#dog slave training

[constantvariations]

Recently saw a post in the Adam Taurus tag (an exercise in patience, that tag) that claimed that the signs of Adam not actually caring for the Faunus cause start as early as the Black Trailer. Their evidence?

Blake: What about the crew members?

Adam: What about them?

They proposed that the lack of concern Adam felt for the SDC crew whilst knowing that Faunus were often employed against their will meant he always put his revenge above the needs of the Faunus

Let me tell you, my jaw dropped at the stupidity

The way they went on, you'd think he was about to kill a small nation's worth of SDC workers, but like.

Babe.

It's a cargo train. Their skeleton crew barely has bones

According to the Association of American Railroads, the standard practice is a two-person crew, a locomotive engineer and a conductor, but it's not uncommon to have a crew of one. It would undoubtedly suck to be one of those guys if Adam had succeeded, but it's not the unbridled massacre people seem to think it is

As for the Faunus angle, I highly doubt any slave would be given the skills of either of those positions, much less left in charge of who knows how much lien's worth of name brand products, so no danger of accidentally eliminating the unfortunate kin there. Had they been Faunus that did join the SDC of their own volition, then they's be SOL just like the humans

I'm so tired of people making shit up or blowing things out of proportion to justify their Adam hate

[doglovers21]

beautiful dog

Download free ebook

[what-even-is-thiss]

My problem with the legion route in New Vegas is that there’s almost nobody to talk to in legion territory who isn’t putting on a comically evil voice and giving you exposition. There’s not even any legion companions.

Like fine if you wanna let the player be comically evil and side with a comically evil faction but I’d like if more than two of them could be interesting conversation partners.

The only legion person in a legion camp who’s not a slave who almost scratches that itch for me is the guy who trains the dogs in the legion camp and even him not really. You could insert your own headcanons in there that he’s secretly sad or at least conflicted about the legion burning his tribe’s dogs but you know even though it sounds like the voice actor was having a lot of fun doing that voice it’s hard to sense any complexity in it.

I mean even other comically evil characters in the game are complicated and fun to talk to. Like the chef at the white gloves society. Dude eats human but even he can be goaded into randomly going on a rant about how much he hates his parents and it’s hilarious.

The only really fun legion people to talk to in my opinion are the ones removed from the legion. The guys at camp McCarran. The prisoner of war and the spy. They’re evil, they’re legion, but it seems they’re only allowed to be interesting conversation partners once they’re removed from the legion in one way or another.

And maybe there’s some meta commentary to be made about that but I don’t care. I wish Vulpes was more interesting to talk to.

[moongreenlight]

What if your brain tells you that nurse!reader from the previous fic was on the field with the boys as an on call medic and gets taken as a POW and ghost is losing his fucking mind?? - like actual feral behavior

Ohhhhhhhhhmygod. Hi? I’m in your walls. So mad I didn’t see this before because I’ve been SLAVING over a Simon fic all week and this apparently is the motivation I needed to put some more batshit insane things on the internet forever.

We all know that Simon is a fucking machine. Prides himself on his ability to essentially turn off his humanity on the field. But for some reason his nurse!reader is the one thing that interrupts that ability. Even seeing you treating a few rowdy privates gets him worked up. Lingers around the medbay in his free time for no apparent reason just to side eye your patients and glare at them to make sure there’s absolutely no possibility of you getting hurt.

There was probably an occasion where you were treating a soldier who didn’t fare well with pain. Moaning and crying and thrashing while you did something simple like tuck their arm into a sling, and they somehow writhed around enough to hook you in the cheek with their elbow. Nothing serious, but it left an angry red mark on your cheek for so long that he caught it on one of your evening walks around base. Usually after dark so you could both avoid being found out.

And then the next day you see Simon dragging that same soldier to a different nurse’s bed under the armpits. Explaining gruffly that he went unconscious because he couldn’t handle training. (He made the poor bastard run the track in full tactical gear on one of the hottest days of the year for nearly an hour straight. No water. No breaks.)

You were the kindest, softest thing he’d ever come in contact with. Something he never thought he’d be able to find in this lifetime after so much hate and anger and pain. He couldn’t risk losing you, which is why he was so strict on his saying no to you joining the task force on the field. The shit they did was dangerous. Immensely so. And this brought up two main points for Simon.

One; he wouldn’t be able to focus on the task at hand knowing you were out. He slept with one eye open when you were nestled close to his chest and snoring softly in the comfort of your own home that he’d all but booby-trapped home alone style. No fucking way he’d allow you out into hostile territory with only a introductory understanding of self-defense. He’d be on pins and needles the entire mission. Probably get the entire squad killed because he’d constantly be looking over his shoulder for you.

Two; it would rip him to shreds if he lost you. You were the only person he truly saw as an equal. The first time the two of you met, he was probably being angsty and rude because he did something to land himself in the medbay, and when he refused to take off his tact vest so you could listen to his heart and lungs, you all but held him at scalpel-point and threatened him within an inch of his life until he finally submitted. After that he was fucking hooked. Obsessed with the way you could get brutes like him to roll over and show you their belly like obedient dogs. And you were kind to him. Immeasurably kind. Dealt with his mood swings and took the time to get to know him. Suffered through the impossibly long process of him letting his guard down.

So if somehow his orders were ignored, it was almost certain that you’d be given strict orders to keep your involvement under wraps. Price would have enough of an idea of the situation to keep the two of you on opposite schedules in the days leading up to deployment. Minimize the possibility of you letting slip that you’d be coming along to preserve not only the integrity of his team but also his quality of life.

It would seem like a regular day to Simon at first. Loading into the helo before dawn, sitting between Johnny and Gaz and trying to tune them out while they snarked at one another across him. And then Price would come on looking guilty as sin. You could practically smell it coming off him. Leaning both his arms on the open door and signaling the driver to start the engine for a quick take off in case Simon decided to abandon ship in his outrage.

He’d give some spiel about teamwork and the importance of focusing on the mission and whatever other bullshit he thought would keep Simon the most level headed. Spewing on and on until Gaz finally cut him off with a pointed yawn. At which point he’d give the group one last look, lingering the longest on the ghost mask, before stepping aside to reveal you.

Dressed up in a uniform that looked about a size too big. Tailored as best it could be in the short notice. Pants chopped and hemmed to make them a manageable length, belt pulled as tight as it could go around your waist. Strapped into a vest that was loaded with medical supplies instead of weapons. Two pistols holstered on your either side.

Simon was beyond livid. Spouting steam like a cartoon bull. Staggering to stand when the chopper took off and stalking over to the cockpit where Price sat and tried to look casual.

Gave him a fucking earful. Screaming over the roar of the engine into the earpiece on a private channel for the entire two hour long flight. Bitching about paperwork and dead weight and how it’s just another person he’ll need to look after and he doesn’t want to. It’s almost impressive. Price doesn’t get a word in sideways. Gets shut down immediately if he even dares to open his mouth.

And he’s a monster when he finds out you’ve been taken POW. Circled by the enemy team like ravenous wolves finding a wounded deer. Soap and Gaz both have to pin him down when Price breaks the news. Seeing fucking red.

A large part of me thinks he internalizes a lot of the torture he went through in the comics. Letting it sit and fester inside him like the worst kind of poison that it took him years to meticulously extract from his very being and carefully contain into a small vial. Laying dormant in the back of his mind for a moment like this. He had no idea what the enemy wanted with you, so he had to assume the worst.

Storms their base by himself. Sniffs you out through a maze of bunkers and underground tunnels and infinitely many heavily secured doors. And the rest of the force just watches his six. Stands back feeling a little nauseous, but letting him blaze down his war path. Any and everyone who gets in his way is guilty unless they can prove their innocence- and they don’t get the chance. Runs through all his ammo gunning down countless grunts and privates stationed outside the base of planted as decoys. Specifically demanding that Price be the one to give up his weapons and ammo so he can continue on. And it’s the one time that the captain allows him to snarl orders like that.

Price knows that Simon is, in his core, a fighting dog. Rescued by the force and given an opportunity to channel his aggression into a more productive outlet. And now it seems all his hard work and training is coming unraveled. Watching Simon once again snap his jaws and bare his teeth, killing without rhyme or reason to get you back, is jarring to say the least. So in some last-ditch effort to preserve some of the trust that they’d built, he surrenders. Shows his belly. Shrugs off his rifle with no objection other than the way his mouth drew into a tight line.

Simon kicks through heavy metal reinforced doors without the need for a battering ram. Pushes himself well past the point of exhaustion. Fueled purely off the instinctual need to recover you. He can’t speak. Can’t eat. Can’t drink. Can’t stop.

He’d mow through the first few ranks of soldiers until they finally found someone that looked like they’d have at least a sliver of useful information and beat them within an inch of their life until they gave up the information that would eventually lead him to you.

In all honesty, you were probably taken with the intent to lure them in. Not anticipating your absence would have such an impact. Kept you bound in a guarded room. Roughed up a bit just from your struggle, but they hadn’t had time to interrogate you before they got word that 141 was coming in wild and sideways.

This would send Simon even further into madness. Body aching, bleeding from his knuckles. His knees and shoulders screaming their protest when he broke down the door, sending it crashing into the room. And the first thing he sees is you huddled in a corner blindfolded and bound with handcuffs that were cutting into your wrists from your trying to escape. He’d be an entirely different person. (I am giggling and kicking my feet.)

He wouldn’t even bother wasting time with the rifle. He’d handle what few guards were left with his bare hands. Possessed by some kind of superhuman strength. Catching a second wind the moment he laid eyes on you. He’d rush over, the rest of the boys standing guard in the hallway, and break you free from your restraints.

And as much as I would want him to be sweet and coddle you and coo over you, he’d probably be riding such a high that he wouldn’t be able to. He’d immediately start in on you, but with significantly less ferocity than he had with Price.

“You got a fuckin’ death wish? Think they’d turn you into a martyr for bein’ a medic on the field? Real original fuckin’ concept, yeah?”

He’d pull you in close to him, giving you an incredibly detailed once over. Inspecting your face and neck and arms legs for any further damage, and once he determined after three checks that all your wounds were purely superficial, he’d allow his hands to shake just slightly when he smoothed your hair back off your forehead.

[juletheghoul]

if you are still taking requests for the general can we PLEASE see what would happen if reader were ever in danger or threatened or kidnapped? to see marcus’ reaction and him do whatever it takes to get them back?? and his reaction to when he does?? 😭😭 i’m shaking askingthis omg,,

You're so right for this nonny, you're practically in my head. I was working on a chapter of the General, and it's basically this so here we go!

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, violence, attack on the villa - you are hurt and Marcus gets serious, hurt/comfort, creampie, master / slave dynamic (power imbalance), Marcus calls reader Girl, reader calls Marcus Dominus, let me know if I missed any!

Unbeta’d, any mistakes are my own!

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 2.8k

reblogs are appreciated

Prev chapter Masterlist series masterlist

-

Your fingers cramped, his tunic had been more damaged than you’d initially thought and what you’d imagined would only take a few minutes, had taken the better part of an hour. With his tunic mended, you used the small knife to cut the thread and blessedly stretched, wincing at the ache in your back from being hunched over. An odd feeling weighed down the pit of your stomach and it was hard to place until you realized how eerily quiet the house was. Not just the familiar quiet of night, but an all-encompassing hush that seemed to cover everything like a blanket. 

No crickets chirping, no night birds singing, even the breeze seemed to have stopped. An icy finger followed the line of your spine and when his dogs began barking loudly, it almost made you jump out of your skin. 

You ignored the unease in your stomach and reassured yourself, the hour had grown late, and all of the chores had been completed. All that was left to do was fill the water basin in his private chamber, as well as yours. The dogs still barked as you made your way through the peristyle, irritated that despite being well trained, they did not relent. It was unlike them to ignore a command from your dominus and with a frown you belatedly notice one of the house's guards lying prone. 

You gasped, rushing over to him to help him, hoping it was only the heat that had gotten to him. You turned him, struggling to reach his face when your hands felt something wet, and with a barely contained scream, you saw that he had been attacked, and had not survived. The realization hit you like a knife to the belly, there was someone in the house, someone intent on sending your Dominus to the underworld. 

Ice crawling through your veins and with your heart in your throat, you ran towards his chambers to warn him.

The halls were dark and quiet as you ran as fast as your legs could carry you, praying to Diana to bless you with swiftness, to Mars to bless Marcus’ sword, and to humbly beg Pluto to stay away. 

Diana did not listen, and a shadow caught you unawares in the dark hall outside his chamber, cutting off the scream before it left your mouth. Your vision blurred as the faceless hulk behind you all but lifted you by the throat, making you squirm in his grip until he pressed the sharp tip of his blade to your back. 

“Silence!” He hissed into your ear, pain radiating from your neck, and where his knife cut shallowly into the skin of your back. You tried to scream, to kick and struggle out of his grip but it was iron, and when he slammed you back against the wall the world turned on its head. You choked on the coughs stuck in your throat, vaguely making out the angry words he hissed in your face. 

“Where is he? Where does he keep the valuables?” The fight was going out of you, your eyes, felt like they were going to pop out of your head, and your hands had surely been weighed down with something. Warmth ran down your back. 

Your vision blurred and a sinking realization hit you. 

I am going to die here.

Everything faded for a moment before you fell, hard, onto the ground. Breathing in felt like swallowing fire, your body was so heavy, and you couldn’t be sure how much time passed before you took in the scene. The man that had attacked you was on the floor before you, his eyes open, but never to see anything again. 

“Are you hurt?” His voice is like a balm and it’s with frantic hands that you clutch at him where he’s crouched in front of you. 

“Dominus-”  Your voice comes out like gravel, your throat burning so much so, tears fill your eyes and he shakes his head, shushing you softly. 

“Quiet girl, do not speak if it pains you, simply nod, are you hurt anywhere but here?” His hand is wet with blood, but it touches your neck soft as silk. You nod your head as he helps you to stand, holding you close to his warmth, his eyes scan over all of you, frowning when he sees the blood seeping through the back of your tunic, and flowing down towards your ankle. 

“Let me see.” He lifts it, turning you in his grip and an angry sound fills his mouth. 

Your heart fills with something huge, something unknowable, unnamable. 

“Can you walk?” The strength in him rears its head, and he practically holds you up, you nod your head yes and he nods back once, pressing his bloody finger to his lip to keep you quiet before tucking you in behind him. He picks up his sword and slowly, you both make your way through his halls, hunting those who dared threaten him. He pokes his head around a corner and is confronted with a small group of his attendants, the older women, the toughest of them has a knife in her hand. 

“Hide yourselves, I will find you once the threat is removed. Go to the cellar and bar yourselves in.” He nods once and they obey, trusting him to protect those who are alive. You move to join them but his free hand holds you tight. “You stay with me, girl.”

You nod and hold onto his arm like an anchor. 

He finds them in his library, rifling through his things and for a moment your heart drops at the sight of them. There are four of them, and they turn in unison, dropping his parchments and smiling to see him alone, and worst of all, accompanied by an injured slave. 

Wordlessly they begin to circle and with your throat burning, you begin to pray once more. 

One of them advances too quickly and Marcus slices him from throat to groin without blinking. The blood splatters onto Marcus and then spreads from where the man falls on the floor and you feel as though you’re stuck in a nightmare. 

“I will give the rest of you the chance to keep your lives if you leave now.” 

“To what end? You’ve seen our faces, you will just come looking for us.” One of the braver ones spits it back in his face, looking to the others for support. They advance but he doesn’t let them close enough to hurt either of you. You see why he’s earned his reputation firsthand, and your brain rebels against itself. Part of you is terrified to see such violence outside the arena, in the place that is your home no less. Another part of you though, rejoices to see him fight for his house, for you. His sword moves swiftly, as fluid as water as he cuts his way through them with terrifying ease. 

He drips in their blood, unfeeling, unseeing, until there is one left on the ground, clutching at his wounds. 

“Mercy, I beg of you!” He holds his hands up, eyes shining with a fear you have never seen. 

“The time for mercy has passed.” He blocks your view, but you hear the sound of flesh parting, a sickening gurgling sound, and then silence. 

You stand there in the dark room, still as a statue until he blocks your vision again, his bloodied hands holding your face softly. He says nothing, only holds your gaze and you cannot help but press yourself close, gripping onto his arms if only to convince yourself that he is healthy and whole before you. 

Wordlessly, he leads you away from the gore of the room. He completes his circuit of the house, finding the guards that survived the attack as well as other attackers, none of them having survived their attempt. 

He thanks them for fulfilling their duty to protect and orders them to dispose of the gore corrupting his home. He orders them to find the others hidden away, to let them know the house is once again safe. Your hands tremble, but you cannot be sure if it’s from fear or from the way he has not let you go since this whole ordeal began. You look down as he speaks his commands, to see the way his hand sits on your hip, wrapped around you, pressing you close to his side. The blood on his hands has seeped into the fabric of your tunic, it is smeared all over your arms and your neck. You swallow and the pain is still there, and when you shift his hand tightens around you, pressing into the shallow cut and you wince. 

He feels the way you shy away from the pain, and promptly dismisses his guards, advising them that fresh water and linens are to be brought to him at once. 

“Come girl, let me tend to that.”

-

The shaking does not stop, neither does the feeling of ghostly fingers wrapping themselves around your neck. Neither does the pain. Your fingers itch to do something, but with your Dominus cleaning and bandaging your wound, you can do nothing but stand in front of him, and tremble like a leaf. 

He does his best to soothe, but his gentle touch and soft words can only do so much. There is anger in you, a sharp clawing desire to break something, to hurt those that hurt you, those that snuck into his house like rats to do naught but harm. If your throat didn’t hurt so much, you’d scream. His lips bring you back though, where they press to your back when he is done bandaging you up. 

You watch him, wild-eyed with the blood still pounding in your ears, and wonder how he can be so calm, cleansing the blood off his skin like he’s done it a thousand times. But hasn’t he? The reality of him becomes crystal clear, this was nothing to him. His eyes are focused on the task at hand, they move methodically, dipping into the water and scrubbing at his face, and his arms. He undresses to the skin and continues his ritual, only looking to you once he is satisfied with his state. 

“Come, girl, undress.” Your body falls into its usual rhythm, obedience. 

You strip, careful of the wound and your neck, and once nude, you walk over to him. Silently, he dips a new cloth and sets about his task. Your face is first, gently but thoroughly cleaned of every drop of blood. Your arms next, and then your neck. You wince, but stay still. Handprints that had seeped through and marked your hip, your back, all of them wiped away like they’d never been there. He crouches and follows the trail of your blood where it had slid down the swell of your ass, down the back of your leg towards your ankle. Not a drop is spared, and then he is done.

“Thank-” It's a harsh whisper that comes out of your mouth, and he doesn’t let you finish the sentiment.

“Do not speak, I would not have you in pain. Your throat must heal and the more you speak the longer it will take.” He pressed a soft kiss to your brow, but you held him close, cold all of a sudden as you stood there in his chamber, both of you bathed in moonlight and damp from the cloth. He lets you clutch to him, lets you press yourself into the cage of his arms, and wraps you up in them. He is the cure, you do not tremble when he holds you like this. 

An ache builds, the need for comfort, for warmth, for affection. For love, whispers a tiny little part of you, a part you ignore. 

You stand on the tips of your toes and press your lips to his, hoping he can sense what you need. 

“Are you not in pain?” His fingers curl around the long line of your neck, feather-soft, holding your gaze as you try to kiss him again. You nod, but try again anyway and he holds you still. You mouth the words, exaggerating the shapes of them in your mouth so he will understand. 

“I need you.”

He searches your eyes and is satisfied with what he finds, nodding once and then finally giving you his mouth, his tongue, and the loveliest of sounds from deep in his chest. 

You take charge and push him to sit on his bed, guiding him to lie on his back and he follows where you lead, arranges himself exactly how you want him, and lets you climb onto him. You straddle his waist, fitting his hardening cock between the lips of your sex. He bites his lip, eyes focused on the way you rock yourself along his length and despite giving you control of this encounter, his hands land heavy on your hips. His fingers dig in, sliding up to hold onto your breasts, both fingers pinching and stroking at the peaked tips of them in the way he knew you liked, the way he knew would turn your cunt into a fountain of arousal. 

“Use me, girl, do what you need, take your pleasure.” One hand stayed on your breast, the other went to his lips and he dipped his thumb into his mouth, wetting it before sliding it between where the head of his cock peeked out from between your legs and slipped it over your clit. A heavy sigh leaves your mouth, the pain in your throat mingling with the pleasure between your legs. 

You bend forward, pressing your mouth to his with an urgency that claws at your very being. The desperation isn’t just in you though, there’s something of the caged animal in Marcus, a tremble in his fingers when they dig into the meat of your hips that conveys an itch to take control. You need this now though, so with his tongue in your mouth, you lean forward and lift your hips enough to give your hand room to grasp the weeping head of him, and notch it at your soaked entrance. 

It’s almost too much, the way he fills you, the slick head of him almost too deep. His cock twitches and you cannot help but clench around him, your cunt flooding with waves and waves of arousal for him. His hands are charged like the air before a storm, roaming from your thighs, to your hips, up to thumb and strum at your nipples. Moans and whimpers slip out despite the pain in your throat. 

You roll your hips, the pressure against your clit radiates out and the pleasure builds. It makes you frantic, the slip of him inside made all the better with the way you soak his lap. You speed up, chasing the friction and the pleasure just there, despite the burn in your thighs and the sweat beading on your brow with the effort of your movements. 

“That’s it girl, fuck me-” Your stomach drops with the dark thrill of him letting you take, your nipples so sensitive under his thumbs, it’s almost painful. You want to go faster, but you’re losing steam, and you let out a sigh in frustration, pushing past the discomfort. 

“Come, let me give it to you.” His hands slip around your back, and he pulls you forward, so you lie onto his chest folded into his embrace. He wraps his arms around you, fully, holding your arms to your sides so you can do nothing but take, and then he gives. 

He plants his feet, and thrusts up hard, and fast enough to make your mouth fall open in a silent scream. 

“This is how you want it, hard, you want to feel this cock for days don’t you girl?” He grunts out the words, and despite the red, violent haze of his love, you cannot help but marvel at the strength in him. 

“Yes, please Dominus, don’t stop-” It comes out whispery, into the crook of his neck but he shudders all the same, and somehow, he fucks up into you harder. You turn to liquid in his arms, shuddering when the climax hits you hard as a punch to the gut. He lets out a guttural sound, but fucks you through it just the same, drawing out the orgasm until it takes him under. 

He comes hard, rope after rope of his release painting your insides. Hot and messy and it almost makes you purr like a cat.

He lets go, both of you breathing hard, and sticky with the sweat of exertion. 

“Give me a few minutes.” He breathes hard, while you press soft kisses, and kitten licks where the salt of him collects, “I will fuck you again, I am ravenous for you, girl.” His hands reach down, and grab at the meat of your ass and you smile. 

“Yes Dominus.” It doesn’t hurt as much as it did, and you’re sure that by morning, you’ll be right as rain. 

-

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[yyokkki]

Life as a corporate slave has you worked to the bone. Burdened with expectations from your boss, coworkers and family, you recall a faint childhood memory lost to years of data entry and drafting.

You remember the three weird uncles who'd hang out in your attic everyday at 3AM. How they'd left you an envelope before disappearing, telling you to open it up if a time ever came that you felt lost.

And so, deed in hand, you booked the next bus available and made your way over to Night Raven Valley with nothing but yourself and the clothes on your back.

What adventures await you as you farm, mine, fight and acquaint yourself with the eccentric yet strangely endearing inhabitants of the valley?

Starring:

Heartslabyul

Riddle Rosehearts as the Posh Lawyer

Pixel Art by multifandomlazywriter!

Trey Clover as the Homely Baker

Pixel Art by multifandomlazywriter!

Cater Diamond as the Bubbly Magicam Influencer

Clothing Ask

Art by sheepwater!

Ace Trappola as the Troublemaking Carpenter

Deuce Spade as the Trying-His-Best Mechanic

Savanaclaw

Leona Kingscholar as the Grumpy Unemployed But Rich Guy

Ruggie Bucchi as the Sneaky Odd Job Runner

Jack Howl as the Prickly Botanist

Octavinelle

Azul Ashengrotto as the Shady Saloon Owner

Jade Leech as the Shady Secretary

Floyd Leech as the Shady Security Guard

Scarabia

Kalim Al-Asim as the Cheerful Ranch Owner

Jamil Viper as the Dead-Inside Caretaker

Pomefiore

Vil Schoenheit as the Pompous Boutique Owner

Rook Hunt as the Scary Hunter

Epel Felmier as the Feral Apple Farmer

Ignihyde

Idia Shroud as the Vitamin D Deficient Game Developer

Ortho Shroud as the Local Sunshine Child

Diasomnia

Malleus Draconia as the Misunderstood Wizard

Lilia Vanrouge as the Adventurer's Guild Owner

Silver Vanrouge as the Sleepy Knight In Training

Sebek Zigvolt as the Overexcited Wizard Apprentice

Staff

Dire Crowley as the Scummy Town Mayor

Divus Crewel as the Dog Loving Scientist

Mozus Trein as the Cat Loving Librarian

Ashton Vargas as the Macho Guy Who Acts Like A Gym Trainer But Is Actually the Town Blacksmith

Sam as the Playful General Store Owner

Grim as the Weird Sewer Raccoon

The Ramshackle Ghosts as the Uncles Who Haunted Your Attic

---

I don't think I'm the first one to come up with this AU but this is just my spin on it cuz I'm totally so normal about sdv and twst

I will be updating each character's general info/ headcanons slowly then maybe I'll move on to heart events for the datables (NRC students except Ortho)

All posts related to this au will be tagged #night raven valley

Asks/Requests are open for this AU

And do any of y'all have suggestions for loved/hated gifts for some of the characters? Some are obvious but I'm actually blank for some like damn I know their entire trauma but idk if they'd like malachite or not what am i supposed to do

Tag List (Interact with the linked post to be tagged in future updates mwah)

[whisk3ysugar]

A Warrior's Daughter.

Pairing:

Emperor Geta x General's Daughter! Reader

Warnings:

Not really any yet, but next chapter shall be 18+, so proceed with caution.

Summary:

You assume that by being the daughter of a well respected general it allows you immunity. A breath away from the rulers and the empire as a whole. And oh how wrong could you be.

So, so wrong.

Emperor Geta sees to branding you if it’s the last thing he’ll do. If it means owning a general like owning a slave, he'd do it. And, if it means exploring the depths of unknown territory for the sake of power and greed, he would do it.

Authors Note:

This is my first time writing something in a WHILE.. It's not proofread and I wrote it on a plane ride. I was just wayyyy too caught up on Geta and I love him a ton but I wanted to capture that dick side of him (which is like all of him) and kinda write it out! Most of this is kinda backstory for reader, but the next part will be more shut and romance and tension.. Whatnot. Hope you enjoy!

The general served the region as a protector. A safe haven for the serfs and slaves whom lurked the corners of every street in Rome. Made for the people by the people, shaped to be a man capable enough to bare burdens and scars left by the empire. To be held accountable for the mistakes of the corrupt emperor, Geta. A horrid man who’d murder for the sake of entertainment. A man who’s veins ran cold with toxins more potent than venom. A poor excuse for a leader and an even worse human.

And a dangerous case to be noticed by. For fun, for pain, for greed, for it all because Geta never settled for less.

Being the daughter of a fighter, blessed directly by Gods of War, had given you false security. Something you’d conjured in your mind long ago in times of danger. To soothe you. Make you feel untouchable. Because in reality, that was the case. Back then, atleast, you’d been the daughter of THE General Acacius. Born with the blood of a real leader. A piece of someone with true power and courage who’d been loyal and an inspiration. The head of the Roman Empire beyond the grasp of Emperor Geta or Caracalla. In retrospect.

You had been someone. Protected. Praised. Seen beyond the façade which draped over the rest of Rome’s shoulders. Someone more, like your father. Looked upon like a woman unafraid of a challenge, despite your lack of royal status. A trained fighter, a kind soul, a brave heart, a person with morals held higher than the injustice of war and fighting.. You were everything emperors and empresses despised. Everything Geta lacked.

And although you could trace your attributes back to your father and your deceased mother, you’d always been bad at hiding true nature. Completely opposed to your father who valued safety over any personal opinion. A good man. Forever loyal to whomever sat upon the throne so long as it provided survival for the ones he held deep in his heart. For you.

A dog.

Commitment you admired but never wished to possess. Your rebellion engraved and scarred into your values forevermore, fueled by the promises of a better future. A better leader. And.. fueled by the fantasies of being safe. Or really, safer than the rest.

Something you’d grown to consider, contrasting your development into a real woman, had relinquished into realization. Realization that no one was safe. You weren’t, the city wasn’t.. Your father wasn’t.

It had been something you were quickly struck with when he’d been stripped of his title. Reduced to nothing more than a fighter, battling for another day to live, just for the entertainment of people more fortunate than he. Scarred and beat because that was his duty to his emperor. His duty to you, to ensure a life away from Geta and Caracalla. Away from the wretched mistakes that were the emperors.

Marcus Acacius had done everything humanly possible to keep you away from Geta. Or rather, to keep Geta away from you.

He’d lied, betrayed, gone against orders and cheated to keep your identity secret. Pure dishonor to his name merely for the sake of having you stay safe. He could handle it. The punishment, burden, everything. So long as you were alive, un-harmed, and out of the hands of not-so-noble nobility.

It was wishful thinking. As wishful as your fantasies of being safe, and courageous like your father.

There were suspicions that the general had been sheltering someone in secret. Perhaps a slave, maybe a new wife, but a daughter? No one could’ve ever suspected that. Much less the emperors. And, you supposed it could’ve remained secret if it weren’t for your own foolishness. For your mistake of unveiling yourself around the general.. in public. You’d never stood side by side with the man in view for anyone other than the most trusted.. So with your stupidity came the revelation that it was an unmistakable resemblance. Too genetically duplicate to the man to condemn. And as much as you’d prayed to every and any God to suppress the gossip, it’d been no use. To no avail.

You’d been caught. You’d both been caught. And matters couldn’t have gotten worse.

Except it did. Things got entirely worse.

Once word had been released that the general was harboring a daughter.. Especially since he was harboring a daughter.. and lying about it.. he’d been quickly suffocated with degradation. Bombarded with questions. Attacked with hate and pure confusion, because Gods forbid the GENERAL lies about anything, solely because he is the man that everyone trusts. Or the man everyone trusted.

Everything had gone from 0 to 100 in about a day. And from 100 to 1000 within seconds. When you’d lost your life and been stripped of your dignity, just like how your father had been stripped of his. All when the emperors in the flesh took it upon themselves to barge into the safety of your home, only to be greeted with the sight of truth. You. The daughter of a general, real, present. The consequence of love which everyone figured Marcus Acacius was too corrupt to conceive. The explanation to a general’s loyalty beyond the curtains of reality.

A rage to the nobles. A rage to the civilians. And an enrapturing woman to the emperor. To Geta.

The upper hand. The solution. Leverage to dangle above a superior’s head like bait. And a treasure far more priceless than any jewel or ore he’d ever been offered.

The daughter of a supreme leader who wielded no real power. No real riches. Only the comfort of kin and a reason to fight.

The catch of the millenia.

Your life was ripped away from you. Your father was ripped away from you. You were left with nothing but the orders to obey, and to marry.

For the sake of your father. For the sake of your life. At the cost of your freedom.

The life you’d planned to live was left behind as a memory. A fragment of the person you hoped to be. Replaced with the promise of a ‘better life’, and the safety you’d always fantasized of. Promised to you by your own father.

“You shall live a better life, my sweet girl. I know,” he sighed heavily. His voice shakey and laced with regret as he uttered each syllable to you. Eyes brimming with disgraced tears. Disgrace in himself for failing you.

“—I know I will not be able to keep you safe myself, but I promise you.. you will be protected. The emperors will protect you, so long as you listen. Obey.”

He’d sacrifice anything to avoid having this conversation. To return to your lives without the notice of townsfolk, without the eyes of rulers searing into your skin, and without the torture of having to leave each other behind. But there was nothing he, nor you, could do. You were to be engaged. To be compromised. To a ruler with no sense of dignity, no sense of humility nor a sense of respect. Only a power feign with no remorse.

Your father thumbed at your cheek, wiping the tears which streaked and seeped into your skin. Sorrow filled eyes longing for a daughter to hold, only to be met with the familiar face of a forced bride-to-be...

“Please, I beg of you to save yourself, father—Fight and get out of this country. You could die.. You could be tortured or murdered and I—I can’t handle any more pain.”

Your voice came out breathy and silent. Barely loud enough for your father’s ears, but just enough. Enough to get your point across, and to urge him away from what was to come.

“I fear Geta. I fear him with every bone in my body, but I fear losing you far worse. I will marry him. I do not know what he sees in me, but I know he craves your demise, and I will not stand around and bare witness to a further downfall.”

You craved a minute more. A second to tell your father how you love him so, and you couldn’t blame him for a moment in your life for how things are to turn out. But you couldn’t. The guards had arrived, and that was your cue to be dragged away. To struggle and sob as you’d be ripped away from your father, once a general, now a helpless gladiator. To call out for him as you’re hoisted out of the room by guards too rough to handle, only to be faced with Geta. Your emperor. Your ‘betrothed’. Smiling. Baring his teeth like a rabid dog at its prey. He was proud of his work. Proud of that sliver of ‘kindness’ he’d dug out. And he’d awaited praise.. for allowing you to share your last moments with your father. Geta expected a string of ‘thank you’s’ or sobs proclaiming everlasting loyalty. He expected obedience and nothing more. But, he was met with none. Not a single mumble of praise because you’d rather die than give him any.

“You will be.. such a fine empress. You shall bear my children and produce an heir fit for the throne. And, your father shall be our entertainment.”

His words make you want to gag. Make you want to fall to your knees and sob, but you knew that if you were to do so, he’d only be spurred on. He'd feel powerful. He’d feel like a winner. And you were never going to allow him that pleasure.

“You will learn to be a good wife and do as I say when I say it, you hear?”

A quick nod was all you gave him. No words, no emotions. You were aware of how unstable you were at the moment, and your façade would soon crack if you uttered a single syllable.

And, he was not content with that response.

“Answer me. Let me hear your voice or you shall be punished severely.”

Your cheeks flushed pink. You wanted so badly to cry and flee forever. But you couldn’t. Your options were entirely limited. You could escape.. or ‘obey’, as your father had said.

And obey you shall.

“Yes, your highness. I hear—I will bear you a child and you—”

You were risking everything. You should stay silent, evaluate your options. Realize that you weren’t at liberty of speaking your mind any longer. But you are the daughter of a general, and his courage is your courage.

“You will ensure my father’s safety. You must.. allow him to be the most glorious gladiator..”

Always the challenger, never for peace. Just as your father had been. Forever a threat to the rulers and still with the promise of punishment for rebellion, you pursue. It angers him. Makes him seethe. He grinds his teeth and his jaw tightens as he considers how exactly to deal with you.

No room for murdering you like he’d normally do to other subjects in a fit of rage. No chance to attack you ferociously. No time to scream at you.

He’d settle for showing you how your power paled in comparison to his.

Your feet stumble as he lunges forward at you, quickly slithering his hand up the scruff of your neck to fist at your hair. A tingling pain sets in at the roots of your strands, stinging, and bruising as he handles you like a pest. It nestles uncomfortably, and it taints the feeling of abuse you’re enduring at his doing.

Yet, you’re forced to push it aside as he replaces the feeling with.. something different. The feeling of his lips crashing into yours. Latching on and gnawing gently in a battle of teeth and tongue. His saliva tastes different than any liquid you’ve drank. It’s almost heavenly, offering life to its victims. To ease the pain burrowed within you. It’s feral. Animalistic, really. But how could you have expected anything less from a tyrant.

After all, Geta gained power from making others submit. And it always worked. But forever the fighter, you’d always put up a battle.

Eyes pressed tight together as you inhale him, and everything that made him. His scent, almost musky but perfumed and pampered, his taste, a tinge of alcohol and deliciously fruity, just the feeling of him on you. Everything. He filled you with his presence. Geta overtook any space you’d left empty. And, part of you wished the circumstances could be different. Where in some other world this could be considered love, and Venus could watch upon your blooming romance. In some alternate world you’d drop your persistence, settle in his embrace without a care in the world and let him have his way.

But, you’re in this world. And in this world you haven’t the luxury of submission. Atleast.. total submission.

So with enough passion to fuel your senses. Your morality. You unravel from your sentience and glide your hands along the luxurious red that is his tunic, tracing upon the engraved designs, all the way to the treasures that were his jewels and golden accents, absolutely littered all over his garments. And, with a boost you swallow down the feeling of disgust to feel empowered rather than useless. To taste him back and contribute to the battle between your lips.

You fight for the power you deserve. The power your father earned for the both of you which should’ve never been retracted. You’d show this emperor who you were. How you weren’t a servant, nor a slave, and you’d never be reduced to a mere concubine. You were your own soldier, and you would not be conquered.

You pull away, his grip still firm on your neck. Its unsure if your bravery is attractive, or completely rejected, but the swell on Geta’s lips, and the saliva connecting you two is enough to tell you that regardless of what it resulted in, it was worth it. You had showed him who you were, and where you stood. He both loved and despised it.

“Get out of my sight. Go to your chambers. We will speak tomorrow.”

The tight grasp he had on your neck faltered, and you could feel the mark forming as he removed himself from you. His voice was as breathy as yours on the nights you’d pray to the Gods, pleading for forgiveness for whatever crimes youd committed. Breathy like your sobs for your father to hold you, keep you. Hell, you’d almost forgotten about how you were practically stolen away a mere few minutes ago. Deep down you hated yourself for indulging in the man you were to marry.. but you knew it had to be done. And if you enjoyed it.. well you’d convince yourself he’d corrupted you, somehow. Someway.

Regardless, you’d remained obedient. Like your father begged of you. Like Geta had reminded you to act. And if that meant scurrying off to your room.. your own room without his intoxicating presence, well then you’d do it in a heartbeat. It’d leave you to think. To plan. To lay in your bed and wait till you’d, (most likely), be called upon by a greedy emperor.

Most of all, though.. You’d remind yourself what you’d done, and how this was your fault. And you’d do anything to fix your mistake.

[whenmemorydies]

See this?

Carmy is about to pull this shit. He is really about to go in and likely blow up one of the only good relationships he has left from The Beef. After yelling at Tina from the pass. After stressing out everyone and their fucking dog cos he thinks this is acceptable behaviour if its all in service of a star?

This part of 3x03 Doors was such a jagged scene for me because of a few things (including what I've said above). What else got me:

Tina is someone Carmy knows, that Carmy loves (go back to their scene in 1x08 Braciole talking about Mikey. Go back to Carmy's soft "hey Tina you go ahead, you take the night off okay? I got you.");

Tina is an older woman of colour who has made the commitment to skill up so that she can work at The Bear after working at The Beef. Carmy has seen the work she has put in but in this moment, he pays none of it any mind. Imagine being T. Imagine how that would feel. Imagine how it would feel knowing all we know after watching Tina's journey in 3x06 Napkins. The thing is, Carmy doesn't need to know all of T's backstory to know his behaviour is unacceptable. The fact that he knows some of it and proceeds to act in this way is just more evidence of his white privilege showing its ass.

Carmy does not have the self reflexivity here to look at his young, white, male self yelling at this older WOC and see how fucked this is: how he's become another white guy in a litany of white men barking at workers of colour, not seeing Tina for the whole human she is but reducing her to a means of production. The racial dynamics on this show are so evident but don't get talked about nearly enough. I know the writers have crafted those dynamics on purpose because as beautiful a character as Carmy is, he's also a product of his environment as a white chef trained in a highly racially segregated field. This has repercussions for his relationships in season 3, particularly with the BIPOC characters in his life. @november-rising speaks about Carmy's behaviour in relation to Black women's experiences of love and professional recognition devastatingly here. Read their post and the reblogs.

While this shit made me so mad this season, it was also in character - as I've said here - for a white guy trained in fine dining to revert to established patterns of behaviour. Though, I'm gonna need the writers of the show to show US that they did this on purpose and have Carmy ATONE for this shit in season 4. Otherwise, what kind of redemption arc will this man have? This shit is hurtful to the BIPOC characters and BIPOC viewers of this show in no small part because white men the world over have a LONG history of using BIPOC people as a means of production and as a means of production alone. If you're unsure about this, please go look up the Transatlantic slave trade. Please go look up the history of colonial indentured labour. Please go look up The British East India Company. Please look up the forced labour regime in the modern prison industrial complex. Please go read a fucking book. And no I'm not saying Carmy is responsible for the slave trade (LMAO please hold fire if this is where your mind is going). I'm saying BIPOC folks carry with us a long ass history, an intergenerational history of this shit. But guess who else does too? White folks. So don't act like they dont.

This shit is also hurtful because we know how respectful Carmy can be. We’ve seen him in seasons 1 & 2. We know he knows what being a practical ally looks like (even if he may not have the language to name what he was doing) when he made sure to bring the staff of The Beef with him to The Bear and invested in them accordingly. We know he loves and respects them, none more so than Sydney. But there were so many times where he did not act like it in season 3. And when folks have got histories - not just personal but cultural too - as long and as loaded as we ALL do, actions account for a lot. What you do is the shorthand for who you are in the world, whether you like it or not.

Ok back to the scene.

Who comes in and simultaneously saves Carmy's ass and ANOTHER of his relationships? Who protects Tina and keeps the kitchen from exploding AGAIN?

Who supervises her sous chef like a fucking pro?

Sydney. Sydney. Sydney.

And who knows that he's in the presence of greatness but doesn't know how to articulate it cos he's not integrated, not by a fucking long shot. Who needs to attend some anti-racism training along with Al-Anon and therapy (so he can get the benefit of understanding his role in this system and get a better understanding of his own mind)?

Yeah you Carmen, you.

Better get on that shit before you lose the woman who is the beat to your whole heart another means of production to a chef who's going to pay her better, give Syd insurance from the jump and total creative control. Just saying.

[ickadori]

++ 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐎/𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈

[summary] endo is takiishi’s ever loyal dog, and by association, yours.

[cws] fem reader. brief mentions of past crimes -> violence, murder, yada yada. endo is into takiishi, not reader. oral -> can be read as dubcon due to endo following orders. cum eating. he’s into it though i swear. unedited.

Endo would have done anything that Takiishi ordered him to—he had done everything that he had ordered him to do, happily. He had done it with a raging fire in his heart and a smile on his face, elated to be of service to the man he revered as a God amongst plebs.

He had stolen for him, beaten for him, betrayed for him, killed for him, clawed out a path for the both of them all the way to the top with his bare fucking hands. Takiishi was a God, and Endo was his most loyal follower, supporter, sheep - he put Moses to fucking shame.

Endo wasn’t so delusional to expect some sort of praise for his unyielding loyalty. He had been following Takiishi for years, and not once had the man uttered a kind word in his direction, but that’s not what Endo sought. He simply wanted to exist in his world, no matter how minor the role. As long as he could continue to be the one to stand by his side, he’d be content till the end of his days.

But then you had come along and fell into step beside Him.

He used to think it’d be just the two of them until the end — Takiishi and Endo. One was never mentioned without the other, and he had found great satisfaction in that fact. He had cemented himself so firmly beside Takiishi that everyone around them saw them as a pair, a duo, a master and his slave, an owner and his pet.

Endo liked to say that he was a bad judge of character, but he was pretty sure that he had you pegged right: Judas.

When push came to shove, you wouldn’t stand beside him. You wouldn’t fight for him, kill for him, die for him. You wouldn’t do the things that Endo had without questioning — you wouldn’t wrap your hands around a throat and squeeze until the person stopped kicking and squirming around, you wouldn’t smile and charm and bed at a moment’s notice to get whatever information or deal he wanted, you wouldn’t take his hits and kicks and bask in the pain, you wouldn’t even lift a finger...and the worst of it all, he wouldn’t ask you to, that’s what he had Endo for.

That’s the downside of being infatuated.

~

“My feet are killing me.”

You sigh as your walk turns stiff, and dutiful as always, Endo bends at knees as he slips an arm around your waist, waiting for you to slip one around the back of his neck in turn before he’s hoisting you up into his arms.

“Thanks, Endo.” You let your head hang back so you can stare up at him, and he doesn’t bother meeting your gaze, his eyes locked onto where Takiishi strides ahead of the both of you, cellphone held up to his ear.

He’s styled in a suit that Endo had the pleasure of picking, and he makes a mental note to tip the tailor a fat wad of cash for shortening the inseam of his slacks like what was requested. The fabric hugs the thick muscles of his thighs and accentuates the curve of his, and Endo’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“...ignoring me again, Endo? That’s not very nice of you.”

“I’m not very nice.”

Takiishi comes to a stop as he nears the exit, and his head turns over his shoulder as his eyes move to you, and then he’s turning back around and stepping through the doors of the building and out onto street.

“Now, I don’t believe that for a second.” A manicured nail begins to trace the tattoo peeking sprouting out from his collar. “I think you’re the nicest guy around.” The both of you join Takiishi outside, and Endo bites down on his tongue at the sudden urge to drop you on your ass. If he was sure that Takiishi wouldn’t gouge his jugular out for doing so he would have done it with no hesitation. “Don’t you think so, Chika?”

“He’s on a call.” Endo finally spares you a glance, your eyes already trained on his, and his upper lip pulls as he breathes out through his nose.

“Nice and considerate.” Your eyes crinkle as you smile.

A sleek, black limousine comes to a stop in front of the three of you, and finally given an excuse to get you out of his arms, Endo puts you on your feet, not bothering to steady you on your feet before he’s striding forward to open the door to the backseat.

His eyes snap to Takiishi’s. “Please, after you.”

Takiishi ushers you forward with a hand on the small of your back, his phone still pressed to his ear as he lowly speaks into the receiver, and Endo’s head turns so he can keep his gaze pinned on him as he climbs in behind you.

He breathes in deep.

Before he can shut the door a hand is snagging hold of his suit jacket, and his lips thin out as he follows the hand up until he’s looking at the way you’re sprawled over Takiishi’s lap to reach him.

“Won’t you sit back here with us? Chika isn’t gonna be any company to me.” You give a pointed look to the phone in his hand, and he uses his other to lay a firm slap against your ass, the sound muted due to the fabric of your dress. You jolt forward, a giddy laugh leaving you, and Endo clicks his tongue.

“I’ll pass, tha—”

“Get in.” Takiishi finally looks at him, gaze unrelenting as it so easily pins him down, and Endo is climbing in and shutting the door before an opposing thought can even form.

That irritating smile stays plastered on your face as you curl into Takiishi’s side, your heels kicked off as your feet stretch across the limousine, painted toes poking at his calves. Endo twitches. You smile wider and let your hand rest against his thigh, and Endo keeps his eyes trained on your face.

He knows what you’re doing - dangling a treat in front of him like you’d do a mutt, and he is a mutt, but not yours, and he can’t trust himself not to bite you in his eagerness to devour what you’re so cruelly offering.

“Chika,” you sigh out, hand sliding up his thigh and over his crotch. “Can I have some attention? Just a little? Please?”

“I can arrange that.” Takiishi’s voice rings out in the car, low, smooth, Endo’s very own symphony. He’s still on the phone, but the direction of the conversation must allow him to speak in entendres. “I doubt you’ll need my full presence to get what you need, right? I can have one of my guys handle it.”

Your smile widens, and Endo gives into his urges, gaze dropping to watch the way your hand works Takiishi over his pants. There’s a tent forming, his cock swelling with blood, desire, lust. Endo licks at his teeth, gaze never straying as he lowers himself to the limousine’s floor. He moves towards you, hands slipping up your calves, but you pull a leg free to plant your foot on his chest.

“While I can’t have his full attention,” your foot slides further up his chest until it rests on his shoulder, “I fully expect yours.” His hand tightens around your leg, and he drags his gaze away from where you’ve begun to lower his pants zipper. “Good boy.”

Your leg hooks and drags him forward, and he lets you, head nestled between your thighs as he works to push your dress up over your hips. You don’t bother helping, keeping your ass right in your seat, and a smirk makes its way to Endo’s lips as he pushes his head further down and sinks his teeth into the skin of your inner thigh.

You yelp and jolt in your seat, giving him just enough room to yank your dress up, and he pulls back just a bit to see the pout on your face.

“Sorry,” he drawls, two fingers moving to hook into the seat of your wet panties. “That wasn’t very nice of me.” He pulls, hard, not caring at the way you wince when the fabric digs into the fat of your hips before giving way under his strength. You huff, eyebrows furrowed, and Endo fixes your legs so they’re spread wide for him and your feet rest on the seat. “Let me make it up to you.”

He’s acutely aware of Takiishi’s gaze on him, and the glutton that he is, he can’t help but to glance over, heart slamming against his ribcage when their eyes connect for a brief moment.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then he’s turning back to the task at hand, gaze falling to the sight between your thighs—oh.

He sucks in a sharp breath.

Your smile is back with a brighter glow.

“Sorry about the mess,” you coo, and saliva pools in Endo’s mouth as he takes in said mess. “Chika doesn’t like to pull out.” A thick stream of creamy cum begins to ooze out of your hole, a hole that’s still gaping from its earlier treatment, and his eyes track its path down your puffy, swollen folds all the way to where it disappears in the crack of your ass and over your puckered hole. “But you don’t mind, right?”

His grin is genuine as his eyes clash with yours.

“Not at all.”

[w2beastars]

Waezi2′s thoughts on “Beast Complex” chapter 23.

I wanted to blog about this gem for a while now. "The Wolf and The Dog" is as Paru as it get.

Meet Adamo.

Adamo is a 61 year old dog, a German shepherd to be specific. And he is a notorious stalker. And he is very good at it, but we will get to that in a minute.

Adamo doesn't think that what he does is creepy. He has an excellent nose and is a born tracker since that's what his family has been bred to be. Yes, even in Beastverse, dogs are a result of selective breeding.

His stalking is not of nefarious reasons as such, he is just obsessed with following animals his nose gets the attention of and learn everything about them for no reason than the satisfaction of the hunt.

But one day, the nose of this old dog catch a very special scent.

On his way home, Adamo notice a female wolf in his train who carries a massive bouquet of flowers with strong pleasant scents. As if she is hiding something. That's something a herbivore would normally do, so this catches Adamo's attention right away. He starts sniffing and learns surprisingly much about her, like that she can't be more than twenty and that she must work in an office filled with females as he can't notice any male scents. And she uses so much makeup and soap, anything to dim her own smell.

In his own mind, Adamo sees himself "painting" the female wolf and he now stalks her to learn everything about her.

Adamo gets sloppy for a second and gets noticed by the wolf. But she apparently doesn't realize he is stalking her, so she just smiles at him and goes on about her business... or her smile is a warning... or perhaps an invitation?

Adamo realize he is much more fixated about this wolf than any other of his targets, spending a month following her around.

It even seems like the old dog starts to have a strong affection towards the female wolf who BTW is named Fasa(appropriate name for her, look it up after reading this blog). She seems like a model citizen, early to bed, early to work and always nice to the elderly.

But in a Paru manga, that's often a red flag.

Adamu gets a closer look at her apartment...

... Damn.

Sure, there are plenty of predators in the Beastverse, but Fasa is an organized one, having chopped up her victim, keeping the different parts in bags in her fridge and eating brain and eyeballs, not wasting anything.

Adamo is shocked by what the female he has a creepy crush on has done and, without thinking, yells something he have not said in a long time:

Yep, Adamo is a retired police detective. No wonder he is such an effective stalker. And seeing someone committing a predator crime wakes up the old cop.

Fasa is however not intimidated by the old fart, she knew she was being watched, she just got sloppy and forgot to close her curtains. She smiles at Adamo when he says he used to be a police officer, recognizing a fellow canine who is a slave to their instincts. Fasa is a slave to her hunting instincts while Adamo is very much a dog, having only joined the police because he is good at tracking and at following orders. And now that he is retired, he keeps tracking other animals because he doesn't know what else to do.

Fasa then embrace Adamo, making the dog terrified as he has no idea if he is gonna end up in the wolf's fridge as well or if she is hugging him since they are "the same".

But then the actual cops comes.

Fasa is surprisingly calm about being arrested, not resisting at all. Feeling guilt about his unhealthy hobby, possibly because he was just reminded that he used to be a cop who arrested creeps like himself, Adamo is about to confess to the police officers that he is a stalker, but Fasa interrupts him.

Fasa claims that Adamo is in her apartment because she had kidnapped him and was about to eat him as well, then whispers to him that they are not similar at all.

... Makes you wonder if that is suppose to be assuring as his stalking is nowhere near as bad a crime as what she has done... or if it is degrading as he as a dog is a pale shadow of what a wolf is.

Either way, she smiles as she tells him to take care of himself, and the manga then ends with a perfect panel:

Adamo stands between the strong-smelling flowers Fasa used to hide the scent of the blood of her victim/victims, like she is covering up for his crime of stalking. The symbolism is chef-kiss worthy!

This is most likely in the top five of the best chapter of Beast Complex. Its a bittersweet tale and it is kinda funny how Fasa manage to appear more noble than Adamo... or at least have more dignity.

That's all for now. I'm Waezi2, and thanks for wasting time with me.

[pamicakery]

₊✩‧₊˚welcome to Pami's Cakery ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Hi! My name is Pami , I am 25 and I am manifesting my dream life during the year of 2024! 🧁

I love scripting, meditating and drawing!

What I want to manifest this year :

🥞Desired apparance (Df & DB)

🍰Be a Model

🥧 Having my desired friends

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚How will I do that?

Mainly focusing on the 4D because the 4d is the real reality. I will post :

Loa related videos

Pinterest and visions board

And what I've learned.

₊✩ MASTER LIST ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

How to manifest Friends

Persisting is key

Manifesting Sp

How to identify with you inner self + ladder experiment

Focusing on 3d

The 4d is a 3d already comformed

How I manifested my trip to Paris

Put logic aside fulfil your inner self

Stop searching for signs

Taking actions is not necessary

How to accept your desire as true

How to manifest good grades

Spiritual burnout

Train your mind

Manifesting and the Bible part 1/2

Manifesting and the Bible part 2/2

Stop desiring start getting

Spiritual burnout

How I manifested my dog

Why are you stuck in the same loop? + use your senses at your advantage

Embrace your godliness

Be comfortable in the uncomfortable

I think I entered the void ⚠️suicide

Video + my take on it (our Human role while manifesting)

How to manifest

You are not trapped ln one reality

Manifesting is a conversation

The universe only knows energy

You don't see it but it exist

How to reprogram your subconscious mind

Loa is exhausting

₊✩‧₊˚౨HOW TO MANIFEST ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Before asking questions, read this and send a ask only if this doesn't answer your doubts.

To manifest you have to stop identify yourself with the 3d. When you are manifesting you start with a state of lack because you desire something. You desire because you don't have it.

You don't have it the 3d will reflect the state of you not having it. You are occupying a state lack.

Your 3d can't reflect a state of being fulfilled if your innerself is occupying a state of lack.

What you need to do is occupying a state of already having your desire.

How to occupy a state?

You occupy a state or a reality by experiencing it with the senses.

When you focus on your 3d (3d of lack) you are ignoring the 4d by experiencing the 3d with your senses. As a result you are occupying a state of lack.

When you focus on your 4d (4d of fulfilment) you are ignoring your 3d by experiencing the 4d with your senses. As a result you are occupying a state of fulfilment.

How to Persist in the new state :

Always go back to that state, occupy that state like a house. Occupy your 4d world. The more your exercice your 4d senses, the more it will be easy to occupy that state.

Don't put logic and don't take actions

Logic doesn't work with imagination. Logic is limitation, in the 4d world you are limitless. You can fly, breath under water. Identify with your true identity, as a limitless person not as a person who is a result of others people assumptions or bad experiences.

Taking action is useless. You can butter your face with the most expensive cream in the world and still having acne because you are occupying a state of having a bad skin. You can diet and work out 8h a day but still be overweight because you are occupying a state of being overweight. Just occupy the state in the 4d because of you want to be slim in the 4d, you are just being it. You don't diet in the 4d, you don't work out in the 4d, you are just being it.

How to ignore the 3d?

Fulfill yourself with the 4d desired state and experience it with your senses. The 3d is a reflection on your inner state.

The inner self will express itself in the 4d :

Your 3d is not your bitch, slave or servant. It's a result of your inner state. When you start to manifest you start with a state of '' wanting it ''. With the inner self wanting it, it means you don't have it. The 3d then will reflect that state of the inner self not having it.

Do the same but with the state of having it.

Living in the end = your 4d's present

Look into your 4d's 3d :

Your 4d is a 3d already conformed to your desired assumption. If you check for validation look here.

You don't need self concept, healing inner child, chakra, stones etc

If you want to feel loved in your 4d, you don't have to heal your inner child to feel loved. You are just being it, by seeing your Sp smiling at you, hearing him telling nice things to you. You are just being it. Your inner self doesn't need all that healing process to be healed. They are just being healed, occupying a state of being healed. So do you.

Glad to help 🩷

[lazythinking]

incase no one else has said it…. YES YES YES on the d/s w art who likes degradation ‼️‼️

i will always ride for my submissive men 🫡

YES! We love subby men around here 🥹

Art is most definitely subby. He probably inches closer and closer to this realisation over the years. By the time he's a veteran of the game, he knows exactly that this is what he needs: to be degraded by you.

It's become such a core component of your relationship now that neither of you can imagine a life without it. Art can get neurotic; he gets scared, he gets anxious, he doesn't know most of the time how to get it out of his head and he is especially prone to bad decisions in this mindset. But after being with Tashi, he's not going to accept your words when all you do is coo and soothe him. He thinks he deserves to be put in his place, to be punished for his behaviour.

It's borderline therapeutic for him when you clutch his face and tell him how bad he's been, playing so awfully. He'lll try to apologise, say that it was only an off day. But you don't accept any excuses. You make him kneel, and he looks up at you with such wide-eyed anticipation, eagerly awaiting the sweet cruelty of his mistress, the press of your heavy heel against his skin.

For you, it's probably a way of regaining control. It’s tough when he’s this famous, and you get relegated to playing the role of the WAG, every other aspect of your life looked over in favour of this one thing. You love Art, don’t get it twisted—but it’s difficult when the media and paparazzi turn your marriage into a spectacle, a distortion of what it is. So this is your little secret, something only you and Art would ever know and the press could never find out. That your husband, the big famous tennis legend, cries and begs for you to be cruel to him. He loves the tenderness in your degradation, how you soothe him as you strike him with your words, reduce him to a sobbing mess with your sultry tone and incessant scolding. You press down against the dip in his chest that connects his pecs to his abs, firmly and slowly, the pressure exerted making him gasp; he knows that this is it: that he belongs under your boot.

And equally important is what happens when you wipe him clean and cradle him to slumber. Aftercare is not a bonus. It’s the second part of the package, and an essential part at that. Sometimes, Art cries harder when you hold him and tell him it’s okay than he does during your D/S scenes. It’s the same logic as his tennis training sessions, really. He just needs to be pushed to his limits, to be tested to new heights, and to be told how well he’s done afterwards, that he’s made it to the end. He sobs like a child in your arms when you let him lay on your chest, but you know that they’re only tears of joy and relief, because this is it for both of you. Art is everything to you: your dog, your slave, your servant, your husband, your lover, your soulmate, your other half. He has to be all these things, none of it is negotiable, and you’re so accepting of all of it that he can only weep in happiness that he has you. This is how he loves, and it is how you love, too.

[wri0thesley]

canicular - yandere kaveh x fem!reader x yandere alhaitham (6.8k)

it's a tough lesson to learn.

cw: yandere. mentions of past dub-con, non-con (non-explicit), physical punishment. abuse. reader is referred to by feminine pronouns.

this was a commissioned work.

If there is one thing you are not short on, it is time.

Though Alhaitham provides what he thinks are stimulating ways to pass your existence, you do not often feel inclined to read the thick tomes of Sumeru history or ancient language studies that he leaves on the table for you. Nor do you have any inclination towards the other hobbies he has tried to get you to pick up, in order to keep your hands busy and your brain exercised - what desire have you to do a jigsaw puzzle or a book of word games when you feel like a caged tiger, pacing uselessly back and forth with no end in sight?

Kaveh, at least, tries to get you to occupy your long hours with things that are transporting. His own pencils and papers and paints (a sad smile on his face when he caresses your cheek and sighs and says ‘why don’t you try drawing where you would rather be?’). Alhaitham tries to improve you; to mould you into what he expects you to be and what he wants you to be and what he thinks you ought to be.

Kaveh, at least, sees you as something human, with human needs and human feelings and human wants. Wants that are not half an hour of cursory sunshine so you do not develop a Vitamin D deficiency, not a meal chosen entirely for nutritional properties and not how it might taste in your mouth (Alhaitham is not a cook - you always prefer Kaveh’s meals, though the Scribe clicks his tongue and says things about how there’s no health benefits to the nostalgic desserts that Kaveh tries to get Alhaitham to let him make for you).

Kaveh sees in you the human need for companionship and sympathy and something other than Alhaitham’s blank face when you rage at him and sob and pound on his chest and demand he let you go home. Something other than Alhaitham’s insistence that this is better for you; that he is a good master, that your life is simpler and more suitable now, that he is simply putting the world to rights by taking you as his-- his pet, his dog, his slave, his lover--

What are you truly, again? Other, of course, than his?

In lieu of being Alhaitham’s dog in need of training, when you can, you gravitate to the architect - who wouldn’t, when your other option is a man who watches you cry and replies only with: “And what are you hoping to gain from your tears, exactly?”? And Kaveh, in return, gives you his own sympathy and his sighs and a stroke of your hair that has no hidden meaning at all, you’re sure, but his desire to comfort.

If sometimes you let him take you, after all of the comfort - if you spread your legs for him and sigh and nose against his neck and murmur soft sweet appreciation - that is neither here nor there. You have such precious little opportunity to make decisions for yourself, so why should you not? You tell yourself fiercely, with your mouth wine-stained with Kaveh’s lips, that you would make the same decision were you not a prisoner. Kaveh is the kind of man you would have sought out for yourself, you decide. And he never takes advantage; never makes the first move, waits for your sniffles and hesitant kisses and shaking hand as it traces the elegant line of his collarbone.

But Kaveh is not always home. Kaveh goes into the desert, works for weeks on a project somewhere else in Sumeru wherever his architectural genius is summoned, and leaves you to the untender mercies of the man who caused all of the heartache in the first place.

Alhaitham is never later than ten minutes after work (and on those occasions, his normally calm face has a twitch of fury about it). He never forgets what time he has set your meals for, never forgives an order that has gone unfulfilled (and you have the marks over buttocks and thigh and back to prove that), never lets you answer back or skip out on one of his ordained rituals for your health. He is a constant; a knife that carves out your life, ever sharpened and ever ready.

You practically throw yourself at Kaveh when he returns, if you have been alone with Alhaitham too long. Bury your head in his neck and sigh about how you missed him the moment that you can get him alone, smile and thank him with earnest words when he produces some treasure he saw whilst he was out and about and gifts it to you (they are never lavish gifts; Kaveh does not have the Mora to spare. But a fresh Zaytun peach or a Sumeru Rose plucked from the wildest parts of your nation is a treasure to you nonetheless, when your life is a narrow square of home-and-garden you are not permitted to leave).

. . . It is easier to force yourself not to notice the way Kaveh’s golden eyes catch yours after the gift, as if he is waiting for and expecting the kiss that you press onto his lips as a thanks that never seems to end at just a kiss.

Kaveh’s comforts do not come often enough, in your opinion. Certainly their number does not match up to that of Alhaitham’s firm commands - his lips on yours, his hand on the top of your head forcing you to your knees, his insistent quizzing on the book he left for you today that you have not so much glanced at, his carefully marked schedules of when you should eat and when your period is due and all of the other minutiae of life you had never stopped too long to consider before.

In the past, you had not needed to dwell on these things. You had daydreamed some, of course, of some loving faceless significant other who might hand-feed you slices of Harra Fruit and write you poetry and curl against you until you felt like the two of you were one - but you had always had faith that this would come for you. Perhaps when you least expected it, a fanciful fairytale dropped from the sky into your waiting lap--

You had not reckoned on Alhaitham.

If nothing else, he has provided you with plenty of hours to daydream. An endless yawning, stretching chasm of a future that you try to fill with the paints Kaveh brings you, with constant machinations about an escape route. Sometimes when you imagine leaving, you are hand in hand with a blond man with a smile like a fresh flower blooming, feather haphazardly stuck in his hair, a promise to somehow find enough Mora to build a pretty little cottage in the middle of nowhere where one does not have to worry about stern silver-haired scholars.

You have the time.

Summer in Sumeru is difficult at the best of times. Under Alhaitham’s captivity (you never think of it as Alhaitham-and-Kaveh, so certain are you that the architect would free you if only Alhaitham were not in the picture), it is even worse. You can no longer open the door and stroll out into the Grand Bazaar, where the air is darker and cooler. You can no longer stop off at some merchant or another to buy a cool treat, take a dip in one of the lakes if you so feel like it - all you can do is try and find the shadiest spot in the locked house, lie upon your back and wish for a breeze or two.

“You shouldn’t stay there all day,” Alhaitham says, reproach evident in his voice, when he comes home at seven minutes past five in the afternoon like he always does. “Your muscles will atrophy.”

You sigh in response, long used to the fact that if you argue he will twist your words around until you’re sure of nothing - if you argue too much, you’ll lose some other privilege you hadn’t realised was a privilege until Alhaitham had taken it away.

(Once it had been hot water that you’d had removed, and Alhaitham had stood in the bathroom with you as cold water drenched your hair and your body and gooseflesh broke out along your skin, his face unmoving despite your nakedness. You know that he does, at least, hold some attraction to your naked form - the fact he had not let even a flicker of desire cross his face as you shivered and shuddered there was testament to his insistence you must learn your place. Actually, though, right now, you do not think a cold shower would be a punishment. It sounds rather nice, even if Alhaitham is there to watch you with calm inexpressive eyes.)

“It would be cruel,” you say instead, “to leave a dog in these conditions all day.”

He prefers this kind of reasoning; a debate, and not an argument. If you stay calm and even and you appeal to logic, you might have a chance of survival.

“There are some folding-fans in one of the drawers,” he says. “A present from one of the Inazuman clients Kaveh worked for, I think.”

“Surely they would just blow hot air back in my face?” You ask him. He considers for a moment, looking at you on the floor where you have not moved. You are in one of the loose robe-like garments you are permitted to wear around the house (far less chance of you trying to escape, Alhaitham reasons, if you feel indecent - he has not bargained on the fact that at this point you would run naked through Sumeru City if it means breaking out of his oppressive regime), thighs bare, neckline pulled as far apart as it can go so what little air there is can touch your sweat slicked skin.

“What would you prefer?” He asks, with a note of warning in his voice that most people would not pick up on. You must tread carefully.

“Leave the window open a crack,” you suggest. “Not enough for me to get out. Just . . . enough for a breeze. So that I don’t feel the air around me is pushing down on me until I suffocate.”

“Hyperbole,” he says. “You cannot suffocate on air.”

You bite your tongue. The request shimmers in the air for a few moments, a tangible thing - Alhaitham weighs up the pros and the cons.

“No,” he says, and the thread of hope you hadn’t realised you were holding snaps. “Not whilst I’m out. Not whilst nobody is here to watch you.”

Any response you might have made dies on your lips as a key clatters in the door and it opens, a long-limbed elegant body tumbling through in record time. Kaveh always enters like this; as if he is afraid that if he takes longer than a moment, shouts will rise up around Sumeru City and mock him and his secret will be splashed across every noticeboard in town. Kaveh pretends he does not live here, because he is an important man who should be doing better. You pretend you do not live there because you are still holding your own home in your heart - your own garden of flowers and fruits, your own shelf of books and your own hobbies and things strewn across surfaces.

Alhaitham does not pretend; he merely avoids speaking to anyone about his home life. You had been as surprised as him when Kaveh had unlocked his door and walked in to see what the thumping and muffled noises emanating from Alhaitham’s room were, and had come across you. Alhaitham had not mentioned a roommate to you even before your captivity, and Alhaitham had not mentioned a pet human to Kaveh at any point in time or given any indication this was the kind of thing he would do.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Kaveh had said, immediately upon seeing you, crouching down next to you, his hand hovering by the gag wedged into your mouth. “I . . . did Alhaitham do this to you?”

You’d nodded tearfully, and Kaveh’s eyebrows had knitted into sympathy. You recognised him only vaguely, but you did at least see the emotions flittering across his handsome, open face - so much more than you’d ever gotten from Alhaitham. Even when he’d unceremoniously locked you in his bedroom and you’d screamed yourself hoarse into a gag and rubbed your wrists sore on the rope, Alhaitham had done nothing more than raise an unimpressed eyebrow at you.

“I’m going to take the gag away,” Kaveh had said to you, at the time. “Please don’t scream.”

He had been so earnest in the request, and you had been so grateful to see somebody who was not Alhaitham and was clearly properly horrified by your predicament and was not treating it like it was perfectly normal, that you had nodded. Calm, clever fingers had worked beneath the wedge of cotton in your mouth and pried it spit-slicked from between your lips.

“Can you speak?” He’d asked, and when you’d tried and you had not managed to get out more than a wheeze he had fetched you a glass of water and held it to your parched lips.

“I can’t untie you,” he’d said, helplessly, his gold eyes flitting to where the ropes had rubbed you raw. “Alhaitham would be . . . unhappy with me. But maybe I could try and loosen them? Move them higher up, so I can take care of the blood?”

You had thought that he must be some other prisoner of Alhaitham’s, back then. As he’d given you more sips of water and you’d hiccuped and grated out some of the story that had lead you here, and he’d nodded and made soft little noises of horror and understanding, as he’d cleaned the wounds and commiserate with you over what a brute Alhaitham was, even to him, the Scribe’s senior. He’d knuckled your bruises away so gently that you’d cried more, and admitted to him that you feared you would never feel a tender touch again.

“You poor thing,” Kaveh had repeated, looking at you with those pools of molten gold. “Don’t worry. You and I are comrades in arms. We’ll take care of one another as best we can.”

You know now that Kaveh’s predicament is not quite the same as yours - partly based on Kaveh’s own stubbornness and pride, instead of the unmoving unrelenting coldness of Alhaitham instead. But that first night, he firmly positioned himself as an ally. Had argued with Alhaitham when the Scribe had come back about how he could not gag you, could not tie you so tightly, could not leave you waterless and foodless in his bedroom all day. A knight in shining armour, you had thought - and the first thing you had done when your bonds were finally loosened was wrap your arms about the surprised blond and thank him.

“Anyone would have done the same,” he’d said, as you’d sobbed into his shoulder and Alhaitham had watched, lip curled at the corner, face unreadable. “Anyone with a heart.”

He’d held the embrace just a little too long.

“You’re home,” you say to Kaveh, back in the present, and you smile at him, a trembling, wavering thing. Sweat is beading on your brow. The brief rush of cool air that Kaveh lets in is a welcome change, and Alhaitham sighs as he walks towards the window. You notice which drawer he goes into - the tiny key that he produces from one of Kaveh’s many cubby-holes on the architect’s desk. Amongst rulers and tiny screwdrivers and silver-flashing scissors. Alhaitham allows the window to open the smallest crack - the one that looks out only into the garden, so nobody passing by might hear voices they do not expect coming from a house they know belongs to Alhaitham.

“I am,” he says, with a smile. “I brought you a present.”

“You’re spoiling her,” Alhaitham says mildly, as you turn your head to Kaveh. You hear the drawer click; another key turn. It is never so simple as ‘get a key from a drawer’. Alhaitham is not so foolish. “What has she done to deserve a present?”

“You don’t have to do things,” Kaveh argues. “It’s nice to have nice things!” You see now that he is holding a small bowl, the kind that the food stalls give out with food bought to travel with - he walks towards you with a smile on his face and holds it out. Inside of the little pale brown half-moon of a bowl are three scoops of some kind of frozen treat, and your mouth waters. You finally move from your spot on the floor to reach out for it.

“Say ‘thank you’,” Alhaitham says sharply, before your hands can close around it. “Or I’ll have it myself. No doubt he paid for it on my tab.”

Kaveh glares at him from under his pale brows but does not argue - you, with your throat dry and hot, babble out thanks to Kaveh and reach out again. Alhaitham clicks his tongue once more.

“Wait,” he tells you, command in his voice. “You’re not even going to ask me if you can have it?”

“Alhaitham--”

“She has to learn,” his voice is final, a rough lightning strike through the room, a man who has never wavered in his convictions. “A disobedient animal is no better than a wild one.”

“Please,” you say to Alhaitham, sensing that arguments are brewing, that tension is crackling. “Please may I have it.”

Green eyes catch yours and leave you hanging desperately and wordlessly for a moment. You dare not move. You wonder if he’s going to bring up you asking about the window, and use that as an excuse - or perhaps what a waste you’ve made of the day, how you should have made yourself move from the cool floorboards like you’re supposed to. You cannot breathe.

Alhaitham gives a wordless nod as he turns on his heel.

“I’m going to get out of my work clothes,” he says. “Have a cold shower. Make sure you behave, and we’ll go into the garden at dusk when it’s cooler.”

Shoulders untense. Kaveh smiles at you and holds out the bowl again. Your mouth waters as you reach for it - you barely notice that Kaveh does not relinquish the hold of his long fingers upon it until you’ve kissed him on the cheek and let him kiss you softly on the mouth in return. It does not seem important.

His own mouth tastes like the dessert, too. He did not have to wait to be brought it by some kind, sympathetic soul. He could have had as many servings as he liked.

You savour every spoonful.

You know your way around the house. You have earnt freedoms to be allowed to wander it at will - if you want to, you can go into the kitchen and fetch yourself something to eat (Alhaitham encourages that, in fact - as long as it is that you’re eating one of his approved foods). You can choose from the many tomes that line the walls, can sit in the living room or the study or on Alhaitham’s desk chair if that’s where you wish to be.

You cannot leave, of course.

Golden locks mock you wherever you look; some intricate, some simple, but none with a key you possess. You’ve seen Alhaitham with two keys to the front door - a cruel joke, when you are not even permitted one. The keys to the windows, to Alhaitham’s desk itself, to all of the drawers and the places you are not allowed to look sit side by side on Alhaitham’s keyring like sentinels guarding you from freedom.

You think about the open window, when Alhaitham cracks it just a little when he comes home. Stand by it and try and get some breeze; strain to hear the voices that are very far away, wondering what’s going on in the life you have abandoned like a missing jigsaw puzzle piece. Has the mould you had been battling with, beneath your own bedroom window, finally beaten you? The spider that dwells in your darkest bathroom corner started a family? Has post piled up on your doormat - letters that will go unanswered for who knows how long?

You have only one hiding place. One loose floorboard, in the very corner of Alhaitham’s room - Kaveh doesn’t go in there often, or you’re certain the architect would have noticed it. You keep some trinkets in there - a dried flower Kaveh had once put in your hair, a necklace he had given you made of cheap beads that he’d bought from some do-gooder selling them for charity.

(Alhaitham had seen you wearing it and pursed his lip; later on that night, when he’d taken you into the shower to wash your hair, he had unclipped it and dropped it into the wastepaper bin.

“It doesn’t suit you,” he’d said. “It will just break and the beads will scatter everywhere. There’s no reason to be giving you any presents right now.”

Whilst you’re sure he meant all of those things too, there’d been something else running through the current of his words; I don’t want you to wear anything that I don’t pick out for you. You’re mine, and if anyone were to collar you . . . it would be me.)

And, your greatest treasures of all - loose Mora, left about the house by Alhaitham and Kaveh. Alhaitham is always complaining about Kaveh dusting and tidying and moving money and not telling him where it has gone - sighing over Kaveh not paying enough attention to things. The idea that you would take it does not cross his mind. He doesn’t know about your hiding spot, so in his mind you’d have nowhere to keep it--

But, too, there is this.

You stay in his home all day, a mostly well-behaved prisoner. He provides you with nutrition and food and clothes. He provides you with attention (whether you want it or not). You have nowhere to go, nothing to buy, and not a single reason to have even a coin to yourself. What would you do with Mora?

It is one of the places his rationality fails him.

In both small and large denominations, you have more than enough Mora to make it to Liyue, Mondstadt, and far away from Sumeru stashed away on a boat to the island nation of Inazuma, where even Alhaitham (you’re certain) could not drag you from your new life.

Kaveh is the one who gives you the opening, in the end. He and Alhaitham have an argument in the early morning - from your position wrapped in Alhaitham’s sheet, you half-listen. It’s about you. It often is. Kaveh is trying to argue with Alhaitham about how he should be allowed to take you out with him into the garden in the morning, that the one half-hour of sunlight is not enough and perhaps you and Kaveh could even cultivate a little flower-patch out there, to give you something to do--

It’s a well-worn argument, one that Alhaitham always wins. Kaveh is not responsible enough to be in sole charge of you outside, Alhaitham says. He spoils you too much. You smile into your pillow as you imagine that little cottage once more, of tending to a garden with Kaveh--

Kaveh slams the door on the way out. Alhaitham comes back to you to rouse you from bed, sighing over Kaveh, scolding you for not getting up yourself - he, too, is distracted by the argument, and that distraction does not ease. He is working from home today, he tells you, so the window can be cracked all day.

At seven in the evening, the window has still not been closed, and Alhaitham has pulled you onto his lap to read with you perched there. At eight in the evening, Alhaitham grits his teeth that Kaveh hasn’t come back yet and tells you he is going to the tavern to drag his ungrateful roommate home--

And he leaves with the window still cracked.

At quarter past eight, Kaveh is dragged into the room smelling of wine and Alhaitham follows him in, sullen as ever. He still does not notice the cracked open window, as he drags Kaveh into the bathroom and commands him to brush his teeth, to splash himself with cold water and pull himself together.

The window has not been seen to. The drawer that he had put the window key back into remains unlocked.

When Alhaitham returns to the main room, you pretend to be worried over him. You ask if there’s anything you can do, framing it as a kind of shaking fear the Scribe may take out his frustrations on you, and you let Alhaitham take you into his bedroom to work off the stress.

You stare into the empty space behind his shoulder while he’s inside of you and think about slipping through the open window and out into the world again.

The next morning, Alhaitham chances a gaze at the window and nods to himself when he sees it - for all intents and purposes, locked. You’d shimmied the frame up painstakingly slowly last night when you’d murmured about needing the bathroom, hoping he wouldn’t remember. He’d grumbled in his sleep but had not protested.

He leaves the same time he always does - Kaveh, slumped in his own bedroom from the hangover, stays where he is.

And you hold the unlocked window like a secret flame in the candle of your heart.

You still do not dare do anything until an hour after Alhaitham has left, terrified that he will return and you will be punished horribly for daring to think escape would be possible. But as time ticks on, and the sun rises higher in the sky, you begin to convince yourself that this is all going to be fine.

You go into the living room and to the window. It leads out into the garden, but that is fine; you can scale a fence. That is no difficult task after everything else you’ve been through. You test it, wiggling it open just a crack, and a light breeze hits your heated face as excitement begins to rise in your bones.

Back into Alhaitham’s rooms to go beneath the floorboards and take your little pouch of Mora, heavy in your hand as you tie it with cord around your waist. You do not have a bag, and your flimsy robe has no pockets - but those are things to be thought of later. Perhaps you will take some well-worn dress from a washing line, where it dries in the wind. Perhaps you can spare a few coins for something that does not show off the ample curves of your body so much. You can allow yourself, now, to think of those things.

Content, you open the window wider. You let yourself linger there in front of the window for longer, fresh air on your face and the promise of escape playing a siren’s melody. This time tomorrow, you will be free.

You look towards Kaveh’s bedroom and smile.

So will he.

All of those dreams you’ve had can be made reality; you will both find yourself out from beneath Alhaitham’s thumb with a future stretching ahead of you, together. You can repay Kaveh for his kindness - can sometimes be the one to bring him a gift of flowers or fruits or a beautiful leaf on the ground. You can walk hand in hand with him and this will be but a distant memory.

You rap softly on his door.

“Kaveh?” You call into the crack of the hinge. “Are you awake?”

Kaveh mumbles your name. Stirring from within his room, as he moves about it, a murmured response that he’ll be out as soon as he’s decent - you can barely wait. Unrestrained tension fizzes through all of your veins, excitement and pleasure and anticipation. You let yourself imagine him boosting you out of the window, both of you laughing as you tumble onto the grass beneath the windowsill--

His door opens and he stands there, dark shadows beneath his eyes and his hair more ruffled than usual but the kind smile that you have grown so fond of firmly on his face.

“I have something to show you,” you tell him, tugging his arm. “Come on, come with me!”

“Is it a new painting?” He asks, mildly, letting himself be dragged along with that smile still on his face. “Ah, have you found another lovely tale in one of those books you want to read to me? I do adore you, you know--”

You pull him into the living room and, with a bright, optimistic look on your face, motion to the wide-open window where the wispy white curtains are fluttering in the breeze.

Kaveh does not speak for a time.

He swallows.

You can see his thoughts racing behind his eyes and you mistake them for fear; trepidation of a life with nothing. But that’s alright; you have made provisions for such things!

You jingle the Mora, as those sharp golden eyes move from you to the window and back again.

You give him a hopeful smile, all bright eyes and idealism that you’ve always thought he’d share with you. Freedom calls; a life away from Alhaitham. “We can leave,” you say. “We can go out through the window! A whole future, Kaveh, together--!”

Kaveh is still not smiling back at you.

“I--I’ve thought of everything,” you say, falling over your words as Kaveh does not immediately fall upon your open escape route. “We can go to Inazuma, I have enough Mora, we can put as much distance between us as possible and you . . . architects are needed everywhere, we might have to sleep rough a while and I know you’re not that used to it and it might seem scary but we could get a little cottage together and a g-garden and . . .”

You tail off as Kaveh’s gaze stays trained on you, pitying, sympathetic. He should be delighted. He should be pleased. He’s looking at you the way that Alhaitham looks at him, when Kaveh gets started on one of his talks about how everyone in the world is good at their core. You have always agreed with him - mostly.

(“Present company excluded,” Kaveh had said once, waving a hand, wine glass in his grasp, at Alhaitham. You had laughed, and Alhaitham had made you bend over his knee and spanked you hard upon your rear ten times as Kaveh silently watched).

“Stay calm,” Kaveh says softly. “Step away from the window, darling. Let’s talk about this instead.”

Dawning comprehension settles about you like the hot summer air.

It seems a foolish thing not to have realised before all of this - you suppose, in Kaveh’s sweet soft smiles and cooing gentle voice and his whirlwind way of coming and going, you have never stopped to think about it. Your voice comes out dry as old paper.

“You’ve had a key the whole time.”

“I live here,” he says. “Surely you realised I’d have to let myself in and out--”

“You could have let me go any time.” Your tone is flat. Kaveh looks at you, anguished, and a thousand thoughts flit into your mind - a thousand times he could have just unlocked the door and held your hand and the two of you could have walked out of the house and you could have walked right out of Alhaitham’s grasp. Instead, he had given you fruits and trinkets like you were supposed to be grateful and taken the reward of your gratitude in hungry kisses and the press of his body upon yours--

“No, darling,” he’s trying to soothe you. “I couldn’t have - you know what Alhaitham has over me, you know that he could ruin my life - I’m just as much a prisoner as you, really--”

The earnestness in his voice could almost make you forgive him. It has, in the past - when he’s knitted his brow and said of course he can’t let you out of the cage, but he’ll make it up to you when Alhaitham lets you out. You’ve written off things like that before.

No longer. Not with the window fully open, not with escape beckoning you.

“Then leave with me,” you repeat, shaking. “Come out of the window. We’ll get out of Sumeru, we’ll go somewhere nobody even cares about the Akademiya, somewhere he won’t reach--”

The bag full of stolen Mora tied about your waist feels heavy, jingling on your hip. Your throat is dry. The robe you are permitted to wear suddenly feels all the flimsier, all the more embarrassing to be seen in, full thighs on display and the curve of your chest far too revealed.

“Don’t,” he says, softly, moving towards you. He places his hands up, palms facing you, like soothing a wild animal likely to flee. “You know that wouldn’t work. You know he’d find you.”

(You, he says. Not ‘us’.)

“Kaveh!” Dreams of that little cottage and a little life slip through your fingers like grains of sand. “Don’t-- don’t you care about me? Do you want me to die here?”

“Of course I do.” He’s closer now. Your shoulders shake, lip trembling. He reaches out for you, fingers brushing your cheek. “Of course I don’t. We take good care of you. Better care than you might have gotten, before. Have I ever hurt you?”

You want to scream. You’re hurting me now!

“Alhaitham has,” you whisper. “And you . . . you’ve never stopped him.”

You’re crying, you realise, as Kaveh’s face turns into concern and he wipes a tear away.

“I can’t,” he says, with a soft little sigh like he is the injured party. “If he threw me out . . .”

“You don’t want to leave.” You try to keep your voice flat, but it cracks on the ‘want’. You want, you want, you want - and from Kaveh’s kisses, from his murmurs and his gifts and his indulgence of ‘draw the place you wish you could be’, you had always thought that he wanted too.

“I have a reputation,” he replies, steadfast. “My architecture, my name, all of the things I worked hard on--”

He doesn’t say anything about your achievements. He’d smiled at your little drawings and said how talented you were, he’d sighed over how pretty you were and how much of an inspiration you were, looked at you with such warmth in his eyes as he’d listened to you talk about your dreams and all of those little romantic fantasies you kept cherished in your heart and had thought that, perhaps, he would understand--

But now? He says nothing. As if you do not exist outside of this prison.

He thinks himself far more important than you.

“I just want some freedom,” you whisper, your face wet, your throat dry, your body feeling pulled in all ways at once. You had never envisioned that Kaveh would be like this - in all of your daydreams, he had gone willingly with you. You chide yourself now, for your own foolish romanticism - but you cannot let go of nights spent in this house with only Kaveh for comfort. “I just want a life.”

“We take care of you,” Kaveh says in a voice that sounds like a beg. “Alhaitham’s right, you’d never have lasted alone out there--”

“I was d-doing just fine.” Tears clog up your throat like ice.

“Were you?” He asks, quietly. His hand on your face feels like a brand, as he rubs his thumb over your lip and sighs, as he pulls back with a strand of your hair twirled around his finger. “Darling. The world chews up and spits out people like us, sometimes. I just want you to be safe--”

“I’m nothing like you,” you say to him, trying to be strong and failing miserably with every tremulous syllable. “We’re nothing alike, Kaveh. I would have been out of this window the moment it was opened, if we were in one another’s shoes.”

“No,” he says, and his voice is still disgustingly tender. “No, you wouldn’t. You’d see that you’re too fragile, too romantic and too lovely and too idealistic to survive for much longer. You’d see that this is the best option for you.”

“Alhaitham says you’re an idealist,” you whisper bitterly. “A romanticist. Just like me.”

Kaveh sighs.

“This could have been you,” you continue, stubbornly, bitterly, wildly grasping for something to say that could hurt even a fraction of how your heart has shattered. “In another world, you’d be where I am, and you wouldn’t be saying those things to yourself--”

Kaveh looks at you and seems to understand a kind word will not fix this; a stroke of your hair, a hidden treat. He heaves a sigh and shakes his head, instead.

“I’m going to close the window.”

You don’t reply. You stand like a statue, silent, as Kaveh walks to the window, reaches for the frame to pull it back up into position. Your future trickles out of your fingers like sand through an hourglass. The cottage is reduced to rubble by lightning storms, the flower garden does not grow, and the blond man beside you in your dreams becomes as grasping and hungry and monstrous as any nightmare has ever been.

The door clicks open once again. A voice calls out;

“I forgot to bring anything for lunch,”

And then Alhaitham walks in.

His eyes quickly take in the scene before him - you, and Kaveh, and the window that has not yet been closed.

“You forgot to close it last night,” Kaveh says, without turning around. “She wants me to leave with her.”

“And so? What will you do now, Kaveh?” Alhaitham’s voice is clipped. The question hovers in mid-air. Kaveh lets out a huff of breath through his nose, and for one horrible, glorious moment you think he is about to break and come back to your side--

“Close the window,” Kaveh replies instead. “Lock it.”

You stare at Alhaitham - as the Scribe’s lips press together and curve, in a satisfied smile. You wonder if the shattering of your heart is an audible thing, or if it simply sounds that loud in your head. The window lock clicks with a finality that makes you want to throw up.

“Good,” he says. And then he turns his attention back to you, as Kaveh moves across the room to stand just to one side of him. Kaveh’s golden eyes are apologetic - but it is not enough. Your heart has been pulled out of you and trampled upon and there is no coming back from this - no number of peaches or soft kisses or reassurances whispered into your hair that will make you ever think of him as a reprieve.

Perhaps he’s worse. At least Alhaitham does not try and hide behind anything.

You have no friends here. Just two men who, in the end, want the same thing from you.

“You understand I’m going to have to punish you?” Alhaitham asks, and his tone is reassuring in its sharpness. “Trying to run . . . when all I’m doing is giving you the best life you could possibly get?”

“I understand,” you say, exhausted. Kaveh tilts his head to one side and puts on the face that you now know is a mask; concern and worry and pity. You see your future laid bare before you like one of Kaveh’s blueprints. The summer heat seems a visible thing once more - or perhaps that’s your own anger, coalescing, at the fact Kaveh has the nerve to look compassionate.

Later on that evening, when the welts on the back of your thighs sting and you’ve been divested of even the flimsiest garment, when Alhaitham has retired to bed with his door wide open and you curl on the thin blanket of the cage that Alhaitham only uses for the very worst infractions, you slip into fitful nightmares of keys clicking in locks and lion keychains and golden-eyed masks that only lie. The summer night is no cooler. You wake up in the early morning light, golden shafts with dust motes dancing, and you see that in the night the architect has brought you a peace offering.

A small bowl sits beside the cage. The bars are just wide enough for you to reach a hand out (how many nights, in the past, has Kaveh curled his littlest finger around yours whilst you sobbed over the indignity of it?). You could take the spoon sticking out of the bowl and bring mouthfuls of the frozen dessert to your lips, letting it soften and thaw on your tongue, savouring the refreshing coldness of the treat.

You do not.

Instead, you simply sit there, caged, and you watch it melt into liquid drop by drop by drop.

[sxulcxtcher]

"𝑺𝒆𝒙, 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒚, 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒅𝒊𝒆. "

♡= smut ☆= specific character ◇=angst/comfort 

◇☆Simon Riley angst/comfort 

♡edging a sub

♡Breaking and breeding a sub in a brothel

♡breaking a demon sub

♡fuck the police

♡Hunting n' chasing 

♡the live stream 

♡cute sex slave

♡Fucking your assistant

♡cute office pet

♡yandere recruit 

♡fucking your therapist 

♡aphrodisiac on your sub

♡bunny hybrid sub

♡sex is like a quarter 

♡tentacle breeding a sub 

♡fucking a beast kin

♡pillow princess sub

♡Sub doing the cowboy hat rule

♡fucking a sub in their jacket

♡experiment gone wrong

♡those flowers smell strange

♡sub who worships you

♡leaving the sub bruised and broken

♡being treated like a dog  

♡clicker training your hybrid

♡over stimulating a sub

♡making them take it

♡surprising a sub

♡enemy sub edging themselves

♡Netflix and nekos

♡making them feral

♡making a subs voice crack

♡sub giving you sloppy head

♡getting a sub off over the phone

♡fucking the bartender

♡torturing a sub

♡tutoring a quiet sub

♡corrupting a angel sub

♡fucking a sub in a church

◇pity

♡fucking Florida man sub

♡just ruining a sub

♡dom dragon hybrid

♡fucking a plushie obsessed sub

♡loyal servant sub

♡fucking a sub in a headlock

[whumpshaped]

whumpee whos been trained and conditioned to have one single purpose. and then has that purpose taken away

a pet who lost its owner

a slave who lost their master

a weapon that lost its wielder

unused/discarded human furniture

guard dog that lost its charge

bonus: caretaker whose only purpose was caring for whumpee but whumpee is now independent. or worse

[forwhump]

a/n; this one’s pretty fucked up :-; more rape & more murder but it’s a story about a sex slave & a weapon so that’s just kinda what you get ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ my bad !

tw/cw: rape, noncon, mutilation, dismemberment, decapitation, murder, grievous bodily harm, misgendering, transphobia, psychological torture, urine, gore, bodily fluids

living weapon whumpee, multiple whumpers, revenge, military

There has not been a time, since his creation, that Silas has been above ground.

Everything that’s been done to him, everything that he’s done, it’s happened hundreds of feet below the ground in the concrete labyrinth of the district. Every surgery, every slaughter, every field test.

Even the fuckin’ field tests. The field tests are training exercises, combat training, but they don’t trust Silas above ground to participate in them. They’re probably right not to. They’re smarter, sometimes, than Silas will ever give them credit for.

Within the labyrinth there are these arenas, these massive, open spaces made up to look like a world Silas has never seen. There’s a number of them, made to look like different practical terrain; forests and deserts and small villages and mountains and cities. It would be impossible for Silas to fathom if he ever had the time or the means to sit and try and fathom it. He’d almost think he left the district were it not for the concrete sky, hundreds of feet above his head.

He didn’t always mind the field tests. It was a chance to stretch his legs. The enemy was always played by military recruits, young and green. Silas isn’t sure if they know what they’re getting into when they enter the arena, if they are briefed on exactly what Silas is, but none of them ever walk out again. Their grieving families will bury a flag and a handful of teeth on Silas’ most generous day.

Barbarity is encouraged. Bloodshed is lauded. It’s always a slaughter, but it’s expected of him. It’s always been a good way to blow off some steam, even if he never walks away unscathed. He gets to use his hands.

But the rules had changed since they’d taken Wren from him.

The rules have been the same for every field test so far — kill or be killed. The recruits get weapons and machinery and supplies and dogs; Silas doesn’t even get a shirt. He gets a pair of prison grey joggers and his own two hands. Kill or be killed.

They didn’t tell him they’d added civilians.

He doesn’t realize that anything’s wrong for an entire three days. He soldiers through the rainforest arena and kills recruits with tooth and talon. When the lights get shut down for the third night, nighttime in the wilderness, Silas has become that thing the field tests always stoke to life in him; Silas isn’t human anymore. It slides under his skin, that feral, rabid thing, and it rips limbs from screaming bodies, it peels skin back with his teeth. When the lights get shut down for the third night, Silas’ hair is glued to his back and his throat with the thick layer of blood that crusts his skin. None of it is his own. Not a single recruit had gotten a single shot in yet. It was going exceptionally well. Silas should have been suspicious.

He should’ve fuckin’ known. He should’ve done better. He should’ve been faster. When he finally sees Wren again, his Wren, bathed in the flickering firelight of the enemy camp, all the human parts of him are reignited with a screaming rage and a sort of guilt that makes Silas feel heavy. He should’ve known something was wrong. He should’ve been here three days ago.

The surviving soldiers are set up around the fire, cocky and comfortable. Wren’s in the dirt at their feet.

Fuck, Silas had missed him. Silas had missed him in a big, impossible way, and he can’t even be happy to see him because Silas wishes more than anything that Wren was not here. Wren would be safer almost anywhere but here.

He’s dressed like a child and his hair is down, grimy and matted, pooling in the dirt around him. He’s face down, limp, and Silas has to blink red mist from his vision. Before he’s close enough to stop it, one of the soldiers stands, pulls his belt, and pisses in Wren’s hair.

Wren doesn’t move or moan or otherwise react in any way. He’s still limp — he’s so still, actually, almost unnaturally still, and Silas is — he can’t be too late, Wren can’t be —

Another soldier stands, some blond puke, and he turns Wren onto his side with his foot before he boots him in the stomach.

Weakly, Wren groans. Weakly, softly, but he groans. He isn’t dead.

Silas is gonna cause a fuckin’ bloodbath.

“Stop passing out on us,” the blond groans. “You got a long night ahead of you, girl.”

Wren doesn’t make another sound and the recruit kicks him again, so hard he’s forced onto his back. He groans softly.

A soldier with a shock of red hair spits in the dirt next to him as he stands. “I know how to wake her up.” His grin glints in the firelight and the blond laughs. He spits again as he takes a handful of Wren’s hair, coiling it around his fist, hauling him across the dirt and a safe distance away from the bonfire. He whistles back over his shoulder at the other recruits, watching him with varying degrees of obvious humour. “C’mere. Hold her open for me. Hold her down when she starts fighting and I’ll let you have a turn when I’m done.”

No.

How can this keep happening? How can this be somebody’s life?

There’s something casual, something genuinely amused in the way the recruits laugh between themselves as they splay their hands over Wren’s skin, as they hold his limp body into the dirt and he whimpers. The redhead tugs his belt free before he kneels between Wren’s legs, shoving the frilly hem of his little dress up and around his ribcage. He settles over him, his knuckles white against the purpling bruise of Wren’s skin. His answering groan is loud and low and satisfied.

Silas can hear when Wren regains consciousness because of how horribly and primally he screams.

All of the recruits laugh, but it’s the blond that coos, pleased, “there she is.”

When Silas breaks the tree line it’s his shadow that gives him away. One of the soldiers, holding one of Wren’s thighs, looks up, distracted, and the double take he does would be comical if Silas weren’t out for blood. He jumps to his feet, fumbles for his gun, green and unprepared. He cries, “what the fuck is that?”

Silas grins, but it isn’t nice.

The rest of the recruits look up in militant unison but react quickly with varying degrees of unrestrained horror. Almost every one of them scrambles to their feet and for their weapons. Except, of course, the redheaded puke knelt between Wren’s thighs. He stills, a picture of cruelty.

Silas cracks his knuckles.

Wren’s head lolls against the dirt and he finds Silas through the idiot cavalry. This’ll be easy; the recruits are always just as evil as the soldiers — a requirement of them, apparently — but they aren’t nearly as dangerous. They aren’t trained, polished, quick in the way the soldiers are, they aren’t used to Silas the same. This will be embarrassing for them.

Wren looks up at Silas with huge, wet eyes and the way the relief crests across his face would probably make Silas cry if he were capable of it.

“What the hell is that thing?” The recruits are shouting. “Who are you? Back up! Back the fuck up!”

Silas barely hears them. To Wren, he says, “I’m sorry I’m late.”

Wren tips his head back as he sobs.

The redhead looks down at him quickly as he hisses, “what the fuck is that?”

He folds an arm over his face and his chest hitches as he cries into the grime.

The recruit tries to grab him, to pry his arm from his face, hisses something else like “look at me when I’m talking to you. What the fuck is going on?”, but Silas is across the camp in a second and he takes his ginger head in both hands. The recruit flails, pulls away from Wren, and as soon as he does Silas turns, trying to shield his Wren from the splatter with his bulk. He crushes the redhead’s skull between his hands.

The noise it makes is like a crack of lightning.

The sort of silence that’s close behind unrecoverable trauma settles over the camp and Silas grins so widely something clicks in his jaw. He’s merciful — the recruits won’t have to live with this for long.

“What are you?” The blond asks, and his voice is thin.

Silas cracks his neck. “Does it matter?”

A different recruit swallows so thickly that Silas can hear it. But he’s trying to be brave, so he says, “back up, freak.”

Silas does not, in fact, back up. The blond is standing close and he doesn’t react quick enough when Silas grabs him by the collar — he panics, flailing as Silas lifts him clean off the ground. It kind of wakes up the recruits, who lift guns and take aim, but what’s the worst they can do to him? Really?

It’s one of the worst things about these men, about this place. It’s one of the reasons Silas hates them so viscerally it’s become interwoven into his DNA. Silas, in a way, gets off easy — Silas just gets shot, and he can take a fuckin’ bullet. It’s the least he can do. Wren isn’t so lucky. They aren’t afraid of Wren. He’s small and he can’t fight back the way Silas can. What’s the worst thing they can do to a fuckin’ machine? They’ll shut him down, and he’ll begin again. Wren is vulnerable.

He pries a handgun from the blond’s flailing grip hands and forces the barrel down the back of his throat. He grabs at Silas’ wrist, frantic, and Silas grins at him as he pulls the trigger.

He bursts into blood and viscera and the other recruits explode into shouting and panic. “Get back!” The brave one shouts, and he makes the grievous mistake of getting too close. Not within reaching distance, but still too close. “Get the fuck back!”

“What are you gonna do?” Silas asks, raising his eyebrows. “Shoot me?” The recruit lifts his gun, a threat, and Silas grins at him. “Tell you what. Let me do you one better,” and he points the gun down, firing a round into his own foot. It crackles with a pain that the simmering rage quickly dissolves.

The soldier gapes, hesitating, and he only hesitates for half a moment but it’s a full moment too long. Silas raises the gun again. “Now it’s your turn,” he says, and unloads three rounds between his eyes.

He drops to the dirt and another recruit steps over him quickly, into Silas’ personal space.

Silas doesn’t take kindly to that.

He takes him by the jaw and wrenches his mouth open. As he tries to scream around Silas’ hands, Silas hooks his fingers behind each row of his teeth and rips his face in half through the middle. His throat is still working as Silas pushes his body out of the way with the side of his foot.

“What the fuck?” A recruit cries, standing too close, splattered with blood that isn’t his own. Silas reaches out to him with his free hand and tears out his windpipe with bloody fingers. As he chokes, Silas breaks his nose back into his brain with the base of his gun. His eyes are rolled back into his head when he dies.

There are four surviving recruits, and they try to scatter. Silas lets them try, because he enjoys the panic, but he doesn’t let them get very far. Eight rounds, one for each knee. There are cries of pain and noises of impact and Silas laughs loudly.

He weaves his way across the camp slowly, tauntingly, and he kills them one at a time. He crushes both hands and the throat of the first recruit; he removes both hands and the throat from the second. The third is decapitated, and not quickly or cleanly; Silas removes his head with force, and the way his skin splits is like wet paper.

The last recruit had pissed in Wren’s hair.

Silas approaches him with the unhurried stalk of a predator. The recruit trembles, trying to scramble away from Silas, but he’d been shot in both knees and he’d fallen hard, the bones of his calf poking out from his flesh in opposite directions.

“That’s gotta hurt,” Silas says.

“Please,” he’s begging, and his voice is trembling, “please, please, don’t — don’t —“

Silas brings his foot down on his fractured leg as hard as he can. Puts all of his brawn and bulk into it.

The recruit tips his head back against the dirt and screams at the concrete sky.

Silas lets him scream. Who gives a fuck? He crouches next to him and takes his left arm by the elbow. The soldier screams again, tries to pull out of his grip, and Silas rips his arm out from the socket of his shoulder.

He shrieks at a pitch that Silas finds kind of irritating and he reaches across the recruit to grab his other arm and pull him over onto his stomach, face down in the dirt. He breaks his right arm off at the elbow.

He screams again and he’s screaming still when Silas stands to toe him back onto his back. As the recruit screams, Silas shoves down the waistband of his joggers, pulls out his dick, and pisses in his mouth. It’s only fair.

He flails with what’s left of his right arm and chokes in panic. It makes Silas grin. When he snaps his waistband back into place the recruit stares up at him with a look that Silas has come to recognize as resigned hatred. It never gets old. Weak and wet, he drawls, “they told us we didn’t have to worry about her dog.”

Silas raises his eyebrows. “They lied.”

The recruit chokes out a sound that would probably be a laugh if all the blood in his body weren’t seeping into the earth beneath him. “C’mon, man,” he tries. “Don’t — don’t. Please. Come on.”

Silas lifts the gun.

The recruit inhales quickly. “Please. Come on. Please.”

“Eat shit,” Silas tells him sincerely, and he empties the gun into his face.