#like gnashing teeth and clawing at the ground in futility

[tragedy-of-commons]

i like when they pretend… but poorly.

i like when a character puts on the bravest face they can muster, but it’s not doing much to convince anyone; glossy eyes wide with alarm as they say i’m fine because when have they not been? when have they not been confident and resilient?

they lie to themself, even as tears stream down their cheeks in petty rivulets—because this act is to convince only themself, not anyone else.

[undead-merman]

Oooh can you do some fearplay/feral/predator/prey headcanons or whatever with the demons and Solomon??? 0////0 I want to be hunted by the prince a feral wizard and the bros so fucking bad

Feral/Fear play with Diavolo and Solomon with GN-Reader NSFW

Diavolo

Becoming feral

It was a prototype to help calm demons down whenever they go on rampages. It was inspired by an event when the brothers had a freakout and you weren’t around. So Solomon helped Diavolo with the problem. It wasn’t anything invasive, like melatonin for demons.

Solomon brought it to Diavolo to test. Diavolo was excited, he didn’t think himself a man who easily gets enraged and saw it as a way to not only get away from work but to also have something to help him deeply relax.

But Solomon's testing didn’t go above Little D’s, Diavolo was his true first test of this prototype. But when he lit it and let it burn and fill the room Diavolo gets a bit itchy. Scratching his skin, then twitching and even raking his fangs over his skin. Even his wings flap out and horns sprout so fast that even Diavolo winces. 

Solomon snuffs it out but he’s leaped on and knocked unconscious. Something prickling at his skin and driving him mad enough to foam at the mouth and claw at his own skin.   

Getting a scent for you

But it’s when he smells that scent of yours that he stops. The prickling just getting worse but he doesn’t want to rip and tear, no, something is stirring in his loins and he needs to mate that small tasty human he smells. 

He follows it to his room and finds that shirt you left and he’s inhaling the scent of it. Deep heavy whiffs as his cock throbs and he bucks into the air with no friction at all and growls because of it.

He’ll shove that shirt into his crotch and ruts into it over and over but tosses it away when he can’t even get a good feeling from it. Growling he follows his nose and flies out to find you. claws itching and teeth gnashing. 

You are at the house of lamentation and the others are out when your window cracks open and flapping wings fold to reveal a Diavolo with fangs on full display and drooling and he’s creeping at you like a big cat ready to pounce. You managed to scramble out of the bed just as he ripped up the sheets. 

You swear you see him smile as you dash out and slam the door behind you, knowing it's a futile attempt to slow him.    

Hunting you

He wore a terrifying smile. It was just like the one he always wore but it didn’t reach his eyes. His molten gold and amber eyes were empty of any kind of sanity. They were hungry. 

He easily caught up, you could blink and he was right in front of you. He pushed you right to the ground and straddled you pinning your arms up above your head and leaving you helpless. 

But instead of ripping you apart or eating you, he was kissing your neck. Burning hot lips and a tongue caressing just under your jaw and a straining erection against your body twitching with primal excitement. 

His teeth pull at your clothes and rip with ease, but there's something terrifyingly graceful in the way the ripped cloth to thread. He ripped his own clothes and his cock flopped out throbbing and leaking. 

He’ll growl pleased as he ruts his cock against your hole while holding your legs apart and his vast amounts of slimy precum rubs against you and he slowly but persistently works his head inside, and as soon as he’s inside he still has the sanity to allow you to adjust, or he’s just savoring the feel of your insides. Your twitches all around him make his growls morph into purrs.

It doesn’t matter if you bend to his will or even fight and spit back. He’s too far gone. He’s just fucking into your soft body and warmth. And he makes sure his darling little prey feels good, it's instinct. Rubbing his massive hands all up and down grinning with teeth when you out noises of enjoyment. 

He doesn’t just come once or twice. You lose count of how many times your toes have curled and how much cum has been flooded into not just the one, but all of them. By the time he was coming down from the orgasm, you were just about to pass out. Your face flushed and eyes unfocused.         

Returning to normal

It took a moment for him to finally come back after finally being satisfied. He stood over you like a wolf protecting its caught prey, but as the itchiness and the irritation was gone he realized what he had done and felt horrified. 

Right before you pass out you saw his petrified face, mouth agape, pupils were blown wide. He gently took you in his arms and was only somewhat relieved he didn’t draw a pinprick of blood. But what has he done? 

Even if you forgive him, he still has a weight of guilt in his gut that feels like tons. It even hurt to look at you sometimes. Sure it was an accident but how could he, the prince of the Devildom, hurt not only a beloved guest but someone he holds so dear and close to him?

If you don’t? If you spit, curse, or hit him, he lets you. Take out your anger on him. He understands. Do as you please, he’ll do anything to show his remorse.     

Solomon

Becoming feral

With the newest discovery of a Devildom herb, he was happy to be one of the first ones to get his hands on it. Though through not-so-savory methods. He was testing the various things this herb could be used for. 

It shockingly was not toxic or poisonous to humans, chopped and eaten it was a pleasantly sweet and spicy taste. 

But when self-testing and ended up burning it the fumes were burning and while he put in a charm to protect himself, what he didn’t prepare for was how his mind went blank with just pure rage. 

He destroyed everything in his workshop. Glass everywhere, liquids all over the floor just making the situation worse and him even worse. 

The rampage doesn’t stop there, he ends up going into his room and knocking down the perfumes that Asmodeus gave him adding a terrible mix of pheromones and aphrodisiacs. Turning the rampage into a heated one.     

Getting a scent for you

But that’s when he smelled that cloak of yours. The one you left with him after your travels and he kept in his wardrobe for when you needed it again. So when the scent drifted out from his ruined cabinet his head whipped around and found the thing. 

The smell of your hair and sweat, he licked it and it only drowned him deeper in feral desire. His cock was rock hard in his trousers as he bit into the fabric as he craved more and more. 

Soon he tossed away the cloak and followed his human nose to try and find you. It wasn’t hard, you had a room of your own in this place, and with it being this late you were passed out asleep. 

He threw open the door and found you passed out, with animalistic glee he grabbed you and yanked you up kissing you deeply. You wake instantly by the force and a tongue down your throat. 

Shoving him away or even biting down makes him reel back but the gleam in his eyes tells you that he’s not himself. And while he’s just as human as you, he’s much stronger with powerful magic under his belt. 

Not to mention the scent of him makes you want to rip his hair out as well. But you know better, so you run. You push him out of the way and dash out of the room and into your shared tower.  

Hunting you

Solomon had built many traps and tricks into the tower in case of emergencies, and no matter where you hide or what magic was put up he found his way to you. It was like he could smell your fear through the solid stones and magic barriers. 

His face was wearing a twisted promise of a death sentence, but the way he would grab you for just a moment and you could feel his dick pressing against you, you felt it was a much worse outcome.

But he was relentless, he wouldn’t stop and ended up using his own magic to seal the place up confining you to the tower with no way out. 

And just like a dramatic confrontation in a movie, you found yourself cornered with him creeping closer. He pushes you into the wall and yanks your pants down with your ass on full display. 

His thumb brushed against your hole and with a fizzle of his fingers, you could feel his fingers leaking and slowly shoving into you trying to spilt you open, pushing deep, and pulling you apart. 

Despite it all, it was starting to feel nice. His fingers always were dexterous and even in an enraged state still proved to be formidable and little moans wanted to come out. But that stopped when he pulled his messy fingers out and slapped them on our hips and pushed inside with one sharp thrust. 

He fucked you fast and hard, and every time you started falling and sliding down on the wall. His slimy hands hold you tight as he pounds you down all the way down to the floor and still kept going. 

There was so much cum, you couldn’t even think anymore. Just chasing orgasm after orgasm until he finally halted his hips and he let out a shaky sigh as he laid on top of you. He woke up from his rage and saw your worn-out body.          

Returning to normal

He quickly took you back to your bed and tended to you. Giving you water and keeping you warm and wrapped in the sheets. 

He felt awful, terrible, downright despicable. The way you just looked so vulnerable and tired. He moved the hair out of your face. He wanted to go to his office and write down notes of everything that happened. But you are more important and making sure that you were okay was the most important thing. 

Not only that, but he needed to apologize. That was the first thing he needed to do. 

[itsme-basil]

Wolfsong

Prologue - read on ao3

*-*

Fenrir let out a bone shuddering, sorrowful and betrayed howl as chains tightened around his bulk. His top lip curled in a snarl, his claws digging into the earth as he fought against the binds. Someone got too close, and Fenrir snapped, teeth closing around the forearm and biting until he felt the arm snap off. The god screamed in agony, blood splattering against Fenrir’s fur, on the ground by his paws.

More chains were thrown over his back, tightened until Fenrir couldn’t do anything but fall to his chest, claws breaking through the ground’s thick crust as another deafening growl filled the room, louder than the shouts and demands of the gods who’d turned their backs on him.

They’d pay for their cowardice, if it was the last thing Fenrir did. He’d destroy them all, and he made it known as he snarled and howled for release. Gods he’d thought of as friends, as brothers, tightened the chains until Fenrir could barely breathe without them digging into his spine, constricting around his ribs like a serpent. Fighting was futile, but he didn’t stop trying.

Didn’t stop until a familiar figure walked slowly towards him. The goddess wasn’t afraid of his gnashing teeth, or the way his eyes held murder in their dark depths. Tears pooled in her eyes, though there was hatred there too. Not for Fenrir, but for the gods and goddesses who had entrapped him.

Fenrir stilled as she neared, the red of her hair cascading over her shoulder like water, the fabric of her clothes brushing against her calves the way leaves rustled in the wind.

The others were too afraid to get close, for fear of losing a limb, or dying. But not Mani. She didn’t shrink back in fear of Fenrir’s size, her heart beat didn’t quicken at the growl that vibrated deep in his chest, cut off with every breath. His lip dropped over his teeth, still tasting blood on his tongue.

The rage fell away to a deep sadness as Mani’s bare feet stopped inches from Fenrir’s muzzle. She knelt with all the grace a goddess like her possessed, her bright eyes glittering with tears for him.

Fenrir whined pitifully, feeling his own eyes burn with emotion. Her hands settled against Fenrir’s muzzle, ignoring the warnings from everyone else. The goddess knew Fenrir wouldn’t harm her. He whined once more, struggling to get closer to her. She murmured softly to him, running her hands up the bridge of his muzzle, soothing back the fur. She leaned over his nose, pressed a kiss to the space between his eyes.

His paws dug into the ground under him, creating deep fissures, wanting nothing more than to wrap himself around the goddess. She kept her mouth against his fur, and he breathed her in, body shuddering.

“My wolf,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Mani.”

Fenrir’s lips curled, eyes snapping to Odin. The rage returned with the growing growl in his throat. Mani hushed him, soothing her palms against his face until his eyes returned to her, his lip smoothing out once more.

“Mani, leave him,” Odin ordered.

She turned to him so fast her hair fell from her shoulder. “How could you do this?” She demanded, kneeling beside Fenrir’s muzzle, her hand brushing through his fur. “He did nothing wrong.”

Odin set hard, dark eyes on the two of them, jaw twitching. “I’d mind your tone, Mani,” he snapped. “The only reason you’re not in a similar situation is because of your status alone. But that can quickly change.”

Mani bristled, green eyes turning stormy. She didn’t fight him though. She couldn’t. Odin was too powerful. He didn’t have a problem getting rid of Fenrir for their offence, it wouldn’t matter if Mani was the goddess of the moon. The room empties, leaving only Odin and Mani behind.

Fenrir turns his head into Mani, nuzzling into her as best he can. She turned to him, running her hand up between his eyes, kissing him once more.

“I’ll watch over them,” she murmurs against his fur, a promise Fenrir is being forced to break. He whines against her, tears wetting his fur. Too soon, she’s pulling away, getting to her feet. Fenrir watches her go, and doesn’t understand how his heart could break any more.

Odin reaches for her as she passes, and Mani rips her arm away before he gets the chance to touch her. Odin’s hand falls, lips pursed. He glances coolly to Fenrir before following the goddess out of the hall -the prison. The heavy doors slam shut, the sound echoing off the bare stone walls. Fenrir’s ears fold against his head. He’s alone.

He howls, long and pitiful and morose. He cries out for his wolves, but he can’t hear their returning calls. Another attempt at escape has the chains tightening around his middle, biting into his skin. He collapses onto the ground, chin thudding heavily. He’ll kill them all.

His next howl is one of fury, a threat on every chord, a warning to all who’d turned their backs on him. He hopes they never get an ounce of rest, for fear if they do, Fenrir would be there to tear them apart.

[kettlequills]

c7, waking dreams: master of fate

hello everyone. i am not dead. here's chapter 7. rest on a03 here.

Miraak lay upon a bier in the cool depths of the temple, and closed veinless lids over hollow eyes.

His soul rampaged in his chest, howled at the confines of the thick earthen ropes of muscle that bound skin to skeleton, blood to bone, mind to matter. He wailed at the horrible, cruel inevitability of a creature of air and fire, frost and sky, beyond all fragments of soul made form, chained within the lugubrious hell of a mortal body. His soul had not been meant to be a man, and each step he took was shadowed with the terrible loss of what Akatosh had taken from him – his claws and teeth, his strong wings to bear him far away, his lashing tail and his serpent’s eye – all for the sake of fate.

But he was Miraak, mightier than any god’s plan for him, stronger than any restless ghost or dragon, and he mastered his own fate. And so he lay there, his dragon-borne heart pounding a war rhythm in his chest, and he ate Krosulhah’s soul.

In dreams, he was Krosulhah, and he was magnificent. He knew it, he breathed it, he lived it. He was the lord of secret sorcery, the subtle manipulation of the mind, and the harsh glaze of sun on autumn ice – deceiving in its solidity to the eye, treacherous beneath. Flight was a dream to him, he knew nothing of cages, the earth no more a prison than his immortal body understood the concept of nightmare.

Scents of warm-home-heart tickled his nose as he lazily chased a thermal in a rising arc. The kind gusts belled out his regal blue-white wings, until he stretched each wingtip and felt them cup each halfway around the world. Far below, the rugged tip of the new land of fahliil basked in the spring sun.

Fresh with melted ice, the Sotkol joore-nest was so dark and brazen against the fading snowheights of the strunmah Krosulhah had chosen that the rounded roof seemed smeared with ash, as if a firebellied Dov had saw fit to free its followers from another winter. Bossy Kruziikrel, come to flaunt its ruby foe-teeth, and boil Krosulhah’s cold waters with its fiery scales until the soothing seas itched too terribly to lie in, would do that if only to steal Krosulhah’s favourites away. But no rival had seen fit to poach from Krosulhah’s flock.

No, today was a good day, wrought in spring-sun warmth that scattered droplets of icewater along Krosulhah’s shimmering silver spine. His garlands of frost were melting, under the heat of this southern sun, and as his next lazy downbeat sprayed cold rain across the stubborn crags of the mountain, he marvelled.

To the bitter north, there was no season of spring, or of summer, ground away by the passage of time. Krosulhah, born from the heaving seas of the world’s birth, remembered the creation of all seasons, how winter shook itself in first snapping and snarling, and out of its corpse grew fresh shoots, game that was fun to chase, and the joore.

Futile, summer-bright things, with soft teeth and softer paws. Such quiet voices they had, that they needed whole packs to sing with the resonance of dragons. Friendly, fearful creatures, living like termites in the dense warrens of cave and tree, their small eyes glittering in their flat faces like tiny gemstones. They did not glow, like a dragon’s eyes did. Instead, a joor reflected the light that was around it, one of the qualities that had made them so perfect for their great purpose.

Atmora’s endless winter was no trouble for ice dragons who loved the snow, but – Krosulhah tucked his wings and fell like a spear hurled from the heavens towards the sea, and the waiting chasms of gnashing rocky teeth beneath the waves, guarding the labyrinthine seacaves snarling through the rugged map of this part of Keizaal – it was not dragons alone who loved the Dov.

Dukaan was waiting for him when he breached the black water, seafoam gilding the pure icicles that clung to his argent jaw, the mighty forking of his submarine frill crowned by an impressive thicket of ice and emblazoned with chill that made him glitter as if he were crusted with precious gems. The glow of his own eyes scattered moontossed beams around the smooth walls of the seacave, catching in the rigid lines of swirling decorations carved with clever joor paws until it seemed as if the whole rock wall was alight, alive, with the ripple of waves. Only joore could turn rock to water, with nothing but shadows and the light of a dragon’s eyes.

His breath curled out ahead of him in a foggy plume of white. Dukaan’s scalloped silvery mask, so like Krosulhah’s own scales, paled with ice crystals that hung heavy in the mantle of white fur around her shoulders. Beneath it, her eyes glistened, bird-black as onyx.

“Beautiful one,” she said, spoke smooth and true, like any good joore raised to the dragon tongue did, “I am awed and ashamed to kneel before you, in such humbleness as I do.”

Krosulhah lashed his great tail, driving his spiny body further up into the sea caves beneath Sotkol and emerging from the chill water. He fanned his wings, billowing gusts of cool air up the passageways cut large enough for even a dragon to pass through and ruffling Dukaan’s robes. She had left him just the perfect amount of space to settle on his ebony sharp claws and diamond-plated chest, just close enough that he could arch his spiny neck to press his scaly snout to her chest without having to wriggle forward at all.

How well she knew him, from tip to tail, from scale to soul.

Her small arms came around his jaw, deft claws painted silver as his reflexively seeking the soft patch of scales under Krosulhah’s throat for a good scratch. The tips of Krosulhah’s wings sagged as he melted under her attentions, careful to angle the sharp prod of his tusks away from her delicate flesh. Her robes rumpled and fluttered as if caught by stormsung winds when he exhaled a greeting breath.

She blew back, more of a chin jerk of her flat face than any breath, captured as it was in her mask. Her eyes gentled at him, all that unbearable softness on display; how careful a Dov had to be, to avoid hurting them with their fragile skins and their bodies full of a thousand pulsing things, without a single one of which they withered away into a sleep that they could not be woken from again. Precious, momentary things, as warm and lovely as the sunlight’s dazzle on bright wings, between the onward march of the clouds. And so he greeted her with breath and air, and not with fire.

“Drem-lok,” Krosulhah rumbled with pleasure, “di-sonaak, Dukaan.”

“Hail, Krosulhah,” she returned, and tipped forward until her slight weight rested against his nose, negligible to dragon as large and strong as Krosulhah. Her warmth cradled the sensitive, flexible scales of his head, too hot to be borne, if it were not for her. She sighed. “What news from the north? Has Al-Du-In caught wind of our plans?”

“Niid,” Krosulhah said. “I think not. Yet. Faasnu Kruziikrel has been given a new priest. Fah yol mey. After much whining.”

“The fearless one should perhaps stop killing them, and then would not need more,” Dukaan muttered. Her blunt claws scratched under his chin with a surge of vigour; even with strangers, she felt their loss, she felt for their pain. Krosulhah wondered where she put it all, in that small chest with its rabbit-thudding pulse counting out the scant seconds of her life. “No matter how convenient it is for our smuggling operations.”

Krohsulhah snorted a laugh. He thought Dukaan would govern the joore at Kruziikrel’s nest better than Kruziikrel did, and this was a fine joke, to imagine her giving mighty, flaming Kruziikrel, impatient with everyone, orders that must be obeyed, weak as a kitten. How could a joor control a dragon? They were such small creatures, barely any teeth at all. But they spoke a dragon’s tongue, and their hearts were steadfast and strong, stronger even, Krosulhah thought, than the Dov. But without a dragon’s Voice, their will was still dependent on a dragon’s indulgence to listen.

“You speak with the mind of a joor, but a Dov’s sense, dii. I do not think this one will last long.”

“What mask does he bear?” Dukaan asked. She rose, and after a quick, guilty look behind her, pulled off her own mask to press a quick kiss to Krosulhah’s horn. Her fur spilled out her face around without the voluminous hood to keep it back; always so much more than Krosulhah expected there to be. He swore it grew every time he looked away. Such was the nature of mortals, constantly changing.

Obligingly, he bent his neck to allow her to climb up his spiny shoulders, and find a perch there with her clever hands wrapped around a spare spine. Nimble and quick, these joore, and how quietly they could move without the earth lumbering through each of their heavy steps! Dukaan’s small claws tickled when they skated along the ridges of his polished scales. Some joore did not even have that much, and were small and weak all over, full of warm blood and soft meat. But not his Dukaan, no. She smelled perpetually of cool snow, and never minded his chilly scales even in the longest arc of winter.

“Faaz, rok los…” Krohsulhah’s mind sought a glimpse of memory as Dukaan scurried about on his back. She was a warm spot on his back, right over the vulnerable place where his neck joined his body. When she had settled herself, a loose rope wrapped around Krosulhah’s neck, she tapped his scales.

The flash of a mask came to him, the strange, oily scent the priest had carried following quick after. Like snorting sparks, it had stung his nose with the briny memory of the madness that lurked in the deeps. Though he had worn many bells in his robes that jangled and clashed together harmoniously, the little joor had been slow on his feet, and his eyes submissively lowered. His will was already broken despite winning for himself a mask of the favoured, and every step drug against the tidal current of the deep, and his rattling breath was the whisper of wind through fallen leaves. Of dead things, of decaying things, of the strange, still sleeps of the joore, wherein they would never wake but only dream.

Kruziikrel would be through with him in barely a year, Krosulhah thought. Firebright Kruziikrel, bragging and gloating, immense and majestic, saddled with this sad little creature, whose very breath seemed to hum a discordant note in a song? No, Krosulhah suspected he would barely live long enough to allow Dukaan to take advantage of the chaos of his arrival to steal away precious joore from the talons of unworthy Dov. On the heels of this recollection, Krosulhah remembered the name.

Pleased with himself, he ruffled his wings. “He is Miraak.”

---

---

The maw of Raven Rock was set low beneath the vast scowl of its walls, the teeth of its portcullis scraping the drifting hills of ash. As Frea and Nikulas crested one such shifting, powdery hill, the bonemould-clad guards slammed their spears down into a jagged ring of spikes. The close eye of the sun hanging like a spectre over the ashy clouds wreathed their bristling spears into individual points of fire. Each fearsome helmet hid sharp red eyes that were as cold and hard as rubies.

“Halt!” one shouted.

Placatingly, Frea raised her hands. The strap that secured Laataazin’s hammer to her shoulder dug into the meat of her muscle and ground against the bone.

Nikulas glanced sidelong at her. He had been carrying his bow in hand, like any good hunter ever watchful for a flushed hare or snowfox. As he fumbled to hastily copy her, he dropped it. The bow hit the ash with a muted thump, the string snapping back against the wood.

He cringed. Frea pursed her lips and kept her eyes forward, Nikulas’ blazing cheeks like summer sun in her peripheral vision.

She offered a silent prayer to the All-Maker that Nikulas had not cracked his bow. The Dunmer bows Frea might find to replace them in town were built for slender elven proportions and were made to be regularly drenched in oils and set alight. Nikulas’ thick human fingers would struggle on the small grips, and it would never shoot as well cold.

But beyond the practicality of conserving the Skaal’s limited resources, there was something in the air here she didn’t trust. Suspicious xenophobia, Frea expected that, but not raised weapons. It had never gone so far as that before.

The clumsy disarmament eased some of the more undisciplined guards, and a few spear tips closer to the back dipped to rest gently on the ash. No doubt they would be hastily taken up if the captain scowling at them from under his bonemould helm turned.

The young were the same everywhere, it seemed.

“Hail,” she called, in her clumsy Dunmeris. She knew only a few words, enough to announce who she was and that she meant no harm. She had never been tasked with hunting or trading with the lowland elves and so had never had occasion to learn more than the basics, though travelling with Laataazin who understood barely more than she and could not speak at all had brushed up her skills.

At her shout, a wave of relief swept through the guards; even the less green ones slumped. At the captain’s gesture, the ring of spears raised, put up against bone-plated shoulders with a deathly rattling.

“Hail, stranger,” he said, “Welcome to Raven Rock.”

The guards formed two neat rows for Nikulas and Frea to pass through. Stepping into the shadow of the Bulwark, Frea swallowed around a lump of apprehension.

Even Nikulas’ vibrating eagerness died into a wary sort of unease that matched her own as they passed under the towering walls of the Bulwark. No seasoned hunter was he, but he didn’t need to be one to feel that Raven Rock had all the tense exhaustion of a trap in waiting.

The huge walls loomed over her, pressing her into the vast dark heaviness of their enfold. The air was noticeably hotter inside, almost clammy with a thick shimmer that clustered round the dun, dully shining carapaces of the houses, bone, shell and chimes of carved wood, unmoving in the listless still. The fields that pressed up against the walls of the Bulwark like the rolling crumples of patchworked furs were fallow soil, dark and picked bare.

Braziers were lit at every corner, burning with sweet perfumes that cloyed the air. The townsfolk haunted the alleys between the dusty gutters, half-choked with ash that was normally swept away. There were more than Frea remembered, rangy and lean as wolves. Sunken into tight, pinched faces, the knots of their bellies, their spirits flickered and glowed like banked coals.

She stumbled into the gaze of one elf counting coins in the shade of a sprawling trama root. Quick as an arrow, the coins vanished in a silver flash, and their slender hands with nails painted poison purple crept into the ash to curl around the hilt of a wicked-looking dagger. Outlined in the dark shadows of tear-tracks, their eyes burned as they lingered on Frea’s weapons.

The attitude was quiet; subdued. No one talked. There was no laughter or song in these streets, only the whispering of the ash and the silent, persistent sense of being watched.

Purposefully, Frea struck out across the town, towards the Earth Stone. The sea breeze chilled her cheeks as she crossed the boardwalk, her boots echoing hollowly. The Earth Stone sat a little away from the nearby buildings, still with half-risen barricades and guard posts that stood empty, like eyesockets dotting the walls of tombs. It was not completely unattended; a single Redoran guard was slumped over a rickety chair, snoring into his helmet.

Careless. Frea bit her tongue and tasted salt flecked on her lips.

Nikulas’ footsteps were silent as a cat’s behind her as Frea skirted the guard and slipped into the barricaded area around the Earth Stone. Dark water sloshed over her boots, and she grimaced. Nikulas nimbly hopped over to the ring of stone that hugged the very plinth of the Stone, risen like grave marker to the smoky sky. Squaring her stance, Frea leant back against the barricades and crooked a rune of mage-sight, the third finger of her left hand against the pad of her thumb, over her eye.

The glistening leylines of the land superimposed themselves over her sight, threads woven round the swollen nexus that was the Earth Stone. The magic here pulsed and roiled like the ocean not too far from its lonely hill, disturbed as a kicked nest. It dragged deep, through hollow chambers of ancient rock, through the very twisting foundations of Solstheim itself. The blood of the All-Maker pounded through the tributaries that had been cut here by Frea’s ancestors long ago, risen into glowing pools of energy clustered around each Stone, invigorating the earth, purifying the waters and sweetening the sky. The whole island sung through these Stones and the Skaal that watched them. To the learned shaman who knew how to read them, the Stones had once whispered of everything from the tiniest forager to the greatest tree, the silent humming of the mountains, the dead men that slept in their cold tombs, the vast network of power that stretched over Solstheim together like links in a great chain.

But now, all they sang was one word. One name.

Miraak.

His touch fell upon her soft as snow kissed her cheeks, but there was no will there. Just – presence. Awareness, like she was being watched, in the same slow way the moons observed the passing of the stars and the interminable dancing of fireflies. Mortal lives, flickers of light against the encroach of void, dark as ink and deep as memory itself.

Uneasily, Frea took a step back, out of the inky water around the base of the Stone, certain that in the dim waters that oozed there she had caught sight of Herma-Mora’s eye.

“This needs cleansing,” she muttered.

Hand straying to his bow, Nikulas peered into the water suspiciously. Frea doubted he could shoot an arrow anywhere helpful, but she understood the desire to face the unknown with a weapon in hand. “Is it this bad at the Wind Stone, too?”

“You can sense it?” Frea eyed him, but he did not seem any different, if a little nervous.

Avoiding her wary squint, Nikulas rubbed the back of his neck. He checked his fingers, as if expecting blood – or maybe ink – to have stained them. “It’s – louder here. I hear him.”

“You hear him?!” Frea grabbed her amulet subconsciously. The flicker of her father’s magic was calming, but it warred with a creeping and persistent guilt. She only had the one, after all, and one had not been enough without Laataazin’s aid. Amulets, weapons, and all the wisdom of the Skaal hadn’t been enough. This time, they had to be, there was nothing else. “… What is he saying?”

Nikulas shifted from foot to foot. He pushed the hood of his fur parka down, revealing a pale face that was glossing with sweat. The brisk, salty wind chapped his cheeks, but it could not hide the tips of his ears turning red. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, anxious as a watersnake caught in a rockpool by stirring seas.

“Just…” Nikulas squeezed the grip of his bow until his knuckles turned white. The stretch-blanched skin over his knuckles stood in harsh contrast to the hectic flush brimming in the hollow of his throat, his wrists, all the places where vulnerable blood gathered. As he stood motionless, his eyes glazed and his pupils narrowed to pinpricks, as if he stood before a great bright light that Frea could not see. He began to sweat, drips sleeting towards his dampening collar. He held his body too rigid to shiver. Like even breathing would be too much.

“I hear his whispers,” he breathed, “… and there’s music – singing – just far away, but I can… I – I feel like flying.”

He scuffed one of the carven lines worked into the base of the circle around the Stone’s base. A tingle worked its way into her aching bones where her skull met her spine. The trapped energy hummed restlessly, visceral as a shudder caught under her skin.

Something… stirred.

Acting quickly, Frea yanked Nikulas’ arm. He toppled half-over, yelping as he splashed foul water up to his knee, but Frea did not pause until she had towed him out of the stone circle, past the barricades and the sleeping guard.

Seizing him by the shoulders, Frea shook him. Anxiously, she searched his face, fever-flushing darkly, the hair on his temples curling with his sweat. His oak-brown eyes were muzzy. He blinked at her, trying for a wobbly smile. Nearly hoarse with relief, Frea released him and whirled around to hide her face. For a moment, she’d thought – well, it didn’t matter what she had thought.

Groaning, he sagged against the barricade wall nauseously, one arm creeping around his stomach. He touched himself like a stranger to his own body, a faint grief or virulent relief pinching his mouth as he ran human hands over his nose, his cheeks, gripped at his belly. “Oh, that does not feel good.”

“We should leave this place,” Frea managed to keep her voice clear, though cool, though fear threatened to strangle it, she could not alarm him, she could not. She could not risk bringing to his eyes, so young and bright with a hope yet to be crushed out, the dreadful fear she had felt those nights at the Stones, shaking numb limbs and feeling around her neck the necklace that warded her like a lodestone for the prayers of her people. “Are you well, Nikulas?”

“Aye.” Nikulas leant over and spat illustratively in the dirt. He plastered on a rather wan, but brave face. “Aye, see, no hammering from me. I’ve got your back, Frea.”

“Alright,” she said. She worked her jaw around the words, feeling them thick and awkward in her mouth. A headache crept into her temples and banged there like incautious shutters. Her stomach did not want to relax from its tense nest of snakes. She wanted, badly, to be away from the Stone. “But tell me if you start to hear anything again.”

“Aye, shaman,” he said lightly, but his eyes were serious.

As he followed her away from the shrine, Frea caught him glancing over his shoulder and rubbing at his ear, as if to remove the phantom feeling of lips against it, did not speak of the wordless surge it roused within her. She kicked a stone against the foot of the guardsman as they passed, already several swinging strides away by the time he spluttered himself awake.

She did not think this place should be unguarded. No more were the Stones watchful guardians and earthen protectors. Not for the Skaal, and not for the people of Raven Rock.

“Those… whispers,” said Nikulas as they left, “That’s what Oslaf and the others heard, wasn’t it?”

“No,” Frea said tightly.

Her boots came down aggressive and sharp on the hollow chitinous planks boarding the ashy dust of the pathways, and she forced herself to slow down. They were attracting odd looks. Skaal weren’t a common enough sight in Raven Rock to go without notice anymore. They hadn’t been since before Miraak’s curse had started stirring in the Stones, and they had rather more on their mind than trading furs for spice and lowlander coin.

The guards were watching them warily, their hands on their belts loosely fingering weapons. The guards had never been the friendliest of Dunmer in Raven Rock, but they had usually treated newcomers with distant politeness. Perhaps Frea owed her chillier reception to the fact she no longer walked at the Dragonborn’s side. The world had seemed colder, greyer, without Laataazin in it, somehow less full. They had this air of gravity and purpose about them that made any chore into a quest, an adventure, a legend.

The heft of their warhammer on her back restored the weight of their company, but not the wonder. Or perhaps that had been Frea’s own brand of foolish youth, when she had still thought that saving the day would be enough to undo the night that had ruled before it.

Frea’s absent mind had taken them unconsciously to the forge district, where she did most of her trading when she was in town. The tradesfolk of Raven Rock were always friendlier than anyone else, welcoming fine Skaal craftsmanship. Here, at least, she was greeted with gruff nods and the occasional thin-lipped smile.

“Am I going to start dreamwalking?” Nikulas asked quietly from behind her, drawing her attention to the uncomfortable silence that had settled between them.

Grateful to be drawn out of her thoughts, Frea smiled at him. It was a thin, drowned thing. Nikulas’ dark eyes furrowed up, unsure how to take good humour from her. She touched his elbow, trying for reassuring instead of staid.

“No, I don’t think so.”

His answering smile came out like the dawn. “Thank you, shaman.”

Frea looked away from his innocent warmth and tried not to think about the fact that as long as Frea held the only amulet resistant to Miraak’s powers, Nikulas could be commanded to work the Stones whenever he liked, and Frea would be none the wiser til she found him, hammering away.

The clang of metal on metal answered her thought, and Frea jumped. She found Laataazin’s hammer all but materialised in her hands, digging into the meat of her palms bruisingly. Her bare fingers looked muddied and cold, childlike, curled around the heavy haft. The Raven Rock smith, a wiry, pale human from far across the sea, glanced up at her. His canny eyes were sunk low in his skull, mounded with exhausted wrinkles.

“Ahoy, Skaal. You want your weapons fixed up, you’ll have to wait. Guards’ order came through first.”

“Oh, we weren’t here to trade…” Nikulas started, but Frea approached the smith, caught by the stick of iron he was scrutinising. Sensing a conversation, the smith, Mallory, shoved it back into the coals.

Closer to the forge, the heat was fearsome, fire-salts popping and crackling in the hearth like chattering atronachs. Flame-treated Dunmeri weapons would not melt in any ordinary fire, at least, not without frost-salts to weaken them first. Frea knew that much, from Baldor Iron-Shaper’s grumbling when the Skaal brought back treated weapons from trade. The Skaal were no witch-elves, they did not conjure atronachs and daedra and slay them for their heartfires and skin-salts. But Frea’s own war-axe had been made with fire-treated quicksilver folded round a steel blade, and it had cut through the searing attacks of enemy Dunmer as if their fires were water.

“That blade has been sheared in half,” Frea interrupted. “… Of metals I know, only stahlrim could do this, and we do not make it frequently. Who cleaved that sword?”

“I ain’t paid to ask questions about dead folk’s blades, Skaal.” Mallory wiped his brow and set down his hammer. “Truth be told, I’m glad to see some of your sort about town. I’d had you all figured wiped out long before now.”

“Wiped out?” Nikulas demanded.

“Aye.” Mallory squinted at them. “The ‘spawn was bad enough before. Still, will you be wanting anything?” He looked admiringly at the hammer Frea had forgotten she held. “Aye, I’d pay you to get my hands on that beauty.”

It simmered when he looked at it, as if the death-enchantments within the metal sung for the blood that fuelled them. If he recognised the intricate carvings of twisted dragons, he said nothing, but Frea shifted it uncomfortably over her back anyway. She wasn’t here to talk about the Dragonborn.

“No, friend,” she said, as graciously as she could manage. “We came to see if the curse of Miraak continued to affect your people.”

“Miraak?” Mallory scratched his chin. His nails rasped against his unshaven cheek. “Can’t say as I remember where I’ve heard that before…”

“The Stones!” Nikulas burst in, insulted. “The Traitor came and took everyone’s minds while they slept, and they laboured away for hours – tens of us died!”

Mallory’s expression flattened, his cracked lips pressing in a thin line. “Ah, the Dragonborn’s business at the Stones? Your pardon, but I’d figured that was in the past now.”

He turned away from them, straightening some tangles of leather that coiled over the workbench behind him. His nimble hands made quick work of the knots, but he kept his eyes focused on the table. Frea read hesitance in the line of his shoulders. His reticence ignited anger in her heart.

“In the past?” Frea repeated, nettled, barely recognising the quiet threat in her voice as her own. “Bare weeks have passed, smith. Our bodies are still not yet feeding next summer’s worms. Have none of your people’s scouts kept watch on the temple?”

“Aye,” said Malloy, his unease a twitch in his sooty cheek, “Well, I never lost anyone personally, really, lass.” He shrugged defensively. “I gave the Dragonborn free servicing when she fought that mind-thief, because of Fethis, asking on account of his missing associate. I’m a smith, I fix weapons and armour. There’s enough dead about to break good steel against without needing to go looking in the tombs for them.”

He glanced over his shoulder and his eyes tightened, lingering on something just past her. As subtly as she could, Frea stole a look and spotted a loitering guard on the corner. The guard was sagging against a wall, bonemould armour ashblown and long spear shortened by a foot. With a start, Frea recognised him from the gate. Had they been followed?

Nikulas’ arms were crossed over his chest, weight set back on his heels belligerently, but his ire was focused on the smith. His hunter’s ear had caught no stealthy step behind them, or he would have alerted her, surely. Frea touched her amulet, and forced herself to relax her shoulders.

Mallory cleared his throat. “Well, if you ain’t here to trade, I got to ask you to move along. I’m busy.”

“Aye,” said Frea. “All-Maker’s blessing, Skaal-friend.”

It came out bitter and sharp, and she frowned at herself as she turned away. Storn would have kept his good humour, navigated the conversation with calm. Frea represented the village every time she left, she owed them better. The amulet’s magic hummed against her clutching hand, cool as a breath of frost.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Mallory absently, clearing a space on his workbench, “Shadows guide you.”

As they stepped away, the guard came up behind them, proffering his broken spear and engaging Mallory in such rapid muttered Dunmeris that Frea hadn’t a chance of eavesdropping on.

“We should check the town out, huh? Maybe someone else has noticed something,” Nikulas suggested brightly, and Frea nodded. “I wonder why’d they think we all died.”

“Aye,” she said. “I mistrust this.” She glanced around. It was midday, but the market was empty. Dust blew in scattered puffs across the chitin planking, tracing patterned eddies. Frea lingered on them, convincing herself she did not see runes scribed in the ash’s senseless scrawling. A merchant was sat hollowly on a nearby crate, staring into the neck of a bottle of shein. In the shadows of an alley, crimson eyes glittered against dark tattoos. They seared her like a brand, watching, waiting.

For her to be alone?

“We should split up, Nikulas.”

“Huh?” Nikulas turned and looked over his shoulder obviously, making her wince. “Why?”

“We will cover more ground,” Frea said. She thought the people were obviously wary of them together. It was a trick she had played with Laataazin once, after all, it was hard to get information from star-struck locals without one of them playing distraction.

Locals speak freer if guards are gone, Laataazin had told Frea. No true Nord trusts his jarl these days. I suspect these folk aren’t so different.

“If you need me, light an arrow and fire it.” She smiled, humourlessly. “Or scream.”

“Aye, shaman,” said Nikulas nervously. “I’ll meet you – uh…”

“The tavern,” said Frea, pointing to the sloping roof of the Retching Netch, just about visible, “in an hour.”

He nodded, not comfortable with the plan but deferring to her. But when Frea searched the alley for a glimpse of those red eyes, he clasped her bicep. Halted, Frea thinned her brow. Nikulas did not let go.

“Are you all right, Frea?”

She blinked, nonplussed. His kindness hit her delayed but with a sudden burn in her throat that hurt to swallow around. She was fine, of course she was. His hold on her was steady, and his root-deep patience was embracing as the comfort of a fire on a cold night, and all at once, Frea felt the unsteadiness she had been refusing to acknowledge buckle her knees.

Pulling her into a quick hug, Nikulas squeezed her to him. She buried her face into the fur of his parka and breathed in his warm, familiar scent. One of his tattered braids tickled her cheek; she would offer to help him redo them later, she promised herself, like a Skaal should.

Stepping back felt like wrenching the very heart of herself away.

“I will be fine,” Frea told him, the only one of her people for miles. “Go.”

“Aye,” said Nikulas. He did not protest anymore, but walked off, conspicuously angling away from the Earth Stone and the chattering waves. Frea squared her shoulders and eyed the marketplace’s darker corners. Time to find out if her suspicions bore any fruit.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Happy Together : 12

Amor condusse noi ad una morte.

Character(s): (deceptively) dark!Steve

Warnings: this is a dark!fic, it contains non/dubious-consent elements. It goes without (and with) saying that this is 18+.

Series Synopsis: The reader is stood up while awaiting a blind date, instead finding herself keeping company with the restaurant’s famous owner; Steve Rogers. After that night, she tries to forget her humiliation but she just can’t shake one thing about that night: him.

Masterlist

Chapter Summary: The reader finds herself back where she started.

Notes: Well, this chapter gets a bit dark; a bit intense, but we get a little peek into Steve’s delusions and more of his fragile temperament. I hope you all enjoy this. And please, brace yourself for this chapter. I don’t wanna spoil it but it’s creeping up on the dark.

Thanks to everyone who reads and as always, I looked forward to hearing from you in the replies/reblogs/tags/asks. <3

- 

Cuffed. Caged. Caught by Steve Rogers. The room seemed to shrink as he he entered. You looked to the officers on either side of him. Why were you the one in custody? Interrogated? Your heart raced as you realized your dire mistake. You should have known. Had trusting the man before you not taught you anything? There was nothing, no one in this world you could depend on.

"I apologize for my fiance's behaviour." He turned and shook Gowon's hand, then the other officer's. Her badge read Dawson. You scowled and pressed yourself against the table. "With your permission, I'd like a moment alone…" He lowered his voice but you could hear him still. He wanted you to. "She's stressed. She just needs some comfort, you know?"

"Of course, Mr. Rogers," Dawson was more than happy to agree and Golon gave a sympathetic look. 

The former saviour of New York and defender of humanity still wore his mantle of charity. Why look at him; he loved a madwoman. Tore himself away from his work just to bail her out. You were speechless. What could you say? What was your word against his?

You chewed the inside of your lip as the officers left you alone with your personal villain. Delivered you into the hands of the man you had sought refuge from. The door closed, a loud click sealed your fate. His smile slowly faded. His jaw squared and he rolled his shoulders. His cheek twitched and he stepped toward you. You flinched and he put on a show of softening his movements. You stared up at him defiantly as your teeth gnashed. You couldn't let him know how afraid you truly were.

"It's okay, honey, come on and sit." He turned you back to the metal chair and pushed you down by your shoulder. He took the chair across from you and pulled it around to sit next to you. He draped his arm over your shoulder. From the window, he would seem doting; protective even. "You know people are real worried about you."

He fumbled around in his jacket pocket. He pulled out a familiar item. Your phone still wore its holographic shell. He unlocked it and held it before you face. Your Facebook was open; your timeline active despite your forced disconnection. He slowly began to scroll through the well wishes. Talia, several friends you hadn't talked to since college, your mother even. Mixed in were a dozen congratulations until finally he paused at a photo you had never seen. A photo you had never taken and yet there you were, smiling happily beside Steve Rogers; a perfectly blissful couple. Below was a message written in your voice but not by you.

‘To all my friends and family, I must apologize. For the last year I have been distant; standoffish. I could blame it on work or other everyday obligations but I think it better that I come clean. 

One year ago, I met Steve and the connection was instant. We fell in love entirely and were selfish as we dove head deep into each other. It's gone fast but we can't wait any longer to announce it. We're engaged!

To you all, I thank you for standing by me. It had been a very big secret to keep and I have found planning the whole affair very stressful. That being said, I will be stepping back from my work and online to focus on keeping myself healthy as Steve and I put this all together. 

We will announce the date soon and invitations will follow!’

"What did you do?" You recoiled in disgust; disbelief. With your arms bound, you nearly fell right of his grasp. "You're insane!"

He visibly bristled. He blinked and raised the phone once more. He opened up your texts and thumbed through them. "You're mother sends her regards. She was rather upset that you didn't tell her sooner but I cleared all that up."

Your eyes widened as his veneer of calm barely withheld the anger beneath. "Do it," You challenged in a hiss. "I can tell you want to. You want to spank me again, don't you? Hmm? You can't control yourself can you." 

You sneered at him, waiting for him to snap. Hoping. If he bent you over and smacked your right here, surely the police would never let him take you. The tic in his jaw flared and his arm tightened around you. He leaned in so that his lips were right beside your ear.

"You're in big fucking trouble." His whisper made you shiver. He leaned back and reached up to touch your hair as he raised his voice. "It's okay, sweetheart. Let's just get you home and safe. We can push the wedding back."

He rubbed your back as he stood and crossed to the door. He knocked and Dawson reappeared. 

"I hope she didn't trouble you guys too much. I know you work hard out there. I'm real sorry, she's stressed… she's sick. If it's permissible, I'd like to just take her home. I don't think another trip to the hospital is necessary."

He was lying through his teeth and he was oh so good at it. You hung your head in defeat as you listened to his elaborate fabrication. He had imagined a whole life with you and even printed receipts. You were fucked. 

"Of course, Mr. Rogers. You've done this city an amazing service," Dawson preened, "We only wish you were still out there with us."

"When the time comes you just know. Can't be an Avenger and a husband." He said humbly, "Not a good one at least."

"You can take her." Dawson said softly. "Really, we understand. No harm, no foul."

You felt a tug at your wrists and the cuffs were freed with a twist of the key. Steve was once more at your side as he helped you to your feet. You shot him vilest look you could muster.

"Take care of yourself, dear," Her tone was laced with sickly honey. You kept your jaw set and ignored her as Steve ushered you past.

His arm went around your back as he marched you through the station. You felt as if every eye was watching you. Each person a witness to your betrayal. You were tense against him as you stepped out into the sunlight. If not for the situation, you would've basked in it. 

How long had it been since you had felt natural warmth? Why had you not enjoyed it earlier? Why had you been such an idiot?

He led you to a car in the enclosed garage attached to the station and opened the door. You drew away from him and he caught your wrist. "Get in." He growled. You twisted your wrist and he tightened his grip. "I won't hesitate to put you in the trunk. So get in. Now!"

"I hate you." You snarled. "I hate you." You brought your fist up and it bounced of the bottom of his jaw. "Let me go!" 

His winced just slightly and grabbed your other wrist. He raised them over your head and released them. He bent and scooped you up. He draped you over his shoulder. He held you with one arm and reached into his pocket, the doors and trunk clicked. He rounded the back of the car and opened the trunk. He dropped you inside, your head barely missing the metal. 

He snapped closed the lid and you beat against it desperately. You heard his footsteps and the door; you felt his strength as he slammed it shut. The engine kick-started and you clawed at the interior until your hands stilled in futility.

You dropped your head, squished into the tight box. You grunted in frustration and your eyes burned. This couldn't be happening. You had gotten out. You'd gone to the police. You had felt freedom on your lungs. All this and you were to be dragged back to where your started.

-

When the trunk opened, you kicked out only to have your foot caught. You were torn from the car as Steve seethed. His hot breath surrounded you as he forced you across the tarmac. You struggled, heels scraped on the pavement as you neared the knobless door. You tried to keep yourself from within as you kicked your legs out but missed the doorframe. He shoved you through and you barely caught yourself from falling down the stairs as he released you. 

As the door closed with a deafening clang, you were snatched off your feet. Steve had you over his shoulder once more. Your stomach leaned heavily against his shoulder as he descended. You reached for the railing, the walls, but your fingers slid over them helplessly. The door at the bottom was open still, the knob on the floor. He had not yet been home.

He carried you through the hall and into the dining room. He grumbled as he passed through the kitchen and saw the disjointed window. He entered the bedroom and slammed the door with only his foot. He dropped you onto the bed and you bounced so violently you bit your tongue. Before you could rise, he was on top of you. You batted at him with your hands but he seemed not to notice your struggles.

He grabbed the front of your dress and tore it open, the buttons flying across the room in all directions. “Get off!” You grunted as you tried to stop his hands. His eyes were dark; endless. He straddled you so that you couldn’t move, his breath hot and heavy as he pulled your dress down your arms. When it was at your waist, your hands were trapped in the fabric as his began to explore your bare stomach. “Steve! Stop!”

His hands settled on your breasts and he kneaded them roughly. He tweaked your nipples through the seamed brassiere and ground his pelvis against you. He groaned, a shiver rose through him as the bulge in his pants grew. You whimpered as helplessness weighed you down and lifted your head. You dropped it heavily with a sigh. His hands stilled just beneath your neck and he stared down at you with seething breaths.

“Stay!” He pointed at you, his finger almost touching your nose. His other hand pressed against your throat and threatened to squeeze. “Don’t move, honey.”

As he climbed off, you realized how terribly you were shaking. Your entire body trembled and you couldn’t have moved if you tried. You had never been so entirely terrified. The door opened and he wasn’t gone more than a minute. You looked up just as he returned and he held a large black chest. He set it down on the plush love seat and opened it. He pulled straps from within and your blood surged.

You sat up and untangled your hands from the dress. As he neared, you  rolled across the bed. You knew exactly what he meant to do. You didn’t make it to the door as he blocked you from it with his broad figure. He reached behind him and slammed it again. He walked towards you wordlessly until you were forced to retreat and the back of your knees hit the bed. You fell onto it once more and he grabbed your ankles.

He flipped you easily, your body twisting painfully as you tried to resist. He wrapped a strap around your left ankle and secured it to the bedpost. Next he tied your right, then your wrists. He reached under you and ripped open the rest of your dress. He bunch it up and let it fall to the floor as he stepped back, admiring your form spread-eagle and face down on the bed.

You turned your head as he returned to the chest and reached within once more. He revealed a leather whip and you cursed. He slapped it across his palm as he faced you. 

“I told you, there will be punishment for misbehaviour,” He growled. He rolled your panties down around your thighs as far as they would go. He rested the leather against your ass. “Now, you will take it and learn to be a good wife. And after, you can think on your lesson.”

He lifted the whip and it came down with a poisonous bite. You yelped and the tears rose instantaneously. He repeated the action, again and again. You couldn’t have kept count if you had tried. You sobbed into the bedspread as you gripped the straps that restrained you. He stopped as your ass and thighs were raw. You were certain there was blood too.

You heard the whip fall to the floor. You opened your eyes and watched as he unzipped his pants. He pulled out his cock and began to stroke. You closed your eyes, the sounds of his self-pleasure rising in groans. The bed slouched beneath him as he knelt on the mattress beside you, his cum spilled onto your ass and you turned your face to the bed.

His large hand rubbed his cum into your tortured flesh and he purred. He pulled your panties up over your damp skin and patted your ass. He untied you, your limbs falling limp against the bed. He moved your body for you. He dragged you across the bed and stood you up. You swayed as a sear went through your ass and legs. He supported you with one arm as he angled you around the room.

He grabbed the back of the sofa and pushed it aside so that it faced the bathroom door. He kicked the rug away with his foot and bent to lift the concealed hatch in the wooden floorboards. You began to panic as he guided you down the stairs ahead of him. A small room was hidden beneath with shadowy forms; a narrow bed, a sink, a small toilet. A cell worse than that at the station.

“Go, or I’ll let you fall,” He snapped. You looked at him in shock. “Go on, dear.” All his false affection, his delusional love, had gone.

You peered back down into the secret room and he let you go. You barely kept yourself from slipping down the stairs. You descended a step at a time and looked back up at him as you reached the bottom. He frowned and shook his head.

“You did this to yourself,” He said as he closed the hatch and all went black around you. 

The locked clicked and you heard his footsteps as he walked away. You held onto the steps and slowly sank to your knees. You screamed until it caught in your throat and hung your head. You wept until your head pounded and your chest knotted. 

What had you done?

+

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[meetthetank]

Cruciamen Chapter 5: Rematch

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25104214/chapters/69006306 Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: F/M, Other Fandom: NieR: Automata (Video Game) Relationships: 2B/9S (NieR: Automata), A2/A4 (NieR: Automata) Characters: 2B (NieR: Automata), 9S (NieR: Automata), A2 (NieR: Automata), A4 (NieR: Automata), Emil (NieR: Automata), Kainé (Nier) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, genre typical violence, On the Run, Monster of the Week, 9S is a half demon, 2B and A2 are shapeshifter Dragons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut in the future, inaccurate depictions of medical procedures, Fantasy Biology, A2 is Nonbinary If A2 were more inclined to study themself, they’d find it hilarious in a dark way that collecting the salinified remains of human beings with a witch and a skeletally thin boy with his ornery horse becomes a weekly chore. It’d be just a tad less horrible if said ornery horse would stop trying to bite their fingers off if they so much as looked at her the wrong way. Emil had to diffuse at least three fights between them and Halua on the way to the ruins. They’ve never seen a horse so attached to one person, but Halua seems to hate everyone besides Emil, who she constantly nuzzles up against begging for pats and sweet grass.

Despite the complaints toward the heat, horse, and sand, searching for salt statues with Kainè and Emil is much more tolerable. It’s easier for them to defile the remains of long-dead humans when they have someone to chat with. Kainè complains like a molting elder about anything that moves, but especially the sun. A2 has never heard that big bright ball be called so many slurs in so many languages, but they find themselves chucking at the witch’s disdain for it. Emil sings jaunty tunes he makes up on the spot as he gleefully fills and organizes bags of people salt onto Halua’s cart. Sometimes when Kainè isn’t looking he lets his horse have a pinch as a treat. Most of the time A2 lets Emil ramble on about whatever he likes, only occasionally stopping their work to embellish on a one word answer they shoot his way. 

However when the sun begins to set over the dunes and paints the sky a brilliant orange, A2 excuses themself to stretch their wings. They tell Kainè that they’re going to scout for anything weird, but the glare she gives them is telling enough. She knows why A2 wants to wander off, but she says nothing in the way of stopping them. Maybe they had done enough work to satisfy the old witch. 

A2 has another mission sent down by Kainè as well. They’re supposed to search out more of a similar kind of ruins as well as a certain kind of track. The ruins are simple enough to understand. The lingering brickwork and defiant spires are easy to spot so long as there weren’t any dunes or dust storms in the way, but the second thing that they’re supposed to look out for gives them pause.

Kaine described footprints. Large, five-toed footprints with scale imprints. A2 knows for certain that she wants them to be on the lookout for a dragon, but they had never heard of a dragon with a footprint like that. Or that large. Kaine made it sound like the prints were as big as their whole torso, but A2 doubts that there’s anything that big that’ll leave a footprint. The Hegel demon is the largest thing they’ve seen and that thing floats. 

Regardless of the chore they’ve been assigned, A2 is just happy to spread their wings without their chest hurting. Soaring over the expanse of sand on the hot desert winds brings a lightness to their body and mind that they hadn’t felt in a long time. It’s liberating in a way that makes them want to keep flying and see where the winds take them. They inhale lungs full of scorching air and push themselves straight into the bright blue sky. Once they reach the height where the air becomes cold, they tuck their wings into their body and allow themselves to free fall back to earth. The rush of the winds and sky around them makes their heart thunder against their hollow bones. Dust whips past them, their third eyelids doing all they can to protect their eyes from the outside world. Their blood sings through their veins, carrying liquid excitement and terror as they plummet. The moment they feel a rush of hot air they spread their wings out and swoop into a comfortable gliding position. The raw energy in their body causes a roar to break through their throat and echo out through the desert. 

The raw freedom of the skies and the elation that comes with is in a moment replaced with sinking dread.

Beyond the great dunes the size of mountains, something creates clouds of dust and sand. It swirls with powerful gusts of wind, forming a massive wall of infinitely small particles. It almost reaches to the sky and looms over a large portion of the desert like a slumbering beast. A2 doesn’t have much knowledge of desert weather, but they don’t think that dust storms like that are supposed to stay in one area. Judging by the directions of the winds, which blow back towards where Kaine and Emil are, the storm should have been on them about an hour ago. Something is either creating it, or keeping it there.

Suddenly a great bulbous shape shoots out from the clouds of sand and into the sky. The rumbling bellow of Hegel rolls across the desert like thunder as the demon rises from the storm and into the air. Its tendrils slither and writhe across its body, no doubt clearing the dust and sand from its body. Puffs of hot air escape from its mouths, adding more sand to the quickly dissipating storm.

The freedom that sang through A2’s chest is replaced by a burning fury. 

They beat their wings with all the hate they can push through their muscles. Blood roars through their veins as the desert winds sting their eyes and throat.

The grit their beak and teeth together, gnashing them in anticipation of sinking them into the soft flesh of the demon. Their claws ache for the feeling of its blood pouring over them as they tear the skin and muscles apart. With blistering speed they gain on Hegel as it lazily rises into the sky. The demon doesn’t seem to notice them until they’re close enough to smell it’s putrid breath. Its eyes lock onto A2, shrinking in fear the instant it recognizes them. A2 prepares for a blast of energy to come flying their way, but Hegel opens its maw and lets out a trumpeting bellow that rolls across the desert like thunder. It’s body undulates, thrusting itself into the distance at terrifying speeds.

A2 puts all their power into chasing after Hegel. A familiar heat sings through their body, spurring their muscles to work harder than they thought possible, but Hegel proves just as fast despite its size. Each time A2 dives to attack with claws or beak, the demon simply moves out of the way with little effort. As frustrating as their aerial dance is, A2 gains on Hegel bit by bit. Their beak scrapes against its flesh though fails to hook into it. The demon squeals with terror and jets forward with all its might, putting several yards between them in one burst of speed.

Just as they begin to gain on the demon once more, a great shadow passes over A2, something far larger than they expected to see in the desert. They beat their wings in a panicked attempt to avoid the shadow, forcing themself to stop mid-flight. The shadow shifts across the dunes faster than A2 can perceive, and a red shape that dwarfs them appears between them and the fleeing demon.

A powerful gust of wind throws A2 off balance and sends them careening to the ground. They flail their body and beat their wings in a futile attempt to right themself but the ground rushes up to them much faster than they hoped. The sand erupts around them in a dense cloud that obscures the gargantuan thing that looms above them. All they can see is a shape with immense wings.

With one great flap, the creature blows the sand clouds away from A2, revealing a monster they had only heard of in fantastic stories told to them as a cub. Scales as red as blood, leathery wings that call the winds of a hurricane, and a sneer that drips with malice and venom. Its body, from long neck to whip-like tail, moves like a serpent or a lizard’s; undulating with each movement. Each of its four feet, which could be as big as A2, are tipped with wicked black claws on each of the five toes. Its evil orange eyes burn with the same kind of disdain that one would use towards an insect or rodent. Simply being near its body makes the air searing hot to the point where A2 thinks their feathers would catch fire.

“Cease, fowl,” the beast snarls in a voice that rumbles like thunder.

A2 is never one to flinch from anything, but they find themself cowering into the ground at the monster’s words. They press themself to the ground in a submissive pose, though their feathers still flare out in a display of aggression and warning. Whatever good that will do. If this thing wanted them dead, all it would have to do is breathe.

The red beast snorts a small jet of flames and holds its head high above them, “Pitiful. How dare your species call yourselves dragons.”  It beats its great crimson wings and ascends into the sky. “Fool that you are to attack beings greater than yourself. I extend this warning out of contempt, not kinship or kindness. Cease, or be erased.”

And just as fast as the monster appears it takes to the skies once more and soars westward, vanishing into the afternoon sun. It is only after it disappears that A2 realizes they’re shivering so much that some of their loose feathers fall to the ground. Their heart threatens to burst from their chest, and their lungs strain with rapid, uneven breaths. It’s only the sight of Hegel in the distance that snaps them out of their fear induced daze. 

Despite the threat veiled as a warning, A2 can’t fight the instincts that push them to their feet once again. They’d probably never get a chance to kill the demon that something that powerful protects, for what reason they don’t care. It takes all their self control not to fly after Hegel out of pure spite for the red beast, but instead they start in the direction they came from, back towards Emil and Kainè.

They’ve never flown as fast in their life. The ruins come into view within moments; they can even see Emil waving his hands to try and get their attention. Kaine stands at the top of one of the spires, balancing only on the balls of her feet. A2 can see the scowl she throws their way as they pass her. They all but crash into the sand, kicking up more clouds of dust as they transform.

“A2!” Emil shouts as he runs up to her, “Are you okay?! Did he hurt you?!”The moment they land, Emil is on them. He checks them for cuts, burns, broken bones, any kind of injury he can find. They don’t have the energy to swat his arms away.

“No…” They let out a few quick, ragged breaths. “I’m okay…”

Kaine hops down from her perch and approaches the two with a scowl clear on her face. Part of A2 wants to snap at her before she can chew them out for being stupid, but they’re so damn tired after that sprint flight.

“What… What was that thing?” they ask, not giving Kaine the chance to launch into her scolding.

Kaine huffs, “A big ugly bastard.” A2 glares at Kaine and opens their mouth to say something only for Emil to shake his head at them.

“That was Grigori,” he says. “A true dragon.”

Emil’s words send a shiver down A2’s spine. They had heard of creatures like that before, but only in Elder’s tales made to scare cubs into listening to their parents. Even after seeing the wide variety of demons and monsters that lurk in the world, they never imagined something as terrifying a true dragon could actually exist.

“I knew he’d wake up sooner or later,” Kaine grumbles, “Asshole always looking to stir shit up or burn down a few cities for shits and giggles.

”Emil shoots the old witch a glare but decides not to say what was on the tip of his tongue (if he has one. A2 still isn’t sure).

“We should head back home just in case the big red bastard is looking for a snack,” Kaine mutters.

But when A2 stands back from the duo, recognition flashes across Kaine’s face. There’s the same kind of determination, the sorrowful desperation that only a person with nothing to lose has. She says nothing as Emil looks back and forth between the two of them.

“A-...A2 are you coming?” he asks, but the tone in his voice suggests he already knows the answer.

“No,” they say, shaking their head, “I was chasing Hegel before that… before Grigori showed up. I’m not letting it get away again.

”Emil starts to tell them what a dangerous and terrible idea that is, that it’s far too dangerous for them to go in their condition, that they need to stay and recover all their strength; but A2 tunes him out to the point where he’s nothing but muttering noises. It’s Kaine that holds their attention instead. There’s a sadness in her violet eyes hidden, behind a scowl. Yet she remains silent as Emil pleads for them to stay for just a little longer.

“Sorry,” they say, turning back to Emil, “But… I guess I don’t really care if it’s dangerous or not. I’m going to kill every demon I can find.

”Emil is stunned into silence. He casts his eyes to the ground and for a moment A2 almost feels bad enough to apologize and stay with him and Kaine. But their mind drifts back to the black feather that hangs off the pommel of their sword and the pit of sorrow and hatred opens up in their stomach once again.

A long bout of silence stretches on between the three before Kaine finally speaks up. “Well, get going then. If you wait any longer you’ll lose it.”

Emil frets with his sleeves but keeps to himself. With a quiet sigh A2 saunters over to say a quick goodbye to the kid, but once they’re close enough he lunges forward and wraps his arms around her in a tight, bony hug. 

“I’ll miss you.” he mutters, and A2 can’t stop themself from reciprocating.

“Yeah… Thank you for everything. Take care, kid.”

[intellectual-urchin]

Gone Feral (A fallout 4 oneshot)

I originally posted this on my wattpad account but I feel like my talent was wasted posting it there so now i’m posting it here.  This is gender ambiguous! My first fallout 4 fanfiction and of course I had to make it angst.

The morning had started out the same as any other, Sole making a plan to make progress in the search for Shaun. They had spent the past 2 weeks gathering Rad-X and RadAway until they decided they had more than enough for their dangerous excursion to come. Today was the day that Sole would enter the glowing sea and find Virgil.

The rogue institute scientist had information and was going to be their ticket into the shadowy organization.

They wouldn't lie, they were terrified to go due to all of the horror stories they've heard about how dangerous the glowing sea is. There was no way they were going alone, going alone almost ensured death, which is why Sole decided to take someone whom they trusted wholeheartedly. Hancock. Sole met Hancock a few months ago and they hit it off and became good friends.

When Hancock heard about their predicament, he jumped right into the fray and wanted to help. He wasn't obligated to help at all and yet he wanted to anyways. Hancock saw it as unfair because Sole was new to the commonwealth. Having been on ice for 200 years only to be thrown into a confusing and cruel world. He decided he wanted to join Sole because he wasn't going to let Sole fall victim to the Commonwealth's cruelty without help. He already had strong resentment for the institute but knowing they stole Sole's little boy steeled his resolve to aid them. This fact was one of the many reasons Sole grew to be good friends with Hancock. He wasn't obligated to help and yet he was doing so anyways and that made Sole beam with respect for the ghoul.

And so Sole and Hancock made their way towards the glowing sea.

Timeskip <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

The duo knew that they had made it into the glowing sea immediately. Sole's pip-boy began to click as it detected the lingering radiation in the air and they could feel the atmosphere change almost instantly. Hearing the clicking of the pip-boy, Hancock caught Sole's attention.

"I'd advise you to pop a Rad-X unless you wanna go ghoul like me Sole" Their eyes flew open as they realized their mistake. They had nearly forgotten because they had become so used to the clicking of the geiger counter. Sole grabbed a Rad-X from their bag and swallowed it, giving a nod and a sheepish smile to the ghoul in thanks. Hancock merely chuckled and shook his head playfully as they continued on.

They continued walking for a half hour before Sole felt the ground next to them shake before a ferocious radscorpion popped out the ground, its eyes gleaming and claws clicking threateningly. Sole lept back and fired 3 shots at the beast with their laser rifle. The first missed while the other two appeared to have no affect other than angering it. It began to charge Sole but Hancock fired his shotgun twice at its head to put it down before it could do real harm. The beast slumped over as life left its body.

"Well at least it wasn't a deathclaw. You should have seen the look on your face!" The ghoul laughed while Sole shot him a look before joining in with the ghoul's laughter.

"Remember that time you shrieked when a Mirelurk popped out from under you when we helped retake the castle? You sounded like a molerat!" Sole shot back at the ghoul and the laughter increased to a roar. Hancock was the first to stop laughing as he suddenly became mute and doubled over with his hands on his knees and face turned towards the ground. Sole stopped when they noticed this and raised an eyebrow.

"I know i'm funny but i've never seen you laugh hard enough to act like this." Sole said worriedly as Hancock remained silent.

"Uhh, Hancock? You okay there?" Sole waved their hand in front of Hancock's face and he looked up. His eyes were unfocused as he blinked up at Sole blearily before shaking his head as if to clear his vision.

"I just feel like I have a killer hangover. Maybe I should cut back on the chems..." He trailed off as Sole began lowering their stuff to the ground.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"We are taking a break." Sole replied in a matter-of-factly tone that he interpreted to mean that there was no room for arguing. He sighed softly as he lowered himself to sit on a rock.

He pulled a cigarette out and lit it, bringing it to his ruined lips and puffing slowly. Sole fiddled with their pip-boy to see how far they were from their destination.

"So it looks like we have a few more hours worth of walking once we start moving again and-" Sole stopped talking when they raised their eyes towards Hancock.

"If you have a hangover, wouldn't smoking make it worse?" they chided.

"Nah, works differently for me. Helps me relax." the ghoul retorted.

Sole sighed at the ghoul and handed a can of purified water to the ghoul.

"Drink some water, will you? It'll help you feel better."

He accepted the water and drank it quickly muttering a quick "thanks" when he finished.

The two sat in a comfortable silence for a while longer before Sole got up and continued the laborious trek to find Virgil.

Timeskip <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Hancock's POV

I followed behind sole at a slightly slower pace. I don't know what's up with me today but I feel so weak. This is worse than any hangover I've ever had but I don't want to worry them. I can feel how shaky I am and I have to keep blinking to clear my eyes. If this goes on for much longer I may need to stop.

I let out an involuntary whine that sounded almost like a growl. I noticed that Sole froze ahead of me and turned around. Damn, this is supposed to be for their sake, I can't help but feel guilty for having them worry about me. They have enough problems to deal with without me feeling sick.

"Hancock? Are you sure you're okay? You don't look good at all. We can go back if you wa-"

"No! I'm fine, let's keep moving." I snapped and felt a minor pang of guilt after seeing the mixed emotion of shock and hurt flash across their face. I was confused. I don't know why i'm acting so irritable and it feels like everything is blurring together.

I stumbled past Sole heading in the direction of our destination. The shakes continued and my vision became foggier with each step I took. A voice in the back of my head was screaming to take Sole up on their offer and head home, saying that I wouldn't make it. I ignored it and continued on.

I couldn't even tell if Sole was following me anymore but I didn't care. Time seemed to slow as my surroundings faded. My vision began to go dark rapidly and my hearing faded away. I collapsed and the last thing I heard was Sole calling out to me. It sounded distant as if they were a mile away.

I couldn't see and I was losing my awareness. Everything was fading and quick. It seemed as though I was losing myself with every second. I didn't know where I was or what was going on. Even my own thoughts were dulling to the point of blankness.

I felt a hand grip my forearm firmly and I swatted at it and struggled weakly. The unknown appendage retracted quickly and I could feel my consciousness leave me. I couldn't even remember who I was anymore.

One last thought surfaced in my head before I finally gave in to the seductive lull of unconsciousness.

This is the end, I've gone feral.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Sole sat on the ground a few feet away from Hancock and they were shaking slightly. It had been around 20 minutes since Hancock collapsed and their attempts at waking him were futile. The only sounds around them were the quiet rasps coming from the ghoul's unconscious form and the radiation storm that surrounded them. They held their head between their knees as they thought of what to do.

A few minutes passed before their head suddenly shot up and they stood quickly while pulling a small grenade like object from their bag. It was a last ditch effort to help Hancock: A vertibird signal grenade. They were barely involved with the brotherhood but they prayed that they would respond and give a lift back to sanctuary. Curie had recently set up a clinic there and Sole's last hope was that Curie could help Sole's trusted friend.

Sole fumbled with the pin and removed it before they tossed it a couple meters away. Now all they had to do was wait.

Barely 5 minutes passed before the ghoul began to stir. He struggled for a moment and hauled himself to his feet, swaying slightly as he surveyed his surroundings.

"Hancock! I'm so glad you're okay! I was really worried, I signaled a vertibird and we are going back to sanctuary to have you looked at. I really do think you should lower your chem use, at least until you rec-" They stopped as Hancock turned to face them. The movements caught them off guard. It wasn't fluid, it was jerky and sporadic.

His mouth hung open as saliva dripped from it. The hat that usually was placed on his head was knocked from it and it lay forgotten a few feet away. Hancock's eyes were gaunt and looked lifeless. There was no light behind them and no recognition when they looked upon Sole.

The rasps turned to growls and Hancock's form advanced upon sole in an inhuman way.

Realization hit Sole like a truck: Hancock had become feral. They had never seen it happen before but looking at the way Hancock was behaving, there was no mistaking it. They didn't expect it to happen so quickly but if they got back quick enough maybe Curie could find a way to help reverse the effect.

Lost in thought, Sole didn't notice that he had become close enough to reach. They shrunk back but he kept pursuing. Ferals were unpredictable and could easily catch someone off guard, which was why Sole was unprepared when Hancock suddenly lunged at them, knocking them down and landing on top of them.

His teeth gnashed at Sole's face but Sole used their strength to push him away. They couldn't hurt Hancock, he was their friend and it didn't feel right. But they also couldn't let themselves be killed when they were this close to finding their son.Sole shoved the ghoul off of them and stood, backpedaling a few steps away to create some distance.

He appeared to be disoriented and Sole used that to their advantage to pull a syringer rifle from their bag. Setting the gun aside, Sole rifled through the bag for their desired ammo: A lock joint syringe. It wouldn't kill him but it would paralyze him for a while and buy them some time for the vertibird to arrive.

Loading the gun, they aimed it carefully at Hancock's torso as he ambled toward Sole. Limbs jerking rather than the thought out movements of a human being.

Sole fired and the syringe hit it's mark; embedding itself into the ghoul's flesh.

The liquid in the syringe took effect almost immediately. He stopped moving as if time had frozen and fell to the floor as if he was a mannequin someone had knocked over.

Sole released a breath they didn't know they were holding and as if on cue, the whirring of a vertibird approached. It landed some yards away as a knight in power armor hopped out and approached.

"We received your signal and came as quickly as we could." The knight said in a controlled tone.

"Please help! My friend isn't doing good. I need you to give me a lift to Sanctuary. He needs help right away. I know you don't see ghouls as valuable but please don't let him die out here. I need your help." Sole sputtered out in a panicked tone.

The knight remained silent and effortlessly picked up Hancock's form and turned back and walked towards the vertibird. Sole gaped for a moment before following behind the knight.

Sole entered the vertibird and made the journey back to sanctuary where they hoped they could save Hancock. He meant a lot to Sole as well as the people of Goodneighbor and even some of Sole's other companions. His confident and playful nature was contagious and it made the ghoul easy to get along with...as long as you didn't mind the chem usage. A dark thought entered Sole's mind as they thought about what life without Hancock would be like if he proved to be a lost cause.

Sole shook their head of the thought and kept their eyes on the still paralyzed ghoul as the sound of the vertibird's blades whirred around them.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Having finally made it to sanctuary, the knight from before helped carry Hancock to the infirmary. Curie gasped in shock when she caught sight of the paralyzed ghoul being carried towards her little clinic.

She could sense an emergency and silently led them to a cot. The knight laid him down and uttered a quick "Ad victoriam" before taking his leave.

"Curie, I'm afraid that Hancock may have gone feral and I want you to see if there is anything you can do. Please! I- I can't lose him!" Sole sounded desperate and they were.

"I will do all zhat I can but I cannot make any promises. If he has indeed gone feral zhen I need to use the restraints so zhat zhere is no risk of harm to anyone else when he regains mobility." and with that she began work.

Sole silently began to help restrain his limbs. They no longer held the warmth they had earlier that day and it was grounding and seemed to snap Sole out of their shock. This was reality, not some nightmare.

"Sole, I wish to ask you to go somewhere else while I work. I will call for you when you are needed. So much stress is no good for your health."

Sole sighed, Curie was right. It wasn't doing any good. There was nothing more they could do for the moment. They got up and stiffly walked out of the once cozy clinic, but now it looked grim and foreboding.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Hours passed and Sole's exhaustion caught up with them. They fell into a restless sleep that was disturbed by a settler clearing their throat to grab their attention.

"Excuse me, Curie sent me to come get you. Something about your friend."

Sole's stomach did a flip as they approached the clinic with bated breath. They opened the door and were met with the sight of a thrashing and growling Hancock. "I am so sorry madame/monsieur. I have done everything I can but zhere is nothing to be done once they go feral. The damage is irreparable and none of my medical procedures have helped." Curie's eyes were red and fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. A small voice in the back of Sole's head told them that they had known all along that there was nothing to be done for him but until now they ignored it.

Now they were forced to face reality and reality was cruel. The tears rolled down their face before they could stop them. They couldn't just keep a feral chained up hoping that one day it would become aware. Not even a miracle could save Hancock, he was too far gone. There was only one thing to do and both people in the room knew it had to be done, they just didn't want to say it out loud.

Curie enveloped Sole in a hug to comfort them. There was no stopping the tears now, they flowed freely one after the other down their cheeks. They stood embracing each other until the crying died down to sniffling. Curie stepped back and opened her mouth to speak.

"I know how much you valued Hancock so if you'd like me too, I can ease his suffering so you don't have to see..." she trailed off.

"Curie, it's okay. I- I can deal with it. Could you step outside, I'd like to be alone." Sole choked out the words as Curie wordlessly stepped out and closed the door behind her.

Sole approached the still struggling Hancock and looked at his face. The eyes were dull and focused on Sole without recognition. A voice in Sole's head told them that this was no longer the Hancock they grew to respect. He's been gone since he turned feral. Arms struggled against their bonds in an attempt to reach their target.

Sole swallowed thickly as they pulled their pistol from it's holster. They held their breath and aimed it at Hancock's head. It would only take one shot, quick and painless.

Memories flashed through Sole's head as tears began flowing again. No more would there be drinking contests, no more would there be Sole nagging Hancock as he got high, the town of Goodneighbor now no longer had a mayor, and one of Sole's closest and only friends was soon to be no more although they supposed he had already been gone ever since the radiation turned him.

Sole's eyes met the dull eyes of Hancock. Although Sole's swam with recognition, Hancock's eyes were empty and wild.

They exhaled and their grip was firm as they clenched their eyes shut.

And they fired.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

This took me most of the day to write and actually my first time writing angst. I hope I did a good job writing this.

The idea that Hancock may eventually go feral is one I really don't like thinking of but I had inspiration to write and so I did.

[alexandriteobscuraarchive]

~“A monster’s here.” + “I’ve seen this before.” (for Mell)

MONSTER

The stench hits him like a physical blow, the rotting pungent, sour tang creeping in-between the fingers he had futilely pressed over his mouth and nose.

Standing on the bottom step with a hand braced against the cold, stone wall Mell stared into the darkened wine cellar listening to tens---possibly hundreds---of bottles break. The cacophony of glass shattering on stone and sloshing liquid became louder and louder but what truly drew his attention, what truly kept his eyes riveted on the mercifully obscured scene before him was what he sensed UNDERNEATH all of those sounds.

From the darkness infesting that cramped place came a deep rumbling growl and Mell knew that he wasn’t alone. Something was there. Something was watching him. His pulse quickened as his eyes attempted to take everything, his pupils dilating until the blackness within mirrored the blackness currently surrounding him.

The pungent smell increased and became far more familiar. Rotten fruit and spoiled vinegar evaporated into the burn of IRON, thick and visceral and gag inducing. To have that much blood on the floor, far more blood than what was held within a single human body meant that....

Mell’s throat bobbed dangerously, a scream and a rush of bile suddenly dueling for space inside of his throat. Suddenly the stairs leading down into the cellar---six all told---never seemed so insurmountable.

The growl came again; the deep reverberation seeming to resolve itself into a human like laugh and Mell knew---perhaps he’d always known---that he wouldn’t make it up the stairs in time. He wouldn’t make it before the thing lurking in the cellar would catch him.

The blood seeping slowly towards him became disturbed as a large ripple expanded out from the darkness, the beast taking a step forward even as he takes a step back. The ripple was strong---the desire driving it forward making the blood splash upwards at the edges, as if it were a wave crashing violently against the shore of some unknown beach. Or perhaps a pile of ground up bones.

He felt the breath of the beast burn across his cheek already so close!! even as he turns and lunges upwards.

One---

The breath on the nape of his neck is hot, the spray of foamy spit propelled by gnashing teeth sticking to his hair and clothes. He hears a strange tearing sound, the sound of massive claws ripping through the curtain darkness separating them---

Two---

His foot is on the step, he can feel it. Just like he can feel the breath, spit and claws of the beast as it yanks him backwards viciously---

Three---

Mell is falling backwards even as he’s running, his own panting breaths sounding far too loud. The open door is in sight and then it’s not, the long square of light and safety replaced by fast moving blackness, by teeth in the dark---

Four---

He hears his head and neck snap before he feels it, his body connecting hard with the stone floor and all but immediately being hauled upwards as teeth pierce the flesh of his throat, pulling and then lifting. The beast shakes him like a dog playing with a toy or a rabbit that’d been too slow in the fields---

Five---

Blood pours out of his punctured throat, out of his mouth, his ears, his nose, his eyes. Glass crunches underneath his heaving body as the beast worries at him, teeth and claws biting and shredding. One of his eyes pops in the socket as a tooth pierces it, the brief sound reminiscent of a cork being released from a bottle of wine---

Six---

The door is shutting. The door is shutting. The door is shutting. The door is shut and now there’s only the darkness. Now there’s only the beast as it snarls, both jaws and tongue buried deep into his overflowing intestines, shuffling through his body like Nellie would go through a bowl of candy as if it were a delicacy. Now there is only the beast, the blood staining its teeth and muzzle as black as the cellar, as rich as the wine stored within its cool depths. Now---

And now the door is shut. The door is shut and Mell backs away from it with wide, wild eyes and a furiously pounding heart. Each pound is amplified both inside his chest and just beyond the door as the beast rams itself against it. How long would it hold for, that old wooden door? Not long. Not long at all. He can see it rattling on its brass hinges. He can hear the splintering of wood. He can smell his sister’s blood  his blood the rotting fermenting wine seeping up between the cracks.

“I’ll give you until the count of ten.”

“One---”

The beast---

“Two---”

The beast with his razor sharp claws---

Three---

The beast with his bloodied blade hovering over his sister’s pale throat---

“Four---”

The blood of the beast. The blood of the witch. The blood of his sister---

“Five---”

Mell lurches out of the kitchen and back towards the party with a hand pressed against his throat.

[dont-offend-the-bees]

Ending 1: the ANGSTY one

ending numero uno! 

this is one of the alternative endings for my teaser-inspired blackwing breakout fic- for the first part and links to all the endings as they go up, see this post

i’m sorry

“Dirk-“

He barely got the word out before Dirk’s hand was flying up, locking painfully around his wrist and twisting. Barely managed a gasp of pain before Dirk’s other hand was lashing out and punching him in the gut.

If he’d been ready for it, if he’d been even remotely expecting it, he might’ve recovered quickly and broken out of Dirk’s grasp. But he wasn’t ready, and he wasn’t fucking expecting it and he was going down, doubled over in pain and helpless to fight the iron grip on his wrist as Dirk twisted it up behind his back and slammed him to the floor.

He was pinned, Dirk’s knee on his back, Dirk’s hands restraining his, face pressed to the cold linoleum and he couldn’t move no matter how hard he squirmed. Either Dirk was stronger than he remembered, or he was still in too much shock to get the force behind his fighting.

“Dirk!” he finally choked out, flexing his arms against Dirk’s grip and finding it unyielding. “Dirk, Dirk, it’s me! It’s Todd!”

His hold only seemed to grow tighter, knee digging further.

“Jesus Christ, Dirk, it’s me!” he cried, voice hoarse with panic. “I’ve here to help you, just- let me go!”

With a burst of power he didn’t know he had, he bucked Dirk off him and broke free, scrambling to his feet.

But Dirk wasn’t going to be beaten that easily.

He lunged at Todd, throwing his entire weight into him, shoulder planted in his chest and pushing. Todd could barely withstand such an assault but he kept his feet on the ground somehow, hands locking claw-like on Dirk’s shoulders and pushing back for all he was worth.

But Dirk was bigger than him, and fighting like he had nothing to lose. Todd was rapidly losing ground in this struggle, and before he knew it his back was against the wall and he was pinned again. He kicked and scratched and struggled but it was no use, Dirk blank and unresponsive to the blows.

And then Dirk’s hand was at his throat, and he froze in panic.

“Dirk,” he said, voice catching as the hand pressed in closer. “Dirk, please, I-it’s me, I-I’ve come to help you, w-we’re gonna get you out of here, okay? I-I don’t know what they did to you b-but we’re gonna fix it, okay? Just-“ the hand squeezed tighter, cutting his air- “Dirk, fuck, fuck Dirk, please-!”

But Dirk just watched him. No sympathy, no recognition. No fucking curiosity, even. Just… nothing. Nothing in his face, nothing behind the eyes.

Todd’s vision was blurring round the edges, he was choking and gasping for air and finding none, the hand was cutting into his throat no matter how he clawed at the arm it was attached to, and Dirk…

Dirk was gone.

There was nothing left.

And with that realisation, it was all over. Todd’s limbs went limp, all his fight and fire deserting him because there was nothing left to fight for. No chance Dirk would recognise him, no chance he’d loosen his grip, no nothing.

Dirk…

This was it.

I’m sorry…

With one last futile gasp for air, Todd’s foggy eyes drifted shut, his racing heart sinking in his chest as the flashing lights faded, darkness falling over his world and silence following close on its heels.

I was too late…

But then the hand was gone, and his lungs were filling again and the darkness receded and so did the quiet and he was back in the room, and the lights were brighter and the sirens louder and what the actual fuck just hap-!

“Better run, Snack Size,” Martin growled, swinging his bat up over his shoulder. Except it wasn’t a bat, it was a rifle he was holding by the barrel. Behind him the other Rowdies were similarly armed, fidgeting and stomping and gnashing their teeth, and Todd didn’t even have time right now to think about their red eyes or ripped straitjackets because what the fuck happened to-?

“Dirk!” he rasped, casting his eyes to the floor where Dirk lay. He dropped to his knees by his side, patting him down and feeling a pulse, feeling breath from his lips and blood in his hair and shit, Martin must have hit him in the head. Shit. Shit, okay, okay, it’s fine, they could- “help me,” he choked, looking up at the Rowdies as he gathered Dirk’s head in his lap. “He, he can’t walk, we have to-“

“He ain’t comin’ with us,” Martin cut in, Gripps and Cross spitting their agreement behind him. “He ain’t your friend no more, liar boy- boss man got him good, scratchin’ about in his head. Ain’t no one but Icarus in there, now.”

“No!” Todd yelled, shaking his head and clutching Dirk tight. “No, no, we- we can do something! We just, we need time, and, and to get him out of here- please, I can’t carry him on my own, I…”

He looked up at them imploringly, begging them to see, to understand. He couldn’t give up on Dirk that easily, he just… “Please…”

Martin met his gaze in silence, immovable as a statue even as his boys twitched and growled at his heels.

Then he grunted, and turned round, and gave Cross a jerky nod.

Cross handed his gun-bat off to an excited Vogel and loped forward, scooping Dirk’s prone form up off the floor and over his shoulder like he weighed nothing. “Stay close, Boy Amanda,” he said, nodding sharply as he turned on his heel to follow the other Rowdies out the door.

Todd did as he was told, and tried not to look at Dirk’s hand swinging at Cross’ back like a pendulum as the imprint of it burned against his throat.

*

“Holy shit,” Todd gasped, sagging onto the floor of the van and clutching his injured arm. “Holy shit, I can’t believe we- fuck.”

“Everyone okay?” Farah demanded, re-loading her gun and rolling down the window. “Amanda, step on it!”

“Stepping!” Amanda agreed, eyes wide on the road.

“Everyone okay?” Farah repeated, leaning out the window and firing a couple of shots off at their pursuers. Todd could hear the skid and screech of a car swerving off the road.

“Yeah,” Todd mumbled, amongst the bays and barks of agreement from the Rowdies. “Yeah, I’m fine, but- Dirk…”

Farah reached back and snapped open the glove compartment. She fumbled around a moment, and tossed a plastic box back to Todd. “Do something about his head. I’ll be with you in a sec,” she grunted, firing off a few more shots.

Todd fumbled with the box as he crawled across the narrow space to Dirk where he lay on the floor, still unconscious. God, he hoped he hadn’t been under too long… He carefully lifted his head into his lap and poked around, pushing his hair aside to look at the damage. Martin’s blow had drawn blood, but it didn’t look as bad as he’d thought. He could just patch it up for now, and later they could do… something.

And then Dirk’s eyes fluttered open, and Todd froze.

For a second they just looked at each other, Todd holding his breath, Dirk just… just watching. And waiting.

And then Dirk sat up so sharply he head-butted Todd right in the skull.

“Fucking-“ Todd grunted, falling back on his ass as Dirk rocketed to his feet. And Then Dirk’s hand was on his throat again and fucking Christ how many time was this gonna- “Dirk, Dirk- stop!”

“Martin!” Amanda yelled, glancing in panic over her shoulder yet unable to move from the wheel. “Martin, do something!”

Todd saw Martin raising the gun-bat again and threw his hand up, eyes bugging. “No, no, don’t hit him aga-!”

But Martin didn’t get a chance to.

Suddenly a slim, dark hand was in front of Dirk’s face, pressing a cloth over his mouth, another arm braced around his shoulders from behind and he released Todd’s throat in favour of fighting back, clawing at the arms locking him in place. But it was futile, and soon his hollow eyes were drifting closed and his clenched hands were going limp and he was sagging back into his assailant as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

Farah carefully lowered him to the floor, hands shaking. “Todd,” she said quietly, staring at him in incomprehension. “What- what happened?”

“They… they did something, I-I don’t know,” he shook his head, and he was glad he was already on the floor because he could feel his knees going weak. “He-he attacked me in the cell, too, I think… I think they’ve, like, brainwashed him or-“ his voice was tight, his throat constricted as if Dirk’s hand had never left it. “He… he didn’t even recognise me…”

He stared at Dirk, out cold on the floor.

Or at least, what was left of Dirk.

He felt Farah patting his shoulder, thought he vaguely heard her murmur something reassuring, but he couldn’t isolate the sound against the hollow static in his ears.

Dirk…

His hand crept along the floor of its own volition, his fingers twined through Dirk’s own, gasping, clutching.

Please, Dirk…

Begging.

Come back to me…

[analyse-bloodwing]

LOST AND FOUND

“Move.”

All she could taste was blood and dirt. It was almost ironic considering her right cheek was pressed into the ground, the fine particles of dirt grinding into her cheek as more pressure was applied to the foot that kept her there. If it hadn’t been for the blood that was seeping from her mouth and the lacerations that covered the left side of her face, the same side that talons lightly rested against, that a foot was pressing into and threatening to crush the bone beneath, she would have laughed. She would have smiled. She would have shown how much of her damn mind she had lost.

“I said, move.” The demonic tongue sounded strange and hair raising to her ears as it ground out the words in orcish. A light shudder ran down the length of her spine and caused her hands to flex in the bonds that they had put them in behind her back. She didn’t move, though. She continued to lay there pinned beneath the foot of the Wrathguard.

Perhaps that was where she made her first mistake.

Suddenly, the foot was gone, and she was able to lift her head, and she did just that. Slowly she turned her head and tilted her chin upwards to crane her neck and peer up at the purple skinned demon. It glared down at her with eyes that seemed to drip with the fel energy that coursed through it and a snarl pulled back its cracked lips, revealing teeth that gnashed and clicked at her. “I know you can hear me, pathetic blood elf. When I say move, you move.”

Again, she defied the being. It reached down and with talons sharp enough to cut further into already ribboned cheeks, it lifted her by her chin until her toes barely scraped the ground. Hot, rancid breath washed across her face, and she visibly recoiled while trying not to gag on the molded contents of her stomach. Her breathing was forcibly shallow because of the way its hand cut into her throat, and yet that did not stop her from acting on impulse.

Blood and saliva splattered across the demon’s face and she was thrown roughly back to the ground where she landed with a grunt and a small cry of pain as her legs collapsed under her. Her left ankle rolled to the left at an angle it shouldn’t have and an audible crack filled the air. Tears stung at her eyes as she winced, and yet, she kept her head up, one eye opened and she stared up at the demon through watered vision. “No. I will not.” The words were ground out through gritted teeth, and they came out a mere rasp, barely whispered, but loud enough to be heard in the silence that surrounded them.

“You will, or you will endure pain.”

She suddenly found herself unable to breathe. The armor along her stomach had long ago been shredded by the torture and punishment she had been put through for her defiance. Now, though, as the demon’s foot connected and talons tore into the supple flesh, she found herself wishing that perhaps she had not been so stubborn, that perhaps she had given up like so many of the others had done. Her eyes squeezed shut and she coughed, blood flying from her mouth with the hacking, and staining the ground in front of her. As she opened her eyes a scant amount, she barely spied it before she was crying out in pain once more.

Again, she found herself being lifted, except this time by her hair, and if it hadn’t been for the chains that held her captive, she would have been reaching to scratch and claw at the hand that threatened to tear her scalp from her head. Her feet dug into the ground in an attempt to hinder the way the demon drug her, and yet it was futile.

“No. NO. NO! Get the fuck off me! Let me GO!” Angry tears dripped from eyes that flared with sudden fel energy and the armor that still remained along her body flared and flickered as the Light surged through her and along the runes that were carved into the metal pieces. “I said, let me go!”

Right as her hands began to glow and holy flames began to lick along her armor, they went out as quick as they had ignited. All of her concentration, fermented in anger and steeped in a slow simmering rage, left her when she was flung through the air into a larger cage, her back impacting the bars with such force that when she landed on her stomach, she simply lay there. She stared at the feet that moved closer, flinched as talons raked across her back while her bindings were undone, and simply sobbed when she heard the clank of the cage door.

Analyse barely registered the others that were there until they moved toward her, bending and speaking to her in foreign tongues, hands gentle as they moved to sit her upright. The fierce glow of her eyes had faded. They had once again dulled to barely lit embers. Her stomach lay heavy with stones, and her senses dulled to those around her and her surroundings, and time, again, became an entity that seemed to slip through fingers like sand and yet as difficult to wade through as the swamp of Dustwallow Marshes.

Prisoners were added constantly. Where the cage had started out barely filled, it grew to encompass a press of dirty and sweat-stained bodies of all races, genders, and ages. Crying became a daily sound, something that she fell asleep to and awoke. Her eyes roved over them. Perhaps it was in search of something, perhaps it was just out of habit. Yet none stood out. None moved her to move or even care, and as each day passed, her eyes grew dimmer, and the heavy stone in her stomach that had roiled with righteous anger faded, simply becoming a burned out coal.

It was only when the cage had become so full that it seemed to be overflowing that something caused her to stir, for the ashes of her anger to once more ignite the coal.

A tabard, stained and torn, bearing the mark of the Phoenix Guard.

A pair of eyes filled with hope and determination glowing bright in the greys of her world as the man they belonged to moved like a lynx through the cage, slinking through the bodies, grabbing at the bars of the cage and shaking them vigorously.

Her stomach rolled with the fires that, somehow, still managed to burn.

[miss-agent-e-15-jedi]

Chapter Two

I came around to an excruciating pounding in my head, accompanied by a caked, frozen, sticky feeling across my face which, along with bits of ice stuck in my lashes and brows, made my eyes feel like they’d been glued shut with cement. I forced them open with great effort, an effort that was also needed just to take a breath of freezing air. My spine ached horribly and my arms felt like they’d turned to stone in their sockets. I couldn’t feel anything from my ankles downward. I’d been cold while out on my patrol mission, but now that seemed like nothing compared to what I was experiencing in my new surroundings.

A terrifying roar sounded through the air, loud enough to send all the icy walls around me vibrating and my aching head throbbing unbearably. I glanced in the direction of the sound, and a moment later, after the echo of the first roar waned, a louder, even scarier one could be heard throughout. By this point I was certain I was in a cave of some sort; the entrance was right behind me. The only way I knew this was because of the petrifying wind that was blowing against my stiff, hurting back. The noise was accompanied by the breaking of bones, gluttonous chewing, chomping, and gnashing of teeth, and chunks of flesh being ripped apart.

Forcibly I craned my neck upward, and realized why the world was upside-down. I was upside-down, hanging like a piece of meat with my feet frozen into the ceiling. No wonder I couldn’t feel them.

Painfully, I curled myself into a C position, trying to free my feet from their petrification, but they were in pretty good, and the weight of my entire body painfully pulled me back down to my upside-down position. I heard my attacker roar again, and at that moment, I thought of my lightsaber. That would cut me free! However, when I looked down the side of my utility belt, it was gone. Panic was about to swell inside of me when suddenly I looked down and saw the hilt of my sword sticking out of a patch of snow.

Desperately I stretched my arm out towards my lightsaber. The weapon of a Jedi Knight, as Ben had told me when he’d first given it to me, and the closest kinship I had to the father that I never knew. My sword was out of my reach, and I couldn’t get it, no matter which arm I used or how hard I stretched them. The two circular screws on the bottom of the handle seemed to be staring at me like a pair of lifeless mocking eyes.

I thought again of Old Ben, and the training I’d started on the Millennium Falcon. Ben had told me that the Force could somewhat control actions; not just mine, but the actions of other things around me. If the Force could manipulate movement of small objects, then perhaps if I concentrated…

I heard the frightening crunching of snow in the distance where I’d heard the roars and eating. I shut it out of my mind, and in the darkness of my closed eyes, reached out, thinking of the lightsaber in my hand. I felt its weight, its shape, its activation switch behind my thumb, its smooth, shiny, metal body in the palm of my gloved hand…

In less than the blink of an eye, the hilt of the laser sword smacked into my palm, and I wasted not a second in freeing my icy bonds. I got up just in time to see my big, furry, vicious attacker coming at me with his angry, beastly eyes and monstrous claws. With a single swing, the creature’s right arm was severed from its body; dark, red blood stained the snow beneath its socket. If the creature’s previous roars had been loud before, they were now about twenty times as loud; loud enough to send numerous stalactites falling from their ceiling foundations.

I glimpsed the now right arm-less monster for a second, and then raced out of the cave as fast as my legs could carry me. It was extremely difficult to move post haste because of my feet sinking into the crunching snow. I was soon at the top of a minute, hilly snow drift, and as I attempted to charge down it, my legs gave way and sent me rolling several feet to the bottom. The merciless snow stung my eyes and nose like white-hot pokers. I forced myself to stand up and trek forward, to where, I had no idea. It seemed like I had come out of the cave into a snow hurricane. In addition to the torturous storm, the dark of night made it impossible to see less than a meter in front of me.

I might as well not have any fingers or toes, I thought, they were so numb. I closed my eyes, pressing my scarf against my face to shield it from the malignant wind, even though, I knew, doing so was as futile as trying to reason with a brainless lunatic. Each step I took was harder than the last, and even breathing was exhausting me. My back seemed like it would snap and paralyze me at any given moment; each vertebra weighing me down like sand bags. Gradually I began to lose feeling in my legs, to the point where I was afraid to even bend my knees for fear of collapsing. But being afraid of collapsing wasn’t enough to stop them from giving way, sending me back-first into a hard patch of snow.

 After my head fell back in brief hesitation, I curled my upper body to one side and stood again, locking my knees and setting my entire weight on top of my legs. I couldn’t go on; I didn’t have the faintest idea where I was, the cold had become excruciatingly unbearable, and I barely had the energy to even suck in a breath. My face contacted the icy ground, dark grey glitches filled the space beneath my eyelids, and a strange, warm sensation spread throughout my body. I thought, I just need some sleep. I was waiting for the warm nothingness to consume me completely when…

“Luke…”

I barely recognized it as the sound of my own name. Surely my mind had to be playing tricks on me, or was that the howling wind?

“Luke!”

When the tone suddenly turned insistent, I began to deliberate whether or not what I was hearing was real. I looked up in the direction of my name, and what my eyes picked up made more warmth spread through my body; a single firework of surprise burst in my heart. About three or four meters in front of me, completely unfazed by the raging snowstorm and still dressed in the dark brown, hooded robe and shabby tunic he’d worn on his final endeavor, was my former mentor, Ben Kenobi.

Ben Kenobi was dead, I knew, so how could he possibly be standing before me? Yet he seemed so real, so alive, and his voice had rung loud and clear in my ears.

I was fairly certain I wasn’t seeing things, but I still wanted absolute confirmation, so I weakly called out, “Ben?”

I’d expected him to respond with, “Yes, Luke, it’s me,” or something like that. Instead, he refused to acknowledge my call to him and then told me, “You will go to the Dagobah system.”

“Dagobah system?” I asked, hoping I’d heard him correctly.

Again, not a yes or a no, but he didn’t object to my response, so that was enough of a yes for me.

Ben continued, “There you will learn from Yoda, the Jedi Master who instructed me.”

I knew right then and there that I wasn’t hallucinating, that the voice I’d heard in the hangar of the Death Star and during the Battle of Yavin had indeed been real. Hearing “Jedi” sent another burst of warmth through my body. It meant more to me than anything else than to become a warrior of the Force who strove for peace, justice, and freedom throughout the whole galaxy. My mind filled with a million questions at once. I looked up and realized that Ben was fading away. Why was he leaving me?!

“Ben!” I called out, reaching my hand toward him. “Ben!”

The last audible sensation I was vaguely aware of was a low moan in the distance; not the wind, but of some kind of animal. Before I could comprehend what it was exactly, I was once again swallowed by nothingness.

*  *  *

I no longer felt the snow pressing against my face, chest, and kneecaps. Now the snow was against my spine and the creases beneath my knees. With each breath that I forced in, my throat seemed to be vibrate each time I forced air out of my lungs. Suddenly, my shoulder blades were cupped and pulled very hard, and the crunching snow scraped across my back. I was soon overwhelmed by a horrible, nauseating odor that filled my nostrils, along with a wet, slimy sensation that seemed to seep through my clothes.

“…smelled bad…on the outside!” groaned a familiar voice that I couldn’t fathom.

Drowsiness overcame me a second later, a drowsiness that even the awful smell couldn’t impede, and once more I submitted to the dark with no protest.

*  *  *

A bright light blinded me when I attempted to force my eyelids open. I was sure that I’d died in the middle of the night, and this was my first glimpse of life after death, of becoming one with the Force. But, if I really was dead, why was I still hurting from head to toe and why was I still so cold? Maybe I would be healed if I went towards the light, I thought, but I couldn’t move. I tried to turn my neck, and experienced an icy, semi-solid sensation of cold beneath my cheek. I was still in the snow, I realized, still lying in the middle of nowhere, waiting for some scavengers to get their first bite of my frozen, lifeless corpse, waiting for…

I gasped in surprise as I felt myself lifted up and my back pressed into something flat and soft, something that definitely wasn’t snowy terrain. I was suddenly overtaken by warmth on all sides. Something thick and plastic encompassed my mouth and nose, and mild vibrations coursed through my body. Some mysterious g-force pressed me downward for a moment, and then released its hold on me, leaving me relaxed and with no pressure against my chest. I became drowsy again and decided that sleep was probably the best and only thing I could do at the moment. I closed my eyes, and the second I did, I heard another familiar voice—not the one I’d heard in the snow, but still familiar nonetheless—call out jovially:

“Echo Base, this is Rogue Two. We have Commander Skywalker and Captain Solo. Repeat, we have Commander Skywalker and Captain Solo!”

Stay tuned for Chapter Three!

[sonsoffenris]

The rocky crags of Ard Skellig spread out for miles around Coinneach like the bare spine of a wyrm of legend. Wind blasted through the chasms and valleys of razor sharp stone, battering the sparse vegetation clinging for dear life to their perch. The gale brought a plethora of scents to the Witcher’s nostrils; the ever pervasive salt of the sea, kelp and seaweed drying on the shore, and the unwelcome cloying scent of death. Not all that uncommon for the inhospitable coastline and the rough waters, however the overwhelming power of the stench set it apart. Coinneach stood in the open, unlocking his enhanced senses to study the world around him. Pushing aside the roaring waves and howling wind, he focussed further. Below the squawk of seabirds, an altogether different sound could be heard; the voices of women singing and laughing. The melody sailed on the wind with perfect clarity, every note seamlessly complimented the next, never a key out of place or faltering vibrato. The greatest performers serving in the highest courts of the land would sell their souls to come even close to the talent these vocalists displayed. Listening brought warmth to Coinneach’s weary soul and as each moment that passed, it beckoned him to come closer. He had found his quarry. Coinneach tightened his sword belt, bringing the hilt within his hands reach. From his shoulder the bear headed pommel stood tall, the azure blue stones mounted in its eyes watching its surroundings. The hunter retrieved a medallion from within his jerkin. Feeling the familiar shapes and marks of the snarling bear head, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The frigid air stung his chest, awakening his body to the hunt. His heart began beating a steady rhythm, gradually quickening at the prospect of combat. With a grim smirk, Coinneach cast aside the heavy fur cloak draped across his shoulders and set off towards the source of the intoxicating ballad.

After vaulting the outcropping of another rock formation, Coinneach came to a cliff edge. Crouching precariously close to the verge, he surveyed the sight before him. The rough seas were placated by a wall of black rock as it entered a serene natural bay. The calm, crystal clear waters lapped lazily upon a sandy shore where three feminine figures could be seen, waist deep in the freezing cold shallows. Their song continued in perfect harmony as the trio looked to each other. Each voice complimented the other, weaving a complex tapestry of emotion and suggestion. The urge to forgo all thought and go to them grew ever stronger the closer he moved. Suggestions of comfort and love, images of new joys and sensations; a promise of ecstasy forced their way into his mind. The Witcher’s medallion vibrated harshly in response to the lament, indicating the strong magic at work. A devilish smile played across Coinneach’s lips as he unbuckled his sword belt, removing the weapon from his back before sliding down the steep angle of the cliff. A layer of loose shale provided a safe yet somewhat uncomfortable path down and soon he found himself on the shore, some distance away from the singers. The remains of small boats were strewn across the shore around him, dashed against rocks and left to the elements. The musky scent of rotting wood permeated the area, it seemed the vessels had been here for some time. He watched the women from his new vantage point, peering from behind a smashed hull. More information on his prey was needed, however. He’d have to move in closer.

A short distance form the trio, Coinneach dropped his sword. The melody stopped abruptly as the singers turned to the source of the alien sound. Their shocked expressions quickly softened as the raven haired beauties looked the approaching visitor up and down. Each had skin the colour of polished ivory, a far cry from the weather beaten complexion of the men and women of the Skellige Isles. Ruby red eyes followed his every move as he approached. One of the maidens reciprocated, slithering through the water to meet him. She raised her arms towards him, revealing her bare breasts and beckoning him closer with a predatory glint in her eye. Each step caused Coinneach’s medallion to pull and strain at the chain hanging it around his neck as if trying to free itself from the grasp of the forces at work. From his position, imperfections became more apparent. Once slender fingers now showed elongated claws, sharpened to a needle point and upon her slender waist, scales blended into her milky skin. The Witcher reached for the straps of his leather jerkin, slowly loosening the ties and opening his armour as he edged closer. The woman’s face twisted to a wide grin, displaying a row of sharp teeth. She burst from the water with incredible speed lunging toward the man before her. Leathery wings breached the surface followed by a scaled, serpentine body. The midday sun danced across her scales, reflecting a myriad of intense shades of blue and green. As the creature made its move, her human countenance fell away, revealing ashen grey flesh tightly stretched across a lithe body, a row spines the length of a man’s arm travelling along her back, and her once soft features were replaced with a malformed face akin to a bat. Coinneach stopped in his footsteps.

“Sirens.” He muttered, confirming his suspicions. Coinneach reached inside his battered jerkin and retrieved a dagger from within, sending it hurtling toward the siren in one smooth motion. The poison coated weapon embedded itself deep within the siren’s chest with a dull thump. The simple iron tool was no silver sword, but in conjunction with the toxic mixture applied to the blade it would at least slow her down. The impact was followed by a blood curdling howl that would stop even the hardiest warrior in their tracks. The monster crashed to the ground, flailing wildly in an attempt to remove the thorn in its side. The Witcher took the response as a small victory as he sprinted back to his sword. With a deafening screech another siren closed in. Her leathery wings beat a steady rhythm, granting her incredible speed. Without a misstep, Coinneach turned on his heel and arranged the fingers of his left hand into the sign of Igni. Thrusting his arm toward his target, a jolt of magical energy surged through his muscles before bursting forth from the Witcher’s hand, unleashing a gout of flame. The enchanted fire struck hard, immolating the siren in mid flight. Flesh quickly blackened as the she wailed in pain. The remaining seawater flash boiled on her skin, leaving white streaks of salt across her body as the siren barrelled through the air; crashing into the ground as a charred husk. Returning to the resting place of his weapon he quickly took hold of the grip and removed the scabbard with a quick swing. Suddenly the hunter slammed into the sand face first as the third of the trio collided with him. Claws gained purchase in his armour as the third siren followed him down, her full body weight crashing on top of him. Coinneach and the monster wrestled desperately for control of the situation. Tumbling across the beach, his attacker’s claws tore away the layers of leather and began pulling apart the layer chainmail beneath. With a grunt of exertion the Witcher thrust his head back, smashing into the siren’s maw. The beast’s claws loosened their grip in shock, giving Coinneach time to throw off the monster. Before the siren could counterattack, the Witcher was upon her, straddling her torso and smashing his sword’s pommel into her face. The monster flailed in panic under the thunderous assault as Coinneach ignored a stray claw slicing his brow open, continuing to brutally rain down hammer blows. Blood rapidly flowed from the wound, masking the Witcher’s features in deep crimson. Finally the siren regained the upper hand as her tail whipped out, sending Coinneach sprawling onto his back. The monster coiled her lower half and launched into another assault, flying into the air and began to dive toward the Witcher with wings outstretched. Her eyes opened wide in terror as she witnessed the Witcher leap to his feet and ready his sword, the shimmering blade in position for a mighty thrust. She desperately flapped her wings in a futile attempt to avoid the certain doom shooting towards her. Alas her momentum couldn’t be stopped in time. The keenly sharpened point slid into the siren’s chest, the force of the beast’s descent forcing it inch upon inch deeper into her flesh. She looked down at the Witcher, bracing himself against the impact and returning her stare. His viper like eyes betrayed nothing, no anger, no hatred, no fury, not even pity. Opening her toothy maw wide, she snapped at her killer in a last ditch effort to end his life. Coinneach remained motionless as the siren gnashed her teeth inches from his face. Every bite slowed with each repetition as the beast’s blood drained steadily. Before long, she let out a final rasping breath and went limp. Coinneach spat as he used his boot to remove the corpse from his sword. The phlegm marred the golden sand with sanguine blood and saliva. One more to go. The hunter thought to himself. He walked towards the still writhing mass of scales as it struggled to remove his dagger from her flesh. Returning to her human form, she looked at Coinneach in terror, wordlessly begging for her life. The Witcher simply stood sentinel over her, wiping the blood from his vision and into his sand encrusted hair. As he took up his sword in both hands realisation hit her like a sledgehammer, there was no stopping this. Her glamour dropped away as she screamed in defiance at the fate laid out before her. The silver sword sang through the air, effortlessly slicing through the siren’s neck. Silence soon followed as her head tumbled onto the ground. Coinneach knelt, relaxing his muscles and allowing his breathing to slow. The quiet in the moments after battle was more beautiful than any song could ever hope to be. Removing a tattered sack from his jerkin, the Witcher wordlessly began the grisly task of collecting trophies.

His ears perked at the sound of movement on the sand. Coinneach cursed his foolhardiness. Three sirens, only three. Sirens live in packs of three or more and… From the shadows of a hollow in the cliffs came another half human, larger than the previous three. A shock of flame red framed her features, contorted in rage.

“An Ekhidna.”

The Witcher barely had time to take up his weapon before she was upon him. The Ekhidna shot through the air, moving more and more rapidly with every beat of her wings. Taking hold of Coinneach’s arm she lifted him from his feet. He winced as his shoulder was torn from its socket with an audible crack. Taking a sharp turn, she cast off her prey and watched in delight as he was catapulted through the air, his flight ended abruptly, slamming into the graveyard of boats he passed earlier. A sickening snap and lances of extreme pain overtook him as Coinneach crashed to the ground limp. Breathing raggedly the Witcher fought down the stomach churning sensation of broken ribs scraping together, dragging himself to the the shelter of an overturned rowboat. He released the death grip on his weapon as he furiously searched through belt pouches and hidden pockets. The sounds of the Ekhidna raging outside was deafening as it tore apart the rotten hulls in search of her prey. Every second brought the thunderous cacophony closer. With a smile of relief Coinneach produced a vial of red fluid and tore away the cork with his teeth, quaffing the liquid in a single gulp. The viscous potion warmed his body as it slipped down his throat and travelled to his battered organs. The flesh knitting mixture known to the Witcher schools as Swallow would aid him given enough time but for now its pain numbing qualities would have to suffice. Discarding the vial, Coinneach turned his attention to his left arm. Cradling it gently, he took a deep lungful of air before wrenching the joint back into its socket. Even the Swallow couldn’t dull the intense pain. His eyes screwed shut as he thrashed, straining against the urge to scream until he could bare it no longer. Coinneach’s lips parted and let loose a pained howl. The storm of fury suddenly stopped. The Witcher cursed under his breath and gripped his weapon tight.

The flimsy hull suddenly exploded open, sending splinters raining down upon Coinneach as  sunlight flooded his shelter. The Ekhidna slammed down onto the boat’s hull with a manic grin on her still human features. Coinneach raised his left hard towards his foe as her venom coated claws tore through the air toward him. Even a single blow would mean his end in this state. Contorting his fingers into the sign of Quen, Coinneach forced all of his energy into his magical abilities. The Claws bearing down upon him collided with a barrier of blazing orange light, stopping the blow dead in its tracks. Undaunted by the new obstacle, his foe continued her assault, raining strike after strike on the wall of magic. Coinneach’s muscles burned as he faltered under the assault. A warm trickle of blood began to flow as his strength was drained to fuel the arcane bulwark. He wouldn’t last much longer if this continued. In a last ditch effort, the Witcher abandoned his shield. The conjured creation shattered like glass before dissipating entirely. As the next swing bore down on him, Coinneach pushed himself to his feet and made his last stand. His sword flashed out in a wide arc, connecting with the attacking claw and hacked it from the wrist in a shower of dark blood. The Ekhidna reared back in shock while Coinneach used the momentum of the blow to turn into a graceful pirouette and prepare his next strike. The blade trailed a thin stream of blood behind it as it travelled to its next target, slashing a deep gash through his foe’s face. Immediately halting the arc, he changed his grip and thrust forward with all his strength roaring in frustration. The sword buried itself to the hilt in the Ekhidna’s neck, extinguishing her rage. The beast mewled in her death throes before collapsing onto the Witcher and the rowboat beneath her.

****

“For fuck’s sake…” Coinneach cursed as he crawled out from under the melee’s wreckage. Once free he fell onto his back, basking in the light of the setting sun. His limbs ached, his head was spinning and his stomach was in knots thanks to the healing tonic, but he was alive. Getting to his feet carefully, Coinneach suppressed the urge to vomit to no avail. A mixture of dark fluids of indeterminate origin slopped onto the sand as he found himself falling back onto his knees. With the toxic mixture expelled from his body the Witcher felt the nausea ease somewhat. Tentatively standing, Coinneach made his way to the hollow where the Ekhidna had been lurking. A narrow cave mouth caught his attention as he explored a sheltered overhang. The stench of festering meat spilled forth as Coinneach made his way inside. The Witcher’s eyes quickly adapted to the pitch black interior and to his surprise, the hunter could stand at his full height with room to spare; making the scene before him even more terrible. Corpses of men, varying in age, size and nationality were piled to the ceiling, many half eaten or simply toyed with. Between the mass grave and the Witcher stood a mound of treasure. Gold, silver, precious stones, jewelry, bottled perfumes, lotions, potions and tinctures; courting gifts to the ladies that called this bay home.

“Damned fools.” Camshron snorted.

Old tales speak of the days when sirens were willing and loving towards men, and of course that an everlasting love and marriage would follow successful courtship. The perfect wife, subservient and ageless. Those stories spread in no small thanks to drink and idle gossip.

“At least if I can’t find a contract on the sirens, this wasn’t all for naught.” Coinneach joked, gathering the valuables into his pouches and pockets. Taking another glance at the poor soul’s butchered remains, he let out a deep sigh.

“And if I leave you lot here the Necropages will come sooner or later.”

****

High tide brought with it the rising sun. Coinneach watched from cliffs above the bay as the water made its way to the shore, taking hold of the siren’s bodies and pulling them out to sea; wiping clean the signs of his battle. The Witcher turned to a ramshackle funeral pyre and cast the sign of Igni, the small smarks produced by his light casting beginning a makeshift cremation ceremony. Bowing his head in respect, he spoke.

“I know none of you. I don’t know what brought you here; be it searching for missing friends, desperation, a bet, or some other calamity. I hope now you can rest in peace.”

If not, I’ll be back soon. Coinneach thought to himself. With that, the Witcher collected his belongings, wrapped himself tightly in his fur cloak, and strode off into the wilds to start on the Path once more.   

((A new story appears! Came up with this over the last few days after a nasty case of writers block and procrastination. Let me know what you think of my latest tale of Coinneach the Witcher!