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starlazergazer · 1 year ago

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Welcome Home

Pairing: Anakin x Reader

Request: Combining two very similar requests! The overall summary is that the reader finds out she’s pregnant and out of fear leaves the republic (quickly becoming the empire) without Anakin knowing. Anakin tracks down the reader years later and leaves everything behind to live happily ever after with the reader and their child.

Warnings: Pregnant!Reader

Word Count: 4K

A/N: Hey guys its been a while! She’s a little short but she’s got some good angst and some cute moments so I really hope you enjoy it!

You weren’t proud to admit that you didn’t see it coming.

The warning signs were all there, and in hindsight you can’t believe you had missed them. But no, not missed, for every time there was a new announcement about the condensation of power you felt your stomach drop, felt the voice in the back of your head whisper that this wasn’t right, you never missed a single warning sign, it was even worse than that. You ignored them.

Because you knew chancellor Palpatine, he was a nice old man, offering his wisdom to younger senators such as yourself, he wanted what was best for the republic same as you.

You thought you knew Anakin too.

But you did know Anakin, you wanted to argue, he was passionate, emotional, funny, someone looking only to do right in the world by those he loved. You just thought you were one of those people.

And maybe you were, maybe this were some big misunderstanding, maybe there were forces at play here you couldn’t see that changed things. Maybe you could be the one to make those changes.

In another life you’d stick around and see.

Not this time. A hand ghosting across your stomach, staring down at an empty suitcase. Circumstances have changed and you couldn’t afford to chance it.

But even as you stood in you room amongst the ruins of the republic you had fought so hard to build, all that echoed in your mind was Anakin’s last words “I’ll find you later I promise” spoken in that tone of voice that had you smiling no matter what. Even as he pulled away, even as he interrupted the most important surprise of your life you couldn’t help but smile back at him, watching his own lips quirk up in response.

How could so much have changed in such little time.

A knock at the front door knocked you out of your stupor, a spring in your step as you rushed out of the bedroom just in time to see Anakin walking into the living room.

And you were amazed at how he looked exactly the same, how your whole world came crashing down and Anakin was still Anakin, looking at you with so much love and worry in his eyes it made your chest ache.

He was across the room before you could even comprehend his movement, his arms wrapping tightly around you not even noticing that you never raised yours to do the same.

It would have been far too easy to melt into the hug, to reach up and cover his hands with your own as he stepped back and cupped each cheek, to ignore the new yellow tint in his eyes as he scanned your body frantically asking if you were hurt.

But your choice here wasn’t just your own anymore, and if there was one thing you were certain of, it was that whoever this child came to be deserved more than what the empire offered.

It took you a second to find your voice, a second to push his hands off your cheeks, to take a step back from him, offering a small I’m okay that he clearly didn’t believe before you fully collected yourself “it’s just a lot to take in ya know?”

And there was a small sigh of relief that racked through him, before he took up your hand, giving it an experimental squeeze, as if afraid you were going to reject him “I know but really all that’s changed is the title, the senate still exists, you still have the same job, emperor Palpatine is just doing his best to protect people”

And you wondered if he really believed that, if he thought that the senate mattered in any way but a symbolic one at this point, that Palpatine was still prepared to just give back his power when he deemed it was best. Anakin was many things but never naive.

A bitter part of you noted how easily the change to Palpatine’s title came to him.

“Of course” you tried to assure him with your best smile, an awkward hand coming up and patting his “I’m still a senator”

He seemed to relax slightly at this, his posture slouching ever so slightly as his smile grew easier, crinkling the edges of his eyes just a little more now than it did before.

“What about you are you okay?” The question held more weight than he could possibly realize.

“I’m good” he sighed out, leading you softly over to the couch “the jedi order, the republic, all of it wasn’t working, hadn’t for some time and emperor Palpatine changed that. I really think it’s for the better”

And you weren’t sure whether it would’ve been worse if he had told you he was being forced into the whole thing. If you would rather he had somehow been blackmailed into his new role or if he truly believed in the empire, choosing instead to dismantle all that you devoted your life to of his own volition.

“Good” you nearly choked on the word as it came out, your forced smile starting to ache in your cheeks as you fought to keep it on “I’m glad”

He smiled warmly back at you and in that moment he looked too much like the Anakin you knew, the man you’d shared many stolen moments with in closets and empty rooms, the man you wanted more than anything in that moment to just come home to.

“Anyway there was something important you wanted to tell me” he prompted softly, turning softly into you, encapsulating both your hands in his with a soft squeeze.

And your mind jumped immediately to the test hidden in your luggage in the bedroom at that very moment, to the moment you had pulled him into the nearest closet just before everything went down, to the excitement you had felt in that moment and carried with you even as he told you he had to go, that you could tell him later. Only for later to never come.

Your mouth dropped open slightly, an amalgamation of words tumbling around inside you with no real idea which would spring forth first. A part of you wondered what would happen if you told him. Would he give it all up? Run away with you? Become the fantastic father you knew he would be away from the sway of the empire, from Palpatine?

But you knew better.

“Oh it was nothing” you shook him off “can hardly remember it now”

He studied you carefully, mistrust evident in every feature on his face. Instead of objecting, however, he just brought a hand up to softly cup your cheek.

And oh how you hated how quickly your body reacted, leaning into the touch softly, your eyes fluttering closed before you could stop them.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”

His words were soft but you could hear the earnestness in them, the slight beg for you to let him in.

“Yeah I know” you opted for a half truth, never that good at denying him anything, knowing that in any other circumstance you wouldn’t have even hesitated, hell before all of this you were excited to tell him.

But circumstances change, people changed, you just wished that he had picked a path you could follow down.

“I’m just feeling a little tired, I think I’m going to lay down for a nap” you shrugged off his hand softly, pulling yourself back from picking it up with your own, forcing yourself to drop his other one, to push yourself up off the couch, to take a step back, to put that first bit of distance between the two of you.

And you could see him recoil slightly at the sudden declaration, at your sudden dismissal of him, a brief moments shock spent frozen on the couch before he pushed himself up with a dejected nod, a soft hesitant voice you hardly recognized as Anakin’s coming from him “yeah of course, just let me know if you need anything okay?”

For a moment your mind was captured by thoughts of what could have been, Anakin taking care of you through bouts of morning sickness, bringing you packages of whatever pregnancy cravings you had in the middle of the night, rubbing your swollen feet while you talked lazily on the couch. It felt unfair that a person could mourn something that would never come to pass.

“I will, thanks Ani”

And despite the tension in the air you saw the corner of his mouth twitch up at the familiar nickname. He gave a small nod before backing away and heading for the door, his hand coming up to the panel and hovering over its surface, a brief moment spent frozen before he spoke, calling out your name and spinning around to find you.

But he didn’t need to look far, you hadn’t moved from your spot as you watched him go.

“I love you”

And it would’ve been so much easier if he hadn’t have said that, if some part of you could’ve been able to push his feelings over all of this to the back of your mind, if you had been left to believe that on some level he would be okay if you left him.

“I love you too Ani” and even worse you meant it

“So this is why you ran?” the familiar voice broke you from your thoughts as you stared forward at the busy playground but didn’t necessarily surprise you, it was after all a voice you had been waiting to here again after too many years.

A million reactions to that voice ran through your head all at once, each one completely contradicting the one before. Run away, embrace him, hide your daughter, introduce him to her. So instead you stayed frozen in place, your gaze locked on the colorful jungle gym before you.

“I decided she deserved a better life than what the empire could give her” Still you refused to look at him, refused to put a face to that comforting voice you had always been inexplicably drawn to. Instead you focused on keeping your head held high, to stave off any guilt that threatened to leach into your tone. You couldn’t afford to look weak over this decision not now.

“she?” but god that little tremble in his voice nearly broke you, every doubt you had over the years amplified by a minor change in pitch. It was precisely why you had left in the first place, and here he was again threatening to pull you back in all over again.

You cleared your throat softly, gesturing across the playground vaguely with your head “bright pink coat, attempting to climb the monkey bars”

A shaky exhale sounded from beside you, a slight shift as he scooted closer but you weren’t sure whether you liked the feeling or hated it. “she looks just like you” The smile you could hear in his voice, however, that you relished.

“She’s got your eyes” you responded softly, laughing quietly as you watched her run and jump off the platform in an attempt to get high enough to reach the first rung “and your reckless relationship with danger”

You felt Anakin go tense beside you the minute her shoes left the ground, watching as she sailed missing the bar by mere inches and tumbling to the ground. Your hand came out to his elbow the minute you felt his weight shift as he got ready to go help her, freezing the two of you in place as you watched her pick herself up and dust herself off before abandoning her quest for the monkey bars and taking off for the swings.

“Tough kid” Anakin laughed almost in disbelief, watching her shake off the fall as if it were nothing.

“taught her early on if she was going to make stupid decisions she better be prepared to deal with the consequences”

A tense silence fell over the two of you at your words. It only occurring to you then that you still had your hand on his arm, pulling it back quickly, acting as if it were nothing, as if your fingers weren’t aching to reach out to him again.

“You know I was high up in the empire” he broke the silence with heavy words, inlaid with more depth than he probably meant “I could’ve given her a good life”

You shook your head at his words, eyes never leaving your daughters form as she started to swing, blissfully unaware of who had just shown up “there was a time I would’ve believed that” you responded honestly with a sigh “but after everything the empire has done, after seeing what is has become, I know I made the right call”

“the schools I could get her into, the house I could provide-“ Anakin pushed on only making your lip tremble slightly, your eyes closing as you let out a shaky beath, cutting him off.

“stop Ani” and the two of your froze at the nickname, the way it slipped out too easily from your lips, how much you liked the sound of it “the empire destroyed everything I fought for in an instant. It overthrew a democracy I devoted my life to in favor of a dictatorship, it killed millions of people I gave my life to serve as their representative, it took everything from me including you” and finally you turned to face him, not at all surprised to see familiar blue eyes already staring down at you, each feature swimming through an ocean of emotions he wasn’t quite sure which to land on. “I wasn’t going to let them take her too”

You each took a moment, eyes bouncing back and forth between one another’s, you taking a moment to take in a face that somehow looked the exact same as it had years ago and yet changed so much.

Still he shook his head softly, eyes casting back out to the playground before him “I would’ve come with you”

And you’d spent too much time pondering that same question to just let it slide “you wouldn’t have”

Anakin’s head snapped back to yours, eyebrows drawing in in confusion and hurt “You think I would’ve chosen anything else over you? Over her?” he gestured over to the swings, your daughter kicking her feet to climb higher and higher into the air.

“I think you would’ve tried to talk me into staying, and I was afraid I was too weak to say no” you answered honestly, watching as he shook his head again clearly not liking that as an answer “and I think even if you had wanted to come with me they wouldn’t have let you” that gave him pause, his brows furrowing slightly at your words, silently prompting you to continue “you were the emperors right hand man, the one set to inherit everything. They weren’t going to let you go that easily”

“I was in too deep, so you just gave up on us” he paused for a second, a deep breath running through him before he continued “gave up on me”

Immediately you were scooching yourself closer to him, thigh coming to rest right along his as you took one hand in yours, using it to pull his attention back to you. “If circumstances were different” you began slowly, blindly searching for the right words for the feeling you had never been able to let go of “I would’ve stayed with you. No question, no hesitation, I would always choose you.” And you gave those words a second to sink in, hoping more than anything that he would believe you on that much, “But now I have her to think about” you nodded vaguely in your daughters direction, Anakin’s gaze briefly following yours before snapping quickly back to your figure, his hand squeezing yours just a little tighter “At that time that meant getting her out of there by whatever means necessary”

“And now?” he asked quietly, eyes practically begging you for an answer

“Darth vader has no place in our family” you answered solemnly, giving the statement a moments pause to cement it “however, Anakin Skywalker always has a place at our table”

You could see his face start to break out into a smile but your attention was pulled away too quickly by a familiar voice shouting “mommy” before a weight was pushed onto your lap as your daughter buried her head into your chest, not bothering to slow down from her dead sprint before she jumped onto your lap.

You gave a dramatic “oof” that had her giggling as she brought her gaze up to meet yours, a wide smile on her face as she started to talk “did you see how high I went on the swings mommy? Did you see me go?”

Her excited fast talking pulled an easy smile to your cheeks as your voice got higher slightly, nodding eagerly along with her “I did see you went sooooo high you’re such a brave little girl”

“I’m not that little” she protested with a giggle and a dramatic roll of her eyes, her gaze cutting briefly to Anakin’s form next to you, the question of who this man was clearly bubbling beneath the surface, nothing but her own shyness keeping it at bay.

“Come here” you said softly, twirling her around so she sat in your lap with her back against your chest, her head tucked perfectly just beneath your chin “do you remember all those stories I tell you about the super cool Jedi?”

“Obi-wan?” she asked innocently and you couldn’t help but laugh, if nothing else the girl’s comedic timing was on point.

“no the other one, the one that worked to bring balance to the force?”

“Daddy?” she asked eagerly and you heard a breath escape from Anakin, a quick glance up to him showed that his eyes were glued to the little girl in your lap.

“That’s right” you assured her with a smile growing more strained by the second, a tightness in your chest growing as you knew what her next question would be.

She looked over at Anakin curiously, not quite shying away from him but keeping her distance from her spot in your lap, choosing instead to carefully study the man before her. “Is he going to come live with us now?”

Your eyes jumped up to Anakin’s as he tore his gaze from the girl in your lap, an expression on his face that seemed to ask you the same question.

“I don’t know sweetheart” you began hesitantly “I think Daddy’s got some things he needs to figure out before-“

“Yes” Anakin cut you off before you could finish, making your eyebrows shoot up at him, your eyes silently asking him if he was sure, if he knew what he was agreeing to right now, if he was really prepared for a step like that.

Instead his gaze broke back down to his daughter, a small smile growing on his face as he stooped slightly as he spoke “that is if it’s okay with you?”

“mmmm” you daughter hummed loudly, clearly missing the desperation in Anakin’s expression as she held him on the edge of his seat, pondering the question carefully before asking “are you a good swing pusher?”

A strained, relieved chuckle from his lips at her question, an eager answer following it quickly “I’m an excellent swing pusher”

“Then as long as it’s okay with mommy” she declared simply, Anakin’s eyes breaking once again up to meet yours, a single question held within them.

And looking into his eyes you thought of the person he had become after the republic fell, the person you felt you had to flee in order to raise your daughter in a safe environment, the person that became the very thing you’d once worked to destroy.

But looking at him all you saw was your Anakin. The man who had only ever tried to do what he thought was best, the man who would lay down his life with no hesitation to protect you, the man who ever since meeting her had been hanging off your daughters every word. Five minutes in and she already had him wrapped around her little finger.

“What about your job” you asked him, your expression holding more meaning than your actual words “back on Coruscant”

“I’m done with that” he answered immediately, inching closer to the two of you “no one knows I’m here”

“Are you sure” you asked him slowly, a million tiny expansions on that question flowing silently through you. Are you sure that you’re done with the empire, that no one will come looking for you, that this is really what you want?

“I’ve never been more sure of anything” he answered softly, eyes never breaking contact with yours as he said it.

And you let that answer hang In the air for a moment, searching his expression for any sign of doubt but ultimately finding none. You opened your mouth to speak when you daughter decided to break the silence for you, grabbing Anakin by the hand she hopped off your lap and started to drag him towards the playground. “Good you can come push me on the swings now”

And you couldn’t help but laugh as you watched him follow her eagerly, a grin on his face you hadn’t realized how bad you had missed seeing as he helped her into the seat, starting to push her almost hesitantly, as if he were afraid she would fall off.

So true to form your daughter demanded higher, eliciting a hearty laugh from the former jedi you could hear from across the playground, bringing a soft smile to your face as you watched the two of them, whispering softly to yourself “welcome home Ani”

#anakin x reader #Anakin Skywalker #anakin fanfiction #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin imagine #anakin fic #anakin x you #anakin x y/n #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker fic #anakin skywalker x you #star wars fanfiction #star wars imagine #star wars x you #star wars x reader

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skz-akira · 5 months ago

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“𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞? 𝐢'𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲.”

summary: idol!felix x non idol!reader, female reader author note: not proof read ! it took way longer than i expected and in my opinion it’s not the best piece i’ve written but thank you for reading anyways and supporting me ;-; request: @savebangchan1997

you wanted to be happy for him. you really did, but as you watched your boyfriend openly flirt with the girl on the television, the only feelings that arose inside of you were fury and jealousy.

she was beautiful. she was perfect. she was everything you weren’t, and you hated her for it. it was unfair and you knew it, the way you despised her, but you couldn’t help it. especially not with the way felix’s eyes drifted across her body, a faint smile on his lips.

you tore your eyes away from the screen, closing them tightly. you could already see the fans making edits about your boyfriend and her. you felt another stab of anger. sure, your relationship with felix was a secret, but he was practically checking her out in front of everyone.

you hated everything. you hated felix for acting like this, and you hated her because she was better than you. prettier. hotter. when you looked at her, you saw everything you weren’t, and you hated yourself for it.

underneath your jealousy, a part of you knew that felix deserved better. he was an idol and you were a girl. compared to the idols he got to see everyday, you were nothing.

“baby, i’m home!” felix peeked into the living room where sitting, watching a television show without much interest. you turned around, and he gave you a slightly drained smile, “were you watching me?”

you nodded, searching his eyes for any guilt, but he only beamed at you. “how was i? did i look handsome?”

“that girl seemed to think so.” your voice came out icy cold to your own surprise.

felix frowned, turning around to look behind him, as if trying to see who you were talking about. “what girl?”

you bunched your hands together, the pent up mixture of jealousy and anger coursing through your veins. “the girl you were on tv with. you seemed to get along pretty well with her.”

felix’s smile dropped. “baby… we’re friends. we have to like each other, or pretend to like each other if we’re hosting a show together.”

you crossed you arms, glaring at him. “so you were pretending to check her out?”

felix’s eyes widened as they met yours, and you could’ve sworn you saw a flicker of fear. “i wasn’t!”

you glowered at him distrustfully. “really.”

felix scoffed at your expression. “honestly, baby. you always get so defensive. i go on tv with female idols all the time.”

“and i hate it.” you choked out. “i hate it!”

he shook his head, annoyance flashing across his features. “why? why can’t you just be happy for me?”

i wish i could. i wish i was pretty like all of the idols you get to see.

“if you would stop feeling jealous all of the time, maybe you wouldn’t be so miserable!” he yelled.

you took a step back, your head spinning as if he had physically hit you.

“you’re being immature, you know?” felix continued angrily, taking your silence as a sign of defiance. “you’re acting like i’m going to leave you or something.”

“that’s exactly what i think!” you burst out. your throat constricted and you were vaguely aware of your short, ragged breaths.

felix stared at you in shock. “what?”

“that’s exactly what i think every time you go on camera with other idols!”

felix shook his head, as if unable to comprehend your words. “why?”

“because… because…” you were crying openly now, your tears leaving dark bruises on the tiles. “i’m nothing like them. the pretty idols you get to see everyday. i’m ugly, and basic, and… and…”

if you looked up, you would’ve seen the regret flashing across his face. you would’ve see how much his heart hurt, seeing you cry like this. his arms wrapped around you, and before you could register what he was doing, he pulled you into a tight embrace. your head rested on his chest, breathing in his familiar scent as you shoulders shook with sobs. ugly. stupid. immature. you didn’t deserve him.

“you’re perfect.” he whispered in your ear, his voice soft. “i promise.”

of course he would say that. he’s just saying it to make you feel better. and you didn’t deserve to.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t notice that you felt this way.” he continued, rubbing comforting circles on your back. “you need to tell me when you… if you feel bad, okay baby?”

“didn’t want you to… think i was being dramatic.” you sniffed.

“never.” he said, still rubbing your back. “i’m sorry for acting insensitive, but i would never disregard your feelings. i didn’t know how you felt.”

you nodded, although you didn’t want his apology. “i’m sorry too. for overreacting.”

felix chuckled, stroking your hair. “we were both tired. and grumpy.”

“mostly me.” you mumbled into his chest.

he looked down at you, his eyes shining with emotion. “i yelled at you. i could never forgive myself for that.”

you shrugged.

“y/n.” he cupped your face in his hands, making you look at him. his eyes were earnest and warm, and you thought again about how you didn’t deserve him. “please. stop forgiving me so easily. i… i honestly think i don’t deserve it. and most of all, stop hating yourself. it’s not healthy.”

when you didn’t say anything, he added, “of course, i know, it’s not that easy. but please, talk to me. i just want to help you.”

you didn’t deserve him.

“i love you.” he pressed, meeting your eyes. “let me help the woman i love.”

you nodded slowly.

“thank you.” he pressed a small kiss to your head. “do i get an i love you as well?”

“of course i love you, silly.”

#skz #stray kids #skz angst #skz x reader #straykids fanfic #skz fluff #skz comfort #skz x you #felix

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cherryredstars · 1 year ago

Note

Hi! I really really love how you write for Simon. Like honestly it is so good. I saw that you're taking regular requests right now, so if it's okay could I request some jealous/insecurity headcanons or a oneshot (any format really) for Simon? Like maybe him and the reader are still working toward being more secure but there's still those moments where there needs to be some reassurance and a bit of comfort.

I just loved your cocky!Simon headcanons and I would love to see the progression of him getting to that point if you know what I mean lol.

Also congrats on 1k!! You deserve it!! I love your blog.

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x gn!reader

Warnings: Fluff, Insecurities, Mentions of Simon’s Trauma, Angst (???) with Comfort

Summary: He just needs a little reassurance sometimes.

A/N: I need to write for Simon more, I miss him!!

Word Count: 1.6K (Edited)

Simon’s been jealous before. Envious being a better word.

He used to be jealous of all the kids who had a loving home to go to. Jealous of peers with perfect parents and perfect siblings. Jealous of all the things he felt like he should have but couldn’t get. But this is a new kind of jealousy, a new insecurity. One so ugly and consuming that he feels particularly shameful of it.

He knows relationships, especially for him, are all about time. Everything is about time. Hell, he spent fucking months trying to come to terms with the fact that he liked you. Spent even more time building up the courage to ask you out on a date and begin a relationship with him. Add on to that the long hiatuses caused by deployment? This whole relationship is a slowly spinning clock.

But he’s here, a newly taken man with the kindest thing on his arm. He should be grateful, and he is grateful! Truely, undoubtedly grateful for the opportunity you have given him. But, he can’t help wanting more. From himself mostly, but also from you. And it frustrates him, frustrates him to no end because he knows he’s the reason why the both of you can’t have more. You have told him countless times, drilling it into his head like a daily affirmation that you’re okay with that. That would wait however long it took for Simon to get the hang of this. To fully comprehend what it means to be yours and how to navigate through it. And he is so blessed to have someone so understanding waiting up on him.

But he sees the difference. Sees the way how natural, how fucking easy it is for you to talk and interact with everyone else. Can see how easy it is for everyone else to interact with you. Things he can’t comfortably do yet. It makes a dark well of hatred form in his stomach because he can't understand why it has to be so hard for him. Why he got the shitty deal of cards, why he got the short end of the stick. He knows, realistically, that it's his fault. So what if his shitty family life and not so glory-filled military career played a part in it? It's still Simon’s own actions at the end of the day.

It’s fucking torture to watch the casual touches everyone lays on you. How easy it is for your friends to playfully shove your shoulder when you tell a joke, how they don’t hesitate to wrap you in a tight hug when you greet them, how they casually rest their chin or head on your shoulder and complain about everything that went wrong today. Fucking hates how confident people are as they try to flirt with you, how they could so easy articulate their attraction towards you in mere minutes when Simon can’t even do it in months. It makes him want to throw himself against a wall until his screwed up head fixes himself.

And you just look so happy. Smiling at your friends and returning the physical touches with ease. Face beaming with joy as you wrap someone in a hug or link their arm with yours. How you just fucking glow at the compliments given to you by your friends or a passing stranger in the street. He wishes so desperately that he could give you that, that he can casually walk into a room and tell you how fucking stunning you look instead of keeping it in his head. Wishes he could casually grab your hand without feeling like his skin was just dipped into a tub of acid. The only thing that keeps him together is your instant dismissal of anyone that tries to flirt with you, a proud look on your face as you say I have a boyfriend.

But he knows that it doesn’t look like it. Not when there is an obvious space between the two of you as you walk together. Not when he doesn’t make a single move to wrap his arm around you in a crowded space so you don’t get separated. He definitely screams boyfriend when he just watches someone come up to you and try to get into your pants instead of marking his claim on you. Safe to say, he doesn’t expect to find a Best Boyfriend Ever mug under the tree during the holidays this year.

He knows it pains you too. Can see it every time you instinctively go to grab him only to stop midway through and you give him a bashful smile. Sees how painfully obvious it is when he comes back from deployment and you and him stand outside the terminal gate awkwardly because you don’t know how to greet him if it isn’t with a tight hug. It’s painted all over your face when the both of you are at a group hangout with friends and you watch with an envious gleam in your eyes how the couples are squished into each other’s sides or sitting in their laps. A sharp pain runs through his chest when he can’t even drape his arm over your shoulders to comfort you. He knows that the small smile you give him when you turn towards him is because you know he won’t, even if he really wants to.

He hates that he can’t give you the simplest of things. Things that are supposed to be so natural in a relationship. Things that were promised to you when he asked you to be his partner. Things that make you so happy. He hates the idea that he’s robbed you of something. That something being a happy and normal relationship. That feeling builds and builds until he’s an insecure mess on your couch as you guys have a movie night.

You’re on opposite sides of the couch, something that makes him want to choke himself out. He’s spread out, arms thrown over the top of the sofa and legs spread. You’re pushed into the arm of the sofa, making sure none of your limbs touch him accidentally. He almost wants to throw up when the actors on screen run into each other’s arms and a small ‘aww’ leaves your lips with a dizzying smile. His hands clench and unclench as the movie ends. You sit up stretching and about to leave for a bathroom break before putting on the next movie when Simon speaks up.

“I’m sorry.”

Your head snaps to him quickly, a confused furrow forming in between your brows. You’re about to open your mouth to question him when he continues, “I’m trying, but…it’s hard.”

It’s not much of a clarification, but you still understand what he’s talking about. A sympathetic smile comes across your face as you approach him. This time, you sit next to him but still not touching him. A tenseness leaves Simon’s body, preferring you close by even if he can’t touch you. You’re fully turned to him, a look of admiration on your face as you study him. The look ignites his soul and that little well of hate dries up the tiniest bit.

“I know you have, and I’m so, so proud of you, Si.” The small tilt of your head and soft smile makes him want to nuzzle his face into your neck and shower you in his own praise. He knows he’s practically glowing from your words, and he can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed.

“Still… I know how happy it would make you. Just… please.” He doesn't know when the lump formed in his throat, but he tries to subtly get rid of it.

The way you melt into the couch also makes him melt into the fabric. The two of you study each other for a moment, taking in each other’s presence. Slowly you get up and Simon moves to get up too, a moment of panic running through his veins before it dies away when you grab his empty mug from the coffee table. You give him another soft smile as you hold the cup tightly in your grasp.

“Of course, Simon. Thank you for trying. Thank you for wanting to try for me. That is what makes me happy”

You leave Simon there, excusing yourself to make him more tea and going to the bathroom. He sits and stares at the TV, a new feeling emerging in his chest. It pushes away the insecurity and that hatred and the jealousy. It expands until his own body is buzzy and a puff of air leaves him. Everything feels lighter, brighter now. This feeling is new. One so beautiful and consuming that he feels particularly at peace with it. Love, he thinks. He thinks it might just be love.

So when you come back to sit at his side, mindlessly blowing at the surface of his cup of tea before giving it to him, he lets the tips of his fingers purposely brush over yours. He holds your gaze, making sure you know it wasn’t an accident. A beaming smile forms on your face and he feels a smaller one form on the rim of his mug. He turns away then, sipping on his tea as you look for the next movie to put on.

He doesn’t touch you again that night. But it still made all the difference. That one, singular touch was worth everything.

The next night, he comes back to your apartment and stares down at the new mug that greeted him when he opened the cabinet. His finger rubs against the printed words with a lovesick smile.

Best Boyfriend Ever.

I ♡ Simon Riley mug when???

#ghost call of duty #ghost cod #call of duty #cod ghost #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #cherry's requests🍒

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auras-moonstone · 1 year ago

Note

Hii I have a request 😊😊. Can u write something based on the line from my tears ricochet that says “you had to kill me but it killed you just the same” and either Ethan or y/n can be the one to kill each other whichever ur feelin!! And maybe y/n can be related to a past killer like jill or smt… whatever ur feelin 🥰🥰

three years since folklore came out, and i still can’t comprehend how taylor swift wrote this song and then expected us to move on. anyways, hope you like it🫶🏻🤍

my tears ricochet — ethan landry

word count: 489

pairing: gf!ethan landry x fem!reader

based on: my tears ricochet by taylor swift

Y/N ROBERTS KNEW THAT THE SIGNS HAD BEEN TOO OBVIOUS AND THE BLAME WAS ON HER FOR IGNORING THEM. All of the times he was conveniently missing during an attack, or when he magically appeared to save her just in time. It had been right in front of her face that Ethan Landry, her boyfriend, was one of the killers.

“I trusted you, Ethan. I defended you to my friends. I do not deserve the hell you gave me.” she tried not cry and shake as she held her knife high. Ethan had cornered her, and not precisely to talk. He was going to kill her. “I loved you.”

“I love you too, baby. And you can get out of this alive, you just have to join us. Make your older sister proud” Ethan tried to persuade her, he really did not want to kill her.

“Jill stabbed me seven times!” Y/N spat in anger. “She killed our mom, tried to kill our cousin. She was a psychopath.”

“Please, Y/N. Just join us.” he begged.

“No” Y/N was not going to change her mind.

“I’m sorry, love, but then you leave me no other choice” Ethan tackled her to the ground, and she fought hard to avoid being stabbed “Stop fighting!” he yelled as she cried and kicked.

Y/N recalled the words Ethan had told her a couple of days ago, in the back of an ambulance, after she had managed to knock out Ghostface all alone in her apartment. “You used to tell me I was brave for fighting the killer on my own.”

Her words broke Ethan, and his gaze fell on the ‘e’ chain that hanged around her neck. He had the same one, only with her initial. It had been a gift from her, for his birthday “I’m sorry. I love you, but I have to do this. For my brother. For my family.”

Her tears turned into his as he pierced his girlfriend’s heart with the knife. Y/N’s sparkling eyes turned lifeless, and her once warm fingers eventually turned cold. The arms that used to hug him tightly fell limp, and the red lips that had explored every inch of his skin were now a shade of blue. The person who had made him feel alive was dead.

It had been a ghostly scene that, even after months, still haunted him. Ethan still cursed her name, wishing she had accepted his offer to run away with him, wishing she had stayed.

When he couldn’t sleep at night, Ethan sometimes talked to her, looking up at the sky. He told her about how his day went, and his rants always ended with an apology. And he always fell asleep listening to the playlist they had made together.

He felt empty. He didn’t understand how it was possible to miss someone so much. He saw her everywhere, everyday. The guilt and regret was burning him alive.

Ethan had to kill her, but it killed him just the same.

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80pairsofcrocs · 20 days ago

Text

baby scarab || 68

A/N - so we are traveling the multiverse...

masterlist - marvel masterlist - series masterlist

A/N : i dont deserve you guys omg, i have missed you all so so much <3

please enjoy, and don't be shy if you want to be in the taglist, just ask <3, sorry for the long wait

pairings : steven grant x (platonic)reader, marc spector x (platonic) reader, khonshu x (platonic)reader, jake lockley x (platonic)reader, casper hart(OC) x reader

TW : medicine (pills), spidey stuff, mentions of violence, language, multiverse nonsense, nothing makes sense, let me know if i missed anything

~~~

You stand there, feeling the weight of the revelation pressing down on your chest like a leaden anchor. The flickering torches in the temple cast shadows that dance ominously on the walls, echoing your tumultuous thoughts. Khonshu's intense gaze feels almost judgmental, stirring the pot of your frustration further.

Taweret attempts to soothe the growing storm within you, but it’s like trying to calm a tempest with a whisper. You can’t shake the idea from your mind—that maybe, just maybe, you were the reason for their sudden departure.

“Perhaps you should consider the circumstances,” Khonshu interjects, his voice deep and resonant, but this only amplifies your resentment. “Marc is caught in a cycle he cannot control. He fears for your safety.”

Your heart aches at the mention of your dad, the man who fought every monster and shadow for your sake. But this very fight had carved lines of darkness into his spirit, and it’s painful to comprehend that your absence may have been the tipping point. Suddenly, anxiety surges, and you feel a tightening in your throat. “But I’m here! I could’ve helped! I could’ve been there for him!”

Taweret’s eyes soften, and for a moment, the ancient deity feels like the most compassionate of friends rather than a divine entity. “Your love is powerful, dear child. But know that sometimes, those we love carry burdens we cannot lift for them.” Her words settle over you, both comforting and challenging, a reminder that there are things even hugs and reassurances cannot mend.

In that moment, you resolve to take action—not out of anger, but out of a desire to bridge the gap.

“I need to talk to them,” you declare, your voice steadier than you feel. “I’ll figure out a way to reach them in America, to remind them they are not alone.” As you turn to Khonshu and Taweret, determination ignites a new fire in your chest. “They may need help, but so do I. If they can leave, then I can go to them.”

The ancient gods exchange glances, and for an instant, you see admiration flickering in Khonshu’s steadfast eyes, while Taweret nods earnestly. Maybe, just maybe, you have inherited more than the resilience of a warrior.

You have inherited the strength to face the unknown, to connect the strings of love that bind your fractured family, and to affirm what you know deep down: love, even amid chaos, endures.

~~~

As Marc and Layla continued to navigate the strange streets of Chicago, an unsettling chill settled in the air, creeping beneath their skin. Shadows stretched and contorted against the fading sunlight, creating a canvas of anxiety that whispered of something ominous lurking just out of sight.

With every step, Marc felt the ripples of his own doubts and fears pooling in his chest—fears that had crept up on him since they'd crossed into this unfamiliar dimension. He glanced at Layla, and the concern etched across her features ignited a spark within him—the need to protect her—yet he was plagued by uncertainty. “What if we don’t find our way back?” he muttered, mostly to himself.

When they reached a small park blanketed in fallen leaves, the atmosphere shifted. The silence was suffocating as if the world had held its breath. Layla’s grip tightened around Marc’s hand, the warmth of her presence a fragile tether to reality.

“Something is definitely wrong,” she reiterated, her voice low and urgent. “I can feel it.” With a sudden resolve, she turned to face him, her eyes aflame with determination. “We need to get to the bottom of this. If Taweret isn’t responding, there’s a chance the balance is utterly thrown off. We can’t stay idle. What if this is connected to y/n?”

Marc swallowed hard, the pang of his daughter’s name igniting fresh worry within him. “You know, I tried to reach her too—with no success.” He looked down the dimming path, frustration churning in his gut.

“Do you think… could something have happened to her? To us? What if our absence has left something open, something we can’t see?” He felt a deep unease settling in, rooted in the idea that their family—his family—was teetering on the edge without them, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that time was running out.

Just as the thoughts darkened, a flicker of movement caught Marc’s eye—a figure darting behind a tree, obscured by the evening haze. Heart racing, he pointed it out to Layla. “Did you see that?” The air felt electric, charged with an anticipatory energy that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He took a cautious step forward, trying to distinguish friend from foe, but before he could act, a low, guttural growl reverberated through the quiet, wrapping around them like a noose. The shadows deepened as if mocking their cautious exploration, and Marc was suddenly struck by an overwhelming certainty: they were not alone.

In that moment, he understood the truth of their predicament. This wasn’t just a wrong turn or a simple dimensional hiccup. Something sinister awaited them, a force that sensed their vulnerability. Whatever had drawn them into this realm had its very own agenda, and with every tick of the clock, Marc felt an impending disaster lurking just beyond the fading light—a disaster that could tear his family apart for good.

Desperation surged through him; he needed to act swiftly. And with that realization, something primal awakened within him—a determination to fight, not just for their return, but for every second they might lose if they didn’t escape the shadows looming closer with every passing breath.

“Is that…?” Layla asks, holding Marc’s hand a little tighter.

“It can’t be…”

It was him.

Arthur Harrow… but he wasn’t alone.

You were with him.

“You’re not our y/n… you can’t be—where are we?!” Marc demands to know, stepping in front of Layla protectively. His heart races as the weight of two worlds collides, an unsettling blend of familiarity and disarray swirling around them.

The distorted lighting of the dimly lit alley distorted the figures before them, casting eerie shadows that danced against the cracked brick walls like specters of the past.

A smirk curls on Harrow’s lips, his eyes glinting with an unsettling mix of triumph and pity. “Ah, Marc, dear boy. You don’t recognize your own memories? This is a realm woven from the threads of what could have been—a universe where Y/N chose a different path.” He gestures toward you, and for the first time, the sight of you sends a shiver down Marc's spine.

The way you stand beside Harrow, seemingly at ease, ignites a flicker of doubt. Had you truly turned against them, or was there something darker lurking beneath the surface, a manipulation lurking just out of sight?

“Y/N…no,” Layla whispers, her voice trembling with disbelief as she studies your expression, desperately searching for the essence of the person they had loved and relied on. But the aura radiating from you and Harrow felt foreign, and yet unnervingly familiar. “What have you done?” Her gaze flickers to Harrow, her mind racing to the implications of this twisted reality.

The air thickens, heavy with an unspoken challenge as you step forward, your eyes glinting with a strange resolve that neither Marc nor Layla had ever witnessed. “This is not about what I’ve done,” you assert, each word deliberate as if unveiling a hidden truth. “This is about what you both failed to see—the potential of embracing darkness to create light.”

Marc takes a step back, a whirlwind of emotions crashing through him. Letting go of Layla’s hand feels unthinkable, yet the pull of your magnetic presence is both unsettling and irresistible. What you appear to offer—the chance to rewrite fate—thrums in the depths of his mind. Time slows as he balances between the echoes of shared laughter and the specters of past choices—a disparate motif drumming a chaos only he seems to feel.

In that moment, reality feels as if it's splitting at the seams, inviting them to ponder a question that they could have never prepared for: Was the path to salvation more than just battles fought in the shadows, and was it perhaps hidden in the embrace of the very darkness they fought against?

~~~

Meanwhile as you had gone and asked for help, reaching out to Peter with the situation, telling you he knew a guy, you found yourself standing nervously in front of the London sanctum. Peter had assured you he could assist, emphasizing the importance of not messing up the mysterious ritual.

Gently, you knocked on the imposing giant doors, watching in awe as they opened slowly on their own, almost beckoning you inside. Taking a cautious look around, you entered the building at a deliberate pace, the doors closing with a resounding thud behind you. As your eyes wandered around the grand interior, a man clad in a blue suit and a striking red cape floated gracefully down the staircase.

"Y/n y/l/n, I anticipated your arrival," he addressed you, standing a few feet away. Anxious to get answers, you anxiously started, "So... you can help me? Where are my parents?" The man raised a hand to signal for quiet, interrupting your inquiry.

"First, there's something you must understand – your parents are not within this realm," he disclosed cryptically. Stunned, you stammered, "What? No greeting, no introduction?" Irritated, he rolled his eyes before speaking with a touch of sarcasm, "Stephen Strange. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

“Yeah okay- obviously you know who I am already, so just tell me how I can bring them back,” you demand, the urgency evident in your voice as you take another determined step closer.

“It’s not that simple. Without knowing where exactly they are, we won’t know where to go,” Stephen explains, his tone tinged with a mixture of compassion and practicality.

“Then find out!” Your impatience boils over, the desperation to reunite with your missing parents fueling your outburst. “They are my parents- I need them back!”

Stephen sighs, a shared sense of understanding passing between you both. “I empathize with your situation but it’s just not that simple. After I open the portal, you’ll need to navigate through the unknown to locate the universe they inhabit and then safely return here.”

You shift your weight impatiently, resolve shining in your eyes as you respond without hesitation, “I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever it takes to bring them back.”

Stephen arches an eyebrow, recognizing the unwavering determination in your gaze. Leading you towards a separate chamber, he prepares you for the challenges ahead. “It won’t be an easy journey. There will be sights that may haunt you. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“I've already witnessed my biological father rising from the dead; I believe I can handle whatever lies ahead,” you assure him confidently, the memory of that astonishing event reinforcing your brave front.

Nodding at your resolve, Stephen gestures grandly, conjuring a mesmerizing display of orange and yellow sparks that converge to form a shimmering portal. As the portal expands to human-sized proportions, he steps back, the preparation complete.

Handing you a sleek triangular device, he cautions, “After you locate your parents, ensure that all of you touch this device and press the button simultaneously. It will transport you back through the portal to safety here.”

Gratefully accepting the device, you secure it in your jacket pocket, the weight of the mission ahead settling on your shoulders. “Thank you,” you express sincerely.

“Don’t mention it,” Stephen replies casually, motioning towards the now-glowing portal. “Good luck on your interdimensional journey, arachnid.”

Stepping resolutely into the portal, you pause, surprised by the revelation of your alter ego that Stephen casually drops. “Um, thanks for the support.”

With a nod of acknowledgment, you take the final step into the unknown, ready to traverse the intricate web of the multiverse in pursuit of your beloved parents.

~~~

Back with Marc and Layla, the tension in the room thickened as Steven and Jake continued to remain mysteriously absent, granting Marc full dominion over the body. This newfound authority weighed heavily on Marc, visible in the way his shoulders tensed and his every movement exuded uncertainty.

The second y/n, her laughter ringing ominously through the air, moved closer towards the bewildered couple. A mischievous glint danced in her eyes as she taunted Marc Spector, a name from a past that now seemed distant and yet hauntingly familiar. "I never thought I'd witness that look of disbelief on your face again, Marc Spector. Not since the day I extinguished your life," she chuckled darkly, twirling a dagger nonchalantly in her hand.

The widening eyes of Marc and Layla betrayed their escalating horror as the truth unfolded before them. "You... we... we're deceased in this realm? You ended my life?!" Marc's voice quivered with a blend of fear and disbelief, his world shattering into a million fractured pieces.

"It was a simple feat. You were so naïve, so easily deceived. Even Steven and Jake fell into my trap without a hint of suspicion," the mysterious figure, now identified as Harrow, reassured with a cold grip on the other y/n's shoulder. "Now, Khonshu and the others bow to my will - a reality beyond your grasp." Her laughter, tinged with madness, echoed hauntingly in the confined space, sending shivers down Layla's spine.

Layla, her voice laced with urgency and desperation, stepped forward in a bid to plead for reason. "Please, think about this. We are not meant to linger here. Allow us the chance to find our way back to where we belong."

Dismissing Layla's plea with a disdainful scoff, the other y/n's gaze darkened with a resolute finality. "This is not a dilemma we concern ourselves with. This time, the veil between life and death shall not be breached again," she stated coldly, her eyes narrowing as Harrow silently signaled permission for a potentially fatal encounter.

The impending danger loomed menacingly as Harrow's chilling smile and the ominous words she imparted to the other y/n set the stage for a confrontation that could tilt the scales of fate irreversibly. "Show them no mercy," instructed Harrow, the weight of her authority palpable in those words.

The other y/n, bearing the weight of a deeply woven past and an uncertain future, responded to Harrow's command with a stoic assurance. "As you wish, father," she affirmed, her resolve unwavering as she prepared to execute a fate that could seal the doomed couple's existence in the enigmatic realm they were trapped in.

~~~

You blink a few times as you enter the new world, the unfamiliar surroundings painting a scene of wonder and intrigue before you.

Looking around the building you’re in, your eyes linger on the intricate design of the architecture, the way the light filters in from the skylights above casting patterns on the floor beneath your feet. Your breath catches at the grandeur of it all, a whispered "woah" escaping your lips as you try to take it all in.

Taking a few hesitant steps forward, your senses are overloaded with the sights and sounds of this strange place. A low hum fills the air as a floating platform descends gracefully from the tall opening in the ceiling, the soft glow of its runes illuminating the space around you. On the platform, you spot a man standing tall, his expression a mix of curiosity and bemusement as he gazes down at you.

Beside him stands another figure, much smaller in stature but no less intriguing, their eyes fixed on you with a mixture of wariness and fascination. As you stand there, the weight of the unknown pressing in around you, you can't help but feel a sense of exhilaration mingled with trepidation.

"Dad..? Is that you?" you called out eagerly, your heart racing with anticipation as the platform steadily approached. Drawing nearer, a mixture of hope and doubt churned within you, causing your breath to catch in your throat.

However, as the figure on the approaching platform became clearer, revealing features that bore no resemblance to your father, a wave of disappointment washed over you.

"Do I look like your dad?" he asks sarcastically, a playful glint in his eye, as you shake your head in response. Meanwhile, the tiny floating woman, with her ethereal presence, seems to defy the laws of physics by almost teleporting right into your face. Startled, you take a step back, a mix of surprise and intrigue dancing in your eyes.

"Aww! Look how cute she is!" the tiny woman exclaims, her voice overflowing with a sense of wonder and delight. As she gushes over your mystical visitor, golden sparks of pure magic emanate from her essence, casting a mesmerizing glow around her petite form.

"Uh.. weird question-“ you start to ask tentatively, your words trailing off as the weight of the larger man's presence fills the small space around you. His stern demand to "Zip it" echoes in the cramped room, silencing any further inquiries for the moment. As you gather your thoughts under the intensity of his gaze, you can't help but feel a knot of apprehension tighten in your gut.

"How’d you find this place?” The larger man steps off the platform, stopping maybe a foot away from you, his navy and red suits boots creaking slightly under his weight as he gazes down at you with a discerning look etched across his weathered face.

As you stood there in the dimly lit room, a sense of urgency tugged at your heartstrings. "I'm just looking for my dad, man," you uttered softly, the words hanging heavy in the air.

"Did Peter B recruit you?” He asks, his voice laced with an undertone of suspicion as he eyed you intently, searching for any subtle signs of betrayal in your expression.

"Who?" you ask innocently, feigning ignorance to mask the rapid beating of your heart that threatened to give away your ruse.

The man’s body tenses almost imperceptibly at your response, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features before the smooth mask of his suit shifts in a mechanical motion to cover his face. The sudden movement sends a shiver down your spine, a silent warning that you were playing a dangerous game with dangerous people.

"Whoa, dude, can you please calm down? I assure you, I have no intention of causing any harm." Your voice wavers slightly as you instinctively raise your hands up as a gesture of surrender before the intense situation.

Observing your reaction, he tilts his head in curiosity, taking a step closer, while the small floating woman, who seems to possess a wisdom beyond her appearance, chooses this moment to interject. "Miguel, come on, ease up a bit. Can't you see that shes, like, a child? There's no need for the gwumpy face,” she remarks, crossing her arms in a display of playfully authoritative posture.

As you press the intricate button on your ring with a sense of familiarity, you feel a rush of anticipation building up within you. The signal triggers a swift and elegant transformation process, like a metallic dance enveloping your body.

The special material of your spider suit elegantly molds itself around you, its unique design serving both form and function. Ensuring every crevice fits snugly and each joint moves with precision, you witness the suit's shimmering surface gleaming in the dim light.

In response to your transformation, the man known only as Miguel reacts with a subtle yet noticeable gesture, raising an eyebrow beneath the mysterious cover of his mask. Slowly, deliberately, he strides toward you with an air of confidence, his movements calculated and purposeful. The space between you diminishes until you can feel the solid wall pressing against your back, a physical barrier raising your awareness.

“Tell me how you found us,” he orders, his tone firm and commanding. “Now,” he demands, his eyes piercing and unwavering.

"Listen, Miguel," you begin nervously, your voice quivering slightly. "I'm just trying to find my dad," you explain, a hint of desperation creeping into your tone.

“Well, he’s not here,” Miguel interrupts abruptly, his expression hardened, leaving no room for negotiation.

As you process his words, a flood of emotions washes over you. Disappointment, frustration, and a lingering sense of determination swirl within you. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself before responding.

"Then I'll be on my way," you assert calmly, despite the turmoil swirling inside you.

"You know where the spider society is, I'm afraid you can't leave just yet,” he says sternly as his mask slides back into place, hiding the intensity of his gaze. He watches you intently, unyielding in his stance.

You begin to assure him, “I'm not going to tell anyone about this, I promise—" but he cuts you off, his voice unwavering, “We can't trust that—trust you to keep this secret safe.”

"Just let her go, Miguel," the small woman interrupted, her voice tinged with a sense of urgency as she hovered by Miguel's shoulder. Your exasperated sigh filled the tense air, a subtle indicator of your frustration in the face of this unexpected encounter.

"I'm not from this universe; I'm simply navigating my way back to my parents," you explained, your tone pleading for understanding.

Miguel's focused gaze remains fixed on you as he calmly reaches out to operate a button situated on his sleek desk, instantly deactivating the petite woman standing nearby with a swift motion. His mask smoothly slides back into place, concealing any hint of emotion on his stoic face.

Within the blink of an eye, he lunges aggressively towards you, his hands grabbing your shoulders with a forceful grip before deftly spinning you around and forcefully pressing your back against the cold, forbidding wall.

Reacting swiftly and instinctively, you adeptly duck and drop to the ground, maneuvering out of his grasp just in time to evade the sharp, menacing claws that scrape menacingly against the protective metal surface of your suit.

With skilled agility, you roll skillfully out from under his towering figure as he whirls around in search of apprehending you again, his intent clear in his predatory movements, poised for another attempt to capture you. In your hands, you deftly produce the invaluable portal device, a powerful tool that may be your key to escape or turn the tables in this tense confrontation.

Miguel's swift and aggressive move caught you off guard as he tackled you to the floor, causing your grip to loosen and the device slipped out of your hand, falling with a clatter. Your immediate protest was cut short by his forceful action as he hoisted you up by your arm, his grip a vice as he pushed you back against the unyielding wall.

The word "stay" was a command that brooked no defiance, echoing with a threatening undertone that sent shivers down your spine.

As Miguel turned away, a surge of adrenaline propelled you into action, your instincts screaming at you to seize the opportunity to escape. You slipped away noiselessly, stealthily retrieving the precious device, your fingers trembling slightly with a mix of fear and determination. The button under your touch felt both familiar and alien, a key to another reality beckoning with unknown possibilities.

With a quick press, the device came to life, emitting a soft hum that seemed to vibrate in tune with the escalating beating of your heart. The split-second decision had been made, and as the world around you shimmered and twisted, Miguel's approaching footsteps were the last evidence of the reality you left behind.

One universe down.. many more to go.

~~~

In the alternate reality, where the version of 'you' present had decidedly not shown mercy towards Marc and Layla, an intense confrontation unfolded. Jake found himself in a pressing situation where he had to take command of the shared body to thwart the aggressive actions of the other 'you' without causing significant harm.

This pivotal event took place just a mere hour in the past, yet its repercussions and the adrenaline of the moment still lingered in the cramped surroundings of their hideout.

Currently seeking refuge inside a nondescript gas station, Jake and Layla tried to find a semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos. The air was heavy with tension as they sipped on the subpar coffee available at the establishment, the bitter liquid providing a stark contrast to the bitter circumstances surrounding them.

Despite the apparent calmness that now enveloped the space they were in, both Layla and Jake knew that danger still lurked just beyond the walls of their temporary sanctuary. Each sip of coffee served as a bitter reminder of the harrowing events that had transpired, emphasizing the need for them to remain vigilant and stay on guard.

Jake's frantic pacing came to a halt as he voiced his inner turmoil, feeling the weight of responsibility for Y/N's safety pressing down on him. "What do we do?" he questioned, his voice tinged with a hint of desperation. The thought of leaving Y/N alone in an unknown place gnawed at his conscience, clouding his mind with worry.

In a rare moment of vulnerability, Jake's nerves became apparent through his restless rambling, a stark contrast to his usual composed demeanor. Layla, recognizing the unease plaguing Jake, reached out and placed a comforting hand on his arm. Her touch, warm and reassuring, offered a sense of solace amidst the chaos that swirled around them.

“We can't just leave Y/N behind. How are we going to make it back?” Jake's words revealed the depth of his concern, his eyes darting around in search of a solution to their predicament. The uncertainty of their situation loomed large, casting a shadow over their plans and testing their resolve.

Layla's soothing response broke through the fog of doubt that clouded Jake's mind, her voice calm and steady as she assured him, “We'll find a way back, and I'm certain that Y/N is capable enough to handle whatever comes her way. She's a strong, capable young woman, and we have to trust in her strength."

Jake, feeling a surge of gratitude for Layla's unwavering support, let her words wash over him, a beacon of hope in the midst of uncertainty. The weight of responsibility began to lift slightly from his shoulders as he absorbed her calm reassurances, a glimmer of optimism shining through the darkness of doubt.

“I know. you're.. right,” Jake acknowledged, his voice softer now, tinged with a sense of relief. Running a hand wearily down his face, he exhaled heavily, a semblance of peace settling upon him. In Layla's presence, he found a sense of clarity and comfort, her unwavering belief in their ability to overcome obstacles serving as a guiding light in their journey back to safety.

Layla let out a gentle sigh, her brows furrowed with genuine concern as she inquired, "And how about the others? Are they doing alright?" Her voice held a note of apprehension, betraying her worry for the well-being of their companions.

Jake gave a slight nod, his expression grave yet reassuring. "They seem to have settled down for now. It might be best if they stay put for a while," he remarked, his hand mimicking a tear sliding down his cheek as he referenced Steven without directly naming him. The gravity of the situation hung heavy in the air, palpable in his somber demeanor.

In response, Layla let out a soft chuckle, her laughter mingling with a hint of fond exasperation. "Don't be too hard on him," she chided gently, her words laced with empathy.

"It's perfectly natural to feel overwhelmed and show emotion in times like these-“ Her gaze softened as she defended Steven, a touch of understanding in her voice that spoke volumes about her compassionate nature towards their friend's vulnerability.

"He cries at movies," Jake cuts her off with a chuckle, his eyes glistening as he recalls the emotional scenes that always tug at his heartstrings.

"So do I," Layla replies, her voice warm and understanding, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. She mirrors Jake's gestures, placing her hands on her hips in solidarity.

Jake, ever the skeptic, rolls his eyes at Layla's response, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he dismisses her comments. Their banter is light-hearted and filled with shared moments of teasing and laughter.

"We’ll be okay," she assures him with a gentle smile, her expression filled with a comforting warmth that enveloped them both. Her eyes sparkled with a glimmer of hope, sending a silent reassurance to Jake. It was a small gesture, but it carried a weight of sincerity that eased the tension in the air.

Jake, catching her gaze, felt a sense of calm wash over him. He recognized the unspoken promise in her eyes, a promise of unwavering support and solidarity. Somehow, her simple words held a profound significance, grounding him amidst the uncertainty of the moment.

With a subtle nod, Jake acknowledged her words, his own silent agreement reflecting in his eyes. It was a mutual understanding that transcended spoken language, a shared belief in their ability to weather whatever challenges lay ahead.

In that fleeting moment of connection, they found solace in each other's presence, drawing strength from the unspoken bond between them. It was a poignant reminder of the power of human connection, of the comfort that can be found in a shared smile and a knowing look.

And as they faced the unknown future together, they held onto that shared assurance, a simple yet profound declaration that echoed in their hearts: "We’ll be okay."

~~~

A/N - OOPS CLIFFHANGER!!!!! next part out hopefully by NOVEMBER 25th!!! i love you all so much, i cant wait to see feedback on the new writing style and about the story :)

~~~

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saintsenara · 8 months ago

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Wait why are you not a fan of Snape and Hermione?? 2 nerds who care a socially awkward amount about the things they care about nerding out together at levels of romance people who can be chill and normal about things can’t comprehend?? It’s not one of my fav ships but I can definitely see it!

I headcanon that Snape picks on Hermione being a muggle raised know it all thirsty to prove and lacking self awareness because he was one himself when he arrived at school and James and Sirius picked on him for it! It’s like that you’re most repulsed by the things you’re self conscious of in yourself thing to me. Or maybe a him trying to live out being the “cool” one in that dynamic thing

But when she’s a grown woman and more self possessed like he became too I feel like that same energy ness has potential for love!

Hermione is famously respectful and compassionate enough towards all beings to be more understanding than say Lily Evans of his prickly tender ego if he had another m word style outburst and such a people pleaser she’d keep coming back for more snark as long as he peppered it with the odd encouraging compliment

And I feel like a Snape in reciprocated love could absolutely veer into inventing beautiful and helpful spells to impress his lover or sending “made me think of u 😘” notes with verses of elaborate obscure poetry territory that would be frankly the level of literary and academic courtship our Herms deserves 😌

Is it cause they’d both be the highly strung worrier one and they both need someone to ground them? Or maybe too pessimistic together and one of them needs to be the cheerful one?

anon, i genuinely love this for you - i'm always thrilled to get people explaining their love for ships in the ol' inbox, especially when they're ships i don't instinctively vibe with, and i have been won round to stranger premises than this by a passionate defence of why two characters should kiss.

where i still think snamione isn't clicking for me, however, is that the way you describe both snape and hermione here doesn't align in any significant way with what i personally think would be interesting to explore about either character in a relationship and have them still feel meaningfully like their canon selves.

[i will say, though - because i always think it's worth reiterating my fandom commitment towards being neither a cop nor a priest - that i literally don't give a shit about either the age gap or the student-teacher dynamic. i know that's an objection to pairings like snarry and snamione which lots of people do express. but i will never be one of them.]

the primary reason that i don't vibe with many of the more... sapiosexual hermione ships [by which i mean not only snamione but tomione] is that they hang on the idea that hermione's intellect expresses itself in a way we never actually see in canon.

or, the idea that snape and hermione are intellectually compatible [and that they would enjoy hanging out being nerdy about stuff] is just... not true.

throughout the seven-book canon, the way that hermione shows herself to be clever is that she displays an excellent memory and an enormous capacity to rote-learn. her intelligence is overwhelmingly demonstrated - both in the classroom and during the trio's year on the run - by her being able to regurgitate swathes of information, very usually verbatim from the source she got it from.

she is clearly able to use this ability to retain information to understand the theoretical component of magic in a way neither harry nor ron ever manage, and she is able to use this understanding of theory to work out how to perform spells which are ahead of her expected level on the hogwarts curriculum.

and this is intelligence - and i want to be very clear that i'm not trying to suggest that hermione shouldn't be thought of as intellectual, or that her academic achievements should be devalued. but it isn't the way snape's intelligence manifests itself.

because hermione is never shown - at any point in canon - to be a particularly creative or experimental thinker.

she places an enormous intellectual trust in disciplinary authority - teachers and textbooks - and is frequently rattled when these are revealed to be partial or incorrect, as we see in her shock at hogwarts: a history not mentioning house elves or her anger at harry getting better results by following the modified instructions in the prince's textbook [despite knowing nothing about the theory underpinning them] than she does with the "official" ones.

she also regards the gatekeeping of inquiry which disciplinary boundaries enforce to be a positive thing and she never displays any inclination to step beyond them. she dislikes the spells in the prince's textbook because they aren't ministry-approved - and i must say that i think the idea that she'd be won over by a man creating spells for her is wishful thinking...

she is immediately mistrustful of anything she can't find something she regards as an empirical source for - notice, for example, that she only comes round to the idea that prophecies might be real once she encounters them in the ministry of magic.

even when we see her using magic on her own terms - the jinx she uses on marietta edgecombe, for example; or the protean charm on the da coins - the magic she's using is sophisticated, and is being applied in a way which wouldn't be classroom-sanctioned, but it's not magic which is being used in a way which is removed from the spell's original purpose. the protean charm on the da coins is impressive because it's a flawless execution of newt-level magic by a sixteen-year-old. it's not impressive because hermione is using it in a strange, experimental, or radical way.

[in contrast, the dark mark - which harry notes the coins mimic - is clearly a spell voldemort himself invents.]

snape, on the other hand, is an experimenter. he's someone who clearly sees magic as a creative force which he has every right to shape as he sees fit by adaptation and invention. and he's someone who evidently rejects the logic of disciplinary gatekeeping - one tension in his relationship with dumbledore prior to half-blood prince is that snape evidently retains an enormous intellectual interest in the dark arts [which, as he tells us, are an area of magic which is feared precisely because they can't be neatly contained within disciplinary boxes - they are ever-changing, unfixed, mutating...]

and it's these conflicting views of what magic is and how it should be used and thought about which is the cause of the intellectual incompatibility we see between snape and hermione in canon.

he is unequivocally in the wrong for his dismissive classroom manner towards her - because he is an adult and she is a child. but he isn't wrong in principle that hermione just repeating what she's read in the textbook and refusing to synthesise her knowledge [she always goes massively over word limits! she never gives answers in class in her own words!] isn't actually a demonstration that she understands the material. [and therefore something a good teacher would guide her through conquering... snape having no interest in doing this is his own fault.]

and - from a snamione-specific perspective - it's all the evidence snape needs that, actually, they're not going to enjoy hanging out chatting about academic pursuits. hermione values knowledge like a dragon hoards treasure. snape wants to take that treasure, melt it down, and turn it into new and weird things.

once again, i don't think this a flaw in either of their characters - it's just something which is. and i don't think it's an insurmountable obstacle to writing snamione, because i believe any ship is possible if an author has enough nerve. but it's an aspect of both characters' canon personalities [and hermione's above all] which never seems to make it into snamione fics - all of which, as far as i've encountered them, are beholden to an idea of hermione's approach to academia which is considerably more flexible than we actually see in the books.

of your other points, i'm not particularly convinced by the idea that snape sees his younger self in the teenage hermione. this isn't just for the reasons outlined above - hermione isn't trying to prove herself in the same way he was, which was by creating and experimenting in a bid to be noticed and considered impressive - but also because of the massive gulf in their respective class backgrounds.

hermione is really posh - and, while she's obviously subjected to discrimination at hogwarts on account of her blood-status, she also comes from a family with both the financial resources and the cultural language to make her familiar with the vibe of the elite muggle boarding schools hogwarts is a pastiche of.

the teen snape - in contrast - stands out from his cohort in that he is visually identifiable as working-class [which does appear to be genuinely unusual at hogwarts]. his class background is something which clearly drove a lot of the marauders' bullying of him [i'm sorry to the girlies who think james and sirius targeted him out of some righteous desire to stamp out his prejudice - it was because he was poor and uncouth] and which he still has a chip on his shoulder about as an adult.

this - again - is not an insurmountable barrier to a snamione relationship [as it's not a barrier to thousands of real-world partnerships and friendships]. but it is something an author needs to grapple with if they want to make the pairing - at least, in my opinion - seem plausible. but the standard vibe seems to be that snape would be comfortable in the grangers' home fairly quickly, and that he'd be delighted to have hermione swanning around offering suggestions for how they could do up spinner's end... instead of him resenting this as the unwelcome meddling of people who've never had to worry for money.

i'm also not particularly convinced by the idea that hermione would get over being called a mudblood - especially by an adult man. while i think it's completely plausible that she'd handle this differently than lily [although lily's reaction is entirely justified - and i don't think we should throw the baby out with the bathwater of contextualising the teenage snape and the motivating factors behind his decisions by pretending that cutting off your friend because he called you a slur is a petty, ill-thought-out, or unreasonable move], i don't think that her reaction would be automatically forgiving.

hermione is compassionate towards kreacher when he calls her a mudblood because kreacher is a slave, whose prejudicial views are inextricably bound up in the magic used to oppress him [i.e. that if he received an order to use the term, or to refuse to serve a muggleborn food, from his masters, he would have to punish himself violently if he disobeyed it]. she is not - quite rightly! - compassionate towards someone like draco malfoy when he calls her one, since he is a free person with full agency to choose not to do this.

could she forgive him - or snape - for using the term? sure! absolutely! but i don't think it's a given - and i also think she'd expect a demonstration of how sorry snape was which wouldn't necessarily align with how he'd think he'd demonstrated his regret.

i do agree that - as you say - hermione is a people-pleaser, and she definitely has a far greater tolerance for being treated cruelly by people she wants to impress [especially authority figures - including snape himself] than either harry or ron. and i think this has the potential to introduce an extremely thorny dynamic into a snamione fic - in which the power dynamic inherent in the age gap [which, to reiterate, i think is completely fine for an author to enjoy] is compounded by hermione being unwilling to anger or contradict snape [which is a vibe - as i've said in answer to an ask about harmony - we also see in her relationship with harry... it's also obviously exactly how snape's relationship with dumbledore works.]

on a couple of the more minor characterisation notes, i'm afraid that the idea of snape as a great romantic has never hit for me. it seems really bound up in the way alan rickman portrayed him in the films, which i've always found a bit toothless. i also don't like the trope of "actually snape's really hot" which seems to always accompany it - ugly, odd men to get to bone too!

[what he would be - i think - is a magpie. get ready to be handed odd stones and bits of leaves on dates.]

i also think they're highly-strung in ways which differ enough to mean they'd just annoy each other. hermione is highly-strung in that she flusters easily and is very poor under pressure, but she's actually pretty emotionally stable [and i'd dispute that she's a pessimist - this is a girl who thinks that she's successfully eradicating slavery at hogwarts by knitting hats; she's pretty robust, funny, cheerful, and idealistic]. snape is highly-strung in that he has a hair-trigger temper and is very emotionally volatile, but he's obviously an extraordinarily good liar, very quick on his feet, and very good under pressure. he'd think she panicked too much [and over insignificant things he didn't care about], she'd think he tanked the vibe of a date by taking offence at someone breathing too loudly.

where are they similar? well, they have a shared self-serving streak [hermione is appalled by behaviour from harry and ron she considers perfectly moral when she does it]; capacity for cruelty; tendency towards secrecy; tendency towards pettiness and pleasure in the misfortune of others; loathing of flying a broom; cutting sense of humour; stubbornness; resilience; clear dislike of slumming it in nature; love of puzzles; and a weakness for red hair.

i think you could make it work on the grounds that they'd probably have the time of their lives being haters together - especially, i feel, about rita skeeter.

and - y'know - because love is weird.

#asks answered #asenora's opinions on ships #snamione #hermione granger #severus snape #is this an “i'm in danger” one?#only time will tell

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lovezbrownies · 5 months ago

Text

Death after Love. ( Yan!Military Chief x GN!Reader)

Masterlist

Synopsis: The murder of a woman's spouse kills her sanity.

Military Chief Gen Ludenhart x GN!Reader

Warnings: Crazy Gen, Darling dies, torture.

Oh, how her darling has changed since Gen had taken them in. They’re more obedient now, won’t try to escape as much, don’t refuse her, stick by her side in public, and never speak to another soul other than her. You’ve been so good for her, following every rule she has spoken about, and even the rules left unspoken.

So why is she here with you again? In the basement where she used to punish you for your misdeeds. Gen can’t seem to recall, you haven’t done a thing when she picked you up and threw you onto the basement floor, you looked so confused. So petrified. Gen doesn’t remember a thing, she knows she returned home furious. She wanted to let out her anger, she knew that. But at her darling? Was she even thinking clearly?

Well, obviously not. Gen can’t stop panting, it felt like she used all her strength to do something just now. What was it? Is it the unidentified body lying in front of her? Is that what she fought? Did the body even fight back? No… It was just her pulling the punches. Punches? No, she didn’t punch, she bludgeoned, she cut, she broke the body.

The daze finally clears, and Gen knows this body. It’s you.

A scream echoes out, was that from her? Or maybe a maid unfortunate enough to see the absolute wreck that is your body. Blood is covering the floor, your face the only thing recognizable in this mess of gore.

No. You couldn’t be dead, she wouldn’t kill you. You’re too resilient for death, you have to be okay right?

Gen kneels down next to your lifeless body, “Honey. Honey. Honey. This isn’t funny, Honey. Get up or I-I’ll hurt you again. Please, please don’t leave me… Don’t tell me I did this, please get up, please tell me I didn’t do this, please say I love you.” Tears flow out of Gen’s sorrowful eyes, unable to comprehend the loss of her beautiful spouse. How can she be ungrateful for what she has- or one could say had. Gen never knew how to appreciate the good things in life, so maybe she deserved this. Gen deserved being the executor of her lover, because the universe knew, the gods knew, that the only way to calm her down is to bring down the most painful fate possible.

“...Please, w-we have so much a-ahead of us… Please baby, please… I p-promise I w-won’t hurt you again… Just please please come back to me, c-come back to your loving wife, I beg you…” The Ludenhart manor had become a shell of its former self, lacking the love and joy of Gen Ludenhart it dissipated into mold and dust.

#yandere x reader #yandere #oc x reader #yandere oc #tw yandere #gender neutral #yandere x darling #gn reader #yandere oc x reader #x reader #yandere female #Female yandere #Yandere x reader

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kallie-den · 10 days ago

Text

Rescue Hound Ch. 2

Kione brings Sartha home, and discovers what she's become

A new Warhound story!! The preceding stories can be found at this tag

If you enjoy my work and are looking for more, or you want to support me, I strongly encourage you to check out my Patreon! I write erotica full-time, which means I need your patronage to keep creating, and my Patrons also get benefits like early access to my stories, extra stories, and the ability to vote on what I write next! So, if that sounds good to you, head over and join the couple hundred patrons I already have :)

—

From the moment Sartha first wakes up, it’s a horror show.

She doesn’t regain consciousness until Kione and the other survivors can limp back to the rebel position and deliver her safely into their arms. That’s a mercy. Once they arrive and dismount, they’re rushed to the infirmary for medical attention. Sartha obviously needs it; Kione does too, as much as she’d prefer to play it cool. While an entire crowd of medics huddles around Sartha Thrace, the one who drew the short straw is stuck at Kione’s bedside, yelling at her to shut up and stay still so they can patch her up.

Kione won’t shut up and stay still. She’s trying to get everyone else’s attention. She needs to tell them.

There’s something wrong with Sartha.

They think they already know that, of course. The rebels know that she’s been forced to fight on the wrong side of the war. But they don’t get it the way Kione does. She’s crossed blades with Sartha—before, and again, now. The medics probably figure it’s something simple. A gun to her head. A bomb in her mech. Hostages. Maybe a drug. They can comprehend that kind of leverage. But Kione has felt it. She knows it’s more. Only she understands that Sartha has been transformed into something awful.

Nobody listens to her, of course. They just see what they want to see: their hero. It’s all they ever see.

They’re idiots. They don’t want to think about needing to restrain her. So they kind of deserve it when Sartha opens her eyes, looks around, and then punches the nearest medic so hard her teeth go flying.

Even then, they’re slow on the uptake. They figure she’s just panicking. A couple more medics end up with broken teeth before they stop trying to calm her down and realize that she’s actually trying to hurt them.

It’s lucky for them that Sartha is so badly injured she can’t even stand. Instead, she just props herself up in the infirmary bed, hunched defensively, teeth bared behind that fucking muzzle, clearly ready to throw herself at anyone who gets too close. Now Kione shuts up. She’s spellbound, just like everyone else. She recognizes this animal frenzy from their battle, but she’s never seen an actual human being like this. Right now, Sartha doesn’t look like a person at all. She’s a cornered wolf. Scared as much as violent. She even keeps glancing at the door like she’s desperate to make a break for it.

Gods. What did they do to you, Sartha?

The medics try nothing and then they’re all out of ideas. What can they do? If it was any other patient, they’d throw bodies at her. Restrain her. Maybe tranq her. But you can’t do that to a hero, right? So they just stand around and stare while the looks on their faces get more and more dismayed. They were so pleased to see her, at first. Now it’s like Sartha’s died at her own birthday party.

Eventually, perhaps from simple exhaustion, the animal in Sartha’s skin starts to abate. She slumps, her frantic, rapid breathing collapsing into a somber rhythm. The few warning growls she forces out are feeble. Her eyelids droop, then close, and when they open again, it’s someone else.

It’s Sartha. For real this time.

That’s what they all think at first. Even Kione. She sees something familiar and clear in those eyes, and wonders if it’s her friend again. But then Sartha parts her lips and tears fall from her eyes, and Kione second-guesses herself because she never once heard Sartha cry like that.

She cried, sure. Sartha tasted more than her fair share of loss and defeat. She felt that grief deeper than anyone. But this is different. These aren’t a soldier’s quiet, stoic sobs. They’re desperate, keening wails; high, full-chested, needy. Infantile, almost. She sounds like a child crying for her mother. Like a drowning woman begging the gods.

But she’s not begging for her mother or for the gods.

She’s begging for her.

That’s what Kione gathers, amidst the broken pleas and choked, offered bargains, all of them made to a woman who is not here. It’s her imperial XO. Someone Sartha’s been calling ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’ and other things besides. Only, no imperial officer Kione’s crossed paths with would ever inspire this kind of loyalty. They’re usually about as charismatic as a dishcloth.

But this? Loyalty seems too small a word. It’s consuming. Sartha is swallowed up by it, this sick bond she shares with the woman. Kione wracks her brain, but she can’t land on a word that seems to fit.

Especially when Sartha tucks her head into her chest and cradles the muzzle that’s still on her face like a kid with a stuffed toy. What the fuck are you supposed to call that?

Kione doesn’t know. Nobody else does either. No one says a thing. Each and every medic just stands there, waiting for it to stop and steadily realizing it might not, not for a long time. One by one, each of them hits their limit. They turn their faces away and slip out the door. Every couple of minutes, someone leaves. Until it’s just Kione left in there with her.

Not that she has any clue what to say. She just figures she should be there. Sartha’s her friend, right? That’s what you do for friends. But eventually, shamefully, it gets to be too much even for her. Kione convinces herself that Sartha might need a private moment. The merc rolls out of bed, grabs a crutch, and limps out of the infirmary and past the confused, alarmed guards posted outside. She doesn’t know where she’s supposed to go. She just knows she can’t be there. Eventually, after tracking down a medic to give her a once-over, she winds up in her bunk, in the paltry quarters the rebels gave her.

Damn. She never even got that drink with radio girl.

***

After that, it’s a while before Kione gets to see her again. The word trickles down from whoever’s in charge: Sartha is quarantined. Officially, it’s for no reason in particular. Just a nebulous ‘precaution’. Secretly, they tell Kione and the few others who’ve seen her that it’s so they can run her through some kind of improvised deprogramming therapy. Kione doesn’t much like the sound of that. She’s pretty sure none of the rebel shrinks actually know what they’re doing, and she suspects the last thing Sartha needs is someone else picking their way through her head.

Unofficially, of course, there’s another reason to keep Sartha locked up safe and sound: if everybody got to see what’s happened to her, morale would go to shit.

Which is more or less what happens anyway. Word gets around. You can’t keep something like that quiet. People start talking. The infirmary staff, maybe. Soon enough, it’s on everybody’s lips: they broke Sartha Thrace. Predictably, those rumors depress the hell out of everybody.

It’s funny how that works. Normally, one of the things the rebels have going for them is fighting spirit. It’s not just a tour of duty to them. It’s a way of life. They get used to fighting in the worst of circumstances. To finding hope where there’s none. It’s impressive, even Kione will admit. But living like that does something to you. The rebels need something to believe in. They need heroes. In all the stories they tell about her, Sartha comes across more like some kind of weird saint than an actual, flesh-and-blood woman. Kione always gets a good laugh out of that.

Turns out, that kind of faith cuts both ways.

As such, for several long weeks a dark mood settles across the rebel base—if you’d call it that. Certainly, it’s nothing like the big, ugly, fortified monoliths the imperials call bases. Instead, it’s a set of loosely interconnected outposts and installations, connected by various trenches, tunnels and paths, all following the natural contours of the blasted landscape. When you’re outgunned, it always helps to stay under the radar. Often literally; much of it’s underground. The hangar is a huge, natural cavern, excavated out and reinforced as necessary. The barracks and living quarters are like a rabbit’s warren, dug into the hillside. Rebel ingenuity at its finest.

Kione hates it, personally. Living in a hole in the ground is shit, however ingenious. The mud gets everywhere. Normally, she’d be out of there ASAP, roaming around in search of another front, another fight, another job. This time, she has to wait for them to fix Theaboros up. Not a quick task, after the beating it took. It requires some slow, careful work under Kione’s exacting supervision, plus getting some specialty materials shipped out. The rebel mechanics don’t love that, even though she’s paying their wages. They flash her the meanest looks as she spends more on a single wing or limb than they’d normally budget for an entire scratch-built mech suit.

Kione loves the mean looks. They make her feel smug as hell.

After the repair, she finds reasons to stick around. Kione takes a quick job escorting a rebel recovery crew to go haul Ancyor in for reconstruction. It’s the kind of thing she’d normally turn her nose up at but for now, all’s quiet in the sector. No other merc work going. She could simply leave, of course, but…

But then, one day, they let her see Sartha.

They think regular contact with a friend will help with her readjustment. That’s what the doc who comes to Kione’s quarters to fetch her tells her. He says a bunch of other stuff too, but Kione doesn’t really hear it. As they walk to the private medical room they’ve set Sartha up in, there’s a growing ringing in Kione’s ears, like a bomb just went off too close. And she’s realizing she’s nervous. Maybe more nervous than she’s ever been.

Why? What the hell is wrong with her?

Once they reach Sartha’s door—locked, still—Kione starts really wishing she’d listened to the doctor. She doesn’t know what to expect behind the door. Will it be the animal? The sobbing wreck? Or will she be her old self again? She’s not sure, and the anxiety is murder. As the key turns in the lock, part of the merc wants to reach out and stop the door from opening. She’s not sure she can bear it if Sartha is all wrong again. Kione can’t seem to breathe right. It’s as close to a panic attack as she’s ever had.

Before she can move, it’s too late. The door opens. Kione finds herself stepping inside. Oh. What’s her face doing? She needs to make sure she’s got the right look on her face. Whatever the hell that is.

And then Kione sees her.

Immediately, her heart almost stops. Gods, she looks so much like she used to. Not so battered and bruised. No muzzle, thank fuck. And the look on her face! She’s calm. Maybe the docs have her on something; Kione doesn’t care. She feels like she’s going to burst with gratitude. Sartha looks so pretty when she’s like this. When she’s calm.

Her friend is going to be OK.

Sartha turns to look at her. She smiles, and the spell is broken.

Why does her smile look so fragile? That’s not right.

“Hey, Kione,” Sartha says. Her voice sounds fragile too. Hoarse. She’s been crying, and not long ago. Kione can tell as much. She knows a brave face when she sees one.

“Hey,” Kione replies awkwardly. She doesn’t know what else to say, so she just goes to sit at Sartha’s bedside.

“They told me what happened,” Sartha tells her. She widens her smile—or tries to. The effort is palpable. It’s not real. She doesn’t mean it. “Thank you for saving me.”

***

A few weeks later, Kione and Sartha are in the canteen to get some hot food, and it’s like nothing ever happened. Everything is back to normal.

Yeah, as if.

Not really. Instead, everyone’s just pretending. That’s the latest directive from on high. Let’s all play pretend. Let’s all make believe like Sartha Thrace totally wasn’t captured and brainwashed into betraying everyone and everything she held dear, and isn’t still struggling to claw her way back to some semblance of sanity after a daring rescue mission spearheaded by the prettiest mercenary pilot of the war.

Kione’s sure they put it like that.

She fucking hates it. Everyone does, actually, and the ghoulish, paper-thin pretense of normality makes the rebel base feel even more dismal than it did before they decided to let Sartha out of quarantine. Oh, the rebels all gave it a hearty try—at first. They’d call out to her. Slap her on the back. Cheer for her. They tried throwing a celebration for her like they would any of their comrades who made it back from certain death. All nice. All normal.

Except for Sartha herself. She just couldn’t handle it right. She’d smile, and she’d say ‘hi’, and ‘thank you’, and all the rest of it. But it wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right. Her smiles never reached her eyes, and there was the slightest twinge in her face whenever one of her many adoring hero-worshipers gushed at her. Like it hurt. Like she didn’t want it. Like she didn’t want to be there at all, actually.

Naturally, everyone understood. They’d nod sympathetically to each other and console whichever poor soul Sartha had just inadvertently shut down. The excuses came easy. Don’t hold it against her. She’s been through so much. It must be so hard. She’ll be back to her old self soon.

But people never did have much patience for tarnished heroes. They need them to be big and bombastic and larger than life. Not the ghost at the feast. Not walking around like she’s a fucking zombie. The rebels all want to help. They really do. But after a while, they run out of things to say.

So, without really meaning to, they all give up. Little by little, just about every rebel soldier at the base slips into the groove of acting like everything is normal, but letting other people actually deal with Sartha until she’s better. In the canteen, there’s hearty, happy chatter all around, and you’d be forgiven for thinking it really was back to normal until you notice that everybody finds it easier not to look at Sartha as she sits down to eat. And that nobody volunteers to go sit at her table with her.

Except for Kione, obviously.

And it’s completely fine with her. As far as Kione is concerned, they can be outcasts together. Not like she fit in on base in the first place, and not just because her dark complexion marks her out as hailing from someplace else. Certainly not because she’s trans. Plenty of girls like her in the rebellion.

No, it’s the look. Rebels might not have a uniform, but they all trend toward looking equally rag-tag. Short hair, beat-up gear, faded camo. It’s what circumstances dictate—but not for Kione. She wears her long, sleek, black hair down because she can. She wears makeup and keeps her nails long and painted because she can. She goes everywhere in her brand-new, high-tech, haptic-feedback piloting jumpsuit because she can.

Kione loves ostentation. She’s in it for the money, but she’s no miser. Spending money on herself is her one and only hobby. And the glares it earns her are just as sweet as the flushed, sidelong looks of admiration she gets from people who think she doesn’t notice.

“Gods,” Kione complains to Sartha, as she watches that day’s stew drip slowly from her spoon back onto her tray. “It doesn’t get any better, does it? Remind me to get some nicer grub shipped out. Sartha, did the imperials give you better food than this?”

One of the rebels sitting at the next table winces. Kione stares murder at them until they pretend not to be paying attention.

“I… don’t remember,” Sartha replies. Kione sighs. She says that about a lot of things.

“Guess you probably weren’t paying much attention to the food,” Kione says quietly and starts to eat.

There’s this weird tic Sartha has when she sits down with her meal. Instinctively, she reaches up to her face. Like she’s trying to take something off. And she’s always slow to get started. Clumsy, somehow. The first time Kione took her to the canteen, she spent a long time just staring at her knife and fork. Like she barely knew what they were. Like she was no longer used to eating with them.

Kione doesn’t wanna think about it.

“Bet they have nicer quarters, at least,” Kione adds, between mouthfuls. “They gotta. Tons of room in those big-ass imperial fortifications. And how were the beds? Any softer than the ones we get?”

Sartha offers her one of those faint, ghostly smiles. “I don’t-“

“Remember,” Kione finishes. She sighs again.

She’s heard that a lot. So have the rebel doctors. Apparently, Sartha doesn’t open up about her experiences. At all. Claims she doesn’t remember where she was, or what she was doing, or what it was like, or even why she was out traveling alone in Ancyor when Kione and the others intercepted her. That’s no good, and it’s why Kione has made it her personal mission to wheedle a few details out of her friend. You’ve gotta talk about this stuff, right? That’s what Kione figures. That’s the only way it gets better.

And… she is getting better. Kione has to believe that. The doctors seem to. Obviously Sartha’s traumatized as hell. You don’t need to wear a white coat to figure that much. It’s common enough, albeit not at this level. But after a couple of weeks of freak-outs, Sartha seems to have settled down. Yeah, she doesn’t talk about what’s going on with her, but what are you gonna do? Keep her locked up? Better to let her live again. Time heals all wounds, or whatever.

Kione really does wish Sartha seemed like she was trying, though. At healing. At talking. At anything. But she doesn’t engage—not with the shrinks, not with her comrades, barely with Kione. Whenever she’s out of her quarters, she just goes through the motions of a basic routine. Whenever she’s in her quarters, Kione isn’t sure she does anything at all.

Honestly, it really gives her the creeps.

“Hey, uh,” Kione attempts. “Have they said anything about getting you back in the saddle?”

Sartha freezes up. This time, even Kione winces from the look on her face.

“I don’t think…” Sartha replies slowly, unhappily. “They don’t… think that would be a good idea. Yet.”

Kione snorts as she takes a drink. “Sounds like bullshit to me. I mean, sure, you’re still a little unsteady. Whatever. But you gotta get back in the action! Get back in Ancyor. At least get the feel of it again.”

She’s never seen Sartha more uncomfortable. It makes sense, of course, and her obvious pain makes Kione want to drop it. But no. She needs to push her friend, at least a little. If she won’t, who will?

“Well…” Sartha attempts another smile. “Unfortunately, Ancyor took a real beating. I don’t think it can-“

“Nope,” Kione interrupts. “They’ve already got it patched up for you. Not quite battle-ready, but close enough for a joyride.”

“But…” It’s painfully obvious Sartha is casting about for another excuse. “Uh…”

“C’mon.” Kione reaches across the table and claps a hand on Sartha’s arm. She smiles at her. “You’ve got this, OK? I still remember that time we were side-by-side at Hebros Ridge. You were like a dancer out there. I still can’t believe some of the things you could make that mech of yours do. You don’t just lose something like that. I promise: once you’re back behind the controls, you’re gonna feel right as rain.”

“You… actually believe that?”

The forlorn look in her eyes makes Kione’s chest hurt.

“Of course I do,” Kione answers lightly.

She does. She needs to.

Sartha looks down. After a moment, the smile that appears on her face is almost genuine. “Hebros, huh? That was one of the good ones.”

“Fuck yeah!” Kione laughs. She’s keen to encourage this. “You gave them hell, Sartha.”

“I guess I did.” Sartha loses herself in the memory for a moment, before refocusing on Kione. A wolfish grin comes to her face. “You weren’t so bad yourself. As I recall.”

Kione’s face settles into a smirk. “You’re damn right. And, as always, I looked better doing it.”

“Maybe you should worry less about how you look,” Sartha retorts slyly. “And more about how you fight. What was your tally, that first day?”

“Jeez,” Kione says flippantly, although she’s grinning from ear to ear. Never been happier. The rhythm of their old banter comes back effortlessly. “Flexing the kill count?”

“C’mon,” Sartha needles. It’s almost genuine. Almost there. She still feels like she’s performing herself but in all the weeks since the rescue, it’s never been closer. “What was it?”

“Fourteen,” Kione tells her. She throws her hands up. She knows what’s coming.

“Nineteen,” Sartha announces, motioning at herself. She looks proud of herself. Gods, it’s so heartening. Then, she tilts her head a little. “Though, it’s funny. I seem to remember you saying something else to that cute engineer you pulled off the line to service your mech.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Kione almost chokes on her stew for laughing. “Look, hey. You can’t blame a girl for-”

“’Thirty’,” Sartha quotes, imitating Kione when she’s laying it on a little too thick. “’Maybe forty. It’s hard to count out there, you know? On the battlefield. In the chaos. I wasn’t there to count. I was there to win.’”

“Gods! Alright, already!” By now, Kione is blushing a little. “Well! It worked, didn’t it?”

“It worked,” Sartha agrees. A little of that old cockiness comes roaring back to the fore. “But it didn’t stop you slipping out of her bunk and coming to mine as soon as I called, did it?”

Now, Kione is blushing much, much more than just a little.

Yeah, they had hooked up. A couple of times. A few times. Every time Sartha wanted.

Kione had a certain reputation as one of those ace pilots. The kind that cruised newbie pilots, mechanics, and support staff without a hint of shame. But with Sartha it was… different. She scratched an itch those other girls couldn’t, even if it made Kione flustered as hell to admit it. She was special. And if she’d ever needed to take a turn on the bottom bunk, so to speak, she’d never let on about it.

Kione was pretty sure Sartha had absolutely zero inclination in that direction. As in all things, she was one in a million.

“Whatever,” Kione choked out lamely. “Not my fault she was a bad lay. I wanted some decent company.”

“Decent company.” Sartha cocked an eyebrow. “I remember you being a little more enthusiastic about it than that, Ki.”

Her flirting was getting Kione even more worked up than usual. It had been a while, she guessed. Maybe sometime soon, if Sartha was starting to feel better…

Gods. She needed to stop blushing right in the middle of the canteen. It was going to ruin her reputation.

“A-anyway,” Kione recovered. “See? Isn’t this just like old times? I’m telling you, it’s the same deal with piloting. We just gotta get you back on the horse. How about some time I take you down to the training ground? We can spar, just like we always used to. Make a competition of it.”

Sartha looks away. “Maybe.”

The cocksure grin slips from her face, and Kione is left feeling like she said the wrong thing until she notices just how quickly the mood passes from Sartha. In its wake, she’s numb. Thin. Ethereal, like she’s made of nothing more than smoke. Kione is struck by the disconcerting impression that Sartha hadn’t been back to her old cocky, flirty self at all, not even for a moment. She’d just been trying it out, the way you’d try out an old piece of clothing to see if it still fit.

And it didn’t.

Before Kione can get to grips with that, things get worse: a fangirl shows up.

“Hey, Captain Thrace,” says the bright young thing. Kione all but groans at the look of wide-eyed, nervous awe on her face. “Mind if I… uh… is this seat taken?”

“Actually, yeah, we were just-“ Kione starts to say, but it doesn’t matter, because Sartha is already nodding mechanically, and she’s the only one the fangirl has eyes or ears for.

Kione hates it when this happens. She thought they’d all given up by now. They didn’t want to make Sartha uncomfortable, and they certainly didn’t want their own fantasies shattered. Maybe this one was a new transfer.

“Captain,” the fangirl says, scrambling to sit down at Sartha’s side. “My name’s Pela. I just wanted to say, I’m so glad you’re back with us. When I heard—I mean, when we all heard—it was like a miracle. I always knew you were still out there. You wouldn’t go down that easily, right?”

Under the table, Sartha’s leg starts shaking.

“I don’t know what we’d do without you, Captain.” The fangirl is still talking. Why is she still talking? “I saw you fight, in Oltenia. You hit the battlefield like… like a falling star.”

Kione is mildly impressed she can come out with something like that without a hint of self-awareness. The ridiculous, starstruck on her face is faintly nauseating.

“Like an angel!” Pela adds suddenly. That’s even worse. “I just know that with you on our side, we’re gonna win this. All the way. We’re never giving up. Not with Sartha Thrace on our side!”

She sounds like she thinks she’s cheering Sartha up. Kione wonders if she knows all she’s doing is cheering herself up. Can’t she see how miserable Sartha looks? She’s staring down at the table like she wishes she could get down and hide under it.

“I… heard from the others that you’ve been having a hard time, since you got back.” Pela adopts what she probably thinks is a patient, understanding, heartfelt tone. “Gods, I can’t even imagine what they put you through. It must have been awful.”

She pauses. Waiting, perhaps, for something affirming from Sartha. A nod. A smile. There’s nothing. Sartha is trying not to be here. It’s working. Kione can see it. Her eyes are vacant. She has shrunk into herself.

The fangirl powers on.

“But!” Pela plucks up all her optimism. All her faith in Sartha. Gods, it’s like this girl was born to be in some kind of cheesy propaganda flick. “It’s all going to be OK. You stuck with us. Got us through some tight spots. So we’re all sticking with you, 'cause we know that before long, you’re gonna be back on the front lines, saving all our asses and getting your own back on those imperial freaks. Yeah?”

Can’t she see Sartha’s about to break down and cry? Or… actually, Kione isn’t sure she’s going to cry. It might be something worse. There’s a light in her eyes again, but it’s something twisted. Anxious dread paralyzes her for a little too long, and part of her can’t help but want to see what Sartha might do.

Sartha opens her mouth. “Please. Stop. I’m no-

“Hey!” Kione springs to life. She kicks the underside of the table, and suddenly all eyes are on her. “What are you, stupid? We’re in the middle of something here.”

The way Pela’s expression becomes jagged ice as she turns her head to look at Kione is all too familiar. Kione thrives on that contempt. Revels in it. Leaning back in her seat and smirking comes so naturally to her.

“Maybe you should have said so,” the fangirl hisses. “Now I’m talking to her.”

“Figured it was obvious,” Kione says lazily. “Apparently I overestimated you.”

“You’re just a gun for hire, right?” the fangirl retorts. “Captain Thrace is one of us. We’re her friends. Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t belong here.”

Kione’s grin grows so wide it almost hurts. “Yup, I’m a gun for hire. Exactly. That’s why I was just talking to Sartha here about how much saving her sorry ass is worth. I figure that’s gotta earn me a sweet bonus, right?”

The young rebel bares her teeth, and audibly sucks air through them. “Scum,” she spits.

Kione looks her dead in the eyes. “You’re damn right.”

What can you say to someone that shameless? Nothing, and Sartha’s fangirl knows it. She looks at Kione roughly the same way you’d look at a slug, before turning around and making for another table. No doubt so they can all gossip about how disgusting she is.

Good riddance.

Kione is more than used to their disgust. Even if it bothered her, it would all be worth it to hear Sartha say, in a quiet, fragile voice: “Thank you, Kione.”

“Don’t mention it,” Kione nods.

These people don’t know how to help her. The shrinks, the fans—they’re all the same. Sartha’s just a hero to them. Kione’s no psych doctor, but if anyone has a clue what Sartha needs, it’s her.

“Hey,” Kione says. Time to stop hesitating. “Tomorrow, I’m taking you down to the training ground. Just you and me, no spectators. You need a good sparring session. And I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

Kione is absolutely sure a little taste of mechanized combat will bring her friend back to herself.

No matter what it looks like, Sartha’s still got that dog in her.

***

Kione really doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer and so despite Sartha’s many attempted evasions, the next day Kione manages to corner her and drag her down to the hangar. There, both Ancyor and Theaboros are being rebuilt. You wouldn’t want to take either of them into a warzone, not yet, but they’ll do for a light workout.

As soon as she sees it, Sartha stops in her tracks and stares at Ancyor like it’s her open coffin. It’s clear as day that she wants to bolt, but she knows Kione won’t stop pushing her. And besides, Kione has one hell of an incentive to offer.

“Beat me, one-on-one,” she says, as she beckons Sartha into the hangar, “and I’ll drop the merc work. I’ll join the rebels. For real.”

That gets her attention.

It’s been an issue between them for years. Sartha keeps asking her to. Not demanding; that would be easy to blow off. Just asking and encouraging, in that annoying way of hers. Preying on what pesky few angels of Kione’s better nature remain. Somehow, she makes the idea of belonging to a cause sound nice. Sometimes Sartha Thrace is awfully pretty, and that makes her extremely persuasive.

Thus far, Kione has invariably managed to remind herself that money can buy pretty, too.

“OK,” Sartha replies. It’s like she’s searching for the enthusiasm she knows she should feel. “Fine. You’re on.”

“That’s more like it!”

Kione can’t stop grinning as she clambers into Theaboros and leads Sartha, inside Ancyor, down the brief trek that leads from the hangar to the small hollow the rebels have been using to train, its muddy ground long since stamped flat and hard by the footfalls of war machines. Grinning is stupid, really, given everything she has to lose. But Kione can’t help it. Getting to fight Sartha is always a treat. Even when she loses, which is always.

In this instance, though, it’s a calculated bet. Kione has been keeping tabs on the repairs. Theaboros is in better shape than Ancyor. Sartha is one hell of a pilot, but the gulf between them isn’t so great that mech performance won’t level the playing field. As their encounter on the bridge proved, Kione can beat her if the circumstances are right.

That particular fight didn’t count, obviously. Kione had other pilots on her side. Those ruin the sanctity of a duel. It’s not a victory she can be proud of. Not her precious first win against Sartha Thrace.

She isn’t just a friend. She’s a rival.

“Got your mech legs back?” Kione asks over the radio.

Think so, Sartha replies. She sounds deeply reluctant. That’s fine. She’ll warm up to it.

Sartha never lets her down. Sartha never gives Kione a poor performance. Kione knows her first win isn’t going to come easy.

“Weapons check?” Kione prompts, as the two of them lumber into position at opposite ends of the training ground. It’s a little insulting to ask of an ace, but it won’t hurt to make sure Sartha’s doing it right.

Check, comes the reply.

A pause. Kione’s heart is already pounding. She hadn’t quite realized how much she was looking forward to this. “Ready?”

A longer pause. Then: Ready.

“Then let’s go!”

It begins at once. Not the shooting. Not the lunging and charging. Just moving. Jockeying for position. Playing for what little terrain there is to play for. In Kione’s hands, Theaboros moves like a ballet dancer. Those rebel mechanics did right by her babygirl in the end, and the feedback from her new jumpsuit, electronically jacked in, makes movement and balance easier than ever. The flight system isn’t fully online, though, so Kione restricts herself to light hops and short jumps, using the maneuvering thrusters to change direction rapidly as she moves.

Sartha, by contrast, looks a little clumsy. A little slow off the mark. But she’s starting to find a rhythm. She matches her movement to Kione’s, and the brute strength in Ancyor’s legs is every bit a match for Theaboros’s dainty agility. Before long, the two mechs are spiraling toward one another, each pilot holding back just a little. Daring the other to make the first move. Playing chicken.

Gods, Kione thinks. Doing this with Sartha is almost as good as getting fucked by her.

Kione can’t contain her eagerness for long. She opens up with a quick spray from Theaboros’s chest-mounted vulcan guns—dummy rounds, obviously, and in any case, these guns are low caliber. More to distract or disorient than to damage. Sartha steps out of the way, although not cleanly. Surprisingly, Kione’s gunfire rakes up Ancyor’s leg, even if it does little more than scratch the paint.

When Sartha opens up in reply, Kione lets out a great whooping cheer as she wheels back out of the line of fire. It feels amazing to dance with her rival once more.

This is the Sartha she’s been missing.

Which means it’s time to stop holding back. Especially now the two mechs are almost at arm’s length from one another. At Kione’s command, Theaboros brandishes its spear. Even powered-down, it can do some real damage; Kione is prepared to pull her punches, but it would be a crying shame not to gun her mech’s engines all the way as she boosts straight at Sartha.

Kione brings her spear down into a low guard as if she’s ready to throw all her weight into a great, wide sweep. But that’s just a feint. The moment Sartha moves—to evade, it looks like, not parry—Kione throws herself forward with reckless abandon and thrusts, leading with the blunt butt of the spear. In the hands of a mech like Theaboros, anything is a weapon.

The force of the impact is more than enough to buckle armor plates and shove Ancyor off-balance. Kione seizes on the moment, leaping atop her opponent and spinning the spear so she can plant its tip at one of Ancyor’s vulnerable joints and claim her…

Victory?

Wait, what the fuck?

It worked. Why did that work?

Her Sartha isn’t supposed to fall for something like that.

Well, Sartha radios in after a moment. The way she actually sounds relieved churns Kione’s gut. I guess you finally got me, Ki.

Is that what she thinks Kione wants to hear? It’s the very last thing.

“Damn,” Kione says lightly, even though she’s gripping Theaboros’s controls hard enough her knuckles are turning white. “Mechanics must have fucked up some of your servos. Why don’t you run a quick diagnostic, see if we can get you a quick fix?”

There’s a long pause before the radio crackles again. Kione, that’s not… Anycor’s fine, I just…

“Got it.” Kione cuts her off before she can say something that’ll hurt. She steps backward in Theaboros, giving her rival some room. “You’re still warming up, right? You’ve been out of action for a hot second. That’s my bad. You’ll get me next time. That one didn’t count, yeah? Let’s say best two out of three.”

Kione, Sartha pleads. She sounds choked up. She sounds pathetic. I-I don’t think I can do this anymore.

The air of finality in her voice freezes Kione’s blood. “What does that mean?” she demands. “Hey. Sartha. What does that mean?”

These long pauses are killing her. In the intervals between radio messages, something hot and angry wraps tighter and tighter around her chest.

I don’t know, Sartha replies eventually. Just forget it. For now, how about this: you win.

“No!” It boils over, and Kione punches the screen in front of her. Hard enough to crack the glass. Hard enough to bruise her knuckles. “Don’t fucking say that to me, Sartha. That’s not how this goes. You don’t go down this easy, right? You’re better than this. You are so much better than this. So I don’t ‘win’ until I put you in the dirt after a real goddamn fight. Understand me?”

OK.

After a long moment, Kione realizes that’s all she’s going to get out of her friend. And she still isn’t moving Ancyor. Kione hangs her head. She’s ashamed of her anger, and even more ashamed of Sartha.

“Whatever. Let’s just head back.”

The trek back up to the hangar is silent and miserable. Kione can’t imagine what’s going on in Sartha’s head. She just knows the inside of her own is nothing but static.

Guilt? Is that what she feels? That’d make sense, yeah. Clearly she pushed Sartha too hard.

But if she doesn’t, who will? Who else is even trying? Not Sartha, that’s for sure. She’s not trying with Kione, or with the rebel docs, or with her old comrades. It’s like all she wants to do is fade away into nothingness.

Well, too bad. Kione isn’t going to let that happen.

So when she dismounts from Theaboros, the first thing Kione does is storm down the mounting pier toward Ancyor, fists clenched.

“What the fuck was that?” she demands, as soon as Sartha’s feet touch down on the deck.

“I…” Sartha doesn’t know what to say, that much is obvious. “Kione, I’m sorry. I just…”

“You can do better than that!” Kione yells. Thank the gods there’s no support crew around to stare. “You have done better than that, time and time again. So what gives?”

“I don’t know.” Sartha shivers uncomfortably.

“C’mon.” Kione won’t let her off that easily. “What? Am I just not worth trying for? Huh?”

“I didn’t say that!” Sartha looks so wounded. Somehow that just makes Kione angrier.

“Then what?” Kione demands again. “I’m your friend! I’m here for you! So just tell me!”

Sartha squeezes her eyes shut as she tries to summon an answer. Her shoulders tense, then relax as she decides, Kione senses, to offer her something.

“I can’t, because… the one who’s supposed to sit up there? In that?” Sartha nods up at Ancyor. “That’s not me anymore. I mean, it is. Kind of. But it’s not… it’s not Sartha, you know? There’s like… there’s this other part of me. Part I wasn’t even aware of until they… you know. But now it’s gone. I can’t find it anymore. Trying to pilot now, without that? It just feels so wrong. Hell, everything feels wrong.”

Kione nods slowly as she tries—and fails—to process that. Frankly, it doesn’t make a lick of sense to her. It doesn’t match up with the Sartha she’s known for years now. Another part of her? What the hell does that mean?

“OK.” Kione rubs at her temples. “There’s another part of you, and you need it to pilot again. Right. Sure. And how exactly are you supposed to get at this other part?”

Sartha looks away. “I don’t think… I’m not sure you’d understand.”

“Try me.”

“I… I need…” Kione’s never heard Sartha speak with such reluctance. “I think I need… H… um… H…”

She cuts herself off. She can’t quite bring herself to say it. Not to Kione’s face. Both of them hear the unspoken word of reverence on Sartha’s lips.

Her.

The last of Kione’s patience vanishes. Her anger doubles. She doesn’t know why she let this self-pitying nonsense go on for even this long.

“Stop bullshitting me,” she seethes. Sartha flinches at her anger. “Look, I get it. They did something to you. But you need to get past it, alright? Stop indulging whatever sick shit they planted in your skull.”

“But I…”

“Stop!” Kione yells. Another flinch. Kione can’t believe she’s actually scaring Sartha Thrace like this. It feels like shit. But it kind of feels really good, too. “Gods, what’s wrong with you? Don’t you get it? All these people,” she gestures toward the rest of the rebel position, “need you! They need you in fighting shape. Doesn’t that mean anything to you anymore?”

“Right.” Sartha grips her own arm. She looks like a child being scolded. “Sorry.”

“They believe in you. They need someone to believe in.” It pours out of Kione before she can stop it. “They need a hero, Sartha! That’s you, got it? Remember that girl, yesterday, in the canteen? She needs you. You didn’t see how bad it was when you got scooped up. People like her, they don’t have a lot of reasons for hope. They’re clinging to whatever they have, just to keep fighting every day. If they don’t have their heroes, they have nothing—and the rebellion falls apart. So you need to start acting like one again.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Gods, and then there’s me! What do you think I’m still here for, Sartha? For the food? For the company? No! I’m here for you. Understand? You. Cause you, with your crazy fucking heroics, make me feel like selling myself out on this side of the war isn’t a complete and total lost cause. Am I just wasting my fucking time, Sartha? Or are you gonna start giving me something to believe in again?”

“Right. Sorry.”

Then it clicks. The repetition. The look on Sartha’s face. It’s beyond shame. It’s simple resignation.

She’s not accepting what Kione’s saying. She’s barely listening. She’s just waiting for it to stop.

Another surge of anger. Kione wants to hit Sartha so bad. Before she can, she snaps: “Whatever. Just get the fuck out of my sight.”

Mercifully, she does. Without another word, Sartha turns and trudges away—no doubt simply back to her quarters, to stare at a wall until Kione comes to fetch her out again. It’s pathetic. Not that Kione’s in any better state. She’s left standing there in the hangar, hands balled into fists, eyes threatening to brim up with tears.

What is she, a stupid kid? Kione does her best to swallow the feeling. No way. She’s not like the others. She’s not a rebel. Not a hero-worshiper. Just a merc. She goes where the money is. Sartha’s a friend, and that’s it.

Just a mercenary. That’s right. What’s she getting so worked up about?

It’s as easy as that to stop feeling anything much. But clearing her head isn’t so simple. Kione’s thoughts are chasing each other around in circles as she tries to get a grip on whatever split-identity nonsense Sartha was spouting. She can’t let it go.

Then she notices the distinct hum of Ancyor’s electronics, still running.

It’s almost funny. Sartha truly is off her game if she’s left all the secondary systems switched on. That’s the kind of rookie mistake that makes you the laughingstock of boot camp.

It does get Kione curious, though. She remembers something from one of the rebel debriefings about how Ancyor’s computer systems have been seriously overhauled. Their engineers can’t even get into most of the files. They’re locked out with heavy-duty imperial codes.

But if Sartha plugged in her authorization…

Impulse takes over. Kione clambers up into the cockpit. It should feel like a violation to sit there in Sartha’s place, but she’s already past that. She turns her attention to the viewscreens. Everything’s unlocked. Jackpot—or not. After a cursory inspection, it’s clear most of the files are hopelessly corrupted. Kione shouldn’t be surprised, after the beating Ancyor took. She’s about to give up when something intact catches her eye.

A two-way recorded vid transmission, timestamped to the very moment Kione and the rebels ambushed Sartha on the bridge.

Privacy be damned. Kione hits play.

The recording starts up. Sartha’s voice starts playing, and the viewscreen shows her a grainy, flickering, distorted image that only slowly resolves into the shape of a woman.

At once, Kione knows. It’s her.

Sartha’s imperial handler.

‘Taking fire,’ Sartha is saying. ‘Ambush at waypoint three. I see five hostiles.’

‘Only five? Interesting.’

The handler’s voice sends shivers down Kione’s spine. She’s never heard a woman sound quite so bloodlessly cold. She’s wearing an imperial uniform of some kind, although not one Kione’s familiar with. It’s all long, black, unnervingly neat leather, complete with a crisp visor cap that makes her sleek, near-white hair all the more striking. The damage to the recording makes her face hard to make out clearly, but Kione can’t quite shake the irrational feeling that those ice-cold eyes aren’t looking at Sartha, weeks in the past. They’re looking right at her, right now.

Kione wonders: is this the woman who messed up her Sartha this badly? If so, she should hate her for it. Hate isn’t what she feels, though. Only an instant, itching fascination.

‘Permission to engage?’

For as curt and clinical as Sartha sounds on the recording, there’s still more passion in her voice than Kione has heard from her since the rescue. More than passion. Purpose. Reverence.

Love.

‘Granted,’ the handler says. And then she says something else, in a different, special voice, one underscored with significance that’s as palpable to Kione as it clearly was to Sartha. ‘Sartha. Off The Leash.’

Kione’s eyes go wide as the cockpit is filled with the sounds of growling and snarling.

***

After a quick detour to the infirmary storeroom, Kione is headed for Sartha’s quarters with thunder in her veins. She’s beyond reason. Beyond second-guessing herself. She needs answers.

How could Sartha let that woman do that to her?

Kione doesn’t know exactly what she just heard, but she knows some sick sex shit when she sees it. She knew it had been bad, whatever brainwashing the imperials had pulled on her. She hadn’t realized Sartha had been getting her rocks off the entire time.

That’s what you need, Sartha? That? You couldn’t have just asked me?

The sounds of Sartha barking and growling like a dog at that handler’s command are seared eternally into her memory. Even after her friend’s pitiful performance in their duel, she hadn’t believed Sartha Thrace could sink that low. Yeah, she was never a saint. But she always had dignity. She had standards. Kione had always counted on her for that much.

Now, all that seemed like it meant nothing at all.

Kione’s broken faith is curdling into something anguished and dark. Her grip on the small, brown bag in her hand is so tight it hurts. She’s tried reminding herself that it wasn’t Sartha’s fault. She was captured. Brainwashed. That doesn’t help. It doesn’t soothe the pain of betrayal. Kione needs answers. Real answers.

She needs to see who Sartha Thrace really is.

When she reaches Sartha’s quarters, Kione doesn’t bother to knock. She just pushes her way in. She finds Sartha lying down and staring at the wall—not even on the bed, gods, on the fucking floor—but once she sees Kione, she scrambles to her feet quickly enough. The look of numb shock on her pretty face is deeply satisfying.

“Damn, Sartha,” Kione sneers. “Didn’t realize that if I wanted to get you to come running to my bunk for a change, all I needed to do was cry ‘heel’.”

All at once, Sartha goes pale. “You-“

“Yeah, I saw. In Ancyor. Shut down the computers for you, by the way. Wouldn’t want anyone else checking out the comms log, huh?”

“Gods…” Sartha whispers.

Finally, she looks ashamed of herself. Good. She deserves to.

“No wonder you weren’t exactly thrilled to get rescued,” Kione laughs. “Guess they had better doggy treats over there. Did they throw a stick? I should’ve thought to try that.”

“It’s not like that!” Sartha protests.

“Then what was it like?” Kione retorts instantly. “You won’t talk to anyone. Or let me guess: you don’t remember? Yeah, that must be easier than trying to explain how you let some imperial cunt make you her own, personal bitch.”

Without warning, something flashes across Sartha’s face. “Don’t call Her that!” she snaps.

The look in Kione’s wide, wounded eyes says it all. An instant later, Sartha clasps a hand over her mouth, horrified. At herself? At her conditioned loyalty for her handler?

Or simply at having given herself away?

“Traitor,” Kione hisses.

“I’m not.”

“As far as I can tell, you’re literally in bed with them,” Kione sneers. “Does it feel that good, Sartha? To get treated that way? Like a fucking animal?”

“I-it’s not like that!”

Sartha’s voice turns ever shriller as Kione’s words pierce her. Kione has never felt more powerful. Finally, she can make Sartha Thrace feel something. Finally, she can make her hurt.

“I guess it’s just her, then.” Kione advances further into Sartha’s room, driving her back with each step. “She must be something special, huh? Tell me: what makes her so much better than me? What’s the trick? What does it take to get Sartha Thrace, the great hero of the rebellion, down on her knees?”

“W-what?” Wrong-footed, Sartha almost trips. She’s so clumsy now. Has she always been that way? That flawed?

“And you need her to pilot properly? Is that it?” Kione is addicted to twisting the knife. She’s not sure she’ll ever get enough. “So you can do it for them, but not for me. Not for your comrades. What do you call that, if not being a fucking traitor?”

“Stop. Please.”

That’s what she’s reduced to. Begging. Clasping her hands to her head like a child. As weeks of frustration pour out of Kione, she wonders why she ever let Sartha make her feel anything at all, if this is all she is once you peel back the layers.

“Or this what you need, Sartha?”

Kione reaches into the bag in her hand and takes out Sartha’s muzzle. It had been easy to swipe from the infirmary. Not like anyone wanted to keep a close eye on it. As she thrusts it out toward Sartha, she watches the rebel ace go very still, eyes slowly widening.

“Go on. Give it a try,” Kione spits. “Maybe then you’ll be less of a joke.”

Sartha can’t stop looking at it. She’s clearly on the verge of breaking down. Part of Kione can’t bear to see it. Another part, the part that’s in the driving seat, wants to push her over the edge.

“Kione,” Sartha whimpers. “P-please.”

No. No, she really can’t stand how pathetic Sartha sounds. Where’s the bestial thing Kione fought on the bridge? At least that pilot is useful. At least she makes for a real fight.

Maybe there’s a way. A twisted flower of an idea blossoms in her head. At first it seems absurd, and too cruel to consider. But Kione’s realizing she can enjoy being cruel. And she also knows that if she never tries it, she’ll never stop wondering.

“Sartha,” Kione pronounces, trying her best to sound a little like that woman on the recording. To fill her voice with all the weight and power and dismissive authority she can summon. “Off The Leash.”

With those simple words, Sartha Thrace goes away. And the beast wakes up.

Now that she’s seeing it up close and personal, though, Kione’s realizing that it’s not quite a beast. Not exactly. A beast is strong, yes, and ferocious. But a beast is wild. The not-person waking before her now, a look of dull confusion in its faded eyes, is not wild. In their previous encounter, Kione was simply on the wrong end of the leash. Now she sees beyond the ferocity. She sees the chains. She sees the unfailing obedience, and the deep, gnawing need for a guiding hand.

Yes. This is a captive animal. It has been broken. Brought to heel.

It’s not a beast.

It’s a Hound.

“Fuck,” Kione gasps.

She should feel guilty, right? Whatever she’s just done to Sartha—that’s what they did. The imperials. It’s wrong. Obviously.

But if it’s so wrong, why is curiosity the only thing Kione feels?

“Sartha?” she ventures.

The only reply she gets is a faint, guttural noise from Hound’s throat. The look in the wretched thing’s eyes is guarded, but not necessarily hostile. More than anything, she’s confused. Why is Kione the one who’s calling it to attention? That’s not normal.

Kione gets it at once. Tame dogs don’t always take to a new master right away.

They need a firm, confident hand.

“Here,” she says, holding out the muzzle. “This is what you want, isn’t it?”

Hound is just as transfixed by the object as Sartha was—already, the two are distinct in Kione’s head—but differently so. Sartha seemed, at least on some level, horrified by it. Hound isn’t. Kione sees longing in its eyes. The muzzle is a comfort.

Hound glances up at Kione briefly. Studying her. Assessing her. Then, very slightly, it bows its head.

Kione has been around enough animals to know what that means. She reaches out and presses the cage of the muzzle over Hound’s mouth. Then, she slips the leather straps over its head and into position—one above her ears, one below. She tightens them until Hound lets out a faint gurgle of satisfaction.

As she steps back to assess her handiwork, Kione feels a little bit like a god.

It’s not dissimilar to how she feels when she’s piloting, really. The superiority. The certain knowledge that she has the power to reach down from the skies and snuff out any poor fool who catches her attention. It’s amazing, and Kione is far from the first pilot to feel its allure. But—as the rebels who hire her are always quick to remind her—it’s not her fight.

What she’s doing to Sartha? This is hers. It’s ownership.

Fuck. It’s hot. Really, insanely, mind-blowingly hot.

And like all newborn gods, Kione is desperate for a deeper taste of her own power.

"Hey,” she says. “You’ll do what I tell you, right?” She reaches out and thumbs the collar of Sartha’s jacket. “Take this off.”

There’s a little glint of something in Hound’s eyes. Like she’s bristling at a command from someone who isn’t her precious handler. Kione is ready to be challenged—but in the end, Hound simply nods and slips obediently out of her jacket.

As soon as her shoulders come into view, Kione is breathing hard. Gods, Sartha is hot. Athletic, as any soldier is, but compared to Kione she’s a little slight. Delicate, in a certain light—not that she’d ever allow Kione to experience her that way. She lets Kione touch her, but she won’t let anyone possess her.

Until, of course…

That thought fouls Kione’s mood once again. An urge rises within her: to wipe away the stain on Sartha’s honor with force. To erase what was done by overwriting it. To stamp her mark of ownership on Sartha Thrace so deep there’s no trace of anyone else’s.

Kione barely knows what that would actually mean. But she knows she wants it.

“Take this off.” She indicates Hound’s tank top. “And… the rest.”

Again, Hound tenses—but again, she obeys. As she tilts her head back to lift her top off over the muzzle, Kione notes that she must have done this many, many times before. That deepens the wound and the urge both. But for the moment, she’s entranced by the sight of Hound taking her clothes off at her command to reveal Sartha’s body.

It’s funny. Sartha was always the kind of top who’d make the other girl undress first.

Without her clothes, she looks different. Vulnerable. Kione’s anger ebbs away, drained by the simple spectacle of her friend’s body. Though there’s so many things she wants to do, all the merc can bring herself to do right away is reach out and place her hand on Hound’s side, stroking up and down a little.

She’s gentle. Something about that makes Hound growl. Kione guesses she isn’t used to gentleness. A pang of guilt hits her. Right. This is what they did. The bad guys. Stripping her. Touching her. Kione isn’t like them if she goes through with this, is she?

It’s an uncomfortable thought. One that gives her genuine pause. But then she remembers all that she’s seen of Sartha these past few weeks. Listless. Gray. Dead. She remembers what Sartha told her about needing her other side back. About needing Hound.

No. This is simply Kione giving Sartha what she needs.

It’s for the best, isn’t it?

Kione is reassured. And better still, she’s wondering if, perhaps, at last, she’ll be able to get her beloved friend back.

“Sartha,” Kione says quietly. “I missed you. I missed you a lot.”

Hound blinks, uncomprehending. Sartha is not here. Sartha does not want to be here.

“Without you, everything seems…” Kione sighs. “Whatever. Just… let me touch you.”

Hound will, of course. As unsettling as she finds Kione’s gentleness, she will not disobey. Compliance has long since been branded into the core of her being. Hound just stands there as Kione steps closer, hand moving across her skin; her side, then her hip, then her chest.

“Gods,” Kione breathes. This feels almost sacred.

Compared to the urges that possessed her mere moments ago, the things she wants now are almost embarrassing in their naivety. Her travesty of a duel with Sartha and the deeply fucked-up situation she’s created for herself have ruined her nerves. Amidst all that, she wants familiarity. She wants her friend. She wants what she always wanted.

To be the apple of Sartha Thrace’s eye.

“You’re beautiful,” Kione whispers. She’s always thought someone should tell Sartha that. She gets called so many other things: hot, cool, brave, heroic. But not beautiful. Nobody thinks to call her that.

Kione knows what she needs to hear. Even if right now, she’s not truly hearing it.

“Look at me,” Kione instructs. Hound, as ever, obeys. Kione moves in to kiss her before the absurdity of that gives her pause. They can’t kiss. The muzzle is in the way.

What does that leave? Just one thing. The craving that’s been burning a hole in Kione ever since she first dragged Sartha out of Ancyor’s wreck.

“Fuck me,” Kione orders Hound. “Just like you used to.”

Hound’s nostrils flare. She tilts her head. It’s not the kind of command she’s used to. Kione senses her reservations. She presses closer still, wrapping her arms tentatively around Hound’s naked body. Her warmth is intoxicating. Kione is overcome—and she notices Hound’s body beginning to react too. Clearly she isn’t the only one with pent-up needs.

“Don’t worry,” she whispers desperately. “I’m giving you permission. Y-you can be rough with me. You know it makes me feel good.”

Her breathy voice raises hairs on Hound’s neck. She can sense her words melting away Hound’s reluctance. She’s so close to giving Kione everything she wants.

Kione blinks, and before she can tell what’s happened, she’s face-down on Sartha’s cot.

Oh, right. Hound shoved her. Kione shivers rapturously at the realization. Finally. She gets to be Sartha’s again.

Before she can drink in the moment, Hound is on top of her, pressing down with her entire body weight. It forces all the air from Kione’s lungs, and as she tries to turn her face up to look at Hound, she finds her cold, hard muzzle pressing painfully against her cheek. Her ear fills with the sound of loud, voracious growling, and a splatter of drool falls on her skin.

Once more, she’s dealing with a beast.

Hound starts pawing and clawing at Kione’s clothes. Her desire is clear, though impossible to fulfill with Kione pinned down like this. Kione tries pushing up on Hound so she can get the room to slip out of her jumpsuit; Hound responds by reaching up and clamping her hand down hard around Kione’s neck.

Kione freezes up as her air is cut off. It’s more than just a warning. She can’t breathe. Kione’s combat instincts swell, but something even greater rises to quash them. A prey-urge. Something Sartha Thrace helped her to cultivate. It’s still. It’s an ocean. It pacifies her, and fills her with a paradoxical bliss. By the time Hound lets her breathe again, there is no part of Kione that wants to do anything but submit.

After several long moments, Hound lets up. Kione gasps for air, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t try to rise or change position.

She knows her place in this dynamic now. Hound has given her a simple, brutal, unmistakable demonstration.

Hound growls and tugs at Kione’s jumpsuit again before clambering off of her. Without hesitation, Kione starts undressing herself. She gets to take better care of herself than most soldiers. Gotta spend all that cash on something. But it’s not confidence that makes her so eager to strip. It’s simple eagerness.

She wants Sartha to look at her. She needs it.

The need is burning through her. Kione’s dark skin is flushed a deep red, and her body heaves with every breath. Precum is already dripping from her cock.

She’s been rock hard ever since she dropped Hound’s trigger phrase.

While she strips, Hound is searching through Sartha’s bag. Kione already knows for what, but she still gasps in delicious shock when she sees it.

It’s the rebel hero’s strap-on and harness.

Hound slips the harness around her hips with practiced ease. By the time she’s tightened the straps and fixed her artificial cock in place. Kione is all but drooling for it. She aches, but she knows better than to make the first move. Hound has made that perfectly clear.

Hound approaches her, kneeling there on the bed. She surveys Kione for a moment as her hand works up and down, coating her strap with lubricant. Kione shivers. Not with cold, just with anticipation. She longs for Sartha’s touch; slow, teasing, coaxing her to a delicious, roiling boil of need so desperate it wipes away the stain of all her dark thoughts. Sartha knows just how to get a girl worked up. She’s as good as that as she is at piloting.

Kione only realizes something is wrong when Hound pounces atop her again and pushes her face into the pillow with more roughness and force than Sartha would ever have used.

Even if the coarse pillow hadn’t been there to muffle her words, Kione wasn’t sure she would have been able to mount any protest. She’s lost to subspace. Smothered by that heady bliss, words and thoughts come to her like treacle. But as Hound begins to mount her, Kione becomes dimly aware that this isn’t what she had wanted. It doesn’t feel the way it once had.

This isn’t her Sartha.

Then Hound levels her strap against Kione and pushes down into her with her whole weight, and even that thought slips away as Kione howls her moans into the bed.

There is nothing gentle about the way Hound fucks her. Certainly nothing romantic. It’s passionate, yes, but more like an animal’s mating rut than a lover’s touch. Now that Kione has given her permission, Hound is set on just one thing: discharging her urges. There is, though, a certain flair to the way she growls and snaps and rakes Kione’s back with her fingernails while she thrusts in and out of the mercenary.

Hound is enjoying it. Getting off on it. There’s no doubt about that. But it’s something else, too. Hound is used to this, and as more than a source of gratification.

As a way to establish dominance.

In a more lucid moment, Kione wonders about that. About what kind of sick carnival Sartha’s brainwasher orchestrated for her. Are there other hounds too? There are rumors about that, and Kione knows Sartha isn’t the only pilot to go MIA under strange circumstances. There have been a few by now. Aritimis, for instance.

In her mind’s eye, Kione can see it. Deep in the bowels of some imperial facility, captured pilots kept like dogs. Pitted against each other constantly. Fighting and fucking for position. Win or lose, it affirms their new, hollowed selves.

Kione shivers. It’s awful, of course. But she can see the elegance of the design.

Lucidity doesn’t last long. Kione orgasms fast. It’s been too long, and Hound is merciless. Even the bitter stimulation of the coarse bedsheets rubbing against her cock is more than Kione can take. Kione spews her mess all over them with a weak, whining gasp that doesn’t sound so different to some of Hound’s growls.

But Hound doesn’t stop there. Once she sets herself to the task, her endurance proves almost limitless. Her grunts and irregular howls grow steadily more ragged and high as she keeps fucking Kione, drawing pleasure herself from the rhythmic grinding of her strap against her cunt. It drives Kione to the next peak before she’s recovered, and then again, and again, and again, until her pleasure comes dry. Until she is spent.

Still, Hound keeps going.

Eventually, Kione becomes numb to the pleasure. She becomes a simple vessel for what Hound gives her. As much a brute animal as her top, grunting and moaning and humping as she’s pounded into the mattress over and over again. It feels awful. It feels amazing. Kione wants it to stop. She wants more. She wants everything. She wants the moment to go on forever, because at least now, even if it’s all wrong, Sartha Thrace is hers, hers, hers.

But it ends, of course. Once Hound’s strength is all spent, she simply collapses in a great heap atop Kione’s back. Kione is too exhausted to do anything but lie there beneath her, prone and still, as she feels loops of Hound’s drool dripping from the muzzle to stain her hair. With Hound’s face so close to her, she can hear all the little growls that come from her throat. Gleeful. Proud. Content, as only a fed, good, obedient dog can be.

Tears come into Kione’s eyes. She can’t quite tell if they’re good or bad.

For a long time, they lie there like that, wet and exhausted and expended. Kione drifts in and out of sleep and, as the bliss of submission slowly recedes from her, she starts to wonder, again, about the significance of what she’s just done.

Before she can come to terms with that, though, she realizes something else: it’s not Hound anymore. It’s Sartha again. And she’s crying.

Instinctively, Kione moves to free herself. She turns and props herself up so she can face Sartha. She’s ready to apologize. To prostrate herself in shame. She’s even ready for Sartha to hit her, or recoil from her in disgust and fear.

The last thing she expects is for Sartha to press desperately close to her, tears falling on Kione’s skin, as if the great hero of the rebellion is terrified of even an inch of distance existing between them.

Slowly, Kione’s anxieties fade. She wraps herself up around Sartha so she can embrace her while she cries, and hushes her sobs with sweet, comforting nothings until they ebb away like all the rest of her.

“Don’t worry,” Kione murmurs to Sartha as she lays her down to sleep, an unbidden sense of confidence moving through her. “I’ll save you, Sartha. I promise. I finally know how.”

---

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