#Crop Cord (Crack)

[expvrgction]

Is disrespect towards 'flame-like' hair colors that common?

[dee-writes-anime]

Chapter 1: The Witch Accused

FEATURING Ryomen Sukuna x Witch!Reader

SUMMARY In a village consumed by sickness and fear, you, an accused witch, are captured by a desperate mob and dragged to face judgment before the King of Curses, Sukuna.

CONTENT WARNINGS detailed depictions of a village struggling with disease, starvation, and decay, mentions of sickly children, livestock death, and human mortality, tense interactions between the narrator and villagers, including verbal accusations and implied mob violence, scenes of witchcraft involving blood and incantations, implied religious conflict, subtle criticism of faith and its intersection with fear and blame.

PLAYLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

The village had always been a brittle thing, teetering on the edge of ruin long before I was born. It was nestled into the crook of a valley, cradled by sinking hills that slumped like jagged scars against the horizon. It wasn’t a place you’d stumble upon by chance- hidden away from trade routes, tucked between forests thick with bramble and treacherous rives prone to flooding. The isolation had once been its greatest strength, a sanctuary from the wars and chaos that riddled the lands. 

And then the sickness came.  

It began as a quiet invader, seeping through the village like a shadow, causing soil to grow stubborn. Clinging to the roots of crops like a jealous lover, dark and heavy with clay. Even in the best seasons, it gave little, forcing villagers to rely heavily on cattle and scrape by on meager harvests of bitter greens, barley, and the occasional patch of onions. 

Then those shadows curled through pens, infecting the cattle that the village had once praised. Once sturdy beasts began to collapse in fields, their bodies bloating under the summer sun, they milky eyes staring blankly into the void. The surviving livestock, fewer in number each year, were gaunt and skittish, their hides stretched thin over sharp bones. They too seemed to sense the growing death in the shadows as their milk soured and their offspring grew weaker and weaker.  

And finally, shadows of sickness- of death- slipped through the cracks of straw roofs, finally having curled into every corner. The village itself was a patchwork of survival—wooden homes leaning against each other for support, their thatched roofs sagging under the weight of neglect. Smoke curled from crooked chimneys, its bitter scent a constant companion, mingling with the acrid tang of unwashed bodies and the faint, coppery smell of blood from the butcher’s hut. A well sat at the heart of the village, its water once fresh and clear, now tinged with a faint, metallic aftertaste that no one dared question too closely. 

The people bore the signs of its slow, merciless grip. Their skin was sallow, stretched thin over angular bones, their hands chapped and cracked from work that never seemed to end. Hollow cheeks and sunken eyes told stories of sleepless nights and empty stomachs. Their clothes, once simple but serviceable, were now threadbare and patched so many times the original fabric was hardly recognizable. Loose tunics hung over narrow shoulders, cinched at the waist with frayed cords, and the occasional shawl or cloak—woven from coarse, undyed wool—offered meager protection against the cold.  

The children fared no better. Their bare feet left prints in the mud as they scurried between homes, their laughter thin and fleeting. Many of them had red-rimmed eyes from coughing fits that never quite left, their small hands gripping sticks or scraps of wood as makeshift toys. Even the strongest among them looked frail, as though the village itself drained the life from them as payment for their survival. 

Generations had lived and died here, their lives marked by toil and prayer, yet little else. The temple at the edge of the village was the tallest structure, its roof patched with mismatched tiles scavenged from who-knew-where. Its wooden beams sagged, and the faint chime of its bell at dusk carried a mournful note. It stood as a monument to the villagers’ faith—faith that had grown brittle over the years, much like the wooden beams that groaned under its weight. 

Said temple was led by the “elders,” who could be considered a different breed entirely. They were wiry and hunched, their backs bent from years of labor in the fields and the weight of authority they carried like millstones around their necks. Elder Kazu was their figurehead, his face a web of wrinkles that deepened every time he spoke. His hair, sparse and snow-white, framed a narrow face with sharp, calculating eyes. He walked with a gnarled staff, its wood polished smooth by years of use, and though his voice cracked when he spoke, it still carried the weight of command. 

Beside him were the others—Elder Masami, with her thin lips and perpetually furrowed brow, and Elder Daiki, who had long since lost his teeth but none of his sharpness. Their clothing was slightly more intact than the rest of the villagers’, a sign of their status. Masami’s long tunic was adorned with faded embroidery at the cuffs, a hint of red thread that might once have been vibrant. Daiki wore a heavy woolen cloak draped over his narrow shoulders, its edges fraying but still imposing in its bulk. 

The market square was little more than a dirt clearing where merchants used to come, though their visits had dwindled to nothing in recent years. Even the well, the village’s lifeline, bore signs of decay. Its stone walls were cracked, and the water within tasted faintly of iron, as though the sickness had poisoned even the earth. 

The sickness only worsened from there as fevers stole both the strongest and weakest, the oldest and youngest, with seemingly no pattern, leaving behind far too little with scars in the shape of coughs that lingered like unwelcome guests. They seemed to move through this dying world like ghosts, their footsteps quiet, their voices softer still. A people clinging to the remnants of a life they no longer believed in and no matter how many stories the elders told, their eyes stayed empty. At first, they blamed the river, its waters swollen and brackish after a summer storm. Then they blamed the traders who passed through, though fewer came with each year. The blame shifted like the wind, but the sickness stayed, digging its claws deeper with each passing season. The village had limped through years of disease, desperation a constant companion whispering in the ears of the villagers as they eventually turned their gaze to me.  

“Her,” they whispered. “It’s because of her.” 

They never said it to my face, of course. They feared me too much for that. When I walked through the market square, their conversations would drop into hushed tones, their gazes shifting quickly to the ground. Mothers pulled their children close as I passed, shielding them as if my shadow might curse them. The few merchants brave—or desperate—enough to trade with me kept their words clipped and their hands trembling as they handed over what I bought. I never bargained with them. I paid full price or not at all. It wasn’t charity. It was control. They’d seldom leave small offerings at my doorstep —half-eaten loaves of bread, broken beads, wilted flowers. Apologies, or perhaps bribes, to keep my wrath at bay. 

To them, I was an outsider, not because of where I came from but because of what I could do. They feared me, but they needed me, and that fragile thread had kept their hatred at bay for a while. 

But it wasn’t always this way. Once, I had been one of them, tolerated if not entirely accepted. My knowledge of herbs and remedies had been a boon when the sickness first came. I had eased their fevers, soothed their children’s aches, and kept the worst of it at bay for a time. But the lands were sick—sicker than any tincture or spell could fix—and my small successes weren’t enough. The people needed someone to blame, and it was easier to point to the witch who lived on the outskirts of the village than to face their own failures or the cruelty of the world. 

Their fear, though, was not entirely misplaced. 

I was no saint. My patience had worn thin years ago. The first time someone dared to accuse me outright, I made a spectacle of it. I hadn’t harmed them—no need to dirty my hands for a fool—but I had spoken their name during a storm, loud enough for the thunder to carry it, and left dried bones where they would find them. I let their imagination do the rest. The next morning, they left the village, and no one dared to follow. 

Now, they called me a monster behind closed doors, muttering their curses to their gods, but they still came to me when they had nowhere else to turn. When the children coughed too hard to breathe. When their crops failed, and they needed someone to tell them it wasn’t their fault. I helped them—sometimes—but not without reminding them of what I was capable of. They needed the fear as much as I needed them to feel it. 

For all their hatred, they couldn’t help themselves. It was easier to fear me than to admit their gods had abandoned them, that the sickness in the lands had no cure. 

Despite their fear, the village clung to its routines like a lifeline. The blacksmith’s hammer still rang out in the mornings, dull thuds echoing through the square. Children still played near the well, their laughter sharp and fleeting, as though they knew better than to let it linger. The temple bells still chimed at dusk, their hollow tones calling for prayers that no one truly believed would be answered. 

But beneath it all, the air was thick with tension, like the pause before a storm. The villagers had spent years shouldering their burdens, but even the strongest beams splinter under enough weight. And when they broke, they would come for me. 

The village was a place that could survive anything, but it would never thrive. It was a monument to endurance, a lesson in scarcity. It had stood against the odds for generations, but I could see the cracks spreading, could hear the creak of its foundations. These people had long since forgotten how to hope, how to dream. I’d watched it happen, year by year. All they knew now was fear. 

And fear, I had learned, could only be contained for so long. 

“Morning, Elder Kazu,” I said as I passed, my tone polite but edged with sharpness. My hands clutched the woven basket at my side, filled with bundles of herbs I had spent the morning collecting. The elder gave a stiff nod in return, but his jaw was tight, the corners of his mouth pulled downward. 

“Witch,” he said finally, his voice low, as though afraid it might carry. “The land suffers, and you—” He hesitated, his lips trembling before he found the courage to finish. “You walk as if it doesn’t touch you.” 

I stopped mid-step, turning to look at him. The others near the well froze, their eyes darting between the two of us like rabbits scenting a wolf. 

“You think I’m untouched?” I asked, keeping my voice calm, almost pleasant. I stepped closer, slow enough to watch him shift uncomfortably. “Tell me, Elder Kazu, how untouched I must be when you’ve come to me five times this year for teas to ease your cough? Or when your grandson came to me, pale as death, because nothing the temple priests did could break his fever?” 

Kazu’s jaw tightened further, and his fingers curled around the edge of his walking stick. “And I paid you for those things.” 

“Yes,” I said, my voice like silk. “You did.” 

I let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating. One of the other elders shuffled uncomfortably, the sound of his sandals scraping against the dirt breaking the quiet. 

“I’ve done no harm to you or this village, and yet you speak of me as though I brought the sickness upon the land myself.” I leaned in just slightly, enough to make Kazu stiffen. “Perhaps you should stop looking for devils in the shadows and instead ask why your gods have turned their backs on you.” 

The crowd around us sucked in a collective breath, their fear palpable. Kazu’s face turned red, anger mingling with something sharper, something he wouldn’t dare admit to himself: fear. 

I straightened and turned to go, my basket swaying lightly at my side. “Let me know if your grandson’s cough returns,” I said over my shoulder. “I wouldn’t want him to suffer for your pride.” 

Later that day, as I sat outside my small home on the outskirts of the village, I saw her approaching. I recognized her as one of the people in the crowd from earlier in the morning, she had been clutching the rosary at her chest as she watched the whole ordeal, shaking like a leaf. The woman’s steps were hesitant, her child clinging to her skirts. She wasn’t the first to come here, and she wouldn’t be the last. Still, I didn’t move, watching as she stopped a few feet away. 

“Please,” she said, her voice trembling. Her eyes darted around as though she feared being seen. “My son—he hasn’t been able to breathe all day. The priest said... said it’s in the hands of the gods now.” 

The boy’s face was pale, lips tinged blue, his breaths shallow and uneven. It was a cruel sight, one that tugged at the edges of my mind, though I wouldn’t show it. 

“And you think my hands will do better than theirs?” I asked, leaning back against the doorframe. My tone wasn’t kind, but neither was it cruel. It was deliberate. 

She hesitated, clutching the boy tighter. “Please,” she said again, desperation cracking her voice. “I’ll pay you.” 

I tilted my head slightly, letting the silence stretch just long enough for her fear to blossom. Then I stood and pushed the door open with a creak. “Bring him inside.” 

She hurried past me, her steps unsteady but driven by urgency. The child let out a wet, gasping cough as she lowered him onto the cot near the hearth. I ignored her trembling, focusing on the boy. He was far gone, but not beyond my reach. Not yet. 

“Wait outside,” I said, not bothering to look at her. “You’ll only make it worse.” 

She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it, retreating reluctantly. The door creaked shut behind her, and I let out a slow breath. Alone at last. 

I crouched beside the boy, studying his face. His breathing was shallow, his small chest rising and falling unevenly. Reaching into my basket, I pulled out a bundle of herbs and laid them on the table, their pungent aroma filling the room. 

I worked quickly, grinding the leaves into a thick paste with a mortar and pestle. The rhythm of the grinding was steady, almost hypnotic. With a knife, I nicked my finger, letting a few drops of blood fall into the mixture. The paste hissed and darkened as my blood met the herbs, a faint shimmer rippling across the surface. 

“Breathe, child,” I murmured, my voice low and steady. “Breathe deep.” 

I smeared the paste across his chest, the dark substance soaking into his skin. His body jerked, his back arching slightly as his lungs fought against the weight pressing down on them. I closed my eyes, pressing a hand over his chest as I muttered an incantation under my breath. The words were old, their cadence sharp and commanding, filling the space with a thrumming energy that crackled in the air. 

The room grew still, the tension thick as the boy gasped suddenly, his breaths deep and ragged. The blue tint in his lips began to fade, replaced by a faint flush of color. His chest rose and fell evenly now, the rattling gone. 

I wiped my hands on a rag and sat back, watching him sleep. The paste on his chest had vanished, absorbed into his skin, leaving only the faintest trace of its presence. I felt the pull of exhaustion settle into my limbs, but it was a familiar weight, one I had learned to carry. 

The door creaked open, and the mother stepped inside. She froze when she saw him, her hands flying to her mouth. “He’s—” Her words broke into a sob as she dropped to her knees beside the cot, gathering the boy into her arms. 

She turned to me, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Thank you.” 

I should have known they wouldn’t leave it at whispers. Fear has a way of festering, and tonight, it seemed ready to boil over.  

It had only been hours since I sent the woman back on her way that I heard a knock at my door. It was sharp, relentless, and entirely unwelcome. 

I didn’t answer at first, letting it echo through the quiet of my home. Only a fool would come to my door so late, but then again, this village was full of fools. When the knocking didn’t stop, I sighed, setting aside the herbs I’d been drying by the hearth. The hour was late, and I wasn’t in the mood for their desperation tonight. 

When I opened the door, I was met with the gnarled face of Elder Kazu. Behind him stood three men, their faces half-hidden in the dim glow of lantern light, their expressions tight with unease. 

“Elder Kazu,” I said, my voice flat. “To what do I owe this intrusion?” 

The elder’s gaze darted past me, as if searching for something—or someone—inside. His knotted hands gripped his staff tightly, and his jaw was set with a determination I hadn’t seen before. Behind him, the men shifted uncomfortably, their fingers tightening around the tools they carried: a shovel, a rusted scythe, and a length of rope. 

“The child died,” Kazu said, his voice cracking like dry wood. “Despite your... efforts.” 

I stiffened, the words sinking like stones into my chest. The child from earlier. His mother had come to me, begging for help, and I had given it. My craft was strong, stronger than their faithless gods. But sometimes, even I could not bend fate. 

“And you think that’s my fault?” I asked, my voice calm, though I could feel the simmer of heat beneath it. 

“You said you healed him!” one of the men snarled, stepping forward. I recognized him—Hajime, the father of the boy. His face was twisted with grief, his eyes red-rimmed and wild. “You lied! You cursed him, just like you’ve cursed this whole village!” 

I met his glare, unflinching. “Your boy was dying when you brought him to me. I bought him time, nothing more. If you want to blame someone, blame the sickness in the land. Blame your gods for abandoning you.” 

Hajime surged forward, but Kazu caught him with a firm hand. “Enough!” the elder barked. His voice wavered but held enough authority to make Hajime fall back, trembling with fury. 

“It’s not just the boy,” Kazu said, turning back to me. His voice was quieter now, almost steady. “The crops failed again. The cattle are dying. More children are sick. And yet, here you stand, untouched. Unharmed.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “You think my survival is proof of guilt? Perhaps it’s just proof that I’m smarter than the rest of you.” 

That was the wrong thing to say. 

The men moved as one, lunging forward with clumsy but determined hands. I fought back, my nails raking across flesh as I twisted and kicked, but there were too many of them. Rope snaked around my wrists, biting into my skin as they wrenched my arms behind my back. Someone grabbed my hair, forcing my head down as they shoved me into the dirt. 

“Let go of me!” I snarled, my voice cutting through the night. “Do you think this will save you? Do you think your gods will return because you’ve tied up the only one who ever helped you?” 

“Quiet!” Kazu barked, his staff slamming into the ground with a dull thud. “We’ve had enough of your poison, witch. You’ll answer for what you’ve done.” 

They hauled me to my feet, the rope biting deeper as they dragged me into the square. My bare feet scraped against the ground, the cold seeping into my skin as the village came alive around us. Doors creaked open, faces peering out, and soon the square was full of murmurs and nameless faces. 

Shadows danced wildly across the thatched roofs of the village as torches flickered in trembling hands. They gathered around me like vultures circling a corpse, their whispers rising into a chant, fueled by fear and hatred that churned like poison in their veins. 

I stood in the center of it all, bound at the wrists, my face cloaked in shadow but my eyes unyielding. The ropes dug into my skin, rough and unrelenting, but I refused to show pain. My gaze swept over the crowd, unwavering, as if I were the one passing judgment. Their anger faltered when I looked at them—cowards, every last one of them. Some shifted uneasily, others clutched their children closer, as if I might lash out and curse them where they stood. 

“She brought this on us!” Kazu’s voice cracked like dry leaves, his bony finger trembling as it pointed in my direction. “The deaths! The sickness! It’s her witchcraft!” 

I tilted my head, letting the ghost of a smile curl my lips. “Witchcraft?” My voice was low, but it cut through the din like a blade. “Is that what you call your own failures?” 

The crowd rippled with unease, torches flickering as if the flames themselves feared me. I could almost taste their panic, a bitter tang that fed the growing ember of defiance in my chest. They wanted to blame me for everything that had gone wrong in their miserable little lives. They wanted a villain. And here I was, bound and ready to play the part. Their silence wasn’t just fear—it was a storm gathering strength, waiting to break.

“She has no shame!” a woman screeched, clutching her rosary so tightly it threatened to snap. “We must end this before her evil consumes us all!” 

The crowd closed in, their faces a blur of fear and hatred, their torches casting wild, flickering light. I felt the first tendrils of panic claw at my chest, but I shoved them down, keeping my gaze sharp and my spine straight. 

“If you think fire will save you,” I said, my voice ringing out over the square, “then you’ve already lost.” 

The words did little to calm them. If anything, it seemed to embolden them, their cries rising into a unified chant: “Burn her! Burn her!” 

Kazu raised a hand, silencing them with a single motion. “We’ll do nothing without the lord’s permission,” he said, his voice steady now. “Sukuna will decide her fate.” 

The name hung in the air, heavier than the smoke. Sukuna. The King of Curses. The monster who ruled over life and death in this land. I had heard the stories—the whispers of his cruelty, his insatiable hunger for destruction, his throne built on blood and fear. A chill ran through me at the thought of standing before him, but I didn’t flinch. Not here. Not now. 

The crowd parted as Kazu motioned for the men to drag me forward. My knees scraped against the dirt, my wrists burning against the rough rope. But I kept my head high, meeting their hateful glares with the same sharp defiance I always had. 

The forest loomed ahead, its shadows deep and foreboding, swallowing the torchlight as if even the trees feared the lord who reigned over this land. I kept my eyes forward as they pushed me forward, every step deliberate. Each one echoed my silent vow: If death awaited me at the end of this road, I would meet it standing tall. 

But deep in my chest, something stirred. Not hope—not even fear—but curiosity. A dark, creeping curiosity. If Sukuna was truly the monster they said he was, perhaps he would see what I already knew. That I didn’t belong in this crowd of cowards and fools. That my place wasn’t here, bound and powerless, but somewhere far greater. 

The flames of the torches dimmed as we disappeared into the forest’s embrace. With them went the last remnants of my old life. Whatever awaited me on the other side, I wouldn’t bow to it. Not to Sukuna, not to anyone. If the King of Curses wanted to break me, he’d need far more than rope and cowardly men. 

dividers by @strangergraphics

AUTHORS NOTE what better way to ring in the new year than posting the first chapter to a new series? Hope you enjoyed this one, my loves! More is coming very soon… hopefully 🩷🩷

TAGLIST @slutlight2ndver @surielstea @duhhitzstarr @arcanefeelings

[expvrgction]

A pair of glowing red eyes staring at Erwin is what's going on. What is this, a staring contest?

Not a word. Whomever is staring at him is intent on making him as uncomfortable as possible.

dafug goin on over here?

[eastwindmlk]

We are starting off @jilytoberfest with a little continuation of a Jilyweek drabble. Don't worry you don't need to go looking, it is right there with it.

Prompt: 🎶 “Before the dawn I hear you whisper in your sleep, ‘Don’t let the morning take him.’” 🎶 - Judas Priest - Before the Dawn.

Word count: 467

TW: Blood

“Move!” She yells, her hip slamming into his painfully as the green bolt of light flies right past him. Just a fraction to the right. If he had not staggered, if she had not pushed him, it would have connected easily. The smell of signed leather filled his nostrils and nearly made him gag.

Fuck. He thought, an arm grabbing onto Lily’s waist when she would not stop pushing. Leaning into him. There it held firm until he felt it. Slick and warm, slipping down her exposed skin. And for a moment he recalled their conversation from earlier that night.

About crop tops and distractions. Joking about wandering eyes and roaming hands on an uneventful stakeout. A night of whispered conversations and stifled laughter.

But she was slipping. From his grip and from consciousness. The weight she’d used so deliberately to save him from harm now sent him stumbling. Clutching onto her as best he could. If only he could find a moment of balance, a heel coming down hard and the sharp pain of a pinched nerve turned everything white for just long enough to find his focus.

James gripped Lily tight, find a clear picture, twist and… Pop!

Before this moment James never considered how far the apparition point was from the emergency entrance. Now, with Lily in his arms, the blood still hot and tacky on his hands he realized it. His feet were loud against the flagstone pavement, echoing through the night and ringing in his ears.

“Lily, stay with me okay? Just stay awake. Please, please, please stay,” he pleaded with her through strained vocal cords. His voice cracked and stumbled with every other word.

The lights lining the streets looked like starbursts through his tear-filled gaze, his steps staggering for a moment before he turned into the alleyway. “You’re going to be alright. We’re almost there,” he promised, no louder than a whisper.

James could almost see the light in the loading dock and he cried out for help his voice hoarse and grating. He doubted it was loud enough to reach more than a few steps in front of him. The entire earth quaked beneath his feet when a rush of green hurried his way.

Lily is pried from his arms and he catches a glimpse of her arm dangling limply off the side of the stretcher, her skin a sickly pale even under the yellow street lamps.

He didn’t know how to pray, but he’d seen Lily do it many a time. His trembling hands clumsily mimic those motions now before curling over his heart. James did not know if he should say something, or ask for someone in particular.

All he could do was beg, whoever was listening, not to let the morning take her away from him.

[ranticore]

Compilation of Cuinn POV Writing (part 1)

These bits and pieces are older than this blog but I forgot they existed until last night. First part is intended to be a direct follow up on Cuinn's initial capture by Mikalai, second part (in a different post b/c it's long) is a few years after that when he meets Ilya :) And I'm too lazy to put them in a google doc so it's going into the body of this post enjoy

-

He gazed dispassionately down at the sleeping human. What on earth was that strange one thinking? To bring him here to this madhouse flock of babytalkers and ground-bound humans who seemed hardly better. Nobody made sense when they spoke and nobody did what they meant. Why give food and bare your neck so respectfully if you were then going to tie your captor up like a piece of prey?

He tested the bindings again, an agitated ticking under his skin. Still tight, made of two leather pieces sandwiched on either side of a metal woven cord. Cuinn's beak still ached from his attempt to chew it. He'd sliced through a tiny bit of leather, triumphant, and that metal had immediately cracked a notch into the hook in his mouth. It would take weeks to grow out. Why hadn't they warned him? The baffling mix of hospitality and imprisonment made Cuinn's crop seize up and his feathers prick. Was he little more than a farm animal to these humans? Something to be cared for so nicely, right up until the moment of its slaughter?

Let that human come closer, and… and… Cuinn let out his puffed up breath, his feathers flattening again. The man had turned over on the furs he'd made into a nest, and the makeshift blanket fell off his front. Beneath there was a thinner tunic, something woven. His chest rose and fell slowly, in unhurried sleep. Killing someone in their sleep was not the action of a king, but the temptation was ever-present. Cuinn's mouth watered.

Yet the tether still held. Cuinn could not step closer. He instead hunkered down into the ragged nest as if to warm an egg and silently observed.

The human yawned and tipped his head sideways, away from Cuinn, and bore more of his pale throat. That was soft too, though Cuinn would have to step closer to confirm. He reminded Cuinn of the tiercels at the coast, the flightless ones and plump waterbirds, though he knew that assuming delicacy or weakness was a mistake. Cuinn had felt the iron strength behind the binding ropes.

He pulled one of the stripped sheep femurs closer for an early morning snack, gripping the bone with his talons while he used his beak and long, barbed tongue to scrape the marrow out.

A low grunt from the human stilled Cuinn briefly before the hunger became more important. The human said something and sat up. What an odd creature he truly was; close enough to a harpy that Cuinn could find him familiar, even attractive, but strangely proportioned, short-armed and blunt. Had he been smaller, the size of a hare, Cuinn would have not hesitated to rip him apart.

His monstrous captor opened the rear door and stepped out into the light. Other harpies craned their heads to see through the doorway before it shut again. Cuinn licked more marrow out of the sheep's long bones, waiting for the next indignity. Surely that human was preparing to drag him around again, the spoils of his hunt.

But no. The human returned with a hare and a pheasant, warmed but not fresh-killed. He set them on the floor and simply walked out again. He even left Cuinn his privacy, letting the door become a welcome barrier between himself and those chattering mudhawks ready to snatch away any food he got.

It helped Cuinn eat in peace but it didn't lessen the sensation of capture, of being kept like livestock. But he was still weak and likely couldn't have flown any great distance on his ragged wings, his heart in palpitations at the dual effort of pulling wasted muscle and digesting this new glut of food which would only weigh him down more.

The voices of men and the odd harpies pressed in from all angles. Dust shook down from the wooden roof as manicured talons settled upon it. The harpies spoke in exaggerated and strange tones, loud and dramatic no matter the subject, and oddly truncated in a way that flattened the meaning, the errors of a chick learning to speak for the first time. And at a permanently ear-splitting volume, no softer hisses or sibilant tones, only full throated screeches and peeping.

The effects of men on the harpy chicks they stole were legendary. Why would they care for anything, when their provisions were always guaranteed and their hunting little more than a swoop and catch, none of the hours-long stalking and waiting. Their flying skills, too, were roundly mocked by the harpies of Cuinn's flock. His ex-flock, he supposed.

And what hobbies did the humans deign to allow their captives? He'd seen no woven nests or bower walls, no artistic pursuits, nothing but these wooden man-made walls and straw.

The adorable human returned in the afternoon with a deep trough of some kind of liquid. Whitish and warm, the colour of an eggshell.

Although Cuinn had thought warmly about the human in his sleep, he was not so pleased to see the man in full wakefulness, wrapped in his heavy cloak, his face like iron. Cuinn saw again the figure of his captor, the source of his shame and indignity, and made a token effort to lash out at the man. He didn't expect to reach, and sure enough the tether snapped to shivering tension while his talons caught thin air, but it was the best way to send his message. He would not capitulate to this treatment. But the man shrugged it off so easily, sparking fury, and simply set down the container of liquid. He said something in his rumbling voice and gestured across at the trough.

Cuinn pointedly did not approach it. His hunger was dull for the first time in weeks, he would not debase himself for this lesser man. Cuinn was a king. A king of what? his mind said mockingly, and the resultant shame was enough to have him snapping and hissing at the man again, until he finally left.

Cuinn sniffed the liquid, but smell was not his primary sense and he didn’t learn much, only that it smelled somewhat like bone marrow. He slipped his tongue into the top layer and found it gelatinous as it cooled, a soft broth with bones at the bottom and other mysterious ingredients suspended in the tasty fluid. It was more sustaining than the dishes of water he’d been given but quenched his thirst just as well. As he lapped it up, lying on the awkward protrusion of his keel by the trough, he despaired that this was the best food he was going to be given. Lukewarm sludge, the type of food you might feed an invalid, or an elder. His talons flexed open and closed at the thought of real food, live food, something that struggled as it died. That way he could adopt its strength and will to live, not just the physical matter of its flesh. The broth, while nourishing, could not pass that vigour on to him.

Over the next few days, the man came and went. Cuinn heard enough from the others beyond the doorway to associate him with the sound ‘Mika’, which was likely a name. Mika was an odd prison guard. He brought food and water and showed Cuinn the midden hole under the nest platform at the back of the little den. He slept in the den every single night, no matter what, blithely revealing defenceless flesh and pale skin to the hungry gaze of Cuinn. Aside from that he did not seem to need or care to interact much with Cuinn. It was not respectful, not at all, but it was honest. It did not make any effort to convince Cuinn that he would be happy here, in his captivity.

As Cuinn’s exhaustion began to purge itself from his bones he grew restless. He managed to jump onto the elevated nest platform, where he ripped open the pillows and discarded the human fabric cases, rejecting its presence at his bed. He arranged the spilled-out straw and sweet hay in an oval, though it was not deep enough to make a depression in the middle, and tried his best to raise some walls in a basket-weave pattern.

The next morning, as Mika rose and pulled his cloak back on, his dark eyes flickered over Cuinn’s body. It was the first night Cuinn had retired to the platform, to higher ground.

Mika said something short and gruff, then opened the door and - rather than letting himself out, he left the door open. Cuinn roused himself, waiting for that opening to slam shut again, but Mika caught the tether instead. He clipped it onto the block just beyond the door, out in the gloomy morning sunlight. Cuinn did not follow. There was no point. What was he to do, stand out on that block perch, answering the human’s beck and call? Not at all. He stayed up on his platform, watching through slitted eyes the comings and goings of the falconers outside, the harpies flitting past. Horses appeared a few times, piquing Cuinn’s hunger, though that was a meal for many harpies to take at once, and he did not trust or respect any of the harpies around him enough to share a hunt with them.

He watched the younger harpies follow their humans around, gazing up at them with sickening trust and adoration. Some received food in reward for allowing the humans to inspect their talons, their keels. the anklets and bells around their legs. Mika moved among them, fetching and carrying but never interacting with a single young harpy long enough for Cuinn to link it with him.

Only when Mika had not been sighted for several hours did Cuinn decide to emerge. It was his idea, not Mika's. And he moved out slowly, hopping down from the platform and slowly emerging into the light. It made his eyes burn; he was already susceptible to bright light and this conspired with the time he'd spent in that den to almost blind him. He walked slowly, without revealing his lack of vision, and felt the character of the lawn change around him. The other harpies which had not flown off to their hunt that day grew quiet. His vision returned in patches, enough to guide him onto the block perch. He settled himself there and pricked his feathers against the wind. Snow swirled in the air but did not settle, not yet.

The dens were spread in a half ring that faced the large castle and smaller hall. Walls enclosed everything, even the lawn, though they were only tall enough to make a barrier to humans .

A brave harpy alighted beside him. A tawny spotted cob, jingling obnoxiously with bells. He displayed no signs of appeasement or peaceful greeting, his eyes making contact far too early for politeness. He stood straight, wings half open, and his tail fluffed out and high. He chattered something, a chick asking to play, and reached up a foot to try to snag one of Cuinn's white feathers.

Cuinn stepped away. The tawny followed. Cuinn hissed softly and this only elicited a surprised look before the tawny simply tried again. Cuinn's subtlety went nowhere and fell on deaf ears. As the inquisitive talons rose again, Cuinn spun and slashed, opening the younger harpy's thigh and scaly lower leg.

That got him. The harpy exploded into flight and fled to the roof of one of the halls, peeping obnoxiously in distress.

The humans returned one by one. They rode in on their horses and some had harpies perched behind them. Mika did not. He returned alongside the others and tied to his saddle was a coiled crawling beast. The monster's head hung limp and it lazily dripped blood and venom down its forked tail. Cuinn's feathers stood on end and he hissed at it as Mika took it past; what use would anybody have for one of those horrible things? Harpies killed them without eating for a reason! Mika rode past with his eyes forward, paying Cuinn no mind.

The harpies came in to roost. Mika was back, his burden set aside somewhere (in the fire, Cuinn hoped). This time he carried a pair of hares which he set down in Cuinn's reach.

The other humans looked uneasy, eyeing Cuinn as though he were as dangerous as the huge serpentine crawler. Why now of all times was he drawing their stares? They'd seen him on the block before he'd been fed.

He ate while continuing to peer around the place, eyeing up the sheer facade of the large building looming behind the hall. That place with its spires and many windows looked to house someone important. Maybe the lord of the land. Humans had leaders like everyone else, though Cuinn's mind wandered at the thought of what a human leader might actually do all day. Humans were lawless and uncontained, without any true king pushing them into their rank lines.

No wonder the place was so raucous and disorganised. They had food aplenty but no hunters catching anything but useless evil, and all sorts of harpies reduced to idle fluttering. The air of the place suggested a ruler but Cuinn had not seen him.

Mika's huff of breath sounded by his ear. Cuinn hissed softly, little more than a formality at this point. Mika paid it no mind, as ever. He unsheathed his fleshy pale hand from the thick furs he wore over it and touched it to Cuinn's front. The fingers delved under a tract of feathers, and the edge of one of the square fingernails dug in briefly. Cuinn's hiss was low and rolling, but stretched out into pleasure at the welcome scratch.

Mika felt the edge of Cuinn's keel. He made no attempt to hide it, not that it needed confirming at this point that he was trying to heal Cuinn's starvation for reasons unknown. The keel still made an uncomfortable shape through the skin, awkward when Cuinn wanted to lie on his front, but there was a new layer softening it just a little. Mika withdrew his hand and brought it up, briefly, to scratch under Cuinn's chin.

It was too much. Cuinn pulled his head away, straightening so that on the perch and with his long neck extended, he was not within Mika's reach. He brought his talonful of hare up higher to continue eating.

The meal was thoroughly mundane but the eyes on him sharpened until he had swallowed the last of the bones. After that there came a gradual lessening of attention, eyes turned away.

And Cuinn discovered why momentarily; the other harpies were fed similar meals and the yard was embroiled in a chaotic war. They mantled over their paltry meat scraps as if they would be attacked, and not even the humans they simpered over could come close. Hissing and screeching filled the yard, humans in thicker padding than usual ducking and flinching as their horse-drawn cart of meat was mobbed. The mudhawks behaved like infants, chicks who squalled and fought to eat before their nest siblings, as if the food would be yanked away. Cuinn slunk back into his den. No use in sticking around.

Up on his perch and with daylight still lying across his feathers, he found the will to preen for the first time in many moon cycles. He would not be shown up by those squalling chicks. Mika looked in more than once as he continued on his duties, at one stage bringing a bale of new straw for nest material.

While Cuinn wove the new straw into the downy depression of his nest, Mika shut the door behind him and bedded down against the door frame.

As darkness and cold gripped the den like ice crushing the outer bark of a tree, Cuinn's fluffed up feathers trapped more warmth than before, but not enough. The winter rolled in faster than he could recover, and after an hour or so hunched and shivering he dropped down from the platform. The swivel on the tether clinked softly as it dragged across the ground, but Mika lay still and on his side, ensconced in his thick furs. Cuinn stepped onto him, ignoring the grunt as Mika roused, and lowered himself down onto his front so that he lay on top of the human. Mika said something in a meandering, sleepy tone. Cuinn ignored him, perfectly satisfied to use the human as a massive heat source without being too sentimental about it. Needs must.

When sleep came he didn't notice it, drifting into a soft continuation of his waking state almost indistinguishable from it. In his dream, Cuinn's beak slid out of its holster on the roof of his mouth, and when morning dragged him back awake he was sharp and itching all over with mingled hunger and shame.

Mika nudged at him, a small, blunt hand that touched the curve of Cuinn's neck. He twisted and bit down on the hand, his beak piercing the skin, and Mika's other hand swung from nowhere to clout Cuinn hard on the side of the head.

Hissing furiously, Cuinn sprang up and retreated to the back of the mews, to the elevated nest. He sat there for the remainder of the morning, glaring at Mika and any human who dared peer in through the door. How dare they. He would batter them if they came close, and any overfamiliarity on their part would be their undoing.

But Mika's behaviour did not change. He returned with his hands gloved, setting down the usual morning bowl of broth, his eyes steady resting on Cuinn.

Wasn't he angry? Cuinn was angry. His talons had gouged tracks in the wood of the platform from his compulsive gripping and scratching. Mika simply set down his bowl and stood up again, leaving the door open once more so that Cuinn could go out to visit the block perch.

Cuinn went out, but not very soon after Mika opened the door. Whether or not Cuinn left his den was not the human's decision. The swirl of bracing air that twisted through the doorway beckoned Cuinn. He hadn't flown in so long.

Out on the block, he drank from the bowl of steaming broth. As ever the humans were bustling around with their horses and the harpies. Any time those creatures got even a scrap of food they became so oddly aggressive that the shrieks had Cuinn desperately scanning the sky for any signs of attackers.

One, a pale grey pen with scarlet eyes, alighted with a flip of her tail on the ground by the block. Her vivideyes fixed on Cuinn's bowl.

Instead of asking or indicating that she would like to share, she instead continued to stare at the bowl. She made a piteous begging noise. Cuinn turned away. He was not a parent and this overgrown chick wouldn't sway him.

His voice rose into a shocked screech but he was too slow to yank the bowl away in time. She caught it in one foot as she shot past him and up, into the grey sky. Broth spilled out over the rim and rained down over Cuinn’s back. The disgusting mess slithered down between his feather tracts as the harpy landed on the roof of the big house.

She sat there forlornly peeping until Cuinn's attention strayed. Mika had appeared on the edge of the yard, a straw fork over his shoulder.

A blur of stony grey, and suddenly the pen grabbed Cuinn's bowl.

He was stepping from foot to foot in his fury, gouging tracks in the block, when Mika returned from one of his unimportant tasks. Cuinn would have bitten him again, only Mika stepped away in time. He glanced down, saw no bowl, and cast Cuinn an expectant look as if to say where is it? Cuinn turned to glare at the harpy on the roof. She had managed to spill more of the broth down one of the shiny clear windows.

Mika hummed quietly and patted Cuinn’s front. He almost earned another bite for that, but Cuinn found it not unwelcome, after his initial shock. Mika was not here to steal from him, but to touch his keel again. It was still prominent, but no longer so pointed that it felt like a blade about to slice through Cuinn’s skin from the inside. Mika pointed at the female harpy and the bowl and said something in his low soft tone, diffusing the prickly agitation just a little.

Then he left to bring Cuinn another bowl. This was much the same as the first, and as Cuinn snatched it off him, Mika produced a damp cloth, and stretched out towards Cuinn. Distracted and satisfied by the broth, Cuinn tolerated the damp patting of the cloth against the feathers of his back and shoulder. Mika, it seemed, was grooming him.

Immediately, Cuinn lunged at her. Stupid creature, to have fallen for obvious bait. He caught her by the wing and neck and forced her down onto the ground by the block, under his talons. She was screeching, her wings thrashing, but she was uncoordinated, accustomed only to attacks from the crawling things on the ground and her flock-mates. Her voice shifted from angry screeching to piteous mewling and subjugated peeps, her eyes on him squinting with defeat.

After another sip from the bowl, the rustling movement on the roof again caught Cuinn’s eye. He set the bowl down, a little away from himself, on the very edge of the block. Mika queried it but received no response other than Cuinn turning away as if disinterested.

Talons scraped against slate roof tiles. The pen harpy was sweeping down and low across the lawn, her feet already swinging forwards in a practised snatch, reaching for the bowl. Mika’s voice rose into a gruff warning sound, telling her no, but he was no match for her speed. She caught the bowl.

Mika shouted something. Another human was running over, the pen harpy’s makeshift parent. Cuinn had no need to press the point. He folded his wings with a satisfied huff and hopped off of her, back onto the perch.

The second human, whose name was Yuriy, helped his harpy up from the sleety lawn. She hid behind him at first, still peeping in confusion, though when she caught Cuinn’s eyes she gaped her beak as if he were a hunting sphinx and not one of her own kind. As well he might have been, to her. Cuinn turned his back. She would not bother him again.

Mika had to speak to Yuriy about the incident. Yuriy was upset at the mistreatment of his harpy - they called her Mriya - and seemed to want Mika to do something. But Mika’s voice was so level and so calm, one hand still on Cuinn’s side as Cuinn sipped from his untouched bowl.

Finally Yuriy thew up his hands and walked away, with the pen, Mriya, trailing along beside him. Mika said nothing. Then, as Cuinn set down the empty bowl and began to clean himself, Mika abruptly reached out and caught the tether clipped to Cuinn’s anklet. It came loose, Mika’s dextrous fingers making short work of the mechanism. The heavy tether fell away, only revealing what a burden it had been in its sudden absence. Cuinn lifted his foot - his tarsus was still bound with an anklet - and cast Mika a long look.

Mika pointed at the sky.

Cuinn’s eyes widened. Another trap? No, it didn’t seem that way. Cuinn could rise into the sky and never see this wretched place again. Mika’s hand drifted close again and tapped Cuinn’s keel, as if to explain his behaviour. Cuinn was no longer on death’s door, the gesture reminded him. Mika had nursed him back to health, enough so that he could toss around the likes of Mriya.

Cuinn had not flown in weeks, beyond the hops up into his nest at night. He spread his wings, still shabby despite his improved health. The first leap into the sky was laborious, his chest muscles pulling down with not quite as much strength as he was used to. Well, he would recover. After a short horizontal drift he got a good few beats in, and the lawn blurred into a wash of grey and brown as he swung upwards. His wingtips clipped the wall of the big house and then he was over it, his wings spread to their full extent to capture what little glide material might remain in the wintry air. There wasn’t much, and he sank again to land on the slate roof of the big house, to more easily plan his next venture.

Mika stood by the den, watching curiously. It occurred to Cuinn that if he left, he could not take Mika with him. And even if that were possible, he could not go back to his own flock, not without unseating Thunder Strike on the Ama, but that would be an impossibility in his current state. The forest flocks would not have him either. Like it or not, he had to stay here, among this flock, at least for the time being. Mika would care for him.

The other harpies were deeply distressed by Cuinn's new sentinel post on the roof for the remainder of the day. They would flutter up clumsily, ready to perch, spot Cuinn, and then veer away with alarmed squawks. Very different to how it had been in the forest, where other harpies avoiding him would have been an immense improvement.

But it couldn't last, not really. As the evening closed in, the harpies had plucked up enough courage to land two wing-lengths away from him with their meals to eat. He ignored them; they were nothing to him. He had already evaluated the flock for any that might have posed a threat, any that might have thought themselves future kings, and there were none. They hardly seemed to understand what he was. This place had no king but him.

[nightfall-1409]

Thank you @clonebang for running this! On ao3 here and on tumblr following the tag #cb2024

Team 16, myself @nightfall-1409, (AO3) my lovely artists @marbled-polecat (AO3) and @clownbloody , and my amazing beta, @cowbaehawyee (AO3)

Coming in starting December 3rd with ...

A Sunny Day on Kamino

rating: M pairings: polybatch, echo5, techo, crosstech warnings: canon-typical violence, canonical character death summary: having shot the cords that connected him to the gondola wires on Eriadu, Tech had known the end was coming. But then it doesn't come. There are a lot of things he'd known that are no longer true, and a lot of thing's he'd not known that he now, somehow, has the chance to learn. time travel fic

Color him surprised when he wakes up, prone, his goggles cracked, feeling as though all the air has rushed out of his chest and he can’t catch his breath.

He distantly hears shooting, screaming, and he questions to himself, oh, had the fall been that short? Did he have to worry about taking a deep breath and potential damage to his ribs when the cart above him is definitely about to crush him?

Another moment passes, he hears Wrecker calling for him, distress obvious, and he shudders as he breathes in. He does not hear Omega anymore, and something in his heart seizes at the thought of her jumping after him, or some other horrible choice.

His ribs seem to be…fine?  There’s no piercing lung pain as he breathes.  In fact, there doesn’t seem to be significant injury to his person, as he finds no signs of pain other than a bit of a bump to his head and the air knocked from his lungs. This is likely very bad.

“I imagine that ought to have killed me.” He says, the air knocked out of his chest, but not finding it hard to force the words out apart from that. The white snow underneath him is remarkably… smooth.  

He blinks, touches the floor, amazed. Upon closer inspection, it’s not snow at all, but white tile, clean and sanitized.

“If you think that should’ve killed you, we do need more training,” a harsh, sickeningly familiar voice drawls as blaster-fire whizzes over his shoulder, footsteps coming around him as the ringing in his ears starts to subside.

“Were you hit?” Hunter asks as he whips Tech around, doing a quick glance and once over, Tech blinking in completely stunned silence as he takes him in through those broken glasses.

His sergeant’s hair is too short.  Or at the very least, it’s cropped much closer to reg length than he recalls it being.  Their cadet reds are all they have on— none of their grey and beige armor with its added colors for Howzer and Rex and Cody, really, any of the signs of the regs that they had ultimately aligned themselves with.

Crosshair is standing over them with a borrowed sniper rifle, Wrecker’s face is still all bandaged over from his injury as a cadet.  They’re in the broken remains of the medical hall.  They look like cadets, baby-faced and not yet at their apex in height, and it’s most noticeable because Crosshair and Tech are both roughly the same height as Hunter, and Wrecker’s just a little bit over height of an average trooper.

This appears to be due to the fact that they are cadets.  8th Cycle, actually, when Wrecker’s eye was blinded, his hearing impacted, and his scars earned in training keeping them all safe.

Tech blinks again, his confusion sinking in as he looks down at his unmarred hands, and his own cadet reds, their synthetic texture starting to bug at him.  He’s– fairly certain he had been on Eriadu just before this moment, had been falling to his death on a doomed mission to rescue Crosshair.  That he’d been about to hit his 13th cycle, a year and a half after the fall of the Republic, a year after the fall of Kamino.

Watching the clouds before turning over so he was not seeing what would crush him, could watch the trees get closer, and then closing his eyes as he’d accepted the end and—

Now he was here.

He remembers this quote-on-quote mission well.

Droids had stormed the medical wing of Kamino looking for the Prime’s DNA.  They’d been inside because Wrecker was recovering from an incident with ordinance, the scarring that would be part of him for the rest of his life.  They’d taken blasters off of fallen soldiers.  This was the implementation of Tech’s plan to ensure Wrecker’s life was safe from harm— get themselves deployed. 

But why was he here now?  Tech’s memory is not faulty.  It is perfect, every second of it; as he was designed.  He knows it backwards, forwards, and yet, he is here, tumbled out of order.  He fell to his presumed death on Eriadu, in spite of Hunter’s order for him not to, Omega’s hurt and upset plea, and Wrecker’s desperate cry of No!  

But now he’s here.

It’s eerie.  He has no answers.  Nothing about this feels any more or less real than where he’d been before.  He’s not sure of what test to run. He never considered himself a lucid dreamer, but he’ll attempt to sort out those rules; thinks to himself, I’m dreaming, and then tries to wipe away this slate. 

Nothing changes.  Either he is bad at lucid dreaming, or this is not a dream.

Is this some sort of heaven?  Some sort of hell? He’d never put much thought into the afterlife; he’d sort of assumed that the lack of tangible evidence of it had meant such a thing did not exist. 

Now that he’s here, it’s even stranger still. It leaves him…unmoored.

[lunarw0rks]

Old Bones | Chapter Four

Summary: After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does.

Warning(s): strong language, PTSD themes, casualties of war, hostage situations, blood, gun violence, mentions of abuse, death, nightmares, mentions of scars/medical gore

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: thx for all the support so far!

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ♡¸.•*' ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ prev. chapter | next chapter | ao3 ver. | playlist ꒦꒷ O.B MASTERLIST

Ad Astra

Simon might’ve been handling the situation well, but you, on the other hand, have been nauseous all morning. The sight of his reddened wounds, paired with the squelch of the blood that coated you, all replayed in a loop.

He comes back during sunrise, clothes covered in patches of dirt and scrapes from the previous night. Limping to the shower to wash off, he still looks at you like an alien from another planet, yet he’s the one disposing of a body before breakfast.

You look up from the paper plate below you—some stale muffin and a coffee you snagged from the lobby. He’s wearing fresh clothes again, probably on his last pair of those, and he’s changed the dressings himself, thank God.

“Where’d you take him?” Rather than eating it, you’re smushing crumbs of the stiff baked good in between your fingertips.

“Nowhere important. We’re leaving today.” As if he’s going to tell you that. He zips up his duffel, not before stuffing in the bourbon first, naturally.

You’ve packed up next, casing the room one more time to ensure you got everything. Once you’ve reached the kitchenette, you spot your ring, still laying where you’d thrown it the previous night. You scoop it up, rinsing off the crimson caked in the crevices. The thought of slipping it on again comes as quickly as it leaves—immediately.

The diamond is placed atop the tip you left for the maid. Hopefully, they’ll appreciate it, or pawn it, either way, it’s a piece of mind. Taking that ring off was one step closer to healing, but now being on the path for vengeance has manhandled you two steps back.

The town is several miles behind you now, and it’s back to silence. Not a peep from the radio, nor his mouth. Just the sound of the idled engine when he stops, the repetition of the blinker, and his sighs of discomfort when traffic becomes heavy. It’s half-tempting to reach into the glove box and start reading the owner’s manual, or start solving calculus problems to pass the time. At least when there was a body in the back, your mind was too packed to allow boredom.

“You seem to be healing well, at least.” You have to say something, or you’ll jump out of the moving vehicle yourself.

“I’ll be fine,” he sighs again, only looking briefly at you as you’ve stopped in the next lineup, with his blinker puttering again. “You did fine.” His voice carries the usual dryness, like his vocal cords alone fought on the battlefield.

The compliment is delivered with passivity, to say the least, but coming from him it’s better than being ignored.

“Yeah, well, I was scared shitless,” a compromising chuckle nearly comes, but the memories of kneeling in the gravel push it away. “I’ve never done anything like that before...”

His eyes return to the highway ahead of him as he passes the traffic jam, going quiet again. The crop fields have instead turned to muddy grass, with somehow less civilization than before. He digs into the center console and pulls out a stray cigarette, only cracking the driver’s window slightly when he lights up. The chin of his mask is pulled up now, just slightly above his mouth. After his first deep inhale, he holds the cig out to you.

“No thanks.” You reply flatly, only watching as he exhales the smoke through the small crack of the window. His hum of amusement, or more so shock that you rejected it is next. You already have hired guns after you, what’s some lung disease to add to it?

Simon’s eyes make their way to your hands again—where you’d failed to scrub the blood from under your fingernails, a rookie mistake. Then, how you’re still fiddling with the ring finger of your left, despite still not wearing it anymore—that nervous habit he noticed the first time he saw you. The slight indent on your ring finger, where the skin has remembered the wedding band you’d kept on for so long.

The ring in itself is a scar of its own, only it’s an internal one—unlike the several that riddle his own hands. Knives, splinters, discoloration, fingers with the indents of the stitches he’d gotten years ago.

The questions had been eating at you the entire ride since he forced you to reveal his name. “What are we going to do with him?” A man so desperate for carnage, yet he’s sitting there so calmly as if he’s on this road trip for leisure.

“Nothing nice, and nothing you need to know about.”

Somehow, the thought of that isn’t as comforting as you thought. Cal was a hideous memory, but still a memory nonetheless. It’s not Stockholm syndrome or forgiveness for what he’s done, it’s the plausibility of someone you spent years with being snuffed out.

“He’s still my husband, Simon, I think I have a right to know.” You’re speaking in offense, yet the only emotion you feel is conflict.

Simon scoffs as if you’ve just insulted him personally. “Still your husband, huh? Should I turn around right now, and bring you back home, then? Hm?”

“I suppose you’ll go running into his arms, ‘n get scooped off into the sunset, then?” He tosses the cig out the window, and pulls down his mask again, still shaking his head.

You can’t stand it—the way he makes you sound like a delusional schoolgirl. It’s quite clear, you go home, and you’re in the ground somewhere before you can unpack. “I’m not an idiot. Do you think I’m expecting a warm welcome from him?”

“You’re not thinking at all, that’s your problem.” There’s that insufferable prick again, the one hiding beneath the half-assed attempts to act like a human being.

“Who are you to tell me what I’m thinking, you arrogant prick?” You turn to face him, despite being confined by the seat belt. “You have no clue what this is like for me,” you’ve twisted back again, this time facing your torso to the window now. If you look at him any longer, that idea you had about leaping out of the moving truck might come true.

His fury dissolves again, and now his cinnamon irises have flooded with the echoes of his past. He did understand. Simon understood every bit of it—the urge to kick and scream, and most of all the desire to self-protect when faced with disapproval.

You’ve practically ripped a page straight from his book, responding exactly how he would’ve if it was him in the passenger seat feeling provoked—like a wounded animal snarling because it’s been licking its own wounds for too long.

—

You’re nearly face-first into the dashboard when he punches on the brakes, not bothering to brace you, despite you dozing off in the seat next to him. This time, it’s not an apocalyptic town, it’s a bigger city surrounding you—an apartment complex somewhere on the outskirts. Nicer than yours, surely, and with tighter security.

It’s nightfall, meaning you slept through most of the day—also obvious because of the kink in your neck from the awkward scrunch your body was in for several hours.

“We’ll be hidden here.” Simon’s tone is reassuring as you’re peering up at the tall building. The place is decent inside, and more modern than your own.

Yet another place to hide, all while the law could be tailing you here. A body left behind, a duffel of weapons, and an ex-soldier doing mercenary work without authorization; how much worse could this look from the outside?

It seems the further you’re running, the closer Cal is to find you, in spite of how well Simon cleaned up the messes.

—

It’s a repeat of the first night he arrived—unable to sleep, and looking up at the stars. The roof gives a much more pleasing view, much improved compared to the window back home, which was full of chips and caked in dust.

Now, you could see the stars glimmer, how they were covered and uncovered by the passing dark clouds. If the noise from the city were to cease, the sight would be all the more peaceful. There was no interesting conversation down those stairs, where Simon had been glued to his laptop, probably digging up information on Cal—something that still contested your convictions. Up here, the breeze was freeing, and the smell of the rain overshadowed that of the bloodshed.

“Bloody cold out here.” His voice airs, fizzling out into the cloud of noise pollution.

You hadn’t noticed the bite of the wind, despite subconsciously tucking your knees up for warmth. He was only making conversation, probably because you’ve been more of a leech than a partner. Despite your lack of response, he sits beside you on the edge, roping his legs through two gaps in the railing.

The crinkle of a  paper draws your attention again, and the next thing you know it’s placed beside you, only he’s keeping his hand down to prevent it from blowing away.

“Nearest whereabouts, vehicle, and associates.” Above it all is his latest photo, smiling like a sleaze behind his executive desk—ripped from some article Simon dug up about his newest promotion.

His last line is delivered with more forethought, a stark contrast from what he said in the car. “Figured you deserved to know.”

“Put it away.” You whisper, sliding the paper back to him. Despite the wear on Cal’s face, that damn smile still remains spine-chilling.

The paper is folded again, and you only meet his eyes when the crinkling stops. You’d rather stare at Simon’s lack of face than look at another photo of him. There’s a stillness again, whilst you’re in the stars again, and he’s still eyeing you.

He’s returned to his feet now, and he’s rubbing his calloused hands together for warmth. “I’ll leave you to it.”

You can’t leave it at this, not after he’s found Cal’s whereabouts. You’re following him with your eyes, until he’s reached the door back to the inside of the complex, and you’re to your feet before you’ve rehearsed the words.

“I am thinking, Simon. That’s my problem.” His fingers stop as they’re about to turn the knob, and he’s now facing you.

“I know.” Aside from his gruffness, he speaks like someone who’s known the insides and outs of you for a century. You’re the closest thing to a picture of himself right now.

His patience is off-beat, and uncanny to him, only because it’s been buried beneath decades of his own pain. He could claw at himself, try to stop himself from giving you comfort all he wanted, but he’s been losing that fight since the supermarket.

You can’t comprehend why, or how, but you’ve embraced him—and he hasn’t resisted yet. His hand finds its way to the back of your head, giving it a tight hold, all while you’re snaking one arm around his uninjured side. You suppose it's been so long since you’ve been gratified, that’s the logical way of it.

The embrace only lingers for a few moments, his hand remands on your shoulder, peering down at your troubled expression. “We’re going to find him, and then you’ll be out of my hair, doing all the thinking you want. Understood?”

—

“7-1. Ghost, how copy?”

“Hostiles are not secured yet, Sir. Moving toward target building.” His boots thundered through the sand below him, coating all of his protective gear. He’s forced to ignore the chaos in the village around him, and only focus on the target. The woman screaming bloody murder, the crying disoriented children, and ensuing explosions in the distance.

Simon bashes the door and it comes to a crash, splinters of wood sent flying. Inside, is the target—one of the high-ranking Al-Qatala lieutenants. Inside the decaying homestead, he’s holding his family hostage, all while Simon and his Task Force are entirely focused on the intel, rather than the pleading faces of horror knelt in the cement—the true reality of war, all in a line, execution-style before him.

He’s posted behind one of the pieces of furniture, battling every urge to unload on the devil. Their pleads have overshadowed every comm, every bullet, every explosion, all in a language he can’t comprehend.

“Do not intervene. Secure the target and only the target. We need him alive.” Finally, he catches a piece of the radio transmission, quite literally ripping his finger from the trigger of his rifle. Simon knows himself; when a negotiation has become too personal, familiar enough that he may disobey direct orders.

He’s the lone soldier in there with the rest of him doing recon on the operation. Every bit of his being is telling him to take the risk, to make up some story of self-defense—but the hostages are too close to the danger zone. He wouldn’t forgive himself if his own stray bullet compromised their lives.

“Give yourself up,” Simon shouts, mounting himself on the cover, yet his finger still remains off the trigger. “Now!” He bellows, wincing as his crosshairs fall on the wailing woman, covered in scrapes and bruises, while her husband, the captor, his knuckles bleed.

The captor goes on a speech, something about how kind the SAS will be to him when he’s in custody—he’ll be sleeping like a king as long as he’s giving them actionable intel.

All whilst his wife and children will be left behind in this war torn country, picking up the wreckage his squad left behind as a morbid parting gift—rubble, remains, chunks of their heirlooms. He was right. So right about that aspect Simon wanted to choke the life out of him, or beat him bloody with his bare hands—give the fucker a taste of his own medicine, only without any teeth left.

The lieutenant raises his gun, and yet Simon is powerless. Unless he fires on a foreign soldier, he can kill any one of his hostages, and be snoozing in that cozy cell by the end of the day.

Another gargle in a language Simon can’t understand, and she’s down. The distraught woman, wife, mother, now nothing more than a martyr of warfare.

Lifeless, more bloody than before, and slumped at her spouse’s feet, all while that morbid grin is still written on his face. All while Simon could do nothing to stop it.

That flashback visits him often, always resulting in hands overtaken by tremors, and wide eyes, as if he was back there again. This time, he’s not in bed, he’s still in front of his laptop at the table, having passed out after hours of research.

Cal’s expression; the deadened eyes, familiar devilish smile, the entirety of it staring back at him, causing him to slam the screen shut. After that dream, the feeling of wrath has returned. Not only for the Al Qatala lieutenant, but Cal as well. Too personal, too painful, and awfully familiar, especially with you here.

He finishes off his glass, letting the bitter burn coat his throat slowly as the tremor subsides. He now knows he’s not there anymore, not in cover behind the furniture watching a hostage situation.

He has to move, or he’ll risk smashing the electronic to pieces. The echoes of that woman’s tear-stained cheeks contrasted with yours in the supermarket, and then flashes of her bloodied corpse distorting into yours, with Cal standing over it.

His silent steps carry him to the living room. He has to check, or he won’t get back to work anytime soon. When he reaches the couch, you’re curled up, slumbering peacefully—a stark difference to what his flashbacks tried to convince him off.

Simon lets out a sigh of relief, closing his eyes briefly as he convinces himself this is the real reality, this is the spot he’s standing in, not that awful place.

He locates the small quilt kept inside the ottoman, gently draping it on your sleeping frame. He studies the scene for a few minutes, eyeing the rise and fall of your chest pushing through the blanket. Once he’s satisfied, and sure with his consciousness, he returns to his spot at the kitchen table.

He’s greeted with the intel on Cal again, flicking his eyes over to your peaceful sleep, and the sight of the devil before him, in comparison to you, is only unearthing that rage he felt in the hostage room. He couldn’t save that woman, but he’ll be damned if he makes that mistake again. No superiors, no comms, no bureaucracy to follow like a sheep again—his own two hands, that’s what he’ll use this time. No mistakes.

TAGLIST: @random-thot-generator @littleobsessionsandlifeslessons @illyanam1011 @stunkbiggu @bi-witch-bxtch

[nethhiri]

Marooned: Chapter 44

Kid x FemReader x Killer

This chap featuring Heat x FemReader. Skip to the break if you want to skip Heat smut (but why would you?)

Warnings: Sex (bit of cumplay ( involves licking the floor), reader dominant, degradation of Heat, role play)

Turning Up The Heat

Tight, white fabric hung to your figure as you waited, flicking the toothpick in your mouth with your tongue. Your coat covered the little costume you had on, the one Kid had assisted you with finding. It was the loosest interpretation of a marine uniform you had ever seen. Loose meaning several different things. There was a great deal of pleasure to be had teasing Heat, who had been told to come to the infirmary. There was a knock at the door and Heat walked in. You were turned so that he couldn't see your costume right away.

"Strip."

"Huh?" Heat had no idea why you wanted to see him and he was a bit flustered at your request.

You turned around. "Don't make me repeat myself, pirate."

Heat's eyes went wide. "Oh." The corners of his mouth twitched up. "Oh!" It finally clicked with him what was going on here. He didn't know why, but he wasn't complaining. This was one of his fantasies. Not only a marine, but the Sea Snake in the flesh. He started to burn under your gaze, fumbling with the cords on his corset.

You leaned back against the countertop, watching as Heat removed his clothing. He was taller than Killer and a little wider, just as muscular. His skin was tan in a way that was closer to gray than to orange. It suited him and complimented his blue-gray hair, which, you were now noticing, peeked out from his waistband and drew a line to his belly button. He paused for a moment before shimmying out of his pants and all that was underneath. He stepped out of the puddled clothes on the floor and looked at you, already half-hard. You motioned for him to spin and watched the counters of his body, making a noise of appreciation.

You walked over to him and made a slow circle around him, running a nail down his spine, watching goosebumps form on his skin. Your hand traveled to squeeze his ass, feeling how firm it was. Moving to his front, you pulled a riding crop from your boot, touching it to the base of his throat and moving it under his chin. You ran it over his cheek, applying light pressure to turn his head from side to side. Then you grabbed a handful of his hair and let it slip out of your fingers.

"You'll do." You took the toothpick out of your mouth and stuck it between his lips. "Hold onto that for me." You put the crop under his chin again. "And don't let it fall."

You spit into your hand and curled your fingers around Heat's still hardening shaft. Moving your hand slowly up and down Heat, you flicked your eyes up to his, which were avoiding your gaze. "That's right, pirate. Keep your filthy eyes off me." Heat's dick grew harder under your grasp. He liked that, did he? "Turn around, hands on the gurney."

Heat did as you said. He gulped in anticipation as he heard you walk away to get something. Heat almost lost the toothpick when he felt the crop crack against his ass, biting back a gasp. He could feel his tip leak with every swat you applied. Then, he felt you press up against him, the fabric of your miniskirt rubbing against his ass and your bare stomach touching the warm skin of his back. He felt your hand around his cock again, this time with lubricant. His lips were pressed together, only letting whimpers and moans pass through, though he almost dropped the toothpick again when he felt cool fingers slide between his cheeks, pausing to see if there were any complaints from his end, of which there were none. He groaned from his nose when he felt you press two fingers inside the tight ring of muscle. He couldn't resist moving his hips to slide himself further back onto your fingers and simultaneously move his cock within your hand.

"You're lucky my hands are tied up or that would earn you another smack. Stay still." You pumped your fingers in and out of him, trying to keep time with your other hand. "I bet you let anyone have their way with you. I bet you act as a whore for your captain, don't you? Your ass is eating me up." You curled your fingers inside him. "Well, you're my whore now, understand?" He nodded. "That's a good pet," you purred.

You worked a third finger in, increasing the pace. Heat's cock twitched in your hold and his ass tightened around your fingers as you rubbed against his sweet spot. He was close. "If you cum well for me, maybe I'll let you fuck my little marine pussy. Would you like that?" He nodded again. "I need you to give me all the cum in those big heavy balls of yours. I want it all over my hand, all over the floor. Prove that you can fill me up like the dirty pirate you are. Show me that you're not a worthless pirate, you can be a worthy pet."

Heat let out a primal grunt, sending a hot load into your hand, much of it spilling onto the floor.

"Uh oh." You put the cum covered fingers into his mouth, pulling his cheek so that he would face you. "Looks like you didn't do everything I asked of you. And I was being so kind." You held the toothpick up to him, which must have fallen out when he was panting after his release. "On your hands and knees. Make it quick."

Heat did as you commanded, very much enjoying this role play.

"I'm going to wash my hands of your disgusting fluids. I expect that mess to be cleaned by the time I'm done." You curled your tongue in a licking motion, giving Heat the hint. You washed slowly, observing as Heat cleaned the floor with his tongue. You guessed right when you thought he took pleasure in degradation and some power play.

When you were done, you sat on the gurney above, chiding him for not being finished. "Tsk. Disappointing. I don't think you know how to use your tongue properly." You motioned him closer, grabbing his face. "Which is really such a shame because this face was made to sit on." You smirked as Heat's cheeks turned red. You moved close to the edge, spreading your knees enough that Heat could see there was nothing underneath the very tiny skirt.

Heat felt his cock twitch back to life. He couldn't see details in the shadow of your clothes, but he could tell your cunt was dripping from the pheromonal scent that made his mouth water.

"You're aching for a taste aren't you?" You grabbed a fistful of his hair. "Your pathetic pirate cock can't stay down. What would your crew say if they knew you were fiending for the pristine, succulent, hot cunt of another captain?" He looked at you with pleading eyes. "Oh~ you do want it badly." You ran your fingers up your slit, gathering some of the slick, and offered it to Heat, who took your fingers in his mouth and sucked all of your essence off. You pulled the skirt up until it was bunched at your hips, looking from Heat's face to your center.

He didn't need any more of an invitation than that to brace his shoulders under your thighs and pull your cunt into his face with his hands digging into your ass. You were so wet and tasted so good. Heat's tongue bullied its way into your hole, lapping at every inch he could reach, groaning into you.

Truly, you were already pretty worked up from the previous activity, not realizing you would be into it as much as it turned out you were. Your legs threatened to snap shut as you felt Heat's teeth graze your clit. His tongue moved to swirl around it next. You didn't know how he did it or that he could have such fine control over his power, but you swear his tongue was much hotter than it should have been, not to the point of being uncomfortable. Actually, it was driving you crazy. His hot breath panting against you was tightening the coil within as well. You felt him pause and let out a strangled moan, muttering a curse. Glancing down, he had cum again just from eating you out. Fuck that's hot. Heat swiped some of the cum with his fingers and shoved them into you as he sucked on your clit. Nasty. He expertly found the spot you favored and repeatedly curled his fingers into it, watching his cum mix with your fluids until a rush of your juices flooded against his hand and your thighs.

The coil had snapped and your head was thrown back in a cry of pleasure. "Shit!" You moaned. "Fuck, Heat." Your legs quivered and closed around his head. Your chest heaved with your panting.

"How's that for a filthy pirate?"

______________________________________________________________

Kid's amber eyes were fixated on you, high up in the rigging making adjustments before the ship left for the next island. You had your leg wrapped into the rope in such a way that you were being held upside down to get a better angle at something. You looked very different from the first time he had seen you, scrawny, a bit feral. Now, your muscle had filled back out and he could no longer make out the shape of your hip bones. He was proud of how far you had come, even if the first half of your time with them had been... rocky. Although he was certain you could have pulled yourself back together on your own, he would like to think that he and his crew helped speed it along, more in that second half...

"Enjoying the view?"

Kid snapped out of his thoughts. "No! I mean... well, yeah... I guess." He watched Killer's shoulders move up and down slightly. "Shut up, Killer." 

The blonde loved how easy it was to fluster Kid. It was becoming more and more obvious that he had feelings for you and Killer was going to exploit every second of it. "I'm gonna tell her you said no."

"Don't." Kid narrowed his eyes at his best friend.

"But if I make her mad at you, she'll come to me," Killer teased.

"Not if I make her mad at ya first."  Kid took off climbing the mast, swatting at Killer, who was following him. 

You were greasing up some of the pulleys when without warning, Kid and Killer appeared several feet away from you on the mast. Killer was attached to Kid's back monkey-style so they were at the same level, otherwise Kid would have been higher than him. "Can I... help you?" 

"Kid had something to tell you."

Kid shot a look at the blonde, knowing damn well he had no ammo with which to make you mad at Killer. "Killer... told me yer bad at chopping vegetables." 

"Kid's been using your toothbrush."

"Nuh uh! The purple one is mine. I thought we decided." 

Not this again. What are they doing? 

"Ok, well, Killer, uh, Killer's been telling everyone that ya snore." 

"Kid farted yesterday and blamed it on you after you left the room."

"He jerks off with yer dirty panties."

That escalated quickly. 

"He eats off your plate when you're not looking."

"Killer leaves the toilet seat up."

"That's you!"

This was confusing. "Are you guys done?" They looked at each other and nodded. You started counting off on your fingers, still upside down, "Everyone knows I'm bad in the kitchen. Kid, your toothbrush is the fucking red one. I don't snore. I don't think you fooled anyone, Kid. Who do you think gives him the panties? I fucking knew it. And lastly, again, that's you, Kid." Your arms were crossed. "What the fuck is this? Couldn't it wait until I was done?"

"Killer was gonna make ya mad at me so that ya would spend time with him and not me."

You were trying not to smile at Kid's cute pouting face. "So you made up shit to make Killer look equally bad?" You shook your head. "You're both ridiculous." 

Kid started swatting at Killer on his back again. "Ya made me look like an idiot." 

"You don't need help on that front," Killer retorted.

"Hey. Guys." It was sort of charming that Kid got so huffy over the threat of you spending time with someone else. It wasn't jealousy. It was more akin to a dog forgetting about his bone until another dog started to chew it. As precious as it was, the two were arguing very closely to some of the ropes you were working with. "Can we do this on the ground please?" You were hurriedly trying to free your leg and get off the ropes before you fell. Turns out, you didn't have to worry about falling. 

Kid and Killer, in their scuffle, tangled themselves in the ropes and fell off the mast. They were fine. They had extra padding compared to you. Unfortunately, you were on the other end of that rope. Maybe you should have stayed upside down. You were jerked up, hitting your head on the crossbar of the mast so hard that your vision went black. It hurt so badly you thought you would lose your grip, and maybe you did for a second, but ultimately you were able to climb down on your own, already healed by the time that your feet were back on deck. 

Now, you really were mad, at both of them. Even if you could heal yourself, that was very painful. And if you were knocked out completely, you wouldn't have been able to heal yourself. You could have bled into your brain. Your power was useful and strong but you were, by no means, immortal.

You stalked off to your bunk, not even looking in the boys' direction. You were mad at them, though you didn't want to be. Instead of saying something you would regret, you chose to cool off alone. Truthfully, you had been enjoying their banter and their company. It was just an accident. You didn't need to yell at them anyway. You were pretty sure they felt bad about it. Not to toot your own horn, but you were kind of proud of yourself for not flying off the handle. That's called ~growth~.

Later, you found Wire at the helm. His presence had shifted from being unnerving to being calming. You were giving yourself space from Kid and Killer. Casually, you glanced over the maps. The next island wasn't that far away. 

"Leaving in the morning." Wire commented.

You hummed an affirmative. 

A minute passed before Wire spoke again. "What did you say?"

"Huh?"

"Kid didn't ask you yet?"

"Ask what?"

"Oops. Forget it."

"Wire." You pressed him. "You can't just say shit like that and not elaborate." It was kind of funny for a giant man to say 'oops' in the most monotone voice you'd ever heard.

He moved his hood to scratch behind his head. You hadn't noticed that the sides of his dark hair were silver. "Ah I fucked up." He let out an exaggerated sigh. "Any chance you would leave me alone if I don't tell you?" 

"None." You thought for a moment. "One. Tell me what happened in the crow's nest with Killer."

Wire begrudgingly groaned. "I, uh, would actually prefer to tell you what Kid said." Wire muttered under his breath, "Ugh. He's gonna kick my ass." 

"Go on."

"It's already kind of an unspoken thing, but..." Wire folded his arms and pretended to be interested in the maps. "He was gonna ask officially if," Wire cleared his throat, "you would stay and be a part of the crew." 

What a change from several months ago when you had first met.

"Yeah the next island is a pleasure island so we were gonna celebrate. Or he was gonna drown his sorrows in drink and flesh. Depending on what you said." Wire ran a hand over his sideburn. "Ah maybe I said too much again." He shrugged. "Whatever. Now you know." He waved you off, hoping to be left alone again.

"And what do you all think?" Kid was the captain, however, you wouldn't be comfortable unless everyone was in agreement.

"Hm?"

"You, Heat, and Killer?"

"Who do you think encouraged Kid ask you officially?" There was the faintest hint of a smile on Wire's face, which was hidden by shadow when he put his hood up again.

Next Chapter

[magpie-writes]

Venus in Furs

Pairing: Helaena Targaryen x Fem!Reader x Aemond Targaryen

Rating: E

Words: 4.6k

Warnings: Targcest, semi-public sex, bondage, pain kink, explicit smut

A/N: Venus in Furs is a poly Helaemond au. We have no idea how many chapters it'll end up being, but the story will progress as the relationship does. Sometimes a chapter might be a little kinky drabble, other times it might be an epic 10k beast. This story has just become such a vulnerable little happy place for @acrossthesestars​ and myself and we hope you enjoy it! Tags will be updated as the chapters go on.

alex masterlist | emma masterlist | ao3

Part One - Seven Hells P.1 | Part Two - Seven Hells P.2 | Part Three

The sky above was clear, stars managing to peek out even from the thick veil of the city lights. It was loud, music blaring from cars and drunk revelers pouring out from the mouths of the surrounding bars and clubs. My heels clicked on the sidewalk, the noise echoing loud over all the others and my hands curled into fists within my coat pockets.

'Don't lose your nerve,' I thought. 'You aren't allowed to chicken out.'

A sharp gust of near freezing wind ruffled my coat, blowing up beneath the short skirt of the black dress I wore under it, and I bit down on my cheek to keep from yelping nervously at the shock as I neared the building I had been looking for.

Seven Hells was a privately owned club, the red brick facade blending into all the others on the block. The only clue that I had arrived at the right place was the small gilded placard by the door that simply read "7" in an ornate script. My chilled fingers wrapped around a thick brass knocker in the shape of a dragon's head, rapping it gently against the wood. The door swung open and a handsome bouncer stared me down, the moment stretching on forever. He was older, with a close cropped silver beard, a bald head, and a thousand yard stare.

"Password," he asked, his voice rich and deep. 

"Oh don't bother with all that, Harrold," a soft voice chirped from behind him. "She's with me. Isn't that right, Lady Grey?"

The door opened a crack wider, revealing a cloud of moon pale hair and the Cheshire Cat grin beneath it. 

“Honestly, you express a tea preference one time.” Rolling my eyes despite the amused smile tugging at my lips, I stepped up onto the landing, close enough for the club’s warm air to twine invitingly around my bare legs, beckoning me inside. With an apologetic shrug to the stoic giant before me, I gave the password Helaena Targaryen texted me earlier that evening. 

“Dreamfyre.” 

He granted me a nod, as if in appreciation of a fellow rule-follower, and threw the door wide. 

“Welcome to Seven Hells.” 

If I'd thought the grandeur of our Neo-Gothic university campus was extravagant, with its ivy-clad walls, peaked windows, and rolling quads beneath venerable oak trees, the sumptuousness of this club delighted in proving me wrong. Stepping down into its shadowy interior, I couldn’t help gaping at the luxury surrounding me. Sleek, black leather couches sprawled along the edges of the cavernous room, all subtly tilted towards a low stage, the obvious focal point of the room. No one graced it, not this early in the evening, but a St. Andrew’s cross stood waiting in the wings, eager for its first victim. It was the most obvious nod towards the club’s hedonistic character but the more I looked, the more secrets I uncovered. 

Steel hardpoints graced walls and furniture, looking like so much industrial hardware until I realized their presence went beyond simple aesthetics. Mirrors littered the walls, affording endless views for performers and pleasure seekers alike. Stacks of silken cord lined low-running shelves, all in easy reach. It was an opulent, unguarded promise of sensuality. 

A dare. 

A shiver of anticipation licked up my spine, despite the warmth winding sinuously around my legs, caressing my chilled skin and urging me eagerly to shed my heavy wool coat.

“Come on. I can’t wait to show you everything.” Helaena seized my hand excitedly while I was still unwinding the glittering gray scarf from around my neck. I shoved it into the pocket of my coat as Harrold quietly lifted the garment from my arms before withdrawing to his post by the door. 

My eyes weren't sure where to land. A pretty brunette winked at me from behind the bar and heat crawled up my throat at the gesture. My gaze darted from the couches to the stage to the people who had just started to trickle into the space before landing on the pale hand that grasped my own. 

Helaena was divine, a gods damned painting, a water nymph come to life. Her white-blonde hair hung in soft waves around her shoulders, her plump body sheathed in a tight powder blue dress, the hem hitting her mid thigh. When she turned back to wink at me, the light caught in the glitter she had painted over her eyelids, her pink mouth curling up at the edges. 

"I love first timers." Her voice was soft, but I still heard every word.

I raised a brow. "Do you bring people here often?"

She squeezed my hand. "No," was all she said as she dragged me to the bar. 

The energy of the club settled around us as I followed my new friend, all simmering possibility and the driving beat of music emanating from hidden speakers. When I slid onto one of the plush velvet barstools, Helaena perched alongside me, never letting go of my hand even as she raised her other to catch the bartender’s gaze. 

“Two of the Wild Gin Brambles please, Talya”

My eyes widened in surprise as she named the exact cocktail I would have ordered from the specials menu. Despite the crowd of people surrounding the bar, jockeying to place their orders, no one looked surprised when, in mere moments, the bartender slid two glasses towards the pair of us.

“How did you guess?”

Helaena only smiled her enigmatic smile and raised her own drink to clink against mine. 

Her violet eyes tracked every movement as I raised the sweating glass to my lips and took my first sip. Flavor bloomed on my tongue, tart and sweet, strong but clear, the blackberry syrup coating my mouth even as the gin traced a cool burn down my throat. 

“That is delicious,” I said, having to raise my voice slightly to be heard over the sound of the other revelers.

“Let me try.”

Rather than lifting her own glass, Helaena leaned in and kissed me. 

Startled, my lips parted on a gasp, but when I moved to cup the other woman’s cheek, she deepened the kiss. Her tongue slid against mine, a swift, gentle taste, and then she pulled back, her gaze searching. 

“What did you think?” My voice was deeper, roughened with the desire already surging in my blood. 

“Delicious,” she confirmed. Her starry eyes roved over my curves and I could swear they came to rest on the hollow of my throat. I wondered if she could see the eager jump of my pulse.

Helaena grinned when she recognized her stare was bordering on overwhelming, glancing down into the depths of her drink and taking a sip. I looked up, willing away the heat that had settled almost uncomfortably in my cheeks. My gaze settled on the mirror, a flash of silver catching my attention. From across the room, mismatched eyes pinned me like a butterfly to glass. The set of his full mouth was almost stern, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. My heart hammered against my ribs but when I blinked, he was gone. 

A wide smile broke over Helaena's face. Whatever had grabbed her attention lit her up from the inside out, a soft warm glow settling beneath her skin like a beacon. I turned and couldn't stop the soft "oh" that fell from my lips.

If Helaena was divine, then Aemond Targaryen was damned. He was her soul's twin and yet her opposite, hard and lean where she was soft and curved. He prowled toward the pair of us with all the violent grace of a predator stalking prey, the top half of his long white hair pulled away from his face, the rest hanging down his back like a curtain. He wore all black, a button down shirt tucked into fitted slacks. His face was hard, unreadable except for the flame in his left eye, the same shade of violet as his sister's. In place of his right eye, lost in some accident at the hand of his nephew, if rumor was to be believed, sat a sapphire, the facets swallowing up the low red lights of the club's interior. Helaena squealed and clapped her hands at his arrival, reaching for him. Aemond took her hand, pulling her close and bringing it to his mouth, his lips soft against her skin as he hummed in greeting. 

"I'm surprised she came," he said by way of acknowledgement, his gaze falling finally on me.

Heat bristled up my spine, righteous indignation at being referred to as if I was of no importance.

"Play nice or Lady Grey won't come at all and where's the fun in that?" Helaena replied, poking at Aemond's middle.

Something tensed in my gut at that easy, playful gesture. A reminder of how these two belonged to each other, pale and strange as binary stars and just as entangled. How could I ever hope to join their orbit? 

As if sensing that momentary flicker of doubt, Aemond raised one perfectly sculpted brow with all the cool poise of a marble god as if to ask “How indeed?” I bristled, drawing myself up to my full height, my spine set like steel. Damn him and his smug self-assurance. Helaena had approached me after all, invited me to join them in their pleasure den I’d only heard whispered about on campus, with all the dark, half-veiled insinuations that accompanied such an invitation. 

“You tell him, Hel.” I slid my arms around her waist, glaring a challenge of my own at Aemond over her shoulder. “She was just wondering if there might be any dancing on tap for the evening, or is that too frivolous for the Eyes Wide Shut crowd?”

Aemond’s mouth twitched. 

“Oh, I’m sure we could manage something.” 

In the end, all it took was an imperious nod and his sharp gaze to some nearby staff member, and then the music shifted, turning to a low, throbbing beat that pulsed through the crowd. People moved as if summoned to the dance floor, a tangled knot of writhing bodies and reaching limbs. Aemond sketched a half-mocking, half charmingly outdated bow and extended a hand to me. 

“Would she like to dance?” This time, the slyly intentional word choice felt less like a slight and more like an almost-apology, an unspoken admission of having chosen his words poorly. For the first time, I noticed how stiff his posture was. Maybe I wasn’t the only one unsure of how to navigate this evening.

I inclined my own head, amused despite myself, and said “She would.” 

It was easy enough to follow him to the dance floor, Helaena close at his heels. Aemond spun me once before drawing me close, his hand finding the small of my back. "Dance, then," he said in an amused tone, his gaze raking over my body. I narrowed my eyes as he just stood there, trying to get a feel for whatever game he was playing. It was Helaena who rescued me, her hands finding mine and pulling me further from the edge of the dance floor. 

She moved with a liquid sort of grace, the sort that left one utterly entranced. It was impossible not to move toward her, caught in her orbit as if she were the brightest star in the dark sky. Her lavender eyes were bright enough to light up the dance floor as her hands settled on my hips, turning my back to her front before pulling me flush against her. She smelled like violets and lilies and something earthier, something you would find in the forest after it rained. I wondered if later I would be covered in the body glitter she'd dusted all over herself, her skin shimmering in the glow.

"Can I touch you?" She asked, her voice low against my ear. 

There was literally nothing I wanted more in that moment.

I nodded and she ran a hand up my throat to grasp at my jaw, tilting my head back until she could catch my mouth with her own. She tasted like gin and sweet lip gloss, strawberry maybe. My hips followed whatever sinuous rhythm she set as she curled her tongue around mine. I felt her smile against my lips and couldn't stop myself from mirroring the gesture. With one hand I reached back, carding my fingers through the moonlight strands at the nape of her neck. 

One song melted into two and then three and I learned for a fact what I had already had an idea of: Helaena Targaryen was entirely captivating. She radiated a dreaminess, a sort of unexplainable out there feeling that I couldn't put my finger on but I knew I wanted to sink into. There was also an edge. She had teeth and claws and made a conscious choice to keep them sheathed. At some point I had turned back to face her and she smiled wide again, as if she had never considered not being so open, so real. Then her eyes drifted away, lighting up again when they landed on her brother. I looked too, because I couldn't help it. Aemond had taken up a perch on one of the large leather chairs, more of a loveseat, really. When our eyes met he raised his left hand and beckoned us forward with a crooked finger. Helaena drifted toward him as if pulled by gravity, her hand reaching back for mine and pulling me along after her. 

I mirrored her movements, lowering myself onto Aemond’s outstretched right thigh while she claimed his left. When I did, his gaze snapped to mine, startled. The intensity there, the banked violet fire, ripped through me like a summer storm, leaving heat and electricity crackling in its wake. Before I could shift my weight or draw back, before I could even form an apology for overreaching, he caught me around the waist to keep me still. Slowly, deliberately, curiously, he flexed his muscled thigh beneath my legs, shifting it just enough to drag against me and make me gasp. Pleasure kindled in his hawklike stare and I smiled, heat rising in my cheeks. 

We’d surprised each other. 

Helaena tipped her head back and laughed, her carefree delight so infectious even her brother’s lips quirked into something like a smile. Pure, wild joy beat like wings within my chest when her lavender gaze met mine at the same time that Aemond rested a hand on my thigh. As if some hidden key had turned, the tumblers falling into place, everything slid open, the night suddenly wide open and brimming with potential. Something was happening and we were part of it. We were all of it. 

The music fell away. All I could hear was the breath catching in Helaena’s throat when I leaned in and kissed her. The hiss Aemond sucked between his teeth when his sister’s hand slid up to cup my breast. I looked around, expecting shock or censure, but while the warmth of her palm moving over my dress made my heart race as if the world was ending, no one else seemed to even notice. Even so, I pulled back, heat flashing up my throat to settle in my cheeks. Aemond's hand tightened where it rested against my thigh and I turned to face him, my eyes downcast. He raised a hand, his forefinger catching me under the chin until I met his eye. 

"There's no need to be shy, Grey." The nickname sounded different in his mouth, sharper somehow, then when Helaena said it. "You're free to take what you want here, without judgment." 

My gaze darted between his mismatched eyes and his lips. "What do you want?" My voice was small. 

He hummed, a low noise in the back of his throat, before using his hand to tug me farther up his thigh, my hands flattening against his chest as I fell forward. His shirt was warm beneath my palms, soft and obviously expensive. And then he kissed me. It wasn't tentative or gentle. It felt as if he would devour me. Where Helaena took her time, sensuous and explorative, Aemond went straight for the kill, licking into my mouth when it opened on a whine, pulling my bottom lips between his teeth. He broke the kiss and looked up at me, his high cheekbones dusted with pink, and pursed his lips, as if he was hiding a grin. I couldn't help it and smiled back.

Helaena ran a hand up my thigh, squeezing just enough to get my attention and jerking her chin toward the stage in front of us. "The show is starting," she whispered. There was a peculiar happiness in her eyes, a sort of feeling I wasn't sure I'd ever experienced. She leaned back into Aemond's chest, his hand circling her waist to rest over her belly. The way they fell into each other was mesmerizing and I wondered if I'd ever felt that sort of easy acceptance before, the sort of muscle memory that had me sinking into someone else's softest parts. 

I turned away, suddenly feeling much too raw, and looked toward the stage as the lights lowered, a single spotlight shining bright in the middle. Lying prone on the ground was a slight brunette, her hair tied up in a bun. She wore a rose pink dress, the fabric sheer enough to see the dusky outline of her nipples, her arms laying relaxed over her head. As she slowly woke, blinking away the sleep, the light softened, mimicking the dawn, and soft music played through the hidden speakers. Fingertips drew mindless designs over the bare skin of my thigh and the feeling left me burning as they drew over my hip and up, up, up my back to massage the nape of my neck. The feeling was near sinful, my eyes closing as Aemond worked out the tension. When I risked a downward glance, I found his eyes on the stage, his face infuriatingly neutral. I raised my hand, placing it back against his chest, playing at the top button of his shirt as I glanced back toward the stage.

From the shadows of the audience on the far side, a hulking shape melted through the crowd, lumbering up the two wide steps before crouching behind a makeshift barrier, watching the young woman on stage sit up and stretch. Helaena reached forward from her perch and placed her hand on my knee, her skin warm against mine, grounding me in the moment as the man in the mask began creeping closer toward the girl on stage. A Beast on the way to claim his Beauty, I realized with a thrill.

“Is it always fairytale-based?” I whispered the question into Helaena’s ear, so close my lips brushed against her delicate skin. 

“No,” she shook her head, answering in the same respectful hush. “They do all sorts of things - exhibitions, demonstrations. But this seemed more… you.” 

Before I could ask what she meant, Aemond’s broad hand tightened around my neck.

“Pay attention,” he commanded in a low, firm voice behind my ear, turning my head back to face the stage. From Helaena’s guilty start and the way she also turned her attention back to the scene unfolding before us, I guessed he’d given her a similar reminder. Normally I would have bristled against his domineering tone, but it sent a shiver down my spine instead, making me feel as deliciously helpless as the beauty the beast prowled towards. As if he knew, Aemond trailed the tips of his fingers down my neck and between my shoulder blades. 

The task of watching the stage while he teased me like this felt Herculean, but I managed to keep my eyes on the performers, watching as the girl on stage finally registered the presence of the beast. Her brown eyes blew wide as he loomed over her and the two engaged in what could only be considered a dance. Their chemistry was a wild thing, crackling between them as they pushed and pulled, as she ran and he gave chase. The Beast reached for her, catching the pale pink ribbon that held her hair tied up, and it cascaded down her back just as he caught her, pulling her against his chest.

As his lips found her neck and his hands drew her skirt farther up her thighs, Aemond's fingers dipped below the hem of my dress. The touch itself wasn't indecent, was hardly anything more than innocent, but every nerve ending in my body lit up. He shifted his thigh beneath me, riding my dress higher, just as the beast shed the girl of her dress, her body now bare beneath the spotlight, and I fought the urge to reach back and pinch him for teasing me. But I was riveted by the performance as the actress finally gave in to the beast, succumbing to him and letting him lay her out over the stage, her back arched as he wedged himself between her thighs and devoured her.

Aemond's hand slid further beneath my dress and I couldn't stop the hitch of my breath. I knew, logically, that no one was watching us, too engaged by what was happening on stage, or what they were up to in their own seats, but my cheeks still heated at the idea, at the clandestine nature of letting this practical stranger slide his skilled fingers beneath the damp fabric of my underwear. I bit back a moan as he did just that, parting my folds, teasing at the wetness he found there. I wanted to roll my hips, to chase the pleasure his touch promised. But I stayed still, afraid to call any attention to us. 

In front of me, the Beast lay on his back, the girl, his Beauty, now straddling his hips, her face flushed from her earlier release on his tongue. She rode him, claimed him just as earnestly as he had claimed her, taking her agency and making him hers. They moaned in tandem, not the sort of practiced sounds I had heard in porn or made with partners I was more than eager to get out from under, but something more feral, more honest. As the Beast reached forward to clutch at her breasts, Aemond pinched lightly at my thigh, a hint to open my legs wider. I gave in, just an inch, and was rewarded with a lazy circle against my clit. All I wanted was to drop my weight back against him, to spread my thighs farther and see what his wicked touch could wring from me. But even as I saw other patrons doing exactly that, I knew I couldn't, knew I wouldn't.

This entire night had been totally unlike me. Taking Helaena up on the invitation had left me filled with nerves. We'd spoken often enough at school and I desperately wanted to call her my friend. She was impossible not to adore, and denying her anything felt wrong. We'd flirted and when I finally gathered the courage to ask her for her number, she'd slapped me right in the face with an invite to the most exclusive club in town. How could I say no? Especially when she mentioned the more mysterious of her brothers would be there too. 

The Beast had planted his feet on the stage, his hands gripping bruises against his Beauty, driving himself up into her. Her face bunched with pleasure as she fell forward, her hands landing on his chest to brace herself as he fucked her roughly. I felt my pulse quicken, my lungs constricting as Aemond slid a finger inside me, and then another. I couldn't stop myself, arching my back slightly to grind down against his hand. His fingers were long, slender and graceful. They felt divine inside of me and I knew it wouldn't be long until he worked me up and over that peak, the muscles of my thighs already twitching with it. 

Suddenly Beauty came with a low groan, the blood rushing up her neck to settle in her cheeks as the Beast beneath her roared his own end, their bodies going rigid. She had thrown her hands above her head in a jubilant gesture as the Beast spilled inside her, as if unafraid for anyone, everyone, to see her pleasure. Then the music died and for a moment the room was silent except for the sound of ragged breathing. I couldn't figure out where one breath started and the next began, which was mine or Helaena's or even Aemond's. The spotlight went dark and the melancholy instrumental music that had accompanied the performance melted back into the low, heavy bass from earlier. 

Aemond's hand was out from under my dress before the lights returned to normal. I hissed at the loss of him, canting forward as if seeking him out. The neediness of the gesture left me feeling more than a little pathetic, especially as he growled, "on your feet." But his voice was strained, rough even, and that gave me more than enough satisfaction. I blinked up at him, my mind hazy and buzzing after being yanked so abruptly from what had promised to be a wild sort of release. Helaena stood first and offered me a hand, pulling me up on shaking baby deer legs. She just smiled like she knew and reached up to tug at the ends of my hair. 

The crowd blurred around us as we moved past the stage, past the bar, and deeper into the club. I looked down, startled, when the click of my heels against the polished wood floors turned muffled, my footsteps suddenly cushioned by plush carpeting. We were in a hallway, the walls paneled in rich, dark wood, an expanse of wealth relieved only by a series of doors, each one different from the last. One a rich, blood red with golden accents, another gunmetal stark but littered with peepholes, the third a shockingly clear plate glass. I caught a glimpse of twining limbs and chains within and finally realized where we were headed. 

“Why a private room? I thought the whole point of this place was taking what we wanted and no one caring?” 

“I don’t like anyone seeing what’s mine.” Aemond turned to me, one arm around his sister’s waist. My heart thundered as his gaze pinned me to the emerald green door we’d stopped in front of. Helaena leant back against him, a look of feline contentment on her features as she gazed at me through hooded eyes. 

“What did you want when you came here, Lady Grey?” It wasn’t so much a question as a gentle prompting, an invitation to voice the desire that had drawn me to them like a moth to a bonfire ever since that first time I’d seen them on campus. They’d looked so out of place they might as well have been another species. Two fae royals slumming it with mortals for their own amusement, sampling whatever pleasures they wished to indulge in, and tempting the rest of us with wicked delights if only we’d be bold enough to seek them. 

I ached to be bold.

“You,” I breathed. “Both of you.” 

“Yes, that was it.” Helaena tipped her head up to meet Aemond’s gaze and said “See?”

“Hm.” 

Before I could worry that I was failing some unspoken test he leaned in with that sleek, predatory grace and twisted the door knob by my hip. 

“After you,” he purred. 

Part Two

[sombrashe]

my heart belongs to you, sólo tu

this is a repost because my original blog was deleted

relationship(s) valeria x reader

content the word mamita is used to describe reader once, angst, found family, childhood enemies to friends to lovers, alejandro x valeria mention, valeria x reader endgame, bad ending

Growing up on the streets of Las Almas was mentally and financially challenging. You were mostly alone due to your parents being deployed most of the year. Being dumped at your neighbors' house, the Garza's was frustrating enough. Their oldest girl, just two years your senior, was strange when interacting with you. She treated you like a child, and you felt the tight need in your chest to prove her wrong. Prove that you were a big kid just like her and the boys she spent time with.

So you followed her everywhere: playing fútbol until the ball flew into your face cracking your nose into a geyser of blood, spending your time sneaking and reading her books which sometimes confused you, trying to keep up with her filth-ridden Spanish, which had your face heating up every time you shuddered out a new curse. She always noticed this obsession to prove yourself to her. Your pudgy legs were trying to keep up as you went from single to double digits, your body and mind developing until you were on par with her.

Her eyes always rolled to the back of her head, even if her heart swelled every time your noses touched as your argued. The way your hands were so expressive as you growled in anger when she embarrassed you with sharp words about your obsession with her. How you tried desperately to deny her accusations despite the tinge of heat burning your face.

As you both grew older, she slowly pulled away from you, her emotions betraying her as she felt your pull become stronger. The anger you felt was always a mask for the pool of butterflies which ate away at your stomach lining. Your crush only heightened as she tried to ignore you. You noticed the way she couldn't look you in the eyes. Her face darkened when you caught her staring at you in your bathing suit, daring the boys to jump into the lake hidden behind the mountains.

On your sixteenth birthday, you received the "best birthday gift ever, time away from you."

Even if your heart melted and dissolved in your stomach as she announced her deployment to the army. No matter how hard you tried to keep up the appearance of annoyance toward the older woman, your body betrayed you. The grip you had on her during your goodbyes was reciprocated in abundance by the squeeze she gave your waist. In the privacy of her home, your shared home at this point, you cried into her chest. She was surprised. You were supposed to roll your eyes and push her out the door; instead, you begged her not to go. Stay here with you, protect you from the dangers of the streets as she has done all her young life. Her heart tugs against her vocal cords, and she wraps you in her warm arm, the lean muscles the last memory you have of her before she tears herself away and out of your life.

The months that follow have you easily irritated. Despite how used you are to being alone, many residents of Las Almas either join the army or the cartel. You never cared about someone so much. Finally, Miss. Garza announced her daughters' return, you were ecstatic at the news, and with speed, you didn't know you had, you tugged on an outfit and practically tumbled down the stairs. You knew this was Valeria, but she looked so different. Her skinny body, with meager muscles only formed from playing on the streets for years, is now toned in such a way that has you avoiding your eyes as heat spreads across your face. Her hair is cropped short to her head, and her stance is tall and imposing in the doorway. When she finally turns towards you, she's grinning at your slack-jawed expression.

"How have you been, Bombón?"

You roll your eyes at the childish nickname, your need for sweets earning you the name. You respond positively, keeping your composure calm even if you struggle to maintain eye contact. You spend your days glued to her side, your mutual childhood annoyance melting away until all that is left is the crush that never fully formed until now.

You two talk about everything, her annoyance at how the men in her troop treat her and your studies with a future at a full ride to a university in the states. In no time, she's whisked back to finish her training, something about her joining the special forces and not returning until you were a year into your advanced studies. The next few years are filled with a whirlwind of studying and letters. Miss. Garza is there for you every step of the way, your biological parents having not been seen for years.

"Estoy tan orgulloso de ti mamita."

These words echo in your head as you walk across the stage, face pretty and head held high as you accept the master's degree etched with your name. You were excited to see Valeria again, her pride-filled letters at your achievement. When you finally step off the stage, you're wandering in the hot sun looking for your family, Miss. Garza's voice fills your ears, and you rush toward the sound. You're whisked into her arms as she babbles praise and happiness to you in Spanish, you responding in such back.

"Bombón! Look at you."

You turn towards the woman who fills your heart and are met with the sight of her pressed against a taller man. He seemed to be a few years older than her, and you're taken aback. She talked about a man she met who belonged to another squad extensively. You assumed the whirlwind romance had died out, her letters including less and less of him until not a single mention for months. You try not to, but you feel betrayed, like she lied to you and got your hopes up. You give her a half-hearted hug and shake the man's hand with a smile.

"Nice to meet you... Alejandro, right? Valeria's told me all about you."

You know your voice isn't as excited as it should be, disrespect underlining your part of the conversation. You walk and talk back to the car, your dorm having been emptied and packed as you were expected to move back home. Each member, including Alejandro, seemed to agree to include your items in their bags to make the trip home more manageable, and you thanked them each for the help. On the ride to the restaurant you choose, a small place that reminds you of home, Valeria speaks of her deployment and a vital mission her troop was tasked with. You listen happily to her voice until Alejandro speaks, and your face drops. You turn toward the front of the car and give directions.

"Mami, dobla a la izquierda aquí arriba."

You respond to this man's words as needed, showing respect for the Garza's sake. Eventually, you arrive at the restaurant, step out of the car, and rush inside under the guise of getting you all a table. Your dinner is eaten with expected praise, conversation, and happiness at all being together once again. You notice Valeria's hot gaze on you the entire night, and you want to snap at her and tell her to quit looking at you like that. Instead, you excuse yourself with a smile, a quick kiss, and thank you to Miss. Garza, for making it out here. With a pinch to the cheek, you're walking off towards the bathrooms in the back of the building. You're washing your hands when you hear the door creak open and watch as black hair enters your peripheral

"What's with the third degree and disrespect?"

You ignore her as you dry your hands.

"I'm speaking to you."

Her voice is commanding, and she sounds like she did when you were both children.

"Why wasn't I informed he would be coming? It's my graduation, not a 'meet my boyfriend for the first time home visit.'"

Your voice is bitter as you chuck the used paper into the can in the corner. You want to leave, but with her back facing the door, you must endure this conversation.

"Don't act like a child over this. He's barely my boyfriend as it is. I don't know if I would even call him that. Mamá wanted to meet him, so he tagged along."

She's speaking about him so casually, and you know her heart is not in it with him, but that doesn't stop the angry pounding yours does in your lonely chest.

"But your letters. You stopped talking about him, so of course, I'm going to think you two were over."

You're pouting, your arms crossed over your chest, caging your heart. She sighs and cups your cheeks, her eyes big and doe-like as she speaks the following words carefully.

"We are over. That's what I'm trying to say. I can't have mamá knowing because she'll kill me if she finds out. I've talked too much about him to drop that on her. You know how sick she is, cariño."

You're taken aback by the nickname. She's never shown affection like this in person before. You convinced yourself the sweet poems and love-sick letters were written to ease your worry.

"¿Cariño? ¿Lo dice en serio?"

She rests her forehead against yours, and you breathe in her scent. She didn't smell like chocolate anymore. The scent of whisky and al pastor fills your nose, and you note the smell of lavender wafting from her shirt. Resting against her like this calms the violent beating within your chest, and you must tear yourself away from her.

"I can't, not while you're faking a relationship. For Mami's sake."

You shoulder past her and exit the bathroom leaving your crushed heart in the small room.

[expvrgction]

Nobody insults villain getup. A certain king deserves better than that shade the Slayer gave him.

Davoth already got called a stars-damned lobster because of his mech armor. It looks NOTHING like one-- It's more a beetle than a lousy sea creature!

[subject-2-change]

I just went on some hot mess bullshit to the liquor store for a redbull. It is a few minute walk through some alleys. I go there all the time at all hours. The guys know me.

I've been on a major concert withdrawal since the show Tuesday. I need caffeine.

Threw on jeans over my Doctor Who briefs, which say "EXTERMINATE!" in bright red around the waistband, which rode up over my jeans. White band merch cropped tank with a tits-out woman on it. Bright blue hair that I haven't washed since the concert. Over the ear headphones with a cord that is held together with electrical tape.

Go into the store, straight to the back fridge, jamming to my blaring music, crack open the can with one hand before I get to the counter, slap down a $5 and look up.... it's a new guy.

I smile, he smiles, I take a sip, I know he can hear the bassline of this song. He hands me my change and I just raise my can in acknowledgement and slip out the back door.

Either I can't go back or he'll think I'm crazy. Or I have to go back more often so he knows I'm just like this and pose no threat to him.

[whumperstorm]

Zephyr drabble No. 1 - Whipping

(Note: Zephyr uses she/he pronouns interchangeably)

content warnings: mentions of past self harm, "it" as a pronoun ~~~

The rope on Zephyr's wrists rub painful marks into her skin. They took away her gloves, so the rough fibers dig directly into her flesh. It wouldn't be so bad if she stopped struggling, but she can't. She can't help it. She's tied to a pillar, her arms pulled up and around so her back is on full display and her chest is pressed against the pole. Her legs are free, but she's already tried kicking out at her assailants to no avail. She can hear them around her, their footsteps on the concrete and their hateful muttering, but they're too far away to hit.

A sharp crack has Zephyr flinching. He gasps at the sound, trying to discern its source. It kind of sounded like a...

"What- What do you want??" he asks desperately.

"Fucking freak," is the only response. "Pretending to be a person."

Zephyr sobs. He is a person! He has a family and a life. He was born and he can talk and laugh and live just like them! But all they see are his "additions". The animistic teeth and ears that mark him as "other". The magic he embraced so readily, thinking it made him special. Made him a superhero.

"P-please, I just wanted to help-" she says.

"You can help by screaming nice and loud for us."

For a moment, all Zephyr hears is another crack that echos through her eardrums. Then suddenly, a burst of agony tears across her back, ripping open her shirt and skin alike. She shouts in pain and surprise, spine arching away from the pain.

Yep. That's a whip.

Zephyr's struggles begin anew, wrists protesting his movements. He knows they aren't going to stop at one strike. He's read history and he knows how this works. There's a lesson to be learned, a price to pay. He feels something hot trickle down his back and knows he's bleeding. His thoughts flash back to another time, when his arms wept blood from a different kind of cut, all lined up in rows, and he chokes. I don't want to bleed anymore!

Another strike lands across her lower back where her crop-top doesn't reach. The pain doubles with no fabric to slice through, and she wails. A spark of electricity shoots out from her body, but wherever they’ve set her up  is made of wood and her tormentors are too far away.

"Look at that!" one shouts. "That coulda killed us!"

No, NO it was an accident! Please, stop hurting me...

The strikes speed up now. Lash after lash rain down on her until her shirt is in tatters. Distantly she's disappointed, it's her favorite one. Her entire back screams, and her voice follows along. As the pain stacks and the cuts begin to overlap and dig deeper, her screams turn feral. A growl crawls out from her throat and her voice becomes guttural as she writhes.

"It really is a fucking monster..."

"See? You can't hide what you are."

One strike goes too high. It hits his upper shoulder and wraps around his neck. He chokes as it slices through the delicate skin of his throat and snags on his collar.

"Ah, shit," says the one holding the whip.

The cut didn't go deep, but the cord is stuck. Zephyr whines. Help, I can't breathe! He's already lightheaded from the torture and blood loss and now he wobbles on his feet.

"I'll get it."

Hands touch him, fingers dig into his throat.. Zephyr panics and flinches away, but there's nowhere for him to go. His hair is yanked back to expose his neck and he cries like a wounded animal. Tears pour down his face.

"Fucking- Hold still!" the voice spits. Too close. The pressure on her neck is released and she can breathe clearly again. She gasps, and her legs buckle. She falls until her arms are pulled taut and she's hanging, her knees not quite touching the ground. Her shoulders burn from the pressure, and her flayed back sings as the skin is stretched tight.

She's losing grasp of the world around her. The pain rules over everything and her ears ring. After a minute, or maybe an hour, there's more lashes. The pain is as agonizing as before, but now all she can do is flinch. Her head hangs. She feels nauseous. Distantly she hears voices, muffled like they’re underwater.

"...no fun.."

"...eave it here and..."

"...nna die anyway."

Zephyr's wrists are cut loose and he falls. Unable to catch himself, his head smacks into the ground with a groan. There's a kick to his side, almost dull compared to the fire of his back. Then, with his cheek pressed to the ground, blood and tears pooling around him, Zephyr falls into blissful unconsciousness.

[tvintedspvrkmoving]

closed // semi plotted // @bloodsalted

⸺  𝗧𝗛𝗘  𝗗𝗘𝗠𝗢𝗡  𝗛𝗔𝗗  𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗘  𝗢𝗨𝗧  𝗢𝗙  𝗙𝗨𝗖𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚  𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘  ,  getting  the  jump  on  dean  before  even  she  could  see  or  hear  it  coming  .  it  is  with  a  single  choked  out  cry  and  a  sinking  stomach  that  she  watches  him  fly  across  the  room  ;  that  she  hears  the  crack  of  his  spine  as  it  hits  the  wall  at  just  the  wrong  angle  .  ❝  DEAN  !  ❞ 

the  demon  cackles  ,  disappearing  from  the  corpse  of  its  vessel  in  a  cloud  of  black  smoke  as  she  screams  her  vocal  cords  raw  . she's  crossed  the  room  in  less  than  a  second  ,  by  his  side  immediately  as  tears  begin  to  carve trails  downward over  a  visage  which  fights  to  retain  a  stoic  composure  .  ❝  okay  ,  no  it  -  it's  gonna  be  okay  ,  ❞  elena  breathes  ,  shaking  hands  cupping  the  older  hunter's  cheek  as  she  struggles  against  the  panic  which  threatens  to  take  hold  .  ❝  everything's  okay  ,  it's  fine  .  .  .  ❞  but  she  can  see  the  spark  begin  to  fade  from  emerald  irises  ,  knows  there's  only  one  option  to  get  him  out  of  here  walking  and  talking  .  an  option  she'd  hoped  to  never  have  to  use  .

fangs  unsheathe  atop  her  canines  ,  the  flesh  of  her  wrist  torn  unceremoniously  to  allow  for  her  blood  to  drip  easily  between  unmoving  lips  .  in  only  seconds  he's  begun  to  heal  ,  relief  flooding  the  vampiress  as  an  exasperated  exhale  creates  a  small  cloud  in  the  air  before  her  .  ❝  you're  gonna  be  okay  ,  ❞  she  whispers  ,  stroking  his  hair  and  sliding  her  jacket  beneath  his  head  so that he can take a moment to rest .  ❝  i'll  be  right  back  ;  let  me  make  sure  there's  no  more  of  these  black  eyed  freaks  on  their  way  .  ❞

no  sooner  has  she  stepped  away  than  the  huntress  can  hear  the  laughter  which  peals  from  behind  her  .  a  quick  spin  reveals  the  same  demon  ,  back  in  the  body  of  its  victim  with  a  weakened  dean  in  a  headlock  .  ❝  he  has  your  blood  in  his  system  now  ,  doesn't  he  ?  ❞  the  demon  sing  songs  ,  long  ,  pointed  nails  pricking  spots  of  crimson  from  the  winchester's  neck  .  elena  refuses  to  say  ,  refuses  to  dignify  the  bastard  with  an  answer  .  ❝  let  him  go  ,  ❞  she  hisses  ,  nostrils  flaring  .  the  demon's  head  cocks  to  the  side  ,  a  sly  smirk  threading  across  flattened  lips  as  she  begins  to  nod  .

❝  as  you  wish  ,  ❞  she  grins  ,  toying  with  the  brunette  just  a  little  longer  .  ❝  let  me  know  how  he  reacts  . . .  when  he  wakes  up  a  monster  ,  just  like  you  .  ❞  she  disappears  once  more  in  the  familiar  haze  of  darkness  -  . . .  but  not  before  making  a  show  of  snapping  dean's  neck  . the scream which pierces the air is gutteral , the wind knocked from elena's lungs as she zips back to his side . seconds . it had taken seconds for her worst nightmare to come true . for the reason she's never risked healing him before , to come to fruition . all there is left to do is wait , continuing soothing strokes through cropped tresses matted with sweat and blood as she counts the passing minutes which lead to his new life .

[knightofnightmoo]

Welcome to Glance.

His Death.

The walls shudder ever so slightly as the wind outside blows in  a harsh tantrum. Pattering from the rain permeates the dark, silent house. Animals hidden in the barn and crops flapping around from the storm. Doors and windows locked and sealed. The boards over the windows creak. The day’s work and repairs run through his mind as he sits in the rocking chair with his shotgun on his lap. The chair groans and whines as he rocks and waits patiently. Not even a glint of light, besides the lightning outside, touched a corner of the inside. None was needed. Too much light may allow it to find him.

Time always seemed to slow on nights like this. Always agonizing. But he can’t risk it. Not after what happened to Pa. His mind jolts to attention as heavy steps hit the porch. Seems it has decided to come to the front this time. Screechy laughter hisses from the creature. He stands up slowly. His grip on the gun tightening as he lifts it to the door and follows it to one of the windows. Flashes from outside allow him to see those all too familiar eyes. Each gleamed dark and pupiless. Its mouth filled with an unimaginable amount of teeth. Sharp enough to cut through flesh and bone like it were chewing gum. The grey, almost human skin dripping from the pour. Devland doesn’t move any further. His focus completely on the creature. Claws fall slowly down the window. The sound rivaling the thunder. Devland’s shoulders stiffen.

Don’t move. Don’t give yourself away. It didn’t get you last time. It won’t succeed. Ever. Again.

This stalemate continues until light hits the window and seeps through the cracks between the boards. 

It’s gone. Did the rain stop?

He lowers his gun and lets out a shaky breath. His steps swift and as light as he can manage. Checking outside his eye graze over the wet grass and soaked porch and blood. Blood? Against all instincts and common sense he fumbles to unlock the door and swing it open. The slam of his heart falling into his stomach makes him freeze in the doorway. Damp morning air and a strong supplement of blood fills his nose and the home. 

Tears blur his vision. Blurs the scene. If only it could blur the pain. The tearing of his heart. The tearing of his vocal cords. His arms wrap around his cold lifeless body. His once perfectly warm and comforting body. Blood tainting his clothes. His hair. His face. That’s why it had gone quiet. That’s why it did so little. He should’ve listened. He should’ve. 

Ash circles about in the air as the fire crackles.

“You did warn him dear.” Her voice shakes with age, “Make sure you bury all his bones please. We don’t need the dogs getting ahold of them.”

His silence is all she needed to start her way back to the house. Once the hole was deep enough Devland climbed out and watched the flames cook and burn. 

The sun starts to say its goodbyes as Devland passes the stone marked with a knife the engravings read, “Here Lies Harvey Yavall. Blessing from the Gods and keeper of my heart.” 

Within the week word spread like a virus through their small town. 

“Heard it ripped ‘im limb from limb. ‘Course I know what I’m talkin’ about!” 

“Did you hear the tourist got eaten? I know. Should’ve read the warnings.”

“I saw Dev sitting on his porch all week after 6pm! It’s like he’s asking for it to come back!”

Can never escape their eyes and questions for very long. Information about an attack always seems to make its way from friends to the bars and storekeepers. Tourists are known to disregard the posters and concerned warnings. Normally costing precious, sentimental belongings, eyes, legs, lives. Depends on what they run into. They all knew the newest tourist was going to meet one of the supernatural residents at some point or another. It's always the reporters and journalists who stick their noses too far and find the consequences they were told to avoid. It doesn’t make it hurt any less for Devland though.

His drinking habits and risky nightly behaviors made the residents conclude he may have finally snapped. Finally started following in his father’s footsteps.

[spacedustandpirates]

See you on the soil..

I can’t feel my toes.

… oh, there they are. But.. what if I think I feel my toes but they are just phantom toes and my legs are really gone.

Am I dead?

Slowly her eyes opened, at least, she thought they were opening. There was nothing to see, no color, no pod, just black.

Great. No legs and blind. Now she’d never get a date. She exhaled and let herself sink back into nothingness.

Rust, the coppery metallic scent drew her from a dreamless sleep. Not rust! Rust on metal was a devastating thing, it spread and separated ship walls into layers before flaking apart with devastating results. How did rust get on her Jellyfish?

“C’mon me, get your shit together..” She stretched one arm out into the darkness before moving her hand to her head, dirty fingers sliding over an equally dirty face. “So we are blind - “ …fingers found eyeballs and white sparks exploded within her vision causing her to clap her hands over her eyes and howl. “FUCK ME. FUCK ALL OF ME. Right down to my legless body –”

Her eyes squinched shut, tears running over her brows and into her hairline.

At least she still had hair, that was a plus. And a good taste in music - can’t over look that. She was still a good catch without legs. She sniffled loudly, already thinking up nicknames Corso would call her. Oh hotstars- he’d call her stumpy. One hand gripped the release buckle and held, listening intently to what may be outside. Nothing? As she waited, liquid plunked onto her chin before sliding to the crevice of her lips. Rust.

No. Blood. It was blood. She needed to get out of this pod. She yanked the release cord and tumbled to the headrest, legs cracking against the wall to prove in yet another explosion of white hot pain that she still had legs.

Well. That was nice.

“E-enie, lights.”

When the pod’s computer didn’t respond she leaned forward and squished her cheek against the seat, it was still warm from her back, and for a moment she rested, reveling in the fact she had legs and she wouldn’t get the nickname stumpy.

“Eenie.” She tried again. When the computer didn’t respond she slid her palm against the leather her cheek sat on, fingers seeking the manual eject lever and she gave a quick yank. After a few moments of nothing, the hatch shot free and water hurried to fill the interior. The grimy liquid along with the disturbance of the door’s trajectory stole her vision and she kicked off in a panic-laden attempt to find aid.

When her head broke the surface she bellowed. “I CANT SWIM.”

“Then stand up, human.”

“I AM SINKING..”

“How is that possible, Medlic? The water is maybe three torlac deep..”

She felt a hand grip the back of her sweater and the water rush from her as she hoisted into the air and .. oh - aliens.

“Hi…” She sputtered, limbs hanging limp at her side.

“You landed in our crops, human.” One of the two savage-looking aliens scowled at her. Luckily, it wasn’t the one that held her above the water.

“Sorry about that..” She squinted down at the shallow water and the upside-down pod. Huh. “You are Talon?”

"Yes."

"You got cookies?"

Leafcutters chitterd in the darkness, low toned threats to those close enough to hear. Warnings that were not good enough that the leaf lookalikes were actually creatures of foul disposition that would tear a target to pieces. They moved in small packs, which meant if you saw one there was at least four more you didn’t see.

The urge to peer out the window and search for the creatures was suppressed since they sounded so close and the village windows didn’t have glass. Just a hole. Just stone. Just jungle heat.

“Terran –” A voice came from the doorway of the borrowed hut and she lulled her head to peer at the tall, green seaweed looking alien that filled the frame. There was a hint of kindness in the tone and she’d take it!

“You can all me Aylin, if you like?” She rolled to a sit, her suit had been replaced by some wraps about her chest and hips, when she complained it was too close to a diaper the alien helping her offered to keep it. Since she didn’t want her female bits chewed off by leafcutters, she kept the diaper-shorts.

“Terran is easier. I am going to check on your wound, come.”

“Sure..” She carefully moved to a stand, her pace slow and easy. The pod had landed without much damage and she did count herself lucky that it was only a few scrapes and bruises that saw her safely to land - well- Talon crops, same thing. It wasn’t until she had explained what happened to the Talon Chief, gained permission to wait for her captain and then was digging for her beacon that she tangled with one of their ‘pets.’

The beast had almost taken off her leg!

The same beast walked near her now, over long tongue hanging out of the its mouth.

“Turnada - it likes you.” The Alien commented, earning the narrow vine-like back a scowl and a sniff from the lost pilot.

“It likes my blood, yeah?” She huffed, eyeing the creature near her with it’s odd legs and hunched shoulders. It was just as wild as the rest of this place, kept in check by the villagers that raised it and used it to hunt and guard. “No more.. No more Aylin for you.”

Once they reached the medical building she exhaled loudly as she limped inside the cool stone interior. Outside the air threatened to drown her and her hair stuck to her back in damp, clingy braids - inside? The shimmer of something tattled that they used some sort of… something… that was older than she was to create comfort and healing.

“Have your hunters seen any other Terran?” She sank onto a cool stone table, the length covered by a thin blanket that further regulated her body’s reaction to the planet as soon as she settled.

“No..”

Great.