#nothing has seized me so violently in a long time

[arcadiiian]

so i just finished reading assassin's apprentice

[sutorus]

JUST THINKING ABOUT VIRGIN!GOJO. . .

getting close to gojo satoru was hard. like limitless was not only a technique but a way of living — of getting by. and you understand; having someone means having something to lose. being the strongest sorcerer alive means you have to be self sufficient, for the entire world’s sake.

but even though most would insist he is more god than human, there was nothing he could do to keep himself from falling into you. it’s the first time he feels okay relinquishing control, accepting unpredictability. he wonders, morosely, if this is what it feels like to be a regular teenager, even if he’s well into his 20s. to make dumb decisions like stay up late on the phone, to make out in the movies, to get nervous about meeting your parents, to buy matching phone cases.

gojo is obsessed with the feeling. he didn’t know he could want someone as much as he wants you, body and soul but god — your body. the way you get on top of him and make his abs seize, his hips grinding up of their own accord. you always laugh so sweetly at his desperation, licking into his mouth and letting your hands wander.

he gets hard embarrassingly fast, every time. whines anguished little moans, not knowing what he wants next. gripping your hips over his like it’s a lifeline, fucking up into you and rubbing your clothed crotches together like he doesn’t know how much better it can get — and he doesn’t. and that excites you beyond belief.

the first time it happens, it doesn’t last long. you told him you could ride him, that it wasn’t a problem, he could just focus on being as comfortable as possible. but the utter heat with which he said “no. no, you’re not fucking me. i’m fucking you,” left you weak in the knees.

he’s hurried, but he takes time to kiss every inch of your body once your clothes are off, murmuring sweet nothings about how you’re so perfect and all his. he’s been hard as a rock ever since you started kissing, not letting you get your mouth on him or even roll the condom on, too afraid of ruining it that soon.

when he slips inside, it’s so much better than he could’ve imagined. there’s no comparison, no feeling in the world, not even healing his deadly wounds and coming back to life can compare. you’re soft, warm and wet, gripping him just right, massaging his length like you were made to take him.

he can’t keep his mouth shut, can’t keep the surprise out of his voice. he fucks into you violently, unable to comprehend that it can feel this good. you feel perfect, like he never wants to leave, wants to be inside of you forever and just fuck you again and again and again.

“f-fuck, fuck, hang on,” gojo has to pause halfway, abs contracting rhythmically as he stills inside you. he looks up, huffing out an overwhelmed breath, and you can’t help but let out a giggle. “yeah? this funny to you? i’ll give you something to laugh about, just you wait.”

he starts moving again slowly, and you caress his face, singing him praise about how good he’s doing. he mewls at the compliment, wanting to please, needing to be the best you ever had no matter the circumstances. and he is, he was made for you and you for him.

“aahh, fuck baby i can’t stop — can’t, sorry, i can’t, i’m gonna cum, god i’m gonna cum,” he chokes out, pistoning in and out of you at an unforgiving pace. you moan, wrapping your legs around his waist. “oh fuck, fuck don’t do that, if you do that i’m gonna—“

“it’s okay, satoru,” you whisper, finding the timing to catch his lips in a kiss. “i want you to.”

his groan is guttural, like it’s been punched out of him, and he buries himself so deep inside you you can hardly swallow as he gives a few final, short thrusts into your pussy. he cums so hard that he loses all sense, his grip bruising you, he’s pretty sure he’s crying, whining your name like you could save him right now.

it’s a heavenly sight, so hot that it has you clenching around him chasing your own high. when he comes to, he presses two long fingers to your clit, kissing your face all over until you’re tumbling over the edge as well.

you lay there, side by side, catching your breaths in sync. which is why it comes as a surprise when he wastes no time getting on top of you again, fingers chasing your entrance.

“satoru,” you laugh, in part amusement and part desbelief. “just gimme a few minutes, okay? i just c—“

“nuh uh,” he kisses you to shut you up, then takes his mouth down your body. you notice, a little horrified, that he’s already hard again. “you already came on my cock. now i’m gonna make you cum on my fingers, and then my mouth. and then we’ll see who’s gets the last laugh.”

[keferon]

Shockwave working so hard and delving so deep to try and bring orion back that he ends up losing himself and, even more importantly, the reason he even started doing it in the first place. Orion died that day but so did shockwave... shockys demise was just less obvious. Anywayyyyys i doodled this at work

....

Finally, something resembling progress. The final sequences have already started, and it's activation has already begun. All thes eyears, all this work- everything for this moment... if it works.

There's nothing left to do but wait and watch the writhing.

It stares at him, parts shivering and contorting themselves until it finally slows down into a thing almost personlike in it's agony. It stares over at him in horror, maybe? Fear? Gratefulness, probably- Shockwave is out of practice reading others expressions but he has the vague notion it should be gratefulness. Nothing else happens for a long stretch of time, and he looks back over to the monitors to make sure it's processing function is actually still running. It wouldn't do for him to come so far just to lose it all to a cascade processing failure... again.

His gaze snaps back as its voicebox squeaks to life.

"Sh-shock..." it croaks, voice staticky and broken, "Why?"

The question makes him pause. A reasonable thing to ask. Of course the answer is simple, he-

How strange. Shockwave finds himself staring back at the wretched thing he tore from death itself, and can't quite recall. Instead of answering, he looks to the monitors again. From the periphery of his vision he sees it try to reach for him, it's arm only able to move part of the way before seizing.

Shockwave finds the thing on his table lacking. He can't seem to remember why he did any of this at all.

No matter.

IMAGINE ME SHAKING YOU VIOLENTLY

[staycalmandhugaclone]

Fool's Errand Pt 2

Part (2) of Fool's Errand, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!

Y'all it has been an interesting couples weeks! To summarize, we've decided to upgrade, so are scrambling to get our house ready to sell while caring for a 5 month old and drooling over possible new places to buy! Super fun, super chaotic, and super stressful - wish us luck! (and if any of you are diy specialists in WA, hit me up 😆)

Warnings: Medical procedures, broken nose, blood, needles, profanity

WC: 3,095

“I c’n fight! G’me a kr’ffin’ gun!”

“You can’t even stand! Stay down or, by the Force, Hunter, I will sedate you!” I didn’t try to hide the impatience sewn through the shouted threat.

“I c’n st’ll shoot!” He tried to yell, but the words tangled around his stiff jaw, the muscles locked taut, though whether from pain or injury I couldn’t tell. Our exit had been blocked, the hall too full of droids to even see the far side. We’d had to run. I didn’t know how Echo managed to keep track of our location - if he’d managed to keep track of our location…

The room we’d ducked into was oppressively hot. It radiated from stacks of servers stretching floor to ceiling around us and sent sweat soaking into my blacks in just those few minutes we’d hidden within. Hunter sat against one of the towering jumbles of wires and electronics, one arm wrapped tightly around his chest while the other reached toward me, open hand trembling too violently for anyone to feign ignorance to. I stood beside him leaning around the server just enough to watch the door, pistol trained before me in anticipation of the coming horde while Echo tried to override the droids’ programing at least long enough to grant us an escape, scomp plugged into a massive terminal in the center of the room.

“If you’re so eager to do something, try to get your armor back on before we have to move again.” I ordered, snatching the sack at Echo’s feet to toss toward the seething man. The painkiller was fading, but it was still strong enough to take the edge off, and the denial it granted him, the ill-fated belief that his wounds weren’t as bad as they seemed, was a danger in itself. His lips pulled into a snarl, retort crawling up his throat, but the lungful of air he drew in to voice it left his entire body seizing against a sudden surge of pain.

His gaze fell quickly away from me, unable to hide the way his too-shallow breaths shook even as he fought for some means to continue arguing, and my heart ached at the sight. Blood still trickled from his nose, coating his lips and chin, and staining the dark fabric of his shirt. He had to strain to open his eyes enough to see me, but the way they wavered left me doubting whether or not he could really make out more than some blurred outline before him.

“Here.” I whispered, kneeling beside him and reaching into the bag. “The last thing you need right now is to get shot without any kind of protection.” He didn’t look at me, mouth just twitching into a scowl before his shoulders sank in resignation. Gaze constantly shifting back toward the door, I carefully helped him slide into his cuirass, wincing at his every hitched movement, but there was no avoiding it. He couldn’t get back into the precious gear without contorting his arms. The pull that movement caused against his ribs couldn’t be anything less than agonizing.

“Almost there.” The murmur escaped me without thought toward how it would be received, if he would balk at the soft encouragement or fight to make some retort. I only cared that he was in pain, and all I could offer in that moment was gentle words and some menial bit of assistance in maneuvering into the unyielding durasteel shell. His chest bucked around choppy gasps by the time the armor finally settled into place, skin frightfully pale and covered in a sweat that had nothing to do with the heat.

“Hard part’s done.” He nearly offered some response but let the words fall away with a strained exhale.

“No luck.” Voice heavy with disappointment, Echo abandoned the terminal to walk back toward us, readily joining me help his brother into his gear, “but we’re not far from another hatch.” None of us spoke toward the impossible task of getting Hunter up the vertical stairs, the difficulty in just getting back to his feet at all when every second seemed like the very act of drawing breath was growing more difficult, but that was a problem we’d have to deal with if we managed to actually reach an exit.

“Crosshair’s been trying to draw them to the surface, but they’re not taking the bait.” My lips twisted into a scowl at the very thought of Crosshair acting as bait, but quickly forced the image aside.

“Tech, Wrecker; you guys make it out, yet?” I called over our coms as Hunter finished pulling his last glove on.

“N… nearly there.” Tech’s response was interrupted with a small grunt, blasterfire screaming loudly in the background. “We’ve come upon some – Wrecker, n-!” The compound shook hard enough to nearly throw me to the ground despite how quickly Echo’s hand locked around my arm to steady me.

“Tech?!” I shouted nervously, noting how Hunter’s arm tightened around his chest, fingers strained in a clenched fist.

“I told ‘im the roof would hold!” Wrecker boasted loudly. In nearly the same breath, however, the alarm stopped. The silence that followed was deafening. Despite the hint of relief Hunter couldn’t quite hide from finally being free of the surely agonizing screeching, none of us could ignore the impending threat looming in that quiet.

“That wasn’t why I advised against it.” Tech stated, tone just shy of frustration. “I believe the site has now fully locked down, meaning we’ll be unable to leave in the same manner we got in.” He paused a moment. “Crosshair, do you read me?” Another pause. “Crosshair?” My heart sank, a chill flooding my chest with an entirely new dread. “Additionally, I believe all coms are being blocked as well…” He added in a grumble.

“Well, how was I supposed to know it’d do that?” Wrecker’s retort failed to hide the edge of guilt gnawing beneath his annoyance.

“This is a black ops site.” His brother said simply. “It is common sense for such facilities to-”

“Enough!” Echo growled over them. “Tech, can you reach an access panel? Maybe we can figure out a way to override the fail-safe.” I stopped listening as the discussion wandered toward subjects beyond my understanding.

“Hunter, how are you holding up?” Movements slow, I kneeled beside him once more, unable to ignore the way his body nearly shuddered in pain from even shallow breaths.

“‘m f’n.” He didn’t so much as try to look at me as he said it.

“Hunter.” I called more forcefully, setting my pack down quietly beside me when he didn’t answer. “Hey, I’m going to take your helmet off. Okay?” Voice lowered into a gentle murmur, I quickly removed my own before reaching for his, pausing a moment to grant him time to refuse, but, when he offered no objection, carefully eased the bucket from his head. Unmuffled by the thick layer of duraplast, I could clearly make out the quiet whistle catching on every inhale, and the unrelenting trickle of blood from his distorted nose left me uneasy.

I looked toward the doorway for just a moment more before reluctantly setting my pistol down beside me, fingers nearly twitching with the urge to immediately pick it back up.

“I think it’s time for some more meds. What do you say?” I tried to sow a joking temptation into my words, pleased that he at least managed to open his eyes enough to glance at me, if only briefly. “Thought you were eager to join the fight just a few minutes ago?” I teased, hoping to draw a proper response from him. His jaw shifted, but the attempt to swallow faltered beneath a wince, and I almost didn’t want to check what monstrous bruises lay hidden beneath the cover of blood and cloth.

“Y… y’ g’na g’v me a g’n?” I almost couldn’t make out what he tried to say, but felt a new sense of urgency quicken my movements as I dug through my bag.

“You planning on shooting Echo? Because, right now, he and I are the only ones in here with you.” He let out a weak hum, not bothering to look down as I pulled one of his gloves off.

“C’n’t… c’n’t sw’low.” He didn’t flinch when I slipped the IV into the back of his hand.

“This should help.” I murmured. “Some pain killers, some anti-inflammatories, and a couple other things to get you moving again.” His eyes strained to focus on me, and I knew he’d heard everything I pointedly left unsaid; that the meds I’d listed were only the least concerning ones saturating his IV. I didn’t tell him about the vitamin K and platelets I was flooding him with in hopes of stopping the bleeding; both what could clearly be seen and what couldn’t. I didn’t tell him that I was straining against the bag of fluids to force the saline into his veins because the risk of hypovolemic shock was too great to be ignored; that the frightful pallor of his sweat-soaked skin and quickness of his breathing sent my heart racing nearly as fast as his, but he could only maintain that focus for a few seconds before falling back into something far too near to unconsciousness.

“Can you tilt your head back for me?” My hands reached up to lightly rest on either side of his neck before delicately tugging at the lip of his blacks. It was faint, but he just managed to tilt his chin up, allowing me to more easily cut through the fabric. The mess of blood and bruises beneath obscured skin just starting to show the beginnings of stubble. I was barely able to brush the ridge of his Adams apple before he winced in pain.

“You’d think they’d be more careful with your neck during a damn interrogation…” I muttered with a sigh.

“Th’nk I… made ‘m angry.” His lips just managed to twitch into a smirk that made my heart soar.

“You?” I scoffed teasingly, “Get on someone’s nerves? Nah.” That smirk grew, and I had to ignore the guilt that churned through my stomach as I retrieved some bacta.

“Alright; I’m going to get some goo on that neck. I know it’s sensitive, so I’ll try to be careful, okay?” His grin instantly fell, jaw tensing as he gave a small, stiff nod. His leg twitched slightly at the first touch of that cool gel against his swollen throat, breath catching in a pained grunt that he only just managed to silence.

“I know, honey.” The quiet murmur fluttered thoughtlessly passed my lips with a sympathetic frown.

“H’ney?” He nearly huffed, voice strained beneath a vain attempt to ignore the hurt lancing through him at even the featherlight caress of my fingers. “Cr’ss ‘s gonna th’nk you’re… you’re goin’ sweet on me.” I let out a quiet chuckle, ignoring the way my cheeks threatened to warm beneath the thought.

“You let me worry about that grumpy brother of yours.” He offered another grin, if only briefly at my whispered reply, and I let out a small sigh of relief at how he began to slump back against the wall, that accursed tension easing as the combination of meds began to offer him some bit of respite, but the steady stream of blood from his nose refused to quell.

“Hunter, we’ve got one more thing we need to deal with before you can relax.” I warned reluctantly. He let out a short breath but otherwise didn’t bother moving. “Either I straighten your nose now and then treat it, or I just treat it to stop the bleeding and have to re-break it later.” I didn’t press him for an answer, but he didn’t have to explain. I knew what he wanted by the way his body sank with a heavy exhale.

“You know, the first time I fixed a broken nose was actually Emmy’s.” I told him, voice purposefully quiet as I set out strips of tape and some bacta spray before carefully palpating the swollen flesh. I knew he was barely listening, focus instead on trying to fight the tension plaguing him from the impending pain. “She was trying to wrestle her brother into a cab – he’d gotten a bit too drunk at our engagement party.”

“Engageme-” In that brief moment of distraction, I wrenched his nose straight. His breath fled him in a choked grunt, hand darting up to lock around my forearm tight enough to make my vambrace creak in protest. I didn’t want to think about the damage he might have done without that protective armor, heart stuttering at the powerful display.

“K-kriff… s’ry…” He muttered, releasing me with an almost jerked motion.

“It’s fine, Hunter.” I assured warmly, fingers flitting over his nose with tape to offer it some bit of support before retrieving the bacta. “Alright, I want you to try to take a deep breath in.” He was still scowling from the lingering hurt as he tried to obey me. I didn’t offer further warning before flooding his nostril with blue gel, free hand locking around the back of his head as he threw himself back in a violent recoil, straining to follow the sharp movement even as my stomach churned at the choked retch that tore through him.

“I know, I know. One more.” I murmured quickly, granting no reprieve before doing the same to the other side. His hands latched onto my sides, grip burring into my cuirass in a barely repressed effort to rip himself free of me. “Alright, it’s alright.” I whispered softly, fingers shifting gently through his hair in a way that I knew would send a pleasant shiver through him, and he nearly collapsed against me, face twisted into a snarl, torso bucking in a torrent of painful coughs. After securing a final strip of tape to hold a pad of gauze beneath his nose, I allowed us both a moment of quiet, arms wrapping carefully around him in hopes of granting him some breadth of comfort.

“E… e-gaged?” He asked, voice thick and nasally, yet I still found myself laughing softly.

“Don’t sound so surprised.” I replied with a feigned insult that gleaned a tiny huff from him as my fingers gently curled through his hair. “She and I got through med-school together – that says something.” Jaw parted around still heavy breaths, he shifted enough to glance up at me, but before he could gather strength to speak, another tremor tore through the base, this one far more powerful than the last.

“Echo?” I could hear the trepidation stealing through me, felt my shoulders tense and my mouth go dry as my gaze glanced nervously over the unknown tons of duracrete and steel overhead.

“That wasn’t us.” He said darkly. My hand darted out to snatch my pistol, eyes flicking back to the doorway.

“Can you hear anything coming?” I asked Hunter. He paused, straining to focus for a long moment.

“Looks like it came from outside.” Echo added, attention focused on the stream of data pouring into his mind through the terminal. I didn't want to think about what that might mean. Had Crosshair caused the explosion? Was he under attack? Was he alive?

“Hmm…” A weak hum sounded from Hunter, catching my attention. His brow was furrowed in concentration, eyes closed. “…droids.” Kriff.

“Echo!” I called over my shoulder before turning my attention back to the crumpled man before me. “Can you tell how many?” He paused before shaking his head.

“’nough.” He muttered, breath quickening before he tried to push himself up.

“Whoa – hold on, hold on; let me help.” I was at his side before I’d finished speaking, gently pulling his arm over my shoulder

“What’s going on?” Echo asked. I could hear the dread in his voice; the certainty that he wasn’t going to like the answer to his question.

“Droids. We need to move.” He didn’t question me, gaze flicking only briefly to Hunter before kneeling down to retrieve the abandoned bucket to slip back onto his brother’s head. The look he sent me upon noting the hitch of his shoulders with each half-gasp, the amount of blood soaking his shirt and the still present hiss with his every inhale, left me tensing my jaw.

“I’ve got him.” I assured him. If it came to a fight, there was no question who was more valuable, and I couldn’t dismiss my simple want to be the one Hunter leaned against; memories from so long ago forever fresh in my mind when we’d been captured together, when hidden speakers left him crippled and in agony, and he’d turned to me for comfort rather than his brother. I hoped I could offer him that same comfort now as I donned my own helmet once again and eased him to his feet.

“Tech, we’ve got droids incoming. I had to leave the terminal.” Echo warned, purposeful strides carrying him toward the door.

“Wait; it would appear most of the droids are mobilizing.” We quickly paused at Tech’s comment. “Based on where you described yourselves to be, I do not believe they are converging at your location.”

“Crosshair.” Hunter mumbled against my chest. I had to swallow back the anxiety coiling through my gut, had to force the image of Crosshair luring an army of battle droids into the surrounding wilds from my mind. Each member of this squad was a frightening force in their own right, but his strengths didn’t lie in close quarters and limited visibility…

“I believe the location they are headed is nearer to us… Wrecker and I will investigate and report back. Perhaps, this will yield a way out of here.” Be careful. The words were held back only by how forcefully my teeth ground together. It didn’t need to be said lest even that tiny distraction prove disastrous.

“We’ll stay holed up here. If we don’t hear from them in ten minutes, we’ll move out – see if we can catch up with them.” Hunter offered no objection to how effortlessly Echo stepped into his role, and I worried for the true cause of that silence. Was it trust? The knowledge that Echo’s tactical mind was one of the brightest in the GAR? Or were teasing retorts subdued by pain and exhaustion? Ten minutes was a lifetime that could mean the difference between Hunter merely being hurt and his condition becoming critical, and my worry grew with each passing second.

Next Chapter

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[spacexseven]

Thinking about a lil au idea of DOA or Rats of the House of the dead being basically your cult in the god reader idea.

Of course, the other “members” of the cult don’t see you in that much of a big light as Fyodor does (he’s the only one to be THAT devoted to you, really). But they are still members, and little by little they just

Start to like the idea wholeheartedly.

(I love the god reader idea so much it has me in a chokehold rn)

!! anime only's, you have been warned! the following includes spoilers for 2/3 of the unknown (as of now) members of the doa, and other stuff involving the doa.

i'm not writing for kamui 'cos this was a little long as it was. also am sticking w doa 'cos im more comfortable writing for nikolai, sigma and my little vampire rockstar :^^

cw: its kind of a cult, yandere themes (near the end)

you had always known that the rats were only the beginning of fyodor's reign.

and maybe he knew that too—you could hear the soft smile in his voice when he asked you if you thought that the decay of the angel was a better-suited name for an organization that would carry out his plans and catalyze the great destruction you always said he would bring. you don't grace him with an answer, though even you have to agree that it was a name that, once uttered, could unsettle the bravest souls and fill them with trepidation. it was a fitting choice; symbolic, powerful, and ominous.

if anything, the other members were just as unpredictable and unnerving as fyodor was to you once. nikolai was the first you met. you later learned that he went against fyodor's words to come see you, seized by curiosity. bitterly, you realized that the reason why he stared at you so much was because he was studying you, like one would an insect. you almost wanted to seize some of that divine order you had and strike him down for being so blatant about his interest. but when you thought about how fyodor could never look you in the eyes, and how lonely it was as his god, you found yourself taking a liking to the eccentric clown.

there was a side to him, however, you're not sure you like at all. bloodied hands and a wicked grin to match, when anyone else seeks your time. fascination that was both lustful and violent in nature, and a possessive grip that didn't seem to let go of you.

"time for a quiz!" nikolai exclaims, "will the decay of the angel succeed?"

"of course," a wry smile plays at your lips, "who else has a god on their side?"

he laughs in response, loud and uninhibited. it's the most noise that's ever filled your room

sigma was a mystery that had too many missing pieces to be solved. a part of you could sympathize with him, having lost your own self to the blurred-together years and the exhaustion that came with being the only one with your level of sentience. however, you don't let yourself think about the book fyodor had used to create sigma, and what it meant to you. there are some things, you decide, that are best kept to yourself. some things that fyodor should never learn about.

sigma, in your first meeting, was slightly awkward; a perfectly natural response, but not in awe of your presence, not like fyodor. his voice was firm, but not unkind, and his words were respectful, but not...obedient. it was perfect.

in sigma, you found an unlikely friend. he told you about the mundane happenings in the outside world; a customer caught cheating, an employee that struggled to keep up, all the paperwork that was involved in the running of a casino in the sky. these things, as compared to your daily life, were nothing of the sort you would care about, but you listened all the same. regardless, you could tell sigma appreciated the sentiment.

you, however, don't appreciate his strange habits. recently, you think, he's been acting a little too much like fyodor. as much as you liked sigma for the natural ease that you felt by his presence, you couldn't brush off the ominous feeling that came with sigma seeking you out more and more. you start feeling like he's looking for validation of some kind from you, one you didn't wish to provide in fear that he may find this an encouragement. he reaches out for your hand often, something you might find amusing if not for the way his hand trembles.

"are you planning to leave?" nikolai, knowing the fool, must have said something to scare sigma.

"no," you say simply, "not yet."

"so you will leave," sigma frowns. you've seen that look directed to many a clumsy employee and messy files, but never to you. it's almost frightening, "don't you like it here?"

"besides, i..." he stops himself, "dostoevsky won't let you go. and...i don't want you to either. you should stay. we take care of you too, don't we?

unlike most people, you weren't surprised to see bram stoker. though in your memory, he was a lot more...whole and formidable of an opponent. more than that, you remembered him as a man turned into a monster that brought unimaginable destruction because of an ability he never asked for. it was a strange reminder of how much had really changed over the years. now, he seemed sullen, and defeated; it was a depressing sight.

now, he was exhausted. you could tell he didn't want to be here, with the decay of the angel. you could also tell that something was terribly wrong with the sword that was inside him and the pained look in his eyes. fyodor tells you of a kamui when he brings the coffin in, and just by the current state of bram and the utterance of his name, you know already you would not get along with him.

bram doesn't ask you questions, not about why you were here, or what you were doing for all those years. he doesn't explain his situation, and you don't pry. you can put the pieces together by yourself, and when it dawns on you what the kamui planned to do with bram, you realize that there were greater evils than fyodor.

there's a silent solidarity between you and bram, perhaps stemming from being something non-human. you get him the radio he's always wanted, insist that he be allowed to converse with you more often, and so on. these days, bram talks more, and it almost feels like you're talking to an old friend. bram's lived through some, though not most, of the things you have, and he remembers what nobody else does. you wonder, one day, if the two of you could have been friends had you met a lot earlier, and if you hadn't brushed off the news about the vampire ability user the first time. when you voice this out to him, bram has the most adorable reaction. your words make his eyes widen and, stupified, cause him to awkwardly change the topic, fumbling over his next few words.

ah, now you really wish you went to see him earlier.

it's that odd sensation of having a friend, caring for another, that urges you to offer your help to bram. you tell him you can get him out of here, out of the mortal angels' grasp; somewhere safe. you say you can help him regain his former state, help him survive within the shadows of humanity, like you had before. kamui, fyodor, or the doa; nothing will be able to stop you if you really wanted to make it happen, regardless of how complacent you were now.

at the very least, you thought, he might be pleased. grateful. maybe not elated, but, at the very least, relieved. instead, bram looked shocked. you can't tell if the idea horrifies him because he doesn't think you can do it, or because he believes that the decay of the angel was the only connection you had to him. perhaps he thought that saving him, freeing him, would also mean removing yourself from his life. you almost felt bad—you were very likely bram stoker's only friend in his miserable life.

still, you're not quite sure what to think when he extends his stay and starts contemplating, seriously, to cooperate with kamui. you can't wrap your mind around why he'd want to stay, and the possible loss of so many lives as a result unsettles you deeper than it does him, but he's steadfast in his decision. he tells you, with an unfamiliar tinge of scorn, that he was tired of trying to protect people, when all they did was try to kill him.

"if you're so sure, i suppose i'll have to stay here with you." concern weighs heavily on your mind, but more than that, suspicion lingers.

bram smiles, then, and seemingly relaxes in his coffin. an uncomfortable feeling seizes your chest. how had you not noticed?

[shiorihyugawrites]

The Legendary Black Cat

Selena de la Rosa, known across Marley as the Legendary Black Cat, is the world's deadliest assassin—a master of agility, precision, and deception. When Marley turns against her, she is shipped to Paradis as a living weapon, chained and drugged, with her survival all but assured to be short-lived. But Selena is no ordinary prisoner.

Bound by no one, loyal to none, Selena plots her next move, determined to seize her freedom by any means necessary. Yet, her plans are complicated by the Scouts who captured her, particularly Captain Levi Ackerman—the so-called Humanity's Strongest Soldier. Selena is intrigued by his strength and reputation, but her pride refuses to acknowledge him as her equal.

Caught between Levi’s unrelenting gaze, Selena plays a dangerous game of manipulation. She’s biding her time, but when the moment comes, will her calculated escape bring her freedom—or will her path collide violently with Levi’s unwavering resolve?

The Black Cat has always landed on her feet, but for the first time, she might meet her match. (Levi x OC)

Chapter Three

The first rays of sunlight filtered through the thin canvas of the tent, casting a pale glow over Selena’s bound figure. She hadn’t slept—not even for a moment. Her poison-green eyes, sharp and alert, stared at the wooden beam above her, thoughts churning as the faint, rhythmic sound of ocean waves reached her ears. The scent of salt lingered in the air, a tantalizing reminder of her proximity to the shore.

Selena’s lips curled into a faint smirk. She was close. The sea wasn’t far, but freedom was more distant than it had ever been. Trying to escape this island immediately would be reckless. She didn’t even know where she was or how far it stretched. No, she needed more information, and the only way to get that was to scout the area herself.

Her fingers brushed against the loose bolts on her cuffs, the fruits of her meticulous work throughout the night. The restraints were primitive compared to Marley’s, designed for containment, not a skilled escape artist. Selena suppressed a laugh at the thought. They had no idea who they were dealing with. The Black Cat couldn’t be caged—not for long.

She rolled her wrists slightly, careful not to alert anyone outside. She could hear faint voices—their tones unmistakable even through the canvas. Levi, Erwin, and Hange. They hadn’t strayed far, likely ensuring she stayed under their watchful eyes. Selena had expected nothing less.

Erwin’s deep, authoritative voice carried through first. “We’ll maintain shifts throughout the day. She hasn’t made a move yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

Hange’s voice followed, lighter but no less sharp. “Oh, I’m certain she’s plotting. She didn’t strike me as the type to sit idle and wait for her fate to be decided.”

“Then you should stop underestimating her,” Levi’s cold voice cut in, sharper than the edge of his blades. “She’s not like the others we’ve faced. That woman is calculating. I saw it in her eyes.”

Selena’s smirk widened slightly at his words. Capitán, you see me, don’t you? Her pride swelled at the idea that he’d recognized her for what she was: a predator. But then, that was what intrigued her most about him. Levi Ackerman wasn’t like the men she’d killed before, nor was he like the cowards in Marley who trembled at her name.

He was different. The Beast Titan feared him, and from what she’d gathered, he was revered as Humanity’s Strongest Soldier. It was a reputation that Selena found both amusing and enticing. He may have been Humanity’s Strongest, but she was the Black Cat—the Greatest Assassin in the World. And she couldn’t resist a challenge.

Her mind wandered back to their earlier conversation. The way Levi had stood so close, his eyes boring into her with that unrelenting intensity. She had seen men like him before—or at least she thought she had. Warriors, killers, soldiers who moved like weapons themselves. But Levi was more than that. He had precision, control, and a presence that demanded attention without ever raising his voice.

Selena rolled her shoulders slightly, testing the tension in her chains again. She would wait until tonight, under the cover of darkness, to make her move. But when she did, she wouldn’t just run. She wanted to see this so-called “Humanity’s Strongest Soldier” in action. She wanted to test him, challenge him—to see if he could match her skill.

The thought made her smirk again. Levi Ackerman might be formidable, but she relished the chance to prove herself superior. After all, the Black Cat didn’t take titles like “Greatest Assassin in the World” lightly.

Outside, the morning briefing continued, their words barely audible but enough to keep her attention.

“Do we need to keep her here?” Hange asked. “If she’s so dangerous, why not move her to a stronger location?”

“She’s dangerous,” Levi replied curtly. “Moving her risks giving her an opening.”

Erwin’s voice was calm but decisive. “She stays here for now. Until we know what she’s planning, we don’t move her.”

Selena’s eyes glinted with amusement. Smart, Commander, she thought. But not smart enough.

She shifted slightly on the cot, careful not to make a sound. She could wait. She was patient, after all. And tonight, when the camp was cloaked in shadows, she’d show them exactly why Marley had feared her for so long.

As the day dragged on, the voices outside grew more sporadic, the morning’s tension giving way to the steady rhythm of camp activity. Scouts moved about the camp, their footsteps faint but discernible. Selena kept her breathing slow and steady, her mind focused entirely on her escape.

Every detail of the camp’s layout she’d gathered from sound alone. The slight clinking of armor as guards passed by, the scrape of boots on rocky soil, the distant sound of horses being tended to—it all painted a picture in her mind. She didn’t need to see to understand her surroundings. And when the time came, she would use that understanding to her advantage.

But for now, she waited.

…

The air inside the interrogation tent was thick with tension. Levi, Erwin, and Hange stood before the bound Marleyan prisoners, their expressions grim and unrelenting. The flickering lantern cast shadows over the weary faces of the captives, but it was clear their exhaustion did little to lessen their fear.

Erwin’s voice broke the silence, calm but cutting. “We need to know more about Selena de la Rosa. Who is she, and why does Marley fear her as much as it seems to?”

The lead prisoner, a middle-aged man with a gaunt face and a trembling lip, looked up at the towering commander. His voice cracked as he began, “Selena… she was ranked number one in Marley’s assassination program. She isn’t just dangerous; she’s death incarnate.”

Levi folded his arms, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Start from the beginning. What assassination program?”

The prisoner swallowed hard, his eyes darting nervously between the three scouts. “It started twenty years ago. Marley needed a way to maintain control in the shadows—beyond Titans, beyond armies. So, they created a program. They kidnapped children from the territories they conquered. Over a hundred of them—boys, girls, all from different races, all from around the world.”

“And they trained them to kill,” Erwin guessed, his tone clipped.

The prisoner nodded, his face pale. “Yes. From childhood. The training was brutal, and inhumane. They stripped them of their identities, their innocence, their humanity. The goal was to break them completely and rebuild them into killers.”

“How many survived?” Hange asked, her voice tinged with both horror and curiosity.

“Only ten,” the prisoner whispered. “Out of over a hundred children, only ten survived the training. The rest… died.”

The Scouts exchanged grim looks. Levi’s expression hardened, though he remained silent, his gaze fixed on the prisoner.

“They gave them codenames,” the man continued. “Selena de la Rosa was the Black Cat. Then there was the Hummingbird, Salamander, and others. Each of them was a master of their craft, but Selena… she was the best. Number one.”

“Number one?” Levi asked coldly. “What made her different?”

The prisoner’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “She never failed. No matter the mission, no matter the odds—Selena always succeeded. She’s a master of stealth, manipulation, and precision. They used her to topple governments, assassinate leaders, destabilize entire regions. Titan power was great for war, but Selena and the others… they were used for something more precise. When Marley wanted specific people gone, they sent her.”

Hange leaned forward slightly, her curiosity piqued. “So, she’s not just a killer—she’s an architect of chaos.”

The prisoner nodded. “Exactly. Marley used them to change the world without anyone realizing it. And Selena… she survived training that would’ve killed anyone else. They pushed her to the brink of death again and again, but she always came back stronger.”

Erwin’s face was unreadable, but his voice carried the weight of his thoughts. “You’re telling us that Marley created a weapon that doesn’t rely on Titan power. A weapon that could operate anywhere, anytime, undetected.”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” the prisoner said. He hesitated, then added in a trembling voice, “If you want to live, don’t underestimate her. Selena de la Rosa is cunning, a master manipulator. Even when she seems vulnerable, she’s always in control.”

Levi’s gray eyes darkened, his mind racing as he pieced together what he’d seen so far. He didn’t trust Selena from the moment she spoke, but now it was clear his instincts were right. She wasn’t just dangerous—she was on another level entirely.

Before Erwin could ask another question, a blood-curdling scream pierced the air outside the tent.

The Scouts froze, their heads snapping toward the sound. More screams followed, mixed with the thud of bodies hitting the ground and panicked shouts. Levi’s blades were in his hands before the others could react.

“What the hell?” Hange muttered, already moving toward the tent’s entrance.

Erwin’s voice was sharp and commanding. “Stay together. Move.”

The three stepped out into chaos. The camp was in disarray—several scouts lay on the ground, groaning or unconscious, while others scrambled to assess the situation. No one appeared to be dead, but the injuries were widespread. Blood smeared the dirt where a young Scout clutched his arm, his face twisted in pain.

“Report!” Erwin barked, his voice cutting through the chaos like a whip.

One of the Scouts staggered to his feet, his eyes wide with terror. “It’s her! The Black Cat—she broke out!”

“What?” Levi demanded, his voice ice-cold. He strode forward, grabbing the scout by the front of his jacket. “Explain. Now.”

The young man trembled, his voice shaky. “I-I was patrolling near the tent. Everything was quiet, and then suddenly she was just… there. She moved so fast, I couldn’t—” He broke off, glancing nervously at Levi. “She didn’t kill anyone. She just… knocked us out or injured us. But she’s gone.”

“Gone where?” Hange asked, her voice tight with disbelief.

The Scout shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know. She disappeared into the woods.”

Levi released the scout with a shove, his jaw clenched as he scanned the area. His sharp eyes took in the scene—the bodies strewn across the ground, the untouched tent where Selena had been held, and the faint trail of disrupted dirt leading toward the forest. She had planned this. The realization sent a surge of both anger and grudging respect through him.

Erwin stepped forward, his face grim. “She played us,” he said quietly. “She waited until the perfect moment.”

“Tch,” Levi muttered, his grip tightening on his blades. “She’s been plotting since the moment she woke up.”

Hange adjusted her glasses, her mind clearly racing. “She didn’t kill anyone. If she wanted to, she could’ve wiped out half the camp.”

“She doesn’t need to kill us,” Levi said coldly. “She’s already won. She’s free.”

Another scout staggered toward them, clutching his ribs. His face was pale with fear as he looked up at Levi, Erwin, and Hange. “It’s her,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “The Black Cat… she broke her cuffs. She’s gone.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed, his expression deadly. “Then we find her.”

The night had been hers, but Levi Ackerman was determined to make sure the Black Cat wouldn’t land on her feet so easily the next time.

…

Flashback: Fifteen Minutes Earlier

The tent was quiet, dimly lit by the flicker of a single lantern. Selena sat bound against the wooden beam, her expression blank but her mind sharp and calculating. The moment of freedom she had been patiently plotting was finally within reach. Every detail, every sound, every movement outside had been carefully cataloged in her mind. She had tested the cuffs earlier, confirming that her wrists were loose enough to slip out if the opportunity arose. Now, all she needed was the right moment.

Two young guards stood inside the tent. They were nervous, shifting awkwardly on their feet, and Selena could tell they were new. Their uniforms were too crisp, their stances unpracticed. Children, she thought with a pang of something like guilt. She had no intention of killing them, but they were in her way.

Selena’s lips curled into the faintest smirk before she schooled her expression into one of vulnerability. She let out a soft, trembling sigh, catching their attention.

“Please,” she murmured, her voice delicate and sweet. “I’m so cold.”

The guards stiffened, exchanging uncertain glances. One of them, a blond boy who couldn’t have been older than sixteen, frowned. “We’re not supposed to talk to you,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

“I don’t want to cause trouble,” Selena said, her tone pleading. “I just… I’m freezing.” She glanced down at herself, her body barely concealed beneath Levi’s cape. “Please, can’t you give me something warm? Anything?”

The second guard, a dark-haired boy with a kind face, hesitated. “I-I don’t know,” he stammered, glancing at his companion. “Maybe we should ask—”

“She’s dangerous,” the blond boy interrupted, his tone firming. “We can’t trust her.”

Selena let out a soft, pitiful whimper, lowering her gaze as if ashamed. “I understand,” she said quietly. “I’m just so cold… I won’t even try to move. Please. I just want to feel warm for a moment.”

The dark-haired boy’s resolve cracked. He stepped forward, unfastening his own Scout Regiment cape. “It’s just a blanket,” he said to the blond boy. “It won’t hurt.”

Selena’s heart raced, though she kept her expression demure. The moment the boy leaned down to drape the cape over her shoulders, she made her move.

With a swift, practiced motion, she yanked her hands free from the loosened cuffs and swung them like a weapon. The heavy metal struck the blond guard across the temple, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

The dark-haired boy gasped, stumbling back, but Selena was faster. She twisted Levi’s cape into a makeshift garrote, looping it around the boy’s neck before he could react. His hands clawed at the fabric as she tightened it, her movements efficient and precise. Within moments, his body went limp, and she carefully lowered him to the ground.

Selena crouched over the two guards, her breath steady as she checked their pulses. Alive. They would wake up with headaches and bruises, but they would live.

“Sorry, niños (boys),” she murmured softly. “You’ll thank me later.”

She quickly adjusted Levi’s cape back over her body, her movements swift and calculated. She glanced at the blades on the guards�� hips—sharp, sleek, and connected to some kind of mechanism by cords. Selena had heard rumors of Marley’s enemies using this technology. What was it called? ODM gear?

Selena reached for the blades, cutting the cords with one of them so she was left with two sharp swords, unencumbered by the rest of the gear. Perfect.

Now came the next step: clothing. She couldn’t very well run through the forest naked, even with Levi’s cape. Staying silent, Selena slipped out of the tent, her footsteps soft as a cat’s. The camp was still stirring with early morning activity, but her sharp eyes spotted a storage chest tucked away behind another tent. She crept toward it, her heart pounding as she rummaged through its contents.

An old brown dress lay at the bottom of the chest. It was too large for her, but it would have to do. Selena slipped it over her head, grimacing at the way it hung loosely on her frame. With one of the blades, she sliced it to mid-thigh length, giving herself the mobility she needed.

“Better,” she muttered under her breath, securing the belt around her waist. As she turned to leave, a Scout entered the tent, his eyes widening in shock at the sight of her.

“Hey!” he shouted, reaching for his weapon.

Selena moved before he could draw. She darted forward, her blade catching the edge of his sword and twisting it out of his grip. A quick kick to his chest sent him sprawling to the ground. Before he could recover, Selena struck the back of his head with the hilt of her blade, knocking him unconscious.

The commotion outside grew louder. Selena stepped out of the tent to find several Scouts already alerted to the disturbance. Among them, were Eren, Mikasa, Armin, Jean, Connie, and Sasha—all young and utterly unprepared for what was coming.

“Children,” Selena muttered, shaking her head. “Amateurs.”

Jean pointed at her, shouting, “She’s loose! Stop her!”

Selena’s lips curled into a smirk. “Try.”

The Scouts charged, but they were no match for her. Selena moved like water, her blades flashing as she disarmed and incapacitated them one by one. Jean fell first, knocked out by a well-placed strike to the temple. Connie followed, clutching his ribs as he hit the ground. Sasha’s bow never even left her back before Selena swept her legs out from under her.

Armin and Eren lunged at her together, but Selena sidestepped their clumsy attacks with ease. She struck Armin’s pressure points, leaving him crumpled on the ground, then twisted Eren’s arm behind his back until he cried out in pain before shoving him to the dirt.

Mikasa was the only one who gave her pause. The girl moved with precision and skill, her strikes deliberate and calculated. But Selena was faster. She deflected Mikasa’s blade with her own, spinning behind her and delivering a swift kick that sent her sprawling.

In less than two minutes, it was over. Selena stood amidst the groaning scouts, her breath steady, her blades gleaming.

“You’re skilled,” she said, glancing at Mikasa. “But not enough.”

She didn’t linger. The forest loomed ahead, dark and inviting. Selena darted toward it, her body moving with the grace and speed of her namesake. The Black Cat had escaped.

…

Present Time

Fifteen minutes later, Levi, Erwin, and Hange stood outside, surveying the chaos she had left behind. Injured Scouts groaned on the ground, and the forest swallowed any trace of Selena’s presence.

The hunt was on.

Levi stood in the middle of the carnage Selena de la Rosa had left behind, his sharp gray eyes surveying the groaning scouts sprawled across the ground. Injured, embarrassed, and utterly humiliated, Eren, Mikasa, Armin, Jean, Connie, and Sasha struggled to pick themselves up, each wearing expressions ranging from frustration to outright disbelief. None of them had ever encountered an opponent like her before. None of them had imagined such speed, precision, and raw confidence in anyone but Levi himself.

“She didn’t even kill us,” Eren muttered, his fists clenching in frustration. “She could have, but she didn’t.”

“She didn’t need to,” Mikasa said quietly, her voice tight. Her hand rested against her side, where Selena had struck her with surprising accuracy. “She wanted to humiliate us. And she did.”

Connie groaned as he sat up, rubbing the back of his head. “I’ve never seen anyone move like that before. It was like trying to fight a ghost.”

“Not just a ghost,” Jean said bitterly, nursing a bruised jaw. “A ghost with claws.”

Levi’s gaze cut through them like a blade, his disappointment palpable. “Enough. You got sloppy. All of you.”

“But Captain—” Eren began, only for Levi to silence him with a sharp glare.

“She didn’t kill anyone,” Levi said flatly. “That’s the only reason you’re still standing. If she wanted to, she could’ve gutted each of you before you even drew your swords.”

“Why didn’t she, then?” Sasha asked hesitantly, her voice small. “Why didn’t she kill us?”

Levi didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his mind turned back to what the Marleyans had told them. Selena had refused to titanize Eldian children, an act of defiance that had led to Marley’s betrayal. Despite her ruthless reputation, she had spared every scout she had encountered tonight. Could it be true? Did she really care about children—and, by extension, the younger soldiers under his command?

“Doesn’t matter,” Levi said finally, his voice cold. “What matters is that she’s out there, and we’re going after her.”

Erwin strode into the scene, his commanding voice cutting through the tension. “Anyone who can move, move out. Now. We cannot let Selena De La Rosa roam free.”

The scouts scrambled to their feet, wounded pride driving them forward. Levi unsheathed his swords, his expression as unyielding as steel. “Follow my lead,” he ordered. “Stay sharp. She’s not just fast—she’s clever. And if you think she’s not watching us right now, you’re idiots.”

The forest was dense and alive with the sounds of the night. The soft rustle of leaves, the distant chirping of insects, and the occasional hoot of an owl filled the air. Levi moved silently at the head of the group, his senses on high alert. His gray eyes scanned every shadow, his ears tuned to every rustle of branches or crunch of leaves. The rest of the squad followed closely behind, their movements cautious and deliberate.

“She couldn’t have gotten far,” Armin whispered, his voice barely audible.

“She doesn’t need to go far,” Levi muttered in response. “She’s not running. She’s watching.”

Jean shivered despite himself. “That’s comforting.”

Eren gritted his teeth, his fists clenching. “How can someone like her even exist? She’s not like the Titans. She’s… something else.”

“She’s a killer,” Mikasa said quietly, her tone laced with both admiration and frustration. “And she’s good at it.”

Levi’s mind raced as he pieced together everything he’d learned about Selena. The Black Cat. The number one assassin in Marley’s secret program. Her movements were catlike—fluid, precise, unpredictable. Even her personality reflected her codename. Where would a cat go in a situation like this? Where would she feel safest?

High ground.

Levi’s gaze instinctively flicked upward, scanning the trees. His sharp eyes caught a glimmer of something—a flash of green under the faint moonlight. Then he saw them: her poison-green eyes staring back at him from the shadows of the branches, her lips curled into a predatory smile.

“There,” Levi said, barely above a whisper. He unsheathed his blades in a single, fluid motion.

Before anyone could react, Selena swooped down from the branches like a shadow, her swords gleaming as they clashed with Levi’s in a resounding clang. The collision of metal echoed through the forest, startling a flock of birds that burst from the canopy with panicked cries.

All hell broke loose.

The forest came alive with the sound of blades meeting in a deadly dance. Levi and Selena moved with such speed and precision that the other scouts could barely track them. Selena’s agility and flexibility were unmatched, her movements unpredictable as she twisted and spun with almost inhuman grace. Levi was fast—faster than anyone—but Selena’s fighting style was unlike anything he had encountered before.

Selena grinned the entire time, her poison-green eyes gleaming with exhilaration. “So this is Humanity’s Strongest Soldier?” she purred, her voice teasing. “I must say, Capitán, you live up to your reputation.”

“Shut up,” Levi snapped, his voice cold and focused. He parried one of her strikes, his movements sharp and deliberate.

Selena’s smile widened as she ducked under his blade and countered with a swift kick, forcing him to step back. “Oh, don’t be so serious,” she said, her tone playful. “I’m just having fun.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his swords. Fun? She was treating this like a game. The thought only fueled his determination to end it quickly.

The scouts watched in stunned silence as Levi and Selena blurred through the forest, their movements too fast to follow. Mikasa’s knuckles turned white as she gripped her blades, her frustration evident. “I’ve never seen anyone fight like this,” she muttered.

“She’s… she’s incredible,” Armin said, his voice filled with both awe and fear.

“Yeah, and she’s winning,” Jean added, his face pale.

But Levi wasn’t outmatched. He was analyzing her movements, searching for a weakness. And then he found it.

Selena was fast and agile, but she lacked physical strength. Her strikes, while precise, didn’t carry the same force as his. Levi pressed the advantage, catching one of her blades with his and twisting it out of her hand. The sword clattered to the ground, but Selena didn’t miss a beat. She twisted her body in an almost inhumanly flexible motion, her leg snapping up to kick Levi’s blade clean out of his hand.

And in that same motion, she sliced the cord connecting the blade to his ODM gear and stole it, leaving him with only one sword. Selena, now armed with two blades, smirked seductively. “What’s wrong, Capitán? Losing your edge?”

Levi’s jaw tightened, and he lunged at her, catching her wrists in his hands. For a moment, he thought he had her pinned. But Selena leaned forward suddenly, her lips capturing his in a brief, shocking kiss.

Levi’s eyes widened in surprise, the unexpected move throwing him off balance just enough for Selena to wrench her wrists free. She followed with a swift kick to his chest, sending him staggering back.

“Damn it,” Levi hissed, regaining his footing just as Selena prepared for her next move.

Selena smirked, her body crouching low as she prepared to unleash her signature technique. “Let’s see if you can handle this, Capitán,” she purred. “My 100 Cuts of Pain.”

She sprang forward, her blades a blur as she executed the 100 Cuts of Pain. Levi’s uniform was ripped to shreds in seconds, shallow cuts appearing across his arms and chest. But he survived. Somehow, he managed to block or deflect enough strikes to avoid a fatal blow.

Selena’s grin widened in genuine admiration. “Impressive,” she said, her voice tinged with excitement. “No one’s survived that before.”

Levi didn’t respond. Blood dripped from his shallow cuts, but his focus remained unbroken. He charged again, his blade flashing in the moonlight as he brought it down on her. But Selena was ready. She leapt onto the flat side of the blade, using it as a springboard to propel herself back into the trees.

From the high branches, Selena pointed one of her swords defiantly at Levi, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “I am the Legendary Black Cat,” she declared, her voice echoing through the forest. “The Greatest Assassin in the World! Don’t you fools ever forget it!”

With a quick slash, she cut down a branch, sending it crashing to the ground and disorienting the Scouts below. Her mocking laughter rang out as she disappeared into the darkness of the forest, leaving Levi and his squad behind.

The hunt was far from over, but the Black Cat had landed on her feet once again.

~

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[ancuninfiles]

Lithium Pt. 4

Screenshot by @lavendarr00

9.3k words - F/M - Astarion x F! Durge - 18+

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence.

Summary: Astarion nearly walks in on Ronnie during a very private moment. Mortified, Ronnie throws her toy under a pillow, pulling up her pants and… letting him into her apartment, as he's found a better way to restrain her this time.

Oh... and Ronnie makes Astarion watch Twilight: New Moon

꒦꒷♡꒷꒦

Tags: smut, AU modern setting in London UK, mental illness, p in v sex, creampie, cunnilingus, shibari, bondage, TW domestic violence (not with Astarion and Ronnie), roleplay, dirty-talk

MASTERLIST (Other works and chapters)

Read on AO3 for full tag list and proper formatting (recommended)

꒦꒷♡꒷꒦

Beginning notes: CONTENT WARNING for this chapter, but Astarion will always be a softie :3 I promise.

9.3k words. Like Comfort™, This one has been sitting in my files—over 90% done—for a long time. I guess sometimes I just agonize over how to finish a chapter... it's like... my motif or something LOL.

I really got my Gonzo on with the beginning of this chapter. I was ✧*̥˚𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯' 𝘪𝘵˚*̥✧...

Anyways, to the few people who like to read fucked up shit like this, enjoy <3.

꒦꒷♡꒷꒦

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒: 𝐀 𝐆𝐢𝐟𝐭

꧁꧂

The dildo: an object shaped like an erect penis used for sexual stimulation—according to the Oxford Dictionary. 

—Boring, basically useless phallus. Does nothing. 

   —Good for nothing. 

      —Takes thirty minutes to get me off; If I do at all.

   —Fucking sucks. 

—Waste of my Godsdamned time.

...

Jen had taken Ronnie to a sex shop when she first got together with Alfira, suggesting it would "spice things up". However, the extra "spiciness" became unnecessary once Alfira’s trachea nearly collapsed in Ronnie’s grip.

It happened in Jen's bed, the morning after one of her parties. While Jen was making breakfast, Alfira and Ronnie had taken over her bed. They'd been intimate before—always at Jen’s place. Although they weren't exclusive, their relationship was certainly developing. At that time, Ronnie had only ever been a danger to herself—her violent outbursts occurring solely in the privacy of her own flat. She didn't yet know what she was capable of.

From what Ronnie could recall of the incident, one moment she was giving head, and the next, she was on the floor of Jen's bedroom while Jen tried to calm Alfira down.

Apparently, Ronnie had straddled Alfira and was attempting to strangle her to death—her hands like a vice on her lover's neck. Alfira had been screaming, calling for help until her throat was seized. Jen barged in at the perfect time, put Ronnie in a headlock, and dragged her off Alfira.

Jen did the damage control—she let Alfira know that nobody would ever believe her and that if she told anyone, she would never be allowed at her house again. Shortly after that, Alfira was completely excommunicated from their “friend group"—if you could even call it that.

And it was true that nobody would've believed her. Ronnie was known to be a pacifist, even standing back, unable to form words and frozen in place as she watched Jen get into fights. Jen always said it was better that way so that Ronnie wouldn't get hurt.

Since that day, she hadn’t seen Alfira— hadn’t been able to apologise, get closure, or make amends. Nothing . She knew Jen was only trying to protect her, but the rot in Ronnie's stomach grew tenfold that day; not only from discovering the boundlessness of her violent ailment but also from the guilt of what she’d just done.

Remembering such things didn't aid in Ronnie's climax—or lack thereof. 

—Distractions

—So many distractions.

So she pulled the phallus from her top drawer, eyeing it with scepticism, knowing it would bring back bad memories. 

However, in it went.

It was a wretched pink silicone thing—a “rabbit” or something of that nature. Press a button, and it tickled the outside and undulated on the inside; both futile operations if you're too anxious to get off

—Fuck.

Trying to cum was a regular occurrence for Ronnie—at least once a week. She didn't care for porn—it was all made for men, so she relied on her own broken imagination.

Lately, her imagination brought her to Astarion; but with the thoughts of Astarion came the shame of wanting him, and, subsequently, the knowing that she'd never have him.

The cycle would repeat in circuits of two minutes or so, on and on for thirty minutes until she gave up or fruitlessly orgasmed on the wretched, pink, silicone phallus.

—Useless.

Not like sex is important, anyway. Sure, it felt good.

Well...

It felt great; but was it necessary? Certainly not.

Especially in regards to friendship—and she and Astarion were just friends… Barely friends.

—Just met.

   —Wretched friends.

      —Just kill me, already.

—Anyways...

Resisting the nymph would prove challenging; thankfully, it's extremely responsive to “no” and “stop”. 

But, likely, also very responsive to “fuck me” and “kiss me” and “spank me” and—

—Kill me... Maybe not that one...

Of course, Ronnie knew she was attractive, but her naked form was disfigured with jagged, protruding scars all over. She felt like a monster—her beleaguered skin only matching the sickness within.

Nothing a long-sleeved shirt and leggings couldn't hide—that is until you're spread open. Maybe then, the darkness would help, but eyes adjust eventually, and Ronnie would only be lying to herself if she thought otherwise.

She felt ill, her stomach lurching at times by simply staring at her own reflection. Other people surely would feel the same. The only reason she’d felt so comfortable being nude around Alfira was because Alfira has similar scars.

Yet, Astarion had seen her nude form and...

reverence, every time. Washing her like an expensive car, stitching her like a cherished doll, and touching her as if—

... as if she mattered to him, God knows why.

Well... maybe it was because he wanted her to kill his boss—however that would go down, she wasn’t sure.

She got the impression that he wanted to teach her how to win—how to cheat at poker in exchange for her assistance… as if she could control it. As if she wanted to “bask in gore” as he did.

—Gods... what a freak.

There are limitations to what a friend would do. Ronnie might kill for Jen if she asked—if she needed her to...

Jen would kill for Ronnie—without a doubt, or a second thought. That's what friends do—that's what Jen says.

But to build a friendship based on murder? Well... that was—

... different, to say the least. She'd come close before—to murder—but never succeeded. She never wanted to succeed.

She wanted a break: a drink.

꧁꧂

Movie night at Jen's place was the day after Friday afterparties, where Jen would invite some close friends to watch cheesy classics, horror, and comedy—but mostly horror.

Nocturne would sit on the couch with Jen and Wyll. Sometimes, others would join—the flatmates—but Ronnie sat in her own seat, away from the fray of intimacy, not speaking to anyone.

The movie night-goers were accustomed to this. They let her watch quietly in the corner because they were nice people —respectful adults. Jen wouldn't have it any other way, of course, lest they wish to be tossed in the teeming rain on their arses.

And so they sat with the TV as the only light source, eating popcorn and drinking vodka straight or mixed with anything.

A proper Saturday night—in recovery from Friday night. Jen's hand-me-down velvet chair more than sufficed as a routine seat. Nag champa incense burned on the coffee table, and tarot cards might be read later, as Jen was an avid believer in their prophecy.

This night’s movie was Twilight: a supposed romance about a vampire and a teenage girl who fall hopelessly in love with one another.

Bella, the main character, moved from Arizona to Washington to live with her dad in a small town called Forks. Shortly after, she met Edward, the aforementioned vampire who happens to sparkle in the sunlight.

Bella's eyes lit up upon seeing his glittering form, but Edward recoiled in shame at her admiration. “This is the skin of a killer, Bella,” he said.

Everyone in the room giggled when he said that, and Ronnie joined in the joviality, realising that it was indeed a very silly interaction between the two characters, considering the inoffensiveness of sparkles.

At one point, Edward seemingly teleported into Bella’s room where he watched her sleep, to which Wyll said, “That's just not right.”

It was discomforting to watch the choked-up vampire talk about how he wanted to kill Bella... just because he thought she was hot? And because he couldn't read her mind like he could with everyone else?

Perhaps he confused lust with hunger somewhere down the line. To Ronnie, craving chips felt quite different from horniness. However, they allegedly abstained from sex until marriage in the penultimate movie because Edward was too afraid of hurting Bella while shagging.

—Relatable. But as if marriage would make him less dangerous.

It could have made more sense, and the story could have been better, but Ronnie actually enjoyed it overall.

How wonderful it would be to be lifted from your mundane reality by a romance with a supernatural creature. Also, she related to Edward in the way that she, too, felt like a monster—always on edge, worried about being a danger to others.

That night, she slept in the spandrel as usual, only to be woken by the sound of plates smashing in the kitchen. Lae'zel—Jen's girlfriend—had stayed over, and their relationship was tumultuous, to say the least.

At times, they would almost seem like the perfect couple. Other times, however, they were at dire odds, and Lae'zel would hurt Jen in a myriad of ways.

“You think you're such a princess because Vic takes care of you. Some of us have experienced real hardship,” Lae'zel would say, but it was untrue.

Jen had been kicked out plenty of times, and she'd had to fuck for a place to rest her head at night. Vic was anything but merciful when it came to Jen, and it didn't help that she was her landlord, her boss, and a huge philanthropist to the hospital where her dad stayed.

Vic had kicked Jen out for a slew of unjust reasons, those being:

Not paying rent on time, but Vic hadn't sent Jen's pay that month.

Not cleaning up after her disgusting flatmates.

Jen struggling with addiction.

The list goes on, truly. Unfortunately, it was after these bouts of verbal and physical violence perpetrated by Vic and Lae'zel that Jen would spiral further into substance abuse. Ronnie had seen it many times—where Vic would leave after letting Jen know how “worthless” she was, or Lae'zel would slam the door after claiming that it was “over”; though she would always be back within a week with a box of cheap chocolates, apologising and claiming that she'd change.

“I love you to death,” Lae'zel would ominously exclaim, as if she'd be the one to end Jen.

Ronnie knew the look on Jen's face too well by this point—the pursed lips and wet eyes. Surely, her stoicism was crushing her throat. But there was no stopping her in her ascent to her bedroom, where she'd lock the door behind Ronnie, unwilling to accept any comforts—the type that she'd consistently given Ronnie. No , she'd dig her stash from under her bed and get to work, meaning: get as fucked up as needed to numb herself.

It often ended in Nox having to knock the door down, lest Jen drown in her own vomit or overdose on ketamine or whathaveyou. Vic and Lae'zel weren't aware of Jen's fragile disposition—or, at least it didn't seem that way, considering their unrelenting cruelty towards her. Jen would never tell them about what she'd done after they’d stormed out—it'd probably not make a difference, anyway.

Ronnie would wait outside Jen’s door, leaning her back on it as she sat on the ground. “Jen,” Ronnie would say, not knowing what to offer other than her presence. “Please, Jen.”

Jen would not respond. All Ronnie could hear were the rustling of bags, sounds of nasal insufflation, or the sharp exhales after swigs of liquor.

Narcan was kept in the "House of Grief” and it'd been used on Jen before. She always acted resentful when the ambulance showed, metaphorically pushing everyone away because she thought herself deceitful enough to make her friends believe that she was a cunt, after all. To which they would retort with a “nice try” sort of attitude.

— As if losing Jen: my cunt friend would be easier than losing Jen: my friend.

When she'd get out of the hospital, she'd essentially pretend that nothing ever happened—life went on like normal, and “I'm fine” became her two favourite words in the English language.

Cliché.

꧁꧂

Ronnie sat on her shabby couch, scrolling and scrolling. It was a Monday night, and she'd had the day off work. She'd prepped her meals, stretched, exercised, and cleaned her flat—it always becomes a wreck after a few days, but she usually manages to tidy once a week.

Behind the couch was the chipping-white-paint-covered beam and stool, then a blank space, then the kitchen where the ceiling light dimly illuminated almost the entirety of her basement flat, except for her bedroom and bathroom.

The leak dripped, and the mould on it grew every day. Ronnie wanted to get it fixed, but then she'd be alone with the handyman in her flat: a terrible idea, considering her history of violence.

It had been almost two weeks since the tavern and, of course, no sign of Astarion. Maybe he'd changed his mind about her, or maybe he simply got bored.

Ronnie… missed him. They never exchanged numbers, as neither Astarion nor Ronnie brought it up. She would have thought that he'd leave a piece of paper with it written down for her to see when she woke up at the tavern, at least, but no. Nothing . She thought it might be better that way because if she hadn’t scared him away yet with her problems, she'd surely scare him away with her eagerness. She'd have to make a constant effort to text him no more than once a day—at most.

Since the events at the tavern, Astarion had been on her mind more than was justifiable. It bordered on entirely obsessive—obsessed with countering the lustful thoughts, contemplating the meanings behind his words. What was the deal with his boss—was he some sort of mobster? And Astarion—what part did he really play in all of this?

Over the past two weeks, she had likely spent hours staring in her bathroom mirror, admiring her wound, pulled tight like a corset—although not too tight, of course. She would examine it up and down and run her fingers along the sides, feeling the slight burn of her swollen tissue. It felt almost as if the dissolving thread was Astarion himself, diving through her laceration and holding it together. She imagined herself tearing it open and reaching for her heart through her ribcage, handing it to him like a cat with a dead bird at his doorstep.

And then there was the fourteen hundred pounds he'd given her—she hadn’t spent it yet. She didn't know what to do with it.

—Maybe something for Jen.

Jen needed a new laptop—she was always complaining about hers glitching out, freezing, and crashing. So Ronnie browsed the web in search of just that.

It was amazing—the type of laptops one could buy with fourteen hundred pounds; but what brand would she want? Would she want a large screen or something more compact?

— Hmm... I'm bored.

But, out of her periphery starred the wretched, pink phallus—the torturous, useless thing.

Though; useless as it was, Ronnie sought to give it another go—not accepting total defeat just yet.

So she sat up, pulled down her flannelette pyjama trousers, grabbed the thing off the coffee table, hoisted her knees up, and got to work. Facing the black TV screen, she closed her eyes to avoid visual distractions, mainly her scars.

She tried thinking—imagining ideas of what ought to get her off. 

A beautiful woman above her, glistening all over with dexterous fingers. Or maybe a man with a skilled tongue, or maybe—

—Alfira.

...

No. She would stay focused.

The man with the skilled tongue is... doing things with his tongue and he is hot...

— No.

— I need to get groceries. I hate the grocery shop. Maybe I can just use some of Astarion's money to have them delivered.

—Astarion is hot.

— No. I can't think of him while I'm doing this.

—But he...

Ronnie remembered vividly their first night together, when he'd been inside and teased her so. What if he'd continued? What if things went further? They both could have finished—finished with each other. On each other, in—

She was so close. She allowed herself to imagine that maybe he was right there—inside her. She tried picturing his body, and the way his muscles would ripple with the smallest movements—with each thrust, perhaps.

How his hair would be damp with sweat and his expression— oh, his expression would be sinfully picturesque. It would be a face one would never catch him making except for in the moments before rapture. 

And his sounds—his little grunts of pleasure.

“You take me so well, Ronnie,” he'd say. “Such a good girl, all for me.”

It was the closest she’d been in weeks—right on the precipice—

*Knock-knock-knock*

…

She panicked, throwing the thing under a pillow on her couch and hastily pulling on her trousers.

—Who would be knocking on my door at eleven at night?

She tiptoed to the spyhole in her door, making sure not to be too noisy in case she didn't want to answer.

But it was Astarion, standing and waiting patiently with a bag on his wrist and his hands in his pockets. His hard chest was evident under his buttoned-up shirt.

Her face reddened; it couldn't have been worse timing for him to show up—or better timing, depending on how she looked at it. Maybe he could cuff her to the pole and take her on the floor— NO.

She couldn't. What if she lost her wits amid a shag? It would be humiliating for her.

—But he said he would wait there for me—wait for it to be over.

Even still, was that enough insurance? No. She thought she'd better be safe than sorry.

Elated, Ronnie opened the door to look at him through the chain lock, but she suddenly became very aware of how plain and makeupless she was, so she bit the inside of her cheek to ground herself.

“Astarion!” she started, sounding much more eager than she'd meant to. “Hi. What are you doing here?” She smiled, lowering her pitch.

He wore a dress suit again, but this time, with an unbuttoned raincoat. Dressed nicely, as always.

His pocketed hands drew Ronnie's eyes lower to where his narrow hips were, but her gaze didn't linger there for more than a moment.

He looked relieved. “ Ah —finally. I've been coming here almost every night looking for you,” he said. “ Er —may I come in?”

—He's been looking for me? Oh my Gods, yes. I missed you, I missed you, I missed you so much.

Ronnie cleared her throat. “ Ahem —do you have handcuffs?”

Astarion held up his bag. “Yes, I have all the fixings.” He grinned roguishly.

Ronnie wanted to scream into her pillow and punch her mattress a hundred times or more. She had an unignorable rising feeling in her chest that reverberated through her arms—a feeling she knew was bound to make her stupid. What could he possibly mean by “ all the fixings”? Had he brought treats? Games? Gifts? She had to know.

Reeling herself in, she responded coolly, “Right. So the protocol is you have to cuff me to the beam immediately as soon as you come in. That always has to be our number one priority. Yeah?”

Astarion gave a curt bow. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Are you ready?”

“Very.”

—I hate you, you stupid freak.

   —I hate how you make me feel.

—Why do you make me feel like this?

Ronnie gritted her teeth. “Set.”

Astarion huffed a laugh, throwing his head back—which exposed his perfect smile—but ultimately, he bent his knees in a playful battle stance.

“Go.”

Ronnie slammed her door shut and unhooked her chain lock. Astarion opened the door before she could open it for him herself, and she giddily ran to the stool that was always at her pole. He closed the door and laughed mirthfully, approaching her already. She tried to suppress a grin as he ran up and hooked her cuffs on behind her in one swift movement.

Ronnie tugged to test her restraints, and she sighed happily, feeling the stability they provided as Astarion hung his coat on her coat hooks and rolled up his sleeves.

Astarion stood in front of her, arms crossed with his bag on the ground beside him, looking awfully satisfied and smelling delicious. She wanted to bite him, only softly to steal a salty taste... or to immobilise him. She scrunched her features, shooing away the intrusive fantasy.

“Have I ever told you how good you look when you're helpless?” Astarion joked.

Ronnie blushed, averting her gaze from the handsome man. “Whatever. You can quit the evil act. I know you're not going to hurt me,” she spat; although, she wanted him to hurt her—only a little. And she knew he would if she asked.

“ Oh? But why would I do that when you clearly respond to it so well,” he teased with a devious and toothy grin. She wondered how much of her bullshit he could see straight through.

Ronnie chuckled, craning her head back. “What did you come here for, anyway?” He'd been looking for her. It had to be important. Or maybe she was important. Or... what she was capable of. Nevertheless, he was there—right where she wanted him, or close. She preferred him to be closer. But she wouldn't—she wouldn't cave.

He held his chin in thought for a few moments. “To see you,” he started, “and I suppose to teach you a few little tricks—using sleight of hand with card games.” His voice was smooth but raspy, almost like the sound of a bowling ball rolling towards its pins.

“Oh... that’s calm. Okay.” She nodded, looking at his feet.

She should have guessed that he'd only come to continue their “business”—not to simply hang out. It might make it easier to keep it in her pants, but his flirtatious remarks were tugging at her strings already. She was thankful that he'd shown up with a purpose, after all. And she was thankful that he hadn't abandoned her—that he'd been looking for her, even.

She never thought someone could want her after knowing what she was capable of, or what her body looked like—save for Alfira, but it was hard to come by someone with morals as pure as hers. 

He'd called her visage “ominous.” Shouldn't that have meant that he was repulsed? But he still made advances on her after sharing his derogatory and unwanted opinion—maybe he liked “ominous.”

“Also, I've thought of some solutions to the mobility issues that would arise given our use of handcuffs.” He put one hand on his hip, and all of his weight on one leg as he feigned disinterest, looking at his nails. “Although the cuffs are the most convenient, they didn't seem like the most... practical, nor the most comfortable idea.”

Ronnie's lips parted, her eyes sparkling with intrigue, or perhaps enamourment at his thoughtful consideration.

“Do you want to see what I've come up with?” he asked, pulling his phone from his pocket.

She bit her inner lip. “Yeah, sure,” she drawled, unsure of exactly how much gratitude to display, as she had to avoid leading him on.

He fussed with his phone for a moment and then showed Ronnie an image of a mannequin that had been intricately tied around its torso and waist. It looked beautiful, but it also looked quite lewd, somehow.

“This is called ‘shibari’. It's an ancient Japanese roping technique that has been historically used on prisoners. Now, however, people primarily use it for art and— er ... sex, to be quite honest,” he said, briefly chuckling after his statement.

Cheeks flushing, Ronnie kept her gaze on the screen as he swiped to another picture of a mannequin tied similarly, but this time the rope extended through the groin.

“Of course, some of these are a bit more... salacious than others, but I thought I'd give you options. Given your circumstance, it only seemed fair.”

He swiped to the next image, this time showing the back of a mannequin with its arms fastened straight vertically, adorned with knots along their length. It looked much more comfortable than the handcuffs.

“Um... is this okay?” Ronnie asked, rubbing her knees together nervously. She couldn't quell the dirty images in her mind of her tied up—naked and displayed—free for him to touch in whatever way he pleased.

“What, tying you up? Sure! It's perfectly fine— er ... that is, if you want to, of course.” He tilted his head, smiling awkwardly.

—This doesn't have to be sexual. He said it was originally used with prisoners. I am just being tied like a prisoner, she justified to herself.

“ Um ... we—we can try,” Ronnie stammered.

—Fuck. Now I'm stuttering? Stupid.

“Just don't make it weird, please,” she added, only partially confident that she would be able to rein herself in. She would have to count on him.

“ Me? ‘Make it weird’?” He scoffed. “Why, I would never,” he said, frowning disingenuously.

“Astarion... I need your help with this,” she tried her best to sound serious. She knew that shagging him would be wholly reckless—unfair to both of them, given her condition.

“Relax! I'm only joking. Ugh —you’re no fun,” he teased. “ So ... which one would you like?” Astarion asked.

Ronnie squinted at his screen as he flipped through the carousel of pictures, looking for the one that looked the least perverted.

One, in particular, caught her eye: a harness that only hugged the torso and shoulders without riding between the breasts or groin. It was perfect and safer than the handcuffs for both parties involved. She doubted that she'd be able to free herself of the binding, and she wouldn't be able to dislocate her wrists in it either. Additionally, it looked like a comfortable setup, and she'd even be able to traverse a portion of her flat—as much as the rope connecting her to the pole would allow.

“Can we do that one?” she asked.

Astarion looked at his phone. “Of course. This one should be quite easy, actually,” he exclaimed, squatting to grab a red rope from his bag. “Could you stand, please?”

“ Oh —yes, of course,” Ronnie said, standing and moving around the pole—away from her stool.

He unravelled the rope and then folded it in half to find the middle. Then he began his wrapping and knotting. He wrapped above her shoulders and around her ribs, honed into his work as he was when he'd stitched her.

His brows knitted together and he bit his bottom lip while he focused, pulling the rope through the loops made around her shoulders as it brushed against the fabric of her loose cropped t-shirt. Ronnie held her breath almost the entire time, as each brush of his tender digits made her internally recoil in shame.

Next, he moved to her back, fastening her arms to the harness and immobilising them. The binding felt more secure than the cuffs, but without the discomfort.

As he was finishing up, Ronnie had a fleeting recollection of what she’d been doing just before he came in—what she'd been thinking about. But she gritted her teeth and attempted to relinquish the thoughts.

It was a consistent effort, in the silence, though. She thought she might have more luck once he began his lesson.

To be fair, Ronnie didn't really care about learning how to cheat at poker, but he seemed like he wanted to show her, and she was simply happy to spend time with him at this point—she wasn't going to be picky when genuine friendships were so difficult for her to come by.

Once he bound from her shoulders to her elbows, he unlocked the handcuffs and then proceeded to tie his last knots along her upper limbs. Then, he pulled a separate rope from his bag and stuck his fingers under one of the loops in the middle of her back, inadvertently jostling Ronnie and consequently gripping her arm to steady her. She must have been hot because his hand was cool against her skin, and she wondered if she was red like the ogre at the tavern.

He fed the second rope through her harness and knotted it to her before doing the same with the other end on the pole.

At last, she was free of his touch, grateful for the chance to create some distance between them.

Astarion stood in front of Ronnie with his hands on his hips. “All done, safe and secure. You’re free to walk about, but the second rope is only about three metres long. It’s safest to keep it that way.”

Ronnie tugged at her restraints as hard as she could, but they didn’t budge. She walked until the rope connecting her to the pole was taut, then leaned her entire body weight on it, giggling as she balanced on her toes at a forty-five-degree angle.

She felt a slight tug and looked back to find Astarion pulling at the rope towards the beam, also testing its strength.

“As I thought, it won’t come undone easily,” he said, letting go of the rope.

“How’d you learn how to do this?” Ronnie asked as she straightened up.

Astarion paused for a moment, walking around to the sofa with his bag in hand. “Let’s not exhume the past tonight, eh?” He plopped onto the sofa, awfully close to the pillow under which the thing was hidden, causing Ronnie to gasp sharply through her nose.

When it came to exhuming the past, she could do without revisiting what she’d been doing immediately before Astarion arrived. She really ought to have put away the thing before letting Astarion in, but she’d been too distracted by his presence, and she could all but hope she wouldn’t have to pay for that mistake.

She climbed over the back of her sofa in her bare feet and settled on the opposite end from Astarion, feeling the plush cushion beneath her.

He pulled out a deck of cards and began to shuffle, the cards snapping crisply between his fingers. “The first thing is that, of course, you’ll need to know where the cards are in the deck.” He set the deck on the table and flicked the corner up with his thumb, exposing each card for a split second. “That’s how much time you have to take in the contents of the deck. Now—if I’m looking for the Jack of Spades, I can find it right here.” He lifted a portion of the deck and showed Ronnie the card at the bottom of his chosen section—it was the Jack of Spades. “You’ll need to learn the weight of the cards—how ten cards feel versus... twenty-two cards, and so on.”

Ronnie watched him put the deck back together and riffle the cards, her eyes drawn to the way his fingers moved deftly, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each gesture. There was something hypnotic about his movements—a grace that made everything he did look effortless. She imagined those hands on her skin, the same dexterity applied to tracing lines along her body.

He continued shuffling in a myriad of ways, his voice a low murmur. “The most important part, when you’re first starting, is to wait for an opening—wait until your opponent’s eyes are busy. That’s why you’ll begin with Heads-up—one-on-one poker—”

Ronnie could hear the cadence of his words, but her focus was on his lithe fingers, the way they worked through the cards with such precision. His fingernails, perfectly manicured, danced across the deck, and she wondered what those fingers would feel like in her mouth.

“Ronnie?” His voice snapped her from her trance, and she realized he’d stopped talking and she’d been staring at his hands.

She shook her head, trying to clear the haze. “Sorry. I’m just—distracted. Do you think we could maybe watch a movie instead, tonight?” she asked, giving him a tense smile and hoping he didn’t notice the flush creeping up her neck. Though; the mischievous glint in his eye and his roguish grin informed Ronnie that he knew exactly what he was doing to her, and that caused her to stir slightly in her spot.

“If that's what you'd prefer.” He shuffled the cards one last time before placing them in the box and away in his bag. He retrieved the remote from the coffee table and switched on the TV, navigating to the built-in streaming service.

Ronnie hung her head in relief before looking at the list of recommended shows and movies. He flipped through them, witnessing her embarrassing stack of dating shows under the “Continue watching” section. Tensing, she held her breath, but he didn’t seem phased by her taste in media. She could've been sure that he’d tease her about it, but he didn’t say a word.

One movie in particular caught her eye: New Moon, the sequel to Twilight. Her eyes widened with excitement. “ Oh! Can we watch New Moon?” she asked.

“I remember hearing about this one a decade ago. It’s about werewolves and vampires, correct? Infamous for its mawkishness?” Astarion asked.

“Yes! Exactly!” She bounced excitedly. “I just watched the first one at Jen’s not that long ago.”

“ Hm— I’ll entertain this, sure. We have to change it if it's boring, though,” he said, clicking on the movie and then getting up to flick her kitchen light off before returning to his spot on the couch.

“Yes! Okay, I'm so excited. I've never seen it before.” She shimmied, bringing her knees to her chest.

Ronnie watched raptly as the opening scene began with Bella in a forest clearing with Edward. They approached an elderly woman, only to find out she was Bella’s reflection. Glancing at Astarion, she saw his brows knit together in a frown, clearly already entranced by the film.

He was… cute —the way he seemed utterly intrigued.

“He can go in the sun? He's sparkling,” Astarion asked.

“Yeah. He's all bitter about it, as well—haha,” Ronnie giggled.

“Bitter? Gods . You think he would be grateful that he doesn't burn to ash.”

Bella and Edward were standing together in the school parking lot when Edward said: “Jacob's here,” before Jacob was within eyesight.

“How did he know that Jacob was there?” Astarion asked.

“He can read minds.”

“Terrifying.”

“Except for Bella's, but Alice can tell the future, and Jasper is always hungry and constipated-looking,” Ronnie exclaimed.

Bella was sitting at the back of the class watching Romeo and Juliette with Edward. They were casually talking about the movie when Edward—out of the blue—exclaimed that he envies Romeo because he committed suicide.

“He envies Romeo because he killed himself? Edward is a fool,” Astarion said, frowning.

“You're granted immortality, and you can walk in the sun, but you spend your days in high school around a bunch of teenagers? Their master must be some sort of eccentric. Though, it beats rotting away in a kennel.” Astarion seemed personally offended by this premise, causing Ronnie to stifle a giggle.

“Those ‘Volturi’ seem like awful creatures. Quite ugly, as well,” Astarion said, and Ronnie enjoyed his commentary on the movie—keeping her entertained.

Jasper—the constipated one—became feral over Bella's papercut. In response, Edward pushed Bella away from him to protect her, but she flew into a table, injuring herself further. Alice had to escort Jasper away.

“ Oh —I like this movie,” Astarion exclaimed, smirking.

—Of course he would say that during the most chaotic scene, Ronnie thought.

Carlisle—the “father”—stitched Bella's wounds, and he mentioned to Bella that he believed he was “damned” due to his vampiric condition.

“‘Damned’? These vampires are free of a master, they live in a comfortable abode, they can walk in the sun, and they think they are ‘damned’? Ridiculous,” Astarion said.

“I know. It's a little silly, but I guess I understand if they're depressed,” Ronnie added.

“Edward is in love with this beautiful young lady, and he refuses to change her? The stupidity,” Astarion spat.

A scene played where Edward breaks up with Bella in the woods because he's moving away. Bella said: “I'm coming,” to which Edward responded: “I don't want you to come.”

Astarion huffed a chuckle. “I would never not let you come, Ronnie.”

“Sod off.”

As a result of Edward's abandonment, Bella fell into a deep depression, and a scene played where she was staring out of her bedroom window as the months passed by.

“Is this what you do when I'm not around?” Astarion asked, grinning.

“No.”

“I'm hurt,” he said, grabbing his chest in mock offence.

Bella began spending more time with Jacob after experiencing a hallucination of Edward’s presence while riding on the back of a stranger's motorcycle. She realised there might be a link between the hallucination and engaging in life-risking behaviour, so she decided to take advantage of Jacob’s skills as a mechanic. Bella brought him two dirt bikes from the scrapyard, and Jacob helped her fix them. She rode one of the bikes intending to induce the same “Edward hallucination.” While it worked, the distraction caused her to crash the bike and smash her head against a rock.

“He's clearly reinforcing Bella's dangerous behaviour. How does he not see this?” Astarion protested.

The movie continued, showing Bella spending even more time with Jacob, their friendship nearly approaching romantic territory.

“This Jacob boy isn't half-bad,” Astarion said. But when Jacob started lashing out towards Bella and her friends, Astarion changed his mind. “Nevermind. I take back what I said about him earlier.”

Eventually, the plot dragged on and Astarion became frustrated. “There are no vampires in this movie!” he complained, shifting his position on the couch and sitting on the pillow.

The moment he descended on the pillow, it began to vibrate—or rather, the thing began to vibrate under it.

Mortified, Ronnie's eyes widened and she held her breath as Astarion half-stood to search for the source of the buzzing beneath him.

“Wait!” she raised her voice in a panic.

He stood, crouching in front of the couch. “Sorry, I'm just trying to figure out where that sound is coming from. I can rewind in a second, don't you worry. I—” He froze, lifting the pillow to find her toy undulating beneath it. “Oh—I see.” His face of confusion quickly warped into one of mischief at his discovery. 

Grinning, he lifted the phallus and inspected it before switching it off. “We've been very naughty, today—haven't we?” His head was unmoving but his conniving stare landed on Ronnie's face. He smiled, almost strategically so—or that's how it felt. 

He looked away only to pause the movie—a freeze frame of Bella.

Ronnie sat back in horror, watching him examine it . If it wasn't for her restraints, she would've snatched it from him already. Blushing, she frowned, gritting her teeth as her heart raced with embarrassment. 

There was no going back now—not since he'd seen it . If she could've erased it from his mind like her amnesia, she would've.

She hadn’t spent all that much time with Astarion yet, but she already surmised a few of his consistent character traits. 

One: he was an instigator.

Two: he was cunning.

And three: he was opportunistic.

“No,” she denied his allegation, as it was all she could manage in her fragile state of shame—feeling stupid for letting him in; for not putting away her toy properly beforehand.

Her desire crept up on her, its languid grasp much like a boa constrictor. Attempting to ground herself, she shook her head. She knew what was coming next—he wouldn't drop this… wouldn't let her live this down. 

“ Hm ... Good girls don't lie,” he purred, hovering over Ronnie as his shadow cast on her. 

Checkmate.

He had her.

And she felt small under his stare.

“Now—I'm going to give this a little wash, I think, and then I'll be right back.”

Ronnie watched as he waltzed away, past the couch, out of her field of vision, and into the darkness of her kitchen.

Visions of Astarion played in her mind as a needle on vinyl—visions of him “torturing” her with the thing. Her womb throbbed at the idea.

She heard the ominous sound of running water emanating from the kitchen, and then—even more ominously—the footsteps towards her after it stopped.

Astarion—phallus in hand—climbed onto the sofa, facing her. “You must've been in an awful hurry to hide this, considering its location and the remnants that adorned it,” he cooed. “Pray tell—it was within you when I arrived at your door, was it not?”

— How did he...?

Cunning

Opportunistic

Perceptive

Instigator.

Ronnie bit her inner cheek, her brows tensing as she shook her head. Her breath was caught in her chest as her head became weighty on her neck. Instinctively, she laid back, her nape resting on the arm of the couch as she watched him crawl closer, like a feline.

“ Tut tut, Ronnie. You truly are too easy to read, you know,” he teased. “I’ve always wondered: do you think of me when you touch yourself?” 

—Yes, you bastard.

She looked up at him—framed by her thighs—eyes pleading, and excuses stuck on her tongue. 

Her eyes pleaded for mercy—mercy of any breed. All or nothing. But—at this point—she'd prefer the former.

Her thoughts became muddied, snuffing the enervated flames of coherence and obligation.

“Your lips look so pretty when you bite them like that—so... kissable,” he rasped, climbing atop her.

The sudden taste of iron invaded her mouth. She hadn’t realised she was biting her lip—but she’d been biting it hard enough to break skin. 

Ronnie released her lower lip from its toothy restraint, and she saw a flit of something restrained in him when her lip bounced back into place.

The way his palms sunk into the sofa on either side of her made her arch her back expectantly.

He leaned in, and she gasped, feeling his cheekbone fleetingly make contact with hers.

His breath brushed her ear. “You know, Ronnie,” he started, “I wish for you to confide in me—your desires,” he whispered. 

Ronnie's knees neared her shoulders—his hips, hovering inches from hers.

“If it helps, I'll share mine first. Would you like that?” he purred, playing with a lock of her hair.

He rose from her torso, humming low and soft as he watched her, tilting his head condescendingly and sitting on his heels.

And Ronnie felt like something precious was torn from her.

Her skin tingled, yearning for his touch. Astarion's cadence was soothing and his demeanour, benevolent. She let her eyelids fall closed, remembering the safety of his embrace after their first coupling. She'd never felt so cherished before; or at least… not that she could remember.

She wanted it again.

“Tell me,” Ronnie said, her voice trembling with nerves.

“ Hmm... ” He snaked his hand down her shin, leaving sparks in its wake. “I want to roam your body with my touch,” he began. “I want to make you whimper and squirm as I fill you,” he cooed, teasing under her waistband with his fingers. “I want to hear you breathless while I make you come undone.” He splayed his fingers under the hem of her shirt. “Your turn,” he instructed.

Ronnie arched her back, finally finding her breath again as the nerves melted into solace. “I want... your touch,” she whispered. “I want to kiss you again… please ,” she pleaded, rolling her pelvis into his, and—to her delight—finding his hardened length; though, it was imprisoned by his trousers.

Dropping the phallus, he grabbed at her hips and pulled her core to his hardness. “ Mm —there we are. You'll find that I'll reward you for honesty,” he hummed, slotting his fingers under her waistband and pulling her pants off, leaving her fully exposed, scars and all. He leaned into her, caging her in with his elbows. “How innocent of you—to want a kiss; though I'm sure you want more than that,” he whispered, his lips brushing hers as they shared breath.

Ronnie let her lashes flutter shut as she basked in the feeling of his skin—so close to hers. He pressed his forehead into hers—their noses, staggered.

“I'm right, aren't I?” He smooched her experimentally. “You wish to be ravished, don't you?” Teasing, he pecked beside her lips.

Ronnie felt as if her shabby couch had transformed into a cloud as she wrapped her legs around him. Even her disorder felt like a distant axiom, with the way he enveloped her.

“Tell me,” he said, pecking her cheek. “What is it that you truly want?”

Ronnie craned her head forward, capturing his lips, to which he promptly reciprocated. Astarion groaned into her mouth, and she could feel his smile as they kissed. His cunningness was troublesome and inescapable.

She was at a threshold she hadn’t planned to cross with him again, but the safety of her bindings began to feel much like the safety provided by her lithium on the day they’d met—safety that would give consequence to the morrow.

Capitulating, Ronnie pulled from his kiss. “I want…” she breathed, “I want to have sex with you.” She found his lips again, pecking him roughly.

Astarion growled his assent, their lips colliding once more as Ronnie could hear him unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers—music to her ears.

Their mouths disconnected with a pop, and Astarion stood to unbutton his shirt. As she'd expected, his body was impeccably toned, and his muscles rippled as he discarded his top on the coffee table.

He slotted his thumbs under his waistband. “What a sight, you are—now that you've given yourself to me, at last,” he teased, relinquishing himself of both his formal trousers and his briefs.

His length sprang free—it was much larger than her meagre toy and it glistened with precum in the television's dim light. She had no recollection of shagging someone with a penis, and, of course, her sexual relationship with Alfira was painfully short-lived. And so, excitation became her, as she laid with her thighs resting on her tummy which bounced ever so slightly as Astarion sat on the couch to pull off his socks.

“You're such a princess, you know?” he teased.

—Princess?

Ronnie tilted her head away, huffing. “ Hmph —I’d be doing more if I wasn't tied up like a... rabid animal.” She scowled.

Astarion threw his head back, chuckling darkly. “That’s not what I meant—and you're tied up like a gift, not a ‘rabid animal’,” he mocked, crawling atop her form. “I'd quite like to unwrap you, my dear.” He tugged at her shirt, easing it through her bindings to crumple just above her breasts. “ Oh —your wound healed beautifully, I see.” He traced his finger beside it, languidly.

“Yeah.” She blushed. “Thanks, again, by the way.”

Astarion quirked up the corner of his mouth as his hands slotted beneath her—one under her back and the other, carding through her hair. He eased her towards him so that her head rested comfortably against the pillow. Consequently, she felt his length brush against her folds. 

“Better?” he asked, peering into her eyes as he caressed her cheek with his thumb.

“Yeah... Thank you,” she said, her eyes, heavy-lidded with desire.

— So courteous.

His face seemed relaxed, except for a barely perceptible intensity in his brow. At last, he descended to her breast with his open maw, flicking her hardened pebble with his tongue. Thumbing her other nipple, he gave her nip a playful bite, causing Ronnie to squeak as he rocked his heavy length between her folds.

He created a trail of small hickies from one breast to the other, thumbing her now-wet nipple. 

Ronnie twirled her pelvis, trying to urge him inwards, but her efforts proved futile.

Groaning, he disconnected from her mound—a string of saliva between them. He kissed her, hungrily sucking on her lower lip and grabbing her waist rough enough to bruise her marred flesh.

Breathless, he pulled away, and Ronnie’s lip bounced back into place. 

“I’m sorry. I seem to be... getting lost in you. Are you okay?” he asked, frantic.

Ronnie welcomed a reasonable level of pain—their first tryst being evidence of that—and his ungentle treatment hadn’t phased her. “I’m good,” she said, attempting a smile to stifle his woes. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” he said loudly before catching himself. “No. I just... need to keep my teeth to myself, that's all,” he scolded himself, looking away.

“ Hm —I don't mind. Don't worry,” she hummed. “I like it.”

He sighed, closing his eyes as he held her waist. He snaked his hands under her bottom, and crouched, lifting her core to his mouth. He relaxed in his position as he began lapping at her clit, sticking a thumb inside her as he licked and held her up with his forearm. 

Sucking on her bud, he removed his thumb, only to replace it with two digits which he pumped into her at a consistent pace. Astarion closed his eyes, his brows furrowing as he feasted on her like a starved man—lewd, wet sounds emanating from his tongue and lips.

Ronnie's thighs tensed as she approached her climax—breathing heavily, pliable in his grasp.

He placed the flat of his tongue on her, working her similarly to her toy, but—of course—better, as it was Astarion. Astarion, who she'd been restraining herself from since after their first coupling—denying herself the pleasure out of trepidation... because she didn't want to hurt him. But, with her wrapped up, he could more than handle her— devour her. 

One last raucous emission—deep from within Astarion's chest—was enough to break the bough, splintering Ronnie into broken cries of release.

She went limp entirely, his fingers still working inside her, and his tongue relenting before he removed his face. "That's it," he murmured, " good girl." He spread his digits apart inside her. "You're going to take my cock so well, Ronnie. You're doing so well," he said, kissing her clit ravenously and making her hips lurch as she panted, overstimulated from her orgasm. 

Chuckling darkly, he let up, grabbing her thighs and parting them as he aligned himself with her weeping nethers. He sunk into her slowly, allowing her to stretch and adjust to his size as his tip hugged her cervix. “See? You were made for me,” he purred, setting a dilatory pace. “ Really. I should have kept you tied up for me to fuck whenever I pleased the day we met—kept you hidden away for my own personal use—my little prisoner,” he rasped, snapping into her. “You would like that, wouldn’t you—to be my cherished fuck slave?” His rutting quickened.

“Yeah,” she whined, picturing herself, his bound and subservient personal whore. Astarion truly had a way of plucking the right strings, as if he knew exactly what would make her sing for him.

Nobody had ever done that before.

He used her hips as leverage, rotating them forward so that her back arched and he could thrust into her at the right angle. “You wish to be mine to fill whenever I want, I know it. You want me to spill inside you and coat your womb with my seed—to be fucked until you’re swollen and sore from my cock,” he rasped.

Eyes wet, Ronnie nodded, messy with perspiration as she cried her assent.

“ Good girl. See what happens when you’re honest?” he praised, sucking his fingers and then dutifully reaching them to rub her clit. 

Ronnie moaned through gritted teeth as she watched him work her, feeling awfully stuffed by his member—so long and wide and pressing up into where she felt it most.

With a snap of his hips, he sheathed himself fully, stilling as he worshipped her bud with a rapidly moving hand. “I want to feel you cum on me, darling. Cum on me, and you’ll get your reward,” he said,  warming his pulsing girth in her channel.

Tears flowed from Ronnie’s eyes, and her muscles flexed as she felt him twitching inside of her. She let go, weeping, watching him choke out an undignified moan as she quivered around him, violently clutching him with her climax.

Astarion squeezed his eyes shut as he finished with her clit, allowing himself to move again. Grabbing the backs of her thighs, he pushed her knees towards her chest, forcing her to fold in half. Watching himself stretch her folds, he would languidly pull out—almost completely, leaving only his tip sheathed—before thrusting back in with punishing snaps of his hips. Ronnie's bound body was no match, as it was forced up with each sloppy pound of his pelvis.

His lips pulled into a satisfied smirk, watching her bounce haplessly. All she could do was take it; it was everything she wanted since she began to crave him. Her body and mind's reaction to his ruthless sexual treatment came as a surprise to her, as she'd only ever been with the kind and gentle or selfish types; or at least, that's all she could recall. 

His grip on her thighs was pressuresome and wild—sure to mark her skin. Her back rubbed against the rough polymer texture of the cheap couch as he slammed into her, his smirk faltered as his breathing became more erratic. 

Again, he slowed. “Does the princess want to be filled with my cum?” he asked, condescendingly. Entering her fully, he began twirling his hips teasingly so that his girth would compress against every bit of her inner walls in a venerated circle. “Honesty, my dear. What have we learned?”

Ronnie felt entirely debauched with her damp, limp body and her humiliating whines. She wanted to get him back for his incessant teasing, but the euphoria was overwhelming. He must’ve been close, she could tell by the way he kept stopping. So she clenched her lower muscles, squeezing him inside her—babbling out a broken cry of agreement as she took her revenge by bestowing pleasure.

As she'd expected, his composure shattered momentarily at that. He began slurring curses, and leaning in—resting his elbows at her sides. Kissing a line from her lips to her neck, he sucked her skin into his mouth. His rhythm picked up—hard and fast as he chased his climax.

Ronnie closed her eyes, tilting her head, and allowing him to ravish. Although he was glistening with sweat, his cologne still whelmed her, relaxing her as he speared her over and over. She flinched when she felt a sharp and sudden pain on her throat, where he was creating hickeys, but it quickly faded. Unbothered, she let him continue, as she loved the feel of his lips and tongue anywhere on her body.

She wished she could wrap her arms around him, embrace him how he’d embraced her, and she mused about doing so the next time they were somewhere less secluded. 

For now, she pressed her legs into his sides as he slammed into her, emptying himself at last. But he was unrelenting with his latch on her throat. Pity, she wanted to see his o-face, but she revelled in the feeling of his churning tongue on her neck.

Fully within her, he muffled a whine on her skin before tearing his maw from her and licking her where he had placed the bruising kiss. “Shit,” he whispered, pumping into her before lifting his torso from hers and admiring their entanglement, frowning and grunting. 

He thrust into her once more before pulling out, covered in their combined fluids. Sitting back, he stared at his mess for a moment, leaning his side on the back of the sofa and quirking a brow. 

“Are you okay, my dear?” he checked in.

And he massaged her knee…

The reverence…

The tenderness…

It felt like… like nothing she’d ever felt before. 

And she wanted it to last forever.

“I’m good, yeah.” She swallowed, nodding with the smallest smile as if she didn’t just experience a drug-like euphoria because of what they’d just done.

She had to be cool… 

She had to be calm…

He hung his sweaty head, shaking it as he laughed. “Do you remember how I told you that there were things I couldn't disclose to you yet?” he said, his voice quiet and benevolent; although you could hear his smile when he spoke. “I seem to have created a situation that requires my transparency.”

꧁꧂

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[aegon-targaryen]

The Rise Before the Fall

read on AO3

Zelda cannot remember the last time Link sheathed the Master Sword.

She watches gore and Malice drip into an earth already saturated with both. It’s all she can see, just like the cold rain sliding down her neck and the blisters splitting her feet are all she can feel. Some of that blood must be Link’s. But he won’t stop. He’s only paused long enough to survey Blatchery Plain.

“We have to circle back,” she says numbly.

His fingers dig into the bark of the massive oak that conceals them from the Guardians. A gust of wind smatters their faces with rain. Someone screams from the battlefield, a thin sound of mortal terror that climbs down Zelda’s throat to seize her heart before it falls abruptly silent.

Link turns his head to look at her.

“North,” she insists. “Then south again to Kakariko…”

He points. Three Guardians crawl out of the dark mouth between the Dueling Peaks. A fourth follows moments later. The Calamity is right behind them.

“There has to be another way. We’ll never make it across that field.”

“We will,” Link decides. The words are rough and quiet, his first in hours, yet filled with that absolute certainty she once mistook for arrogance. “The road’s too open. Go east until the forest ends. Then across the field, there’s more cover on that side. The Guardians will be on me and on the fort. You’ll have a clear path to that hill.” He points north. “And then you’re out of sight. Kakariko Bridge is on the other side.”

Zelda stares at him through the rain. He’s never spoken that many words so quickly or so clearly. But her sluggish mind still rejects them.

“We can’t go back,” Link says.

“We can!” Her voice sounds shrill and childish. “I’m going back, and you’re coming with me!”

His left leg trembles beneath him when he shifts his weight off the tree. He studies his bloody clothes. His darkened blade. Her blistered ankles and useless hands. “I’ll meet you at the bridge,” he says finally. “Please, Zelda.”

“No! I can’t leave you. Don’t ask me to leave you!”

Link steps forward. His face is hard and focused like he’s already on the battlefield. One hand still clutches the sword. The other slides along her jaw. He shutters the violent blue of his eyes and presses his lips to hers.

It’s nothing like Zelda imagined, nothing like their first kiss should be. He’s burning. She’s freezing. When her hands come up around his body there’s no caution or gentleness, just raw desperation. Link shivers breathlessly in a way that has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with his broken ribs. They’re drowning in the rain, in the screams coming from Fort Hateno, in each other.

All she can think is that she waited too long. She should have kissed him when he pulled her out of the Spring of Power and enveloped her cold hands in his. When he climbed through her bedroom window with a stolen fruitcake and a wolfish smile. When he sank into stone-faced silence to escape it all. When he ignored their crumbling kingdom to let her pour seventeen years of grief into his muddy tunic.

But she’s too late. They only have this one moment, the rise before the fall, and Zelda ruins even that by sliding her hand too far down his side, where the tunic ends and his burns begin. Link makes a sound in the back of his throat, and he’s back in his ruined body, and she’s back to smelling his charred flesh.

“This is all I can do,” he says raggedly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Zelda.”

She tries to hold onto him. To carry some of his weight. But Link is already pulling away. The last look he gives her is more open and more heartbroken than she could have ever imagined. Then he turns, and she does not understand how someone so damaged can move faster than the wind.

She clutches the tree. He disappears into the rain and the smoke. The world thins around her.

Stumbling away in the opposite direction is the hardest thing Zelda has ever done. Her legs went numb somewhere in Central Hyrule. Her mouth tastes of copper. Time slips by nonsensically. Mount Lanayru looms on the horizon, a cruel reminder of her last chance, her last moment with her friends.

She sees Mipha atop the waterfall, accepting a fate that would tear her away from her baby brother. Revali hiding his weakness at the flight range. Daruk trying to smile right before the end. Urbosa shoulder-to-shoulder with her mother, laughing the way they only ever laughed around each other. Her father’s silhouette on the ramparts, watching her leave for the Spring of Wisdom.

Zelda nears Fort Hateno in time to hear a tattered cheer rise up from its defenders as most of the Guardians move westward. All those men understand is that they’ve been granted a moment’s reprieve. They can’t know that somewhere amid the sparking pile of metal corpses, Link is trading his blood for Hyrule’s hope, just like he’s been doing since he was twelve years old.

Do you keep any hope for yourself? she asked him once. He only turned aside to hide the way his face cracked open, which was an answer all on its own.

He never expected to reach the bridge. He means to purchase Zelda’s life with his own.

She’s on her knees at the edge of the forest. Her path to the hill and the safety beyond it stands clear, as he promised, but the window is closing fast. If she makes it to Kakariko—and that seems a considerable if—what will she do? What use could she possibly be? This kingdom doesn’t need a failure of a princess.

Link does, if only so that he won’t die alone.

Zelda sprints back the way she came, keeping to the trees until her only choice is to strike out towards the maelstrom that separates her from him. Maybe he’ll hate her forever for discarding his wishes. She doesn’t care. Forever is drawing its final breath.

Link has turned the plain into a jumbled maze of dead Guardians, forcing the live ones to approach him over narrow, slippery terrain so he can pick them off and drop back into cover before his next move. Zelda feels a fierce surge of pride, to love and be loved by this boy who has retained his ruthless ingenuity against impossible odds and unimaginable fatigue. It’s almost enough to make her believe they still have a chance.

And then she sees him.

Little guy, Daruk always called him, and right now Link looks so small—a lonely figure soaked in mud and worse, trapped between the mountains of his fallen enemies. Desperate to see his face, Zelda’s mouth forms his name before she realizes he stands between her and a Guardian.

The machine compensates for its missing legs with an awkward shamble that would have invoked pity a few days ago. Now she watches it drag its dead weight around the bend and prays to a deaf Goddess that its roving gaze never falls upon Link.

But he’s waiting for just that. Pieces of him are missing. He clutches the sword between both hands and raises his head, assessing his dwindling options as the red laser fixes on his chest.

Then he moves. He’s still fast, but his legs buckle twice. He can’t possibly have the strength to end the enemy before it ends him. Zelda flounders through the freezing swamp, numb, breathless, blind.

As always, Link surprises her.

He throws himself at the Guardian, his foot finding purchase in the hollow place left behind by one of its missing legs, his fingers seizing hold of some groove that gets him onto its body. And somehow—despite his injuries, despite the slippery surface, despite the laser following his every move—Link hauls himself hand over hand up the metal shell.

Zelda stumbles forward. She can’t reach him in time. She can only watch.

The Master Sword plunges into the Guardian’s eye at the same moment the laser fires.

Link screams.

The world explodes with blinding heat. Through a cloud of steaming rain, Zelda sees him hit the ground rolling. The machine twitches and sparks and slumps over dead, but Link is not dead, he can’t be dead, not him, not the only thing she has left in the world.

Her knees sink into the swamp. She doesn’t feel it; she doesn’t feel anything. Especially not the unbearable heat radiating off him or the blackened shreds of his tunic flaking away as she turns him onto his back. Her hands roam over him helplessly, trying to stave off the blood, to piece him back together.

Link’s fingers twitch around the hilt of the sword.

Zelda gasps his name and his eyes fly open, wide and blue and panicked against his filthy face. He heaves out a horrible, sanguine cough that lasts eternities and breaks every part of Zelda that wasn’t already broken.

“Link, I’m here,” she sobs. “Can you hear me? Can you look at me?”

He tries. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. His lips part over crimson teeth. She cradles the unburned side of his face, hunching over his body to hide him from the miasmic light flickering in her peripheral vision.

“Zelda,” Link whispers faintly.

The first time he spoke her name, it was a new beginning, a light shining through the cracked surface of her. He says it like an end now, choked out between reedy gasps. But all at once, Zelda realizes she did not come here to die with him. She came here to save him, the way he saved her with every smile and every swing of the Master Sword and every stolen piece of time.

“Go,” he begs.

“Not without you,” she vows. “Get up.”

Link looks up at her despairingly. His breaths stutter out of him as if dragged by a hook. Malice cuts through the rain, drawing closer.

Zelda kisses him. This one is so brief and so soft and tastes entirely of blood. Link’s eyes remain closed after she pulls back, tears and rain carving clean tracks down his face. For a terrifying moment, she thinks: He’s gone. I finally killed him.

But his hands slide through the mud, bracing as much weight as he can bear, and together they get him upright. Through sobs of pain, her knight—her dauntless, lionhearted Link—stabs his sword into the marshy earth and levers himself onto one knee while blood and charred cloth and burnt skin slough away from his body.

Despite everything, Zelda feels an infinitesimal spark of hope. “Now run, Link. Save yourself. I’ll distract it—I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me—"

The Guardian crawls closer and closer to their pocket of safety. In one impossible movement, Link surges to his feet, his blade springing free from the muck as he staggers back. Death rattles through his lungs.

The machine’s spindly legs fold up and over the last barrier. Zelda blinks and sees Ganon in its place, all fog and fury, teeth baring for the kill. She has one thought as the red beam slices through the endless rain: It was all for nothing.

Link doesn’t run. He doesn’t lift his blade. He doesn’t look back. Everything he wants to tell her is there in his unbroken stance, in the defiant set to his chin, in the pure ferocity of his eyes. They flash to Zelda in terror when she steps in front of him, but he’s given his answer to the silent question that has loomed over them both since they were born. So she gives hers.

It sears up from a place she didn’t know existed, bright and visceral and real, filling her up and blazing forth to rend the fabric of the world. Zelda erupts into gold. Nothing in her life has ever felt so right.

But even that comes too late.

.

.

.

[swamp-spirit]

Not a doctor, but trying to use my experience as a long term Anxiety Disorder Haver to figure out what could have happened to Jason in Gotham War. Listen, I know comic book science is made up, but let me have my 'fun'.

This is also a lot about how trauma and anxiety chemically works and Jason and Trauma in general.

(Discussing my own anxiety disorder a lot here, so don't click if that might be upsetting. Also please minimize the Bruce discourse here. I wanna talk about Jason.)

EDITS because I wrote this in a fugue state and replaced all words with homonyms

So there's two main elements to anxiety. There's the emotional element, the kind you can deal with in therapy, and the physical element, the kind you can deal with via medication.

I related a lot to Jason in Gotham War, because I have very physical anxiety. Even when I can calmly reason through a situation, my nervous system is very physically reactive to the point where I'll be holding a conversation and cracking jokes while seizing. Unmedicated, like Jason, I couldn't do light exercise without triggering a panic attack.

What Jason seems to be experiencing is an issue with his nervous system. To massively oversimplify, because I'm not a doctor, let's say the sympathetic nervous system is the gas, the parasympathetic system is the brakes, and triggers are the foot that decides when to push the pedals down.

When you're in a situation where you need to be amped up, your body hits the gas. You get adrenaline, faster heart rate, fight or flight, but this state isn't sustainable. First, it's very resource intensive. Second, it's a state designed to Do Something, and is very emotionally stressful if there's nothing to Do. This is why people with anxiety disorders can often function in actual danger, because that's what those reactions are designed for.

PTSD is pretty much 'your body hits the gas because your brain has misidentified a safe situation as a dangerous one due to previous experience'. Jason pretty consistently shows signs of PTSD, which makes sense. He has pretty much never been in a safe situation. Even before he was a vigilante and brutally murdered, being homeless, especially as a kid, requires constant vigilance. Most people of any age develop a level of PTSD after living homeless. Witnessing the death of a parent, (depending on the canon) growing up in an abusive home, and being homeless again while brain damaged and vulnerable could all cause PTSD on their own.

We see Jason be triggered a number of times. We also see him trying to self sooth and manage, to 'hit the brakes'. The 'breath deep' on his door in the new Boy Wonder, his stack of books on trauma and chronic pain management in Three Jokers, ect.

So Jason's already got his foot on the mental pedal. He's already scared, and for good reason. His world has always, always been violent. His behavior in Gotham War looks a lot less like ZEA!Bruce turned up the engine and a lot more like he cut the brakes.

As somebody who's experienced the 'lightly jog, and you have a panic attack', it's pretty much a failure of the parasympathetic side of things. You want some adrenaline for a light run. You need to take in more oxygen, but, when your nervous system isn't regulating, it goes out of control. It keeps amping up until you're breathing so fast that you aren't actually processing the oxygen you're taking in. These heightened states are rough on your whole body. When your body is running danger mode, it's not supporting things like sleep, digestion, and wound-healing.

What makes this more horrifying is ZEA!Bruce seemed to feel this would be permanent, even if Jason tried to reverse it, which means it wasn't just an injection the system would flush. To me, the most logical conclusion would be that the injection would have done permanent damage to the parts of his brain that kick in the parasympathetic nervous system.

This also... wouldn't keep him from killing. Jason is usually a calm killer, not a passion killer. Physical excitement is what the body is supposed to do in violent situations. It's much more likely to cause a panic attack in a safe situation where there's no physical outlet. He can take a shot without nervous system excitement. It would keep him from, or at least interfere with things like: -Jogging -Having sex -Watching emotionally intense media -Handling triggers Like, he definitely wouldn't be able to operate as Red Hood because RH does intel work, extended battles, etc, but he could very much kill.

SSRI's probably would not be that helpful, a serotonin tends to help more with stopping anxiety at the 'thought spiral' part than dealing with the nervous system. SNRI's and beta blockers would be a better bet, though Bruce clearly didn't think those would be enough to let him operate at Red Hood.

So... how is he better? Well, the actual answer is 'comic are bullshit', but let's try and roll with it. The given reason is Joker Gas, which is odd because Joker Gas seems to function like... a neurotoxin? A stimulant? My best guess would be that dying or brain damage in general is kicking in some sort of residual Lazarus healing factor and repairing the physical structure that controls the parasympathetic system.

[happymetalgirl]

Nails - Every Bridge Burning

Eight years later, and we finally get the fourth album from the ever-punishing, powerviolence stalwarts, Nails. A lot of bands have some long gaps in their discographies; shit happens. But for a band like Nails whose songs average out at somewhere between one to two minutes and whose whirlwind albums are similarly brief and to the point, it's kind of a trip to think back to where I was when they put out their last album, You Will Never Be One of Us, their longest record yet at a whopping 21 minutes, which is followed by Every Bridge Burning here, which doesn't even eclipse 18 minutes. So much has changed in my life and the world between those 39 minutes of music, including nearly the entire lineup of Nails, with frontman Todd Jones apparently burning every bridge between 2016 and when this album commenced, every bridge apart from that between him and tattoo artist and Leviathan mastermind Jef Whitehead, whose fittingly animalistic and cerebrally violent artwork once again graces the front of a Nails record eight years later. Despite the many changes of the past eight years, Nails' modus operandi remains steadfast in uncompromising antisocial rage and nothing else. There's no deep introspection or dissection of the details of the fury on this album, just the pure, distilled explosion of every instigation of the past eight years, and again Nails hasn’t ever done it any other way. It's all confrontation and all fighting words, no compromise, no offering to hear anybody out to come to a collaborative or diplomatic solution, just violence. And what better time for Nails to come back than now? Could there really be a more apt time for such music? When the western world and Europe are being plagued by the crystallization and consolidation of fascist movements characterized by mask-off hate and utter disregard for empiricism and reality, completely open in their intent to take power against any democratic will and wield it cruelly and destructively in a blind, stupid blaze of insecure and imagined revenge, when the constant spilling of immense and increasingly corrosive bigoted fascist propaganda by the insulated wealthy owners of corporate media enterprises erodes the social fabric this badly, really, what bridges are there worth preserving with those who have seen and supported the continuous creep toward open fascism as the last fumes of plausible deniability in complicity evaporate? What bridges are worth trying to repair between those whose aim is to uplift the whole of humanity, to progress, and to move society forward, and those whose ideological or functionally captured operative is to burn all bridges and burn the supposed degenerates within society and burn books about those “degenerates” and burn and burn until there is nothing left to turn any impotent rage against? What else can be done except sequestering this vile, hateful, miserable, misguided, and sad political movement intent on nothing but destruction and extermination, and desperately keeping it from seizing power in hopes that it burns itself out in a blaze of pathetic and incoherent anger?

It seems almost comical to segue with the grace of the whiplash of a head-on car collision into the music on this Nails album, but the opening track and lead single, “Imposing Will” captures the toxicity and anti-sociality of the minoritarian fascist mindstate with lyrics like “I know I don’t have a place”, “give me strength to cause them pain”, “force my vision into law”, “it can never be enough / no matter how deep it cuts”, and “keep reason under control”. It’s all written in the first person perspective in a way that vibrantly and grippingly captures the stream of dumb uncontrolled but determined fury to “take back what they stole” of the perpetually aggrieved fascist who always feigns defensiveness even with disproportionate power and even when the cruelty is obviously the only real purpose, and the Todd Jones’ venomous and spitfire vocal performance against a backdrop of grinding, crusty guitar distortion and unidirectional self-exhausting blast beats could not be more fitting.

And from minute zero to minute eighteen, that’s basically how the whole album goes, not to say it’s homogenous (only as homogenous of an experience as the violence of a warfield can be) and not to be reductive either. There are many delicious riffs, pointedly vile and poisonous lyrics, and interesting musical dynamics at play on the rest of Every Bridge Burning but it would honestly just be quicker and more effective to just listen to the other quarter hour of music after the first track than it would be to read me spoiling the details song by song.

9/10

My enjoyment of this kind of music, this kind of art in general, that plays with fire in the expression of convincingly performing sociopathy (especially sociopathy as broadly consequential as fascism as opposed to other forms of less systematically destructive sociopathy like self-isolation, depression, or even interpersonal abusive tendencies) hinges heavily if not entirely on it being performance and not just a plain-faced expression of the artist’s actual sociopathy. I’m sure Todd Jones is a genuinely difficult and not friendly person whose confrontational tendencies have informed Nails’ anti-social music for as long as Nails has been around. And I think seeing a negative tendency in one’s self that perhaps seems or feels innate and choosing to portray it sympathetically and honestly in its negativity can have a great impact on preventing or combating that negativity to the audience. Screaming “I’m a giant piece of shit and I fucking hate my life” with the right passion and honesty can strike the right chord in people who resonate with those words to incite them to work on stopping being self-hating assholes. And, done the wrong way, loudly proclaiming an antihuman hatred for the world and a seething desire to burn it all down can also just make racists and neonazis feel validated and legitimized in their hateful motivations.

The rest of the album is not as lyrically pointed and checking off of every box of fascism as the opening track, but the broad strokes are very much present and consistent, with supportive lyrics and song titles like “don’t look for me I’d rather stay lost”, “committed to revenge”, “frenzy of anger shoot your mouth like a gun”, and “Lacking the Ability to Process Empathy” being emblematic of the fascist reverence for violence and enacting supposedly necessary evil. And it’s also not just an album about fascism but about consigning one’s self to a broad and seemingly unfixable inability to function as a social creature part of a social species. The second to last song on the album, “I Can’t Turn It Off”, is both an obvious fuck you to Todd’s former collaborators and a cathartic revelation in the glory that being a brash, unrepentant, and standoff-ish asshole has got him farther than it got them. And yet the next song, “No More Rivers to Cross”, takes a 180 on the previous track’s arrogance and closes the album in a barn-burning dirge of apathetic loneliness, self-isolation, and being knowingly used in life as a means to an end by an even bigger asshole. I’d be lying if I said this shit isn’t relatable to at least some degree. The toxic high of schadenfreude or of the delicious spite in success in the face of doubters and haters, being the one envied, feels exhilarating, and I think indulging in some toxic behaviors in moderation is possibly an integral and defensible part of the human experience. But plenty of things that come naturally and easily, socially and individually, are worth tempering, if not excising: insecurity, selfishness, innate fear and disgust, in-group prejudice.

My enjoyment of this album absolutely does not hinge on Todd Jones not being an asshole, not at all. My enjoyment of it hinges on it being an honest cautionary dissuading of the excesses of those behaviors and not an advocacy for them. My appreciation for a song like “Imposing Will”, which is just the vomitus of the incongruent inner machinations of the malignantly sick fascist mind, hinges on it being a portrayal of sickness and not a call to action to other sick fascists. The fact that nothing on this album reads as a cringeworthy piss-fit against cAnCeL CuLtUrE or ThE wOkE LeFt and that I’ve not yet caught wind of Todd Jones bitching to some interviewer about being “cancelled” or “the woke mind virus” or some other shit that would indicate that he’s just another pathetic and unlikeable piece of shit who fell down the reactionary rabbit hole with so many other weak and gullible dipshits because it fed their fears and insecurities is why I feel like I can interpret and enjoy this album as a raw and personal expression of Jones being trapped in his own self-made vices and completely out of ways to escape, choosing instead to burn out alone instead of futilely clawing at a human connection he can’t reach. Like Acid Bath’s or Eyehategod’s visceral imagery of being trapped in heroin addiction or alcoholism, or like DSBM’s deranged defeatist revelry in the assumption that one of these days the constant thoughts of suicide will finally end the constant teasing and become manifested in action, Nails is all about negativity, and art about negativity is necessary and valuable in showing why it persists in us and getting us to think about how to get rid of it. And sometimes just showing it all using the hook of rage-room drumming, nasty guitar riffs, and borderline non-linguistic demon-screaming to show up-close how miserable that negativity is is a highly effective way of doing it.

I don't think Todd Jones is a stout leftist or a pearl-clutching liberal with an "in this house we believe" sign on his front lawn either. Like if I ever met him out in the real world and talked to him, I imagine the best outcome I could reasonably expect would be him calling me a cunt. If I had to, I would guess, based on his expressed disregard for participating in society, that he's not planning on voting for anybody or anything, but to say it would be frustrating and disappointing to find out that Todd Jones is just another sucker for the easy-answer scapegoating and thought-terminating clichés of the MAGA movement who made this album in support of the impending tide of dumbfuck American fascism would sound like the spineless opposition we have currently facing down that fascism with expired and lethargic pleas for unity and civility with the brown-shirts actively pouring gasoline on you with a torch in their hand and would not adequately capture how stupid it would be for Nails and for Todd Jones to make this album that so poignantly illustrates the ills of anti-social psychology and its role within fascist mentality and then go, “yeah Trump 2024”.

[indigooo74]

Everything Will Be Okay (An Aladarius Fic)

Chapter 4- Fever

TW-Seizures

It was the next day, Darius and I were still cuddling with me, he seemed tired from everything that had happened yesterday and it was fair, I caressed his hair.

Darius slowly opened his eyes and looked up at me “Al…you’re awake..” He spoke, I looked at him.

“yea I’ve been awake for about 1 hour, I didn’t want to interrupt you though..” I spoke still caressing his hair.

“..Hey uh, how are we going to get my medication?” He asked

“Oh! Lilith is working on it” I replied and smiled a bit

“That’s good to hear!” He said

“Wanna uh kiss, I don’t really know what to do” I spoke

“Yea..” he replied

Darius grabbed my cheeks and just kissed me, I kissed back, Darius was a bit warm but, I’m assuming it’s because he was cuddled up with me.

A few minutes passed and we were all in the kitchen, Darius was acting strange, he was stumbling a bit, I helped him sit down.

“You okay?…” I asked

“…Yea, I might just be a bit too hungry..or I’m just tired, I’ll be okay though..” Darius spoke, I held onto his hands and he still felt warm, though warmer than before.

Hunter noticed that and became concerned, he approached Hunter and I, Emira looked at us worried.

“Dads? What’s going on?…” Emira asked

“Nothing…d-don’t worry about it..” Darius spoke, he was bruising off the dizziness and then fact that he was really warm.

“Em, get the thermometer please” I asked.

Emira nodded and ran to grab the thermometer, Amity walked to us aswell, Edric just watched, he was worried aswell.

“Dad?…” Hunter said looking at Darius, Emira walked back in and gave me the thermometer, I placed it under Darius’s armpit, as soon as I heard a beep I checked the temperature, my eyes widened.

39 degrees Celsius, Darius had a fever, Darius was getting more dizzy, his body was trembling.

I knew what was happening, Hunter began panicking “what’s going on?! Why is he trembling?!” Hunter spoke.

I grabbed Darius quickly and laid him on the side before the trembling got worse, his eyes were rolled back and he was shaking violently, I grabbed my scroll and used a timer to time his seizures.

Hunter backed away he began to hyperventilate, Amity tried calming him down though, she was panicking aswell, Emira soon figured out what was happening and grabbed a pillow from the other room and laid it underneath Darius’s head, Edric backed away covering his mouth.

“…Keep him on the side dad, he’s starting to foam a bit” Emira spoke.

A bit of foam was dripping from Darius’s mouth as he was seizing, I caressed his hair gently.

“It’s okay…it’s almost done…you can do this honey..” I spoke gently, it was scary but, we all had to get used to it.

“How long has he been like this?..” Emira asked

“…2 minutes” I replied.

“Is he struggling to breathe?..”

“..I don’t think so, he is making a few groaning sounds but, he doesn’t seem to be struggling..”

About a minute passed and Darius stopped seizing, his eyes were closed, he was breathing heavily and he was unconscious, he was recovering slowly.

I looked down for a bit, Hunter seemed to have calmed down too.

“I-Is he going to die?..” Hunter asked

“…No, that can rarely happen, we have to keep him safe though..” I replied

“I’m scared, what if it gets worse!”

“Hunter dear, if he gets worse, we’ll take him to the hospital to figure out what’s wrong with him and if we can get his medication upgraded..”

He had a seizure for about 3 minutes and 42 seconds, Emira was making sure he didn’t hurt himself.

Soon enough we heard a knock, Amity got up “I got it!” She said and ran to the door.

Darius slowly woke up, he was still a bit dizzy after the episode but, that was normal.

I wiped the foam off of his mouth “…hey..you just had a seizure attack…” I spoke and caressed his hair, Darius looked up at me and nodded.

Amity lead Lilith to where we were and Lilith’s eyes widened.

“Did he have one?..” Lilith asked

Emira nodded, Lilith approached us two “I got the potion medications.

“Thanks Lilith..” I spoke “It’s best if he takes one now..” Emira spoke.

Darius grabbed one of the potions and drank it.

“Tastes funky, but, very sweet..” Darius said weakly.

Lilith placed the potion medication bag on the kitchen counter “If you run out, I can make some more..” Lilith spoke

I nodded, Darius sat up and looked at Hunter, Amity and Edric, he then looked at Emira, Lilith and I “…I’m sorry about that…” Darius said and looked down tearing up.

“What? You don’t have to apologize for that..” Emira said

“..I do, I scared you guys and I-“ Darius said before the kids and I hugged him.

“…you don’t need to apologize for that, none of us well, maybe just dad, saw you have that before and we were all worried for you…we all want you to be okay..” Edric said

“…” Darius didn’t say anything and just sobbed.

“Father are you okay?” Amity asked, I was worried for him, Darius kept sobbing.

“…I-I don’t know w-what to say, I-I’m just so glad to h-have a family like you g-guys..” Darius sobbed.

“..Awe Darius..” I spoke and gave him a kiss on the head.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

[glimmerofsanity]

Still moments amongst the chaos

So I've been stewing over some writing for a while, and I'm finally biting the bullet and posting it. Also, if you saw me try and post this last week, no you didn't, my account was being restricted. Any feedback please be kind, I'm fragile & I'll cry. Don't really know if I'm completely happy with it, but I don't think I'll ever be, so here we are. Incase it's not clear, I fell down the Ghost rabbit hole, and I have zero intention of climbing out. Inspired by @forlorn-crows Mushy May prompts, this is Day 1: Bath Time.

Summary: Dew has gone just gone through his elemental transition and Aether's there to take care of him. Warnings: Hurt/Comfort Word count: 1178 Pictures from Pinterest

Aether hasn't left his side. It's been hours, he’s lost count of how many, and his back is aching from leaning against the concrete wall. The little ghoul in front of him is a crumpled mess. He’d surrounded him in all the blankets and pillows he could find, an effort to make him comfortable, grounded, still. An hour or so ago, it happened, he stilled, panting, gasping for air, but otherwise still, until his breath slowed, evened out. Aether watched, helpless, but somewhat reassured to consistently see his chest rise and fall. Only 10 minutes in, Aether had to move back as Dew's panic filled delirium had nearly snapped him in two, and he was suddenly taken over by a searing pain, violently seizing his small body. Every muscle was strained as he trashed, lashing out against any touch. All Aether could do was step back, and watch, eyes filled with tears, desperate to make Dew's pain go away. There had been so much pain recently, he'd wondered if Dew only agreed to this in the hopes it would make all his other pain go away. Looking at him right now, his chest rising and falling, and a gentle expression on his face, he's almost fooled into thinking Dew was right; he looks peaceful, more at ease than he's looked in a long time. He shifts his gaze across Dew, looking at his hair, a tangled mess, some of it is still caught under his claws, its usual silver glow, replaced by a golden copper. His pale skin is singed, covered in his own claw marks, and all that’s left of his beautiful little fins is black scorch marks. There's no peace in this, he's not even sure if Dew's in this. But Aether will stay here as long as he needs to, waiting for his little Dewy again, waiting for when he needs him. 

He sits up, leaning forward onto his knees, shuffling closer to Dew. He hopes if nothing Dew knows he's here, knows he's not alone. He’s such a tactile little ghoul, Aether reminds himself, as he gently places his hands across Dew’s bony little back, still unsure of the response he might get. Dew's muscles relax slightly, easing against his touch. Aether smiles, releasing the tension from his shoulders, unable to control himself as tears start spilling down his cheeks. 

"Aether?" The choked out whisper takes Aether by surprise.

"Yes, I'm right here Dew, I'm always here", his tears are coming thick and fast now, as he scoops Dew up into his arms. He doesn't ever want to let go. 

"Aether, I don't…I'm…where…?" 

"Shh, it's okay now, everything is okay"

He watches as Dew's eyes open, scanning across his bare arms, pausing where his fins once were. Dew gulps as a heavy sob wrenches out of him. Aether grabs his tiny hands, pushes them against his own chest and wraps his arms around him, surrounding the little ghoul "Not yet, you don't need to look yet", his own tears dripping down onto Dew's tangled mess of hair. A break in between sobs, Dew's voice, quiet, fragile, barely even a whisper, "Aether?" 

"Yes, anything my little ghoul" 

"I'm cold" 

Aether grabs one of the blankets and wraps it around him, squeezing tightly. 

"It's okay, we'll get you warm. Let's go get you a bath."

He gets up onto his feet, scooping Dew up, still all wrapped up in the blanket. With one free hand, he fumbles for the door handle, heading down the dark hallway to the bathroom. Thankfully it's 3am, everyone else is asleep and it's dark. He knows Dew can't bear to look at himself right now, daylight would only be too much. Once in the bathroom he places the little ghoul in a pile of towels, he thinks they're dirty, but it's all he's got; maybe he'll find the smell comforting. Once he has the bath filling, he finds some matches. The bathroom is full of assorted candles, each ghoul has their own favourite, but he's looking for his, one from Dew. 

A few months back Mountain and Dew had spent some of their tour break making candles, Mountain filling his with all sorts of oils and flowers from the greenhouse. Dew however wanted to do something different, because of course he did. He spent ages concocting this perfect scent, lilies after fresh rain, with a hint of winter chill; it was him, his scent. He gave it to Aether with a handwritten note, his usual chicken scrawl, For when we're not together, so you don't forget about me, as if he could ever forget his little ghoul. Maybe his water scent will help him, maybe he'll feel more him, more familiar. He found the candle, up on the top shelf, Aether had been too scared to use it, such a precious gift, not that Dew would ever outwardly admit the thought he'd put into it. With the candle lit, scent slowly filling the room, and the bath now full, he gently lifted Dew into the bath. 

"Please Aeth, sit with me" 

"Of course" Aether quickly stripped off, not letting his eyes leave Dew, in case he somehow vanished, his fragile body dissolving in the water. Once he was undressed, he stepped in behind the little ghoul, legs either side of his thin frame, resting his head back against his chest. Wrapping his arms around Dew's shoulders, holding him tight, he felt him relax against him, heavy with exhaustion. The soft glow of the candle, the light scent of lilies and rain, the warm water, it looked like it was helping. 

"I got your special conditioner, did you want me to comb your hair?" 

Dew's hand reached up to his hair, all tangled "mmmmm, please", he slurred.

Aether picked up the bottle of conditioner, squeezing some out into his hand and began combing it through Dew's hair with his fingers. Starting at the bottom, he carefully worked through each knot, making sure to be as gentle as possible. He knows how Dew loves his hair and loves taking care of it. He loves how all the others looked at him with it, how pretty it makes him feel. He loves how he could hide behind it when he needs to, when he’s unsure, and how he could ask for help simply by not washing it, letting it tangle and knot. Everyone knows something is wrong if his hair is a mess, jumping to take care of it, to let Dew open up under their touch as they wash his hair, gentle, predictable, comforting. Sometimes Dew doesn’t say anything, all his worries washing away with the shampoo, the ritual enough to quiet his busy thoughts. And in the silent, early hours of this morning, Aether knows he doesn't want to talk, he knows he doesn't yet have the words. One day he might, but right now, Aether running his fingers through his hair, claws gently catching at his scalp, that’s enough. And in his currently exhausted state, that’s just enough for Aether too.

[king-aridam]

⚠️TW: RA mentions, SA mentions, a shit ton of religious and violent imagery⚠️

MY HEARTBEAT, A WAR DRUM

“If I find your soul do you want it? // I see it everywhere, past the death visage. // If I find your soul do you want it? Do you even know? // Do you even know what part of you you are?” –”From in the Pines” by Alice Notley

Drum beats thrumming in my head.

I watch, a sinner.

My legs are not long enough in this body.

Guilt serpentined ‘round my neck like the Serpent of Eden,

Tasting burning crimson and violent jade upon my tongue.

I know what I’m to witness.

I know I cannot stop it.

Suffocation via the Devil.

Flashes of memory, of feeling

Things I locked away so long ago.

I struggle to cry tears relating to my experiences, and when I do,

I wonder which me they belong to.

These forbidden vaults have cracked open, I can’t fix this nightmare.

I feel possessed,

Beats thrumming harder,

In time with my heartbeat.

My childhood bedroom was the first grave I woke up in,

and at 3:33 in the morning on the pulpit floor I became God.

To be a Daughter made of this cursed flesh is a humiliation,

shame flocks to me like flies to rotting meat.

Saccharine honeycomb gripped in my teeth,

Swallowing pomegranate seeds,

Entrapping my soul upon that wretched floor, upon that wretched cross.

More flashes of memory.

Golden crucifix, white teeth bared in a grin.

I asked God to give me strength, and He turned his gaze away from me.

Instead I stared down the burning red eyes

and felt myself get fucked into the floor,

all blood, no tears, never a word from my honey stained lips.

I care not for God, because he cares not for me,

and so I became Him.

Beats thrumming in my head like war drums.

I watch him and he watches me.

I think he knows I’m not her.

I turn off the emotions. Lock them away.

I feel nothing when I look at them.

Past tense.

Now I can’t stop feeling and it’s eating away at my sanity.

Self-cannibalism.

Blood soaks through my claws, guts drip from my jaws,

I stare into the face of the Devil and I’m trying to turn it off.

I can’t turn it off.

Everybody wants a taste,

One by one,

Of the god-bled glow,

The righteous purity you preach,

God, I’m going to be sick.

Was it good for you?

Was my performance adequate?

The Devil taking a blade to the Lamb’s vile throat.

This grief and suffering has torn me open,

this rage, a hemophilia.

I bleed and bleed and bleed.

It’s not poetic anymore. It’s just violence.

It’s just red. It’s just pain.

He attached these heavy wings on my shoulders,

halo tight ‘round my neck like a dog collar.

I’m not meant to disobey.

I still hear the war drums.

More flashes of memories.

I am sick from fear.

My hands shake like I’m seizing, I can’t feel my face.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

MAKE IT STOP!

Crucifixion.

I want to kill them.

This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

I choke on my own blood.

Violence in its rawest form.

My heartbeat is a war drum.

I hang from my crucifix and stare into HIS dark eyes,

the eyes of a snake.

I see your teeth,

white and sharp, flashing a grin at me.

You’re trying to be friendly.

I know who you really are.

You killed us on Sundays.

Stabbed your fingers into the wounds,

filled us with your filth.

I can only imagine the ways I would kill you back.

I am a being of Wrath.

I used to want to bury it, but now I want revenge.

I refuse to lie beneath you again.

I chose a self-made sort of righteousness.

I became what You wanted to be,

A self-proclaimed holiness like a hot brand on my skin,

I tore myself apart like a dire wolf wrapped in sheep’s clothing.

A dying God in the skin of a child.

Monsters create monsters,

and yet they are surprised when I bare my teeth and snarl.

I may be a disobedient wretch, but at least I’m not You.

Though I have found that the rage does not want to go back to its cage.

Now that it’s broken free,

The war drums beat even stronger still.

This anger is better than tears.

Better than agony.

Better than the torturous affliction of divinity.

Better than the torments that hell will surely give me.

Better than the shame of my existence

You think I asked to be this way?

A mainframe of apathy,

a creature of cold, dead eyes

and an iron-clad heart,

A wretched thing of torment and guilt?

This prison of life is the only gift you gave me.

So now I will scream with the voice of a man

until every shattered piece of me knows the truth.

I will use this life I have and live it

so that you regret that you did not kill me.

You made me a creature to be feared.

So fear me.

[cassieno]

Crowley, Aziraphale, William Blake and John Milton

Let me spin you a yarn. Well, not really. I’m going to preface this with: I did never study literature, I just enjoy reading the occasional poetry and my brain is currently relating everything to Good Omens.

So here goes nothing.

William Blake’s The Tyger has been a favourite poem of mine for a while. I go back to it every few months. This time i found myself comparing it quite a lot to Crowley. It goes:

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 

In the forests of the night; 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies. 

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand, dare seize the fire?

Now the imagery here is playing into themes of revolting and revolution. (Frankly, it was about the industrial revolution at the time, but as far as I’m aware the religious imagery was used here.) Remind you of someone?

The use of the word “Dare” in the last two verses especially. How dare Crowley ask questions? but also How dare God destroy his nebula? How dare God destroy creation. How dare she create destruction.

The end of the poem goes as follows:

When the stars threw down their spears 

And water'd heaven with their tears:

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,

In the forests of the night:

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

The poem very clearly involves themes of duality and violence. Did God make the lamb and the tiger? Did they make something innocent and something violent to destroy it? Did they smile upon their creation? Upon its destruction? Or maybe these are shades of grey?

Same with Crowley. We saw him struggling with his place in the world during S2. “Lonely? Yeah.” Was he only created to destroy whatever good was in the world? He knew heaven was wrong just as he knew hell was wrong, too. But it poses the overall question: What place did God carve out for him when devising the Ineffable Plan?

Now the Beauty of this Poem is that it has a pair called The Lamb. The Tyger was published as part of the book “The Song of Experience”. The Lamb was published before as part of “The Song of Innocence”.

For my purposes here i relate these titles to Before the Apple and After the Apple, or Before the Fall and After the Fall. Innocence and Experience.

The lamb is so contrasting to its views of God. It very much reminded me of Aziraphale in that way.

Little Lamb who made thee 

         Dost thou know who made thee 

Gave thee life & bid thee feed. 

By the stream & o'er the mead;

Gave thee clothing of delight,

Softest clothing wooly bright;

Gave thee such a tender voice,

Making all the vales rejoice! 

         Little Lamb who made thee 

         Dost thou know who made thee 

         Little Lamb I'll tell thee,

         Little Lamb I'll tell thee!

He is called by thy name,

For he calls himself a Lamb: 

He is meek & he is mild, 

He became a little child: 

I a child & thou a lamb, 

We are called by his name.

         Little Lamb God bless thee. 

         Little Lamb God bless thee.

Just looking at these poems next to each other shows the contrast. The Lamb has a very easy answer to the question: Where do I come from? What’s my purpose?

As it’s easy for Aziraphale to say, too )or at least it was before Job): God.

He came from God, God was good and hence everything else was in order and just and jolly good.

Anything else was bad and therefore opposed God. His purpose was to follow heaven and the Plan.

The Tyger then poses the same question we as the viewer got in S2: How far can you go along with that easy answer? Did God really have to test Job? Did she know beforehand that Crowley and Aziraphale would work together? And if so: Did she make the Tiger and the Lamb?

Now onto John Milton because this post isn’t quite long enough yet: Blake used a lot of metaphors in The Tyger from Paradise Lost. Mainly about the Fall of Lucifer

But. BUT when i started reading it the description of the Serpent in Paradise Lost hit me like a train.

I cannot post the whole part here, but please read the whole section for yourself.

Here’s my favourite parts:

The themes of rebellion, revolution, the fall, the sorrow in Hell, the pain, the description how the efforts were futile.

It just all fits so very well. You feel bad for the Serpent, you can feel the loneliness seeping through the lines.

And of course this reminds me of Crowley.

"He trusted to have equal'd the most High" is Crowley feeling safe enough with God to go and ask a question. Make a suggestion.

“With vain attempt” Like with Crowley, nothing changed. He had to take it into his own hands.

"With ever-burning Sulphur unconsum'd: Such place Eternal Justice had prepar'd. For those rebellious" is the juxtaposition of eternal damnation as a form of ‘Justice’. It’s Crowley’s “I only ever asked questions. That’s all it took in the old days.” It is not just

"O how unlike the place from whence they fell!" it’s that we saw the pure joy that is Angel Crowley.

"Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace. And rest can never dwell, hope never comes" is the only part that doesn’t fit.

Because for Crowley hope did come in the form of Aziraphale and Humanity. He clings to music and plants and fine wines and sleep and cars and love.

I don’t know if this whole thing has a point. I think it is fun to find parallels in media. I think literature raising these imageries of Eden, the Serpent, God and Morality are bound to raise the same questions.

Isn’t that wonderful to see? How humanity will always try to figure out the same things in new ways with the same metaphors and maybe not the exact same questions but it boils down to something similar, doesn’t it?

Or maybe Crowley sat down with Blake and Milton at a bar once and told them what he really thinks over a few bottles of wine.

[johanna-swann]

White Collar is really one of those shows I love to hate/hate to love (settle in for a rant). Everytime someone breaks a law they're immediately painted as unethical and morally wrong. Even if they had a good reason to commit the crime. Even if they had no choice. Even if nobody was harmed. Even if the only person who suffered financial loss is an asshole millionaire. There's sympathy for the perpetrator's situation, but they're still always painted as being in the wrong. It's all black and white.

I'm rewatching season 4 right now and Neal's mother figure who he has lived with all of his childhood, who raised him and who was a better mom to him than his biological mother just got murdered. The only way to get any leads is to gain access to the US Marshals' files on the case, but they won't co-operate with Neal's FBI friends. So Neal considers to obtain the information he needs - to solve his (kinda) mom's murder - by stealing it. Which I wouldn't judge him for in the first place because his mother got fucking murdered.

But Neal shows incredible restraint and strength of character: He decides against the B&E and even when another thief offers him a deal à la Patricia Highsmith (Strangers on a Train) he refuses. He wants to "stay clean" and knows any mistake he makes would also reflect badly on his FBI colleagues. He would not be the only one to suffer the consequences if things go south.

The other thief is resourceful though, she steals the files anyway and plants fake evidence to frame Neal. Which forces Neal to play along since she has the power to send him to prison now. There's damning evidence against Neal, nobody would believe he didn't do it. But even while he plays along he still finds a way to get the other thief arrested, the stolen items seized by the FBI and confesses the entire story to his handler Peter immediately.

Peter is upset about this. He thinks Neal should've trusted him from the start instead of waiting so long and I kind of get this part. They're best friends in a way and Neal didn't trust Peter. Reminder though: Neal was blackmailed, his mother just got murdered and nothing he did inflicted lasting damage on anything or anyone.

And here comes the real kicker: By having the other thief arrested by the FBI while in possession of the files, the files became evidence in an FBI case - meaning Neal and Peter (who wants to help Neal with finding the murderer) now legally have access to them. And Peter is somehow angry about this???

Again: Neal's mother figure was just violently murdered. Neal only stole anything in the first place because he was blackmailed with the threat of prison. Peter has arrested Neal and put him in prison twice before btw. Neal found a way to legally search previously inaccessible files for leads in an open murder investigation which Peter wants to work with Neal. And Peter is upset. Because? Is he seriously angry that Neal is trying to solve his not-bio mother's murder?

And I'm supposed to sit here, do what the show wants me to do and relate to both of them equally? Bc that's not what's happening here.

The longer the show goes on the less I even like Peter, much less relate to him. If the show was any good, yes, they'd have Neal learn that actions have consequences, but at the same time have Peter learn that the system he is a part of is far from perfect. But no. Peter learns nothing and Neal never catches a break. Fucking copaganda.

[glassautomaton]

Top 5 favorite story tropes? :]

I'm sorry I've spent so long sitting on this ask, but I really had to think about this one. Spoilers for Xenoblade below because this is me we're talking about. Also, I'm sorry if the specific examples I bring up somehow ruin your opinion of me, but I wouldn't mention anything I don't recommend.

This is the big one. I love characters that are outwardly stoic to the point of being inhuman. Maybe they buried their emotions deep down, maybe they convinced themselves they never had them in the first place, maybe they never truly did. Oh man. I love seeing them start to really feel, and rationalize it away, only for it to get harder day by day. Maybe they accept it in a quiet moment, accepting the kindness of another for the first time, or maybe it's an explosive culmination of a life not truly lived. There are so many ways to take it, and there are tropes within this trope, but whenever I see a character who's so stoic and unemotive as to be described as a life-sized doll, to whom insults and complements fall off like water against steel, I rub my greasy little hands together. Notable examples off the top of my head include, of course, Violet Evergarden, the titular character in one of two series I own on DVD just because I love it so much. Vivy from Fluorite Eye's Song also goes here, the main character in, you guessed it, the only other series I have on DVD (at great expense I mean come on Funimation it wasn't even a nice box set like Violet Evergarden). Recently, Alice Kuonji has been a character that scratches this itch for me, as I've been reading Mahoyo and just finished Chapter 10. Fuck, man.

Characters who are just so consumed by a task that they start to forget who they are. Bonus points if the task is violent. Always fun to see a character gradually lose the light behind their eyes [citation needed]. Everyone loves to see someone have something ripped away from them and try to fill that void with something that utterly consumes them until there's nothing left of what they were trying to hold onto in the first place. I'll bundle a character coming back from this brink in with this as well, with yet more bonus points if the character gets a warm hand to the cheek, the first kind gesture in years, and some variation of "You must be so tired." The Boar Boy, Dimitri Fire Emblem, is, of course, a fine example, but NieR: Automata is the prime example for me. Having two characters go about this arc in more or less opposite directions to end with "That's all there needs to be for us to kill each other" is just. *Chef's kiss*

This might be a pretty simple, tried-and-true trope, but magic swords of destiny are great when pulled off well. There are a few ways to do this, be it something the hero must go on a great quest for or something that only appears to those deemed worthy in one way or another. Recovering the Master Sword in Tears of the Kingdom is such a spectacle, on top of the story behind the blade's restoration, that I think it'll be a prime example of this trope done well even if it might be early to tell. Xenoblade also fucking whips when it comes to this trope. I mean, it's in the name. Shulk seizing his destiny to create a world with no gods, and wielding the Ontos Monado? Rex finally taking on the fear Pyra and Mythra carry and helping to shoulder their burden in a way even Addam failed to, and awakening Pneuma? Noah, finally accepting that if the world holds the lives of the people of Aionios back, he must end it, and unlocking the power of the Sword of the End? Peak. The Eclipse Homecoming/everything at the Ascension Grounds is probably going to be the top sequence of at least this console generation for me.

Who doesn't love a good breakdown? More specifically, when a normally put-together character has a breakdown, well-kempt hair falling into their face as they stagger around, cursing the sheer injustice of their situation. We love to see someone throwing their arms around, absolutely shrieking. Granted, these can easily feel forced or hammy if not built up to, but when a well-developed internal conflict finally reaches such an explosive and satisfying climax, or when a character has a beloved thing or unimpeachable ideal ripped away from them, seeing a satisfying blowup can get you excited for what comes next for the character like nothing else. I don't have that many examples off the top of my head, but even though I mentioned Xenoblade 3 already it's worth mentioning the most cucked man in all of fiction. I have a video of him screaming saved on my phone and the dialogue in each scene memorized.

This one is kind of odd, and I'm not even sure if it's really a trope so much as an emotion, but things that leave me just feeling hollow after I finish them are special. I can't really go into things looking for this, but when it hits, it hits like nothing else. Not sad, just empty. Utterly hopeless. Questioning what the point was. I won't give any specifics, but after I beat Signalis, an amazing horror game, I just laid awake in bed until like 4:30 that night. I wasn't even particularly scared, it just left that much of an impact on me. What a special, special game.

I ended up leaving some stuff out as they were too broad and/or overlapped significantly with things I listed. I love stories about androids, but the search for 'humanity,' in whatever form it may take, is a major appeal that's also covered by my first point. Violet Evergarden is basically an android show, as nobody who I've show the show to can tell if Violet is a human for a good four episodes. Alice is pretty different than the other examples I listed, and doesn't quite fit into that trope as cleanly, though the magecraft equivalent to androids, Homunculi like Irisviel von Einzbern, do a better job of displaying their emotions (bisexuality) than Alice. Similarly, I left out redemption/corruption arcs as I sort of touched on those in the second point.

If you have any questions/additions/recommendations about anything, feel free to send them in. This was a great ask, and really fun to type up.