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bitchassbucky · 4 years ago

Text

.eps (explicit)

Word Count: 2k

Warning/s: dark!bucky x dark!reader, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, blood mention, gore and dismemberment/beheading, murder, toxic/abusive relationship dynamics, sedation/drugging/use of sedative, stockholm syndrome-ish, one very special character reveal

A/N: i told y'all there's more <3 the special character treat is for @sarge-barnes-sir mwah!

this is queued shdhhsh gonna fix the links in the mornin’

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS ABOVE, IF YOU DON'T WANT TO READ THIS VERSION, GO AND CHECK OUT THE NON-EXPLICIT VERSION.

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i - .exe

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iv - .png

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Safeness, comfortability, warmth are all but a false sense of reality.

When a prey takes down its walls, the predator moves in. Camouflaged in familiar colors, in words that you’re used to hearing, in praises, in lies. Most predators use the mask of the night to move in darkness—unyielding and calculated. Come morning, there will be only one left alive, tainted with victory and bloodshed.

You and Bucky have been engaging in a dance for two—a battle of who’s willing to take the leap of faith and unleash hell upon the other.

Stifled smiles and pursed lips.

The air is filled with unsaid irritants, little things that ticked away like bombs.

There was no time for pleading, no time for mercy, no rest for the wicked.

Did you still love each other?

How far are you willing to go to keep up with his… complacency?

Bucky’s mundane life already taking a toll on you. The endless nightmares of him feeling you. The swirling vision of Bucky being with you every waking—and sleeping—moment: it grates your soul to shreds.

“We’ll be together forever, right?”

“Yes, darling.”

“What about the day after forever?”

“That too, honey.”

Where was the man you loved so deeply? The man that broke his morals just to be with you?

Was he under this hull of a Yes Man? A poor little thing that says ‘yes’ to everything like a puppy.

The man you held so dearly now slipping away, chipping his humanity, shedding the once-human.

“Would you marry me tomorrow if I asked you?”

“Of course, baby, why wouldn’t I?”

“Would you kill for me?”

“I’m meant to do the same for you.”

It’s irritating how Bucky gave up too quickly. Too fast, moving too fast. The gazelle let the lion tear its neck as it lay there, unmoving, letting the blood seep into its hide.

When you first met Bucky, it was your own fairytale unfolding before your eyes. Kismet, reality, forgiveness from above. He was soft and shy, passionate, lively.

Far from what you expected from a man his age—you blame Steve for forcing you into his narrative before. That all men are out to get you. They will hurt you. They will use you and leave you for good. But Bucky? Bucky came in like a knight. He saved you from the carcass of your past. He saved you from the sins that you prayed and knelt for.

Bucky taught you how to love.

Bucky taught you how to live for yourself.

Bucky taught you that being alone doesn’t mean you have to be lonely.

“It was an unspoken little thing, wasn’t it?”

“What thing, baby?”

“Our love.”

“Yes, honey, it was.”

He worships you.

He worships you like a fucking God and you hate it.

Suffocating, too suffocating. You dove straight for the water and now you’re drowning.

Do you still love each other? The question hangs in the air, heavy with its weight, light as a feather.

It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault.

So you stand there with a syringe half-filled with a horse sedative. It’s a concern how easy it is to waltz into a pet store and pick up a general anesthetic. You make a mental note to look at it later.

Bucky’s body slumps forward, his forehead meeting the edge of the table with a dull thud. If the overdose doesn’t kill him, the weeping crack in his head will.

Holy fuck, humans bleed a lot. And fast. Good thing you already have that clear tarp taped down. Even with the hush money stuffed down your throat, it would take a good nick to regrout the kitchen.

“What is that for, honey?”

“I’m painting the cabinets.”

“Okay, darling.”

So you let him bleed, surprised that the liquid is redder than what you thought it would be. A soft gurgling noise came from Bucky, the last of air escaping his dead body. You stood there, syringe in hand, as you thought how to dispose of a six-foot-tall man without arousing suspicion.

Not that he’ll be missed anyway: the local news and the internet already branded him as a psycho and you as a victim. You were both victims in this fairytale. They reported his case as “skipped the town like the sicko he is.” So, no—no one’s going to look for him.

The sun was high up in the sky and there was a dead body in your kitchen.

A butcher and a surgeon walks into a bar for a drink. “What do you do for a living?” Said the butcher, “I save lives! What about you?” The doctor answers. “I save animals from dying slowly. We’re basically the same. You’re just very clean.” You see, the butcher comes into the bar covered in blood, reeking of death. The surgeon, on the other hand, wears his white coat with pride even though he’s surrounded by death every passing second.

Today was the day you learned that you have the tools of a butcher and the precision of a surgeon. Unlike before.

You carefully take Bucky’s fingers off of his left hand, leaving a skin flap on the edge of the last knuckle for you to stitch close later. Four promises. Four goddamn promises and he broke all of them.

It was his fault that he’s dead. He made you do this.

Starting with his left shoulder, you jab the knife between the bone and the soft flesh of his armpit, bringing the blade downwards. The sickening smell of blood swirled along with the image of muscle and fat being sliced made you gag.

Does the brain know that it’s seeing something it shouldn’t?

A rational part of you wanted to look away but the time is ticking, it’ll be much harder once rigor mortis sets in an hour.

You swing the knife down, cracking the bone once, and then again, and again, and again until the shoulder bone splinters and dislocates itself from the rest of Bucky’s torso. You had to switch knives and blades and a fucking bone saw to get through the rest of his limbs, leaving only his chest, head, and stomach untouched. After taping up and packing the arms and the legs, you work on putting the rest of Bucky into a nondescript suitcase.

The only problem being his head getting into the way of things.

Wanting to preserve even a shred of his dignity, you left his face untouched. Well, save from the crack in his skull.

You begrudgingly take a hefty chef’s knife and start cutting through the jugular vein, only stopping when the blade hits the spinal cord by his nape. The serrated blade of the bone saw sits on your blood-soaked gloves, scrape-scrape-scraping until it snaps into two.

The human head weighs around 10 pounds, kinda like a bowling ball.

An opaque black garbage bag containing Bucky’s head looks nothing suspicious as you put it inside a backpack—into a firepit you go.

His limbs—arms and legs alike—are going deep into the ocean, forgotten and to be used as fish food.

The limbless torso will be finding its home in a deep hole in the middle of a densely wooded area, far from the city.

But you’re not quite sure what to do with the mason jar of teeth though; the clinking noises of it remind you of the seashells you used to collect when you were a kid. Maybe you’ll stash it away with the torso.

Placing the bags into the trunk of a rental, you begin your journey to the end of your fairytale.

The drive to and from the places was tiring, to say the least. The internet connection of the diners was spotty at best. Locals were overly friendly with the city folks who came passing through their towns. The roads reek of roadkill and manure from the farm animals that were left to roam for fresh grass.

At least you get to come home in a spotless apartment, alone once again.

But not lonely.

Your space is yours again. No trace of anyone anywhere. Immaculately yours.

—

Humans are social creatures.

No one can truly be alone, especially in today’s world where we’re connected to everyone—whether we liked it or not.

Leaving your wretched job behind was an easy feat to do. No one can say no to the victim of such a vile crime. That’s all they saw you: a helpless little thing. So off you went; saying half-assed goodbyes and sending emails of courage and hope and fucking resilience.

Your resignation meant that the company’s free of any dirt from you, Bucky’s disappearance quickly becoming a joke and a rumor blending in one.

They let you leave: in your bank account a fat check ensuring that you’d shut up about the scandal for months until you can’t feed yourself no more. So you packed your bags and jet off without looking back. You never liked that apartment anyway.

Nevertheless, you found yourself looking into another dead-end job in one of the towns you stopped over before. It’s a charming place like time froze in their plaza while the rest of the world went on. You found a small studio apartment in a street tuckered away from the main avenue, you settled there as days became nights and nights turned into days.

You woke up one morning craving a healthy serving of coffee and pancakes, luckily the town’s local diner wasn’t far from your new home.

The coffee was too hot, the pancakes were amazing, fluffy, and just right. You’re sitting in a sunny booth, the warmth doing its wonders.

“Hi, can I get today’s paper, please?” Your voice is sweet as you call your server, giving her a quick smile.

A pair of Raybans adorn your face, unconsciously hiding behind its darkened glasses. The waitress gives you a thick stack of newspapers, refilling your cup with black coffee.

Upon opening the paper, you ignore the town’s headlines and went straight for the job postings. The door jingled open as patrons come in and go, waving to familiar faces.

Job Vacancy Announcements

Secretary to the Town Sheriff

You skimmed over the rest of the details, only noting the address of the office. The job looks quite lucrative for someone who would only take messages and organize files for the sheriff.

Looking over the job posting again, you read over the words walk-ins only. That shouldn’t be hard enough.

The diner looked deserted save from the man sitting behind your booth. Leaning over and tapping his shoulder, you put on a polite smile, “Hi, sorry, do you know how to get to the sheriff’s office from here?”

“Hello, darling.” The man croons in an accent, he looks over to you, “join me in my booth, will ‘ya?”

You’re in no position to reject his proposal, you’re the one who needed an answer.

Taking your coffee cup, you slide into his booth, “hi.”

“Just the face I wanted to see.” Clean-shaven, a hint of mint and smoke, and something woody; a worn leather jacket and white button-up shirt hugging his soft frame. “Some folks over on the apartment complex were talkin’ about a city girl wanting to rent a studio all by herself. That happen to be you?”

You look over to him, trying to understand how that small of news spread like a wildfire, “yeah. I moved in a week ago.”

He leans over, smiling sweetly as he unabashedly lets his eyes roam your features, “What’s a city girl like you doin’ in a place like this? I hope we ain’t too boring for you, gal.”

Chatty—he’s way too chatty.

“Just wanted a change of pace, really. Away from the bustle of the city.” You rustle the paper, clearing your throat to get back on the matter on hand, “so the sheriff’s office? Is it too far from here?”

“What business are ‘ya bringing into the office?”

“A job, actually. Says here that they’re looking for a secretary.” You might as well tell him everything, he seems too chatty to be dismissed over and over again.

“Well, darlin’, today’s your lucky day. No need to drive down the old road.” He reaches down to his seat, pulling up a brown hat, “Hi, I’m Sheriff Bodecker. Now, to whom do I owe the pleasure?”

You bite back a giggle, you’ve always wanted to be involved with the law.

#bitchassbucky writes #dark!bucky #dark!bucky x reader #dark!bucky x reader smut #dark!bucky barnes x fluff #dark!bucky x reader angst #dark!bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky barnes x reader smut #dark!bucky barnes x reader angst

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helnjk · 4 years ago

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Silent - D.M.

Draco Malfoy x fem!reader

Requested: yes

Hey there, can I request a Draco X Reader, with the angst prompt, ~26. “please wake up”~. It could be something like, Reader finding Draco passed out somewhere, during or post the Hogwarts Battle. Thank you already 🌿

Word Count: 1.8k

Summary: You had made it out of the crossfire alive. Your only hope was that Draco had too.

Warnings: angst, mentions of injury & the final battle

Prompt is in bold and flashbacks are in italics

There was silence now, finally.

For a while you had thought that it would never be quiet. Not after the screams echoed through the halls that once held so much laughter. Not after the stone walls that offered such a solid foundation to all who passed crumbled like sand.

But finally, thankfully, the castle was quiet.

You were sat on one of the benches in the Great Hall, hearing but not really listening to the tired but relieved whispers that danced throughout the packed room. It hadn’t been more than an hour since the dark lord’s demise, yet the air had already seemed to be lighter and brighter than it had been in a long time.

“You’re all set, dear.” Madam Pomphrey said, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder before going to check on the rest of the injured.

You had twisted your ankle stumbling through the rubble littered grounds and were at the end of a few hexes that left a mark here and there, but overall you were fine. And you thanked the gods that all you had to show for surviving the heated battle was a few cuts and bruises.

A soft voice broke you out of your dazed stupor, “Y/N.”

It was a familiar voice. One that you hadn’t heard from for a long time, but one you recognized nonetheless. After all, the many summers at the Manor gave you many opportunities to speak with the owner of the voice.

You furrowed your brows and turned, “Narcissa? I-What, what are you doing here?”

Narcissa Malfoy could tell that there were quite a few cautious glances sent her way, but she paid them no mind. They were not what she was here for.

“Y/N, have you seen Draco? I would have thought he’d be with you.” She whispered urgently as she made it to your side.

Much like the previous matronly figure that attended to your wounds a few minutes ago, she placed a hand on your shoulder and squeezed. Although this time, you could tell by the way her nails just slightly dug into your cloth covered flesh that she was more worried than she portrayed to be.

Draco. Oh gods, Draco.

He had been at your side when the battle first began but in all the chaos, he seemed to disappear into thin air. You had promised him that you would try to be as safe as possible, but now it seemed that he was the one who should have made that promise.

“I-I don’t know where he is,” You breathed, your heart stuttering in your chest, “I haven’t seen him since the battle.”

Your legs acted on their own accord as you stood up shakily. Narcissa, sensing that you were just as worried as she was, let you take her arm as support but said, “Y/N, you’re injured. Stay here, I will look for him.”

“No,” You shook your head, ignoring how the rest of the hall seemed to be listening to your hushed conversation now, “I want to find Draco. Madam Pomphrey fixed me up, I’ll be fine.”

“It seems that I can’t stop you then.” She stated.

Without a second glance at the rest of the occupants of the Great Hall, Narcissa hooked her arm around yours and led you towards the exit.

In all the rubble and mess that was the Hogwarts castle, Narcissa still seemed so elegant and poised. Her hair was haphazardly tied back and there was soot and dust coating her skin, but she never once looked as if she was bothered about going through hell and back.

She whispered something that you didn’t quite catch, but all of a sudden her wand began to spin on her palm. It stopped after a few seconds, pointing in the direction of one of the hallways. You held back your awe at her modified point-me spell.

“Come.” She stated, beginning to walk in the direction dictated by her wand.

The hallway was empty for all you thought. debris and dust floating around, highlighted by the sunlight that filtered through the cracks in the walls. The silence echoed louder here than it had anywhere else in the castle, and it gave you a bad feeling.

You were proven correct when Narcissa’s wand sharply pointed to the right.

A gasp echoed through the empty hallway as you were met with the sight of a deathly pale Draco. His limbs were set at an awkward angle and he was lying still on the dusty floor. It took you a moment to realize that the sound had come out of your mouth, as Narcissa’s was set in a thin line and her behaved on body was on autopilot.

The both of you dropped to the floor next to his cold body and the first thing your shaky hands managed to wrap around was his wrist. The tightness in your chest eased up microscopically as you felt the soft beat of his pulse.

“He’s alive, he’s alive.”

Your whispered mantra was just enough to keep you going as Narcissa performed spell after spell to keep Draco afloat and breathing. The moment the three of you entered the Great Hall, Draco brought in through her levitation charm, more murmurs met your ears.

You paid them no mind, you were used to ignoring them. There were more important things at hand.

“Poppy,” Narcissa choked out, which was enough to gather the attention of the mediwitch, “Please we need your help.”

Your ears rang, long after the dark lord’s voice left everyone’s minds. The feeling of unshakeable cold hadn’t left your system and you found your arms wrapped tightly around yourself for some sort of comfort.

Everyone around you seemed to be frantically making their way to leave or to prepare the castle for the onslaught of violence that the night would inevitably lead to. Everything was so fast paced, it felt as if you barely had time to breathe.

“Y/N!” Draco’s voice called out to you and your eyes searched frantically for his.

“Draco,” You breathed when he had found you and nearly knocked you over with the strength of his embrace, “Oh thank Merlin, you’re okay!”

The bags under his eyes were striking, highlighting his pale skin and tired eyes, and for a moment all you could think about was taking his hand and running away with him. Instead, you took his face in your hands, warm palms pressed against clammy skin, and your thumb brushed against him as it had many times before.

The two of you were aware of what was to come, of the violence and inevitable bloodshed, but in that moment the rest of the world seemed to fade away. Your eyes only saw him, and his only saw you.

“Say the word, Draco, and we can run away from all of this. We can leave now and never look back,” You begged, tears pooling in your eyes.

“Listen to me, Y/N,” He said gravely, “I need you to promise me that you’ll be as safe as possible tonight.”

“Draco, I-what does that mean? What are you going to do? Where are you going?” You asked frantically, clinging on tightly to his arms.

“Just promise me!” His grey eyes were alight with so much intensity that all you could do was agree.

“I promise.” You said with as much courage as you could muster, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Your lips met in a flurry of silent words and unfulfilled wishes. It spoke of all the time you had spent together and all the time you wished you had spent with each other. It was a promise. A promise to see each other on the other side, to make it out alive.

A different sort of silence enveloped you as you sat on the uncomfortable chair. The bright white lights of the room hindered you from getting any sort of restful sleep, as you waited on baited breath for any sign that Draco was waking up.

It had been almost a month since you and Narcissa had found him, cold and pale, teetering on the edge between life and death. If Madam Pomphrey hadn’t taken a look at him when she had, you didn’t know what would’ve happened.

With a sigh, you gripped onto his limp hand, “Please wake up.”

Of course, no reply came from his unconscious form, so you continued your daily routine of updating him on what was going on as the rest of the world began to pick up the pieces and heal.

“Potter came to visit earlier, you know,” You murmured quietly, brushing the pale locks away from his face, “Said he wanted to see how you were doing. I thought it was sweet of him to come, you know, saviour of the wizarding world and all.”

“Narcissa’s off at the manor today, said she wanted to, and I quote, ‘Rid the damn place of anything that reminds her of what’s happened.’” You continued, “I think it’s a great step in the direction of healing. She’s quite brave to be doing that, especially when Lucius is still undergoing his trial.”

You took a deep breath, “I miss you, and everyday I keep hoping that it will be the day you finally open your eyes.”

The only breaks you gave yourself during the day were for using the bathroom, eating meals, and when the healers would insist you go home to take a nap and have a shower. In all honesty, you were grateful that they were being as kind as they were. If Draco were awake, he would definitely have made you do the same. He always was the worrying type.

Now it seemed as if the roles were reversed. All you did was worry these days.

“Y/N!” Draco’s main healer said once you had stepped out of the floo, pushing a paper bag in your direction, “Narcissa just left. She gave me strict orders to make sure you got this and ate all of its contents.”

A smile etched its way onto your face at the thoughtfulness of the Malfoy matron, “Thank you. It’s nice of her to keep me in mind.”

The two of you made friendly smalltalk on the way to Draco’s room at the end of the hall. Narcissa had insisted that he have a private one all to himself, which seemed to be the best idea, especially after everything that went down nearly a month prior. It also allowed you to pay him a visit and stay by his side as long as you wanted, without having to keep your stories and rambling down and in hushed tones.

When you stepped back into the room, a small chuckle escaped your lips at something the healer had said. You almost didn’t notice the grey eyes that immediately focused on you, the moment you entered. Almost.

“Draco!” You nearly yelled, rushing to his side and gripping one of his hands in yours, “You’re awake! How are you feeling?”

“Much better now that you’re here,” He breathed, a tentative smile gracing his lips.

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dzamie-oc · 3 years ago

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04 - Stained Glass

Bright "Dork" Penny is actually from a few /tg/ threads in late 2018, in which we had the fun idea of an adorkable dragon, and steadily built a town around her. This is from pretty early in her introduction to the town, before most of the suggested campaign plot hooks.

Length: 2100 words Rating: E (though contains brief mentions of violence) Summary: A dragon is enamored by a stained-glass window, and wants some of her own.

-----

Clearwater was a fairly average port town; according to the fishermen, it was even idyllic. When the wind blew just right, the smell of fresh fish and bread filled several streets. When it blew just wrong, of course, the farms managed to be perfectly upwind, but such were the risks. It was situated on the coast of the Great Crystal Lake, a veritable sea full of water so fair it sparkled like an enormous, polished sapphire when the sun found a good angle. In years past, several traveling poets had said of Clearwater, “it was exactly the sort of town an epic tale would begin in, only to have an unfortunate encounter with a dragon to start things off.”

And, well, they weren’t exactly wrong. But neither were they right.

The morning sun fell on the town, and in particular an old barn kept apart from the rest of the farmed plots of land. The front of the building was missing, and for several reasons, never replaced. One such reason poked her red, scaly head out into the outside air, with the rest of her soon to follow. Dorakathen Azurakluzzelenark Nur Zulauknagh, or “Bright Penny,” looked around, noted that someone had dug up her latest attempt at planting a sheep again, and gave her wings a nice, big stretch and flap. A soft groan from within the barn caught her attention, so she turned around to face the slowly-rousing woman within.

“Oh, Gwendolyn, did I wake you? I guess it is kinda early, still.”

The young woman sat up and waved her off. “No, no,” she said, “I’m used to being up with the sun. Do dragons usually sleep later?”

“Well... I do. My mother would always head out before the sun rose, said something about making sure she’s back before humans usually tried to steal from her.” The dragoness drew in and let out a big breath, taking care to keep the fire out of it, this time. “I never knew what she meant by that. You guys are pretty friendly, and with how often the ones around her lair seemed to gift her their old, claw-marked armors, I can’t imagine any human trying to take something from her lair.”

Gwendolyn thought for a few seconds on that, opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, and instead asked, “so, Dork, how long is this happening, again?”

Bright Penny’s mouth curled into a smile. “Oh, the kidnapping? Just a week, same as how Mom would do it.”

“The, uh, the same?” the human said, paling. While the young dragoness seemed friendly, if a bit misguided and, well, inexperienced, her mother, Bloodstained Ruby, was an entirely separate matter. If any tale of life under her claw managed to escape her grasp, it was always one of terror and bloodshed. Her lair was filled with glittering, shining treasures and adorned with colored glass as red as her scales, all gained through pillaging, extortion, or both. While nobody knew for sure, any fool would guess that, if a ransom wasn’t paid, the hostage would serve as the main course for her dinner. Gwendolyn’s mouth went dry as she looked at the cheerful dragoness with her sharp claws and sharper fangs. “How... how would Bloody Ruby...?”

The red dragon sat back on her haunches and put a paw to her chin. “Well, sometimes humans would visit her with a big pile of gold and stuff for her hoard - and now that I’ve seen how much you guys usually have on yourselves, they must’ve really liked her! - and she’d go get her kidnap-ee, and then the humans would all leave together and Mom would have a nice smile for a while. Um, and then other times, humans wouldn’t come, or they would but I guess they weren’t the ones the kidnapped human knew, because Mom would shoo them away, or claw them if they went crazy and tried to stab her. I always thought that was too strict, since her claws are half the length of their bodies while their swords were pretty small to her.”

Gwendolyn glanced around the barn, looking for an exit that the dragon would have trouble following her through. “And, what about the kidnapped human after a week of... no visitors?”

“Oh, she’d ask whether they’d like to leave or get eaten - I guess she didn’t really have patience for long-term visitors, especially seeing as how she kinda did technically kick me out of her lair eventually.” She furrowed her brow. “It was weird, though, humans could definitely go up and down that mountain, but they always seemed to get eaten. ...is that a human thing? Because I don’t think I’m up for it with you. I hope that’s not rude.”

The woman’s brain fizzled for a moment. “Um... okay, I’ll... we’ll talk later, but as long as leaving after a week is one of those options, I’m fine.”

“Of course!” The dragon nodded vigorously, then got to her feet again and made her way out of the barn before looking back. “I’m gonna go see around the town for a while. I know I don’t really have all the actual kidnapping stuff like a fancy dress for you and a pole to lean against, but I’m trying my hardest, so please don’t escape?”

Bright Penny took a few steps away, then froze, spun, and stuck her head back under the barn roof. “I mean, unless it’s an emergency, of course.”

Her fears momentarily assuaged, Gwendolyn let out a laugh. “Of course. Have fun, Dork, I’ll be right here when you get back.”

“Great! Okay, see you, Gwen!” Bright Penny trotted away - this time, without turning back - and wasn’t able to see Gwendolyn put her head in her hands, trying to process what the dragon had oh-so casually said about her mother. Instead, the dragoness hummed a wandering tune and let her feet carry her to a rather interesting-looking building.

As she approached, she was drawn to the beautiful stained-glass windows in each wall. One showed a sheaf of wheat, its opposite showed a few fish hanging by lines, and the third had a woman in a plain dress, holding a sickle in one hand and a net in the other. Bright Penny circled the building a couple of times, then took a seat in front of the fish one and stared at it, admiring the way the sun pierced through the glass, giving a strange sort of energy to the art. She moved her head back and forth, playing with her shadow on the glass.

After a few minutes, a man exited the door on the unadorned side, and peeked around the corner. “Uh, excuse me, dragon? You’re the one who’s been staying at Brown’s old barn, right?”

Bright Penny turned towards the voice, looked around for a couple of seconds, then smiled when she saw the face. “Yes, that’s me. I’m Dorakathen Azurakluzzelenark Nur Zulauknagh, nice to meet you.”

“Dora Kathen Ashoora... er, pardon me.”

“Oh! Sorry, I’m still not used to being around people who don’t speak Draconic. It means Bright Penny, but some helpful adventurers said I could be called Dork for short!”

The man looked unconvinced, but slowly stepped out from behind “cover.” He was dressed similar to many of the Clearwater residents Bright Penny had seen, though his body was less toned or worn, so she guessed he did something that didn’t require much heavy lifting. “Well, Dorakathe- uh, Dork, what brings you to our town’s temple?”

“I just thought, if I’m going to go about figuring out how to be a proper dragon, I should know more about the town I’ll be- what was that word Mom used? Not terrorizing, uh... monitoring?” She shook her head. “Anyway, I kinda got distracted, and seeing these really pretty jewels made me remember that a dragon should have a hoard, and I don’t. So, may I please have one of these?”

One helpful thing about outlandish requests is that they are superb at making one forget that the one who asked was a dragon. As a prime example, the man replied, “what? No, they’ve been part of this temple for generations,” before his brain finally caught up to the rest of her words, so he quickly added, “uh, t-terrorizing? Where does your mom do that?”

“I’m pretty good with my claws; I’m sure I could help patch up the hole,” the red dragon cheerfully replied, then caught herself. “Oh, you mean ‘part of’ as in ownership. That’s alright, then. Where can I get one, then? ...also, what’s your name? I don’t remember if you said.”

“Abraham, I’m sort of this place’s priest. I’m not sure where you’d get something that big or intricate - again, it’s been generations - but you could ask the smithy. I know he can do regular windows.” Abraham said, then took a step back. “Also, what was that thing about terrorizing?”

“Oh, yeah, my mom’s Bloodstained Ruby. I think she’s just dramatic with that, though; it’s hard to believe she causes terror, with how many presents people keep giving her. Kept. But she probably still gets them after kicking me out, too.” With a destination in mind, Bright Penny unfurled her wings and crouched, preparing to take off. “I’ll go check the smithy out, then. Thanks, Abe!”

The words “Bloodstained Ruby” and “mom” were still sinking into Abraham’s head while he watched her go. He fell back against the temple wall, breathing heavily, then ran inside to begin praying to more gods than usual.

A peaceful stroll down an empty street and one abandoned-and-therefore-free fish later, and Dork found herself at her destination. Luckily for her, a red, fire-breathing dragon was not enough to scare away the blacksmith, who insisted that he’d weathered a lot worse - and she agreed, seeing as she was going to be pretty good at dragon things and therefore easy to be worse than. Although initially dismayed that she had nothing to pay for glass with, her enthusiasm soon swayed him to teach her how to make some, herself.

“Look, I’m sure it’ll wear down eventually, and until then, having a solid boulder of glass IN the beach is a bit of a novelty,” he said, “but I must admit, that may have been the most effective way I’ve ever seen to teach someone to make sure molten glass should only exist in something that can hold it.”

Bright Penny nodded and tried again, breathing fire around a large, metal cup filled with sand. Once its contents got nice and soft, she carefully dumped it into a mold she’d carried from his workshop. It was slow to spread out, so she reached out...

“No! Don’t!” the blacksmith shouted in a panic. When she looked at him, worried, he remembered that she wasn’t just another foolish human apprentice, but rather a foolish dragon. Waving his hand, he said, “nah, you’re fine. I’d burn myself doing that, is all.”

As they waited for it to cool, the dragoness looked down at her shadow, then up to the sky. “Oh! I’ve been out awhile, I should head home soon, after a quick stop by the bakery for Gwendolyn.”

“Gwen? The baker’s daughter? Whatever for?” A tough old smith like him, he could see hanging out with a dragon. But Gwendolyn? She was closer to a proper lady - in her mannerisms, if not by her upbringing and hobbies - than near anyone else in the town. “Also, take yer glass. It’s still hot, so don’t go touching it to anything, but it oughta keep its shape, or near abouts. Wouldn’t use it for a window, but it’ll look fine.”

“Oh, I kidnapped her, so her dad’s helping me make sure she can eat right.” The dragoness lets out a rumbling laugh. “You should’ve seen her reaction to him cutting shapes into her sandwich.”

In his mind, the blacksmith went over the locations of several swords, spears, and other weaponry that might prove useful in a rescue. “Kidnapped, eh?”

“Well, I did ask her first. Then I made sure to carry her and fly away, so I’m pretty sure it still counts as a real dragon kidnapping.” Bright Penny picked up her glass in one scaly paw and looked at it. “By the way, how do I get it to be all colored like the temple has?”

The man put his weapon-finding thoughts on hold until after he talks to the baker. “Hm. Well, tell you what. I’m busy tomorrow, but come by the day after and I’ll show you.” Either way, that would give him time to organize a few good men if need be. “I’ll get the mold back, myself.”

“Okay! Thanks so much for the help. My hoard’s gonna be so pretty...” With a leap and flap of her wings, Bright Penny was airborne again, thoughts of stained-glass dragons in her mind.

#dragon #smaugust #smaugust 2021 #stained glass #writing #writers on tumblr #bright penny #adorkable #tg #dragons #text

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straymackerel · 4 years ago

Note

idk if your requests are open but if they’re not then feel free to ignore this. 😅 id like to request an imagine with dazai having a long, deep conversation with his new co-worker who happens to be a former member of the port mafia but she left for obvious reasons and only fukuzawa knows for now but ofc dazai being dazai, he’s sharp af so he decided to talk to her bc one, he understands her and second he developed feelings for her shortly after she joined ada. thanks in advance! 🥰

➽─{done! they were actually closed, but this was such a fun request i made it 2k long (✿´ ꒳ ` )}─❥

You often wonder if it was something you said.

Ever since you joined the Armed Detective Agency, all of your new coworkers have been nothing short of friendly and accommodating. All of them––except for the bandaged mystery who can’t quite take his eyes off of you.

At first you thought it was just your imagination. When he answered your questions dismissively, you thought maybe he didn’t have a way with words. When he bailed on group trips to Café Uzumaki––but only when you were going too––you brushed it off as a coincidence. And when you first ‘caught’ him fixated on you, looking you square in the face from his own desk, you hoped he was actually looking at something above your head or next to you.

After all, in the Port Mafia, you always felt as if you were being watched, precisely because you were being watched. Your every move was silently documented, your behavior acutely observed within a larger culture of distrust and suspicion. You wondered if maybe you carried that instinctive unease with you to your new day job. (The only proper day job you’ve ever held.)

But there was no need for deft maneuvers to realize that this intimidating brunette was, indeed, staring you down in silence. He has no intention of hiding it; he’s openly tracking your movements, peering into your essence. And the most unnerving part of all: he’s smirking half of the time. If you didn’t know any better, you would confront him the first chance you got; but your situation is precarious, delicate. You have no business drawing attention to yourself, a former member of the Port Mafia. Sure, the President is already aware of your circumstances, but the Mafia has engrained the virtues of secrecy into you. You hope to keep your past on the down low.

Besides, there’s something off about this brown-haired detective. Something you realized at the beginning of your employment, way before he started staring into your soul. Something you hope you’re wrong about.

So you wait it out, anxiously. Drained by the presence of your colleagues, you find yourself in Café Uzumaki alone one slow-moving afternoon. The paperwork was piling up, the tension in the air almost tangible as Dazai declined yet another offer to do actual field-work with the others in favor of keeping tabs on you (unbeknownst to anyone else). You’d left the office at your earliest convenience, hoping to relax in the corner with your favorite beverage.

It is all you can do to keep from spewing the profane as he invites himself to your table, waltzing in without a care in the world.

You’re trapped.

Ordering himself a double shot espresso, your coworker ignores your apparent apprehension as he gets comfy in his booth seat. Downing his drink while you’ve barely touched yours, he glances behind him to check out the waitstaff. No words are exchanged until the baristas are out of earshot.

“Well, you certainly seem to have a vested interest in me,” you say in the most nonchalant manner manageable––nervous because of his constant surveillance, but also because he’s quite handsome for a borderline stalker.

“You can drop the tight-lipped smile,” Dazai replies, eyes darkened.

You lower your voice, hackles raised. “How much do you know?”

“I suppose it’s all speculation, but my hunches are rarely wrong. You chose to work at a detective agency after all.” Though he’s avoided your question, the look on his face tells you everything you need to know. Eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth upturned, he most definitely has your former occupation pegged.

“What gave it away?” is the only thing you can think to say.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Perhaps it will aid me in playing detective,” you quip. He chuckles dryly.

“Oh, where to start. That concealed weapon you carry––it’s not issued by the Agency. Though its outline is comparable to our standard Beretta 92FS Inox sidearm, there are some subtle differences, even when it’s tucked away and wrapped in cloth.” You raise your eyebrows, surprised that anyone would notice.

“The way you move soundlessly and seamlessly,” he continues, not bothering to pause. “It’s obviously second nature. You hardly make a sound if you can help it. And then there’s your understanding of the underworld, even though you try to hide it. You obviously know much more than you let on; your knowledge is too convenient. You claim to know just the perfect tidbit or two for a case, having overheard a street vendor or a barkeep, but the expression on your face is all too telling of a certain sense of pride. Such a seemingly mild-mannered sweetheart as yourself. Did you know that when you flinch at violence, you always react a hair slower than everyone else, as if you’re simply following suit? Also––”

“Okay, OK, I get it,” you say, defeated. “So that’s the reason why you’re leering at me every day? To add to this never-ending list of yours?”

“Well...” Dazai’s voice trails off. His features relax for the briefest moment, more alarming than reassuring to you. And then that nagging thought resurfaces. That is, the very first thing that came to mind when you were first introduced to him. Again: something you hope you’re wrong about.

“You’re quite suspicious yourself,” you interject. “Let alone your little stalker habit... you have the same name as him.” The corners of his eyes crease.

“That’s an odd way of putting it,” he says with a hint of mirth in his voice, and not a smidgen of denial. Fuck.

Logic dictates that you should be scared shitless right now, sitting across from one of the most dangerous men in Mafia history. Logic dictates that you should’ve used more covert methods of uncovering his past. Straightening up, you tell yourself not to think about it.

“Well, I was under the impression that Dazai Osamu was only a legend and nothing more. I mean, a teenage orphan prodigy who threw their life as a Mafia exec away, only to disappear forever? Sounds like bullshit,” you state with as much cool-headedness as you can muster.

“I take that personally!” he gasps, twisting his arms every which way in mock offense, as if to shield himself from your harsh commentary.

“You didn’t consider changing your name?”

“Not even once.” He winks, to which your heart may or may not skip a beat. Are you scared, or oddly enamored?

You push your cup along your side of the table. “How come you turned tail too? You had the status to do literally anything you wanted.” He brushes it off.

“What is this, my interview? The last time I checked, you were the one on trial,” he says, waving his hand like he’s batting your assertion out of the air.

“I’m on trial?” you ask, the cup coming to a stop. “Do the others have suspicions as well?”

“Oh no, nothing in particular to go on. Though Ranpo most definitely has you figured out,” he says, to which you startle. “...but he couldn’t care less, so don’t worry.” You unintentionally sigh relief as he continues: “My colleagues have this peculiar way of testing their new recruits. We call it an ‘entrance exam.’ And before you ask, I’m not responsible for administering yours, but I might be able to push you in the right direction.”

“Any hints?”

He shakes his head, “Not really. No general tips or tricks. I need some more information,” he says, leaning in a bit. “So tell me about yourself. Why leave the Mafia for the ADA?”

You press your lips together, realizing he’s asking you the very same question he himself dodged moments ago. “I needed a change of atmosphere. And scenery. I wasn’t quite taken up with the constant death threats and daily bloodshed.”

“Oh, death threats? And bloodshed? I don’t suppose you were on the receiving end?” Dazai asks, one eyebrow cocked.

You laugh a restrained laugh, nodding. “I wasn’t. But those kinds of tactics... they aren’t in my nature. Everything about that job was suffocating, and I just couldn’t do it anymore.” Dazai looks at you thoughtfully.

“It’s interesting, though. You carry your past line of work in all of your mannerisms. Any chance you were born into it?”

You nod again, “Not my choice.”

“What a coincidence.” He flashes a toothy smile, silence thickening the air. You scramble to break it, eager to talk about something else.

“...So? Any advice for my test?”

“I’d be a little more forthcoming if only you’d tell me the full truth,” Dazai responds, and your face falls.

“What do you mean?” Your strained voice comes out meeker than you’d like, and it’s Dazai’s turn to sigh. He leans back into his booth seat, as if a little distance might solve your unease.

“I lost someone. The best friend I’ve ever had. He told me I wouldn’t find what I was looking for in the Mafia, so here I am. And I’m pretty sure you have someone like that too.” How does he know? Why is he telling you this? Your hands––they’re clammy. You turn your gaze to your lap, realizing that he’d dismantle anything but the truth. There are no options but one.

“It was... a family member.” More silence. Is your nose getting red? You hope your nose isn’t getting red.

“The Mafia threatened them?” he prods.

“They were collateral,” you say slowly. You hadn’t expected to talk about them today. You hadn’t expected any of this from a coworker who kept you at several arms’ lengths for days. Another coworker might respond “that’s horrible,” or “I’m sorry for your loss,” but not Dazai.

“Dazai, do you ever wonder if it’s our fault they got hurt?”

“No,” he replies immediately. Then he hesitates. “I mean, yes, and for a very long time, but not anymore. Evil will do evil; if not to our loved ones, then to someone else.”

He’s right. Of course he’s right.

“But does it make it any easier?” You peer at him, hopeful, and he dismisses your expectations with a quick shake of the head. “Right.” Pause.

“But you’ve come to the right place. Unlike the Mafia, this is an environment where you can heal. Sometimes the wounds reopen,” he says, “but I promise you that your feelings will go towards something productive.” You swallow, blinking back would-be teardrops. The salty marinade seeps back into you.

Then, under your breath: “Okay.” “Thank you.”

“Of course. I could talk about this all day.” The tightness in your throat dissipates, the water in your eyes no longer threatening to spill.

“So, the entrance exam? I’ve told you everything now,” you pry. He thrums his fingers, amused.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I figured pretty early on that you would be okay. You’re gonna pass just fine without my help––I only wanted to get to know my new coworker better.” His fingers stop as he gauges your response.

“Wha–?” This guy! He played you, straight to the verge of tears..! Shoulder tense, you jump to your feet.

“Sorry to deceive you. I’ll see you upstairs, then.” Jeez, the bandaged bastard’s already heading out!

“Wait!” Cheeks flushed, you’re unsure why you’re calling out to him, but it makes him stops in his tracks.

“...Yes?”

“...You’re not gonna tell anyone, right?”

“I’ll think about it.” Dazai’s coy voice is all but reassuring.

“No, seriously,” you plead, eyes wide. “I really need this. God forbid someone else prompts a retelling of my life story.” He turns to face you.

“Then let’s make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

He steps towards you, leaning in to whisper in your ear: “Meet me in front of this building tomorrow at 10 PM. There’s a restaurant I want to take you.” You feel your mouth open, then close by itself.

This is it. This is why he can’t look away from you. If he was only observing you, he could, would do it without being so obvious. You’re sure of it now. You replay each once-menacing occurrence of eye contact from the past few days in your head, and you notice something new. Hunger? Want? Even greed? You can see it in his eyes right now. Those eyes, they threaten to dance around, maybe even travel a bit... lower.

(You jest yourself. ‘Once-menacing?’ He’s still menace, still a danger.) He turns away, heading for the door again, not waiting for a response:

“Don’t be late.”

A chill runs up your spine. It’s a mix of fear, and bitterness, and panic, but most of all...

A growing anticipation.

#Dazai Osamu #bsd fanfic #bsd fic #dazai fic #dazai imagine #bsd x reader #bsd oneshot #dazai oneshot #armed detective agency #dazai fanfiction

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earthstellar · 4 years ago

Text

MTMTE HALLOWEEN 2020 FIC: Costume Party

SUMMARY:

Rodimus sets up an Earth style Halloween costume party at Swerve’s to help boost the crew’s morale. Things get a little... weird, when they start to behave like the creatures their costumes represent.

PAIRINGS:

Rodimus/Megatron and Drift/Ratchet

WARNINGS:

It’s spooky, there is some talk regarding Drift’s traumas, and there is bloodshed/violence in a very creepy way. Please be careful and do not read if you are potentially upset by suggestive violence, blood, etc.

IMPORTANT NOTE:

I was unable to finish or edit this on time for Halloween; I’ll post the final version to AO3 when it’s ready, but for now, here’s what I have! Enjoy the preview!

Rodimus was happy to let Swerve host a Human Halloween event in the bar.

Swerve had wanted to do it for a while, but evidently had to wait for the right Earth season despite the Lost Light being absolutely nowhere near Earth. Rodimus agreed that they could use something fun and distracting to lift the spirits of the crew after a somewhat bad supply pickup had gone south and resulted in a thankfully brief dry spell as they'd had to go without their usual ship wide energon supply, resulting in the bar being shuttered for the duration until they were able to stop at Hedra Nine for a full restocking.

Ultra Magnus had been the only one pleased at the brief closure of Swerve's bar, as it certainly cut down on his workload, but it was unfortunately Ultra Magnus that had to be convinced of the idea. Hence the emergency command meeting currently underway.

"So explain to me again the purpose of this holiday." Delivered in a flat tone, Ultra Magnus never failed to intimidate.

As usual, Ultra Magnus loomed over the relatively small table positioned in the centre of the room, where Rodimus, Drift, and Megatron sat with some research in hand on various data pads, as well as some footage from Rewind and Swerve's collection of human media.

Rodimus, undaunted, continued his pitch.

"It originally started as a folk religious practice around appeasing the spirits of the dead and keeping ghosts, the spirits of deceased humans, from haunting homes and towns. Essentially. But in modern Earth context, it's all about having fun, dressing up as scary or silly characters and getting to relax a bit during a time of year that Earth people relate with darkness, bad weather, that kind of thing. It makes people happy during what were traditionally difficult times. I think we could use something interesting and fun to get the crew back into better spirits after that mess we had to deal with in the Astreus System. See? Fun can have a logical purpose: To improve crew morale. It’s… fun, Mags. People tend to enjoy it. I think it'll be fine."

Rodimus leaned back in his chair and grinned, sure that he had made a strong case. Megatron was absorbed in a data pad featuring a collection of human myths and tales about the holiday, centred around the origins of the modern practice as it was the most relevant information, although he was interested in the older history of the celebration and where such practices may have come from.

Megatron was surprised by the depth and complexity of the human holiday. He was still getting over some of his lingering prejudice towards organics; Reading up on their cultures and history was one way to root out what was left of his more harmful mindset. The best cure for ignorance was often simple research, after all… Orion Pax would be proud. He nearly laughed at the thought.

But he found himself looking forward to Swerve’s little seasonal party, even if there were no seasons per se to celebrate out in open space. Rodimus had made a good point; The crew could certainly use the distraction, and Rung had advised him to try new things that had no associations with any past memories or experiences as part of something they were trying in therapy. He wasn’t exactly excited for it, but it could tolerate it. Especially with Rodimus also in attendance; Undoubtedly most of the attention would be drawn away from him, at least.

Ultra Magnus was completely still, a telltale sign that he was considering something, running through his extensive memory storage of ship protocols and broader applicable legislation in the hopes of finding something that could possibly mitigate any poor outcomes— Rodimus had won, it would certainly help crew morale and such intentions were covered by rules regarding health and safety of passengers and crew members. Fair play.

The bulletin from Swerve, once approved, had been sent out to everyone on board. The event was fairly simple, a marathon of various Halloween themed human movies, followed by a costume party at the bar. Teams of three were allowed to submit group costumes for judgement by a panel led by Ultra Magnus, partially because it was the only way to get him to participate and partially because it was the only way to have a judged competition without anyone complaining of unfairness.

The mood had immediately improved, with the Lost Light buzzing about costume design ideas and speculating on who was joining whose team and what the chances of winning might be.

Rodimus beamed, happy for all the chatter and gossip. His crew was happy, so he was happy. And Megatron was invested as well, glad to go along with it, enjoying the literature about it. He couldn't be more excited for the event; He trusted Swerve to make it as extravagant as possible, despite the limitations of their supplies on board and what little in the way of textile fabrics they could find and pick up from smaller stop-overs at various stations operated by organics along the way prior to the day.

Rodimus had been concerned about the cost, but Drift was enamoured with the spiritual background of the holiday, and seemed all too willing to provide the spare shanix for anything they could find for the crew.

So far, it had been going incredibly well. Rodimus was excited himself, as he couldn't wait to see everyone's final costumes, but the idea of Megatron getting a break to genuinely enjoy something with him brought warmth to his spark, making it spin even faster in its casing.

"Okay, everybody! We had a lot of interest in the costume aspect of this whole thing, but it seems only three teams actually came together to participate in the judged competition. However, most of you have turned up in costume anyway, so it all works out! The judging will go faster and you can all guzzle down some of the special drinks on the menu for tonight only. Welcome to Swerve's, and Happy Human Halloween!"

Leave it to Swerve to kick off the night in style; The doors were thrown open and bots rushed in, claiming booths and seats at the bar, some mild squabbling already starting but quickly dialled back under the watchful eye of Ultra Magnus, who had refused to wear a costume and was fully on duty as usual from his judge's perch near a makeshift stage Perceptor and Brainstorm had thrown together from spare lab materials.

Nobody had seen anyone's costumes prior to the night, so there was a significant amount of ooing and ahhing over the most successful looks, providing a great distraction for the costume contest participants to slip mostly unnoticed behind the stage setup, preparing for the reveal to the judging panel: Ultra Magnus, Chromedome, and Cyclonus.

As the bar continued to fill up and the noise levels increased, Swerve put on a specially composed mix tape for the ambient music that his extensive research had stated was sure to be a success:

Something called the "Munsters Theme" kicked off the night, and things still appeared to be moving ahead as planned, all in attendance having a good night, and the Lost Light hummed with friendly chatter.

The three costume competition teams ended up being

There was the Command Coven, consisting of Rodimus, Megatron, and Drift with witch themed costumes. Drift was more than happy to provide crystal necklaces and little wands for each of them, each designed to replicate gemstones found on Earth, with Megatron's being amethyst, Rodimus adorned in carnelian, and Drift himself wearing amazonite.

He had chosen the colours and designs in accordance with his Spectralist beliefs, as well as something Swerve had shown him called "mood boards" from Earth social data nets, which had kept him up well past his usual recharging hours. It seemed to not have impacted him at all for how thrilled he was at the excuse to dive into human spiritual practices, although he faltered somewhat at the sight of the next team's arrival...

The Medbay had submitted a team, largely thanks to Drift constantly bothering Ratchet about it, with Ratchet himself as well as First Aid and Velocity appearing in vampire themed costumes. They had no team name because Ratchet couldn't be bothered, and was more concerned about the medbay being largely unattended during the event... Although begrudgingly, he did admit to Drift that having the central medical staff immediately on hand in the bar probably wasn't all that bad of an idea.

And the final team, the Minibot Monsters, consisted of Tailgate as a swamp monster, Rewind as a mummy, and Swerve himself, wearing the world's least convincing werewolf costume.

Swerve was the only person with two costumes, so as not to reveal his "true" costume too early in the night; What he was wearing while manning the bar and letting people in was something inspired by Gomez from the Addams Family, although nobody else on board got the reference save for Rewind, who was suddenly upset they hadn't picked that as their group theme. Tailgate was just thrilled to have shiny scales temporarily detailed over his paint job, lending a shimmering effect to his every move.

Back stage, the teams began to intermingle a bit, although mindful of not violating any of Ultra Magnus' rules about potentially spoiling the integrity of the judging process by helping other teams with costumes and so on for about fifty pages.

Drift took in Ratchet's costume, approaching a bit too tenderly for it to be the effect of any engex he may have consumed before hand. It set off Ratchet's diagnostics coding, returning a reading of increased anxiety indicated by signs of ever so slightly rising energon consumption levels as Drift's fuel pump started to rev at a slightly elevated rate, as well as a touch of fatigue from Drift's lack of recharge time beforehand.

"What's wrong? Are you afraid of losing?" Ratchet teased him, but only gently, probing to see where Drift was mentally at the moment. Did dressing up have bad connotations on Rodion? Was Drift relating this to some disguise or situation from his past that was potentially upsetting? Ratchet was ready to leave at any time, stress over an unmanned medbay lingering in the back of his processor; He'd be happy to grab Drift and go if need be.

"I uh, you just did a really good job with your costumes is all. I mean I expected the cloaks and all that stuff, it looks good on you by the way! But the denta..."

Ah.

Ratchet shuffled a bit. "Yes, apparently Velocity found in her preparatory reading that human vampire lore emphasises pointed denta. They--"

Drift interrupted, looking at the ground, looking anywhere but Ratchet's face. "They siphon their energon, or whatever human stuff, blood, from living people. They're siphonists. Like I used to be, way back, when I needed to get fuel, and... And they're evil."

Immediately, Ratchet realised that of course, Drift would associate the vampire fangs with so much suffering from his own past, with cruel comments and judgements forced on him by bots who had no idea what it was like to starve or have to turn to any viable alternative to survive, including taking energon directly from the fuel lines of others.

He raised up his hands towards Drift, testing to see if he'd be welcome for a hug. Drift looked up a bit and smiled, stepping into Ratchet's arms and accepting a brief embrace before Ratchet pulled back to look him in the eyes, hands still lingering on his upper arms.

"Listen, Drift. If this is too much for you, we can go. I can go, you don't have to miss anything. I can take this all off and it's an easy fix; It's a minor procedure to numb and file them back down, and of course we were going to do it afterwards anyway. Velocity thought it would be more realistic if we just went ahead and altered our denta for the sake of it, but I should have thought more about how that might affect you. I--"

Drift leaned up to quickly kiss Ratchet, immediately jerking his head back with eyes wide, seemingly having not fully registered the fangs that met his until they physically pressed against one another, before giving a shakey smile.

"No, it's okay. I just wasn't ready for it. The thought of you having to resort to... Anything like that, it makes my spark hurt. It reminds me of a lot of things I don't like about how I had to get through some hard times, you know? But I don't want you to go. I want you here. Plus... Now we match, right?"

Leave it to Drift to try to power through something so significantly distressing to him. Ratchet appreciated the effort, but saw right through it.

"I mean it, if this bothers you, I'm ready to get back to the medbay, undo it, and we can hit the bar again together later once things have eased up a bit, no problem. The humans might think vampires are evil, and a lot of bots might think siphonists are... Frightening, but I need you to know that they're not the same thing. People are often wrong about what they don't understand, and you only did what you had to in order to survive. And I'm glad you did it. If you hadn't, you wouldn't be here. With me, at a party that will be fun if you still want to go through with all this."

Drift optics gradually returned to their usual brightness, his signs of anxiety slowly disappearing on Ratchet's constant scans, putting him at ease as well.

"Thank you, Ratchet. I'll be okay once the shock wears off. I think it's a good costume choice, and you really do look good in the cloak. The black makes your white paint look brighter! And it's fun to think of all the spooky human stories... And some of our own too, I guess. Imagine, a siphonst medic! You would't have any patients, that's for sure." Drift smiled, making a point to flash his own fangs. Clearly he'd recovered from the initial shock, although Ratchet decided he might try to talk it out with him at some point when they weren’t caught up in all this. He didn't want Drift to suffer any blows to his self-esteem, or fall back into a trauma related depression, even a relatively minor one. He was glad Rung had a positive policy for booking short notice sessions, which reassured him a bit. Any problems, they could all work it out together.

"Well, I think anyone who needs a doctor badly enough is willing to go to whatever doctor happens to be around, in my experience. Siphonist or not. And are you calling my paint job dull? I'll have you know I polished my armour for this. Or First Aid did, at least. He was insistent that we represent the medical team as best as possible."

"Seems like he's learning some things from you about professionalism, Mister No Crystals in the Medbay."

"Hey, Ultra Magnus agreed with me. It violates... Some rule."

"Sure it does."

It was finally time for the costume contest, and

"What happened? What happened? Hey! Someone else get up already!" Rodimus wasn't one to panic, but he was maybe actually slightly panicking. A little bit.

After the Great Sword had reacted to Drift's incantation, everyone had experienced simultaneous processor reset from the energy surge, and it was taking some time for people to come around from the harsh and unexpected reboot.

It seemed everyone in the bar had been affected by the wave, not dissimilar to an electromagnetic pulse, with bots slumped over their tables, a few leaning precariously over the bar, and others laying on top of each other where there had been only standing room left.

Rodimus had been the first to wake, having fallen into a draped position half over Megatron and half pressed into the makeshift stage curtain, briefly tangled in his distress over waking up and feeling... Odd.

He felt like his spark was super charged, like he had ingested far too much high grade energon and was borderline frying his own circuits. It was like his fuses had been blown, but a quick self-diagnostic came back completely normal, nothing out of the ordinary, everything working fine.

His sensory input felt magnified somehow, like he was feeling the EM fields of everyone in the bar at a hundred fold.

It wasn't bad. Just very, very odd. Which was never a good indicator of anything, the way things tended to go on the Lost Light.

He briefly considered paging the medbay, when he caught the passed out shaped of Ratchet and Drift together in the centre of the stage; Ratchet must have picked up on whatever was happening and had made a dive for Drift, resulting in both of them clattering to the ground on top of each other.

Everyone he would turn to for help had also been affected; There was no

"Megatron, wake up!"

—-

"Ratchet, oh Primus, please, are you okay?" Drift had finally woken up, exhausted by his lack of recharge on top of the huge surge of energy that had burst forth from the Great Sword, which was connected somehow to his spark energy... He was drained, but determined to get a response out of Ratchet before he could even consider his own wellbeing.

"Ratchet! Get up! Something's happened with the sword, and it's my fault, and I don't know what happened!" Genuine fear started to seep into his vocaliser, which was likely what finally jarred Ratchet back into awareness.

"...Drift? Are you alright?" Ratchet's voice was low and rough, still drowsy from the forced reboot. Drift knelt further down to help get a grip under Ratchet's shoulders to keep him from slumping over again, being careful of anywhere that may have been injured as he collapsed.

"My scans are showing me you’re fine, but I think I need to run a diagnostic on myself... I feel like I haven't refuelled in Primus knows how long. My fuel tank was reasonably topped up before this, is anyone else experiencing similar symptoms...?" Ratchet was slowly regaining his bearings, relying less on Drift for balance once being sat upright, although they both remained seated with their legs tucked under them in the middle of the stage. Drift felt he could relax ever so slightly now that Ratchet was responsive enough to be engaging his medical protocols.

"We all feel a bit strange. Me and Roddy feel overcharged almost, like having two sparks in one frame. It’s… intense, but manageable. Megatron is still out, and Roddy seems to be more charged up than I am. It might be a Matrix thing with him, we don't know. My fuel levels are good, feeling the opposite of drained right now. Our internal diagnostics are coming back normal, but that's clearly wrong. Any ideas?"

Ratchet was slow to reply. He was never slow to reply, not when it came to medical matters.

"Ratchet?" Drift grabbed Ratchet's shoulders, preparing to brace him and lay him out gently in case he lost consciousness again.

"Drift, I need you to listen to me carefully. I don't know what happened. I don't know what's happening now. I can't identify any apparent problems in my own self-diagnostics, aside from the erroneous fuel tank level discrepancy. I'm not leaking fuel from anywhere, I'm not burning it off any faster than usual. I'd need access to the medbay for more in-depth scans, but I don't think it's a good idea to be wandering the halls right now. We should keep this contained to the incident area as much as we can..." As he continued to speak, Ratchet looked more and more stressed, more concerned. And that concerned Drift.

"What are you getting at, why are the halls unsafe? Do you think this is some kind of attack? It originated from my Great Sword, it was... I think it was the incantation. It had to be. Ultra Magnus made sure the threat level was at a minimum--"

"No. I think that if we went out there, we'd be making the halls dangerous ourselves. Don't you feel that?"

Drift felt his spark grind to a halt.

"What are you talking about? I feel fine, I feel suspiciously better than fine. Are you okay? Are you dizzy?"

"...No. I'm energy depleted. I need fuel." Ratchet leaned forward until they were pressed flush against each other, their knees touching in their kneeled position on the stage, chests touching right over their spark chambers. Drift kept his hands rested on Ratchet's shoulders, grip light, unsure of what to do.

When suddenly, and with all the strength of a field medic frame, Ratchet leaned in and closed the rest of the distance, pushing Drift backwards to the floor so his knees lifted from their bent position and his legs splayed out under Ratchet, who was now so close to laying across the top of him that it nearly took Drift's breath away.

Ratchet whispered directly against Drift's neck cables, close enough to his audials that it made Drift's spinal strut shiver and lock up. "I need warm fuel. I need your fuel.”

Drift immediately froze. This didn't sound like Ratchet. This couldn't be Ratchet. Because Ratchet would never make him feel this vulnerable, he would never do this. Ratchet isn't a siphonist...

...Or he wasn't before whatever just happened, happened.

"Don't do this!" Drift had intended to scream it, but it came out as a whimper that only Ratchet could hear as his breath was taken away by the pointed denta scrapping gently along the central fuel lines in the side of his neck, just above his collar plating and below the corner of his tilted helm, as Ratchet’s glossa searched for the most medically sound place to puncture the lines and begin to siphon fuel.

Imagining Ratchet's mouth full of his energon, still hot from being cycled through his systems, Ratchet’s face swirling the fuel around his fangs and smiling at him in sick contentment the way Drift knew he himself had done to others in his past filled him with a level of dread and distress that he didn't know he was still capable of feeling.

He tried to roll to knock Ratchet off balance, but he was now pinned beneath the medic, whose wider frame was made for detaining unruly patients and built to cope with such resistance. The moment had only caused Ratchet to get a better glimpse at his central fuel lines, Drift's neck having flexed in the process, encouraging a small thrilled hum from Ratchet that terrified Drift straight to the spark.

He couldn't let Ratchet do this. He wouldn't let him become a siphonist. Ratchet is a good mech, a kind-hearted mech, and Drift refused to imagine what would happen if Ratchet drained him of fuel and snapped out of whatever this was and hated himself the way Drift had hated himself...

...But at the same time, they were in a room full of vulnerable and disoriented bots. Many of whom had still not fully rebooted and had no chance of putting up any defence at all. If Ratchet was under some spell, or whatever was happening, then there was no guarantee that he would be able to be restrained, or that he could restrain himself, from simply going after someone else.

Drift realised in horror that if Ratchet didn't get his fuel fix from him, right now, he would likely just hurt someone else while in this trance-like state, focused solely on satisfying a feral hunger... Drift could at least relate, and was awake enough to consent as much as possible under the circumstances, and it didn't take all that much effort for Drift to talk himself into going limp.

As he rested back flat against the stage floor, Ratchet briefly froze, giving Drift a flash of hope that he was coming to his senses, that his medical protocols were overriding whatever this was and that he would immediately jump off and apologise and demand another systems check before they started working out whatever was going on.

But instead, Ratchet made some awful little low trilling noise, lowering more of the weight of his frame against Drift's chest, and whispered into his neck: "Your vents are spewing out so much heat. Your fuel will be so warm in my mouth. Listen to my voice, Drift. You know how much you mean to me. I won't hurt you, I'll never hurt you. I'm a medic. I want you to feel good, be healthy. Forever. I want you to feel the way I do."

Drift was caught between old traumas and the trauma currently unfolding. He had no response, cleansing fluid building up behind his optics, threatening to cloud his vision and steam up his lenses from the inside from all the heat his rapidly spinning spark was generating throughout his systems.

He vaguely became aware of some almighty commotion happening somewhere in the bar, but he didn't dare attempt to move. He couldn't have even if he tried. It was painful hearing Ratchet like this, the kind voice worn by age that he was familiar with tainted by something rough and sinister, for all the friendliness it still contained.

"Did you read all the human myths, or just about the crystals? It seems the Earth vampires can turn another human into one by sharing blood, their energon. After I take a sip from you, would you bite into me? Or would you prefer if I clean cut one of my fuel lines for you to suck on? Would you do that for me? We match, after all.” Drift could feel Ratchet flash a wide smile into the side of his neck.

Ratchet's voice was starting to have some kind of cognitive effect on Drift's processor, numbing him to the waves of anxiety and making the noises in the bar seem even further away, sinking him into Ratchet's grip, making it impossible to activate his own vocaliser.

"We could be together forever, Drift. No more flitting in and out of each others lives. Security. Safety. Stability."

With Drift completely flattened beneath him, helm lolled to the side and central fuel line finally exposing the medically ideal spot to place a bite, Ratchet was satisfied. He leaned in and sunk his pointed denta into the perfect centre of the line, immediately creating a suction and drawing a swift stream of warm energon into his mouth, a deep moan from Drift weakly rising from beneath his grasp--

--And at that moment, Rodimus with immense precision drew down a bar stool leg directly into Ratchet's helm, the metallic clang echoing through the room as Ratchet’s head was forced away from Drift’s neck, a pool of energon steaming up from the tear in the central fuel line, ripped open further by Ratchet’s pointed denta never having had the chance to loosen the bite first.

Rodimus quickly put himself between Drift and Ratchet, kicking Ratchet in the shoulder to create more distance while avoiding harming him as much as possible before turning to face Drift.

“Primus, Drift, we shouldn’t have left you two alone, some of the others started waking up and Megatron’s still struggling a little with the hard reboot, are you okay? Drift?”

Drift barely registered what Rodimus was panicking about as he was only gradually coming out of whatever state Ratchet had put him in. He felt like his temperature regulator has to be malfunctioning now, or perhaps he had just lost too much heat from pushing himself too hard and venting off too much of the heated air that speedster frames tended to build up.

Setting himself upright, he relied on Rodimus for support, immediately showing the tear in his fuel line, optics slightly foggy and looking off to the side. “I need to wrap this up… It’s not as bad as it could be, but it really is, isn’t it? What’s wrong with Ratchet, Roddy?” It was hard to hear Drift’s voice, usually so lively and firm, take a low and demure tone made rough by the damage to his neck.

They both looked over to where Ratchet had been unceremoniously kicked on his back, Rodimus continuing to stay tensed and alert in front of Drift in case Ratchet tried to make another move.

Cautiously, Rodimus spoke up as his right hand helped Drift hold the fuel line edges together; Rodimus winced at how much it must hurt, but Drift was making no complaints as it was slowly and carefully wrapped by some previously subspaced tape. In fact, Drift seemed… Sad, more than scared. He was being too quiet, moving too little even considering his injury, and his EM field was full of exhaustion and distress.

“What the hell happened? Ratchet, you… I didn’t hit you that hard, did I? Can you answer me? What were you doing?” He wanted to ask why, but one thing at a time. He suspected that Ratchet didn’t know the answer to that last one, and Rodimus didn’t want to press someone who was potentially unstable and clearly dangerous at the moment. He pressed his back closer to Drift, fully ready to defend him if needed.

Rodimus took in Ratchet’s crumpled pose, still laid out where he had been kicked back, a look of absolute shock and strain on his face as his fists curled tightly against the stage floor, steaming energon dipping from around his slightly open mouth in small pools as he ex-vented heavily.

As Ratchet shook his helm a bit, he replied with an absolutely wrecked voice, as if it had been his vocaliser nearly ripped out instead of Drift’s. “I, Rodimus, I don’t know how long I’ll be lucid for. My fuel tank levels are registering within perfectly normal levels, but it feels like I’m being constantly drained, like I’m losing fuel from a leak that doesn’t exist—“

“So you put a leak in Drift?” Rodimus knew he shouldn’t have said anything as Ratchet’s head whipped up and stared him directly in the optics, the shattered look on his face so unfamiliar on Ratchet’s features that it startled Rodimus to see it.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My scans are coming back fine, all of them, I can’t find what’s wrong.” Real panic was seeping into Ratchet’s vocaliser, a bizarre and awful contrast to his usual calm steadiness even in the worst of situations. “You don’t understand, Rodimus, whatever energy the Great Sword released has altered my systems, perhaps everyone’s systems… Drift said you both felt overcharged, but I feel energy depleted, and it’s doing something to my processor. I feel so strange and— And Drift.”

The entire time he spoke, without his knowledge, his glossa lightly flicked out here and there to catch some spare flecks of Drift’s energon that had settled around his mouth. It set off a sick feeling in Rodimus’ spark, as it was clear Ratchet genuinely couldn’t help it, as if his coding had gone severely wrong somewhere. It reminded him of a cyberfox licking its paws after a hunt. It was too unrefined and subtly animalistic for a bot like Ratchet. It looked wrong, it felt wrong, and he could feel a surge of concerned sadness burst forth from Drift’s EM field behind him. Evidently he’d finished wrapping his fuel line and was now focused on Ratchet.

Ratchet noticed and finally moved, only slightly to avoid startling Rodimus into unnecessary action, as he picked up on Drift’s distressed EM signals.

“Drift, Primus, are—“ Ratchet’s optics went wide and he jerked back oddly, not moving from his place lest Rodimus make a move, but as though he were torn so completely that he couldn’t move. “—My medical protocols demand your neck be examined. If I do it, I don’t know what I’ll do. Where’s Velocity and First Aid?”

—-

Megatron bellowed across the bar, “They’re behaving oddly, get ready to fight them off!”

—-

"Drift, we're medics. We know where to bite to take the most energon straight from the central fuel line the fastest. I just did it to you, and being ripped free like that can rip the cable lining and weaken the integrity of the fuel line under pressure. It ruptures and causes a major bleed. It can kill someone. It will kill someone. If at any point we start failing to restrain ourselves, you have to incapacitate us. Tie us up. Do whatever. We are officially dangerous until this is resolved. I can't say my behaviour will be predictable, or sensible."

He then turned abruptly to Rodimus and Megatron, Ultra Magnus off to his opposite side, ready to intervene if needed.

"One of you, or both of you, I am asking you to do whatever you need to do if I go after Drift again. If I go for his central fuel lines again, he's already damaged. Another bite will weaken the line structure, its integrity will fail, and he will lose too much energon to be within safe levels. His nanites will take far too long to repair a gash that size. Please."

Ratchet hung his head, avoiding everyone's optics.

"I am a medic. I heal bots. I don't kill them.

---

AND THAT’S AS FAR AS I GOT, I hope to finish this up and edit it for AO3 soon, Happy Halloween!

#Halloween #MTMTE #transformers fic #ll #maccadam #maccadams #dratchet #megarod

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wickedmilo · 4 years ago

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YOU CAN STAY MILO | MILO & HARSH

PLACE: A quiet White Crest street TIMING: 4:00 AM SUMMARY: Upon discovering Milo has only been a vampire for a month, Harsh decides to help him adjust to his new situation WRITING PARTNER: @notsoharsh CONTENT WARNINGS: Heavy talk of addiction, rehab, and drug abuse

Milo’s lack of self control, and inability to say no had always been something he was painfully aware of. It didn’t bother him, for the most part. If he shifted his perspective, or found the perfect high, then he could almost, almost convince himself he had a hand on the wheel, regardless of how true that actually was. It was easy to do, because he was only ever hurting himself. He was the one at risk, he was the one using the substances, venturing to questionable areas of town. Now though, his instability was putting other people in danger. If he gave in, he wasn’t the one getting hurt. It was a sense of responsibility he had never been forced to face before, and that left him terrified.

Creeping on the outskirts of town, venturing into the forest for his more sinister appetites, he was struggling to find a balance. He needed to avoid people, he didn’t trust himself not to. But he was also very aware of his shaking hands, the cold sweat leaving a sheen on his skin that ironically made him look like the living dead. He was barely scraping by on the hits he had been able to talk out of strangers. The withdrawal was only made worse by the thought of the stash he had waiting for him in his friend’s apartment. He would return for it if he wasn’t so sure a chance encounter could end in bloodshed. He shouldn’t be in town, he knew he shouldn’t be in town. But a quick meeting with a dealer and he could hide again, melt into the shadows. How had his life deteriorated so quickly? It was pitiful. Cuffing his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie, he continued to drag his feet down the quiet high street. His head bowed as he made an effort to go unnoticed, he was entirely unaware of being watched.

Harsh had started to get used to this whole ‘patrolling’ thing. It was rough at first, finding ways to steer clear of actual slayer and hunter routes, but it made the lies easier whenever there was a hint of truth buried underneath. Still, he tried to avoid killing other vampires when he could help it. A few needed to be dusted here and there to keep up appearances, but better they run into him than a slayer who actually wanted them gone. Hands in his pockets, he strolled casually, keeping to the shadows. Soft footsteps caught his ears… but no heartbeat. Interesting. He moved carefully, keeping his own steps nearly silent. There. Definitely a vampire, but not one he recognized. Harsh watched, eyes narrowed. There was something off. The guy looked young. Might be easier to stake him and go, but… something stopped Harsh going for the stake in his pocket. Something about the guy’s face--he looked rough.

It wasn’t smart, but Harsh had never been one to plan ahead. He moved quick and quiet, before stepping out of the shadows, not far from the stranger. “Hey man,” he called, voice even, casual, holding up an unlit cigarette. “You got a light? Must’ve left mine at home.” Closer, he could see the vampire’s face better. Yeah, definitely rough. Harsh had seen that look before, too many times. Damn it. Way too late to walk away now. He kept his own expression friendly, smile fixed into place. “It’s nice out, isn’t it? I thought we would never be done with all that snow. Are you from around here?”

Milo found with his heightened senses that it was far easier to maintain an awareness of his surroundings than it had been before his death. It should be a useful ability, he had certainly used it a few times to avoid crossing paths with humans. But his ability to get lost in his own head, especially when he was struggling, seemed to be entirely unparalleled. He knew he should be smarter, more focused, but it wasn’t quite that simple. Which was why, when a man emerged suddenly from the shadows, he had the rather undignified response of stumbling backwards, a yelp of surprise escaping him. Something wasn’t right, he registered that almost immediately. But tired, and aching, he had far more important things to worry about than why a stranger was potentially weird.

“Shit- what are you doing?” He demanded. If he needed to breathe, he would have been catching his breath at this point. “Who does that?” It was an instinct to place a hand over his heart as he recovered from the shock, but it only took a few seconds before the lack of a heartbeat made him uncomfortable. He hurried to shake off the sensation. “You- you want a light?” He echoed, distracting himself by fumbling in his pockets. “Fine, whatever- just don’t fucking creep up on me again.” Holding out the lighter, he realised he was shaking, and hurried to force his balled fists back into his pockets. “It’s nice out?” He glanced up at the sky, wrinkling his nose as he struggled to understand the question. “I mean- it’s night? What do you want me to say?” Turning his attention back to his company, he shrugged, playing off his response as casual, despite still feeling shaken, and now just a little suspicious. “Uh… born and raised? Why do you care?”

Oh a jumpy one. Yeah, this kid was definitely new to the vampire thing. He seemed like he might be scared of his own shadow. If Harsh could feel bad for people, he probably would have. Maybe he did. It was sort of hard to tell. Without much hesitation, he grabbed the lighter. Smoking was more of a pain now that he had to make himself go through the motions of breathing manually, but he had learned how to make it work after a hundred years of practice. He blew out a steady stream of smoke and laughed softly. “You could’ve fooled me. You seem new… scared. I wouldn’t recommend that. This place’ll eat you up and spit you back out if you let it know you’re afraid.”

He dug through his pockets, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and offering it to the stranger. “Here, might help with your nerves. And you should try to look like you’re still breathing, helps you blend in.” Maybe he was playing too much of his hand, but there wasn’t much point in pretending. This kid seemed shaky. If he went around like that, he was going to get himself staked in no time at all. And that was… kind of sad. Harsh kept his expression even, though there was a knowing lilt to his voice. “I’m like you, man. Just listen for a second, really listen.” It wasn’t the kind of thing new vampires usually thought about, sitting still, actually listening for breath, for a heart beat, but if any of them would slow down for a minute, they could make things so much easier for themselves. “I’m Harsh, by the way. Real name, I swear, trust me, I’ve heard all the smart comments. What’s yours?”

“What?” Milo demanded, struggling to keep up with the vague nature of the conversation. He was almost ready to turn and leave when the stranger mentioned being chewed up and spit back out again. “Yeah, no shit. I think this place has already done that so you’re wasting your time.” He muttered. The town looked different to him now, it felt different. He had grown up in a place that would eventually be the death of him. It was a sick, and twisted thing to realise. Distracted by the packet of cigarettes, he was halfway through sliding one out of the carton when he realised what the man had said. Freezing instantaneously, his entire body grew tense. But then the comment responsible for terrifying him was followed up by another comment, by a comment he had been desperate to hear for what felt like an eternity. He had been alone for a month. He hadn’t been able to ask anybody questions, or lean on anybody for support. The one friend he could always rely on had tried to kill him, and he was just… lost. He tried to dampen the spark of hope that had managed to ignite within his chest, but it proved to be impossible. He followed his instruction, cautious, and careful, his eyes widening suddenly when he realised he didn’t hear a heartbeat.

He wasn’t sure what to say in response, his voice stolen by an overwhelming rush of emotion. He didn’t want to assume his struggle was over, was his struggle ever going to be over? But for the first time since waking up, he didn’t feel as though he was on his own. Here was somebody who potentially understood, who knew what he was going through. “You’re- you’re not going to hurt me, are you?” His voice was small, and uncertain. In contrast to the sarcastic edge usually lacing his tone. “I don’t even know how this happened, okay? I woke up like this, you’re the first person I’ve met who’s- who’s the same way.” Abandoning the cigarettes, he shifted uncomfortably on the spot, ready to run if he needed to, despite knowing he would never be able to best this person. They were obviously stronger than him, more capable in every conceivable way. “Your name is Harsh?” He echoed. “I- I’m Milo… Or I was- I mean, I think I still am.”

Harsh bit back a laugh. Was he going to hurt him? It was a fair question. He hadn’t quite made up his mind. It would be good for the whole slayer reputation he was trying to build. But… if this guy was new, he probably hadn’t made much of a name for himself yet. And that wouldn’t exactly make for a good story, staking some poor, newly turned kid. Honestly, that seemed… pretty lame. Friendly smile still in place, he shook his head. “Wasn’t planning on it. If you want to pick a fight, I’ll punch back, but nope. I just thought you looked… lonely.” He frowned a little as Milo went on. The guy had just been turned and abandoned? Well, that was a whole world of suck right there. “You were turned. A vampire, someone else like us, they must have drained you and forced you to drink some of their blood.” He paused there. Probably not the nicest thing to just tell Milo he was dead. But he might have already known.

“Good to meet you, Milo. You can still be if you want, or you can change things up. Some people do that. Once they turn… they want to be someone else. It can be sort of a fresh start, if you want it to be.” Harsh had never considered changing his name, though… other things, the rest of him… that hadn’t quite stayed the same. It had been so long, he wasn’t quite sure who he had been when he was human, but he was pretty sure that person was a far cry from whoever he was now. “So… you don’t know who turned you? Or anyone else like us? Seriously? That’s rough, man. How long has it been for you? Have you had any blood recently?”

Milo frowned, unable to decide whether Harsh was laughing at him, or at the situation. Feeling his shoulders drop when he was assured he wasn’t in any danger, maybe it was stupid to believe a stranger so easily. But he was scared of pushing the man away, of being left alone again. Even if he wasn’t entirely comfortable. “Something tells me I wouldn’t stand a chance.” He admitted, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. His sharp tongue had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion. He knew he could take a punch, but he had never been able to successfully throw one. His smile faded as quickly as it had appeared at the mention of looking lonely. The observation was a little too accurate for his liking, it forced him to acknowledge the painful, empty feeling inside his chest. “Yeah…” He muttered, scuffing his shoes against the asphalt. He had never been the type of person to ask for help, or admit he needed it. Then again, he had never felt quite so lost. “I guess I kind of am. S’not like I can go home, y’know?”

Keeping his head down as Harsh began to explain what he was, he chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip. Had he really been made to drink someone’s blood? He couldn’t remember doing so, surely even high he would have questioned that. He had vague recollections of losing consciousness, feeling weak, and dizzy as he tried to push away the person responsible for attacking him. Would he have had any power to refuse? “So it- it wasn’t an accident?” He asked finally, looking back up to watch the expression on his company’s face. “Somebody did this on purpose? And then just… left me?” It was something that had been eating away at him, not knowing what had taken place. The sequence of events that had ended with him waking up in an abandoned building, missing 30 hours of his time. Was he an accident, or had somebody had planned the entire ordeal? He still wasn’t sure which was worse. He had been repressing the thoughts, struggling to focus on the present. But now his mind was racing. He was desperate for answers.

“No- no.” He hurried to assure Harsh. “I want to be Milo- I don’t want to be anybody else.” The idea of losing his identity, his sense of self, alongside his life… his Humanity. That was as terrifying as anything he had faced over the course of the past month. He couldn’t do that, he would go insane. Averting his gaze, once again, when he was asked another question, he realised how strange it felt to be saying the words out loud. Drinking blood, dying, being turned… these were things only ever talked about in the context of fantasy. And now they had become a part of his life, a part of a serious discussion. For the first time, he was talking about it. “No, I don’t know. I was in a club, someone offered me something…” His voice was slow as he sifted through his memories, trying to pull the important information from the haze of the high. “We shot up… whatever it was. And then they attacked me, but I don’t know who they were, I don’t even think I would recognise them.” Letting out a huff of breath, a decidedly Human habit he had yet to shake, he pushed his hair back away from his face. It was damp with sweat. How was he supposed to explain to Harsh that it wasn’t just blood he was craving? “A month… maybe just over. But I- no, not today.” He was too embarrassed to admit he had been trying, and failing to hunt animals in the woods. His diet consisted entirely of animals he was, by some miracle, able to catch.

“Aw, c’mon, I’m not as tough as I look. But you’re stronger than you think. One of the perks of the whole blood craving thing.” This kid was going to have to learn to fight whether he liked it or not. Slayers weren’t going to wait for him to figure out how to punch. Harsh had seen that for himself. He nodded. That much he could understand. When he had turned, he had never wanted to go home, he had a new one… until he didn’t. And it was only then that it really sunk in, how he could never put things back the way they were before. “Yeah that’s… one of the major downsides. People don’t really get it if they aren’t like us, they don’t understand. It sucks, losing that. I was never… all that welcome at home, but they were still a safety net… until they weren’t. I know it’s hard, man.”

Grimacing, Harsh shook his head. “I really doubt it. Most vampires don’t just accidentally let someone drink some of their own blood. They usually stick around for the turn though. It’s this whole… sire thing. You feel sort of connected to people you turn or the one who turned you. Usually that means something to people.” Not that he was really one to talk. On occasion, during his two hundred year rampage, he had turned someone for the hell of it. But even then, at his worst, he had usually stuck around to see if they ate someone five minutes after they woke up. He couldn’t find it in him to be proud of that. It was the bare minimum. And Milo didn’t even have that much. Poor guy. Harsh let his mind drift for a moment, back to those confused, scared faces, his brood… he couldn’t make it up to any of them now. But maybe he could make up for a little of it here.

He held up a calming hand. “Easy man, it’s okay. You can stay Milo if you want to. There’s nothing wrong with that. You don’t have to be a different person just cause you work a little differently now.” Harsh took a small, cautious step forward, hands still up, palms open, like he was approaching a frightened animal almost. Another little step. “So they might have drugged you first? Shit. That’s on them, not you, Milo.” He took another slight step forward, putting a hand lightly on Milo’s shoulder. “You want some? I work at the hospital, I swipe blood bags now and then. I’ve got some extra, if you need it. I know how hard it can be when you first start hunting. But you want to drink regularly. If you don’t… trust me, it’s not pretty.”

Milo frowned. He didn’t want to be strong, his physical wellbeing had never been much of a concern. If this strength came with so many catches, he would much rather revert to his old self. His weak self. “There are perks?” He asked, skepticism clear in his tone. Even if he wanted to hide it, he wasn’t sure he would be able to. Everything had become so twisted. Even now that he had somebody to explain things to him, somebody to answer his questions, the sense of hopelessness he had grown so used to stubbornly refused to dissipate. “Hm,” He stifled a bitter laugh, scuffing at the asphalt with his battered Converse. “My parents have never been the understanding type.” How many arguments had he suffered through? How many times had he stormed out of the front door, or climbed out of his bedroom window, with the promise of never talking to them again? He had been in the process of cutting them off the night he was attacked. Dying had only made it easier to ignore the never ending phone calls. The texts from his mom demanding to know where he was. “They’ve been threatening me with rehab for years… hardly a safety net.”

His frown deepening when Harsh confirmed his suspicion, he felt a surge of anger course through his veins. Somebody had done this to him intentionally. So he wasn’t a mistake, he wasn’t the result of a spontaneous accident. Sure, whoever was responsible had been high, but they would have known the consequences of their actions. They would have understood. Clearly they didn’t give a shit about him, so much for a ‘sire’ connection. “Yeah, well… apparently not.” He muttered, blinking away the tears stinging suddenly at his eyes. He didn’t want to cry, he couldn’t afford to look so pathetic. Brushing at them with the sleeve of his hoodie, he looked back up at the man so intent on helping him. Swallowing his emotion, he allowed himself to be comforted by the assurance. You can stay Milo if you want to. There’s nothing wrong with that. He was terrified of losing himself. It felt like all he had left was his identity.

Tensing when Harsh took a step towards him, he had to fight every instinct telling him to run. Attempting to brush off his discomfort, he offered his company a hesitant shrug. Harsh wasn’t a threat, he was safe. Probably safer than he had been since first waking up. “I mean, s’not exactly like I said no.” He admitted. Maybe if he had, he would still be alive, his heart would still be beating inside his chest. His eyes widening at the unexpected offer of blood, it didn’t take long for him to realise he was being forced to choose, forced to prioritise his cravings. Did he meet his dealer, and then follow Harsh? Was it rude to ask him to wait? Then again, his mouth felt dry, he almost hurt with longing as he imagined the blood bags from the hospital. The hand on his shoulder didn’t ground him, but it allowed him to focus on his answer. “Yes.” He said, a little too quickly. “I mean- I was meeting someone- I need to-” If he stood up his dealer he would be written off, forced to find another. Given his new instability, the last thing he wanted was to be left in suspense, to not know where his next hit might be coming from. “Would you- would you maybe come with me? Make sure I don’t do anything stupid… it’ll take two minutes, I swear.”

“Oh yeah, tons of them. Some take a little longer to work out, and I know the downsides are… pretty big, but trust me. It’s not all bad.” Though that might have been two hundred years of bias talking. Harsh could barely remember the things he missed about being human. Going out in the sun had been nice… probably. But he had spent far more time out of it than in it. “I’ll show you a couple tricks, if you want.” There were some things that would come in time, learning how to manage the strength, the new power. Maybe it wasn’t exactly a light at the end of a tunnel. Because the tunnel was all there was now. There wasn’t much choice except to learn to love it. He grimaced, nodding faintly. “That’s… shit, man. Rehab shouldn’t be a threat, no one gets to choose that except for you, and only if you even want it.” Though Harsh had dabbled with various substances over the years, he had never messed with anything that could get him hooked. Blood was already a life long addiction, he didn’t need another one.

Harsh kept his hand gentle on Milo’s shoulder. Empathy wasn’t a thing he could do. The sucking void where his soul should be saw to that. At least, not automatically. But he could try to think back to what his first few months were like. The adjustment hadn’t been that bad, but… he hadn’t done it alone. He cocked an eyebrow. So Milo already had another appointment. Well, he looked… rough. Maybe there was something else he was after, the whole ‘rehab’ thing probably didn’t come out of nowhere. Harsh nodded, smile still easy. “Sure, lead the way. Is this, uh… something that might get a little hairy?” It was that part of town after all. Harsh didn’t come here much if he could help it, but he had heard plenty of rumors. “I’ve got your back, Milo, just need to know what I’ve gotta do to cover it.”

Milo so desperately wanted to believe what he was hearing. Maybe it wasn’t all bad, maybe he would come to realise that over time. It was very clear Harsh had, which gave him a genuine sense of hope. He had been intentionally dismissing the idea of the future, of time passing and him staying the way that he was. But suddenly the future felt a little less scary, if only for a second. “You- you will?” He asked, surprised by the offer. Harsh was so ready to help him, it was a kindness he was no longer used to. After fending for himself, he had grown to assume nobody was going to notice him, nobody was going to make sure he was okay, or teach him how to deal with the complications of his new life. “Why are you helping me?” The question escaped him before he could contemplate how rude, or dismissive it might sound. “No- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...” He trailed off, pushing his hair away from his face where it was clinging to his damp skin. “I just mean… you don’t have to, you know? Nobody else has… but you are.” A grim smile tugging at his lips, it was comforting to hear somebody talk about rehab in the same way he talked about rehab. His parents refused to understand he didn’t want it, he didn’t need it. They continually tried to force it upon him. It only served to strengthen his trust in the man beside him. “They never fucking listen to me.” He admitted. “It’s a choice, it’s not like I have to. Rehab is for addicts...”

He knew a lot could be said about the fact that he was insisting they visit his dealer before they left. And a lot could be said about the fact he was so panicked by potentially having no reliable source for his substances. But he pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind. Those were his mother’s words echoing inside his head. Her tone disapproving, almost, almost smug. Sometimes he wondered whether she actually enjoyed looking for loopholes in his logic. Maybe she did it just to spite him. His shoulders dropping with relief when Harsh agreed to follow him, he shook his head with a tired laugh. “No… no, not like that.” He admitted, beginning to walk in the direction he first had been. His hands were still balled in his pockets, nails digging into his palms as he considered the two hungers promised to be sated tonight. “I just- I don’t trust myself.” If he could blush, he knew his face would be glowing red. It was an embarrassing thing to admit. “I guess I’m also scared you might be some kind of hallucination, like if I turn away for a second you’ll just… be gone.” He felt a thousand times more vulnerable after being so honest, but he was smart enough to know it would be counterproductive to lie to somebody who might understand, who might be able to make him feel less ridiculous. “You are real, right? I’m not- I’m not going insane?” Jeez, how far had he fallen to need to ask that question?

So this was gonna be a thing now. Great. Harsh had gone and volunteered himself to be a babysitter for who knew how fucking long. But that was… fine. This was the kinda shit that would’ve gotten him points for his stupid deal. A deal that was long gone now. But… hell, maybe he could get a new one. Maybe teaching Milo how not to get himself dusted would earn him some brownie points somewhere. And it wouldn’t hurt to have someone to talk to who wasn’t a fucking hunter. He gave Milo a little shrug. “If it was me, I’d want help. Like I said, I’ve been doing this for a while. I know how bad things can go if no one shows a new kid the ropes.” He nodded a little. So, this guy was definitely more than just a blood junkie. But hell, Harsh wasn’t in any spot to judge. Everyone had their vices. It didn’t sound like it was Milo’s fault that he got another one added on top of that. “Right? People get so judgey about that kind of stuff. I gamble a little too much a few times and people start handing me fliers for therapy and counseling. It’s such a drag. It’s my business, y’know? I know what I can handle.”

This was probably one of the worse choices he had made in a while, following some new vamp he just met to probably go meet someone who was all kinds of shady. But whatever. Not like Harsh had anything better to do with his time. It was either this or pretend to patrol for another couple hours. “Ah, gotcha,” he said, nodding. “I’ll keep an eye on things. I’ll leave it to you, but if you start getting too antsy, I can bail you out.” Better to learn by doing. Harsh was going to help, he’d already agreed and he was a lot of things, but he kept his word. Mostly. When he felt like it. He cocked an eyebrow at the question. “Well, if I was a hallucination, I don’t think that saying I’m not one would help. But if I am one, I’m a pretty self aware hallucination. I can pinch you if you want.” He clapped Milo on the shoulder. Maybe the weight of his hand would at least be sort of reassuring. “Look, lets go talk to this guy, and if he can see me too, you’ll know you’re not imaging things, right?”

Milo couldn’t argue with that. He had caught a glimpse of how bad things could become, had already taken one life in his struggle to understand what was happening. If he hadn’t been told by a passerby that he was a vampire now, he had no way of knowing how many other people could have gotten hurt. And that had been the bare minimum. Left to fend for himself, he had been longing for so many things. But scared, and confused, and Hell, lonely, somebody to help him had been at the very top of his list. A strange sense of relief washing over him, he could very nearly cry at Harsh’s words. Finally somebody who understood. What were the chances it would be another vampire? A person willing to walk him through this terrifying, disorientating change? “Exactly!” He agreed, maybe with a little too much enthusiasm. He couldn’t help himself. He felt so justified, so validated in his habits. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel judged, or alienated, or patronised. He was just Milo to this man, and that meant more than he could possibly put into words.

Nodding quietly in thanks when his new friend promised to keep an eye on things, it wasn’t long before they began to near the meeting point his dealer had arranged. Offering Harsh a genuine smile when he tried to assure him he wasn’t a hallucination, the hand on his arm really did help to ground him, to remind him that this wasn’t some crazy, fucked up dream. “I’m pretty sure hallucinations can be self-aware, you know- if you hallucinate them that way.” He replied, if only to make conversation, and brush off how paranoid his previous concern had managed to make him sound. He wanted to apologise, to explain how much of a mess he was, but he had a feeling that might already be painfully clear. “Okay.” He said, figuring the suggestion was a pretty good way to make sure Harsh was definitely real. “Okay, that sounds good.”

Rounding a corner to appear on a near empty street, he recognised the figure waiting at the end of the road almost immediately. His dealer of two years, Jay, was leaning casually against a lamppost, and he made a point of holding his breath before he could get near enough to catch his scent. No doubt his company would pick up on that, but right now he couldn’t bring himself to care. He hurried up to the familiar face, watching Jay as he cautiously eyed Harsh from where he was standing. It had been long enough for Jay to know he could be trusted as a customer, which was probably the only reason he didn’t look annoyed by the unexpected presence of a witness. “He’s cool.” He murmured quietly, overwhelmed with an emotion he couldn’t quite place at the realisation that Harsh wasn’t a figment of his imagination. Slipping his cash into Jay’s hand, it wasn’t long until he was given a small baggie in return. Shoving it into his pocket, he shot him a smile in lieu of thanks before turning on his heel to make his way back over to where Harsh was waiting for him. Not for the first time he found himself grateful that buying drugs had never been considered a social event. You got in, and you got out. Why wasn’t everything that simple? Listening to Jay’s footsteps as they faded into the distance, he suddenly realised he didn’t know what was supposed to happen next. Once again, he was being thrown into the unknown. Or maybe he was choosing to jump… Hopefully, this time, somebody would be waiting to catch him.

Harsh had been around the block a few times. Though he had kept his addictions to blood and shifty poker games, he knew how they could get their hooks in, even long after death. And it sure as shit wasn’t going to help Milo if some asshole he just met started lecturing him on his habits. Not that Harsh was really the lecture type. He never had been. If Milo wanted to work that shit out, that was on him. But the vampire thing… that was more pressing. Newly turned vamps were always a concern. The more attention they drew, the harder things got for everyone else. Unless he turned them, Harsh tended to keep his distance. Too late for that here. But hell… it didn’t hurt to have someone around to talk to who kept the same hours and wouldn’t be grossed out by blood bags in the fridge.

So that was definitely Milo’s dealer. Harsh hung back, expression casual, though he made sure to get a good look at the guy. Just in case. Milo was still new at this, and there was a good chance people who he ran into on a bad day could end up face down in a ditch somewhere. Or, if the guy caught on, well… he might have to end up there anyway. Better to wait to make a call there, see how things went. Maybe Harsh would never have to think about this guy again. Ha, as if things were ever that easy here. He clapped Milo on the shoulder as he made his way back over. “Everything good?”

A stupid thought crossed Harsh’s mind. Just a really, absolute shit idea. But it didn’t go away. He gave Milo a long glance. The guy looked rough, like maybe he had been sleeping on a lot of couches lately. Probably assuming too much, but… fuck it. “So, you got a place to go, man? Y’know, it’s funny running into you, I’ve been looking for a roommate for ages. Not saying that to pressure you or anything. But… if you need a place to crash, I’ve got a new place and a couple extra blood bags in the fridge. Just saying.”

Milo exhaled the breath he had been holding, doing nothing to hide his sense of relief. It was so much easier when he was with Harsh, he realised. Not just because he felt as though somebody was finally here to support him. But because Harsh smelled differently to other people. There was no heartbeat, no urge to drain him of blood. It was like a weight being lifted from his shoulders. He nodded quietly in response to the question, grateful for the concern. “Yeah, I think so… thank you.” It wasn’t lost on him that this man had absolutely no obligation to help. And yet he had followed him to meet his dealer, had made an active effort to ensure his safety. Why? He wasn’t gaining anything in return. As if to make the whole thing even more perplexing, he was hit by an unexpected question. One that embarrassingly had tears blurring his vision. He hurried to blink them away, hoping his company wouldn’t notice.

“I- no.” He admitted, staring in disbelief. “No… I don’t have anywhere.” Was he really being offered a place to stay? A safe place where he could live, and learn, and ask any questions he might have about his new condition? After so long of being alone, of struggling to find food, this couldn’t be happening. It didn’t make any sense. Even humans weren’t liable to help people like him, people with bad attitudes, and questionable habits. Surely vampires were no different. “I- only if-” He broke off, so overwhelmed that he found himself unable to form a coherent sentence. “Only if you have space- I don’t want you to feel like you have to…” He swallowed, lowering his gaze to the floor. “If you mean it, like really mean it… then that would be… I’d like that.”

“No problem, man.” It was easy to offer Milo a smile. So far, he didn’t seem like an asshole, just like some confused kid. Harsh wasn’t the best when it came to guessing ages, but he seemed young. That plus scared and nowhere to go was a rough combination. So his guess was pretty dead on. It was probably an offer he should’ve thought about more, letting some random guy he literally found on the street come back to his new slightly less shitty apartment. But hell, he had made worse calls, some of them pretty recently. He slung an arm around Milo’s shoulders. “I mean it. I’ve got room, and… y’know, people like us, we’ve gotta stick together. The world isn’t going to hand you a bunch of blood on a silver platter. I’ve been doing this for a while, got a couple tricks I can teach you.”

He turned the both of them, the stake in his pocket long forgotten. Harsh’s fake patrols could go on hold tonight. Not like anyone was watching to make sure he stuck to his whole slayer routine. Hell, maybe he could get Milo in on that too, might make things easier for the both of them. Lightly pulling Milo along, he started back toward his… their apartment. “C’mon, kid, let’s go home.”

#c:harsh #milo and harsh #drug mention tw #addiction tw #drug manipulation tw #medical blood tw #drug abuse tw #this takes place way back when milo was newly turned

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cranetreegang · 4 years ago

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Fallout 4: Grand Zealot Brian Richter x FemSol: Undercover

A little something about Grand Zealot Richter. This guy... his voice!!! UGH!! Why can’t he be a companion... or a husband. Anyways, FemSol is going ‘undercover’ in the AntiRadaway gang to find DiMA’s memories. And she will do *anything* ;) to prove her loyalty.

If you’re here for just smut, go to the section for Loyalty Questioned and Morning After.

Any feedback is great! Thanks for reading! :)

Going Undercover

“So, I’ll need to get into this submarine. Figure out where your memory is being stored. All while, not killing them.” I hummed out loud my thoughts. “If I end up a ghoul, or worse, bald, I’m gonna be a lil’ upset.”

“It would be best if you didn’t interact with us once you leave. We can’t have you raise any suspicions.” DiMA brought up.

“You’ll have to stay here then, Nick.” I looked over to my partner who didn’t seem to like the idea. “We can talk more about it later.” Nick nodded and didn’t press the issue in front of the synths. “I’ll let you know once I’ve recovered the memories. Or if something else comes up.”

“Good luck, traveler.” DiMA at least seemed sincere with his farewell wishes. Nick walked me outside where we could converse alone.

“I don’t like this.” Nick immediately stated.

“We don’t have much of a choice. It’s not like you blend in.”

“And you’re not rad proof.” He countered back. I rolled my eyes with a sigh.

“Yeah. I know. Again, we don’t have a choice. If I’m gonna get his memory, without bloodshed, I’m gonna need to go alone.”

There was a tense silence as he came to terms with this venture. He reluctantly nodded. “Alright. I think you should still report back to us once you’ve made progress. I don’t wanna worry about you anymore than I already am.”

“Deal. I’ll meet up with you after I’ve gotten in.” I shook his outstretched hand before going in for a brief hug. “Try not to fry your circuits worrying about me. I’ll be back to bug ya soon enough.”

He choked out a laugh with a matching eye roll. “I’ll keep digging around here while you’re gone. See what turns up. I’m not too convinced about this whole ‘brother’ thing.” Nick’s features faltered for a moment. I worried about him, and these new ‘relations’. With another set of goodbyes, I headed towards the Nucleus.

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Meeting the Grand Zealot

Their camp wasn’t hard to miss. Even in the thick fog, warm lights led me towards their entrance. What I stumbled into was not the greatest first impression. I watched an intimidating, but soft-spoken man order for two cultists’ loyalty. Grand Zealot, they called him. She shot her ‘brother’ without hesitation. I pushed down my already mounting hesitation at joining them. At least I knew what would happen if they suspected me. The Grand Zealot’s attention turned to me.

“You. What are you doing here? Did Far Harbor send you?” He had a presence that could make people submit to him. If I was a lesser being, I would have without question. He was the one that I would need to convince. A bubbling anxiety formed in my chest at the challenge.

“Whoa! It’s okay. I’m not from Far Harbor. One of your… people spoke to me. Near Arcadia.” I needed to be as honest as possible. That seemed to work best when lying. ‘Half-truths’, as Deacon called them.

His eyes stripped me a part where I stood. “Quite the journey. So, explain to me what you’re doing here. You come seeking a place among Atom’s children?”

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He seemed convinced after I explained my interest in joining their cult. Just enough to let me participate in their trail. As I stood over the spring, I started to question what exactly I was doing. Drinking this seemed unwise. I gave a silent pray to whoever was listening at this point, before taking a mouthful. I wanted to puke. It tasted like watery acid. My insides twisted and felt like they were being ripped a part. My vision grew blurry. My ears began to ring.

A voice called out to me that brought a relief to my anguish. A motherly figure appeared in front of me. I followed her without question. The feelings were strange. The visions even more so. She was warm and comforting. Like an answer to a long forgotten question. She led me to a small clay statue. I presented it to the Grand Zealot. His eyes grew wide at the sight of the figure.

“A woman led me to this. Mean something to you?” I wondered.

“A woman? Led you to that icon? What woman? What did you see?” Grand Zealot questioned.

“I don’t know how to describe her. Motherly? She showed me… things. I’m not quite sure what to make of it. I followed her to this thing.”

He looked at me in awe. Whatever happened was the right thing as he led me inside without further question. He almost seemed eager at my joining. He even urged me to speak to the High Confessor about my vision. I watched him climb up the submarine to a decent vantage point that overlooked the base.

This couldn’t have gone better, and I even had ‘Mother’s’ blessing. If only Deacon could see me now.

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Her (3rd POV: Mainly Richter’s thoughts)

Brazen. That’s what she was. She spoke to him without fear, or hesitance. She tried to seem submissive, but the fire in her eyes gave her away. Others looked away from him with respect, or fear. Maybe both. But her, she matched his gaze with one of her own. Richter pondered on this for sometime. She was obviously a leader, yet she was here as a follower. When she returns from her latest exploits, he watches.

She’s not what she seems. She’s friendly to their siblings. Her eyes wander around. Looking… no searching. Analyzing. He’s seen her poke around the base. She’s sneaky though. She’s always had a reason for being there. He’s even had her followed a handful of times; only for them to lose her quickly in the fog. Like she goes invisible, they told him.

No matter. She hasn’t done anything to provoke him. Instead, she’s been helpful. Sister Mia and Zealot Wares spoke highly of her. Sister Mia said that the woman fixed the arches. He went through them the other day, and didn’t feel the warm glow of Atom. He looked over the pump himself, and was unable to find any tampering. As he watches the woman approach, he wonders if he is trying to find something wrong with her.

“Grand Zealot.” She greeted with a hint of a smile. Her teeth. Far too white for a regular wastelander. Her skin was nearly flawless. He hadn’t seen this level of pristine since the Enclave. Even then, she was even more so. Like she was preserved through the harshness of life in the Wasteland. Many have come to the conclusion that she must’ve been a vault dweller at some point.

“Sister.” He greeted back.

“I’ve taken care of Sister Gwyneth.” Her head was held up a bit higher.

“I see.” He caught himself frowning at the news. “She brought it on herself. Won’t ask you for the details. Doesn’t really matter to me.” He stated. Her eyes flickered for a brief moment. Something caught her interest, and he was curious as to what. “You’ve done well. Proved your devotion and more important, your loyalty. Atom smiles on you, Sister.”

She gave a pleased smile and gave a low bow of her head. “Glory to Atom.” He shifted as he handed her something fitting for her.

“Take this. It’s not just a weapon, it’s one of our sacred artifacts.” He handed her the large hammer. Her brows rose with shock before she resumed an impassive, but pleased, mask. “Go forth, and show no mercy to the enemies of Atom.”

She held over the hammer in thought. She met his gaze once more. “Was there something between you and Sister Gwyneth? I heard that you two were close.”

He laughed a bit. He didn’t take her as one to listen to rumors. “Ha. No. She was just a good woman. A touch odd, but someone you could rely on. Always managed to turn up a cache of Mirelurk eggs on beaches you thought were clear. We were better with her.” His smile shifted into something more somber. “Shame to watch her slip away. Can’t be helped now.”

She gave a soft smile. “You’re not like the others here. You’re different. Why is that?”

The statement rocked him from his usual composure. “Brazen thing, aren’t you? What makes you say that?”

“I can just tell. You have this… aura about you.”

He found himself entranced by her. He told her about his time as an Enclave soldier. He spoke of how he was found clinging to life by the High Confessor. He hadn’t told many of his siblings about this. He found himself enjoying telling his story to her as she listened intently.

He noticed she had a certain sadness that gleamed in her eyes. Something the Archemist spoke of.

“How did you know that you would be rescued? I hope this doesn’t come off as brash, but you were trapped. Seemed hopeless.” She wondered.

“I didn’t.” He admitted. “Thinking back now, I believe that Atom is what kept me from… joining my comrades.”

She hummed in deep thought before speaking again. “Thank you. Talking about… about the past, can be difficult at times.” Her brows furrowed and she looked away from him. “I had another question.”

“Go ahead, Sister.”

“I also heard another rumor. I’d heard you were the last one to see Brother Edgar. What happened?”

He bristled at her question. She was striking nerves he didn’t realize he had exposed. How could she possibly know about Brother Edgar. “Edgar?” He asked confused. She nodded and waited for him to continue. “Crawler got him. Happens sometimes. Nothing more to it,” he had to compose himself for a moment, “,was there something else?”

Her features hardened. He would even describe her as being disappointed. “No. Nothing else, Grand Zealot.” She gave a short nod, and left without another word. He watched her head towards her bed. Leaving him with much to think about.

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Breaking In

I laid in bed listening to the soft chanting slowly subside. The bustle of noise was waning. The only sounds that could be heard was the creaking of the sub and the footsteps of roaming zealots. This would have to do. I looked around and was satisfied that mostly everyone was asleep.

I padded my way through the sleeping cultists towards the blocked off section of the base. The usual guard was missing. Must be guard rotation. I gave one final look around before going inside.

I was greeted by several laser trip wires. I grimaced at the fallen cultists littering the place. What a pity. I knelt down by the entrance trying to find any signs of movement, and gather my thoughts on how best to approach this.

“What are you doing here?” The soft voice of Richter echoed down the tunnel. I cursed my luck at the one person I didn’t want to know I was here. A million thoughts went through my head on how this would play out. None of them were promising. I looked back to Richter. He didn’t have his rifle drawn on me, so that was a good sign.

“I could ask you the same thing.” I countered back. He gave me a stern glare. He came towards me and knelt down like I was.

“I saw you come in here.” He was more observant than I gave him credit for.

“I thought everyone was asleep.”

“What are you doing here, Sister?” He had a hint of concern laced in his voice. I frowned at the forming attachments I was starting to have with these people. I looked back down the trapped hallway.

“Curious. That’s all.” I deflected. I could see his displeased grimace from the corner of my eye.

“Your curiosity will get you killed.”

“Hasn’t so far.” I smirked at him. He didn’t seem amused. “I’m checking this out. I don’t care if you join me. But, don’t try to stop me.” I stated while trying to stand up. He grasped my arm and kept me knelt.

“Wait.” He paused. “You don’t know what dangers lie ahead. Or what they’re trying to protect.” He gave a worried look towards the tunnel then back to me. He cared. I wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“You don’t think me capable?”

He shook his head while squeezing my arm. His hold on me was tight, but not enough to hurt me. “That’s not the issue.”

I knew the issue right then. I could see it in his eyes. The only way he would leave me to the task, was by reassurance. He gripped his forearm. I leaned over and placed a light kiss on his cheek. I hovered near him enough to whisper, “Don’t worry. I’m pretty hard to kill.”

His hazel green eyes were ablaze. His cool demeanor broken. He wanted to say so much. “Sister… you’re setting down a dangerous path.” He whispered so quietly back to me.

“A path that I won’t be going down alone. I have Atom with me.” I hoped that would be enough to convince him. His brows furrowed. “This is like a pilgrimage. Something that I must complete.”

He opened his mouth to object, but quickly closed it. “Very well.” He released his hold on me. “Go with Atom, Sister.”

“See ya soon, Richter.” I smiled at him. He had a hint of a bitter smile playing on the corners of his lips. With him leaving, I went through with my mission.

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Loyalty Questioned (Mild Smut/Sex Scene)

“You are under question, Sister. Even if you are a messenger of the Mother.” Tektus stated. I tried not to tense up at his accusation. I would only have so much time to react.

“That’s unfortunate to hear. Especially since I’ve given so much to Atom.” I looked around the room. Two guards, Tektus, and, the most concerning, Richter. I’d need to deal with him first.

“There is more you can give. I was granted a vision, as well as the Grand Zealot. Atom requires that you spread His word through generations.” Tektus began. “Atom requires you to bear a true Child of Atom.”

My blood froze in my veins. I almost wanted to laugh at what he was suggesting. I kept a straight face, thankfully.

“I see.” I kept any vile feelings out of my voice. I focused on my breathing. In and out. I’ll make it through this.

“The Grand Zealot has offered himself for this task.” Tektus motioned over to Richter. I shouldn’t have been surprised. He’s shown interest in me for some time. His execution in the matter was less than desirable though.

“Atom has chosen well.” I bowed my head at Tektus, who was more than pleased at my compliance. This was going better than expected. Let Richter fuck me, then I’ll leave with my life. Not a bad trade considering all the things I’ve been doing under their noses.

“Then go. Go and deliver Atom’s will.” Tektus pointed towards Richter’s room. I frowned at the rush of this. I didn’t spare anyone else another look. I walked into Richter’s room. I’ve been here before. Though the circumstances were far different. I heard his footsteps behind me. He shut the door, but I kept my back to him.

“I won’t touch you.” He whispered behind me. He was close. Close enough that his breath hit the back of my neck. “Even if Atom commands us, I won’t take you.”

I faced him. He was tense. I suppose I was too. I let my mind wander on how best to approach this. I needed them to believe I was loyal. If they’re questioning me, then I won’t have the leverage needed to bring peace.

“Did you dream of taking me, Grand Zealot?” I asked.

“Your brazenness has no bounds.” He frowned a bit. “But, no. I didn’t.” He whispered the last part. I tilted my head in a bit of shock.

“You lied. Why?”

“The High Confessor had a vision of a child. Your child. I felt… he would have given you to someone who would not respect what you are.”

“And what exactly am I?”

“Not something that can be conquered, like the High Confessor believes. I see the fire in you. You burn brighter than any Glow. I’m not sure if it’s Atom’s will or not. But, I know I don’t want you tamed. Or your fire extinguished.” Richter confessed. “That’s why I volunteered myself.”

I realized I lost full composure. I looked away from him and took a step back. “Take off your armor.” I commanded.

If he was surprised at the authority in my tone, he didn’t show it. He started to strip away the pieces of heavy armor. I watched him. Once the armor was off, I circled around him. He didn’t move, nor look at me. He had his gaze focused directly in front of him. I smirked a bit at the good little soldier in front of me.

He was well built. The wetsuit did little to hide that. I stopped in front of him. My hands trailed up his chest to the zipper on the front of his suit. I felt his body was rigid under my touch.

“Do I make you uncomfortable, Grand Zealot?”

“No.” He whispered. His hazel eyes met mine. I could see them starting to darken with want. I held his gaze while I undid his wetsuit. His breath hitched as the cool air hit his hot skin. I could feel the heat against my fingers. He slipped out of his suit without hesitation. He was bare to me. He showed no shame in this.

I felt a fever creep up my neck to my cheeks. I knew my facade was starting to break. I walked around him again. He had numerous scars. Knives, bullets, burns, and scratches. I traced one long claw mark on his back. His skin raised into goosebumps. He was so warm. The Glow of Atom’s embrace, I’ve been told.

I felt along his shoulder towards his arm. I came around to his chest. I saw a tattoo of what I assumed to be his Enclave assignment. I frowned a bit at how that reminded me of Nate. I traced over his designation of Lieutenant before letting my other hand go up to his neck. His beard was coarse. My fingers briefly tangled against the hair. I settled on his cheek.

He wanted to touch me, but held himself back. I couldn’t deny how much I admired that in him. His restraint. His respect. His nobility. All things that reminded me so much of the past. I realized that I did want him. Not out of obligation to my cover, but for my own selfish need.

“Richter?” I whispered. We were so close to one another. My body pressed against his. My lips a mere breath away from his own. My other hand felt his heart beat just as fast as mine. “Do you want me?”

He took a deep breath. “If you’ll have me.”

I pressed my lips against his to answer him. It was gentle and almost too sweet. His lips were so hot and rough. With my silent permission, his arms were quick to pull me closer against him. He kissed me back with a ferocity that was nearly feral. One of his hands tangled into my hair. Even if I wanted to pull away, I couldn’t.

It was like my breath was taken from me. He must have felt the same, because he pulled away with a gasp. He looked at me with a hint of shock. His hand moved from my hair to my cheek. His thumb brushed over the skin. He had an intense stare as he looked over my flushed face. Like he was trying his hardest to memorize every detail of me.

I stepped away from him which caused him to frown for a moment. His eyes lit up as I disrobed myself. He looked over me with awe. He pulled me back against him. The heat of his skin against mine was overwhelming. I shuddered at the contact. His hands moved up my back while his lips claimed mine once again. They didn’t stay for long before he nipped at my neck. He sucked a bit harshly in some spots. I let out a shocked gasp that melted into a moan as he continued his marking.

“Richter.” I let out in a breathy moan. He met my gaze.

“Brian.”

I smiled a bit. “Lyra.” I told him my real name. I wanted to curse my foolishness, but knew it was already too late. His eyes were glazed over with a grin forming.

“Lyra. What a beautiful name, for a beautiful soul.” He kissed me once more. His touches were everywhere on my body. He lingered over some areas longer than others. He seemed enraptured at times. He laid me on the bed as he started to claim me.

His movements in me were powerful and deep. Hitting a place in me that I had long forgotten. I tried to keep my pleasure from reaching others’ ears. He seemed to have the opposite thought in mind. His growls and rough groans echoed in his room. It sent shivers up my spine at the low noises he made. The way his chest vibrated against my own.

We clutched onto each other as we reached our limit. As if we were trying to become one with the other. I held his gaze while coming down from our blissful high. He placed several kisses over my lips, cheeks, and neck. He shifted us in bed until I was firmly placed on his chest. I laid my forehead against his cheek.

“Your skin.” He murmured while tracing down my sides. “It’s practically untouched.” He moved up my arm and held my hand.

“I’m not from here.” I dumbly blurted out.

A slight laugh escaped him. It sounded unusual coming from him. Like he hadn’t done it in a long time. “No. That’s plain to see. I suspect that you grew up in a vault.”

“That’s a good guess.” A silence hung in the air for a moment. His hand left mine, and instead went to my cheek. He moved my loose hair behind my ears. He was so tender and gentle. I hadn’t felt something like this in a long time. I closed my eyes and enjoyed his care.

“The vault I was in…,” I paused. Finding the right words was hard.

“You don’t have to tell me.” He whispered with a comforting kiss on my forehead.

“I want to. Even if you won’t believe me. It’s a bit outlandish when I think about it.” I tried to lighten the mood. He frowned a bit.

“I trust you, Lyra.”

My gut twisted for a moment. He trusted me. Even though I would be an agent of his demise. That was a moral dilemma I would need to face another time.

“I didn’t grow up in the vault. I used to live in Colorado actually. It was beautiful. The air was so clean. Never thought I would miss that.” I thought back to my time in the mountains. The snow. The crisp fall air. “I met my husband there. He was stationed at an army base. We moved to Boston once he finished his tour in Alaska. We just had a baby. A beautiful son.” Brian’s fingers kept tracing over my cheek and jaw. “We were rushed into a vault. I saw it. It was like the sun, it was so bright. Then we were frozen. For over 200 years. Someone came and killed my husband. They took my baby. I’ve been looking for him since.” He wiped away the freshly formed tears. He gave me a soft look before kissing my forehead gently.��

“The Archemist spoke of a sadness in you. A great loss. I’m sorry.” He didn’t pity me. No… he understood far too well. I suppose that’s how life was now. Horribly tragic.

“Thank you for listening. I haven’t talked about them since I first woke up.” My brows furrowed. How long ago was that?

“You remind me of him.” I admitted.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. I shook my head while stroking his bearded cheek.

“Don’t be. I don’t mean it in a bad way. It’s… you’re kind. Loyal. Strong. Nate was like that.” I smiled. He softly smiled back.

“I’m glad you see such qualities in me.”

I kissed him to bring the talks of the past to a close. He was content with this as he placed me tight against him once again. I nuzzled into his neck. He was so warm and comforting. I relished in him. I fell asleep faster than I had in a long time.

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The Morning After (another mild sex scene)

I awoke in confusion at first. Seeing myself wrapped around Brian, reminded me of last night’s events, and confessions. I watched him sleep for a moment. The most relaxed I’ve ever seen him. Like a kitten, I mused with myself. I brushed through his unruly beard. My fingers gently worked out the knots that had formed.

“Morning.” He greeted with his eyes still closed. His voice laced with sleep.

“I could help you tame this, if you’d like.” I teased a bit. He squinted one eye open.

“Do you not like it?”

“That’s not what I said.” I countered. “I think it’s a little… overgrown. That’s all.” I bit my lip to hold back my amusement at his disgruntled expression. I got on top of him which got his attention. “I’ll be leaving today.” I shifted my hips a bit, and felt his already hard member press back. His nostrils flared at my, not so subtle, intentions.

“Where are you going?” His hands gripped my hips. His fingers digging into my soft flesh. I smirked a bit while leaning over him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” I kissed him then bit his lip. “I heard some rumors that I’m gonna check out.”

“Rumors?” He questioned, displeased. He tried to still my moving body. “I’m not sure-,” he was trying his best to focus, but I was doing my best to not let him.

“I’ve worked with less.” I managed to steal another kiss from him. He groaned at his crumbling will to stop me. I rolled my hips again which sent him over the edge. He put himself inside me. Although I was eager, I still needed some time to adjust to his girth.

“I don’t like… the idea of you wandering around the island aim… aimlessly.” He panted.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve gotten the hang of this place.” I kissed him with the confidence I felt. I pushed myself up and down on him. He hissed while shutting his eyes. I heard him curse me under his breath. I sat back to take full control. I leaned back to brace myself against his hairy muscular legs. My head falling back in a luxurious bliss. He felt so good in me.

I heard him moan in pleasure at the sight. His hands crawled up my belly then settled back on my hips. Finding my pace too slow, he started to help me. He held and moved my body to a penetrating pace. I fell back on top of him. He wrapped around my body. His arms moved me like I weighed nothing.

“I’ll miss you. While I’m gone.” I moaned. He grunted in response while finishing inside me. His mind had to catch up while he let out shaky breaths.

“Do you have to go today?” He asked winded. His eyes begged me while he kept himself from vocally doing so.

“Yes. Or else I fear I’ll never leave this bed.” I smiled which he in turn gave a lopsided grin to.

“When will you be back?” He nipped at my neck and ear.

“Soon. I don’t know how long this will take.”

“Alright.” He huffed.

I stood up to start getting dressed. I felt his eyes on me as I covered myself in my gear. I was about to turn around to bid him farewell, when his arms wrapped tight around my waist. His nose buried itself into the crook of my neck.

“Be safe, Lyra. I look forward to your return.” He kissed my neck before releasing me. The gut retching guilt I felt last night returned. I let out a shuddered breath. Do I have to leave? Couldn’t I stay here forever? I faced him. He was handsome in his disheveled form. Something out of a dream or movie. I placed a long lingering kiss on him.

“I’ll be back soon.” I promised him. He gave a short nod.

“Atom guide you.” He whispered as I left. I laid against his door for a moment. The cool metal helped center me. I’ve compromised myself. Deacon warned me about this. Getting involved with someone while you’re undercover. I just wanted to feel human again. To feel alive. Now… I wonder what that will cost me.

#brianrichter #richter #fallout4 #fallout #fanfic #smut #grandzealot #zealot #children of atom #far harbour dlc #far harbor #grand zealot richter

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user-name-not-found5 · 4 years ago

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Interrogation Techniques pt. 8

Whew! Sorry this has taken so long to update, I had to take a little break from social media. Anyway, I'm hoping to finish this up soon. Previous: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 , 6, 7

Kylo Ren is determined to get the map out of the Resistance Pilot. By any. Means. Necessary.

Even if that means exploring new ways to sexually psychologically manipulate his victims into getting what he wants.

AU where the map leads to Luke’s new Jedi Temple, where he is training the next generation of Jedi. Poe is a Resistance pilot, who General Leia Organa has put in charge of running the transport routes in order to bring force-sensitive younglings to the temple where they belong. The First Order is headed by Kylo Ren, a fallen Jedi just as Count Dooku was, and he is determined to end the Jedi for good.

Warnings overall: non-con, torture, violence, manipulation, smut, absolutely filthy smut, degrading language, abuse

Warnings for this chapter: Mild violence/references to violence, references to killing of the younglings in the original prequels, villain is convinced he's the hero

BB-8 rolled down the corridors, occasionally stopping to consult the holo-map he’d pulled from the base systems. The trooper jogged beside him, wheezing through his helmet.

“Come… on…. man…” BB-8 stopped at a door port, letting the trooper catch his breath as he docked into the system. Hands on his knees, 2187 yanked his helmet off, tucking it under his arm. “You’re going to need.... A retinal… scan… to…” He held up a hand. “Gimme a sec…”

I’m not sending a comm outside the base. I’m sending one from inside.

The trooper sighed, running his hand over his face. “I don’t. Speak. Droid!”

Well, I don’t speak IDIOT.

The door whirred open, and BB slid inside, 2187 close behind. He quirked an eyebrow at the array of glowing panels and buttons, placing his hands on the center console. BB docked into another port, navigating slowly through the system until he found what he was looking for.

“Alright, you do your thing, we’ll get your pilot, and then we’re out of here, okay?” He paced, running his hands over his short-cropped hair. “Stars, let the Captain be on… I don’t know, a lunch break? Blaster-cleaning? Disciple row? Anything but patrol right now.”

A panel across the room began to hum, and BB rolled over to access the new port. He turned his head towards the trooper, giving his best attempt at a reassuring beep. The half-hearted smile he got in response was encouraging enough that he didn’t feel so guilty turning back to his work. The pair sat in silence for a bit, the soft whirring of machinery keeping them company before BB slid back with a triumphant little ditty.

“You got it?”

Hell-fucking-yeah I did!

The trooper’s comm beeped, and he clicked the speaker, letting the automated voice play out.

“Attention all base personnel. Please route around the detention corridor. A hazardous chemical spill has made the area unsuitable for transversal. Repeat. Route around the detention corridor.”

He raised an eyebrow at the droid. “For a little guy, you’re really scary, you know that?”

Thank me later. Let’s go get Poe.

Ren sat completely still, his legs crossed in front of him, his back perfectly straight as he inhaled, and exhaled again slowly. His mind floated out, spreading like a dark cloud. Something was catching his attention, something drifting closer, ever closer. Something strong, something… He stiffened. Her face formed in the cloud, the darkness draining and replaced by blinding light until she blinked into view. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders, brown eyes full of sadness.

“Ben.”

“You know that isn’t my name anymore.” His voice came out as a low hiss, eyes boring into her, willing her to go away.

Rey shook her head. “I will always look at you as the man who used to be my friend. Not the man you have become.”

“Then you are weak. Blinded by foolish attachments,” He sneered. “Your Master would be disappointed in you.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat as she flinched back, barely perceptible, but he knew her well. Too well… they’d grown up together, in the temple. She had been one of his closest friends, for so long…

“Ben,” Her voice was soft, coaxing. “I understand your anger. Your pain. Luke has made many mistakes, but he is only one man. He is haunted by a past that we may never understand. I’m sorry that he pushed you so far.”

He inhaled sharply. A bitter laugh slipped through his lips. “I thought you were more than this- his feeble messenger. Rey, a noble Jedi Knight, has been reduced to a mouthpiece for a corrupt, mad old man.” He shook his head. “You excuse his actions so easily- no matter his past, I trusted him. I needed him, I needed his guidance against the darkness,” His voice caught in his throat as the familiar roar of anger pressed in. “And he tried to murder me. His nephew.” His fists tightened. “Who’s to say he won’t try to kill you? Or follow in his father’s footsteps, and end the Jedi Order, bathing it in blood once again? It wasn’t the Clones that ended the next generation- it was my grandfather, from the inside.”

He was surprised when she nodded.

“You’re right, Ben. What he did, it was unforgivable. You needed him, you needed his confidence in you, you needed his trust. I’m sorry that he failed you. Which is why I won’t,” She brushed through the mists, and he could almost feel her hand on his skin back in his quarters. “I won’t fail. I will bring you back where you belong. Together, we can fix this. We can bring peace, Ben. Your anger has guided you this far, but where does it leave you?” She wrapped her arms around him gently. “You traded one Master for another.”

Ben snapped out of his meditation, sweat pooling on his back. She had seen so far into him, looked at his anger, and hatred, and hurt, and had still asked him to come home. Rey had always been good at that- they had a deep connection, growing up so close together. Hers had been the shoulder he cried on when he missed home, his was the shoulder she leaned on when a nightmare about the desert sands plagued her. She never spoke much of her past- he knew that in the power vacuum left after the Sith destroyed each other, several factions of the former Galactic empire vied for power. Many people had died, and the carnage had continued until he’d risen. He rolled his shoulders back. She spoke of bringing peace, and yet the Resistance was the source of the continued conflict. He had reunited the Empire, shaped and molded and forced it into the form of the First Order. He had ended the needless battles of factions, quelled the bloodshed, using force only when those little scraps had failed to recognize his new rule. He was the son of a Princess, he was well-versed in the lessons of diplomacy that she had vested to him; where his diplomacy failed, the anger of his Master’s betrayal fueled him into battle.

“I have brought peace,” The words slipped from his lips, hanging softly in the air. “The Jedi are meant to be peace-keepers. They should be on my side.”

But he was a tyrant. His hands curled into fists.

He had a map to follow.

Poe groaned. He was hanging from his wrists, held in suspension as energy surged around him, occasionally hitting him with a pulse that left him gasping for breath. He wasn’t sure when he’d last seen Ren- a few times, he’d passed out from the pain, or exhaustion, leaving him to wonder how many hours he’d lost to darkness. He was alone, at least. A few times, he’d woken to the stares of a few troopers, muttering orders to each other and adjusting the dials on the console. He was beginning to lose his resolve, as much as he hated to admit it. It would be nice, really, to just let go. Give the map up, and at least he could die. He snarled, fire surging in his gut. What was he thinking- he wouldn’t be the only one to die. These were children he was talking about, innocent kids, born with a power through no fault of their own. They needed the Jedi, needed that guidance, and he wasn’t going to let them suffer just because he was hurting. He jolted again as another surge crested through his body. He’d almost rather be under Ren again…

He shivered, despite himself. The aphrodisiac had a lingering effect, creeping into his dreams with memories of the heat in his belly, the leather glove clasped around his mouth, fingers curled in his hair. The way he’d shaken beneath him, the hot breath against his ear as he’d been fucked into a daze. He’d enjoyed it, and that thought disturbed him more than the idea of further torture.

The door slid open as another surge hit him, and he gasped, his back spasming at the pressure. Chest heaving, he jut his chin forward at the trooper who hovered in the doorway.

“Come to turn up the pressure again? Shame, I was getting a bit bored of this method.”

His eyes widened as the trooper leaned back into the hall, and waved someone forward, ducking into the room. Rather than head to the console, he waited by the door, until a small ball of energy rolled into the room. Poe laughed incredulously.

“BB-8?!”

Thank the stars! Master Poe!

BB-8 whirred happily, docking into a port. Poe dropped, the trooper catching him carefully in his arms, and helping him to his feet. He fixed him with a confused glance, flicking his gaze back and forth from the white helmet to BB.

“He a friendly?”

As far as I can tell. Looking for a pilot to get off this hellhole.

He arched an eyebrow, cocking his head at the trooper. “You a defector?”

The trooper was quiet for a second before pushing his helmet up, and setting it to the side. Poe’s eyes lingered on his face. He had wide, dark eyed, short-cropped dark hair, and full lips. He was handsome. He shook the thought, tacking it up to the last of the drugs.

“I’m not going to kill for them.” His voice was firm, but he spoke quietly. Poe just nodded, and let him help him hobble towards the door. BB picked up the rear, and the trio moved quickly down the hallway, to the hangar.

#poe dameron #poe dameron smut #canon offshoot #star wars #star wars smut #tros #darkpilot #tfa #tlj #reylo #finnpoe

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iturbide · 5 years ago

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Hfjdhjf can I please have more information?? I think the reason I managed to float by so spoiler free was half because up until recently I never was super interested in Three Houses, and my knowledge was limited to what I was told about the routes. WHICH WAS APPARENTLY VERY LIMITED. V E R Y.

friend of course you can have more information

legit though I am so impressed that you’ve managed to stay spoiler free regardless of the context, I am massively spoiled for fandoms I’m not even in and yet you’re managing to come at it fresh like I did when I started my Golden Deer playthrough.

also this came in and frankly your wish is my command

But okay. So.

Dimitri is honestly fascinating and a tragic, deeply flawed character in his own right. But understanding his break requires backstory. His mom died when he was still pretty young due to a plague that swept through Faerghus, and when he was around ten his father re-married an Imperial woman named Patricia von Arundel (who is also Edelgard’s mother, hence the step-siblings thing). Edelgard, as it happens, had come to the Kingdom with her mother and uncle, Volkhart von Arundel, in order to escape the chaos caused by the Insurrection of the Seven, where the Imperial nobles seized power from the Emperor (Edelgard’s father), and the two became friends: she taught him to dance during the three-ish years she was in the Kingdom, and just before she left Dimitri gifted her a dagger, symbolic in the Kingdom of a hope for someone to cut their own path forward.

Two years later, Dimitri’s life basically becomes hell. While he and his family are traveling through the neighboring lands of Duscur, their caravan is attacked: his father Lambert and his bodyguard Glenn are both brutally murdered, his step-mother goes missing, and he is the sole survivor. He witnessed the people responsible, but although he tried to tell people what happened, the people of Duscur were blamed for the attack, and the genocide soon followed. The whole incident came to be known as the Tragedy of Duscur, and it left Dimitri with massive trauma that went completely unaddressed: he suffers from survivor’s guilt and PTSD, he completely lost all sense of taste, he’s had a constant headache since the incident...oh, and also he sees hallucinations of the people who died. So there’s that.

Now, because Dimitri was only 14 at the time and he couldn’t take the Faerghus throne until he reached his majority at 18, his uncle Rufus stepped in as regent in the meantime. Rufus is pretty fucking terrible! In fact, he sent Dimitri at age 16 to go put down a rebellion in Western Faerghus -- and again, Dimitri is a traumatized teenager who’s been getting no help or support. The people around him, notably Gilbert and Felix’s father Rodrigue, are trying to foster him into the next King of Faerghus rather than tending to his very real mental and emotional needs following the events of Duscur, so Dimitri has been silently bottling up all of his problems for the better part of two years. He...kind of snaps during that rebellion, and it ends up as a brutal slaughter; Felix bears witness to it, and ever after he treats Dimitri like a wild animal, calling him a beast and a boar.

This is all just piling on the trauma, as you probably noticed. He manages to hold it together and keep up a calm exterior, though he’s deeply afraid of the darkness within him, and does his utmost to bury it and keep it under control. At age 17 he comes to Garreg Mach, and over the course of the school year things just get progressively worse: he starts slipping and growing more violent over the course of repeated encounters with the Flame Emperor, since he recognizes the masked mages from the attack on his family’s caravan in Duscur and believes that the Flame Emperor must have been responsible for the Tragedy. But he pretty much snaps during the revelation at the Holy Tomb, where Edelgard is unmasked as the Flame Emperor -- in the Blue Lions route, he literally crushes an Imperial soldier’s skull with his bare hands in his attempts to get at Edelgard. It’s shocking, especially since up to that point the super strength that came from his Crest was played for laughs more than anything else.

He continues slipping in the weeks leading up to the attack on Garreg Mach, publicly alluding to his hallucinations and how they whisper to him and vowing to take Edelgard’s head himself. CF is the only route where he actually stays pretty sane, so we’re going to focus on non-CF routes: in the battle for the monastery, Edelgard’s forces end up victorious, and he’s forced back to Faerghus, expecting to take the throne and rally a counterstrike against her...only to arrive and be accused of regicide when it’s revealed that his uncle Rufus has been viciously murdered. Cornelia (who is, in fact, a Twisted agent) takes power in the Kingdom and basically hands it off to Edelgard as the ‘Dukedom of Faerghus,’ then orders Dimitri be imprisoned and later executed; but before he can be killed, his vassal Dedue manages to break him out of prison, though the escape attempt apparently costs him his life (he can be saved by other Duscur survivors depending on the results of an earlier paralogue, though -- the important point is that Dimitri thinks Dedue is dead). After that, Dimitri spends the next four-ish years wandering alone in the Faerghus forests, the isolation exacerbating his already poor mental health until he’s openly conversing with his hallucinations; he also starts attacking Imperial forces he comes across in Faerghus and basically ripping them apart, leading to a lot of rumors about a wild beast on the loose. Also, somewhere in this five year span he loses an eye. No, we have no idea how. Fandom burns for answers.

Now, Dimitri’s fate varies significantly depending on playthrough here. In Silver Snow and Verdant Wind, he’s literally consumed by his rage and guilt and his desire for vengeance on behalf of those taken from him, and he ends up dying in pursuit of it. In Azure Moon, he’s lost any real ability to tell reality from hallucination, and believes even Byleth is nothing more than a figment; he continues his single-minded pursuit of Edelgard, committing atrocities of his own and admitting to being nothing but a base murderer, the beast Felix accused him of being so long ago. But eventually, through the intervention of Byleth and his classmates, he starts to come around a little more -- though it takes Rodrigue’s death and his final words, encouraging him to live for himself rather than those who have already gone, to really wake him up and get him moving forward. The game takes the turn a little fast, but it’s still really touching to see Dimitri coming back from the edge and recognizing the importance of his own desires. The campaign continues, they retake Fhirdiad, there’s a parley with Edelgard where she refuses to back down and continues to insist that war is the only option, things get crazy with the final boss like holy shit, but in the end after Edelgard’s been defeated, Dimitri offers his hand to her...and her final act is to throw the dagger he gifted her when they were children at him, and he instinctively kills her in retaliation.

Look, Dimitri doesn’t come out of this smelling like roses. He killed a lot of people in very, very violent ways. But he recognizes that what he did, even if he wasn’t mentally sound at the time, was pretty atrocious and spends the rest of his life seeking peace with as little bloodshed as possible.

But okay I have gone on for a long time about Dimitri so if you’re still here, congratulations let’s talk about my favorite Lord.

Claude is a mystery wrapped in an enigma. That’s literally how he’s presented in the game, and it’s great. He’s sociable, amiable, friendly, mischievous, and has a reputation as a schemer. He jokes about his own reputation a lot, especially when he’s called out, but he’s wickedly smart, especially where tactics, information gathering, puzzles, and secrets are concerned. We literally go through the whole first half of the game getting only the tiniest hints about him personally and what his aspirations are -- we don’t even know where he came from, he legit just showed up out of the blue when Duke Riegan named Claude as his heir -- and meanwhile he’s out there trying to unravel the mystery behind Crests, the Church, and the Flame Emperor -- and while he doesn’t manage to succeed before the timeskip hits, he manages to uncover an alarming amount of information. Also, despite his reputation as an untrustworthy trickster, he cares deeply about the people around him and does his best to keep them safe, even if it means resorting to underhanded (but ultimately non-lethal) methods.

Once we hit the timeskip, we find out more of the secrets that he’s been hiding. For context, Fodlan’s neighbor to the east is Almyra, and relations between the two nations have been...tense, to say the least: a few hundred years ago Almyra invaded Fodlan and a bad time was had by all. In order to prevent it from happening again, the Alliance built a fortress called Fodlan’s Locket in the pass connecting the two nations (the pass being called Fodlan’s Throat). Presently, the Alliance is headed by a communal council of nobles from the major families, who meet at regular round tables in order to debate business that affects their territories and pass legislature; the round table is headed by Duke Riegan, who had two children, a son set to inherit the title and a daughter who went mysteriously missing years ago. Unfortunately, House Riegan and House Gloucester have never been on the best of terms, and when Duke Riegan’s heir was attacked and killed on the road while traveling to visit Duke Gloucester, there were a lot of rumors that Lorenz’s dad might have been involved, though nothing was ever proven in that regard. It left Duke Riegan in a tough spot, though, since he was getting on in years and suddenly had no heir...at which point, Claude ‘miraculously’ steps in with his Crest and is named heir to House Riegan.

Turns out? Duke Riegan’s daughter didn’t go missing: she eloped with an Almyran. And that Almyran, as it turns out, became king of Almyra. So Claude’s an Almyran prince. Turns out, he didn’t exactly have a great time growing up, though: Almyrans view the people of Fodlan as cowardly and weak, so they viewed Claude’s mom as such...and Claude himself, too, since he was half-Fodlan. No matter how much he argued or fought, it never seemed to matter. He got bullied a lot, and started picking up tactics and poison mixing as ways to defend himself...but more than anything, he hated how small-minded Almyrans were when it came to him and his mother. Then Duke Riegan’s heir died, and his grandfather reached out to his daughter, hoping to have Claude tested for a Crest -- which, as it happens, he bore. Claude was so excited, believing that things in Fodlan would be different, better...

...and instead, he found that things in Fodlan were exactly like they were in Almyra. People hated him for half his heritage -- just this time, it was for his ‘savage’ Almyran half instead of his ‘cowardly’ Fodlan half. It was hilarious, in a sad way, how alike the people of Fodlan and Almyra were when it came to hating things they didn’t know...and that was how he decided on his goal. What Claude wants to do is destroy the borders between people and forge understanding between them. He found through hard experience that people always fear the outsider -- but if you break down the walls, there’s no ‘inside’ or ‘outside’ anymore. There’s just people. What he wants to do is unify the Alliance, then Fodlan, then perhaps even the world...not through force or subjugation, but by bringing them together, uniting them through what they share in common and helping them understand and find value in their differences. His aspiration is to ensure that no one has to suffer like he did growing up.

And so, once things are all settled in Fodlan (and he’s assured that he managed to achieve his goal in small scale with his friends in the Alliance), he leaves Byleth in charge, forgoes leadership in the Alliance, and heads back to Almyra to continue working toward that aspiration. He becomes the king of Almyra so that he can start working toward that larger goal from the other side of the border, intending to open roads toward peaceful diplomacy and trade with Fodlan. He knows their bonds are strong, even when they’re apart, and he knows that they’ll all be reunited someday. Also Claude is the only Lord who has the possibility to live in all routes (barring Silver Snow but he’s only listed as ‘missing’ not ‘dead’ so I hold out hope) which I think says a heck of a lot about how great he is. He’s just so good and so kind and cares so much about people and he makes my heart warm and yes I’m done yelling about how much I love Claude for a moment.

So hopefully that fills you in a little on the other Lords at least in part please enjoy my novel-length ramble.

#answered #anonymous #fire emblem: three houses #fe:3h spoilers #i tried to cram every pertinent bit of information i could remember in here #boy there's a lot isn't there #so much backstory is required to understand these people #like holy shit #also for the record edelgard was not involved in duscur #that was all the twisted #but please understand how much i love claude he's so great #and i feel like he gets passed over a lot #because he's not contentious like edelgard #or tortured and traumatized like dimitri #but he's so incredibly good he's absolutely my favorite of the lords #i love dimitri too don't get me wrong but claude is such a treasure

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peachyteabuck · 5 years ago

Text

eating a heart in a marketplace

summary: "[C]ommunion doesn’t need to be holy. Or even decent." - THOMAS C. FOSTER

After one of Tony’s men injures one of yours, he must present a peace offering in order to keep his black market distributor business afloat.

Good news: you accept the gift.

Bad news: the gift is Thor.

pairing: Thor Odinson x Reader

words: 5,863

trigger warnings: dubcon ig, humiliation, heavy d/s dynamics, mentions of canon-level violence, use of gags, collars, basically kidnapping, dehumanization (sexual and nonsexual)

notes/other: this fic is entirely self-indulgent and i am anticipating sequels bc i .... love it. enjoy!

sk box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

The obnoxiously long, dark oak table lays mostly bare, the only places set are the ones at each end of the exquisitely made piece of furniture.

The pink, sheer robe you’re wearing does nothing to hide the matching baby pink lace lingerie, just as the equally feminine heels donned with a strip of pink puff across the base of the toes would do nothing to protect your perfectly manicured feet from the harm of the eerie storm raging outside. Still, the garments and accessories are not meant to be something that cover you up, keep you warm, help you run from danger; they’re tools, tools you’ll hopefully use to get your way as the final meal of the evening approaches.

The entire event is set up just the way you want, with your makeup setting just as expected; the pig roasted to perfection, the pasta firm to the touch, the carrots and broccoli steamed until palatable, the champagne chilled. Most important, though, was the arrival of your guest. At exactly 6:05, your head butler comes in to notify you of the car pulling in front of your expansive home. With the wave of your hand she’s instructed to let the man come in, allow your rival to step into the palace you’d constructed for yourself when you’d risen to the top of your organization.

Well, maybe “rival” is the wrong word. “Rival” implies an active dislike or struggle, when in reality you two operate in separate spheres of influence.

“Companion,” though, seems too friendly.

As the distinct sounds of footsteps filter through the grand hall and into your study, the man you’ve decided to call “fellow leader” steps into sight. His fine pressed suit, dry as the Sahara desert, smiles as you come into his view.

“Ah, my favorite mob woman.” His eyes seems more sinister than you expected. You attribute it more to the dark tones of the evening rather than actual malice.

“Stark,” you say with a curt nod. You go up to exchange a kiss on each cheek, heart racing with the anticipation of what’s to come, excitement increasing with each step. “Come, we have a wonderful meal prepared for you.”

Anthony doesn’t protest, simply accepts a glass of Scotch a maid hands to him and follows you into the dining room. He chuckles a bit at the display you’ve put on, but doesn’t say anything outright. You two have enough respect for the other not deny their counterpart the joy of a dramatic display. He simply sits, the pig placed in the middle of the table large enough to be an obvious sign of wealth but not too big as to deny the two of you eye contact.

Small talk is exchanged as the meal is served, biscuits placed, and pork cut into thick slabs. Vegetables placed delicately on plates and napkins placed on laps. You ask how Pepper is doing, he asks if the dress you had handmade from some extravagant designer turned out how you wanted. Half your plates are clear before either of you truly start to converse.

You’re the first to break the silence as Anthony begins on his mashed potatoes. “I appreciate your understanding of the deal. I’m not a fan of bloodshed, and the demonstration at the club that night are something I wish to forgive and forget as soon as possible.”

Anthony nods, speaking around a bite of the creamy starch. “I agree. Odinson’s actions were inappropriate, wildly and unpredictably so. In truth, I’ve thought he was a liability since he joined, but I never thought he’d lash out like that.”

As you slice through a particularly thick cut of meat, your fork slips and scraps against the china. Both of your winkles your noses at the grating sound.

“Yes,” You pause to chew. “cutting off Barnes’ arm during a bar fight does seem a little…” The bite of biscuit you had gotten was just perfect, the equal amount of butter and brown sugary, apple flavor from the pork together. God, you really do love a good meal. “Rash.”

Your guest hums in agreement. He then clears his throat, preparing to talk. “To symbolize my apologies, I have brought you the gift we spoke of earlier,” he pauses, raising his left hand just above his elbow and bending his first two fingers forward. You sit up, intrigued.

As the large French doors behind him open, from the dark depths of your hallway comes the man who scarred your oldest friend for life, cost you hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical bills, and has put your best hitman out of commission. He’s tall, fills the doorway like a key in a lock. His scruff thick and dark, bags under his eyes from lack of sleep.

Something deep in you stirs, and squeezing your thighs together does nothing to stop it.

Thor Odinson is clad in a suit, as most of Stark’s enforcers are. Though, the handcuffs keeping his hands behind his back are new.

“Interesting addition,” you note, staring at his straining arms in the expensive fabric.

Anthony doesn’t give any indication that he hears, let alone cares, about your sarcastic comment. “I’m assuming this” he gestures to the man. “Will put me back in good spirits with you and the rest of your crew?”

Odinson walks to your side, head hung in shame and hair tied in a tight bun as his former employer speaks. He knows what he’s in for now, has been told in so many words he is now something less of a person – and it’s obvious this has put him to shame.

You consider it – think about letting all that happened go with a simple olive branch. Before you can do that, though, you must make sure that the merchandise lives up to the promises on the box.

“Down,” you command. Immediately, he drops to his knees. You smirk, dragging your baby pink nails down his stubbled jaw.

“Oh, yes. This will do just fine, Stark. Just…fine.” The last two words are long, almost forgetting to finish them as your mind travels to all the things you could do with him.

Anthony smirks. “Perfect. I’m assuming business with resume as usual?”

Your fingers stroke at the sides of Thor’s face and trace around the shell of his ear. “Of course. I’ll call the appropriate people later. Everything should be up and running by midnight.”

Suddenly Anthony tenses, his fingers moving to fidget with his tie. “If I may-”

“You may,” you tell him, not meeting his eyes.

Anthony audibly gulps, fidgeting in his seat and with his tie. “That’s quite late, that’s hundreds of millions of dollars that we’ll miss out on if we-”

You hold up your hand flat while your gaze remains locked on your new toy. “That’s the earliest I can assure you. Whether or not it happens before that is,” you stop to try and feed Thor a small bite of carrot from your hand. He hesitates but accepts after a few moments, plucking the orange vegetable with beautiful teeth and a gentle bite. He doesn’t make eye contact like you originally wanted, but this is a good start. “Not guaranteed.”

Anthony knows that you’re stubborn, much too stubborn to be moved away from your current stance. He’s done all that he can do to sway you, and now whatever income he hopes to make between now and the end of the day depends on Thor.

In short, Anthony Stark Junior (and his bank account) are royally, utterly fucked.

As he leaves your home he can hear you call to your head servant to tell Customs and Border Patrol to let his packages in (an assured start to him not losing a fortune), but he still wrings his hands as he slides into the backseat of his solid black Escalade. As the partition opens to reveal the man at the wheel, the thought of angry text messages from smugglers trying to get their goods into the States flash in front of Stark’s bloodshot eyes.

His driver, Happy, notices the fellow man’s anxiety as he looks at his boss through the rearview mirror.

“You think Odinson is gonna be okay, boss?” He asks, sort-of worried but mostly focused on filling the deafening silence in the expensive car. Money can buy a lot of things, but it can’t fill the awkward spaces in conversation that always come post-transaction.

Tony just laughs, typing something into his watch. “Of course not. That woman is going to chew him up and spit him out by the end of the fiscal year.”

Happy chews at his bottom lip. That’s two weeks from now. “You really think it’s gonna be that quick?”

“Probably,” Tony shrugs. “She’s never been known for mercy.”

The other man nods, quiet as he makes his way to the Stark residence. The quiet, cold night air strikes the mobster as he steps out of the car; the sharp grass smells fills his sense and bloodstream, calming him as he steps into his home. Pepper’s at the counter, stirring something in a pot. She doesn’t turn around when she hears his footsteps, but knows he’s somber nonetheless.

“Hard day at the office?” She asks, giving him a small taste of the homemade alfredo sauce.

Tony snorts, moving to lick at the wooden spoon. “Oh yeah,” he mumbles, wrapping his arms around her waist. She’s in one of his t-shirts and sleep shorts, the soft material comforting him. “You could say that.”

You only make good decisions when you’re in a good mood, and right now said mood depends on Thor Odinson - a man so insecure he once got himself tortured just because his captors told him he couldn’t take it. The man is a stubborn, uncontrollable mess with an anger issue to rival that of Lyssa, or a lighting on a field of dried grass.

He was feared within the Nest and by the lower Excidium members, but he didn’t make palms sweat and hands shake and hearts beat faster quite like you do.

No one fucks with you because you’ve very appropriately placed yourself on a pedestal based on madness, control, and desire for power. Thor’s just feared because he’s a dumbass with a short fuse. It’s the difference between a forest fire and a crazy, drunken uncle holding a lighter; one you can try and prevent, coax it into submission and run away if necessary. The other? More unstable than Francium.

(At least you know that thing’s only going to last twenty-two minutes, though. At least it’s predictable in its instability.)

Back inside, you’re more than ecstatic to have a new plaything. You were fully prepared to let the kid’s behavior slide, especially since the Nest brings in a hefty amount of revenue. But if Tony wants to give up a weak link, you’ll gratefully treasure the broken piece of steel you picked up from the gravel.

Thor stays like that, on his knees and eating out of your hand, for so long his legs fall asleep. You spend the rest of the night chatting at nobody, talk to him like he’s an old, deaf cat who just remains in your favor because he’s soft to pet and is cute. You sign some deals, check the language of some proposed treaties, write your to-do list for the next day all at the dinner table. Thor only dares to look at you when you’re too busy conversing with maids or chastising someone who works under you or any time your head is turned enough that he can make out the scar that runs from behind your left ear to the back of your neck.

Your form, the way you speak, he’s obsessed with his chance finally take it all in.

He hasn’t seen you in person before, just heard rumors and conspiracy theories and whatever else people spend their time making up about you. Thor always passed it off as fiction, simply inflating the higher-ups to pass the time. Everything about you, though, seems exceptionally true. Maybe even underestimations. It’s true you walk around your house in matching lingerie sets, possibly a robe if it’s breezy. The East Coast heat can be unexpectedly warm, but as the sun sets on the July day he can see goosebumps rise across your soft skin and the shivers that sometimes shake your spine. Your house fits all the descriptions he’s heard, too. The decor seems almost welcoming, faded oranges and pastel pinks and dull whites and baby blues and mustard yellows. Plush, velvet furniture the same deep magenta, mirrors trimmed in what Thor can assume is real gold.

It’s like a scene from Mean Chicks or whatever those 2000s teen movies are. If one of those movies took place in the home of an incredibly powerful mobster, it’d look like this.

“What do you think, pet?”

Oh shit. Thor was supposed to be listening, wasn’t he? When he looks up, Bucky Barnes (the man who called him a pussy and “Stark’s whore,” prompting him to grab one of the decorative - but still fully functional - swords from the wall of the bar they were in and just...slice away at his tormentor), Steve Rogers (who looks like the human version of a sugar cookie while specializing in torture) , and Sam Wilson (a sarcastic little shit who knows exactly how to get anything past the feds) are all staring down at him. Barnes’ left arm (stub? It’s mostly just stub now) is still bandaged, but he’s at least walking now. Thor was told he might die from blood loss, but no. Thor Odinson would never be that lucky.

“They never listen, do they?” You sigh, rolling your eyes as you shift to face them. None of the men sit, knowing they won’t be there long. Plus, they get a much better angle of Thor’s tortuous position while standing.

“You don’t think that deserves punishment?” Steve asks, a smile curling at the sides of his mouth that speaks volumes.

You shrug, not looking at him. “Later. Now I want you to donate fifty thousand to the Vermont special elections. I need that entry point into Canada or else there’s no way we can get out shipments into that garbage country in a timely manner. Also,” you turn to Sam, whose eyes are caught staring between Thor’s left upper ribs. “Call CBP. Stark held up his end of the deal, I have to hold up mine.”

All three of them huff, both at the large sum of cash you’re about to give to a twenty-something know-nothing frat guy who knows nothing about politics but everything about being open to bribes and about them not being able to watch the man they hate become the most embarrassed version of himself in front of the man he tried to kill and his two best friends.

Whatever. The trio’s time for revenge will come, you promised them that - promised Bucky when he was in the ICU that you would find the man that did this and would make them pay.

Bucky has never known you to break a promise.

When the three leave you and Thor, you raise your left arm high flick your wrist towards the large doors. Understanding the cue, your maids wordlessly close them to seclude you from whatever responsibilities you were intending on dealing with tonight. Whatever it is, was, can wait until tomorrow, can wait until you’ve begun Thor’s assimilation into your home.

There’s a moment of quiet, of stillness in the house before Thor hears the sounds of several pairs of footsteps – maybe four, he counts – that enter the large dining room with haste. He’s quickly escorted down a long hallway and up a winding set of stairs. Thor can’t see much as he’s rushed away, and the little he can make out is a baby blue wallpaper with gold patterns etched into it, and fine paintings that appear sporadically on the walls. Some are black and white with abstract patterns, others depictions of angels, a few featuring intricate designs that resemble the sky and sea.

It feels like a forever before Thor is slammed down onto the floor of your bedroom, his knees hitting the wood with a painful smack. Despite the earsplitting sound, he doesn’t wince, doesn’t even flinch as his hair is pulled back by one of the maids so he’s forced to look at you. As you gaze upon him he bares his teeth; you can see fire behind his eyes. What a cutie, you muse to yourself.

“Wrists,” you instruct. Another maid moves behind him with dusty pink rope, securing his wrists together behind his back. “Legs,” you tell them next. Thor is easily flipped onto his back, arched at an uncomfortable angle because of his arms. Just as quickly as before, his legs are tied so that his calves and the backs of his thighs meet. When he’s flipped back up, all he can see is you smiling devilishly. “I’ll do the rest myself ladies. Go ahead and take the night off, I want him all to myself.”

“Yes ma’am” they respond in unison, Thor unable to see their hurried steps but understanding that when he hears the door closing behind them, he’s completely and utterly alone.

For a moment you two just stare at each in silence, his nostrils flaring and chest rising from anger and adrenaline. He heaves as you calmly gaze upon him, pissing off your captive even more. All Thor can do is react while you stand there, stationary and speechless.

Within a few moments, he’s lashing out to break the painful quiet. “This fucking sucks,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “That Barnes fucking deserved that shit, you know? He’s a whiny bitch that gets into shit he doesn’t belong in. I bet he’s fucking compensating for something, ya know? He’s not even a big enough man to come at me himself, needs his master to do his bidding ‘n shit. Why the fuck am I ever here anyway, do you go through boytoys so fucking often you just steal them so that you don’t have to pa-“

You roll your eyes, shoving three fingers into his mouth. Thor looks more confused than anything else, but he does immediately stop talking. Good, exactly what you wanted.

You two stay like that, your jaw tightened with one eyebrow raised – daring him to defy you - and him looking up at you like a puppy who’s just pissed on the carpet in defiance. “Listen, you little brat. I used to babysit for twenty dollars an hour. I put myself through grad school twice on money from too-rich white-ass parents who couldn’t control their kids so they pawned them off to underpaid college kids. I got here because I worked for it, dealing with men much more powerful than you acting like children. If you think for a fucking second that I will tolerate this behavior in my house, under my roof, then you are wrong. Very wrong. Do you understand me?”

Thor’s eyes narrow, and though he doesn’t bite, he does press his teeth into the skin of your first knuckle. It’s enough to keep your attention entirely on him, eyes locked on his as you throw your phone onto the bed next to you. You know this game, and you know breaking first would mean he has some sort of holding over you. Unblinking, you stay silent as he swallows around your fingers.

The tension in the air is thick; it’s nothing you can’t handle, nothing you aren’t used to. Thor is the first one to surrender, looking down at your baby pink stilettos. “Good boy,” you huff, moving to open a drawer that conveniently sits just within arm’s reach. You withdraw you hand from his mouth but don’t move to wipe his spit from your fingers. Thor can’t see anything you’re doing, but does hear a smaller (and less used, judging by the squeaking noise it makes as you open it) drawer open, the sound of a little bell, and then the loud scraping of both drawers closing on top of each other and hitting the back of the structure that holds it.

“Head up,” you command. “Look at me.” Thor’s hesitant but ultimately obeys. His eyes widen as he sees the items in your hand. The first is a simple, black ball gag and the other a frilly, pink collar with a small bow and equally tiny bell at the front center. In the back, an adjustable metal clip.

The gag is slipped on first, the uncomfortably large sphere blocking any searing remarks from leaving his lips. As spit pools below his tongue and from the corners of his mouth, all he can do is growl low in his throat.

Despite your long, pointed nails you open the clasp of the collar with ease, flashing it close to your captive’s face like an owner showing a dog his new restraint. Thor may be your pet, and you may be his rightful owner, but the move isn’t one that builds trust. It’s one that makes his insides curl, because it’s a demonstration of how much power you have over him. Look at this thing, the gesture conveys. Do you understand now? You’re mine. Everyone will know that. Everyone will know what you did. This is your retribution.

“Are you gonna shut up now?” Thor doesn’t move, but he also doesn’t make any disgruntled noises. “Good. Now, let me make myself clear, since it appears you do not know the terms of Stark’s and my agreement; Stark settled to give me the man who permanently injured one of my best men in exchange for my forgiveness of the entire event. That means two things. First, Stark gets the money he needs from my business in order to remain powerful. Second, I get to do whatever I want to you. Understand?”

Thor’s eyebrows furrow. What do you want to do to him?

“For now, though, I am going to untie you and go to bed, because I am tired, and it has been an exhausting day. Got it?”

Thor nods.

“Good.”

He flinches as you kneel down to his level and begin to untie him from the complicated binds. Your fingers move with purpose, your nails occasionally scraping across his electrified skin. With his body uninhibited, he flexes his fingers as to examine the indents in his flesh.

“Don’t worry,” you tell him. “Those will go away by morning.”

Somehow, he doesn’t believe you.

He spends the night on the cold wooden floor, occasionally making a desperate attempt to fit himself on the tiny plush pink carpet that the dresser rests on. Thor doesn’t get much shut-eye, time either spent shivering or trying to plan for survival. He can’t escape, it’s been made very clear that both Excidium and the Nest will both be hunting him down if he so much as pisses where he’s not supposed to. It seems keeping his mouth shut, following orders, and taking whatever it is you want to put him through with whatever tiny amount of dignity he has left.

(As the night progresses, he realizes the last part will be the hardest).

When the world comes alive again, Thor remains mostly ignored. As the sun comes up and you awaken with your alarm, he barely gets so much as a brush of fabric as you pull off your white nightgown and slip into a pale-yellow sundress with a long, white cardigan. It’s much different than what you were wearing last night, but as you readjust the strap of your lacey white bra from its improper place on your shoulder, he guesses that was more show(wo)manship and a reiteration of hierarchies than an honest exchange between business partners.

As the first full day under your whim progresses, he’s left behind as you move to your office. You feel some time apart may be good for his insolence, even if his fierceness amuses you so.

You like a challenge, especially one you know you can win; a little tussle didn’t hurt anybody, has it?

You instruct one of the new recruits to buy you a dog bed – the largest one they can find – and you have it placed on the floor next to your bed so you can keep an easy eye on him throughout the day. Thor’s kept on a leash attached to the collar on his neck; the piece of leather is flimsy at best, but the man still refuses to break out of it for fear of punishment.

There, on a large, baby pink pet meant for some Doberman or Pitbull or other bigass dog, he waits, ears perking up whenever someone, anyone steps into the room. But, while he craves human contact, the hushed voices of the maids that clean up the dirty clothes and make your bed make the hairs on the back of Thor’s neck stand in fear.

Natasha, lover, retribution.

Bucky, money, revenge.

Loki, trip, return.

He can’t tell which name fills him more with dread. Barnes is barely healed and full of rage at his injury, desperate for vengeance against the man that hurt him so. Natasha Romanoff is a woman that Thor has never truly met, only seen when Stark and you have business that requires some back up. Even so, the stories of her apathy and brutality need no introduction; once, she cut a dude’s dick off, made a wallet from the foreskin, and sent it to him while he was recovering in the hospital. She carries a switchblade in the inside of her bra. She only has red hair because the blood crusted onto it permanently stains the follicles.

And Loki…

Well, Loki and him have been estranged since they were both late teens. They’ve both had daddy issues since birth, and Loki’s so happened to manifest in a weird mix of picking up mercenary work, becoming a serial sugar baby, and wearing a lot of black. The last thing Thor would expect is for Loki to settle down for someone like you, a woman who requires loyalty of heart, mind, soul.

His thumping heart and terrifying internal monologue are interrupted by a maid, one he hadn’t yet seen, whose face scrunches up when she notices your absence from the room. She then sighs, and beckons two other maids – one pushing a cart filled with a small buffet of food, one carrying a cart with cutlery and dinnerware – through the threshold. The three of them stop at a bone-white desk, fretting about as they set up what Thor can only assume is a late lunch.

As you step into the bedroom – pushed through the doorway by the maid from before – Thor can tell you are less than happy.

You’re annoyed, to say the least. Can’t even tell why, really, can’t find an even barely comprehendible reason for you to be tearing through financial documents as if they were important family heirlooms that were on fire. No reason for you to snap at a recent recruit for misspelling the code name of a spy you had placed in the Nevada Supreme Court three courts back. Some madness bites at your skin as you nibble on small sandwiches and drink a large glass of cold sun tea, and Thor can tell it’s tearing you apart.

Thor can’t see much from the floor, but he can feel the electricity in the air as you scribble in a notebook that he guesses is where you plan all of your mob’s heinous activities. He wonders what your handwriting looks like, how you keep all the people you’re blackmailing straight, what kind of code you use. Stark keeps everything on paper as well, in a locked room inside of a secret room inside of his basement (well, maybe. Thor’s never been there, he’d never gotten high enough in the Nest to warrant being given access to such a space, but he’s heard the rumors).

It's about an hour later when the head butler from before, the one who led him, his (former) boss, and his (former) bosses men through your maze of a home, steps just into view of your tired eyes.

“Miss, you need a break,” she says simply.

You sigh, rubbing at the bridge of your nose and then your temples. Resting your head in one hand, you use the other to grant her permission to grab your paperwork. It’s only when she’s gather your things and left the room that you speak.

“She’s right,” you let out a small chuckle before sauntering over to the white dresser in the far corner of the room. “I do need a stress reliever.”

The man on your floor can’t see what you’re doing, his eyes only widening when you place the thickest, blackest dildo he’s ever seen into his view.

“Wh-“he starts to speak, trying but failing to push himself away from you. “What are you doing to do with that?”

You shrug, eyeing it up and down. “I don’t know. Could fuck myself with it…could fuck you with it…”

Thor’s stubbled face is beet red from embarrassment, even more so than when you made him kneel in the dining room or gagged him with your fingers.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, you little slut,” you hiss. When he doesn’t look up at you, you grab his chin and force his head back. He doesn’t want to admit it, but it wouldn’t be fun if he just gave in the second you put the tiniest bit of pressure on his overly-tough facade. “Tell me you love sucking my cock.”

But all Thor does is open his mouth wide as it can go and pushes his flattened tongue as far out of his mouth as it’ll go. He’s got this glimmer in his eyes and a smirk on his lips that tells you Thor knows what he’s doing, he knows he’s pushing every button he can think to push.

You’ve danced this routine before, though this time Thor’s much more confident, willing to push further, push harder.

“You want to be a brat?” You ask, begging him to give you a smartass response. “Then take it like one.”

With swift movements of your right leg he’s pushed flat on the ground, his back hitting the hardwood with a low thud. “Flip over,” you tell him. With an unfortunate lack of protest, he does, toned stomach settling onto the floor barely warmed by his back.

You climb over him, leg on each side and core pressed into him as you gather his hair in your first. “You’re such a fucking tease,” you hiss through grit teeth. Thor makes a similar – but more pained noise – as you wretch his head back. “Such a little tease, begging me to put him in his fucking place. If you wanted me to fuck you like you deserve, you should fucking ask for it next time.”

Smack, the deep sound of your callous hand hitting the soft flesh of his ass almost makes him flinch more than the pain. Smacksmack, two more, quicker this time.

“I’ve met little fucking brats before, but never like you,” you pull the rest of his clothes off with minimal protest. “Gotta get you cock drunk before you’ll figure out how arrangement of ours works, don’t I?”

Thor, with his eyes scrunched shut and mouth lax, says nothing in return.

Your hand reaches under him, hips lifting to provide a small space between him and the floor. He’s already hard, aching, leaking, and he moans brokenly when you wrap your hand around him.

It’s rough, hurts more than it pleasures, but it still feels so, so good all the same. Thor almost wants to say so, too, but can’t make himself push the words from his throat.

“So easy to get you all fucked out isn’t it?” You whisper low in his ear. “So easy to break brats like you, makes me wanna make you cum and then leave you here for the rest of the night…”

The subsequent whine from Thor makes you laugh and push him harder into the floor. “But I won’t do that, can’t leave little things like you all alone, would be like leaving a baby bunny to a bunch of wolves.”

Thor doesn’t disagree, doesn’t try to build his demolished ego back up.

“Doesn’t that feel good, sweetheart?” you purr, hand keeping a slow, torturous pace. “Doesn’t it feel good to be good?”

All Thor can do is squeak and push his face into the floor, trying to hide the deep redness in his cheeks.

For once, you don’t punish him. You want to, want to stop and make him beg for forgiveness for his nonanswer. Maybe tie him up and fuck him with your fingers until he’s ready for your biggest strap, pounding into him.

Oh, Babyboy, you’re being so good taking this whole cock inside of you, aren’t you? So good for your owner. I bet nobody’s ever fucked you this good.

Maybe you’ll tie him up, edge him until he’s sobbing. Wait until he’s just about to cum and pull a vibrator or your hand away – make him whine and tease him as his whole body twitches.

Are you not enjoying yourself, baby? Because it looks to me like you are. Look at those glassy eyes, do I need to slap you to make you pay attention?

Thor screams as he cums all over your floor, whole body tense then completely lax within the span of seconds. His breathing is loud enough to be heard across nations, each exhale laced with a small moan.

He cries, deep and low, when you climb off of him, tries to arch his spine into the nothingness that once held you.

“Shh,” you tell him. “Mommy’ll be back in a second.”

Thor seems to calm with that, heart still racing but head and body slumped.

When you come back, you hold a bit of salmon - small grains of buttery jasmine rice and cranberry sauce stuck to the pink meat. You’ve grasped it with three fingers – thumb, middle, point – and have it nearly pressed to Thor’s plush, pink lips. It’s still warm, dinner having been served by the maids despite your absence from the dining room.

“C’mon baby,” you tell him. “You gotta eat sometime.”

Thor glares at you but knows you’re right – his already flat stomach howling in pain from lack of sustenance. Reluctantly, meekly, he pulls your fingers between his lips and swallows the soft food.

“Good boy,” you tell him. “See? Following directions isn’t that bad.”

Thor, for the first time in days, says nothing to the contrary.

#thor odinson x reader #thor odinson smut #thor smut #lukis writes stuff #thor x reader #thor odinson imagine #avengers smut #avengers imagine #sub!thor #sub thor #thor x reader lemons

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bitchassbucky · 4 years ago

Text

.eps (cut)

Word Count: 1.7k

Warning/s: dark!bucky x dark!reader, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, blood mention, gore and dismemberment, murder, toxic/abusive relationship dynamics, sedation/drugging/use of sedative, stockholm syndrome-ish, one very special character reveal

A/N: this version of the epilogue is the 'clean cut' - there's a good chunk of it missing but it's not particularly important to the story. if you want to read the EXPLICIT version, there should be another one uploaded at the same time. (sorry, this is scheduled so i don't have the link yet lol)

follow the CTRL series:

i - .exe

ii - .avi

iii - .raw

iv - .png

v - .zip

CTRL playlist CTRL moodboard

Safeness, comfortability, warmth are all but a false sense of reality.

You and Bucky have been engaging in a dance for two—a battle of who’s willing to take the leap of faith and unleash hell upon the other.

Stifled smiles and pursed lips.

The air is filled with unsaid irritants, little things that ticked away like bombs.

There was no time for pleading, no time for mercy, no rest for the wicked.

Did you still love each other?

How far are you willing to go to keep up with his… complacency?

“We’ll be together forever, right?”

“Yes, darling.”

“What about the day after forever?”

“That too, honey.”

Where was the man you loved so deeply? The man that broke his morals just to be with you?

Was he under this hull of a Yes Man? A poor little thing that says ‘yes’ to everything like a puppy.

The man you held so dearly now slipping away, chipping his humanity, shedding the once-human.

“Would you marry me tomorrow if I asked you?”

“Of course, baby, why wouldn’t I?”

“Would you kill for me?”

“I’m meant to do the same for you.”

It’s irritating how Bucky gave up too quickly. Too fast, moving too fast. The gazelle let the lion tear its neck as it lay there, unmoving, letting the blood seep into its hide.

When you first met Bucky, it was your own fairytale unfolding before your eyes. Kismet, reality, forgiveness from above. He was soft and shy, passionate, lively.

Bucky taught you how to love.

Bucky taught you how to live for yourself.

Bucky taught you that being alone doesn’t mean you have to be lonely.

“It was an unspoken little thing, wasn’t it?”

“What thing, baby?”

“Our love.”

“Yes, honey, it was.”

He worships you.

He worships you like a fucking God and you hate it.

Suffocating, too suffocating. You dove straight for the water and now you’re drowning.

Do you still love each other? The question hangs in the air, heavy with its weight, light as a feather.

It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault.

You stand there with a syringe half-filled with a horse sedative. It’s a concern how easy it is to waltz into a pet store and pick up a general anesthetic. You make a mental note to look at it later.

Bucky’s body slumps forward, his forehead meeting the edge of the table with a dull thud. If the overdose doesn’t kill him, the weeping crack in his head will.

Holy fuck, humans bleed a lot. And fast. Good thing you already have that clear tarp taped down. Even with the hush money stuffed down your throat, it would take a good nick to regrout the kitchen.

“What is that for, honey?”

“I’m painting the cabinets.”

“Okay, darling.”

The sun was high up in the sky and there was a dead body in your kitchen.

A butcher and a surgeon walk into a bar for a drink. “What do you do for a living?” Said the butcher, “I save lives! What about you?” The doctor answers. “I save animals from dying slowly. We’re basically the same. You’re just very clean.” You see, the butcher comes into the bar covered in blood, reeking of death. The surgeon, on the other hand, wears his white coat with pride even though he’s surrounded by death every passing second.

Today was the day you learned that you have the tools of a butcher and the precision of a surgeon. Unlike before.

It was his fault that he’s dead. He made you do this.

Placing the body into the trunk of a rental, you begin your journey to the end of your fairytale. Off to the woods, where you buried your first love. In a town where not everyone who dies leaves.

The drive to and from the place was tiring, to say the least. The internet connection of the diners was spotty at best. Locals were overly friendly with the city folks who came passing through their towns. The roads reek of roadkill and manure from the farm animals that were left to roam for fresh grass.

At least you get to come home in a spotless apartment, alone once again.

But not lonely.

Your space is yours again. No trace of anyone anywhere. Immaculately yours.

—

Humans are social creatures.

No one can truly be alone, especially in today’s world where we’re connected to everyone—whether we liked it or not.

Your resignation meant that the company’s free of any dirt from you, Bucky’s disappearance quickly becoming a joke and a rumor blending in one.

You woke up one morning craving a healthy serving of coffee and pancakes, luckily the town’s local diner wasn’t far from your new home.

The coffee was too hot, the pancakes were amazing, fluffy, and just right. You’re sitting in a sunny booth, the warmth doing its wonders.

“Hi, can I get today’s paper, please?” Your voice is sweet as you call your server, giving her a quick smile.

A pair of Raybans adorn your face, unconsciously hiding behind its darkened glasses. The waitress gives you a thick stack of newspapers, refilling your cup with black coffee.

Upon opening the paper, you ignore the town’s headlines and go straight for the job postings. The door jingled open as patrons come in and go, waving to familiar faces.

Job Vacancy Announcements

Secretary to the Town Sheriff

You skimmed over the rest of the details, only noting the address of the office. The job looks quite lucrative for someone who would only take messages and organize files for the sheriff.

Looking over the job posting again, you read over the words walk-ins only. That shouldn’t be hard enough.

“Hello, darling.” The man croons in an accent, he looks over to you, “join me in my booth, will ‘ya?”

You’re in no position to reject his proposal, you’re the one who needed an answer.

Taking your coffee cup, you slide into his booth, “hi.”

You look over to him, trying to understand how that small of news spread like a wildfire, “yeah. I moved in a week ago.”

He leans over, smiling sweetly as he unabashedly lets his eyes roam your features, “What’s a city girl like you doin’ in a place like this? I hope we ain’t too boring for you, gal.”

Chatty—he’s way too chatty.

“What business are ‘ya bringing into the office?”

“A job, actually. Says here that they’re looking for a secretary.” You might as well tell him everything, he seems too chatty to be dismissed over and over again.

You bite back a giggle, you’ve always wanted to be involved with the law.

#bitchassbucky writes #dark!bucky #dark!bucky barnes #dark!bucky x reader #dark!bucky x reader smut #dark!bucky x reader fluff #dark!bucky x reader angst #dark!bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky barnes x reader smut #dark!bucky barnes x reader angst #dark!bucky barnes x reader fluff

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shitiger · 5 years ago

Text

Baron Draxum x Lou Jitsu: Feudal Japan Au

https://archiveofourown.org/series/1556719

Story 2 from Lou Jitsu x Baron Draxum Ficlets. (Rated M for the suggestive parts)

(Summary: Hamato Yoshi happens upon a handsome youkai out in the forest. A friendly sparring match turns into much more. (Lou Jitsu/Hamato Yoshi x Baron Draxum).

“Gorgeous,” Yoshi whispered to himself, leaning over the tree branch for a better look. He had rushed off to the forest in an attempt to avoid his chores, something he did quite often, but he hadn’t expected to run into a youkai in the area. His clan was tasked with battling any monsters they presumed to be a threat, so the creatures normally stayed far away from their temple. But the youkai man beneath the tree wasn’t actually doing anything wrong, Yoshi observed. He had placed his basket full of herbs on the grass, and was standing motionless as he watched the waterfall in the distance.

The young man felt his cheeks redden as the figure began to remove his dark robe, the fabric sliding down his thick, muscular teal shoulders. Hot damn! The youkai folded his robe, and placed it next to the basket. He half turned, giving Yoshi an amazing view of perfectly plump lips, long maroon hair, and delicate horns that curled up on either side of his cheeks. The monk suddenly felt a little too warm, and tried to readjust his body to avoid the unpleasant feeling of his lower half pressed against the tree branch. Unfortunately, his usually superior skills were combined with his distracted gaze, and he found himself tumbling ungracefully out of the tree.

“A human!” the youkai exclaimed, adjusting his form into a battle stance. Even half clothed, he was clearly able to take care of himself.

Dazed from the fall, but still very, very interested, Yoshi blurted out, “Wow, you’re really a looker, aren’t you.”

“A looker?” The youkai’s lips twisted into a grimace. “Are you attempting to flirt with me?”

“Is it that obvious?” Yoshi asked, wiggling his eyebrows as he pushed himself into a seated position, his back resting against the tree. The larger male rolled his golden eyes in response, his stance a becoming a little less dangerous. “I’m…” I can’t give him my real name name, or he’ll know my family is obsessed with youkai hunting. “I’m Lou… Jit…sue?”

“Lou Jitsu?”

“Yes. Exactly. That’s my name. A perfectly normal name. Not suspicious at all,” Yoshi whispered the last bit from the corner of his mouth, even as he got to his feet. The youkai shifted back into a crouched stance, clearly waiting for him to attack.

“No, no, you can relax. I’m friendly. I promise.”

“Friendly? You’re a human warrior. Or perhaps you’re a simpleton if you have no concerns when it comes to spying on dangerous youkai,” the larger male stated.

Yoshi glanced down at the basket of herbs, and raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look that dangerous to me. But with those muscles, it’s clear that you keep yourself in shape. You wanna spar with me?”

“You want me to attack you?” the youkai said, clearly thrown off by his request.

“Not at all. Just two guys, hanging out, having a friendly sparring match. No blood, no killing. Just the two of us getting to know each other,” Yoshi said, taking what he hoped was a non-threatening step forward.

“Sparring with a human. My father would roll over in his grave if he knew I had let you live. But he was old-fashioned, and I am not. Very well, Lou Jitsu. I shall honor your request. But if you attempt to double-cross me, you will not leave this clearing alive.”

“Sounds like a plan. But it seems like I’m a bit overdressed. Just gonna slip out of this,” Yoshi said, scrambling to remove his robe. He finally tossed the robe and belt to side. Now they were evenly matched. Just two men standing about in their baggy pants, waiting to fight one another. Well, one guy in baggy pants. The other was wearing some kind of long loincloth that nearly hung down to his cloven feet.

“What are your terms for this battle?” the youkai asked, narrowing his golden eyes.

“Terms? Oh, yeah. Well, as I said, no bloodshed or killing. First one to pin the other down…” Yes, pin me down you sexy...! No, Yoshi, now is not the time for your hormonal thoughts! “Uh, yeah. First one to pin the other for a count of three wins,” the human blurted out.

“And if you win? Not that you will, of course, but if you do manage to win, what are you planning to ask of me?” the taller male inquired.

“Oh, prizes. Right. You could tell me your name. I mean, you haven’t actually told me your name, big guy,” the monk said, his tone flirtatious.

“Very well,” the youkai agreed.

“What about you? What will you ask me if you win?” Yoshi inquired, his curiosity peaked.

A secretive smile spread over the youkai’s teal lips, his keen eyes flashing with amusement. “I will keep that to myself, for now. But rest assured, as long as you do not attempt to go back on your promise to keep this fight fair, I will not ask too much of you when I win.”

“You’re awful cocky. I like that,” Yoshi said, answering the other man’s smile with a smirk of his own. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

***

“Well now,” the youkai purred, his muscular body pressing Yoshi down onto the grass in all the right ways. “It looks like I’ve won our little sparring match.”

“Yeah,” the monk managed to say, his mouth suddenly dry. Oh man, this wasn’t good. He was definitely heating up in a way that was going to be very obvious, very soon. The youkai tilted his head to look at him, his golden eyes glinting in what he hoped was interest… but it could have been amusement.

“What to do with you, my little human warrior. You’d make quite the prize if I were to kidnap you away to my castle,” the youkai said, his voice deliciously deep.

“You live in a castle?” Yoshi asked, but his body was simply agreeing with the other man’s suggestion whole-heartedly. Blood rushed to his cheeks as the youkai leaned closer, his plump lips nearly brushing the monk’s ear.

“My name is Baron Draxum, and yes, pretty human, I live in a castle.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Yoshi said, stunned.

“With abs like these?” Draxum purred, running sharp, yet deceptively delicate fingers down the monk’s chest. “You are most certainly a very pretty specimen.”

“Yeah, well you’re not so bad yourself,” Yoshi shot back, taking the opportunity to wrap his arms around the taller man’s waist.

“You’re rather presumptuous for a man who was just defeated,” Draxum exclaimed, but his voice trailed off into a low chuckle.

“Guess I’m just that kind of guy. Fair warning, if you don’t get off me, I’m going to kiss you,” Yoshi announced, loosening his grip on the other male’s waist. Just in case.

“Are you now?” the youkai answered. “I think you’ve forgotten which one of us owes the other a prize.”

“And what would Baron Draxum desire for a prize?” the monk asked teasingly. Gentle claws traced his cheeks, before the youkai surged down, pressing teal lips against his. Yoshi could only groan, his fingers curling around the larger man’s back. He could feel Draxum’s thick thighs pressed between his legs, and it only made his body burn hotter. A single clawed hand stroked down his chest, tweaking a darkened nipple, before sliding down further to cup his rear possessively.

Yoshi let out an unmanly squeak, his arms rising to clench around his lover’s firm upper back. They ground against one another, barely noticing the sun starting to sink in the distance. With one last twirl of his tongue, the youkai leaned back, smirking at the monk’s disheveled state.

“This was quite an unexpected delight, but I must take my leave. Perhaps I shall return to spar with you again in the near future, son of the Hamato clan,” Draxum purred, pushing himself to his feet. Without a backward glance, he strode back to the stream to pull on his robes.

“Yeah, that would be fun…” Yoshi had just gotten to his feet when his lover’s words finally pierced his kiss-fogged mind. His head shot up, his jaw dropping in amazement. “You know who I…?”

“It wasn’t difficult to deduce. The Hamato temple is not far from here, and you are quite well trained in martial arts. Now, are you going to give me your true name, or shall I keep calling you Lou Jitsu?” Draxum asked, clearly amused at the thought of the human trying to trick him.

Sighing in defeat, Yoshi rubbed the back of his neck, and stepped forward, looking up at his new lover with a hesitant smile. “You’ve got me. It’s Yoshi. Hamato Yoshi. Sorry for the ruse. I didn’t want to spook you away.”

“Because I’m quite the – looker – as you put it,” the youkai chuckled, reaching out to pull the bare-chested man into a last, soft kiss.

“Yeah. Definitely a looker,” Yoshi sighed, stepping back reluctantly once the taller man had released him. “No jokes… Will I see you again?” The youkai raised a brow, but nodded, the smile of on his lips echoing a promise for another day.

“Okay, I’ll see you later. Don’t be a stranger,” Yoshi said, even as he watched Draxum heft the delicate basket into the crook of his muscular arm. The youkai nodded at him, before striding off in the opposite direction of the Hamato temple.

It didn’t take long for Draxum to reach the side of the waterfall. As the monk stood in awe, the youkai bounded up the side of the rocky cliff, as agile as a mountain goat. Once he’d reached the top, the baron turned to look at him, his lips quirking into a smile. Yoshi gave a little wave – no, a very manly wave, and was delighted when Draxum responded with a single raised hand in his directly. Soon, even the youkai’s luscious red hair was out of sight, and Yoshi forced himself to turn away. Reaching for his robe, he haphazardly shrugged it on, and tied the belt into place, before beginning his long walk back to the village.

Baron Draxum. A youkai with the body of a god, and a voice as smooth as silk. If his family found out, they’d disown him. And yet, the young monk couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing his teal-skinned lover again. Never tasting his warm lips, or feeling his rock-hard muscles. They hadn’t even gotten into each other’s pants yet! Yoshi could only wonder, and fantasize, about what he’d find under the taller man’s loin-cloth. Little Yoshi was perking up again, the young man realized. Good thing it was getting dark.

Wait a minute. It was getting dark! He was still pretty deep in the woods. It wasn’t like anyone was going to see him if he took care of his little… his big and manly issue! Nodding to himself, Yoshi took another quick glance around, and then settled himself down at the base of a thick-trunked tree. “Mmm… I bet Drax is nice and thick,” Yoshi murmured to himself, even as his hand drifted down his pants.

***

“How unexpected. It seems my new pet is even more delightful than I imagined,” Baron Draxum purred, watching the young man bring himself to completion. He’d done the right thing by conjuring up a scrying spell to keep an eye on the monk. All in the interest of making sure the human got back to his temple in one piece, of course. He certainly hadn’t expected Hamato Yoshi’s little show, but he wasn’t going to deny that it was leaving him rather… frustrated, as well.

“The next time I see him, he won’t be wearing pants for long,” Draxum promised, eager to return to his castle for a bit of alone time himself. Just the thought of defeating the cocky little human warrior, and then pinning him to a tree was enough to have him breaking into a run. He would not resort to fondling himself in the woods like some low-class youkai, but he could not fault his pretty pet from needing a bit of release — the man was only human, after all.

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #baron draxum #lou jitsu #slash #baron draxum x lou jitsu #fanfiction

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sir-adamus · 5 years ago

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Yang foils to a lot of characters

okay so i said earlier/yesterday/a time in the past that is before now that i was gonna do an updated thing on the villains/other antagonists that Yang foils/parallels/plays counterpart to (here’s the old one)

i decided to expand it past villains to other parts of the cast because there’s some interesting stuff there, anyway, below the cut:

Adam

okay so, obvious one out of the way first, yes, Adam is one of Yang’s foils (this should be obvious by now). both play significant (romantic) roles in Blake’s past and present respectively, but where Adam is an abusive dillweed and a coward (and paedophile) who responded to trauma by becoming the bigger asshole, never accepting responsibility and jealously obsessing over what he believed to be his, but he never cared about her as a person, only controlling and possessing her; Yang is kindhearted, compassionate and truly strong, who responded to her trauma in a more healthy way by talking it out with someone who could understand (Blake) and not taking it out on the world. she also shows an actual understanding of Blake and their relationship is healthy and balanced

they both have themes with anger, but where Yang’s anger is shown to be controlled and she doesn’t lash out at people, and her anger has never gotten her into trouble on its own (the one time she’s gotten into trouble over it, her anger wasn’t actually to blame, as she can’t be faulted for trying to defend herself over an attack that no one else saw), Adam explodes in a temper tantrum when he doesn’t get his way, and ends up making costly mistakes as a result

additionally their semblances are opposites - Yang takes damage and turns it into strength that she gets to keep until either she releases it or her Aura breaks. Adam can only absorb impacts through a proxy (his sword, that he hides behind) and can only dish back out what he has absorbed, at which point he has to build it up again. courage versus cowardice

Cinder

i’m pretty sure most would be expecting me to cover Mercury or Hazel here, but i feel like this is a significant one that gets overlooked - i have already made a post covering this in detail so i’ll just link that here and move on

Hazel

so there are a lot. both Yang and Hazel melee based fighters who supplement their martial combat techniques with weapons/Dust, instead of basing their fighting styles around weapons. both have siblings that mean a lot to them; but Hazel lost his twin sister Gretchen and the rage and grief against Ozpin has aligned him with Salem. Yang likewise dislikes and distrusts Ozpin, but she isn’t fueled by that and isn’t ruthless when it comes to approaching her goals

they’re both shown to be even-tempered outside of combat and both ideally won’t escalate a situation into a fight if they don’t have to - best comparison of this is, funnily enough, in their responses to Adam’s bullshit. Hazel doesn’t want to resort to violence or bloodshed when talking to Sienna and expresses disgust when Adam kills her because “no one needed to die today”. Yang, when encountering Adam in volume 6, approaches the situation with the same mentality, just telling him to leave her and Blake alone - no one needed to die in that situation, and the only person who did was Adam, who once again disagreed. the difference mainly is that Yang is very open and friendly and actually sticks to that resolve while Hazel is aloof and closed off and while he can stick to that gun most of the time, when Ozpin is involved all bets are off and he doesn’t care who he hurts, putting the fault for his actions on Ozpin

their semblances are also opposites, just in a different way to how Adam and Yang’s are; Yang’s semblance is about taking damage, absorbing pain, and rolling with it - she feels all that pain. her anger comes about as a result of it but it’s always controlled, directed. Hazel’s semblance blocks out pain, he is as powerful as he is because he’s not feeling any of the damage he’s taking, and it comes out with that uncontrollable rage, not caring who gets caught in the crossfire. controlled anger vs blind rage

Emerald

not much, but there are comparisons and contrasts to be drawn

both have issues with maternal figures; Yang lost her step-mother at an early age and her birth mother is not a great person. Yang however is under no illusions regarding Raven and has accepted that sad truth and doesn’t let it impact her decisions or sense of right and wrong

contrast Emerald, who is implied to see Cinder as a surrogate maternal figure and is deluding herself into thinking Cinder cares about her, to the point that she seems to be ignoring her own doubt over what she’s doing out of some misguided sense of obligation to someone who ultimately only keeps her around while she’s useful

Salem

well to start with “loneliness” is a motif that applies to both of them (Salem kinda foils to all the girls in some way or another, but you can get a lot with just Yang), a significant visual parallel between the scene Salem and Ozma (in unnamed meatbag #1) reunite to the scene where Blake and Yang see each other again for the first time since Beacon in volume 5, with Ozma paralleling Blake as the one entering the situation while Yang parallels Salem in seeing someone she thought she’d never see again (though things are gonna end much more healthily for Blake and Yang)

Yang as a character is interesting because almost everything that goes wrong in her life (her birth mother leaving, her step-mother dying, her father shutting down and forcing her to raise herself and Ruby, her uncle never being around, everything at Beacon and what has followed) can all be rooted back at least partially to decisions Oz has made and lies he’s told (and she’s understandably angry at him just for the recent stuff). and knowing Salem’s backstory, a lot of the crap that’s happened to her is a result of Oz’s bad decisions and lies - their responses are different, obviously, Yang doesn’t react to nearly the extremes Salem does, but then Yang isn’t several thousands of years old and hasn’t had all her hope snatched away yet (though Oz definitely gave it the old college try by building people up on false hope and thinking that somehow wouldn’t bite him in the ass) while Salem only started getting as bad as she did after Oz took the hope that he gave her by coming back into her life away again (instead of talking things out with her like an adult over what was like, one relatively mild outburst at least partially influenced by Grimm corruption which isn’t something she could really help, because she believed it would kill her, and was keeping relatively under control otherwise - avoiding the problem and not talking to people is a terrible habit of his)

Yang and Salem also have associations with the God of Darkness’s creations; Yang is heavily and frequently associated with fire, while Salem is tied to the Grimm thanks to the Brothers Grimm pools she tried to use to finally die

stubbornness is a theme as well - Yang has a backstory where stubbornness nearly got her killed and so she’s more careful about it in the present, it’s not an issue for her, while Salem’s (as a result of a combination of loneliness, unhealthy dependence on the one good thing in her life and having absolutely zero healthy ways of coping with grief due to her shitty upbringing that the gods just didn’t bother helping her with in the slightest and only exacerbated) is a big factor in the situation the world is at right now. neither Yang nor Salem give up, ever, but, as Yang says, she doesn’t let that control her

Tyrian

this is another short one, Tyrian lost a large amount of his tail to Ruby (a red and black-themed fighter with a rose motif), much like Yang lost her arm to Adam, and both have cybernetic prosthesis to replace the lost parts (Atlesian in origin, as well)

both have colour-change eyes when they use their abilities, Yang’s eyes go from lilac to red, Tyrian’s go from gold to purple, and both fight with weapons attached to their arms - but Yang’s Ember Celica is meant to supplement her punch-based fighting style with gun fire with some ranged ability, Tyrian’s The Queen’s Servants are primarily for slashing attacks and separate gun barrels for ranged attacks

Maria

we’re off the villains for a while, and this one is notable for the comparisons and parallels being drawn in the show itself

both Maria and Yang are noted to be incredibly strong fighters, Maria to near mythic levels (and both have jumped on a Nevermore mid-flight), both received injuries that took them out of the game and acquired prosthetics to help them following that, but Maria herself notes that she didn’t have the strength of will to keep fighting after her injury, while Yang did (and we know Yang kept going because she felt obligated to take care of Ruby, so the contrast seems to be Maria didn’t have others to fight for like Yang does)

both are also snarky and good-humoured, and play guiding roles for Ruby (we’re even given scenes where both try to teach Ruby how to fight using abilities outside of her weapon and Semblance - Yang trying to teach Ruby how to handle herself in hand-to-hand combat, and ultimately getting nowhere because she didn’t get to address the problem due to other things coming up, while Maria guides Ruby on how to use her Silver Eyes, to better results)

Pyrrha

especially notable in volume 3 but there are elements throughout

Yang and Pyrrha are pretty much the Strongest in terms of physical ability of the main 8 for the first three volumes, though with very different approaches, a fact which ties into Salem’s speech at the beginning of volume 1 (which is concluded in her speech at the end of volume 3), “there is no victory in strength”. at the end of volume 3, the strongest players among the heroes are out of play, critically injured and depressed in Yang’s case, and dead in Pyrrha’s

there’s some shared theming with “gold” and “fire” again, kinda similar to Cinder - Pyrrha means “flame-haired”, and she wears gold armour; Yang we know has a big fire motif and is highly associated with gold

both are confident in different ways while hiding their isolation and insecurities beneath the surface; Yang is very outgoing and boisterous and strong-willed, while Pyrrha is more reserved and less outspoken, but quite weak-willed, never really standing up for herself and doing whatever is asked of her

Nora

another short one, loud, boisterous members of their respective teams, with similar charge-based semblances and a significant relationship with their quieter, ninja-themed partner

the difference is Nora is more extremely loud and boisterous, where Yang has her quieter, more introspective moments (tying into her yin-yang dynamic with Blake, where they have elements of aspects commonly associated with the other)

Raven

there isn’t actually much for this one because the majority of the foiling for Raven is with Blake (much like Adam foils to Yang, but has some elements with Blake too), but their semblances and the mechanics/origins behind them are very telling

Yang’s semblance, turning the damage, the pain she takes into strength, is rooted in her backstory of having to roll with the pain and devastation of losing Summer, finding out she was abandoned by Raven and Tai not taking care of them, and having to find the strength to keep things together for Ruby’s sake. Yang is primarily (almost unhealthily) motivated for the sake of those she is close to; i mentioned it back in Maria’s section, Yang is almost always fighting for the people she loves

Raven, by contrast, has a semblance that connects her to those she is close to, she can travel vast distances to them instantaneously - but she almost exclusively fights for herself, and only uses her semblance to run away (and the irony is her semblance is built so she can run to people, to seek solace and support from them - Yang used Raven’s semblance to get to Ruby in the way Raven really should be using it)

Honourable Mention - Roman and Neo

see here

Oh yeah Mercury i guess

- martial arts based fighting style, hands vs feet

- named after celestial bodies (Yang - the sun, Mercury - Mercury)

- weapons enhance fighting style

- shit dads tell them not to use/take away semblances with shitty reasoning (”its a good fallback but you can’t rely on” except by definition a fallback is something you rely on, so which is it? also calling her semblance - the literal manifestation of her soul, a temper tantrum. solid parenting A+, totally doesnt remind me of: “this is a crutch, this makes you weak” yes, saying that the sum of someones character is a weakness isn’t horrifyingly disgusting at all, thanks Marcus, A+ parenting you drunk fuckbag)

- difference is Yang is strong and a good person and Mercury chose to be a fuckboi shitbag

#RWB/Y

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lookbluesoup · 5 years ago

Text

Nate and Piper’s Fallout

@ronqueesha @viewfromthevault OKAY SINCE YOU LOVELIES AND AN ANON ASKED about the big meltdown between Nate and Piper I will now proceed to overshare thanks! If I didn’t have a gazillion billion other WIPs I’d probably have turned this into a novel by now! Lol I’m not sure if it will ever get polished enough to post online. REGARDLESS it’s important to me and I hope at least a little interesting for you all to hear about xD

THAT BEING SAID I know I have some followers who don’t like spoilers, and if I ever do finish that fic, this wordvomit is gonna be basically the entire outline. SO everything is under the cut! In contrast to most of his story, Nate’s also a bit of an ass here! Keep reading at your own peril! 😱

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Nate realizes he’s in love with Piper the day he breaks into the Institute. Up until that point, finding Shaun took precedence over everything else. Nate had helped the Commonwealth a lot, but he couldn’t really start building a new life for himself while still chasing the old one.

Getting into the Institute was… disorienting, to say the least. Too clean, too organized, too friendly towards him after all the carnage he’s seen on the surface. When Father encourages Nate to stay and help make a better world, and Nate is presented with the idea of possibly having to choose between the Institute or the Commonwealth, it really tips him sideways. He starts to realize that he’s already been laying the foundation for a new beginning. On the surface. With Piper. And Preston. And Curie and Deacon and Nick and the Minutemen and the Railroad.

Father gives Nate the run of the Institute so of course Nate noses into every single nook and cranny. When a particularly friendly scientist greets Nate and conveys their hope that “the Institute can feel like home,” Nate remembers what the Institute has done to the homes of others. They talk to him about how there’s “nothing out there” on the surface. Nate thinks of Piper. Those living under Father dismiss the Commonwealth as just a dying remnant and Nate is surprised by the anger that sentiment inspires in him. The people on the surface are fighting hard to survive. He’s bled and sacrificed beside them. He sees it as arrogance for the Institute to claim having “humanity’s best interest at heart” and yet be so out of touch with humanity.

It’s Piper’s door Nate comes crashing through when he returns to the surface. It’s her advice he seeks out to come to terms with the revelation that Shaun is the Director of the Institute, and that once again, Nate’s sense of reality has been turned on its head.

He goes back and forth for a while. Father tolerates it with the expectation that once Nate gets a feel for the Institute he will make the right choice and join them. Nate has to be very careful to avoid the Watchers, who now have a vested interest in following him around. Desdemona urges Nate to maintain the charade for as long as it takes to liberate the synths. He agrees, and it’s at some point during this back and forth he and Piper come to terms with their feelings for one another.

That’s where it starts. And he and the Railroad are on the same page, 100% - except for Shaun.

Because Shaun is still Nate’s baby. And there is nothing more important to Nate than family. Even when that family is misguided.

He desperately wants to avoid escalating the conflict. After the shock wears off, he gets the idea that it might be possible to work not as a double-agent, but an ambassador between the surface and underground. If given enough time with the Institute, by earning their trust, Nate hopes to bridge the gap and bring about a cease-fire between the factions.

Piper’s initially supportive of the effort. If he can find one, a solution that doesn’t end in bloodshed and dead friends is preferable. They have a brief honeymoon of stolen moments that are carefully concealed from the Institute, for the sake of his cover. They still travel together openly as ‘friends’ and she even accompanies him to the Libertalia (where X6 manages to reclaim Gabriel) and Bunker Hill (where Nate helps the runaway synths escape and claims he was ambushed to protect his cover). So for a while, they’re still working together. And then Nate starts disappearing for longer and longer stretches of time.

Father is increasingly demanding. The ability to relay makes travelling across the Commonwealth with X6 much faster and safer than trekking across no-man’s land from Diamond City or the Castle or anywhere else. Suddenly Piper doesn’t know where he is every day, or what he’s doing, or why. She has faith in him, but the distance hurts.

And the thing is, it’s almost impossible to work and fight and live alongside a group of people without becoming sympathetic towards them in some way, especially for someone as naturally empathetic and cooperative as Nate, and especially in a situation like his where he feels compelled to be loyal at least to his son.

So Nate’s a little too optimistic. Starts making excuses, forgets that just because he might have managed to solve a conflict without violence doesn’t mean the Institute wouldn’t have preferred to choose violence themselves. (i.e. they were going to kidnap Wallace and kill the Minutemen who’d come to defend him, but that’s not an issue because Nate managed to convince Wallace to join the Institute peacefully, first.)

Nate sees a chance for real peace when Father offers him the role of Director. Piper doesn’t. It can’t be that easy when Nate’s still insisting they keep their relationship a secret for fear it might compromise his station and put them in danger. She reserves judgement at Nate’s request. But a whitewashed box underground could never be home to her; there could never be a future for them as a pair. And what else will Nate have to compromise to secure the loyalty of a group of people with such vastly different morals? Will they still take him as Director when the know how he really feels about the synths and the world above ground? If they know he intends to shut down the Retention Bureau and share technology with the Commonwealth? She just can’t see it happening.

He and Piper start arguing. Nate stops telling her about his missions. Stops telling her much of anything.

Rumours start finding their way back to her about the Institute’s meddling. Sometimes they’re violent. Sometimes informants talk about a man who sounds a bit like Nate, but Piper can’t bring herself to believe it. The stories must be exaggerated, or misinformed, because her Blue would never do those things. Not even to protect his cover. When she finally does get the chance to confront him, Nate’s evasive, leading her to believe at least some part of the stories must be true.

This straight up SUCKS for Piper because he’s doing what the others in Diamond City did. Suddenly he doesn’t want to talk, he treats her like she’s nosy. She isn’t his confidant anymore, and even worse she doesn’t know if she can trust him. All of this right after she opened her heart to him. It scares her, and when he only gives her more reasons to suspect he’s siding with the Institute - it makes her angry.

The night he breaks into Travis’s trailer to hack Diamond City radio and pick up reports from McDonough, Nate doesn’t even stop by Publick to tell Piper he’s in town. She crosses paths with him by sheer luck. He tries to wave it away with the excuse of “not wanting to upset her" and when the conversation gets heated, relays away. She’s pissed and pretty damn hurt. She takes all her collected intel and writes up an entire article condemning the “General” for his dereliction of duty, but doesn’t publish it.

After the Institute’s broadcast airs, Nate comes back to apologize. But he continues to insist the secrecy was necessary. And Piper pulls out all the stops. It’s gone too far. She doesn’t know what side he’s on. People are getting hurt, and he hardly seems to care anymore. Nate fails to realize what thin ice he’s on at first. (there IS an old draft of that fight here on my ao3!)

It gets heated, Nate tries to use protecting Piper as an excuse, which she will have absolutely none of, and then Nate takes a shot at her paper and tries to end the fight by insisting she just isn’t able to understand. Which he realizes, immediately, is a step too far. But the damage is already done. Piper compares Nate to Kellogg, and honestly stabbing him probably would have hurt less, kicks him out of her house, and it looks like it’s over between them.

Nate returns to the Institute wounded and angry. Father takes note of how distracted Nate seems, which prompts Nate to expose his frustration at Piper and her lack of understanding. Father remembers meeting her after the botched Battle of Bunker Hill and dismisses her small mind. Her troublemaking attitude has no place in the new future.

Nate spends the next few days going through the motions. It would be easier to just agree with Shaun and dismiss Piper’s challenge as nothing but ignorance. But that doesn’t sit quite right. Losing her is a harsh blow and her accusations weigh on Nate.

Karma’s pretty swift. Father comes to Nate with an ultimatum. The Railroad has to be put down. Shaun reveals he’s known all along about Nate’s history of involvement with them, and that it’s the last thing standing in the way of proving his loyalty. Nate tries to negotiate, and then outright refuses to kill his friends. Father stops playing nice. He orders Nate to destroy the Railroad. Realizing it’s the end of the line, Nate reverts to the old military, “Yes, sir.” but there’s a chasm in his heart. He has to choose. He can’t wait it out any longer. And Piper was right.

On the way back to his room, his synth informant warns him that the Brotherhood has also tracked the Railroad down, and are on their way to destroy the church. Choosing Shaun would be as easy as doing nothing at all. But Nate relays to Hanover Street and hits the ground running, knowing full well he’ll never set foot inside the Institute as an ally again.

Piper, meanwhile, had come to the conclusion that she couldn’t keep Nate’s waffling loyalty a secret from the Railroad any longer. She had traveled to HQ to inform Des her Agent might be compromised. And it’s about that time Nate comes crashing through the door wild-eyed with his desperate warning.

They’ve definitely had better reunions.

#sorry this took so long to answer!!#text #long post #nate trivia #nate ronan #pipan #piper wright #institute #shaun #father #railroad #fallout #fallout 4 #ask

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