#lethal and emotionless

[chaotic-orphan]

Partners in Crime (Merry Whump of May: day 21)

Charismatic : “sit”// vial // balcony

Tw: forced swallowing of suspicious substance, handcuffs, small spaces

Completely unedited :) so read at your peril

~*~*~*~*~*~

Casper let out a groan as the car finally came to a stop. With his hands cuffed behind his back and his legs bunched up in the tight space, there was no way to stop himself from hitting his head off a corner at the sudden stop. It only aggravated his headache from the beating Monroe’s goons had given him before they stuffed him in here.

Casper heard two car doors open and close followed by footsteps that got closer and closer to the boot. Casper knew this was inevitable, if you stuff someone in a boot and park the car, usually you’re going to have to remove them from the boot, but still… his heart pounded all the same.

It was Gavin who opened the boot and stared down at Casper with a wicked grin. “Enjoy the ride, Casper?”

“I’d enjoy it more if I didn’t have to see your face, ugly,” Casper replied, already moving to sit up in the boot which turned out to be more of an effort than he initially thought.

As soon as he sat up Gavin had a fist wrapped into Hero’s shirt and yanked him forward. Casper’s eyes went wide but he could do nothing to stop himself as his body went with gravity and he fell face first onto the concrete. At the last-minute Casper jutted his shoulder forward, taking the brunt of the impact there instead his face but it still hurt.

“You’re such a dick,” Casper spat, rolling onto his back and wanting to kick his legs at Gavin. He would have too, except for his legs being dead. His blood fizzed as feeling slowly returned to him. Gavin let out a stupid laugh that grated on Casper’s ears, hurting more than the fall.

God… Casper really wanted Monroe to just kill the fucker already. Give Casper some peace, hire better goons.

“Oi,” the other goon called, voice drawl and monotone. “What’s the holdup?”

“He’s being difficult,” Gavin said in reply. Casper heard a sigh and then the other guy walked around the car to see Casper lying on the ground. Casper instantly scurried backwards as best he could on his cuffed hands and pins-and-needle-riddled legs that was just becoming awake.

Monroe’s other favourite goon, who Casper only knew as Dante, was far scarier than Gavin thought he was. He was lethal, efficient and humourless. His pale eyed stare pinned Casper in place after Casper’s back hit the wall. Casper watched as Dante reached behind his back and retrieved his gleaming pistol, drawing back the hammer and loading a round into the chamber with the simple flick of his thumb.

Dante inclined his head, voice monotone as he said: “would you like to walk up to Monroe’s suite, Casper? Or crawl?”

Casper set his mouth into a resolute, thin line, trying to maintain any of his dignity that vanished when Dante was involved. “I think I’ll walk,” Casper replied, already pushing himself up by leveraging his back against the wall.

Dante’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t holster his pistol; he just walked over to Casper and grabbed the crook of his elbow before pushing him towards the lift that led to the hotel above. Casper knew exactly where he was. Dante had brought him here multiple times before. The handcuffs and the boot treatment was new, but Casper didn’t have to think twice about why he was cuffed. Why Dante was being especially impatient…

Gavin followed him into the lift and pressed the button for the penthouse suite. This was when the nerves usually kicked in, but today Casper was more scared of Dante than Monroe. Monroe, he could sweet talk. Dante was like talking to a wall. An imposing, emotionless brick of a wall. The only advantage Casper had for assurances that Dante wouldn’t kill him was Monroe’s… fondness for Casper.

On good days, Casper liked to think on his relationship like more of a partnership. Where Casper and Monroe were equals. That’s the way it had always been, but lately… well, things have been tense to say the least.

He cast his eyes to the ascending numbers of the lift, watching every floor rise until he reached floor 63: Monroe’s home, the penthouse suite.

Dante punched in the six-digit passcode to enter the penthouse, while Gavin nudged Casper with his shoulder. “You fucked up big this time Casper, I don’t think Monroe’s gonna be so forgiving.”

Casper scoffed, glancing back over his shoulder to Gavin. “Even if he kills me, it would be a blessing. At least I wouldn’t have to stand so close to you.”

“You just think you’re so smart, don’t ya?” Gavin cursed, shoving Casper forward. Casper didn’t brace for a push and so he stumbled forward, just at the perfect timing that the lift doors opened. Casper lost his balance but recovered slightly and only dropped to one knee.

“I don’t think I’m smart, Gavin,” Casper replied easily, getting one foot under him. He shot a smirk over his shoulder to the bull in a China shop and said: “I just know I’m smarter than you.”

Casper got his second foot under him and went to stand but froze when he felt Gavin’s meaty hand on the back of his neck.

“Why you little—”

Dante’s cool voice cut through Gavin’s no doubt colourful insults. “You’ve wasted enough time already.”

Gavin’s hand disappeared from Casper’s neck, instead Dante’s hand replaced it and yanked Casper up. Before Casper could protest, Dante shoved him forward, further into Monroe’s apartment, the threat clear. Keep walking or else.

“Okay, alright! I’m going,” Casper grumbled, rolling his shoulders, thankful his legs had stopped prickling and was now fully functioning. Casper walked into the kitchen and froze.

Sitting at the kitchen island with a steaming cup of coffee beside him sat Monroe. He smiled when he saw Casper and stood to greet him. A hand pressed between Casper’s shoulder blades shoved him further into the kitchen, barely catching himself.

“Casper,” Monroe greeted, his voice soft and melodic like a warm tenor, pleasing on the ear. “I’m so happy to see you.”

Casper bit back his unhelpful reply and just beamed a smile at Monroe instead. He had to play this safe, otherwise he’d probably end up dead. Casper matched Monroe’s steps forward, shrugging as casually as he could with his hands cuffed behind his back.

“Yeah, well. Not every day you get thrown into the boot of a car by two goons, is it?”

Monroe’s grin was sharper than a Stanley blade as he extended a hand to Casper’s forehead where Gavin had slammed his head against the ground to stop him from fleeing.

“You’re bleeding,” Monroe said, tenderly touching the broken skin around the wound. Casper barely caught the greedy look in Monroe’s eyes before he pressed his thumb to Casper’s cut. Casper hissed and recoiled, but Monroe caught the back of Casper’s head with his other hand and kept him still. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes!” Casper hissed, trying to shoulder Monroe away from him.

The corner of Monroe’s lips twitched up. “Good,” he said, digging his thumb in harder before pulling away from Casper altogether. The pain was more of an annoying ache really, a loss of sensation but he wanted to relieve it somehow. He wanted to reach up and press a tender hand to it, but with his hands cuffed he couldn’t really do much of anything.

He watched as Monroe strolled over to retrieve his coffee off the island, then shot a pleasant smile back and Casper.

“Shall we enjoy the sunset on the balcony, Casper?” He asked, but he was walking before Casper could answer. Casper glanced back to Dante and Gavin before setting his jaw and reluctantly following Monroe out to the balcony.

“I’d enjoy the sunset if you took these cuffs off,” Casper told Monroe, voice sweet like honey. Monroe smiled at Casper as he sat in his favourite cushioned armchair and set his coffee on the glass table in front of him.

Monroe gestured for Casper to take his usual seat in front of Monroe’s, “please, sit.”

“You know what, Monroe? I’d love a coffee, if you’re feeling generous,” Casper said with a sigh and a cheeky smile as he settled into his own cushioned chair.

Monroe laughed. “Oh, Casper… I am feeling a lot of things towards you at the moment,” his brown eyes cutting into Casper’s. “Not one of him is generous.”

Casper reclined back into the chair, kissing his teeth and switched his gaze to the bustling city instead. The sunset was beautiful, casting the buildings with soft orange light as the sun sank low into the blue and pink sky. Casper wished he could enjoy it like he usually did. Instead, he was here, sitting across from Monroe and trying his best to ignore the claw of fear that had gripped his chest.

“I thought we had an understanding, Casper,” Monroe began with his soothing tone and sugar-coated words. “I thought we was partners.”

“Yeah,” Casper said with a scoff, turning to look at Monroe. “I thought so too. Then, next thing I know Dante’s at my door, beating the shit out of me to drag me here to you! My phone didn’t break by the way, it still works. Normal people call when he need something.”

Monroe’s eyes flashed with a drop of cruelty, a knowing smirk spreading across his face.

“Are you really trying to play coy with me, Casper?” Monroe asked with a laugh. “We both know you’re smarter than that.”

Casper sat forward in his chair and tried for a charming smile. “How about you take these cuffs off and we can have a lovely little chat, hmm? That’s what you want right? To smooth everything over.”

Monroe hummed, taking a sip of his coffee and glancing out across the city’s skyline. Casper huffed out a scoff and rolled his eyes, glancing back to the door to track where the other two arseholes was.

“Of course, Casper. We can have a civil conversation.”

Casper cocked an eyebrow, waiting for the and, if or, but. Monroe in reply, took something out of his pocket and placed it on the table between him. Casper made a point of looking at it — it was like a scientist’s test tube but smaller with a cork in it, or a vial of some toxic substance. The liquid inside was a deep purple where the sun hit it, but otherwise it looked black. When Casper glanced back at Monroe he was smiling, looking very comfortable and pleased with himself.

The warning bells was already blaring in his mind, so Casper just remained silent. Even if he wanted to speak, he wouldn’t know what to say.

“I’ll take off your cuffs, as long as you drink this.”

“I can’t drink it unless you take the cuffs off,” Casper shot back, agitated.

“Nonsense, “Monroe waved away, grabbing his coffee from the table and nodding at someone behind Casper. “That’s what I pay Dante for.”

A hand crossed in front of Casper, and he recoiled back, his heart racing. He jumped to his feet as Dante appeared in front of him, but a pair of hands on his shoulders dragged him back down to the chair and held him there.

There was a pop as the vial was uncorked.

“No, no, no! Wait!” Casper cried, struggling under Gavin’s hold as Dante stepped too between Casper’s legs that ruled out the use of his legs. “Monroe! What is that?!”

“Open up, Casper,” Dante said in the same monotone droll. “Don’t make me force you.”

Casper’s chest rose and fell too fast as he continued to struggle, turning his head away as Dante reached forward. A hand in Casper’s hair had him crying out as Dante wrenched his head backwards.

“Aagh! Get off of me!” Casper cried, twisting and turning, trying to stop Dante’s hand from getting closer or even better, spilling the fucking contents of the vial.

“Always so difficult,” Dante sighed, yanking Casper’s head back until he was staring at the sky. Casper grit his teeth to keep from crying out or opening his mouth. Dante leaned over Casper, pressing his forearm across Hero’s forehead, keeping him down and with his freehand he grabbed Casper’s nose and plugged it between his fingers.

Casper’s eyes widened, his struggles renewing as he realised what Dante was doing. Those pale, uncaring eyes stared down at Casper’s, waiting for him to open his mouth.

“You could have done it the easy way, you idiot,” Dante said, watching as Casper went purple from holding his breath. The struggling didn’t help with his lack of oxygen and Casper was afraid he’d burst or pass out and so —

Casper gasped and then the cool liquid was running down his throat. Casper coughed and sputtered, trying to spit it out. Before he could, Dante slammed his palm under Casper’s chin and dug his fingers into Casper’s cheek. Those pale eyes stared down soulless and bored.

“Swallow it, you child.”

Casper tried to twist his head free, but Dante didn’t let him. Dante slammed Casper’s head back again, so he was staring at the sky.

“Oi,” Dante drawled. “Do I have to cut off your oxygen again or are ya gonna behave?”

Casper pulled every ounce of hatred from his body into the glare he shot at Dante, his nostrils flaring but he knew there was only one way that this ended.

Casper swallowed the now warm liquid. “Is it gone?”

“Mmph,” Casper tried to affirm.

Dante tilted his head. “Swallow again.”

Casper obeyed. Satisfied, Dante let go of Casper’s cheeks and stepped away. Casper let his head fall forward, rolling his neck to try and get rid of the creak. Dante stepped to the side of Casper’s chair and snapped his fingers onto his palm in a ‘come here’ gesture that Casper understood to mean give Dante his hands.

Casper leaned forward, coughing slightly. Dante grabbed Casper’s cuffed hands none too gently and Casper heard the satisfying click that signalled his freedom.

Casper coughed again as he brought his hands in front of him, glaring at Monroe as he rubbed his wrists.

“What—” Casper said, cutting himself off with a cough. “What was that, Monroe?”

Monroe’s smile was cruel as he leaned forward in his seat, clasping his hands between his knees. Casper’s throat felt so dry, and swallowing wasn’t doing anything to relieve the scratchiness.

“You remember Colt,” Monroe said.

Casper raised his brows. “Yeah? Vaguely?”

“He works in science, in a lab more specifically. Remember he made those power dampeners that the police love.”

“Yeah, they’re not the only ones,” Casper spat pointedly. His wrists weren’t the only things those stupid cuffs affected. It left Casper’s abilities disoriented afterward, something Monroe no doubt wanted Casper to experience. That off kilter, claustrophobic—

Something lurched in Casper’s chest, as if someone had just hit him from inside with a hammer. Casper’s hand went to his chest, fingers digging into his ribcage.

“Something wrong?” Monroe asked kindly.

“What—?” Casper breathed before another pang hit him and Casper jerked forward, taking in two long, panicked lungfuls of air. Casper got to his feet, needing to get away because something was wrong. Something was so so… wrong.

His vision turned as if Casper was on a waltzers or something and he barely managed to brace himself with his hands before he hit the balcony floor, heaving.

“AGH! Mo— Monr—” Casper cried, screaming as his chest burned, spreading a current of pure pain from his heart around his body. Casper’s strength left him as his body convulsed and felt like it was burning. As if an army of fire ants was crawling under his skin, biting and cutting and burning.

Casper curled into a ball, grabbing his knees and digging his nails into his waist as his breath seemed to falter and stop and he was so hot, his mind blind with pain as stars burst behind his eyes and something was wrong!

Casper shivered, his clothes scratching and uncomfortable as he writhed in pain, loud whimpers and screams torn from his throat as the poison made its way through his veins. That’s all that little vial could be… poison. Monroe… Monroe was going to kill him…

As if reading Casper’s thoughts Monroe stood, pressing his heel into Casper’s shoulder and kicking him onto his back. Casper’s glare was probably teary and ineffective, but he glared up all the same as his energy ebbed and flowed through his body, shivering and almost paralysed.

“Yeah, nerdy Colt. Little genius really,” Monroe said with a casual shrug, crouching so he could get closer to Casper. Casper tried to lift his arm and push him away, but he could barely lift it off the ground. “Well, I asked Colt if he could somehow manufacture an ingestible version of the power dampeners.”

Casper’s eye’s widened in horror, mumbling out incoherent protests as his body spasmed beneath him.

“Oh hush, don’t worry. I don’t want your abilities gone, I just wanted to punish you for disobeying me, Casper,” Monroe said softly. His words anything but soothing. He reached out and brushed some of Casper’s sweat-soaked hair from his forehead and smiled down at him almost tenderly. “The effects are temporary, Colt assured me, maybe two or three days—”

“You’re a bastard,” Casper spat, teeth chattering.

Monroe grinned.

“The effects are temporary, Casper, but I hope the message won’t be,” he said as he moved his hand to Casper’s throat and squeezed. Casper’s body only responded weakly, his arm brushing Monroe’s trying to dislodge it, but Monroe leaned so his breath fanned Casper’s cheek. “And if the message gets lost along the way, well, I had back-ups made in case you need a little reminder every now and then.”

Dark spots crowded the edges of Casper’s vision and for a moment he thought Monroe was going to choke him out.

Dante said something to the side and Monroe raised his brows, intrigued. Then as lazily as he cut off Casper’s oxygen he stood to his full height and grabbed his empty mug off the table. Casper gasped in air, turning on his side as he guzzled in sweet, fresh air into his lungs.

His smile was the same, usual charismatic one he wore when he was trying to imitate a human being. “Wonderful. Well Casper, get up. Duty calls. You can’t just lie around on my balcony all day. I’ll put on the kettle.”

Casper rolled onto his back and stared at the colour-streaked sky, his body spent and his mind racing. All he wanted to do right now was sleep, or die, or kill Monroe and Dante— or all three.

As soon as he got his breath back, he’d do one of him. Maybe. Probably, for now he just stared at the sky.

“Casper!” Monroe called from inside. “If you don’t move in the next ten seconds, I’ll get Dante to administer a second dose.”

Casper held up his middle finger through the window, not caring if Monroe even saw it. Reluctantly Casper sat up and got to his feet slowly, using the furniture to help him up.

He had made up his mind: he was going to kill Monroe…

after coffee.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

[therealsophiependragon]

okay but Mai did care. Like Mai gave many, many fucks about stuff. She's not someone who outwardly expresses a ton of emotion, but "I love Zuko more than I fear you" was not a one-off fluke, guys, it was a build-up.

I heard someone say a while ago that Azula, Mai, and Ty Lee are great representations of what women look like under the patriarchy. Azula becomes incredibly competitive and ambitious, the boss lady, pushing herself further than anyone else would have had to in order to get the respect of her father and his court. And she still has to work really hard for it, they constantly like question her and stuff which is very well-displayed in her opening scene. Not saying Azula's a victim guys. Please don't misunderstand me guys. Please don't mangle what I'm saying guys. But I firmly believe that a significant shaping of Azula was from her environment, and part of her environment was the Fire Nation's sexism.

Now Mai keeps her emotions in check and might be what a drunk guy on the street or an ex-boyfriend or a father might call an 'emotionless bitch,' whereas Azula is a 'psychopathic bitch' or a 'crazy bitch' which you know fair but also we're talking about Mai now. Mai grew up in an environment where a shit ton was expected of her and she had to respect the authority figures being her father and mother even though her father quite obviously didn't know things as well as she did. She had to clam up and keep quiet because that's what a lady was supposed to do, but she turned that silence lethal, and it isn't that she's numb or emotionless or doesn't care, she's just safer and taken more seriously if she's silent, and so Mai doesn't talk unless she has something to say.

Ty Lee is over-compensatingly feminine and girly, which is another way women act out under oppression. People think she's a ditz and even Azula underestimates and condescends to her at times, and maybe she acts this way because she genuinely feels like this is who she is, but sometimes when I see Ty Lee, I see myself in social situations. When people make me feel dumb, I automatically feel like I have to lean into that and make myself seem even dumber even if I'm not. I feel the need to giggle and tease and make self-deprecating one-offs about how I'm blonde or how I left my brain at home and all that shit, and I think Ty Lee does this too. Like a fear-response technique. And she acts this way a lot around Azula too which is telling because Azula embraced and sharpened a lot of traditionally masculine dispositions to use as weapons, and Ty Lee sees that.

So Mai and Ty Lee are really just protecting themselves I feel like. Not saying that they aren't being 'their true selves' onscreen or that, unafraid, they'd be completely different people than presented - there's actually evidence against this - but I'm sick of people presenting Mai as some emotionless and uncaring person who gives no fucks because that's not who she is. Istg like

[marchcozen]

I stop and admire the scenery, sometimes, and i never see it again. Sprawling, lush fields yearn graciously for the horizon, while tall, slim, off yellow monoliths strike down the attempt with an emotionless posture. Windows with no glass, with no meaning, no passerby or viewer to perceive any landscape, outside or in. desks and lamps, kitchens and bathrooms, decor all entailed, with no resident to neglect small daily uses, create stains and rips never to be redone. An entire city of bountiful resource, a haven for all, and taken by none. A small respite, a vigil of peace, ignored. For none with the self perceived sins of lethality, of the self made consequence of a war waged not by two parties, but one, could accept the warmth of a shelter made free. Those decided against themselves, decided against accepting anything, save the nook of misery, as home. The windowless sanctuary of peace, was never made for them.

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Pt.66)

(Sneek peak)(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: Your track record with trying to survive is a checkered one. This is a red spot among the black and white.

Tags: Blood, Guns, violence, near death experiences, everyone lives nobody dies...but someone does die this chapter, horror, non-lethal injury, talks of death and dying, a bit of body horror, forced murder? Trans! tae, Tae is briefly dead named in this, implied/referenced intimate partner violence, flashbacks, brief suicidality.

W/c: 8.0k

A/N: ahhhhhh <3 we're finally ready for this part of the story <3 i wonder what your guys reactions will be, i'm really glad i decided to split this chapter into two peices! it's much cleaner this way. don't be 🥲 too mad at me.

Previous part - Masterlist - First part

Chapter 66: Go for the Throat

You hold your breath. Still peering around the corner, watching and waiting for the man to spot you.

But he doesn't, after a breath where his soft footsteps echo, you wait, but nothing happens. You peak back around the corner. 

You absorb and catalog the details as fast as you can; the black ski mask, covered by one of those traditional masks, wooden with red lacquer. This one is a little different than the one that Jimin had; this one is white with red splotch on the cheeks, not twisted with thick eyebrows in a snarl. Like a ghost sent down from above to rob you of your humanity.

The bulletproof vest stops at the collarbones. The gun itself is black and a generic model. The long end is extra bulbous with something that might be an attached silencer. Hands covered in black nitrile gloves, leathery at first glance. There is a knife at his waist along with a barrage of other small things. Rope and a knife, duct tape and handcuffs. His heavy boots look steel toed and reinforced.

The man (because it is a man you realize; tall, maybe taller than Namjoon) trains his gun at the landing on the top of the stairs. Pointing it in the direction of Hobi, Tae, and Jin’s hushed voices.

Hobi giggles and it sounds so bright. Echoing off the walls and filling the house.

There is a phone cord tangled in your hands, long and white. You grip it tight.

This man might be silent but you’re quieter as you slide your bare feet across the smooth floors. Your strides are so quiet, you take one step and then another until you're behind the man, mirroring him.

You remember when Yoongi redid the floors, it was one of the few things that he did right away- before the pack came to live here (to love here). It took him weeks and weeks of sanding before he got them to his liking. Days more of brown dark stain that colored his hands ruddy until the soft matte finish stuck. Every pass with the belt sander and dirty rag a movement of love, a meditation for it.

Yoongi made every inch of this house with the same loving intent; to make it a home for all of you. You won’t let it become a grave. You won’t let this person stay here and ruin it.

Most people get it wrong; In order to kill, it is not a matter of elegance or effort. There is no such thing as a perfect kill, emotionless and analytic. it being justified only gets you halfway. There is no way to do it perfectly or cleanly. People die just as they live, messy and hopeful and dirty.

Murder isn't a matter or wanting or wishing, It’s a matter of rage.

It’s always been this way. Rage has been chewing a hole through you from the moment that you pulled the trigger with Geumjae. From the moment you said ‘I do’. Rage that these violent things have been done to you, that they continue to happen, that you can’t just get away from all the hurt and trauma.

Rage has eaten you clean through to the bone. Only now you're the hungry one. Right now, only three words run through your head;

How dare she.

How dare she send this man into your house. How dare she point a gun at the upstairs, in the general direction of your nest and your packmates. The altar at which you so desperately cling to, for sweet dreams and sweet worship. How dare she even think about hurting the people you love.

There is no courage, no bravery, no thought in your head about how stupid it might be as you step closer behind the man. You are not a trained assassin. You’re just an omega.

The adrenaline rush is an old friend, you know how to use it. You grip the phone cord in your hands and take a quiet steadying breath. He doesn't see you, he doesn't hear you, he doesn't know that you're behind him.

Wolves always go for the throat, whether they’re cornered or hunting.

The assassin’s foot ascends the bottom step. You don’t let him get to the second before you’re moving, hurtling forward. Footsteps light as a butterfly’s wings. Your hands go over the man’s shoulders. The cord no more than a white flash across his vision before you draw it tight across his neck.

Coming Saturday February 3rd at 5pm EST (Time Zone Adjustments Below)

[threepandas]

The Vod's List: Part 3

The Separatist Army tries invade the Techganic homeworld and DIES SCREAMING.

I... I am cackling like a broken laugh 'track, in a low Senatorial staff seating area. Pretty sure everyone thinks I've lost my chips. But... BUT THEY DON'T GET IT! It's so FUNNY!? Oh Bones and Blood! Oh karking STARS!!! Of all the kriffing PLANETS to PHYSICALLY INVADE with DROIDS!!!

DROIDS!

I am wheezing. Gasping for air. Slowly tipping out of my chair as I all but seize silently in spasms of sheer, incredulous, amusement. Oh Stars, I'm gonna die. My gut is on fire and I DONT CARE. Droids! Just... just DROPPED UM right into the capitals like "here ya go! Surrender flesh bags!"

Pfffahahahahaha!

I finally slip, only for a gloved hand to catch my shoulder gently, keeping me from crashing to the floor. A calculated step and lift, brings my shoulder to brace against the side of familiar armor. A guard. I manage to glance up through my incoherent laughing fit. I know that armor!

"Fox!" I grin, glad I am starting to be able to tell the gaurds apart. It always felt rude to have to keep asking their names, even when I by all rights SHOULD already know them. "Good morning."

"Ma'am." He nods. I still don't get why people think they're 'emotionless'. Even through the voicecoder, his voice is warm. "Funny joke?"

"The Separatists invaded my planet." I laugh. At his questioning head tilt, I grin MEANLY from behind my mask. "Remember how we met? And you got infected? EVERYONE on my planet is some version of carrier, either Organic or Technological. Depending on where those droids land? They are either FOOD or free scrap metal. The Collective will EAT them. And folks back home?"

I glanced around, trying to find the room's cameras. Fox casually pointed before stepping between it's line of sight and me. Kriff he was so cool. I grabbed one of the old datapads I was supposed to dump in the recycler after my break. No one would miss if I threw one in the biohazard shoot instead... probably.

I turned it on. Showing it worked. A perfectly functioning, if old, datapad. Then? I listened to that old, old, OLD instinct in the back of my head that karking HATED technology. That honestly would be happier living in a stone shack on a distant moon, surrounded by growth. That could, at a glance, pick apart any given peice of technology's weak points.

Not to slice it. Or IMPROVE it. But to BREAK it. Irreparably.

My eyes found the weak point in the screen almost immediately. A point where fingers had worn it thin. Smack! I cracked it against the table, like an animal trying to open trying to open a nut. It cracked. And that was all I needed. All ANY of us would ever need, really.

Just One Little Crack.

I pulled off my mask, knowing my face was probably doing that... THING. That "super intent Murder Hunter" thing that we all do, when our instincts engage. But I wanted to show Fox. I trusted him. So I flexed my jaw and thought of the lift, of how me met, the STRESS. Just enough to get a bit of drool.

Then... I let it drop onto the screen.

The reaction, was of course, IMMEDIATE.

The datapad hissed and squealed, screen glitching violently. I carefully put it down, familiar with what was about to happen. Fox... was not. He watched. Frozen. Entranced. As the datapad burned and melted from within. Was CONSUMED. As my nanites wrecked hell in their final moments before dying, no longer supported by my body. Some of course, simply falling dormant.

Those were the lethal ones. The trap for future Collective members trying to reclaim tech. It's why all infected materials had to be treated as a biohazard. Those nanites stayed viable for upwards of a century AT LEAST. Several, in the right condition.

So droids? Ha! We were BIOENGINEERED to fight "droids"! We WERE the original GAR. What was that Human saying? "Nothing new in the Galaxy?" That.

Fox was taking even, measured, breaths. Clenching and unclenching his hand. His voice sounded... strained, as he agreed. That, yes. We WERE very, VERY alike. And that that was FASCINATING. Could his spit do that now too?

I... didn't know. Huh.

I blinked. First up at him. Then down at the 'pad. I hadn't considered that. Kriff. Well THAT was irresponsible of me. Yeah, yeah we should probably schedule some Techganic 101 lessons, shouldn't we? Since... you know, assuming you SURVIVE infection and first "heal"? It's kinda a one and done sort of thing.

You can't get... double infected? It very much IS a you ARE or you AREN'T a carrier. And even THEN... one of two kinds, which CAN NOT peacefully coexist.

Plus... since it's adapted to the Guards biology, a spread would be SUPER easy?

.........I..... I SHOULD tell someone.

But what would happen to Fox? I'm not blind. People aren't exactly... KIND to Clones. Would they decide its just easier to get rid of him? My gut say probably. Experience says likely. I've barely even STARTED working at the Senate and... well...

Maybe I should keep my mouth shut. WE should keep our mouth shut.

"This time, I'll be the one looking out for YOU, kay Fox?"

"Of course. I'll leave my self in your capable hands. I have no doubt... I'll learn A LOT."

There is something intent about the way he stands, the way he's bracketing me into my chair. The almost soft, warm but cloying quality to his voice. Like he's trying not to make it obvious he's handling me. Like I'm some import dignitary he wants to avoid upsetting. But one he LIKES. It's strange... I'm certain I'm missing something...

At least I have plenty of other Guards around to ask.

[radiance1]

"There is two of you."

Logos leaned back in his seat, resting his head against his fist as he stared at a screen displaying Pathos, currently being buried beneath a mass of different ghostly animals. "That there is."

Distain crossed Damian's face. "Who in their right mind would ever clone the likes of you, brother?" He waved a hand at the screen, a small flash of envy that crossed his heart over seeing the clone buried beneath a mass of fluff, before blinking, and jerking his head and Daniel's direction. "Full offense."

"None taken." Logos's voice was cold and emotionless, containing a more mechanical edge due to the voice changer installed in his gas mask. "Pathos is not my clone, he is half of me." Logos raised his other hand before Damian could speak. "We were torn apart, in case you were wondering."

Damian hummed, moving his eyes away from the screen and around the lab. Giving a begrudging nod at the extreme cleanliness, and eyeing a few of the tech left around, before turning back to his twin with a raised eyebrow. "I can't imagine the reason you called me here was for a mere chat."

Logos nodded. "Pathos wishes to become a hero, yet I have a different goal." Logos stood up from his chair, walking over to Danny until he was relatively close and held out a hand. "Such that I am unable to watch over him at every turn, so, dear brother. Will you look over him in my stead?"

Damian stared at the outstretched hand, before back at Daniel's gas mask covered face. His face was calm as he stared back at his twin, before clicking his tongue. "Tt. As pathetic as always. Such incompetence that you need others to clean up whatever mess your other half will surely bring." Damian crossed his arms, glaring at his twin.

"I will not be that person, Daniel."

Logos hummed. "The probability of you saying no was quite high, so I am not surprised." He walked past Damian, beckoning his twin with a hand to follow as he stopped at a nearby table, quickly gathering a few items he sought after. "These are the objects that will 'sweeten the deal' as some would say."

Said objects looked to be a few buttons, a ball, a laser pointer, and an arm bracer.

"And you expect me to accept to watch over your other half, for mere trinkets?" Damian wrinkled his nose, as he stared at Daniel as if he were an idiot, which he very surely believes he is. "I expected you to be smarter than that, but I am not surprised by your usual incompetence."

Logos shook his head. "These are not mere trinkets, brother, and I know you recognize that as well. These," Danny picked up the few small buttons, tossing them at Damian, who easily caught them. "Will are capable of expanding into ectoplasmic nets, that will also deliver a shock to those who try to get out of them, nothing lethal, so worry not about your father having an issue with them."

Damian hummed, holding one of the buttons up to his eye. Logos waved to a nearby target that he set up for this exact circumstance. "Go ahead, try it."

Damian glanced at his twin, before throwing the button at the target. It expanded into a large net that shouldn't have been able to be held in such a small object, wrapping around the target.

"Unfortunately, you will be unable to test the shock function at this moment, so you will have to test it later on a live subject."

"Tt."

Logos tilted his head. "You seem displeased."

"That you are capable? Yes. I am."

Logos hummed, before taking up the ball. "That is a mechanical eye, you be able to see through it, which would certainly make it easier for you who stalks the night, yes?" Damian clicked his tongue, and Logos took that as enough to continue. "You will be able to look through it with these," He picked up the arm bracer in his other hand and handed both items to Damian. "The bracer connects to the eye, which will show you a live recording of what is happening on the other side." Logos turned to pick up the laser pointer, before blinking. "Ah, just will it to move, and it will. So long as you have the bracer on."

Damian stared at the bracer for a moment, before swiftly putting it on, and the mechanical eye sprang to life as soon as he finished. A screen appeared over his arm, giving him a direct look through the eye's position. He tested the movement and found it true.

"Being torn apart may have been the best thing that has happened to you, brother."

"Perhaps." Logos threw the laser pointer at Damian, which he caught. "That is a small, portable laser, while also acting as a regular laser pointer. Just twist the knob at the bottom and you'll be able to adjust it." Logos' eyes narrowed. "Do not test it in here, or anywhere near here, for that matter."

Damian pocketed it silently, before recrossing his arms. He grunted.

"Pathos will be happy to receive your cooperation, though he is quite emotional, I expect you to work around that." Logos held out a hand, and Damian stared at it for a good few moments, before begrudgingly putting his hand in his twin's for a handshake.

Damian had a foreboding feeling that he would regret ever accepting this deal, and not even a minute after meeting him he already did.

[Based off of this post, and thank you @ashfly for the name suggestions! :3]

[shamrockqueen]

Predator in the desert

Chapter 3

Pairing : Winter soldier x reader (post apocalyptic AU)

Warnings : Desperation, starving behavior, references to war, duality of the mind, emotionless man

Word count : 2020

Chapter 1

Bucky MasterList

You stopped breathing, the ghost of an echo bouncing through your ears after he’d yelled at you.

Your eyes snapped from his cutting and cold gaze, further down to the glimmer of his fearsome metal fingers as they closed around the old brass knob on the door. The only opening to the room, the only way out, and you wouldn’t be able to reach it, let alone slip past his solid stonelike frame.

You weren’t ‘calm’ by any means, but he had your attention, and even as you continued to shiver, it was all he really needed.

“Are you hungry?”

You flinched as he spoke; his voice edged only with a lack of patience as it reached out to you with heavy hands to shake you from your reeling thoughts.

You didn’t answer just yet, feeling your pulse thrum along your skin wildly. You just laid there, stunned as you stared at those metal fingers tightening around the knob of the door and trying to ease your own breathing before it made you feel numb.

“I asked if you were hungry.” He was much more stern, and even a little louder this time, watching with equal disinterest as you gasped back and struggled to answer.

“Y-yes… I‘m hungry.”

You spoke weakly, your lips shaking and your eyes welling with a wet dribble of tears. Like a small break in the smallest of bones as you gave in to the absurdity.

Of course you were hungry. You’ve been hungry since you were a screaming infant, just as everyone doomed to a life in the wasteland had been. Food in any amount was a luxury, whether it’s warm meat and grains or smashed bugs you find crawling along the floor by your bedroll.

This promise of food without a single bat of his eye should have felt like a dream come true, but something in your stomach felt heavy before clenching with a sharp cramp. That familiar pang of hunger pains morphing viscerally into obvious fear as your guts knotted together.

This was the only moment in your miserable life that you didn’t crave food, as you were consumed only with dread.

You didn’t want to take anything from this unholy amalgamation of man and metal. It was like cowering beneath the boogeyman, a monster of jagged teeth and twisted limbs that could steal your last shred of innocence, only to find an unreadable being that looked no different from yourself. He didn’t wear enough of his lethality on his skin, leaving you to spiral at the possibilities of what these chains binding you to his lair really meant for your near future.

It was no better than being a rabbit caught in a cage. There is the offer of water and now food, but the danger of your captivity, just as the chain around your leg, was a staunch reminder that none of this would be out of kindness. There is no good reason that you are here—none that could be conceived as all the terrible reasons swarm your aching head.

His expression never seemed to change as he took in every reaction you gave him, seeming to read it like new data to further his own strange purpose. When he was finished searching your jumbled tomes, whether having found his needed information or losing interest, he dragged that door open and disappeared through it before shutting you back inside that room. Only this time, you were alone with the crushing silence he had once held above you.

A silence quickly broken by the hard clack of a lock turning shut in the flimsy wooden barrier this soldier had placed between you two.

He fit the stories from old fantasies of war. An old story long left covered in dust, detailing how both sides ate away at one another until the bones were bare and empty of their marrow. He bore the red star, the mark of a demon of irradiated sands. One head severed from its ranks meant two would splinter out in its place, biting and gnashing its way through the wasteland.

The great hydra was supposed to be dead, a final rest assured long before your own birth. How wrong they all were apparently, and as you recounted those scary fairy tales, your stomach twisted harder and harder.

You tried to steady your breathing, letting it stutter and shake before it finally met an even rhythm.

‘You really did need to calm down’ The traitorous thought was the last fly to buzz through your brain before you let the muscles in your shoulders fall loose to hit the floor.

Your ankle still felt heavy with its new iron cuff, and you struggled back onto your elbows and further onto your feet, the sound of the chain dragging along the wood the only noise left to taunt you.

Your eyes narrow at the brassy knob, a small spark of defiance finally igniting in your chest only to fall short of catching a flame.

You were frustrated at best, hot tears stinging your eyes before spilling out over your dirty cheeks.

‘Why me? For fucks sake, why?”

How were you significant enough to be stolen? Did he pity you, thinking that keeping you would be better for your well-being, like a lost kitten climbing among the rocks he had scooped up?

Why would a monster want to help you? Why would he bother to care for you when he could do what any other villain would do to others who strayed too far from home?

But, this room didn’t look like a pen to keep his livestock. It had a small window at its other end, barred on the outside of the glass for your protection. The bed wasn’t shabby, only worn, and with actual blankets and pillows.

If you were to be kept, you suppose he chose to keep you well.

You turned back to the door, its knob within reach, but you didn’t jump to futilely pull or tear at it. You reach forward, a shriveled shard of hope still tearing at your heavy heart as you slide your fingers around it.

You know it was locked; you heard it happen, but you still clung to the possibility of this being a terribly real nightmare instead. Maybe your mind would let you open the door, but as you twisted the handle, it of course did not budge.

You stood closer, your head falling to your chest as you pressed your fingers to the wood. Your mouth opened with a shaking exhale of an empty scream, and new tears flooded over to wash the rest of your grimy face.

You did not expect the door to push forward on its own, nearly smacking you in the face as it knocked you back. You land on the floor unceremoniously. Still so weak and unsteady, you weren’t even a suitable match for an old door.

The man was back, standing over you with a plate in his human hand. He sighed before setting the platter of promised food on the bed, stepping over you in the process.

He spoke evenly, saying, “I didn’t mean to hit you,” but his voice didn’t carry any ounce of guilt for knocking you back on your ass. Would this have been the first time he’d knocked you down, or was it simply the only time he hadn’t meant to do so?

“Are you alright?” he asked as he leaned over your crumbled form, reaching towards your reddened cheek where the wood had initially smacked you.

You immediately shied away from his touch but didn’t fight to scramble backward.

He leaned away but offered you his less harrowing hand to help you off the floor instead of leaving you to do so by yourself again.

You never answered his last question, but as he didn’t press further, it was possible that he wasn't really interested either way.

He gestured to the plate of food he’d set on the bed and said flatly, “Eat.”

You looked over at the plate still perched on a pile of blankets. A slab of cooked meat, diced cubes of root vegetables, and a mush of something boiled, green, and leafy. It was the best thing you’d ever seen.

Actual meat the size of your hand coupled with real vegetables possibly rich with those vitamins and mineral-things the doctor used to talk about. Whatever it was, it made your tongue wet as you swept it over your cracked lips.

A small part of you still wanted to be cautious, as another balled its fists in frustration from being kept away from a beautiful plate of healthy food.

You opened your mouth, only to choke back on the words with a wet cough. You sputtered again, crying like a sad child for him to witness before finally speaking.

“Are you going to drug me?”

"No,” he answered quickly and with little care.

You watched for any signs of a farce, a twitch of an eyebrow, a quirk of a lip, anything. His eyes held their dull, disinterested blue as he waited for you to make up your mind.

You ventured closer to the plate, pressing a dirty finger against the still hot morsel of meat. It was light in color, like white meat off a rabbit, but you needed to be certain before going past this thin line you had drawn for yourself.

Your lips stuck together as you nearly whispered a squeak of a few words, “Is it people?”

The ‘P’ was sputtered by the drop of collected tears, making the sound more pronounced as it left your lips.

“No”

You looked back at him at the subtle change in his voice. With one word, one syllable, it was oddly unmistakable. He sounded a little offended, and yet he didn’t lift a finger against you.

That last ‘no’ was all you needed before throwing yourself at the plate, scooping at the wet potatoes and greens with your fingers to wipe the tasteless sludge over your tongue in ecstasy.

You tore at the meat with your bare teeth like a hungry dog in a frenzy of unending starvation.

You weren’t human anymore; no longer yourself. It was shameful how you felt. In this moment, as you tore at a lump of fat with your back molar, you wanted this more than ever.

You wanted to be a pet if it meant the promise of this minimal care. You wanted to be kept; you wanted the fresh water and food; damned be the consequences.

You weren’t thinking clearly, not until you licked the last stain of grease and green vegetable smudge off the plate with your desperate little tongue. You hadn’t realized you were panting, gasping at the air, and holding the plate with white knuckles and numb fingers as if he could fly off and never return.

His expression had shifted for only a second. A split moment where his eyes widened a single centimeter before returning to their natural steely state. His shoulders stayed stiff with new concern. It was all a subtle change you had missed during your indulgence.

“Do you want more?” He asked, his voice still tainted with that unspoken concern.

You swear you could nearly feel your heart stop at just hearing those words. You were still desperate, and you nodded frantically.

He reached carefully towards you for the plate, giving you his metal fingers instead of the soft fleshy digits of his other hand. Possibly anticipating being bitten when pulling away the saucer. You let him take it from you, watching as he repeated his earlier actions of leaving and locking you inside the room.

There was a burn of shame somewhere in your stomach, but it was greatly overshadowed by a deep desire for sustenance. And, this man, what should be a monster in your eyes, was unbothered to fulfill such a desire.

You stood in place, not reaching for the door like the captive you are, not waiting on the bed like a puppy missing its master. But, by god, you wanted that fucking food.

Chapter 4

More post apocalyptic AU

Tags : @itsswritten @cjand10 @dear-lolita @took-a-wr0ng-turn @scott-loki-barnes @ihavetwoholesforareason @potatothots @toozmanykids @wintrsoldrluvr @heletsmelovehim

[juliewillruinu]

Garden of Forbidden Melodies | Chapter three | Sukuna x oc

Tw: None (other than Sukuna being a whole thirst trap👅)

ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ, ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ, ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴏ, ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ....

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆: 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰𝒄𝒆

GHana's breath came in ragged gasps as she ran, the cold mountain air cutting into her lungs. The weight of the biwa in her hands was unbearable, a constant reminder of the monstrous power she had barely managed to contain. Her heart pounded not just from the exertion but from the lingering fear that at any moment, Sukuna could break free and lay waste to everything she held dear.

The forest was dark, the only light coming from the thin sliver of the moon that barely peeked through the dense canopy above. Every shadow seemed to shift and writhe, every sound magnified in the oppressive silence of the night. The path up the mountain, familiar as it was, felt more treacherous than ever. But Hana couldn't afford to stop, couldn't afford to let her fear slow her down. She had to reach her brother.

As she pushed through the dense underbrush, branches clawing at her clothing, a sudden chill swept through the air, unnatural and biting. Hana slowed her pace, her senses on high alert. The cold wasn't just the mountain wind-it was something else, something foreign. Her grip tightened on the biwa, the cursed energy within it pulsing with a strange rhythm, as if it, too, sensed the presence of something... or someone.

A soft, almost inaudible sound reached her ears-a rustle, a whisper of movement that seemed to come from all around her. Hana stopped, her breath hitching in her throat as she strained to hear. The forest was still, but the cold was deepening, seeping into her bones, turning her blood to ice.

Then, from the shadows, a figure emerged.

Hana's heart leaped into her throat as she took in sight before her. A person, tall and slender, cloaked in a flowing robe of deep, icy blue that blended almost seamlessly with the darkness. Their skin was pale, almost translucent in the dim light, and their long, white hair framed a face that was sharp, elegant, and utterly devoid of warmth. But it was their eyes that sent a shiver down Hana's spine-cold, emotionless, and a shade of blue so deep it was almost black.

The figure regarded Hana with an expression of mild curiosity as if she were a puzzle to be solved. They stepped closer, and Hana instinctively took a step back, her heart pounding in her chest.

"You've got something that doesn't belong to you," the figure said, their voice soft, almost gentle, but carrying an undeniable edge of danger. "You've got Sukuna-sama."

Hana's breath caught in her throat. She knew who this was-Uraume, the mysterious attendant and confidant to Sukuna, known for their icy demeanor and lethal precision. The stories Hana had heard painted Uraume as an enigma, a force to be reckoned with, always by Sukuna's side, bound to him by loyalty and something darker.

"I don't want any trouble," Hana stammered, her voice trembling as she tried to keep the fear out of her tone. "I just want to protect my village."

Uraume's lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile, but there was no warmth in it. "I'm afraid that's not possible. Sukuna-sama doesn't take kindly to being imprisoned, especially by someone as insignificant as you."

The words stung, but Hana held her ground, even as her knees threatened to give way beneath her. "I did what I had to. I won't let him destroy everything."

Uraume tilted their head as if considering Hana's words. "You're brave," they said softly, almost as if they were complimenting her. "But bravery won't save you from what's coming. Hand over the biwa, and I might let you live."

Hana's grip tightened on the instrument. She knew she was no match for Uraume-she could feel their cursed energy radiating like a frozen wind, sharp and lethal. But if she gave up the biwa, she'd be condemning her village to certain destruction. And more than that, she'd be giving up the one thing that could contain Sukuna, even if only for a short while.

"I can't do that," Hana whispered, her voice barely audible.

Uraume's eyes narrowed, and the air grew even colder, the temperature dropping to a point where Hana's breath came out in visible puffs. "Then you leave me no choice."

In a blur of motion, Uraume closed the distance between them, their hand outstretched toward the biwa. Hana barely had time to react, her body moving on instinct as she raised the instrument to block the attack. But before Uraume's hand could make contact, a surge of energy erupted from the biwa, a blast of light and sound that sent Uraume stumbling back.

Hana's heart pounded in her chest as she realized what had happened. The biwa-its power had reacted to Uraume's cursed energy, protecting her. But Hana knew it wouldn't be enough. Uraume was too strong, too skilled. She had to get away; she had to find some way to protect her brother before it was too late.

Without a second thought, Hana turned and ran, her feet pounding against the forest floor as she sprinted up the mountain. Behind her, she could hear Uraume's soft footsteps, eerily quiet as they pursued her. The chill in the air deepened, and Hana could feel her strength waning, the cold sapping her energy with every step.

But she couldn't stop now. Not when she was so close.

Finally, she burst through the treeline and into the clearing where the small shrine stood, her brother's figure barely visible in the doorway. His eyes widened in fear as he saw her, but Hana forced a smile, trying to reassure him even as her heart raced.

"Inside," she called out, her voice trembling.

Her brother hesitated for only a moment before retreating into the shrine. Hana could feel Uraume closing in behind her, their presence like a cold shadow at her back. She stumbled toward the shrine, her hands trembling as she struggled to think, to plan.

"Hana."

Uraume's voice was closer now, and Hana whirled around to face them, her heart pounding. Uraume stood at the edge of the clearing, their expression calm, almost serene, as if they were merely waiting for Hana to accept the inevitable.

"Give me the biwa, Hana," Uraume said softly. "It's the only way to end this without bloodshed."

Hana's hands trembled as she clutched the instrument to her chest. She knew Uraume was right-there was no way she could win this fight. But she couldn't just hand over Sukuna. She couldn't just let him loose on the world without a fight.

"I won't," she whispered, her voice shaking.

Uraume's expression hardened, and the air grew colder still, frost beginning to form on the grass at their feet and began to creep towards Hana.

"Uraume." A deep voice echoed from her now glowing biwa. "Stand down."

Her biwa began to glow, and it only intensified as time passed, its energy crackling in the air as Sukuna's deep, resonant voice echoed from within. Hana's heart stopped at the sound, her breath catching in her throat as she watched Uraume, once so fearsome, now kneeling before the presence that had just manifested.

"Lord Sukuna-sama, Uraume murmured with reverence, their cold demeanor thawing as they lowered their head in submission. The oppressive chill that had blanketed the area began to dissipate, replaced by a different kind of tension-a dangerous, intoxicating energy that seemed to pulse in rhythm with the biwa

The instrument in Hana's hands vibrated violently as if the curse sealed within was straining against its confinement. She could feel Sukuna's power, raw and unfiltered, seeping into her very bones. A sudden fear gripped her, but it was too late to react in time. Before her eyes, the biwa's glow coalesced into a blinding flash of light, forcing her to shield her eyes.

When the light faded, a figure stood before her, larger than life, exuding the same aura of overwhelming dominance as when she first met him in the brothel. Ryomen Sukuna had taken form.

Hana's breath hitched as she took in his appearance. Pairs of eyes, each gleaming with malevolent intelligence, stared down at her from a face that was both beautiful and terrifying. A small mask covered the left side of his face, enhancing the sinister allure of his features. His four arms were muscular, each hand adorned with sharp, claw-like nails that looked as though they could tear through anything they touched.

Isamu, who had been watching from the doorway of the shrine, let out a terrified gasp. Sukuna's gaze flicked toward the boy, and a cruel smirk played on his lips before his attention returned to Hana.

With terrifying speed, one of Sukuna's hands shot out, gripping Hana's chin with a firm but calculated force. The warmth of his touch was in stark contrast to the cold terror that had gripped her heart. He tilted her head up, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"You're trembling, Sukuna murmured, his voice dripping with amusement. "Fear, or excitement?" His gaze swept over her face, lingering on her eyes and her lips as if memorizing every detail. "You know, it's a pity to see such a pretty face hidden beneath that hat." With a swift motion, he knocked the bamboo hat off her head, sending it tumbling to the ground.

Sukuna's eyes, all four of them, roved over her, taking in the details of her figure and her clothing, now torn and dirty from the chase. His expression was one of dark fascination as if he found something about her utterly captivating.

His thumb brushed against her lower lip, lingering in a way that was both unsettling and intimate. Hana's breath caught in her throat, her mind racing as she tried to make sense of what was happening. The danger was palpable, yet there was something else in Sukuna's gaze-a flicker of curiosity, of interest that went beyond mere violence.

"You've managed to capture me, woman," Sukuna murmured, his voice low and smooth. "But it seems you didn't know what to do once you had me. I could kill you now... or," he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "Now whatever will you do?"

Hana's heart skipped a beat, her pulse quickening. She knew she was standing on the edge of a precipice, one wrong move away from certain death. But there was something in Sukuna's tone, something that made her believe he wouldn't kill her yet, at least.

"Let go of my sister!" Isamu's voice, small but fierce, rang out as he darted forward, kicking at Sukuna's leg with all the strength he could muster. Hana's eyes widened in terror as she realized what her brother was doing.

Sukuna's gaze flicked down to the boy, and without hesitation, he released Hana and snatched Isamu up by the back of his kimono, lifting him effortlessly into the air. Isamu struggled, kicking his legs frantically, but Sukuna held him with the ease of a predator toying with its prey.

"Sukuna, please!" She yelled out in desperation. Oh, how enjoyed the way his name rolled off her tongue.

Sukuna looked at her, his eyes narrowing. The amusement that had colored his tone moments before was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating look. "This brat," he said, shaking Isamu lightly, "means something to you, doesn't he?"

Hana nodded frantically, tears welling up in her eyes. "Please, don't hurt him. I'll do anything!"

A dark smile curved Sukuna's lips as he considered her words. "Anything, you say?" His eyes bore into hers, and for a moment, Hana felt as though he could see right through her, into her very soul.

"Then you will be mine," Sukuna said, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. "My songbird, my pet. Amuse me, entertain me, and I might just let your brother live."

Hana's breath was caught in her throat, her heart beating in her ribs. The choice before her was no choice at all— her brother's life hung in the balance.

Sukuna's grip tightened slightly on Isamu, causing the boy to yelp in fear. Hana's resolve hardened, and she nodded, her voice trembling as she spoke. "I'll do it, so please let him go."

"Good." Sukuna's smile widened his thumb once again tracing the line of Hana's jaw. "You made the right choice, little bird. And now," he released Isamu, letting the boy drop to the ground, where he scrambled to his sister's side, "We'll have lots of fun together."

[fieldofdaisiies]

azriel x eris | 2,6k words | warnings: mentions of abuse | masterlist

“Can you do that for me? Eris, please.” Her long, cold fingers curl around her son’s warm hand. A few faint scars adorn the back of her own hands, her knuckles white from how tightly she is holding onto him. Her calluses from all the work in the garden she used to do and all the knitting for her sons brush his skin.

Imala’s chest rises with a breath that feels too heavy, her shoulders drooping with each one that follows. “Just a few of them for either of them.”

Eris slowly bows his head, his auburn gaze focused on his mother’s eyes, his face, though, unreadable, emotionless. He lets his eyes run over her face, her sunken cheeks. 

The Autumn Court heir got most of his looks from his mother – the red hair, the shape of his eyes, though, the colour differs from hers. While his mother’s orbs are russet, just like he remembers Lucien‘s eyes to be, his own are amber. The same colour as Zen‘s eyes. As Kallax’s eyes. 

But most of his facial features, the sharp edges, the clean cuts, the slimness, are from his mother. He inherited them from her. Thank the Cauldron, he did – Eris couldn’t live with seeing a similar version of his father whenever he looks into the mirror.

“Promise me, you will—”

Eris kisses her forehead. “Yes, mother, I promise. I will put the flowers on their graves, a few for either of them.” His hand rests on her shoulder, and he can feel her bones against his palm. The hollowness of her face is something that has unnerved him for a while, her sunken cheeks, the dark circles beneath her empty eyes. She needs to eat – she needs to eat more. And she needs to rest. She is getting weak and he can’t let this happen. He needs his mother to be strong. She needs to fight. Only until he can rescue her. Get her out of this place. Change things for good. Make her feel alive again. But she needs to fight now. Be strong now. He knows she is strong, has always been, but she can’t give up now. 

The Autumn Court prince carefully takes the flowers from his mother���s hand, gently, carefully, to not break off the heads, and tucks them into the pocket on the inside of his jacket.

Beron’s mustn’t find out about it. The High Lord doesn’t forbid it, but he also doesn’t like it when they put flowers on Eris‘ late brothers‘ graves. He finds it a waste of time. Useless. They are dead, why still put flowers on their graves?

Eris doesn’t know if Beron also misses them. He thinks so. Or rather, he hopes so. They were his sons after all. 

“Will you say a few words to them as well? Just—”

“Isn’t dinner ready yet, or what are you two doing here? Scheming and planning?“

Beron’s demeanour seems tense, his broad shoulders squared, thick brows bunched, lips slightly pursed. His eyes pierce holes into their bodies when he scans his family members. 

Beron is truly warped by fear. Since the day Lucien was born he hasn’t given Imala his full trust, but he is also starting to mistrust Eris, the closeness between his eldest and mother always having been a thorn in his side. He doesn’t like it. Has never liked it. 

The High Lord lets his eyes run over both of them again, something – suspicion or fear – glinting in his eyes.

“We were just talking.” Imala steps away from her son, her hand not leaving his, though. “Dinner is already on the table.” Her tone is cautious, but steadfast. Over the years – the centuries – spent in this cruel place, with a lethal male at her side, she has learned how to talk to him. There is no use for showing fear, for trepidation. He would ignore it anyway. Or make use of it to his benefit.

The High Lord only grunts in response, strutting past them with long steps and then into the dining hall of the Forest House, leaving a cool chill behind in the corridor. Even the sconces on the walls flicker. 

Beron claims his seat at the end of the table and stretches out his long legs, palms placed flat on the table, and then he waits. To be served.

The big chandelier casts a light upon him that almost makes him seem like a god – the stress is on almost, but not even the light of the chandelier can hide the fact that a male with a wretched soul sits beneath it.

Eris has always found it silly, even as a child. He always liked the sparkly chandelier, loved how the light broke and reflected in the crystals, but he never saw what Beron saw in it. Why he needed the light to fall upon exactly from this angle. Why Beron wanted to be illuminated beneath it. Why he wanted to have the light on his side. A power display and nothing else, Eris had concluded back then. Ridiculous.

Sentries immediately load food onto Beron’s plate, while Eris and Imala claim their seats on either side of him, sentries also tending to their plates, keeping their heads low, gazes never meeting those of the Autumn Court nobility. According to Autumn's standards, this wouldn’t be proper. 

Cabbage, beans, eggs, potatoes, meat (deer, fresh from the Autumn Court‘s forest, caught only a few hours ago). A gravy tops off the dishes already on the plate, everything neatly decorated. No sentry would dare to spill something, scared of the aftermath.

Eris mashes his potatoes and shoves them into the gravy – his favourite way to eat them and lastly mixes in the beans. When he was younger, he always looked for a way to distract himself while eating, to not have to listen to the deafening silence - so mixing his dishes, although you should never play with food, became his favourite thing to do during family dinners.

Beron’s gaze momentarily lingers on one of the females, he is leering and Eris is disgusted. Beron has never had a mistress as much as Eris knows, he saw no use in it, but that doesn’t stop him from looking at females like that. From leering. From looking at them like they are objects, only there for breeding.

Eris takes his first bite, eyes narrowed at his father who slowly turns his head to him. 

“Zen will be stationed at the border to Summer.”

Eris swallows thickly. “Do you think that is really necessary?”

Slowly, Beron’s eyes narrow, fork and the piece of meat on it long forgotten. The room chills, a shudder coursing through it that makes even the mice in their little nooks tremble. 

“Are you questioning my decisions, son? Are you questioning my ability to make decisions?” Beron’s voice drips with venom as he speaks with lethal calm, his sharp graze burning holes into Eris’ skin. His power manifests and slowly stretches out like a dark cloud. It is tangible in the air, and makes Eris’ chest feel very tight all of a sudden. 

“I‘m not questioning your—”

“It sounded a lot like it.” The High Lord’s voice is loud. So loud it makes Imala cringe. She closes her eyes, grinds her teeth, and grabs her own fork tighter. Her eyes are lowered to the plate in front of her, not able to watch the scene that unfolds in front of her. 

“Do you want Summer to march all over us? Led by no other than the brute from the Night Court. The brute who you allowed to fuck your future wife?”

Why does he always have to bring up Morrigan? Even after centuries. Eris is tired of it – so incredibly tired of it. Back then he felt ashamed, incredibly ashamed. She brought shame upon him by choosing Cassian to take her maidenhead. But now, now he feels indifferent about her. Nonchalant. About the whole situation with her. 

Though…he doesn’t feel indifferent about how Azriel thinks about her. Feels about her. The High Lord’s meeting—

“You allowed shame to fall upon our family, Eris.”

“I allowed nothing. Morrigan was spoiled before she even got here!” Now the heir raises his voice as well, fury simmering beneath his pale skin. He is so tired of it all. For the blame to always be on him. 

Publicly, Eris had claimed that Morrigan was sullied by a bastard-born lesser faerie to keep his image of the polished, cruel Autumn Court prince clean while in reality he had always known that Cassian had done both of them a favour.

Eris could have never bound Morrigan to him, could have never envisioned a life for her here. Cassian had saved her. Eris knew that he himself could have never allowed her to live here. Not this life. Not under Beron’s rule. It would have killed him.

“And yet you had nothing better to do than save her. Alert the pretty shadowsinger to come rescue her. And you waited. Hidden in the thicket to know she really gets picked up and won’t be left there to die.” Disdain graces the High Lord’s face and he shakes his head. “Pathetic.”

Eris says nothing. He only lowers his chin. And then draws in a deep breath.

“So,” Beron seethes. “Is that what you want? Them ruining us? Seizing our court?”

Eris shakes his head but it is not enough of an answer for his father.

“Answer me, son!” Spit flies from Beron’s mouth. “Is that what you want?” 

“No, father, of course not,” Eris answers. Slowly, his eyes lift, meeting Beron’s gaze.

“I thought so.” He finally brings the piece of meat to his mouth. “Always asking the same stupid questions as your mother.”

The High Lord chews loudly, the sound filling the room. Eris looks at his mother, but her gaze is cast downwards, bony shoulders slouched. Were Beron to use violence, his mother would step in, take the pain upon her. But Eris always makes sure it never comes to that, that he is always the one to take it. His mother should never ever again become subject to his father's anger. He will never allow that to happen again.

They eat in silence for the rest of the dinner, and have never talked much during these family gatherings. There is nothing to talk about - no happy chit-chat other families have. He often lets himself think about the Night Court, if Lucien has found a family there. A proper one. One he never had here. The thought once again sends a pang of hurt right to the heir‘s heart - he misses Lucien and yearns for what they could have had.

He is longing for a family. For love. Not only from a wife – or in his case, a husband. Something the Autumn Court standards would never allow. But also love from his family. He knows his mother loves him, but it is hard for her to let it show. To let it show openly. She never shows many emotions, her heart frozen by the endless years spent in the Autumn Court, under the control of Beron. 

Her soul is empty, probably nothing but an endless void, due to being separated from the male she truly loves. 

His mother told her eldest everything. Eris knows the story. He had found his mother the day Lucien left. He found her in pieces, broken, shattered, crying, and she had told him everything.

Eris was in shock. Had been for a long time. But he held her in his arms. For hours. Until their tears mingled, the pain about Lucien being gone never easing. Not until this day. 

Little Lucien - his little Lucien and until this day Eris can still hear his voice when he asked him a question that broke his heart for the very first time. Lucien was barely four years old then, tugging on the leg of Eris‘ breeches, looking up at him with his big russet eyes. “Big brother Eris, why does father hate me?”

He had no answer for him. He only scooped him up in his arms, and held him tightly.

Eris clears his throat, knowing he has zoned out once again. He reaches for his glass and takes a sip of the sweet wine. Then another.

“It wasn’t my intention. I never meant to fall for him. To create feelings for him. But he was there. And he was good. And warm. He made my heart feel warm, Eris,” - that’s what his mother told him back then, tears wetting her face. 

He didn’t understand it back then. How it was possible. She had barely known Helion and had no intention of falling for him and yet she did.

Now, Eris has a better understanding of her situation. Falling for someone you don’t plan on having feelings for. Every thought is going to this person. Your heart beats faster when someone only mentions their name. 

There is a person – a male – in his life now that…

He is abruptly fetched back to reality. Movement outside the Forest House, in the thicket, covered by bushes and trees in all colours autumn has to offer, makes him turn his head toward the window. 

His eyes immediately catch on the shadowy figure. Azriel. The best spymaster? – Eris doubts that, having caught said Night Court male already twice in the past year.

The heir rests his fork against his lips, slowly chewing, eyes narrowing. He observes and for a moment it feels like his eyes lock with Azriel’s, his heart slamming to a halt.

“What are you looking at?” Beron snarls, his fork clattering on the plate.

“Nothing,” Eris answers quickly and whips his head into his father’s direction. 

He can’t let Beton catch Azriel, knowing he would do unspeakable things to him. And he can’t allow that. 

“Why are you looking at the window then? What are you looking for?” Beron’s gaze is as sharp as knife, piercing into his flesh.

“I think one of the hounds broke loose.” An easy lie.

“Then catch it.” Beron gives him a dismissive look.

Eris takes his last bite, tabs his mouth clean with a serviette, smoothes out his trousers and then rises to his feet. Sentries immediately usher to his place, gathering his plate and glass, and cleaning up his spot on the table.

But the moment Eris turns, it happens. One of red Gerberas slips out of its place inside his jacket, slowly sailing down to the stone ground before Eris can reach for it.

His breath catches and so does his mother’s.

Beron raises a brow, a gleeful expression adorning his face. The light of the chandelier perfectly casts light upon his sharp cheekbones.

“For a secret lover?” the High Lord asks, resting his fork against his plate. Slowly.

“Or is it what I think it is?” His tone makes Eris uncomfortable, the way in which his father speaks is so low, so slow, so unnerving with a small hint of gleeful amusement. 

Eris stays calm. But he reaches for the flower, picks it up and tucks it back into his jacket.

“It is what you think it is,” he eventually replies, expression cold, indifferent.

A disappointed laugh parts Beron’s lips, and he shakes his head. In a disdainful tone he says, “You know why they are dead.”

Eris says nothing, only grinds his teeth harder. Of course, he knows it. The memories have been haunting him day and night since their death. Have caused him sleepless nights for centuries. How Tamlin killed his brothers. How Jesminda was killed right in front of their eyes. Lucien’s wail. All of it. 

“And yet you still care about the little fox.”

He does. Because that day he did not only lose two brothers at the hands of the High Lord of the Spring Court. No. He also lost his youngest brother. His favourite one. The one he swore to protect until he failed him. Something he will never forgive himself for.

When he doesn’t answer again, Beron smacks the flat of his palm onto the table, rattling not only the cuttlery but also all the glasses and plates.

Imale sucks in shuddering breath.

“You‘re dismissed, son.” He waves him off, like Eris is no more than a servant to him. Someone unimportant. Not his first-born son. “Get out of my sight!”

tag list for ACOCD @hnyclover @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @a-frog-with-a-laptop @queercontrarian @fandomsmultiverse @acourtofbatboydreams @chunkypossum @baileybird71 @beckkthewreck @hells-sluttiest-new-arrival @owllover123 @acotarobsessed @goldenmagnolias @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @v3lv3tf0x @talibunny30 @allyhill

general Azris tag list: @azrielsbabyg @lady-riel @moonlightazriel @aayo-whatt @brekkershadowsinger @ladyelain @banasheefan56 @a-frog-with-a-laptop @ofduskanddreams

[nebjamin]

So I’m DMing a dnd campaign, and the players are fighting a major boss battle. The enemy is an NPC who was once a friend and companion to the party, until she was bitten by a parasitic Worm and became part of a major hive mind.

The players have her down to 8 HP. I let them know that her body is breaking down and blood is running down her face and her armor, but her expression remains unchanging and emotionless as an unthinking member of The Collective (the hive mind). A player rolls high enough to kill, so I finally give him the ethical dilemma I’ve been building up for the last few sessions: “do you attack lethally or non-lethally?”

After staring at me for a few seconds, he answers “lethally.” The rest of the players are silent. The player, who arrived 37 minutes late to the 1.5 hour session, then proceeds to ask, completely seriously:

“wait, was she our friend or something?”

[captain-azoren]

I want someone to tell me what "non-evil" thing Azula was supposed to do when Aang was going into the Avatar State that wouldn't have been incredibly incompetent or out of character or made no sense in general.

How would you have written Azula in a way that makes her less evil but keeps the story the same? Just make her smirk less?

I see a lot of talk about Azula's agency and the choices she makes, but if she's trying to win, why would anyone expect her to anything differently?

And before anyone starts, this is not making excuses, this is trying to understand where the character is coming from.

Azula sees Iroh as a traitor and a disgrace. She legitimately hates him. Of course she's going to do a lethal sneak attack on him. Zuko betrayed her, their family and their nation. He also hates her. Azula had no reason to like him, so why is it so hard to fathom she wants him dead by the end of the series?

Azula isn't going to feel remorse because she believes she is the good guy, or at least that the Fire Nation winning is for the greater good. And newsflash, so does the vast majority of the FN. If any other loyal soldier in the FN had to make those choices, they likely would have done the same.

Nearly every single FN soldier had been trying to kill these kids. That includes Zuko. Zuko was literally RIGHT THERE fighting Aang and Katara in the crystal catacombs, but he doesn't get called evil or heartless all because he was too incompetent to strike a killing blow on Aang while he was powering up and then later expressed regret.

Except Zuko only regretted betraying Iroh. Need I remind people Zuko hires a damn ASSASSIN to kill a 12 year old in the next season? If you think Azula coming the closest to killing Aang somehow puts her at a higher grade of evil than 99% of the villains who attacked the Gaang, you have moral myopia and are full of shit.

Azula isn't going to bat an eye at killing Aang because Aang being a child is secondary to Aang being the single greatest threat to her goal. You cannot reasonably expect her, within the circumstances, to politely ask Aang to surrender. You cannot expect her to just lay down and accept defeat when her level of skill, her tactical cunning, and her upbringing under Ozai all point her towards shooting Aang in the back.

Why shouldn't she try to kill Zuko and Katara? She's the enemy and he's a traitor. She hates them and she's pissed. This isn't some moral event horizon.

Azula hates Ursa because she felt neglected and that Zuko getting more attention was unfair. It might be a misunderstanding, but as a child it isn't Azula's responsibility to sort things out.

Azula has arguably the least agency due to her age and having the most oversight by a powerful adult, so yeah I'm not letting that go.

I'm not saying Azula isn't bad. She has a pretty unpleasant personality and dies some shitty stuff. But it's only some, and on the whole she isn't even particularly bad compared to the other villains in the franchise. Is the smirking bad? It is only if you consider having nasty thoughts to be a crime. A bad sign, but just a sign.

But that's all it really ever boiled down to, isn't it? That damn smile of Azula's that shows you just how much she enjoys hurting people. Well the fact is, no matter how much Azula seems to enjoy her actions, no matter how little remorse she shows, it doesn't make her actions any worse than if she had a cold, emotionless or angry frown. It makes her unpleasant, yes, but ultimately you have to judge people on their actions and less on their thoughts and feelings.

No matter how conflicted Zuko was, he still stole that girl's horse when he could have kept walking, hard as it was. No matter how jolly or enlightened Iroh was, he still waged war for decades.

If you expect me to forgive Zuko and Iroh for all their wrongdoings just because they turned things around, then I'm going to hold Azula to that same standard and say that, smirk or no smirk, her actions are, not excusable, but forgivable.

And yes, I do sincerely believe that Azula caused less harm to the world than Zuko and Iroh in the months she was actually active. I understand that conquering BSS was bad and burning down the EK would have been an actual atrocity, but I also understand that conquering BSS was something the FN as a whole was aiming for and burning the land have zero objections by any of the FN military.

Azula also suggests it to keep Zuko from saying something stupid and to get on Ozai's good side. I do not believe she suggested burning the land because she sadistically wanted to kill thousands of people. Azula probably thought it was a brilliant tactic for stampings out the last few rebellions for good.

Is it bad? Yes, it's very fucking bad, because Azula doesn't understand the sheer gravity of what she's saying or the devastation of Ozai's escalation. But that's true for everyone in that room but Zuko. It isn't JUST Azula, it's the whole damn Nation.

You know what Azula does that's just plain mean? Destroying a sand castle. Taunting Zuko about Ozai going to kill him is pretty cruel. Azula probably could have found a nicer way to get Ty Lee on her team.

But don't give me any bullshit about Zuko being Azula's abuse victim. It was a toxic rivalry. And I guarantee you if Zuko had gotten the upper hand on Azula sooner he would have done what he could to humiliate her, because he hates her out if envy, not just because she's mean.

And why should Azula be nice to Zuko, who is always belligerent and angry towards her for being better? That is how she sees him, in her eyes Zuko is the bad sibling who needs to be humiliated and taught a lesson because he's stubborn and entitled and spoiled by their mother who loved him even when he failed, unlike their father who gave attention when it was deserved and earned.

Yes, that's a fucked up way of seeing things, but that's how Azula sees it, that's what she believes is right, and you shouldn't expect her to know otherwise because she IS 14 and has no exposure to anything else.

Azula DOES regret some things, she regrets always having to use fear to control people, but as the series itself spells things out, it's literally all she knows, it's all that she thinks she's even capable of from her failed attempts at being normal in the Beach.

Azula doesn't think she has a choice,band if you don't think you have a choice, then THERE IS NO CHOICE. There is NO opportunity or chsnce to change without guidance, and what so many dumb casuals and antis just don't GET is that Azula really doesn't know right from wrong. That these supposed second chances she's getting to change her ways are utterly pointless if she lacks the wisdom to see them as choices.

None of us are excusing Azula, because that would defeat the purpose of wanting her to finally understand for herself what she did wrong and to get better, but we can't blame her for everything either.

Just because what she did wasn't right doesn't put her beyond forgiveness. The right thing to do would be to trying and actually guide her and help her, not just throw second chances at her and be shocked when she makes another bad decision.

This is a hard pill to swallow for some of you, but a victim is a victim, and no matter how bad or abusive they are, a victim NEEDS HELP. So get over your hangup and do something useful, and if you can't do that, then stay out of the way and let someone else help.

I'm sick of people trying to convince me to forsake a kid, no matter how cruel or messed up she is. Stop telling me to give up hope, stop telling me to keep fighting to save that one little kernel of goodness buried deep down.

I've been doing this shit since I was a teenager, both for myself and for actual people who made bad choices. Even if Azula laughed at Zuko's pain or was willing to kill, she deserves to heal from her abuse as much as she needs to right her wrongs. Fuck anyone who thinks it's okay for her to suffer.

[ajgrey9647]

Sacrificial Lamb

“You can’t get enough, can you? You crave it so much you’re willing to go behind your friends’ backs for more…”

The Green Ranger smirked, flashing his sharp teeth, in a way that Jason both despised and found arousing. He hated how his enemy could exert this powerful hold over him so callously.

“Do you really care why I’m here?” the Red Ranger growled, his voice an octave lower than normal and full of carnal need. “It looks like we’re both getting something out of these… ‘visits’…”

Why did he find Tommy’s icy detachment so alluring? Perhaps it was the way he could look into Jason’s eyes as he gasped for breath, gloved fingers digging into the very vulnerable column of his throat, the evil Ranger’s expression impassive… Or the deadly feline purr he gave when the tip of his tongue probed one of the bleeding wounds he’d inflicted on the other’s quivering flesh….

Maybe it was how graceful and deceptively lethal Tommy’s hands were as they lightly skimmed Jason’s body before finding just the right sensitive spot to torment, both with pleasure and pain while he tearfully begged for it not to stop.

But as much as he enjoyed it, there was an overarching reason that Jason threw himself to the wolf… It was to protect the others from ending up in his fanged jaws by giving him the blood, the pain, the tears, the screams and pleas that the Green Ranger lusted after. He could handle whatever aggressive venting was required.

“I suppose it matters not, Red Ranger, as I’m more than willing to give you what you desire,” Tommy hissed, his eyes appraising the muscular physique beneath the red silky uniform. “You’re always such a good boy for me…”

He sensually licked his lips, striding closer to where Jason tensely stood on the back deck of the lakeside cabin, a torrent of rain pummeling the gray waters and carried under the wooden rafters by the chilly wind. It pelted the other man’s broad back and shoulders, but they weren’t the cause of the Red Ranger’s reflexive shudder.

Tommy might display an aura of haughtiness, of emotionless, stoney contempt…at least initially. Once their games began, the Green Ranger’s aloofness would vanish, replaced by raw, insatiable, ravenous hunger, his angular face twisting into passionate, feral expressions with snarling, throaty, predatory vocalizations tearing past his lips.

Jason stared into his eyes as he neared, refusing to cower…just yet. It was an unspoken rule of their interactions. First came stubborn defiance followed by a vigorous ‘fight’, one that he would eventually ‘lose’… Then the Green Ranger would set about savaging the Red before roughly taking his body in whatever position caught his fancy.

“I want to hear you ask for it, Jason,” Tommy whispered cruelly, stopping mere inches away so that they stood chest to chest. “Say it.”

Dark eyes gazed back hotly before dropping to the cruel lips. Sometimes, he thought he should be worried that he very much looked forward to bearing the brunt of the Green Ranger’s appetite…that he also orgasmed forcefully under the brutal ministrations, screaming Tommy’s name as he did so.

“Hurt me…” Jason breathed. “Make me bleed…”

The long-haired man leaned in closer, his mouth so close to touching the Red Ranger’s that both of their lips tingled in anticipation.

“I love the way your blood tastes… I’d know it from anyone else’s, Jase. But do you know why that is?”

Jason could only subtly shake his head, fear and arousal sinking their claws in his chest. Tommy almost looked amused before he swept his tongue along the Ranger’s trembling lower lip.

“It’s because you’re mine. You belong to me…”

He pulled back slightly, struggling to control his eagerness to caress a wounded, bleeding Jason clad in rain-soaked, chilly red and white silk. The minute twitch of a muscle in his cheek gave away his need.

‘This is the only way to vent his aggression…keep my friends safe…by letting him sharpen his claws on me…’ the Red Ranger reminded himself.

“Well, then, Tommy,” he taunted, lightly bringing their straining erections into contact, separated only by silk and cotton, “you’re going to have to take me down… If you think you can…”

The game was on now and the Green Ranger grinned, much like a possum, all black eyes and sharp white teeth.

“Pick your poison, darling. Knife? Razor blades? Ice pick? I’ll let you decide how you bleed this time before you take my cock…”

[soldier-of-mayhem]

Legion HCs - Julie Kostenko

- 22 years old

- Slavic roots

- grey eye colour, blonde hair

- has a piercing in her tongue and barbed heart tattoo on lower back

- dating Frank Morrison

- due to her being a single child in quite wealthy family who'd give her basically anything she'd ask for, it sometimes reflects on how stubborn and bitchy she is if she really wants something.

- has issues with jealousy, sometimes taking things a bit too far because of it. She'd never kill anyone because of it tho, just go as far as to threaten with few non-lethal injuries.

- dangerously smart and constantly plotting something, whenever it's something harmless or another mischief rundown for the Legion.

- read through a lot of criminology, not really to see why people did it, but how they did it. Soon started to have some murderous thoughts herself but kept denying she'd actually ever want to truly kill anyone.

- saw possibly every single slasher film that exists.

- artistically expresses herself through drawings.

- knows how to drive, however going with her is a heart attack hazard. No matter how much she ensures you everything is fine, single ride will leave you traumatized. She speeds to places immensely.

- a fucking arsonist.

- even tho Frank is the supposed leader of the Legion, Julie is mostly the one coming up with ideas and being the brain behind most of their shittery.

- after Legion started doing murders as well, a lot of them were just to impress Frank in contrary to gaining pure enjoyment out of killing during trials.

- the Legion most likely wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for her putting the group together.

- when comes to trials it's almost like as if she was a completely different person, sometimes going as far that it even pulls the more brutal killers into shame. Nobody knows if it's something with Entity's influence or just her letting violent cravings out.

- might be the only one actually enjoying getting dragged to Entity's realm, it's little boredom outlet.

- once got her hands on Caleb's gun, the Redeemer, and had too much fun using it. The situation got bad to the point Entity had to interfere.

- she never takes her mask off in the Entity realm, it's almost like as if her face was completely fused to it. To the emotionless, terrifying husk of a face.

[kanehara-chillveil]

"Life passes in the blink of an eye, and happiness is mixed with pain and confusion..." TW: Murder, description of violence but nothing to bad, hinted assault

“Stop it!” 

That was it. Hearing his younger sister plead for their sad excuse for a “father” was the last straw. 

“KoKo, Ruka, Asahi, you three stay here. I’ll be right back.” When he was sure his siblings had agreed to stay back, Riki opened the basement door and edged upstairs.

It was nighttime, the crescent moon hung in the sky like the sideways smile of a mischievous cat from a certain story. But no one was laughing tonight. Crying, maybe. Or maybe screaming. But y’know, Riki wasn’t one to be picky. Either would work. He waiting until their “father” was distracted. Watching TV and drinking and smoking. God, that smell was disgusting. He was disgusting. The smoke would hurt Kotoko further. Riki looked around, his eyes landing on a large gray rock with a few studded gems in it, probably some old collectible or something. It didn’t matter though. Riki snuck over to the display case and slowly opened it, glancing over at his target.

As Riki's fingers curled around the cold, jagged surface of the stone, he felt the familiar surge of detachment wash over him. The world, once teeming with noise and chaos, seemed to slow down, the seconds stretching like molasses. The crescent moon’s light filtered through the dusty windows, casting long shadows across the room, but Riki only saw the path ahead with perfect clarity.

His heart, which had been pounding in his chest just moments before, steadied to a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each beat was controlled, measured, as if the organ had become a metronome guiding his every move. The stench of smoke, the slurred mutterings of his so-called father, the distant hum of the television—all of it faded into a dull murmur. There was only the task at hand.

With his senses sharpened to a razor's edge, Riki became acutely aware of every detail. He could hear the soft creak of the leather couch as the man shifted his weight, the faint crackle of the cigarette burning down to the filter. But none of it stirred him. His mind, now devoid of fear or hesitation, calculated the angles, the force needed, the exact point of impact. It was all so clear, so simple.

Emotionless, he approached. The rock felt heavy in his grip, but Riki’s movements were fluid, almost mechanical. His eyes locked onto the back of the man’s head, the target marked. With a single, swift motion, Riki swung the stone, his arm guided by a lethal precision that made the act feel less like violence and more like an inevitable conclusion.

The room, once alive with tension, fell into a stillness that mirrored Riki’s own cold calm. The only sound now was the soft thud of the body hitting the floor, a sound that seemed almost distant to him, as if it were happening in another world entirely. Riki’s gaze lingered on the man for a moment longer, but there was no satisfaction, no guilt—only the quiet, detached certainty that it was done.

He turned, dropping the stone without a second thought, and glanced towards the hallway that led back to the basement, where his siblings were waiting. The job was done, but the chill lingered, the killing calm that had taken over still holding him in its grip. The world slowly began to resume its pace, but Riki remained unchanged, moving with the same eerie composure as he made his way out of the room, the darkness swallowing him whole.

@paintedgrilledcheese,@myluckymoon chat look

@princezuko-at-home you are literally magic teach me your ways

@foxboyroadkill LOOK

[jayfeather323]

Starving, Darling

Chapter 1

Rating: Mature

Read on AO3

Cassian

The three males had reached the age Rhys’ father liked to call “the age of fighting and fucking.” At least Cass and Rhys had. Even though Azriel was older, he only ever seemed to be interested in the fighting part.

It wasn’t for lack of female interest either, Azriel was all lean muscle and lethal grace. He was far prettier even than Rhys, which gained him plenty of attention. The few dates Az had been on, he had stormed back into the house hours too early and locked himself in his room. Neither Cass nor Rhys could get him to talk about it, stubborn as he was.

So, when he finally broke down and told them what was going on, they were shocked, to say the least. They were shocked, but it was Azriel, and after everything he’d been through, it was a wonder they didn’t figure it out sooner.

Azriel was resistant to any kind of physical affection – to any touch, really. Now that Cass thought about it, training (or outright brawling) was the only time Cass’ skin had ever touched Azriel’s.

In the years they had shared a home in Windhaven, Cass had always been affectionate with Rhys and his mother. Hugs, a clasp on the back, and friendly punches were just part of how he communicated with the only family he had ever known. He learned quickly, though, that that was not something he could do with Az.

The few times he had gone in for a hug or a friendly nudge, Az had flinched. The response pained him enough that he avoided that sort of contact with him.

The time he struck an arm out in an amused punch to Azriel’s shoulder, he landed flat on his back, wings flared out awkwardly before he could even make contact.

Cass had seen Az talking to Ezra’s sister, Maya, earlier that day. When he disappeared after dinner, he mentioned it to Rhys who gave him a knowing smirk.

Maya was pretty with long, dark eyelashes set against high cheekbones and softly curling black hair that fell nearly to her waist. Her pale green eyes were in stark contrast to her dark skin, and freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. She was gorgeous. He could see why Az liked her.

But only an hour after he’d left, he returned, the front door slamming behind him, shadows writhing angrily. His face was as hard and emotionless as always, but the twitch of his wings and his coiling shadows gave him away. Az was wearing denim pants and a pressed black shirt, a rare change from his fighting leathers.

Cass was tired of Az angrily shutting himself away anytime he met with a female. He needed to know what was upsetting him so much. Azriel was his best friend and Cass hated to be shut out.

Before Az could make it through the kitchen and up the stairs, Cass launched himself in front of him, arms and wings spread wide, blocking his path.

Cass really miscalculated. The spot he threw himself into was only a few inches in front of Azriel and he…flinched.

All the air and determination went out of him as Az’s hands came up in front of his face, mangled scars in plain view, and for probably the hundredth time, he wanted to murder Azriel’s father and stepbrothers. Az was good and he deserved so much better than the hand life had dealt him.

Cass took a step back but kept his wings spread to block the way to the stairs.

“Az,” he said. “Just tell me what happened. I care about you.” I care about you. They were Illyrians. Mean and brutish and good for little except fighting and fucking. But they made a pact. To be brothers. To have each other’s backs no matter what. To care.

All at once, the hard, irritated line of Azriel’s shoulders fell. The tightly held fold of his wings that Cass knew still felt unnatural drooped down. His carefully blank face fell to reveal his frustration.

At this sudden change in body language, Rhys stepped closer toward them. Cass had forgotten he was standing near the window, ostensibly watching the snowflakes as they fell and collected on the ground.

“What’s wrong, Az?” Rhys asked in a velvet voice meant to soothe.

Azriel stepped back to slump into a chair pulled out from the kitchen table and put his head in his hands. Like he couldn’t look up at his friends. It was several long seconds before he spoke. Several long seconds in which Cassian could only hear Az’s stuttered, forced breaths as he tried to calm himself.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with me!” The frustration in his voice panged through Cassian’s chest. “No one can just touch me! I freak out every time!”

Oh. So that’s what this is about.

“What do you mean?” Az looked up when Rhys spoke, revealing watery hazel eyes and a vulnerability Cass had never seen in him before. That pang in his chest sank and curdled into a protective fury. He just wanted to tug Az into his chest. To slaughter everyone who had ever hurt him.

“Today, with Maya, I went to her house. I’d talked to her a few times, and I guess she wanted to fool around when I went over today. When she reached out to hug me, I flinched! And she got this sad look in her eyes, but that wasn’t even the worst of it.” Az just sounded so defeated. Cass could tell he was trying not to let tears fall and he had never seen Az so vulnerable. Not even when he admitted he couldn’t fly.

His words came out in a rush. “We were fooling around, just kissing a little and…and I was shaking. She kept asking me if I was okay, I kept brushing her off, but my…my hands were shaking so bad. It was just so much, and then she was kissing me and her hand slid down, and I…”

Az dropped his gaze to the tile floor and moved his arms, so his lap was now visible.

Cassian’s jaw nearly dropped at the wet spot on Azriel’s thigh. He looked at Rhys, the same expression of soft surprise mirrored on his face.

“I just ran out of there. She looked at me so surprised.” Az’s gaze remained fixed on the floor.

Az had come in his pants. From barely a touch.

“Az, there are far worse things than coming in your pants. I doubt Maya even really cared.” Rhys saved them from the silence.

Az only gave him a skeptical look.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Cass said. A half-baked plan began to form in his head. “I think…we could help you.”

“Help me?” Az only sounded more skeptical.

Rhys seemed to pick up on where he was going with this. “If you’re overly sensitive to touch, if you flinch when people get too close, you just need to get more used to it. With people you trust.”

The doubtful stare didn’t let up.

“You trust me, right? Trust us?”

His gaze shuttered. “Of course, I do.”

“Then let us help,” Rhys said, his calm, velvet timbre doing wonders to broach the topic to Azriel.

“Okay.” The trust in his eyes made Cass smile. “How…exactly do you plan to help me?”

“We can start with you letting someone take care of you for once. We can get you cleaned up and then go from there.”

Azriel nodded and his gaze flicked back and forth from Rhys’s captivating violet eyes to Cassian’s hazel ones.

“Can I touch you?” Cass pitched his voice low and soft and stepped right in front of Az where he sat on the wooden chair.

He nodded, and Cass reached out slowly. He ran his fingers through the silky soft strands of Azriel’s hair. He brushed away the yet unmelted flakes of snow and scratched his blunt nails lightly across his scalp. Affection swelled heavy and warm in Cassian when Az’s eyes fluttered shut and he leaned ever so slightly into Cass’ touch.

He trailed his hands down to grasp Azriel’s scarred ones, pulling him up from the chair. He had never had so much contact with Az in his life. At least not outside of grappling in the dirt.

“Come upstairs. You can take a hot bath,” Cass said. He knew that while Az may never admit it, he was rather fond of bubble baths ever since he had discovered them.

Rhys led the way and they all walked up the stairs to the bathing room they shared. Rhys waved a hand and the bath, at least big enough for two Illyrian warriors, filled with hot, soapy water. The male didn’t have his wings out today, which Cass thought was a good thing considering the size of the bathing room.

Sinking to his knees, Rhys held eye contact with Azriel.

He kept all his movements slow, deliberate. Rhys began to unlace Az’s boots, never once breaking eye contact, telling him with his eyes and his actions exactly how he intended to help him.

Cass understood what Rhys was trying to communicate. He was heir to the Night Court. Kneeling to anyone was not in his nature. Rhys communicated through action, and this, this supplicating reverence begged Azriel to trust him, to allow him to take care of him, to show him that there is more to the world than pain.

As Rhys made his way to the ties of Azriel’s pants, Cass unbuckled straps and undid buttons on his leathers. He gently eased the sleeves down his arms, oh so careful to avoid his wings. Cass pressed a gentle kiss to the warm, tan skin of his chest. He just couldn’t help himself.

“Is this okay?” The soft, shuddering sigh from Azriel at the contact told him that it was, indeed, okay, but he wanted to hear him say it. Cass’s gaze flicked up to Az’s. His lips were parted in soft shock, as though he couldn’t believe anyone would ever touch him like this.

“It’s…it’s good.” His voice shook a little as he spoke and as Rhys gently removed his pants from where they were tangled around his feet, Cass pressed another soft kiss to the side of his jaw, where the barest beginnings of dark stubble tickled his cheek.

A sigh escaped Az’s lips and as they made eye contact, he could see the nervousness he was trying to hide. His scarred hands shook where they were clenched at his sides and his shoulders and wings were tight with tension.

Rhys stood and pressing his hands to the sharp bones of Azriel’s hips, he nudged him over to the bath.

“Relax,” Rhys said, pressing a tender kiss to Az’s shoulder. “Bathe. We’ll be right here.”

By some miracle of the hot water or of Rhys’s soothing whispers, some of the tension in Az melted away as he settled into the bath. Az dunked his head, wetting his raven’s feather curls. Cass watched the water trickle down his face, the little bit of stubble filling in around his jaw, the corded muscles of his neck.

Rhys trailed feather-light fingers down his spine, and Cass watched, enraptured, at how his eyes fluttered shut, at the shiver he tried to suppress.

As Az scrubbed his body, Cass stepped forward to run shampoo through the male’s hair. His chin tipped back, and he didn’t even try to keep his eyes open this time. Az just relaxed into his touch.

Cass didn’t know how to feel. He had never seen Az this open before. He was relaxed, enjoying himself, even. His shadows were settled along the stretched-out curves of his wings and pooled around his legs. He thought if they could purr, they would be doing just that. Hell, maybe they could, and he just didn’t know.

Rhys never stopped running a soothing hand down the ridges of Az’s spine. Scars littered his back, another reminder of the male’s cruel past. He didn’t stop the calming motion until Az stepped from the bath, and Rhys wrapped him in a fluffy towel.

The water dripped in little rivulets from his lightly curling hair and down his face. Az always had a haunted look about him, like maybe the only thing beneath the masks he wore, beneath the cold fury, was a scared little boy still trapped in his father’s dungeon. But now, wrapped in a cream-colored towel, water dripping from his eyelashes, his rage seemed to have melted. He looked almost innocent…cute even.

They followed Rhys to his room. His bed was thankfully big enough for three winged Illyrians. Cass darted to his own room to grab a change of clothes for himself and for Az before returning.

Cass handed Az a pair of underwear and a soft sleep shirt that was just a tad oversized on him. He and Rhys slept shirtless, but he knew Az preferred clothing.

As they all sat on Rhys’ oversized bed, Rhys spoke, “Azriel, I want you to know that you have all the control here. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Just say the word and everything stops. If you want to slow down, if you want to do something different, all you have to do is say so, okay?”

Az nodded, and when his too-vulnerable gaze flicked over to Cass, he said, “Do you want to do this? Do you want us to take care of you? Do you want our help with…this?” Cass’ questions betrayed his nerves, but he so desperately wanted Azriel to say yes. He so desperately wanted to show him the care he deserved, the care no one had ever bothered to give him before.

“I…I want this, but there have to be some rules.” Az had a kind of shyness in his eyes, in his voice that Cass had never seen before, never thought he would see.

“Of course, what do you propose?” Rhys asked.

Cass couldn’t understand how Rhys was so level-headed and calm. He wanted this, yes, but it also felt like their whole dynamic could change completely and some fear that their relationship could change forever made his hands shake just slightly, made his heart beat just a little faster in his chest.

Rhys, however, seemed entirely unruffled. His violet eyes were clear and the way he sprawled against the dark wood of the headboard was cool and confident and relaxed. Rhys was always better at hiding his emotions than Cass was, though.

“I think we should keep this,” Az motioned between the three of them, “confined to the house. We can’t bring any of this to the training ring.”

“I agree. Is that alright with you, Cass?”

“Yes, of course. I really don’t want to know how Devlon would feel about an arrangement like this. Anything else?”

Az shook his head.

“Stay here tonight? With me?” Rhys asked.

Cassian nodded, but Azriel’s eyes widened, full lips parted.

“I’ve…I’ve never…I,” Az stammered.

“I know Az. That’s part of this. You don’t have to; we can always try another night.” Rhys’ voice was low and smooth and already tinged with sleep. It was quite late, and they were all tired and still processing the day’s events.

“No, I…I want to. I’ll stay.”

Rhys smiled, eyelids drooping slightly with his need for sleep. Cass smiled at Az, too, pride lacing his features. He knew this was a big step for Az. He knew how hard he tried to hide his nightmares, how often his past still kept him awake.

Rhys made himself comfy on one side of the oversized bed, wings still tucked away to create more space. When Az settled in the middle of the bed, Cass threaded an arm around his waist, slowly and not too tight, allowing Az to push him away if he wanted to. But he didn’t. He seemed content with the contact and Cass draped a wing over their bodies, cocooning them in warmth.

Cassian wanted to stay awake. Even as Az’s breathing settled into a slow, steady rhythm, he wanted to stay awake just a little longer. To make sure he was okay, to be there if he woke up. But the steady hum of their combined breathing and the warmth enveloping them lulled him into an easy, dreamless sleep.

[moonbiscuitsims]

💀Olive Specter: infamous killer of Strangetown in Night City/Badlands💀Here to show the scavs how it's done Trigger warning: videogame violence

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