coruscant blush wine. You weren’t sure what the next course was, but traditionally there would be a protein and a starch, and-

-This wasn’t a con you could pull off alone. Not that it had much of a chance before. The original plan was half-baked garbage and you didn’t really want to-

Wait.

You willed yourself still, taking a moment to breathe. Your mind was moving too fast. There was something wrong. Had been wrong all day, your focus slowly sliding into the abyss. But trying to figure out what was exactly was wrong, was like grasping at fog. And with both a moff and a Sith lord watching your every move, now was not the time to buckle.

Your memory coaxed up a tiny epiphany. This started around the time you met Thanaton. Was it him?

Kiljack took a bite of his salad, his flat expression not changing, even as he chewed.

Lord Messor was not eating though. He raised his mask to sip his wine, but given the kinds of damage Sith lords did to their bodies, it was possible that he did not have a normal digestive tract.

“Is the food not to your liking, Cipher?” Messor asked, curling those metal talons against his palm with a rhythmic tap tap tap.

“It is exquisite, my lord,” you said, picking up your fork, and taking a bite. The vegetables were crisp, fresh, and lightly vinegared. There were sweet berries mixed in with crumbles of salty cheese. If this was your last meal, you could have really done worse. “Are these Alderaanian fickleberries? They’re a wonderful addition to the dish, just the right amount of sweetness.”

“Indeed,” Messor practically purred. “You have a sophisticated palate. I understand that you are well-traveled.”

“Or she’s used them before,” Kiljack said, still eating his salad. “Likely when she mixed them with the nuts in that Corellian ryshcate to poison Ambassador Morrow. Clever move: I understand the symptoms mimic an allergic reaction. Never thought to mix fickleberries with vweilu nuts and a decoction of grillig-juice. All are harmless on their own, but when combined together, the enzyme produced causes catastrophic organ failure in most humanoids.”

You froze.

“Do you think that would work on Darth Thanaton?” Kiljack asked, tilting his chin up “No, that’s far too radical for him. Mixing foreign nuts and berries, he’d never go for that.” He flashed you a predatory smile. “You might have better luck with a rancor.”

They knew.

This wasn’t just about Thanaton. No one in Imperial Intelligence decisively knew everything that you had done, or how: just that you got results. But Moff Kiljack and Lord Messor, two mortal enemies had just sat you down to dinner and they karking knew. And if these two knew what Imperial Intelligence did not, that meant they were far more driven and dangerous than you initially expected and how did they know? Why did they go through all that effort-?

Terror, still fresh from your encounter in the throne room, blossomed in your chest once more. Dozens of scenarios played out in your mind: the consequences of your exposure. There was no need to go into graphic detail, though you kept getting distracted with colorful visions of your own evisceration. No matter what you thought of, it all ended very badly for you.

In that moment, you cursed your premature deactivation of your kill-chip. They knew. And if it was you versus a Sith lord and his moff ex-apprentice, you would not win. They had already done the hard part, already figured out what you did and how. And then you had just walked into Messor’s home, a gift-wrapped sacrifice. They wanted something from you, and judging by what they already knew, what it took to find that information out, they had the will and means to break you. You’d seen the inquisitors work, seen the aftermath too, the piles of mewling meat begging for death. Being on the wrong side of Sith and moff persuasion wasn’t any kinder. Electrocution or a snapped neck were far better.

You were on your feet in seconds, already turning to run, hoping Moff Kiljack would take you out in one shot.

“No!” Lord Messor raised his hand, and you slammed back down into the chair. Something in your body cracked as you struck the stone, and the world went black for half a second before you snapped back into your body.

You tried to move, but the force held you in your seat, pressing tightly against your chest, your arms pinned down on the armrests. You could barely breathe, let alone move your limbs. Shuddering, you could only watch as Moff Kiljack leaned against the edge of the table in front of you. He reached out, one gloved hand tilting your chin up.

“You hit her too hard, Messor,” his voice was calm. “She’s bleeding and her pupils are uneven.”

“Couldn’t help it. She moved too fast, and she was planning to self-destruct.” Messor’s voice came from behind gritted teeth.

“That, or hoping to get one of us to do it for her.” Kiljack shook his head.

Cold sweat dripped down your neck. Your breaths came in short bursts. You were trapped, back flat against the stone chair. You couldn’t move. And you were at the mercy of men who didn’t know the meaning of the word. A strangled sob died in your chest as you vainly tried to move your limbs.

“Shhhhh, don’t struggle,” Kiljack reached for your napkin and then gently blotted your nose. “Messor, she’s having trouble breathing.”

“I know,” Messor shuddered, and took a deep breath. “She’s very scared.” There was a note of something like hunger in his voice, but he raised his hand again, and suddenly you could draw in a little more air.

“Mmm,” Kiljack nodded, those blue eyes studying your face. “That’s it, stop fighting us. This doesn’t have to hurt.” He set the napkin down, watching you intently, like a puzzle he wanted to dissect. He smiled then. “You are very loud, Cipher.”

You gritted your teeth and tried to stifle your breathing. You must be badly injured if you were making too much noise. Ciphers didn’t make a habit of being loud. For obvious reasons.

“That’s not what I meant,” Kiljack said. He leaned in, nearly nose to nose with you. “Quiet your mind.”

You stared at him, trying to swallow, but your throat was dry and your vision blurred. You dropped your head, too dizzy to stay upright.

Kiljack lifted your water glass to your lips. “Here. Take small sips. We don’t want you to choke. On the water.”

You flinched, waiting for one of them to follow up with a traditional Sith demonstration of force choking.

“Just drink your water,” Kiljack ordered.

You opened your mouth, closing your eyes as the glass touched your lips. The cool water tasted better than you hoped and the light steady stream cleared your throat.

“That’s it, good girl.” He stroked your cheek, his black glove soft against your skin. “Is that better?”

You managed a nod, feeling queasy from the motion alone.

“Now, are you going to behave?” Kiljack asked coolly. “Or do we have to keep you restrained? Another stunt like that, and I won’t be so nice, do you understand?”

“I’ll be good, sir,” you said, voice weak, and you had to grit your teeth, because speaking hurt. That force blow had done some damage to you. You couldn’t pinpoint the exact location, because your whole body ached. You still couldn’t move. And to make things worse, Moff Kiljack, of all people, was trying to gentle you like a wild tauntaun.

“Does it hurt?” He asked.

You closed your eyes, focusing on the different routes off of Nar Shaddaa instead of your current location. And you waited for the next threat of more pain, or the lightning, or whatever Kiljack wanted to use.

“Now, she’s gone silent,” Kiljack muttered.

“She’s in pain,” Messor said, his voice still low. “And while I find nav-charts far less tedious than endless streams of pazaak, someone really needs to teach you how to shield your mind better. I don’t know how you’ve survived this long with such loud and irreverent thoughts.”

Normally, you were better at it. But Kiljack had said your pupils were uneven...OK, concussion. That made sense. You took an inventory of your injuries: bad concussion, something fractured in your chest or abdomen, and you still were trapped here with a dark lord and a moff who wanted you for nothing good. Druk. It would have been so much easier if one of them had just killed you outright. They were supposed to be good at that kind of thing. Hell, you could still bite your tongue off and-

Kiljack gripped your chin, prying your jaw open. “I thought you were going to be a good girl, Cipher.”

You whimpered.

“I will get the bit and the slave collar,” he said glaring at you.

You relaxed your jaw. You weren’t trying to upset him. You were concussed. And you didn’t have complete control of your faculties right now.

Kiljack narrowed his eyes at you. “Is that so? Do I need to get the bit for your own safety? Or would you prefer I make you a cloth gag? Messor, can we borrow your sash?”

“Sah-ee, sir,” you said. It was not the first time you’d given a disingenuous apology with another man’s fingers in your mouth at the dinner table, and quite frankly you were a little embarrassed to be in that situation again.

Then came the spasm of pain that would have bent you in two, if you could move that far. Instead, you twitched, teeth clamping down on the moff’s fingers as you struggled to breathe. You tasted blood in your mouth, though you weren’t sure whose it was.

Kiljack’s eyes widened, but he didn’t move, and the slap you expected did not come. He waited for you to unclench before withdrawing his fingers. He examined his torn glove with a sigh. “We’re going to need kolto, Messor.”

A kolto pack floated over the table to Kiljack.

Nimble fingers began unbuttoning your collar. You opened your eyes to see Kiljack unfastening your tunic, a kolto pack in hand. His gaze lingered on your thin undershirt for a moment, and then he applied the cool healing gel onto your stomach, along your sides, and around to your back.

“I don’t think we’ll be finishing dinner out here any time soon,” Messor said.

“Messor, I’m not making do with just a salad, no matter what kind of fancy berries you put in it,” Kiljack said, wiping his hands off and checking his fingers. There were teeth marks, and some broken skin, but nothing severe. After the kolto application, the wounds started closing up as you watched.

Messor laughed. “We can take our meals in our rooms. Why don’t we call the medical droid and put our guest to bed first?”

The pressure on your body suddenly lifted, but before you could regain your bearings, Kiljack scooped you out of the chair.

“Is this causing you more pain?” He asked, one arm supporting your back, the other under your knees.

“No,” you said, though breathing was still uncomfortable. Rib damage, likely. You didn’t struggle, too woozy to make good decisions right now. On the bright side, it looked like they weren’t going to kill you just yet, but also, you hadn’t made it to dessert, and you were a little sad at the prospect of missing whatever Lord Messor’s chef had concocted. Even if it was fickleberries mixed with vweilu nuts and a decoction of grillig-juice.

Despite the danger, you could not keep your eyes open. The world faded away.

You dreamt.

**

You were back in that dining room, candlelight casting eerie shadows on the walls. You saw yourself bent over that banquet table, Lord Messor’s hand on your back, your face pressed against the stone, your wine glass rolling on its side, the red liquid dribbling onto the floor. You felt a spark and flinched, that light crackle of electricity as those metal talons trailed down your spine.

“Scared?” Messor murmured, his breath hot on the back of your neck.

“Yes, my lord,” you panted, squirming under him, feeling his cock pressed against you through his robes.

“Good.”

**

You were on your knees, staring up at Kiljack, the tip of a riding crop under your chin. You didn’t recognize the room. There was a small fountain flowing in the corner. It was an office, probably aboard a starcruiser from the shape of the window. You did not recognize the orbit. But Kiljack was in full moff regalia, gray tunic coat and jodphurs, black boots and gloves, and a heavy belt. Was this his battleship?

“I told you to open your mouth,” Kiljack said coldly.

You hesitantly parted your lips, noticing that your hands were unbound. You could-

Kiljack pushed a piece of silicone into your mouth, the ring shape holding your teeth apart. He fastened the strap snugly around your head.

“That’s better,” he said, an edge in his smile as he cupped your cheek. “This wouldn’t be necessary if you were more careful with those teeth. Now be a good girl and stick out your tongue.”

**

The bedroom was large and dimly lit.

The bed was enormous, draped in scarlet silks and pillows. It was comfortable, but you could not actually move very far. You poked at the gold collar latched around your neck. You wore matching bracelets and anklets, but there was a chain attached to the collar and secured to the headboard. You rolled your eyes at the outfit: the dancer’s garb with the red and gold harness top, chain belt and lashaa silk loincloth, and knee high boots.

You had worn these before – what spy hadn’t? But you didn’t remember getting here, or where here even was.

There was someone else in the room, somewhere in the shadows, just watching you. You looped a length of chain – your best bet for a weapon, and began examining where it connected to the headboard.

“I thought you were going to behave today.” Messor’s voice came from somewhere in the darkness.

“But if this is how she wants to play, why should we deny her?” Kiljack laughed.

The lights went out. And suddenly you weren’t alone on the bed.

**

“So do you like the view?” Kiljack whispered. “You’ll have to be quiet, or everyone will hear us.” He tightened his grip around your waist. “Or maybe that’s what you want.”

You sat on his lap, looking around the throne room, in all its sinister glory. Crimson imperial banners hung from the walls and pillars, the firelight casting harsh shadows. There was a second story balcony overlooking the throne room. It was too dark to see if anyone else was up there. But the rest of the cavern was a vast expanse, easily surveyed from the throne where Kiljack sat: Lord Messer’s throne.

He was right. If you made any noise, it would echo.

You swallowed roughly, eyes drifting to the spot where the moff had executed Prince. There was no body or blood.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Kiljack growled in your ear.

You opened your mouth to speak.

“You’re in my seat,” Messor said, the words echoing off the walls as he materialized from the shadows. His tone was dangerously mild. He stalked up the stairs toward you.

You started to move, but Kiljack held you tightly against him. “About time you got here,” the moff said. “I was getting bored giving the tour. Maybe we can move on to something more exciting.”

**

You sat up with a strangled gasp, your head pounding. Another unfamiliar bed, but when you looked down, you were covered in blankets. You peeked underneath, finding yourself still dressed in your thin tanktop and uniform pants. You ached, like you’d been in a fight. But there wasn’t pain between your legs, a small, but important reassurance. The inside of your mouth felt like a stable floor and you winced as you looked around, the dim lights still aggravating your eyes.

It was a large elegant bedroom, the furniture silver with red trim. It was neat, but it felt lived in, not a guest room. You started to look around, but your vision swam. Holding your head, you gave yourself a moment before trying to focus.

Yesterday was an absolute sarlaac snarl. You’d been sent off on a poorly-planned suicide mission, and your reactions were...wrong. Judging by how awful you felt right now, you’d been drugged. You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to analyze each location step by step. You started feeling ill in Darth Thanaton’s presence, but you neither ate nor drank there. Maybe he did have some secret force brainwashing powers, but that was unlikely. That ability was too subtle for a bombastic coot like him.

...The stims. Something had been wrong with the stims. Fixer 3 wasn’t being a smart ass. Fixer 3 had been trying to warn you. Echuta! It had been right there in front of your face and you were too distracted and arrogant to notice.

You growled, throwing the blankets off. You tried to stand, but found you were still too dizzy.

“Well, I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better.”

You blinked.

Just off to the side, nestled between a wardrobe and a table, sat Moff Kiljack. There was a blanket on his lap and a blaster pistol on the table. He yawned, stretching his arms above his head, before he stood, fully dressed, though his jacket was unbuttoned. A faint dusting of stubble shadowed his jaw. He looked you over. “That’s better.” He tapped his left temple. “You’re not so loud any more.” He gave a sigh that sounded a lot like relief. “I know that wasn’t entirely your fault. You were out of your head. The medical droid analyzed what was in your system, if you’re curious.”

“Someone sabotaged my stims,” you said, resting your head on your knees. “Someone in Imperial Intelligence.”

Moff Kiljack nodded. “Makes sense. You also had a bad concussion, cracked ribs, and some bruising. The kolto pack helped a little, but a localized injection sped it up.”

“Thank you,” you said, even if you were not so sure that you were grateful to be saved. Because you still had a lot of questions about what was going on, why these two “enemies” had put so much research into your accomplishments, and how much they knew about Darth Thanaton’s intentions.

You closed your eyes, knowing a few things already:

Moff Kiljack and Lord Messor had a complex relationship; this was likely Kiljack’s room and Messor would not keep it for him if they were really enemies. You needed to figure out the exact nature of their alliance and how much of that infamous enmity was a smokescreen. They worked too well in tandem for all of that showboating to be real.

Keeper was now actively trying to kill you. It would be very difficult to tamper with the stims otherwise. Thanaton was probably meant to be the instrument of your death. He was old, powerful, and no one would bat an eye over a Darth executing a Cipher.

The sensitivity was getting worse. Once it had been an asset, just enough insight to give you an advantage. Now it was opening you up to too many other things. And you lived in the capital city of the Empire, where so many hungry Sith congregated. No, this was bad for you. Kiljack was right, you needed to shore up those shields, and hide yourself better. Anything less would get you shipped off to Korriban.

“Can you hold down food?” Kiljack asked, suddenly standing beside the bed. He set a glass of water on the night stand.

“Not sure. Thank you.” You eyed it for a moment, knowing that he could have slipped any manner of drug in there, but at this point, what choice did you have? They needed you for something, and that meant they probably needed you alive and functional. You took the water, sipping it slowly.

The moff watched you like a hawk, probably worried that you were going to choke or throw up.

You studied him, noting his bare hands. There were scars on them, but it looked like the bite marks had healed. “Sorry about biting you last night,” you said. Apologizing seemed like a good idea. It would be wisest if they thought you were docile and amenable to them. You still weren’t certain that you were going to thank him for sparing your life. But you were a little more confident that they weren’t planning on torturing you to death. Not immediately, anyway.

“You need to be more careful with those teeth,” he said, without a hint of inflection, that handsome scarred face stoic once more.

You stared at him for a second, a moment of deja vu. You shrugged. “I need to be more careful, period.” You dropped back onto the pillows, another wave of dizziness skewing your balance.

The moff picked up a personal comm. “Echo, let Messor know that our guest is awake, and have something mild brought up from the kitchens for her.” He glanced over at you. “I can send for the medical droid.”

“You already had me checked out, right?” You asked, staring up at the stone tiled ceiling.

“Yes. There was a small amount of bleeding in your skull. We took care of it. It can provide some painkillers and anti-nausea meds if you want.”

We took care of it.

That was an interesting way to phrase it. The medical droid might have accomplished it on its own, though the procedure would be more invasive.

“I think I should go for the anti-nausea meds,” you said, one hand over your eyes. “But if you give me a minute, I can try to get upright and-”

“Just stay there,” Kiljack said. “Messor will be along shortly. Finish your water.”

You sighed and downed the rest of the glass, spilling a little down your chin, and not really caring because your head hurt.

**

The comm unit chimed and Kiljack stepped out of the bedroom. When he returned, he was carrying a large platter of flatbread, grilled fish, and some fruit. There was a small glass of anti-nausea medication too. He set it all on the nightstand and poured you another glass of water from the carafe.

Your stomach rumbled, so you took a few berries and ate them slowly, letting the sweetness roll down your throat. You downed the medication in one shot.

When everything stayed down, you took a few more berries, and then a piece of bread, passing on the sauce, just in case.

Kiljack settled back down in his chair, watching your every move.

You had taken a break from trying to eat, when there was a knock. It was distant, and you realized this bedroom was probably part of a suite. Kiljack got up, giving you a stern look.

You pretended not to see. You were still too messed up to make a run for it, and even if you did manage to escape, where would you go? Keeper was trying to kill you. Thanaton was not going to be happy about Prince. And Nar Shaddaa with its flashing lights and cacophony of sounds, would give you a migraine bad enough to make your head explode. You could stay here in the comfortable bed for a moment. You needed a more accurate picture of the situation, before you did anything rash. You did not need a repeat of last night.

“No, it’s fine, I don’t have to get back to the fleet, I’ll just stay here and babysit your new pet spy,” Kiljack said sharply as he returned and practically threw himself into his chair.

Lord Messor followed, still in those sweeping red and black Sith robes, that stylized skull mask in place. The Sith had several skull motifs, though to be honest, his reminded you a little of the Mandalorian mythosaur skull symbol, without the horns.

“I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better,” Lord Messor stood in the doorway. There was a slight mechanical quality to his voice that you had not noticed last night. The mask had a built-in vocoder then. Interesting.

“My lord,” you said, attempting a bow at the waist and feeling your head swoop dangerously close to your knees.

“Don’t-” He sighed. “We can do this informally, Cipher. You’re still recovering from your ordeal.”

You nodded, wincing as you leaned back into the pillows. “I appreciate that, my lord.”

“We’re in private, Cipher. You can forego the title as well.”

Thankfully, you were already lying down, because otherwise you would have fallen over in shock. You had never actually expected to hear a Sith lord say that. After Thanaton, it was a pleasant reversal. But you did not trust that magnanimity.

If Messor and Kiljack knew about the “extra” missions you did, then they had to have a fairly accurate psychological profile of you. They had to know that people who forced you into bad situations ended up having freak accidents. Being polite was just a good way to manage you. You had no illusions about the altruistic natures of moffs and Sith lords. But you could appreciate the effort and you would work with good manners. This was certainly better than spending an hour being shouted at by Darth Thanaton.

You waited for one of the men to speak. They were the ones who wanted you here, after all.

“You were recently tasked by Darth Thanaton to sabotage our strategic efforts on Hoth and Voss. You were assigned to Darth Thanaton by Imperial Intelligence, but that does not mean Imperial Intelligence condones his actions. However, as Thanaton is a member of the Dark Council, politics must come into play.” Messor’s hands twitched. He wasn’t wearing the gauntlets today. He had large hands, dark skin, and thick callouses, probably from handling weapons.

“So someone in Imperial Intelligence tipped you off?”

“Your...Keeper saw fit to warn me,” Kiljack said, fingers steepled.

You frowned. “But not Lord Messor.”

“I think you’ve already figured out that Messor and I are...exaggerating our feud.” Kiljack gave a wry smile. “But that is very guarded knowledge.”

“Yes,” you nodded, and then winced, because you did not need to be bobbing your injured head like an idiot bird. Your brain had taken enough of a blending.

A secret political alliance gave them an interesting cover and access to a wider range of intelligence. But Moff Kiljack did not have the wealth and prestige that Lord Messor did. He would be at a fundamental disadvantage. A Sith lord was not likely to trust anyone outside their control. There were a lot of disadvantages to this tactic and you could not see a clear payoff. You sat with that for a moment. There was an important reason for their ruse, though you doubted they would tell you anything but a plausible cover story today. But the layout of the game started to form. You looked at the empty spaces, trying to find the details that didn’t make sense.

...There it was. There was a third party in play, aiding and abetting this ruse. Someone with enough clout to help Kiljack get his promotion. Someone that even Keeper did not want to cross...

Another Dark Council member then. And given Kiljack and Messor’s military interests and mostly low-key behavior, you had a good idea whom that Council Member was, though again, not why they were using this exact ruse. But if Kiljack’s patron was who you thought it was, you did not blame Keeper for wanting to stay on his good side.

But you were also pretty sure that you were not supposed to survive that meeting with Thanaton yesterday. The exchange would go something like this:

“Send me another minion, peon!”

“I’m so sorry, your Decrepit-ness, you killed my only available agent and we’re very shorthanded! There’s no one else to send. You’ll have to wait.”

Keeper would be off the hook with Thanaton and Kiljack’s patron. You would be dead. Three problems solved.

Except you were alive, and no problems were solved. You looked up to see Kiljack studying your face.

“Do you suspect that Keeper knows the feud is fabricated?”

“No. That’s very exclusive knowledge,” Messor said without a trace of doubt.

You wondered how he could be so confident – not because he wasn’t ruthless – but because your business was secrets: keeping them, stealing them, rooting them out. If people wanted information badly enough, they would find a way to get it. No matter how well you thought you covered your tracks. Your stomach soured a little at that thought. They’d figured out some of your secrets. You’d have to return the favor, if only for your own pride. And maybe some leverage.

“So you want to recruit me as a double agent against Thanaton,” you said.

“Partially,” Messor admitted. “But I had a more permanent offer in mind for you.” He cleared his throat. “My current intelligence chief will be retiring soon. You were recommended to us.”

You blinked. “I can’t just quit Imperial Intelligence, believe me, I’ve tried,” you blurted out.

“You can if you have the right patronage,” Kiljack said. And he had some experience there, having gone from Sith apprentice to moff.

“You want me to help you bring down Thanaton, get you onto the Dark Council, and then you’ll hire me?” Your lips twitched at that tall order. Sith expectations.

“I will hire you now as a house intelligence agent, at double your current pay with all the usual amenities one expects from the well-to-do estate of a Sith lord,” Messor said. “Promotion to intelligence chief pending results.”

That would have been extremely generous, except Imperial Intelligence was criminally cheap. Sure you had some good benefits, but they didn’t have to be competitive when their employees literally weren’t allowed to quit. Still, it was not a bad offer. Better than a lot of the alternatives.

Messor continued. “Handling Thanaton and the Council are longer term problems. If we succeed on Hoth and Voss, I will have enough clout to extract you intact from the employ of Imperial Intelligence. And it will be easier since you’re already assigned to me: possession is nine tenths of the law.”

You sat with that for a few seconds. You could play the long game, letting Thanaton think you had wormed your way into Messor’s confidence. That would sit well with Keeper – it kept him out of the hotseat. You could go back to Keeper and see which way he wanted you to go – for intel purposes only - and then do whatever you wanted anyway. You could say no outright, and get shot in the head by Kiljack…

“You have questions,” Messor said, still keeping his distance.

“How long have you been tracking me? And what brought me to your attention?”

“A man once called “Sparrow” recommended you to us a year ago. He is around here if you want to catch up later.”

You sighed, of course Sparrow was still alive. That explained a lot. He knew you well enough to guess which missions you had purposefully altered. He knew your expertise well enough to conjecture methodology. That he shared this information with a strange Sith lord should not have surprised you entirely. The former Cipher 7 was a skilled assassin; he’d been declared KIA with his brother two years ago. But it seemed he had found a safe haven here.

“His brother?”

“Didn’t want to work with us. No one was going to force him. He took a shuttle to Yavin 4. Sparrow visits him occasionally,” Kiljack said.

“Why me?” You asked, not because you doubted your abilities, but because you still did not quite understand how this coalition worked.

Messor was silent for a moment. “You are a reasonable woman. And looking at your track record, we thought your methods would align with ours.”

“And why do you think that?” You asked.

“The Rancor Incident,” Kiljack said with a smirk.

You kept your face neutral.

“Lord Vilhus was there, a very nasty individual. But the casualty list also included Ieyak the Butcher, Margrene the Bloody, General Arus, Enso Chain-Maker, and Lord Casten. Coincidentally, none of the slaves, servers, or civilian bystanders were hurt. And everyone thought it was just a terrible accident. That took planning, skill, and finesse.”

You stared at your lap, trying to remember if any of those people had good or bad ties to House Messor. Vilhus wasn’t anyone’s friend and Arus wasn’t related. Casten might have attended the Academy at the same time as Messor. You pondered that connection.

Because once you’d had a close...friend, a lower ranking analyst in Imperial Intelligence. A smart and pretty Twi’lek who didn’t deserve the things Lord Vilhus did to her. Lord Vilhus was a Sith lord and could do as he pleased to those weaker than him. So when you saw him there and that rancor… It was just an opportunity.

You looked up to see Kiljack studying you intently. “None of them were allies to House Messor or myself,” he told you.

“Am I...broadcasting?” You asked, trying to make sure your mind was quiet.

“No, it’s just the next logical question,” Kiljack said. He cleared his throat. “But there’s something else we need to address.”

“You’re a Sensitive,” Messor said.

You winced. Of course they’d picked that up yesterday. “A little. Nothing kinetic level, just intuitive boosts every now and again. Came along later in life.” Though it still might be enough to get you sent to Korriban. And now they knew. Which was a manageable thing. You knew about their fake feud, they knew about your force sensitivity. Mutually-assured destruction ensured that the balance of power remained less complicated.

Messor nodded. “Kiljack is very good at shielding. You should consult him about how to better protect your mind.”

Kiljack gave Messor a side-eyed squint, but did not protest.

Accept the offer, take a hard job, and maybe get out from under Keeper’s thumb. Or decline and end up dead. It wasn’t much of a choice.

“What do I have to do to sign on?” You asked.

**

Different Sith lords had their ways of ensuring loyalty, or at least compliance. You had undergone years of conditioning to be kept under the authority of Imperial Intelligence. A lot of that conditioning had come undone in your term as an active operative. You had worked hard to slough the restraints that would have otherwise hobbled your thinking. They might have had your service, but your mind was your own. Ciphers had a lot of leeway to run operations as they saw fit, because an obedient drone could not do their job. But there were still ticks, involuntary habits ingrained in your mind, pathways worn in by years of unpleasant reinforcement. Oh, you weren’t loyal to Imperial Intelligence, but you knew to instantly bow your head to a “superior,” to mask your emotions with a lie, and that the mission came first at the expense of all else... You knew these things in your bones, because of the conditioning. And you understood intimately how those rituals did psychological damage.

So when Lord Messor stepped into the room and drew closer, you prepared yourself for something unpleasant.

“Give me your hand, the flesh one.”

Permanently, or just to hold? You wanted to ask, but you kept your mouth shut and extended your right hand. He took it gently between his palms. His skin was warm and rough. You swallowed, preparing to be overwhelmed by your reaction to the Sith.

The world turned black.

Then heat and light poured into your skull, a waterfall rushing through you, and you screamed under the torrent. It cut through your perception, and tethered something in your head, to that little spot of intuition that always knew when a weapon was being drawn or when someone was lying to you. That metaphysical aperture expanded, wedged open by the hooks of Messor’s connection. He was in your head, and for a moment, you were face down on the dining room table, those claws tracing along your spine while he pinned you there, while you squeezed your thighs together, squirming at his touch…

Then you felt the weight on your left arm, felt Messor squeeze your right hand, and you forced your eyes open.

Kiljack held you to the bed, your left hand pinned over your head.

You could feel Messor through the force. He was in your mind, had his own private backdoor in, a new sort of violation. And that realization enraged you. Snarling, you thrashed, “You bastard! Get the hell out of my head!”

“If you shield well, I can’t see what’s in your head,” he said calmly. “And I won’t go looking.”

Cursing, you lunged at him, but Kiljack held you down, his full weight on your body.

“It’s not mind control, it’s a minor force bond,” Messor said, tone even.

So this was how he kept Kiljack in line. And you had just willingly submitted yourself to the same treatment. Maybe death was preferable. Fury overtook you and you tried to throw Kiljack off you. When he didn’t budge, you sunk your teeth into Kiljack’s shoulder.

He jerked, then braced himself, hand tightening on your throat. “I thought I told you to be more careful with those teeth,” he rasped, pupils huge.

You waited for the leash or the neural bolt.

It’s not a leash. It goes both ways. And it fades with time. Messor said quietly in your head. Also, if you keep biting Kiljack, he’s going to choke you out.

Groaning, you released the moff, feeling his fingers begin to loosen around your neck. You kriffing piece of sarlaac scum! I’m going to feed you your teeth!

“I hope you’re talking to Messor, because you’re not in any position to threaten me,” Kiljack said gruffly, running his thumb over your throat, before letting go of your neck.

“You’re on the list too, don’t worry,” you hissed.

Messor released your hand, a hint of amusement in his aura. “Get some rest, Thirteen. We can talk more later.”

I know so many annoying drinking songs from dozens of planets. I will be screaming them into your skull all night!

“Charming,” Kiljack said, rubbing his temple. He glanced down at his ripped jacket and glared at you. “If you’re going to be a nuisance, you can go crawl into someone else’s bed, because-”

There was the ghost of a memory, a shirtless Kiljack laughing as he lay in the bed, another man pinned under him, like you had been, a flash of heat pulsed between your thighs-

Messor inhaled sharply.

Kiljack pinched the bridge of his nose. “I told you-” He pushed his hair back, suddenly very tired. “Just go. Your proximity is probably making things more difficult.”

“Your shoulder,” Messor said softly, he stepped out of the room and returned with a medkit.

You watched silently as Messor carefully cleaned Kiljack’s wound, and treated it with kolto.

Kiljack leaned into Messor’s hands, his head resting against Messor’s shoulder, and it clicked.

There was more than one reason why Kiljack did not betray Messor, one you had not anticipated. You gave a dry laugh, how utterly ridiculous. These stories never ended well for the Sith or their lovers. Suddenly very drained, you dropped back into the pillows.

Rest.

I hope you get eaten by a gorryl slug, you bastard. You pictured the giant carnivorous slugs of Kashyyyk, arboreal hunters that dropped onto their prey and were nearly impossible to pry off. They would exude digestive juices and slowly digest their victims. An unlucky person could take a very long time to die.

What are those- oh that is awful. I’ll have to remember that one. A low laugh in the back of your skull. Kiljack is very good at shielding. He will help you if you ask, nicely.

I’m going to gut you like a ghest.

Get some rest, Thirteen. You’ll have plenty of time to threaten me later.

[silence-burns]

Please Hate Me //part 33

Fandom: Marvel 

Summary: Based on “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine​

[Somewhere in a universe far, far away…] 

There was a soft brush of fabric on the polished floor that accompanied the approaching steps of leather shoes. Frigga stopped a little to Heimdall's left. 

"What do your golden eyes see, my friend?" 

"They see many things, my queen." 

Bifrost glimmered in the million colors under their feet. Lines and flashes passed faster than the human eye could see. The sword that was the key to every way, waited in Heimdall's hands.

"What do you see of my troubled sons?" 

"They are both learning through new experiences." 

Frigga sighed. "Which usually means they’ve gotten in even more trouble. Tell me, what is it this time?" 

Heimdall stood tall on the dais, the armor forged in ancient times by the hands of legends half forgotten by time still impeccable. The worlds moved before his eyes, with no secrets hidden from the gaze of the All-Watcher. 

"They are faring well, my queen. Even Loki." 

"I had hoped that banishment to Earth would be a better choice than the dungeons." Frigga's hand clutched the gown over her heart. "What did he do this time?" 

A smile ghosted on the lips of the All-Watcher. "It appears that he's made friends. Quite close ones, I dare say." 

"Oh, dear," Freya repeated in a completely different tone. A wicked light played in her eyes. "Do tell, my friend." 

*

[The same universe, a little closer] 

Life in big cities bears a certain strain on everyone's minds. Despite what the newspapers, thirsty for anything and everything worthy and unworthy of filling the pages with, would like you to believe, life had always been difficult. 

Time is always lacking, and money is never enough, and no matter how much you strain your brain, it just sometimes happens that you might not remember about the things stored at the very back of your tiny shop, tucked cozily into the corner of a very calm street. 

"Well," the man said. "I had no idea that I still had those in the freezers. I could've sworn that I have cleaned them before the winter and left nothing except for the packed broccoli. It must be your lucky day, my boy." 

The boy indeed felt very lucky. It was not everyday that one could be sent out to fetch ice cream for a living god in the middle of winter. 

"Have a nice day, sir!" he called on his way out. 

The chilly breeze bit into his cheeks, warmed up in the comforting interior of the grocery. Snow shined on the few surfaces not yet stamped on. The sidewalk Peter chose was a slippery trap that only his spider senses got him through unscathed. 

Loki sensed his coming, and looked over his shoulder at the approaching boy. His other arm was currently wrapped around your shoulders, tucking you closer into him. Peter tried his best not to stare too openly, but couldn't stop the grin from splitting his face. He sat on the other side of the god, the bench icy cold. 

"Thank you, my boy." The god took the ice cream with obvious delight. It had been your idea to spend the few hours before Peter's totally-not-a-date trying out the goods New York had to offer. At first, Loki had snickered at the suggestion of trying out whatever ice cream was available in the middle of winter, but after a few interesting flavors were discovered, Loki apologized. There was an almost disturbing variety of flavors Loki couldn't even imagine existing. 

"You're welcome, Mr. Mischief. I'm sure there would be a bigger choice if it was summer. I always go to that one vendor two streets away from my house, because he has this special recipe that absolutely blows my taste buds away every time." 

"Sounds intriguing." Loki's mind conjured the last time his taste buds had been blown away. If he recalled that unfortunate event correctly, it had something to do with pizza and a bet. "But I think I'll pass for now." 

The look of pure adoration in the boy's eyes hadn’t  perished. 

"I still can't believe you won't get sick after having so many," you said, and watched Loki devour the caramel. 

"It must be nice to be a god," Peter sighed. "You have awesome superpowers, get to do what you want and they even make action figures of you…" 

Loki frowned. "The what?" 

Peter blanched. He started fumbling with his jacket and 'accidentally' looked at his watch. "Oh, I think I’ve gotta go, it's getting so late and I don't want to make MJ wait—" 

Loki reached out and fixed the hair Peter had been nervously fighting with for the past few hours they'd all spent outside. "Don't forget the ring, boy." 

"Thank you!" 

The boy was beaming on his way out of the park. 

"I'm never washing my hair again." 

The totally-not-a-date that was steadily approaching was something Peter wasn't sure he was ready for. So many things could go wrong—and he had already imagined most of them. It wasn't as if he couldn't sleep all night thinking about it, he just… Was busy. Thinking. 

Peter straightened the jacket that was in absolutely no need of straightening. His hand moved to his hair, but he stopped it halfway with a smile. It'd  been touched by the hand of god, so it was as good as it could ever get. 

On his way out of the park the three of you had been resting in for a while, Peter's mind was in a strange disarray of thoughts. However, he was still capable of noticing the interesting new graffiti decorating the Avengers' statues set up in the middle of the park. Whoever decided to redecorate them this time, certainly had a pair of skillful hands. The wild mustache covering half of Iron Man's face looked almost lifelike. 

Loki and you watched the boy leave, nervousness apparent in his every too-stiff step. 

"They grow up so fast," you sighed, leaning further into Loki. 

He nodded. His finger circled lazily around your shoulder, drawing spiralling patterns. Loki turned his head toward the memorial statues raised in the central part of the park. People took pictures in front of them, posing and smiling as they milled around. Those were the heroes, after all. Saviors of the day. 

Loki added a mustache to another statue. 

You noticed and eased a giggle. "They're going to be so pissed." 

"My very soul aches at that thought. What a terrible crime." 

The patterns changed as you shifted slightly. The presence on his shoulder was warm and softened by the fabric of clothes that kept the winter frost from you. 

"I thought using magic in this world was difficult." 

"It is.There's a lot more focus required to make it work than I'm used to. It's nothing dramatic, though. I've heard of worlds where the trickle of magic is even more strained, to the point where it barely exists at all." 

"Do you miss them? The other worlds, I mean. Like Asgard." 

The patterns changed again. They slowed down, became more deliberate. 

"Sometimes," was the honest answer and the one he gave after careful consideration. 

"Will you leave, then?" 

Loki looked down at his wrist, where a thin band of metal used to reside, blocking every and all effort he might take against leaving Earth or using magic in any form. It was no longer there, which meant, although it would be extremely difficult to conduct, Loki could technically leave. 

The only obstacle was that it was no longer his priority. 

"I've never been one to sit aimlessly on my ass for too long, and especially not when and where I had been forced to do so. I think I could name more than a few places I'd like to pay a visit," he admitted, putting his cheek on the top of your head. His throat bobbed slightly. "The only problem is that I just recently found out how terribly boring touring alone might be. It's a real wonder why anyone bothers to do so anymore, and," he swallowed, "I think I could use some company." 

Loki cursed himself for putting his head on top of yours, and blocking the view of your face. Especially as he still didn't get any answer. His heart jumped into his throat, making it difficult to breathe. 

"...I mean, I know it's still so early, and that's okay if you feel overwhelmed or unsure and I won't force you into anything more than you're willing to do—” 

Loki's rumbles were cut short when you finally moved to look up at him. The wild gleam in your eyes and a wicked smile so similar to his struck him dumb. 

"You'd never be able to leave this planet without me." 

A choked breath, so similar to a whispered name ghosted over his lips. "Of course I wouldn't. What would be the fun in that?"

*

[The galaxy, elsewhere] 

"Oh, dear," the queen broke the biscuit in half with perfect manners. Barely any crumbs dared to ruin the fragile dessert. "I guess he really is experiencing something new." 

Heimdall sipped the tea. Servants at the queen's quarters left them with a small table full of goods of the highest sort. The warm breeze played with the curtains with the subtle shimmer of gold. The trees rustled on the wind, losing old leaves to it. 

"He's also plotting an escape," Heimdall added. His helmet laid on his knee. 

Frigga waved the biscuit in a gesture that had very little to do with manners. "That sounds more like him." 

The softest hint of a smile graced her features. 

"I wonder what will become of him. Maybe it's in my nature as a mother, but no matter how much I try, I can't help but continue to worry about him, even after all these years." 

"I swore to keep an eye on him, and I will." Heimdall put a hand to his heart. There was no smile on his face, only seriousness as he recalled an oath he'd never break. 

"Thank you, my friend."

[papers4me]

Fruits Basket, Final Season OP & ED

so, furuba decided to take “teasing with spoilers in OP & ED” to the highest level there is. Forget teasers. Show EVERYTHING. lol. Other anime do spoilers in their OP, ED, such as attack on titans & others, but these shows have 1001 mysteries, you can spoil a ton of’em but they have more in the story! But furuba... I mean if you worried abt....:

Drama & tension? Worry not. They’ll all be peaceful & happy.

Someone stabbed? Worry not. He’s alive!

Romantic love tension? Worry not. They’ll all be together!

Miserable Antagonist? Worry not. She found peace in love!

Curse? Worry not! the beads are broken & no transformation is shown!

I tried to brainstorm Why go to this blatant level of showing such heavy spoilers to your anime watchers???

Could it be all the content in the OP & ED are intentional misdirection to throw you off & the ending is totally the opposite?If so, then since the OP & ED are all peaceful, then the reality is tragic! kinda against furuba’s hopeful message. Remember how episodic most of the content are in se01 & most of se02? they always made sure to end the eps happily, minus a handful of eps.

Could it be the anime is going to be a promotion of the manga & they’ll leave with open ending, so you have to buy the manga to know how it ends? but for ppl like me, why read a manga you’ve watch two thirds of its content already in anime format. Moreover, if it is indeed a promotion to the manga, shouldn’t they stop the anime after se02?

Could it be that the entire anime is a gift exclusively to manga readers? They’re the ones who’ll 100% appreciate all the blatant & heavy spoilerish content in the ED & OP cuz they KNOW where the story will go. Seeing anime spoilers as manga readers is so exciting & rewarding! but for an anime only.. I mean.. Even if I like the story & its characters & even it it is not abt the end but the journey...leaving NO room for speculations kills the anticipation. so, I really don’t get it.

All the previous EDs contained excellent “symbolic” spoilers. The ones that if you think long enough abt them , you might get a hint at what follows. such as kyo trapped in bamboo trees symbolizing his imprisonment & so on for others. But this time we see this:

Kyo taking off his beads! Breaking them! tearing them!! DUDE!!! this is huge!! I even tired to convenience myself that someone took it off him. but it looks like a shot from firs perspective & both hands are the same size & same skin color! I thought perhaps he took it off to transform & I duno ..do some damage in a moment of despair. But no. Kyo in the ED is the most peaceful, happy & content kyo that ever existed!!!! He took his own beads off. He broke his curse. How? I duno, but I sure wish that I didn’t see this scene so early..... kinda kills all the drama with kyoko, tohru, yuki & akito. I was so worried abt kyo, I literally watched se02, ep9 tons of times in the past months, to try to group some possibilities to an exit. Now, I’ll rule out all the tragic possibilities. what a waste of my time, XD. but that’s on me. I was too attached, which is wrong & rare for me.

Kureno very happy, healthy & well & with Arisa (in her high school uniform..-_-). XD!! why did we live the drama that is Se03, ep 1? So Arisa didn’t give up on Kureno & he left akito after the stab shown in the trailer?. seems that he said “ enough is enough”. lol. Akito’s knife wound is superficial it seems.

Momo met Momiji.

Kagura continued to befriend Ritsu & editor-san too!

kisa & hiro are love love, along with his baby sibling.

Mine & Aya, Hatori & Mayu, Haru & Isuzu  are love love ( but that was already confirmed, so no spoilers)

Shigure won & got Akito who looks soft & at peace.

yuki about to turn to follow matchi & kakeru in his new journey. looking back one last time at tohru, I suppose. Arigato & sayonara.

Kyo is at his most peaceful look ever with eyes filled with content & love.

Tohru so happy & joyful.

Hand holding, I suppose kyo & tohru cuz the uniform & kyo’s hands has no beads!! curse bye bye...

WHERE IS KAZUMA??!!! you really showed all, including a framed kyoko pic but left best dad kazuma? the betrayal!!!! XD

Hey~ I’m writing this post with a tender sarcastic tone, so don’t take it as I’m mad. I’m not angry at all. I’m disappointed, true, but oh well~ it is what it is. I’ve been disappointed quite a number of times with furuba but the story always triumphs! So I’m kinda disappointed they spoiled “ the story” so much~ but hey~ I’ll stay for the journey. How they get to this all happy, all in love ending. But You bet I won’t be sitting on the edge of my seat nor wasting precious time worrying abt anyone!!! I’ll tear up at their pain & feel their trauma, but I’ll do it with “ don’t worry X, You’ll 100% make it! cuz I saw it in the ED”. XD.

once again, furuba is not perfect, but it is a nice story with unique elements, so, let the final season bring it on ~

[grey-eyed-menace]

Returning

"Kaitou?" Ikuo called, voice a little hoarse.

Silence, utter silence, that was... unusual, typically, his guardian would have come running ready to vault into his arms the moment he made it known he and Satsuki had made it back from practice, (not that Satsuki would be coming into the bouse anytime soon, to busy needling her boyfriend), unharmed and ready with a few new pieces to practice.

Yet, nothing. No grand exclamations, no tears of joy, or demands for Ikuo bust out the viola and show his family, as small as it was, what he had learned in the two hours he had been gone, (which, mostly, was just a hand over of his next recidal piece, and a new hate for trombone players, seriously, fuck Ryuzaki).

Tomoyo was home, that much was obvious from the shoes lined up at the door, but that also meant Kaitou should be as well, considering both his dress shoes and sneakers were thrown haphazardly in a corner as they always were.

And yet, no Kaitou.

Ikuo poked his head around the corner, eyes narrowed, surveying the interior of the living ropm, "Kaitou? Are you dead?"

All he's met with is Yuuki's favorite tea set, sitting idly, untouched, steam still rising from the filled cups.

[A gift, he had been told, from Kanae and Hitomi, hand-made, mismatched, and with two of the tea-plates floppy and bendable from the resin not setting right.

He had made a half-hearred comment about getting rid of those two plates once, Yuuki had threatened to emasculate him shortly after.

Akio had kept sipping his tea without do much as a second look, saying he would help hide the body.

If there was any doubt about the Kurama twins and their relation to Kanae and Hitomi, Ikuo would hold up a neon sign up to specifically highlight that moment, and ask, rather politely, or, well, as politely as he could, and ask if the person was fucking blind.]

Carefully, because this was the sort of shit that happened in the beginning of a horror movie, Ikuo made his way into the living room, eyes trained on the coffee table, where the tea set rested.

It looked perfectly innocent, set in a pretty little wooden tray Akio had made during one of his many, many, many 'idle' hobby projects. Still hot and ready to be drank, it was sorta strange.

Yuuki was very particular about her tea time, you didn't interrupt it without threat of death by decapitation.

And... this was all kinds of wrong, and freaky, and just downright strange.

And then the portal opened up on the ceiling.

It was right about that time Ikuo began wondering if his life was just some kind of fucked up joke for the Gods, because, you know, normally, when kids got orphaned they weren't immediately adopted by batshit insane ex-Watcher's who thought the appropriate reaction to comforting crying children was to offer up combat lessons for fighting against the Supernatural.

Or you know, thrusting them on the creepy as all fuck Necromancer you apparently had on speed-dial, and hoping against all hope they didn't end up just as fucked up as them in the long run.

[Ikuo loved Tomoyo, he did, truly, but he would be the first to admit his little brother had some seriously fucked up shit going on with him due to Eloisè Katherine and their bullshittery.]

Anyway, back to the matter at hand.

Their was a portal to God knows where in the ceiling of his living room, and, considering that he was the only one present, he was the one who had to deal with it.

Lovely.

And all he had on hand for a weapon was his viola, (which, fuck that, he liked the damn instrument, besides, it was fucking expensive to replace), and a few throw-pillows, and a tea set.

Decision made, he carefully avoided his adopted sisters tea set, and grabbed the largest pillow from the collection atop the couch, dropped his instrument case to the ground, and tried his best to look intimidating.

Seconds later, the hole dumped a pair of brunette haired lumps of human flesh over the back of the loveseat, and it was, also, at that moment, that fucking White Haired Anime Jesus descended down gracefully onto the coffee table, and the eldritch hole to Nyarlathotep's fucking sun room closed with a splutter.

White Haired Anime Jesus smiled at him, tilted his head, and took a calculated step backwards, dropping to the floor with a soft thump.

One of the two brunettes on the other side of the love-seat let out a quiet string of curses as they tried to disentangle themselves from their companion, who proceeded to groan in discomfort and make a quiet insult in a language Ikuo did not care to place.

"I bet you have many questions." Was the first thing out of White Haired Anime Jesus's mouth, lips quirked up in a smirk.

Ikuo did not, actually.

He just wanted this shit to be over with, so, without turning his back to the stranger, he quietly stumbled his over to the love-seat, throw-pillow brought up against his chest in a mockery of a shield, and, very carefully, peaked over the back to see both Akio and Yuuki still untangling themselves from one another.

And dressed like they were ready to see the Emperor himself, silently, he reasoned to question that later.

Right now, though?

"What the fuck did you two do." He hissed at them, eyes narrowed in annoyance as he met Akio's confused stare.

"Oh," White Haired Anime Jesus commented from where he had decided to sit down on the couch, ankles crossed, hands folded, and looking for all the world that he belonged there, "were you not informed of their transfer to the Royal Academy Of Diavolo?"

No, he was not, because a little over ten hours ago, Yuuki and Akio had been, for better or worse, been arguing over whether or not they wanted to apply to Murkowski Institute or Kiseki-Haruno Academy.

"I was not." Ikuo did not break eye contact with his adopted brother, instead he sneered as he spoke.

Akio had the decency to look sheepish, Yuuki, rather pointedly, mept herself focused on rising to her feet despite the obvious nausea she was experiencing.

"Ah, well, I guess you know now," White Haired Anime Jesus Mused, "it was quite the eventful seventeen months, if I do say so myself."

"I've been gone three hours," it was taking everything in Ikuo not to start screaming, and, oh, was it tempting to just give in and strangle one of the twins, "what the fuck did you two do!?"

"Seduced the seven princes of hell, of course." White Haired Anime Jesus supplied readily, smile more than apparent in his point.

Ikuo's face went slack at that, and proceeded to slowly turn towards the stranger sitting on the couch, "What?"

"Kurama Akio and Kurama Yuuki, descendants of the Fallen Angel Lilith, did the unthinkable," his smile somehow grew, showing far to many teeth for Ikuo's comfort, "they seduced the Avatars of the Seven Deadly sins, the Crown Prince of Hell, his loyal advisor and butler, an emissary from Heaven, two of the Ars Goetia, and, of course," he made an odd gesture, as though showcasing himself, "the ancient King and Sorcerer Solomon, oh, and they have the cutest little angel as a surrogate brother."

Ikuo proceeded to drop the pillow in his hands onto the twins, which made Yuuki splutter, turn around, and off the love-seat, to grab the case that held his viola, shouldered it, and made his way back to the entrance to the house.

"I did say it was an eventful seventeen months!" White Haired Anime Jesus, Solomon apparently, called out after him.

"Ikuo-onii-san! Where are you going!?" Yuuki squeaked, just as Ikuo heard Akio vault across the love-seat to likely strangle Whi- Solomon with his bare hands.

"Anywhere but here!" He called over his shoulder.

"I refuse to deal with this bullshit for the foreseeable future, until I've rightfully processed it, I'm going to crash at Yanagi's," he gave a half-hearted wave to no one in particular, "don't call me unless you're dying painfully."

He didn't bother to lock the door as he left.

[lihikainanea]

Tiger watching ‘Cursed’ and subconsciously letting her intellectual lady boner rage for Gustaf right in front of Bill’s salad 🥗

First of all nani, this reference made me laugh SO HARD.

But like here’s the thing right, I’ll bet tiger is one of those vocal watchers. And it’s something that Bill kind of loves, because he’s worked in the industry so long that he can watch 5 minutes of a show and basically tell you exactly what will happen. He knows the tricks, he knows the set ups, he knows the foreshadowing methods. But tiger doesn’t, and she's always so surprised--letting out little gasps, or small little murmurings of “no way” under her breath. And not only does Bill think it’s fucking adorable, but it’s also one of the biggest things he misses when he’s alone in his hotel room watching TV. He misses the weight of her pressing into his side, her hand on his chest as she leans on him. Misses the soothing suckling of his thumb in her mouth, if she’s feeling vulnerable enough to just have at it while they’re watching TV. Misses her warmth, the whiffs of her shampoo he sometimes dips his nose just to seek out. But most of all, he misses the quiet murmurings of “what?!” when something takes her by surprise, her soft “ohhhh my” at other parts. He misses the commentary from his favourite peanut gallery.

So maybe one evening they settle in to start the series, because the Skarsgard clan is a good bunch and they always support each other. Tiger is cuddled into his side, Bill’s feet up on the coffee table and he rests a hand on his chest because she’s mouthing at his fingers without committing to any specific one yet. And they start the show. But like, here’s the thing--tiger is being vocal as always, but Bill notices that she’s not being vocal in the fight scenes or any surprising scenes...no no, she’s being a little vocal when Gustaf is on. He thinks maybe he’s just imagining it, until she lets out a soft “ohhhhh, my” when he flicks his robe and it billows behind him.

“Probably CGI,” he grumbles, but tiger doesn’t quite catch it. He leaves it be.

But then the next family dinner, tiger is conversing with Gustaf in the corner and she just...she has a lot of questions. And she absolutely can ask Bill these questions and she has in the past, but sometimes she gets a little shy about it and Gustaf is just so easy to talk to. She wants to know what it’s like to play Merlin, who has been played 3289785493549 times before. She wants to know if he gets his magic back. Wants to know whose side he’s on. She wants to know if the sword was heavy, or how long it took to paint that scar on him. She wants to know if the accent is hard to fake, if his other cast mates were also tall or if they had to use some camera trickery to make it seem that way. She wants to know if they let him keep some of the robes. And Gustaf, bless his heart, just answers every question she has with such grace, such patience--and such contemplation, too. He thinks about them.

But Bill is just quietly seething in the corner, ready to throw tiger over his shoulder like a caveman and storm out.

And like, the next time they sit down to watch another episode--tiger couldn’t figure out why she had to twist his arm to do so--maybe Bill is still all petulant. So when tiger fawns, he rolls his eyes.

“Fake,” he mutters. Tiger quirks a brow.

But then Merlin whips his robe as he turns to stalk away, and tiger gasps.

“Wow,” she says quietly.

“CGI,” he mutters again. Tiger nips playfully at his chest.

“How tall do you think that walking stick is?” she asks.

“Not that tall,” Bill snaps, “Maybe my height. Because I’m taller than Gustaf.”

And that--that’s tiger’s confirmation. She bites back a smile, grabs the remote from him and pauses the show as she shifts onto his lap. He’s pouting--he’s legitimately pouting--refusing to meet her eyes. Tiger just cups his cheeks, kissing his nose.

“You’re hilarious, you know that?” she says softly to him.

“And you’re fawning, you know that?” he snaps, “You’re all goo and shit.”

“I’m not goo,” she defends, and she tilts his chin up when he just keeps staring at his lap. “It’s not your brother, bud. It’s Merlin.”

“Tiger,” he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, “I will never judge you or anything you like, but I swear to god if you tell me you have a Merlin kink I will--”

She laughs, and then just presses her hand over his mouth.

“It’s not a kink Billy,” she snickers, “It’s not a kink. But Granny always loved Merlin. The Arthurian legends were her favourite.”

This gets his attention, and he raises those puppy dog eyes questionably to hers.

“She did?” he asks softly, “They were?”

“Yeah,” tiger says, “And I just think that she really would have enjoyed the way Gustaf portrays him. Mischievous. Slippery.”

Bill draws small circles on her thighs.

“So it’s not Gustaf?” he asks lowly, and it takes all the willpower in the world for tiger not to roll her eyes.

“No you idiot,” she kisses him firmly, “It’s you.”

“But,” she continues, “If you happen to find one of those robes...that’s a kink.”

[poc-movie-supremacy]

Watcher AU: Cryptids

A.N.: This is the Shyan perspective on this little Au I wrote. Mothman Ryan is sent to Earth to hunt demons, along the way he picks up Buzzfeed’s resident skeptic Shane. Can Ryan keep Shane safe with all the demons around them? For @mousemadej I hope you like it

A similar fic but standrew perspective will also be written. 

Do not tag or @ anyone from Watcher, I highly doubt any of them like rpf and nor do I want them to see this. It was a fun fic to work on, but I don’t need them finding it, please.

---

Jake Bergara deserved to go to heaven. He was the good, the pure one out of the two of them. He shouldn’t be blamed for Ryan’s faults. Heaven didn’t seem to think so though. Just the idea of Jake being like Ryan horrified them, but Ryan was nothing if not stubborn. Fed up, he barged into heaven demanding for them to let his brother in, be a guardian angel, like he’s always dreamed. They agreed, on one condition.

He was to do their dirty work: hunt demons. 

Internally Ryan was baffled. That was an easy job, why would that be the one condition needed? Since it was an easy task though, Ryan didn’t verbally question it. Externally his face was neutral bordering on dark and he agreed. 

Ryan Bergara, Mothman nicknamed by some real creative guy on earth, is Heaven’s latest demon slayer. 

Jake wasn’t extremely happy about this turn of events, and frankly neither was Steven. The two getting a little buddy buddy after Jake earned his white wings and golden halo. Ryan didn’t know if he was entirely okay with it, but Steven was keeping his brother safe and what’s better than that. The night before Ryan’s job, Steven, Adam, and Jake through him a little party. He can tell there’s an underlying tension within the small party, but he ignores it in favour of spending his last moments of normal with some of his favourite people. Jake, with some help from Steven, thought about another way around this mess, but what’s done is done. You can’t exactly break a seal with heaven, so he accepts and gets assigned a human. 

Ryan misses his brother, but he knows he’s safer in heaven. One can’t get injured in heaven. On earth he quickly realizes he’s going to need a job to be able to hunt demons inconspicuously. He gets a job at Buzzfeed. With the Try guys a thing, hunting demons can’t be that odd right? Anyways, Steven’s there too on and off to keep an eye on his human, Andrew Ilnyckj. It’s nice to have a friend there. 

He means to demon hunt alone, he really does, but there’s this guy. Tall, lanky, white guy who’s a skeptic yet thinks hunting ghosts and demons is a hoot. Ryan bergrudengly takes him along. Jake and Steven think this new development is hilarious and never waste a moment to tease him.

Shane’s... odd. He doesn’t believe any of the ‘BS’ Ryan is trying to convince him. At first it angered Ryan to no end, but then he realized that he could kill demons in secret easier with Buzzfeed’s resident skeptic. 

The show’s original intent was just two boys hunting demons, but Shane really loved crime cases. Thus, Buzzfeed Unsolved True Crime was born. Ryan got some help from some coworkers and compiled Theories on unsolved crime cases. This set up was less adrenaline fueled than Supernatural is. Ryan likes it, it’s a pleasant reprise. They sit down in an little makeshift office with a corkboard in the back. It’s filled with future supernatural or true crime cases and updated info on Jake. Viewers like compiling theories what the cork board means. Ryan finds their ideas hilarious. 

Ryan finds great enjoyment in riling Shane up so he makes sure to include outrages theories. One of his favourites is a zombie plague that killed the colonists of Roanoke. Shane looked so disappointed in him, it made Ryan laugh. As the years go on, Ryan finds this job more enjoyable. He feels more free when he gets to sit down and tell Shane his stupid theories. He enjoys coming up with bits with Ryan and pretending to be a serial killer. In truth it’s just him letting another side of his personality free, a part that he has to keep hidden lest Heaven smite him. He hears the internet call Shane a demon and he laughs about it with Jake and Steven. 

Shane isn’t a demon. Sure he dissociates from his emotions, but he still has them. Also if he were a demon, then Ryan would have to kill him, and that’s the last thing Ryan wants to do. It’s terrifying, but Ryan’s starting to care for him. It’s an odd feeling in his chest, caring for someone. It feels different from how he cares about Jake and Steven. 

Being able to work with Steven is always amusing. He has a different personality at work, so Ryan loves to poke holes in that persona. Andrew looks at them oddly at them when Ryan alludes to something from Steven’s childhood that makes him blush all over. Andrew thinks it’s a nice color, that blush, but he doesn’t think he could ever say that out loud though. (Ryan knows Andrew likes Steven and Steven likes Andrew. He has a running bet with Adam when they’ll finally get together. In the meantime Ryan finds great enjoyment in teasing Steven about said crush.)

On off times, they tell their co-workers that they go to play basketball when in reality they drive to a large empty field and stretch their wings. Usually it’s a competition on who can fly the highest. Ryan’s black and blue wings stretch out wide behind him. Steven joins him, unfurling his white and gold wings. It feels nice to use their wings after days of keeping them tucked away. They do play basketball sometimes, but not often. Steven loves to take this time to tease the hell out of Ryan. It shouldn’t be as effective, but when they get back to the office, Steven loves to almost flirt with Shane. Ryan and Andrew get jealous for different reason and Shane is a mix between baffled and curious. It’s utter chaos. Adam loves it.

On some level Ryan knew he had romantic attraction to Shane, but he was... wrong. He was at the very best a genetic disorder at the worst a monster. Heaven’s told him so despite Steven and Jake’s attempts to change his mind. He doesn’t- he can’t bear to see Shane’s disgust when he finds out the truth. So he lets his walls down, but not enough to form any romantic relationship with Shane. This job, their relationship, it’s good where it is. Ryan’s fine where they are, he has him like this, and that’s enough.

Today they were filming an episode for Unsolved Supernatural. They were ‘investigating’ a haunted house (killing a demon). It didn’t seem as bad at first. Ryan just needed to catch a lone shoe-stealing demon. Low stakes right? 

ha.

Ryan did his solo investigation and couldn’t find the little demon. Unhappily, he sent Shane in next and continued to try and find the demon. His ears turned towards Shane, but he just heard the usual taunting. That was one thing Ryan wished he’d stop doing. One day Ryan won’t be enough to stop the demons and they’d come for him. 

That day was today, go figure. 

Ryan was listening to Shane laugh, easing his worries until the laughter turned to screams. 

“Shane, Shane?” 

Nothing but absolute utter silence from Shane, yet there was noise. Grunting, slobbering, heavy breathing filled Ryan’s senses. He dropped his camera, possibly breaking it, and sprinted. Cold dread filled his heart at first but was soon replaced with hot anger. His wings sprouted from his shoulder, fingers turning to claws, and eyes glowed blood red. 

Easily bursting through the doors, Ryan tackled the ugly demon to the ground. He cursed his stupidity, the demon was a lot worse than he thought. It put up a good fight, but nothing could stop and angry Bergara, even Heaven bent to his will. 

Ryan sunk his claws into the demon’s ‘heart’ and it fell down dead. Ryan let the adrenaline dwindle from his as he caught his breath. Slowly like he was walking through water, Ryan turned towards Shane. Then everything speed up. Using his wings, he knelt by Shane and checked him for wounds. There was a burn on his left side from his shoulder to his navel. Over his right chest was a big bleeding cut. Ryan took off his shirt and did his best to dress Shane’s wounds. Then he gathered him up and flew.

~~~~

Ryan sat quietly in Steven’s living room. Shane lay sleeping in Steven’s bed. They had gotten here a little over two hours ago, but the shook still clung to him. The sofa dipped and Steven’s forever warmth clung to him. 

“He’s going to be okay.”

“He’s turning into a demon.”

Steven didn’t know what to say to that. 

“I’m supposed to be hunting demons, my job is to kill them. I can’t- how can I kill him? This is, this was to keep Jake in job. Can you even break a promise with heaven?” Ryan’s voice brooke with unshed tears.

“If one could, I’m not surprised it would be you,” Steven commented.

“I- I he’s mine. He’s so good, and he doesn’t believe in demons and now he is one. How am I supposed to explain this to him?”

“He’ll probably figure it out on his own, you know, when he starts growing horns, a tail, and gigantic scaly wings.” Steven points out matter of factly.

Ryan would’ve laughed at the absurdity of it, but one thought kept bugging him. “What happens when Heaven sends me to kill him? I can’t kill him Ste, I just- I can’t live without him. He’s confident and he’s caring and he makes me laugh and he gets my sense of humor. And now he’s going to be disgusted and dead.” With that Ryan just let’s himself sobb. Instinctively Steven curls himself around Ryan to console him. He just holds him as he cries and rubs out a soothing pattern on his arm. 

“Heaven won’t get him. Just as you promised to protect Andrew, we’ll protect Shane. He’s head over heels for you. Even if he was disgusted with you, he’s not worth it. You’re great Ryan, you deserve someone who knows that.”

It makes sense to Ryan on some base level, but it’s hard to wrap his head around. Ryan busied himself with helping Steven clean their feathers before passing out on the couch. 

~~~~~

Shane woke up to absolute darkness, yet he could vaguely make out the objects in the room. Possibly a bedroom he thinks. For the life of him, he can’t remember how he got there. He remembers an old decrepit house, someone screaming and fighting sounds before passing out. Maybe someone was fighting him because his upper back is sore and he thinks he might have a fever. Gingerly, he gets out of bad and stretches to his full height. Then he promptly fell over. 

Shane screamed in pain when his upper back collided with the floor. His weight distribution is all off for some reason now. The door burst open to one of the most confusing sights in his life. Ryan with hands for claws, glowing red eyes and ginormous black and blue wings. Next to him is Steven, literally glowing with a halo over his head, floating with the help of white and gold wings. Lastly pale as a sheet of paper Andrew, muscles tense and fangs out. Shane thinks he should’ve just stayed in bed, asleep, cause clearly he’s sleep deprived. 

“Shane. What’s wrong? ARe you hurt.” Ryan’s voice was an octave lower than usual and vibrating. Steven swept a white light over the room only pocketing it when he looked satisfied. Shane was not satisfied. 

“Ryan, the room’s empty.” “What the hell-” Steven promptly got cut off. 

“How- Then why was he- why were you screaming?” Ryan focused his sharp almost angry gaze at Shane. It wasn’t angry, well not angry at Shane, it was anger at the situation, anger at whatever tried to hurt Shane. Not that he had any idea. 

“I fell on my back trying to get up. Felt lightheaded,” Shane explained. Steven folded up his wings and slowly approached Shane who was struggling to get off the floor. He shied away from Steven’s touch, wary, afraid. 

“We’re not here to hurt you, Shane. It’s okay,” Steven tried to say as soothingly as possible. 

“People aren’t supposed to have wings. Their voices can’t vibrate. And they definitely don’t have fangs.” Shane spit out. 

“Some can. Those from other wordly places can.” Steven’s voice doesn’t break away from it’s soothing calmness. He sounds like he’s talking to a spooked client. Ryan’s face is a deadly storm, all emotions trying to show on his face at once. His arms are crossed barring his large biceps. Shane doesn’t know wether to be scared or feel... safe. Even with the inhuman appearance, he’s still Ryan. 

“Like cryptids? The one’s Ryan’s always ya-talking about?” 

“Sort of like Cryptids... think more of cultural myths that you could have heard.” Shane finally stops shying away from Steven’s touch, and stills long enough for Steven to place an hand on his arm. 

“But- they’re not real.” Shane tries to rebut weakly. 

Ryan’s facial expressions tightens and he just barely bites back a sigh. “I’ve heard a lot of things about me, but after seeing my true appearance, questioning my reality isn’t one of them. Yelling in fear is one though. I knew you were stubborn Big guy, but I didn’t think it was this bad.”

Shane likes that nickname. It warms his already sweltering heart. He could call anyone that, they happen to know a lot of tall men, but Shane got that nickname. No one else, him. 

He gaped at Ryan, unable to say anything. 

“Hey, Shane, let’s get you onto the bed. I need to give you a check up.”

“You’re a doctor?” Shane asks Steven as he lays out on Steven’s bed. 

“I’m going to go finish the food. Feel better Shane.” Andrew the possible vampire nodded at Shane and exited the room. That left Steven and Ryan still in the room. 

Finally calm, Ryan sheathed his feathers but didn’t dare to step any closer. Shane didn’t know if he was okay with that. It was Ryan, but also a completely different Ryan than the one he knew for years. He hated it. They had a connection, they had a relationship whatever it was, and in one night it was broken. 

The room was still and almost silent while Steven gave Shane a checkup. Small noises of  displeasure were heard here and there, but Ryan didn’t think, well he hoped everything was okay.

He never gets what he want does he?

“You’re symptoms are perfectly normal under the circumstances. The pain will be bad for a while, but eventually it’ll pass.” Steven stood up. “I’m going to go get you some medicine. Stay with him Ryan.” Steven tried to communicate that they should also talk while Ryan was cursing him out for not letting him stew longer. 

Slowly, Ryan inched closer to Shane. “What does he mean: under the circumstances?”

Ryan knew what was going on, but he didn’t have the heart to tell Shane. “Just get some rest big guy.” Ryan hoped that was said as soothing as possible. The last time he had to be this gentle was when he had to take care of Jake after a bad day. It’s been years since that. 

“No.” Shane groaned in pain. Ryan gingerly placed a hand on his upper arm and shushed him. 

“Rest, Big Guy.”

“What’s going on? Ryan, what’s happening to me?” Shane pleaded with Ryan to help him understand. He didn’t want to tell him, telling him would mean having to accept what happened, that he wasn’t enough to save him, but Ryan couldn’t say no to those eyes.  

“You were hoping to cause a ruckus in the demon’s lair while I planned on exorcising the thing during the solo investigation. I didn’t think it would be that bad.” Ryan swallowed composing himself before continuing. “I couldn’t do it during the solo investigation, so I sent you in while I searched the rest of the house. I kept an ear out for you, teasing demons... anyways, I kept an ear out for you and I heard you scream. It was the scariest sound in my life. You never scream Shane, and then you do, and it. It was blood-curling. Busting down the door, I caught the middle of a fight between you and the demon, you lost.” Pausing, Shane laid trembling fingers on Ryan’s thigh. Sometime during the story, Ryan ended up sitting on the other side of Shane on the bed. To feel Shane on him felt like both a blessing and a curse. “I tackled the demon and we fought until it died. You weren’t, you weren’t breathing Shane, so in a panic, I took you to Steven’s house.”

“And now I’m here. But what was Steven talking about, under the circumstances? Is something happening to me Ry?” Shane’s voice shook as his mind ran with possibilities. If vampires and angels were real, what could have happened to him?

“It burned you from the arm down to the navel and a big claw cut over you right chest. Because of it, Shane you’re turning into a demon.”

Shane wheezed, agitating Ryan further. “I’m not joking Shane. This isn’t the time for jokes. Heaven hunts demons, my job is to hunt demons, and now you’re one and I can’t kill you or see you die at all...”

At that moment, for better or for worse, Steven entered the room carrying medicine. He paused halfway through seeing Ryan worked up, and Shane a mix of pain, confusion, and... delight? He held the tray with one hand and walked over to Ryan. “You okay man?”

“He doesn’t believe me, I know he wouldn’t but it’s so fucking frustrating.” Ryan’s feathers were literally starting to get ruffled, so Steven tried to diffuse the situation before something bad happened. 

“Hey, He’s Buzzfeed’s biggest skeptic, you know this is going to take a minute especially with him in pain. Patience, we got this.” Steven gave Ryan’s arm a squeeze before heading over to Shane. 

“Hey Shane, I need you to take this. Here’s some water and food. Eat. Andrew made it just for you.” Steven silently asked Ryan if he wanted to stay with Shane. Ryan nodded a little forcefully to convince Steven, and didn’t leave the room when Steven did. 

“Is this safe?” 

“Yes you big baby eat it or die.” Ryan paused at his words but didn’t take them back. Shane stared at him, neither of them saying a word for a while. 

“I’m turning into a demon?” It was phrased as a half question half statement. Slowly he ate the food Steven gave him. Shane usually wasn’t a picky eater, but after finding out the truth about the supernatural, a new hesitense came over him. 

“Yup, the fever will subside into slightly reddish skin and horns will poke out of your skull. Wings, scaly, skin like wings will protrude from your shoulder blades. Etc.” Ryan tried to keep his voice as even-toned as he could to mask his panic. 

“Etcetera? What else will happen to me?” Shane did not try and mask his panic. 

“I’m not sure! Every demon turns out slightly different! You could get hooves, you could get a tail maybe red eyes like mine or solid black eyes. I don’t know!” Ryan almost shouted exasperated. 

Shane looked at him slightly terrified and Ryan realized his voice took on the buzzing quality. He ran his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, ok. It’s just, when Andrew got turned into a vampire it was fine. Heaven doesn’t hate vampires just finds them annoying. You’re a demon now, and heaven wants to kill you and that’s worse.” 

Shane wanted to tell Ryan that of course it was worse, but the little guy was already worked up so he kept it to himself. “Breath Ry, I’m going to be fine.” 

Ryan scoffed. “Easier said than done.” He looked over at him really looked at him and frowned. “Finish your food. Mother hen Steven wouldn’t be happy if you don’t.”

Shane grumbled quietly, “Are you sure the mother hen is Steven?”

“What was that big guy?”

Shane changed the subject, “Tell me about yourself, about this supernatural part of you. Are you also a demon? Or an angel?” 

Ryan took a seat on the edge of the end of Steven’s bed. “I’m an angel with a genetic disorder. Instead of... being born like Steven, white wings with a halo, I got red eyes, black wings and no halo. We’ve been friends since we were kids. He found me and was the first person to offer to play with me, never left me afterwards, even when people didn’t take to kindly to me and my deformities. My brother Jake, also an angel sans genetic deformities, wanted to be like Steven. Heaven told him no though, because of me. Thought it something in the genes. I knew that excuse was shit so I fought tooth and nail to get him in. After a while they relented on the condition that I do their dirty work, hunt demons. Jake, Steven and Adam weren’t happy about this-”

“Adam’s an angel? That’s the least surprising thing I’ve heard.” 

Ryan chuckled. “No Adam’s a merman.”

“Mermen can’t be real.”

“Oh they’re real big guy. Why do you think Steven and Adam live near the beach?”

“Because it’s California!”

“Not all of, nevermind. Anyways, they weren’t happy about my new job, but they were too late to do anything about it. I was sent to earth and got a job at Buzzfeed to hunt demons easier. Funnily enough, Steven’s newest charge, Andrew, also happened to work at Buzzfeed, so he could keep an eye on the both of us."

Shane mulled over Ryan's words as he finished his food. "He really is a mother hen. Also I don't think you're a deformity. You're Ryan, Wings or not." 

"These," Ryan stood up and unfolded his wings and went full Mothman, "Don't scare you?"

"Not at all, although now I get why Mothman has the reputation he has, egoist." 

"Oh says, you." Ryan paused and took a deep breath. "Thanks, for not being disgusted with me or anything."

"Ryan, you're my friend, other things about you disgust me, not this.” Ryan let out a wheeze making Shane smile. 

~~~~~ 

The rest of the year and change was a flurry of events. Jake came down from Heaven to warn them of God’s wrath. They decided to pack up their jobs at Worth it and Unsolved and head out on the run until God’s bloodlust calmed down. They stayed close to the coast so that Adam didn’t have to follow them in a bathtub. Jake offered to stay behind and delay God’s army. Ryan wasn’t happy about it and outright refused until Jake promised that they would keep semi-constant contact, and immediately once it was safe, Jake would join them. 

Shane’s transition into demonhood went as smoothly as one could hope. His wings were similar to Ryan’s black, blue, and even some green just more scale-y instead of feather-y. Being six-four and now adding six inch horns was something to get used to. He didn’t end up getting hooves or glowing eyes, but he did end up getting a tail. 

Shane and Ryan’s relationship didn’t suffer much after the initial argument. There also might’ve been a kiss when Ryan was helping manicure Shane’s claws and horns. Shane initiated it. Ryan didn’t think he ever smiled that wide. (For a second he thought he was dying until he realized there weren’t actual butterflies in his stomach. Shane had a good laugh at that) Steven gave Andrew money, saddened slightly that he lost the bet.

Living on the run wasn’t easy. They missed their family and friends. It hurt to cut contact from them completely. But off-roading together made it bearable, made it okay. Listening to Shane’s odd songs to pass the time, eating Andrew concoctions that always ended up a little too raw if he wasn’t careful, giggling when Ryan and Jake get into arguments, it almost felt... domestic. 

They mainly worked odd jobs to get some pay, never in the same place for over a year. Ryan, Steven and Jake never could stop helping people even if Heaven renounced their status, and would help helpless cryptids like themselves whenever they could. They almost adopted a fairy and had a run in with elmo’s know-it-all blue cousin (who really didn’t like Ryan) but that’s a story for another time. 

Life wasn’t easy, not by a long shot, not by a mile, but it was there and they had each other, was that not enough?

[maple-writes]

WHG 14: Post Games 2??

I lost count so I’m going to call this 2

tag list whg tag list: @ratracechronicler (Thanks for Rebecca)  @concealeddarkness13 (thanks for Zenith and Nesri), @nightskywriter , @rhikasa , @the-moving-finger-writes , @aeslin-writes @knmartinshouldbewriting , @pen-of-roses @timefirewrites 

###

“Asher what the Hell?”

Zenith was on the ground, completely unconscious with a broom sitting abandoned nearby. I’d heard a thump from the other room but I hadn’t expected this. Asher jolted from where he crouched beside him, snapping his gaze up to face me. I looked between the two of them, trying to piece together what could possibly have happened. Neither looked injured, Asher looked alert…

Asher got up from the ground and started towards the open door. “I don’t know, but he said something about magic.” He stuck his head out the door, looking both ways down the hallway before shutting and locking the door. “He said I had to knock him out or he would think we were all enemies. Whatever it was, it seems to be gone from him now so I guess it worked.”

He came up to my side, joining me in staring down at Zenith. I frowned. What was he doing going out by himself anyway? Where the fuck did he go to get a spell or something cast on him? Surely that kind of stuff wasn’t exactly common here, was it? I nudged his side with my foot. Nothing. Out cold.

I glanced at Asher. “How hard did you hit him?”

“I don’t know!” He shook his head. “He said as hard as I could and I just did it!”

“Really?” I rolled my eyes. “All that training and you resort to beating him with a broom?”

He sighed, letting his head fall forward. “It wasn’t like anything I’d seen before. I took his word for it.”

Fair enough. I crouched down beside his head, reaching out to give him a sharp shake to the shoulder. Still nothing. Maybe whatever it was made him tired. How long was he going to be out for? I stood again, a weight starting to settle over my chest. Striker would know what to do but Striker thought we were dead.

“Do you think you can bring him back to his room?” Asher’s voice shook me from my thoughts. “I want to sweep the apartment in case anything’s still lingering.”

I nodded, and he disappeared into another room. He must have been feeling better if he were up to that. At least that was good news. I reached down and grabbed Zenith with my arms hooked under his and started dragging him across the floor. All dead weight, he better be grateful I didn’t change my mind and leave his heavy ass lying in the middle of the living room for anyone to stumble across and start making up rumours about what it might have been that put him there.

##

Two days later though, and Zenith hadn’t left his room. He probably wasn’t dead given that his door was now locked from the inside but two days was a long time to wait for answers so it didn’t take much for Nesri to convince me it was time to make him explain.

She pounded on his door loud enough I hoped the walls were thick enough not to tip off any of the other tenants on the floor, but nothing from Zenith. I glanced at Rebecca standing expectant on Nesri’s other side. Part of me wondered if she’d only come along to satisfy her own curiosity, or if she’d just gotten bored waiting around the apartment for something to happen.

Nesri knocked again. “Hey, you loser! Stop hiding in there and tell us what’s going on! Why did you sneak out, and what happened that make you ask Asher to knock you unconscious? What kind of reckless shit did you get into?”

On the other side of the door, Zenith groaned, but didn’t answer. Further proof he was indeed alive and just ignoring us. Nesri scoffed and snatched the water from her drink into some kind of solid crystal. I blinked, staring as she sliced through the door hinge like a knife through a single sheet of paper, my own confusion mirrored in Rebecca’s face. I didn’t have time to ask anything though before Nesri kicked the door open and stormed inside.

Zenith scrambled up from the bed with a sharp glare. “Leave me alone.”

Nesri grabbed him by the collar. “Like Hell I will! Tell us what’s going on?”

“Yeah!” Rebecca leaned in. “We’re not getting and younger here, and Lynn and Lynne aren’t getting any freer!”

He didn’t answer right away, looking down and hiding his face. “I went to go see my old team.”

“You fucking idiot!” Nesri shook him. “Did you sell us out to them? Do they know where we are?”

I crossed my arms, anger starting to coil up around my chest. “How do you know they didn’t follow you home?” Whoever these people were, how could he trust them if they sent him back under some kind of  curse? “Cleary they aren’t on our side.”

Out of the corner of my eye Rebecca seemed to be looking for something, scanning up and down the walls of the little room.

Zenith took a long, deep breath. “I was able to convince them to trust me, at least a little. And I would have been able to sense them following me. I’m not that incompetent.” But incompetent enough to be afflicted by some magic shit. “I sought them out because they had already sent me a message saying that they were looking for me. If I hadn’t met with them, I know they would have found us. So, I took the chance.”

“Forgive me for not having as much faith in these Capitol idiots as you do,” Nesri growled. “I guess Ican trust that you would have been able to sense anyone following you, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t still looking for us, no matter what they told you. That was such a stupid fucking move.”

I nodded. He should have at least talked it over with someone first, taken someone to shadow him, fuck, anything else. I clenched my teeth. He didn’t know how lucky he was that Asher was alright. If he was still recovering, still struggling to keep himself under control and he’d come in like that?

“And what if it hadn’t worked? If Asher hadn’t managed to knock you out? If something went wrong?” I glared. If he hadn’t been able to tell him what he needed, if he’d been influenced to goad Asher into attacking… Any other day he would have been fine but now? Now that everyone was exhausted? Or if Zenith had ended up seeing Asher as an enemy he wouldn’t have a chance. He could have killed Asher if something went wrong. I narrowed my eyes and dropped my voice to a threat. “Don’t think for a second I wouldn’t have killed you if it came down to it.”

He looked up, meeting my glared head on. “I would have wanted you to.”

I held his stare. Noted.

Nesri let him go, taking hold of his arm instead and pulling him out of the room. “You’re going to make it up to us by watching the special program the Capitol is hosting.” She faked a cheerful tone. “You even have to make the popcorn for us.”

That was it? I blinked, watching as they disappeared into the hall. That was it?

Rebecca followed them out, adding, “and keep your senses sharp for those possible, y’know, spies.”

I took my time rejoining them around the tv. Among everything else I’d almost forgotten about the so called special broadcast until now. It seemed to start like any other, with lights and cameras and Ceasar on stage.

“We have a special program for our dear watchers tonight! A special division of the Capitol is pleased to announce a new recruit to their ranks. She even received the prestigious magic as well.” He gestured to the side stage as Lynne entered.

She walked too stiff. Nesri stiffened too, eyes widening in horror as she watched, popcorn untouched in her lap.

“Magic?” Rebecca mumbled. “Isn’t that maybe a good thing? Or…” She trailed off with a glance at Zenith and I could almost see the gears turning in her head.

Ceasar clapped Lynne on the back too hard, nearly toppling her. If he cared or noticed he didn’t show it. “How has your time with the Shades been? I bet the magic is amazing!”

She laughed, her voice raw as if she’d been screaming. “I have not been able to practice with the magic much yet, so I cannot say for sure. But I did meet someone because of the Shades, and for that I am happy.” Probably a lie on the happiness part, at least to some degree. “The victor, Hugo Atwater, was a lot of help. I want to thank him, personally, for his help.” She winced, a hand to her shocker.

I couldn’t move, glaring at the screen with my arms crossed tight. What kind of empire was this? Did no one else notice she was in pain? That she looked all but tortured? Did people actually find this entertaining? I swallowed, guilt and shame simmering in my gut. Was there a time I would have agreed with them? I hadn’t been that cruel, had I? I pushed the thought away. I didn’t want to think about it.

Magic wasn’t often something that took well to a human body. Too much to be contained in such a small vessel, such a limited frame. At the same time though… I swallowed. I missed my powers. I missed shifting the wind under my wings, gathering rainclouds, flying through my storms…

On screen, Ceasar laughed and beckoned forth a man with long silver hair and haunting red eyes, followed by two avoxes. One of them looked familiar. It clicked and I couldn’t look away. That was her, the girl from our floor. She and the other carried a heavy looking basin of water and it was clear they were struggling. It would have been heavy for anyone, let alone an underfed slave.

Ceasar ignored them, gesturing instead to the man. “Could you give us more specifics on this brilliant magic while we set up?”

He nodded. “This magic is difficult to transfer and can cause severe pain during transfer, which is why we usually use children for the transfer, since their bodies are normally more willing to take the magic. It is a testament to the strength of Ms. Marne that she was able to withstand the transfer. The magic allows the user to create crystals that are stronger than diamonds out of any liquid that is within a certain radius from the user. Activating the magic allows the user to glow and float because of the outrush of power. It is a strong power, as you will see from this demonstration”

The two avoxes set the water down in front of Lynne.

“Wait, that’s what you did—with the hinges,” Rebecca pointed at Nesri. “Are you okay?”

The man snapped his fingers and Lynne flinched before raising her hands and floating off the stage. Lights danced across her skin. She gritted her teeth, waved her hand and called the water up and into sharp crystal shards. Tears streaked her cheeks as she sent the crystals into the avoxe’s arms. They fell, curling around their wounds as they started to bleed deep red as the audience cheered. Magic vanishing from her skin, Lynne tried to help, tried to run to them, but didn’t make it before collapsing in pain.

Ceasar and the man spoke again, but I didn’t hear a word they said, staring at the three of them on the ground. The girl especially, gritting her teeth and trying not to show pain, to show defeat on the camera. Did she still have a family? Were they watching her right now? Was someone just now finding out what happened to their daughter, their sister, their friend, and old classmate? The screen shut off, replaced with our stunned reflections in the glass.

Rebecca seethed. “She should’ve just hit Caesar with it if they were gonna make her do it anyway!” She waved her hand dismissively, but her face said otherwise.

Nesri stared at the dormant screen, then shut her eyes tight for longer that she should. Her breath quickened and her knuckles turned white around her drink. She opened her eyes and every cup of water froze over in wicked crystals. Zenith offered a hand to her shoulder, but she pushed him off.

“Those bastards hurt her.” Her whisper grew louder with every word. “Those bastards hurt her, and we let them do it! I… I’ve been so scared to go back to them, but they took her, and they'll probably take us, and there's nothing we can do about it.” Her eyes widened and she shook, trembling and scared. “There’s no running from them. No escape. They always told me that, and like and idiot I didn’t believe them. They’ll never let up. They’ll—”

“Nesri!” Zenith cut her off.

Her eyes watered and tears tracked down her cheeks as she started to cry. “I can’t go back to them! I won’t! And they have Lynne, and I can’t imagine what they’re putting her through!” She gasped against her sobs. “I... I can’t… Not again.” Her face twisted, staring at something only she could see.

I uncrossed my arms with a soft sigh. My heart fell and I looked away. I’d seen that look before. She was scared. She was spiraling. I’d seen it enough times with Asher. Whatever this was all about, it must have been bad. Quietly, I slipped around the back of the couch into the kitchen for a glass of milk with a little bit of honey stirred into it.

Unsurprisingly, Nesri hadn’t moved in the time I was gone.

I offered the drink, bending down to her eye level. “They’re not going to get to you, you’re safe here, okay?” I spoke quietly, but kept a firm edge. “If they want to get to you they have to go through all of us.” We were in this together now after all and I’d be damned if she thought we’d just let someone walk in here and take her after all she did to get us out of the games.

She sniffled, but took the glass with a shaky hand. Good. She was moving again. She took a shaky breath. “I need to spar you now so I can let off steam.”

I scoffed. Trying to backtrack as if everything was okay. Typical. “What you need is to sit down.” There was nothing she could say that would convince me she was suddenly fine. I’d heard it all before. “You can’t kick my ass if you’re crying.”

She sighed. “Later then.” Sitting back down on the couch she glanced up at Zenith. “You’re my witness that he agreed.”

Fine, whatever. I huffed and complained as I dragged over the blanket folded over the other end of the couch for her. She didn’t seem to want to talk any more about it, which was fine enough by me. I probably wouldn’t know what to say anyway. Instead I took a seat on the other end of the couch with one of the books off the shelf that looked half interesting as she drank her milk and started to calm down. When she left for her room I half considered following her, but decided against it. She would have stayed if she wanted company.

I put the book back. It wasn’t that interesting after all.