#of those that do not fear their own weakness

[lmaster37]

It was not that you had set out to become one of Hatred's chosen. It was merely that there lived a deep and abiding love in you that demanded satisfaction, and that would not ever be satisfied.

It found you in its temple, into which you had stumbled blind and half-mad, blood on your knuckles, a tooth cracked. Hatred, you would come to learn, had its temples in many places, and their doors were open to all. The hunger in you knew where to go.

Hatred plucked a drop from your chin—blood, spit, tear, doesn't matter—and that was that. You were chosen.

You had come seeking an audience, whether you knew it or not, and God had answered you.

---

Some faiths demanded physical change of their devout. Hatred did not change you; you were perfect as you came.

Sight was irrelevant: your hunger lead you where you needed to go. Your teeth were not sharp, your nails not claws, but the love in you did not require those things. Where you went, Hatred followed. Where it guided you, you went.

A flawless paladin.

---

Occasionally, you had cause to work with others.

Hatred suffered this with ill temper, but it did suffer it. God did not like to share your attention with any except those against whom it wielded you as a merciless knife, but it was your heart; it knew that your faith was immaculate.

The softer ones did not enjoy your company. They served ones such as Hope, or Harbour, or Humility, and they were oft disquieted by the fervour of your service.

It was not that their faith was imperfect: merely that their gods were weak. You did not fault them for it, though you did pity them. You had long shed any want of these gentler things. God had embraced you fully.

Hope's servant had come to you, in the temple where God had found you. Hope's servant had told you, voice nervous but determined, that their party had need of one like you. There was, Hope's servant said, an orphan house, which treated its wards poorly and aided only its proprietor.

Hope's servant watched you warily. This was the answer you were expected to give: why should you care?

This was not the answer you gave.

---

It was the followers of those darker, more treacherous gods that you scorned.

They often mistook you for one of their own, a mistake that the soft ones rarely made. Hatred, they presumed, was an easy thing to follow, and one that made you like them.

It was Heartless's servant upon whom you demonstrated exactly your feelings on the matter: Heartless's servant whom you strew across the floor, who you pulled apart fiber by fiber, rending skin from muscle, sinew from bone. Heartless's servant died quickly—your Hatred did not allow for anything else—but even so, your point was made.

Your service was antithetical to Heartless. Some days, you felt you were nothing but a heart: merely one which had found a vessel through which to act in the matter of your body.

---

This was, also, not the answer you gave Hope's servant:

A child in an orphan house, one that is mistreated, one that hungers, one that starves, is many things.

It is one that needs Hope, for Hope oft springs from the knowledge that there have been better times, and it has had few enough of those.

It is one that needs safe Harbour, for any sapling grows best in rich earth, and any infant yearns for the warmth of home.

It is one that needs Humility, for it takes a prideful master to mistreats those entrusted to them, and a stubborn warden to ignores the cries of children.

But a child in an orphan house—mistreated, ignored; knowing the cold of starvation; fearing the burn of the whip—is, also, a leashed vengeance.

You were a perfect servant of Hatred. Your mouth preached its sermons; your hands did its work. Of course you would go where you would find your kin.

In those children, there would be some bent towards Hope, and Harbour, and Humility; who looked upon the cruelties done to them, and vowed to do better. There would be some which fell to Heartless and its ilk; who, brought low, sought only to bring others lower.

But some of them would see the cruelties of the masters, and the suffering of their own, and within them would stir a love that was teeth and nails. And these few—these blessed few—these exalted ones you would take under your wing.

You would open to them, as it had been opened unto you, the door of the temple, and let God pluck droplets from their chins.

---

When you had finished with Heartless's foolish, wretched servant, you had left the cathedral without looking back.

In their collective failure to follow you, the congregation there, which had devoted itself to Hollow and Hopeless, only proved what you had already known to be true: none of them would have been fit to serve Hatred.

They loathed and they despised, they hunted and killed, but they did not know what it was to hate.

You did. Love and Hatred, you had found in your service, were not so different: in that moment, you could have been in love with the arrogant fool. There had been nothing but you, and Heartless's servant, and God.

None of the congregation had followed you. They had forsaken Love; they did not deserve Hatred.

---

This was the answer you gave Hope's servant:

A house like that is home to God.

You are a devoted paladin of the god of hatred. The followers of the “good” gods fear you. The followers of the “evil” gods try to get chummy with you for about five seconds before they REALLY fear you.

[redbowedblogger]

The thought of mer!prowl having to teach Jaz to hunt in @keferon 's post apocalypse ponyo au. Just like he probably had to teach his little brothers. Jazz not knowing what or how to eat. So I did a thing

"Prowl.”

“What-?” Prowl was frustrated. This whole damn mess was going on for far longer than he had ever feared. He needed to get back to his pod. His family. Those fragging humans and their twisted sense of “mercy” had almost trapped him in a life of servitude and solitude. All over a little damage to his melon, nothing a proper mer healer couldn't fix, but clearly beyond their limited medical knowledge. And then everything changed when the wave had hit.

Calling it a wave felt a bit misleading. A miles high flood of oceanic rage that all but wiped the human city off the coastline and allowed for his escape. Their escape. This poor strange mer he had met in that box of stone and steel and glass. The one who had weak fins and an iron grip and no memory of the ocean. Jazz, who had been so excited to meet him.

He had been useful enough at the start. Practically hauling prowl along the dry rough pathways before they could reach the floodways proper and swim away. And it was handy to have one person with functional echolocation as they swam through the worst of the wrecked buildings, But after that he had unfortunately become quite the nuisance. Flighty and distracted by every flashy bit of detritus in the water, startled by fish a quarter of his size, and the talking. Relentless jabbering about everything and anything, occasionally bursting into one of those strange human songs, their tones and rhythm poorly suited for an aquatic environment. Prowl didn't really know why he had continued to let this stranger swim with him. Perhaps it was a debt of gratitude for helping him survive and escape. Perhaps it was his sense of duty, this jazz was ill equipped to survive on his own and had almost perished the first time they had hit a rip.

Perhaps it was because he was the only company in these waters that wasn't a bloodthirsty mutation, a shambling wretched gasping thing that was not mer not human not fish but some horrific combination of the three with their gangly limbs, razor claws and rows and rows of serrated ripping teeth.

And his singing was really good, when he chose the right song.

“Prowler I'm hungry. Is there anything to eat?” jazz asked, his posture meek as he floated neutral in the water.

“Of course there is. Just grab something and let's go. We are losing daylight and i'd like to find somewhere safe to camp before it gets dark.”

Dangerous things swam in the dark waters.

“What do you mean?” Jazz asked, thoroughly confused.

“Jazz we are surrounded by fish right now. Pick one and let's go.” prowl gestured to the schools of shimmering fish surrounding them. They were swimming through what had once been a park, the vegetation on the trees now replaced with algae and budding coral growths, the streetlights crusted with barnacles, and what was left of grassy fields struggling to survive as crabs and rays scuttled among the waving green vegetation grazing.

“Yeah that. How do I know which ones are good to eat? And how exactly am I supposed to just ‘grab one' they are all wicked fast.” Jazz pouted.

Prowl closed his eyes and counted to ten, digging deep for the well of patience typically reserved for only the youngest pod members before facing the mer behind him.

“You're a mer. We are the top predators of our natural environment. Everything is good to eat. Well, most of it. Watch me.” Prowl instructed as he swam off a few clicks. His echolocation was still trashed and would be until he could get back to his pods healer, so he would have to hunt by sight. Spotting a fish he liked he swiftly maneuvered around the school, herding them towards an algae covered statue to separate them. With a powerful flick of his tail he changed direction to head the stragglers off and turn them towards the branches of a tree. With another casual turn he isolated the one he wanted and with an effortless burst of speed; caught it in his claws and ripped its head off with his sharp teeth.

Jazz was in awe. Prowl moved so fast! The speed and grace in his turns as he effortlessly put the fish exactly where he needed it.

“Woah! That was slick, man I mean slick. How’d you do that?” Jazz asked with an excited shout and a backwards roll. Prowl finished the fish with a roll of his eyes.

“Everyone can do that. You can too, I know you have the agility for it. It's no harder than those silly dances the two legs made you do.”

“I don't know…”

Prowl sighed. This mer, This clever, happy, sociable mer, had been deprived of nearly every aspect of life prowl took for granted.

No open waves to surf.

No territory to call his own.

No pod to care for him.

He couldn't even hunt his own food.

They had enough time before they needed to bed down for the night.

“Here let's practice.” Prowl offered as he flicked another fish from the herd. Except this time, instead of decapitation he clipped one pectoral and half of its tail fin. As he let it go the fish wobbled back into the school, its progress hampered. When the others zigged it tended to zag.

“Catch the fish. Use any trick you can think of. Flips, rolls, dives. Whatever. Just remember that sight hunting is all about focus. Don't take your eyes off your prey for a second. Catch the fish and you will eat.” Prowl instructed.

Jazz hesitated for a moment. Then the hollow call of his stomach galvanized him to action.

Jazz bolted after the lamed fish and something began to sing in his veins. That feeling started deep in his bones and radiated up to tingle just under his skin. It electrified every muscle in his body from the tip of his tail to the end of his nose. He had never felt so at ease in water. He could feel the movement of the currents and somehow he knew exactly how to play off it. He dove and twirled and the fish scattered in a fluttering cloud of silver. A flick of his tail and he separated the other half of the herd.

He smiled as zeroed in on his target.

This felt good.

This felt right.

This felt fun.

The taste of silver fish in his mouth had never been so sweet.

[asheepinfrance]

Projecting

to be loved as someone else should be.

an: credit to @nicodefresas for the dividers!! and thanks to those who offered to beta read. hope you like the finished product.

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When you lift up your leg, the imprints of the blades of grass beneath you run angry across your skin. If it was something else, something sharper, you’re sure it would hurt, maybe bleed, maybe turn white from lack of circulation. You peek out of the corner of your eye at Tashi. You decide not to mention it. You offer her a hand, she stares at it a moment, then looks back out in front of her. 

“Tashi… come on.”

“No.”

You open your mouth to speak, but what is there to say to something so concrete? What is there to say to someone like Tashi, who is so desperately trying to hold her head above water?

“Is this about earlier, because if it is-”

“I wish you would’ve been meaner.”

You anxiously pick at a piece of dried skin on your lip, one that she never brought up when she’d kissed you a few hours ago. It’s unlike her. You place your hand on the one spot she wished you wouldn’t, bending your thumb so your nail is pressed into the jagged line of her skin, up and down. Usually, it’d be soothing. Now, she wishes your nails were sharp enough to split her open. The way you look at her, like she deserves affection in any way, does. She fears looking down to find herself open. 

“You… wanted me to be mean?”

You laugh, and it’s the worst possible thing you could’ve done. Her eyes are darker now, thin slits peeking out from soft, velvet skin. She’s hurt without any right to be, but then again she’s been hurt without any right more times than she’d have liked. She wants to bite. She wants you to walk away and sting, even if you’ve only ever been good to her, and she swears she’s not a mean person. Cold at times, defensive, but sweet. You’d seen her be sweet. You know she can be when she lets herself out of the mindset of winning, mentality fixed to the court, where love is interchangeable with aggression. She’s almost always stuck there, an invisible string guiding her to the home her own body forced her out of. But she’d seemed calmer with you, if reluctantly. Slowly but surely, pulling her out of exile, back into the world she’d once been so indispensable in. The bite, though, never went away. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but apparently, you can’t teach it unlearn the former ones either. So she bites at the hand that feeds her, and comes right back to lick at the wounds. 

“If you’re gonna let me treat you like shit, then treat me like shit back. Stop walking around and fucking taking it. Get angry at me, for once in your fucking life.”

“Tashi, I-”

“No, I’m sick of it. Stand up for yourself for once. Get in my face. Come on, yell at me! Tell me off for being a bitch!”

Drops of harsh, stinging saliva speckle your face, and you can’t even find it in yourself to back up. All you’d wanted was to help. All you were good for was help. Who were you if not obedient?

A guard dog. Loyal to a fault.

“Tashi, you’re not- don’t call yourself that…”

“God… you are such a fucking pussy. If you’re gonna let me kick you around, then I’m done. I won’t let myself be taken care of by someone who’s too weak to take care of herself.”

She hardens, shuts down, curls in on herself. How dare you think her good. How dare you not want to insult her, when she so obviously has not given you half the care that you’ve provided her. How dare you accept a life of mediocrity when she can’t seem to do it herself. She needs you to be angry at her. She needs to feel horrible. She needs you to know you’re better than this. You don’t seem to agree.

“Tashi, I said I was sorry earlier. If this is about me trying to help you out, it’s-”

“I don’t need your god damn help. Help yourself.”

You swallow around nothing, though you’re sure you can feel the contraction of muscles in your throat. It’d be pathetic to speak. It’d been pathetic to help. You stand with ease that Tashi pales at. She wants to move. You offer her your hand, a smile, a sign that all would be forgiven if she just stopped needing you to be someone you’re not. If she stopped needing someone that she used to have. She stares at it, then back up at you. You swear you can hear her whimper. She never takes it. Tashi was the cruelest woman you’d ever met. 

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“You know, I was thinking we could get dinner tomorrow night. I could get a babysitter, see if Tashi’s around, have a night to ourselves. Sound good to you?”

You turn over your shoulder, staring at Art staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. His hair got so much darker with age. The blankets beneath your skin have turned scratchy with age, but they’ve been there since you moved in. They’d probably been in there since before he signed those papers that placed him in your lap. A chance encounter with a chance connection. You both tended to avoid her name like speaking it was some kind of curse. You hear the distant pitter-patter of Lily’s feet across hardwood flooring. She’d been put to bed an hour ago. 

“We could do that if you want to.”

He spits into the basin of the sink, water running a moment as he turns to you, looking weary regardless of how much sleep he gets. He’s never looked fully awake in all the time you’ve been with him, even if he lights up like a child on rare occasion. Maybe that exhaustion runs soul deep, and there’s nothing a night’s rest can do. There’s only so much that a break can do.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You try to laugh, and it just comes off as a neutral hum. He feels the stab of perceived disinterest run through his stomach and come out the other end. You’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, though, so he can’t be mad for too long. He seats himself next to you, lowering his head into your lap. Like a cat. Like a child seeking comfort in their mother. So unfit for adult life. So unfit to parent someone when still functionally a teenager himself. 

“We can go out, ok?”

 You look down at him, stroke a hand through the cropped hair on his head, and he chases after it when it leaves his skin. He shifts, presses a tender kiss to your knee, one that squishes up his cheek against the solid bone beneath it. 

“What was that for?”

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. You both know the answer to it.

“I forget sometimes, you know.”

“You forget what?”

He looks you over, reaches a hand up to brush some hair behind your ear.

“You’d look cute with shorter hair.”

You laugh quietly, bring a hand to his cheek. 

“Yours would look cute longer.”

He lets out a deep breath through his nose, shuts his eyes as if its meditative. He turns his face to press a kiss to each of your fingertips. 

“Maybe we can do dinner next week.”

You force a smile that he can’t see, look down at your legs. There had to be something close by sharp enough to give you the scar he wishes was there. You’ve never felt more inadequate for being untainted. Maybe there is only beauty in pain, and that’s what he misses. He wishes you had suffered just that bit more. At least then, you’d match. You run a hand over the thickened skin of his shoulder where his shirt sleeve lifts up. You didn’t feel human. If being human was hurting to be able to know that there is good, then why can’t your body have suffered? Maybe you’d never been alive at all. Maybe he knew that.

“Yeah. Next week sounds good, babe.”

He never moves, neither do you. He sleeps comfortably, gripping at your unmarked skin, murmuring his praises against it. The name that comes after them isn’t yours. Your leg begins to go numb. You let it happen. Feel the bad to know there’s good. He never turned the sink off.

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The car smells like sweat, trapped in its small, enclosed metallic body. Despite the heat, the fogged windows, the refusal to leave his proximity, he offers another source.

 “You smoke?”

You huff a laugh, lift your damp cheek from his bare shoulder, and it peels like skin to leather on a summer day.

“Does it seem like I do? Besides, aren’t you an athlete. I thought you guys were meant to take care of yourselves.”

He shrugs, flips open a lighter he’d pulled from the flannel crumpled on the floor, along with a cigarette from a packet he’d stored in the same pocket.

“I started when I was a kid so, you know… whatever, man. If it was gonna kill me, it would’ve done that years ago.”

He turns his cheek to yours, glowing red center pointed between your eyes like a laserbeam. 

“You wanna try one?”

Normally, you’d adamantly refuse. But you look at your bare ring finger, your body that never quite fit that role it needed to, undressed and appreciated for once, and decide to stop valuing yourself. You weren’t someone who had enough worth to have values to uphold. 

“Why not?”

He grins, pops your cheek open with a squeeze of his thumbs, and presses it between your lips. He offers no advice, just a wide, smug grin. He hopes to see you fail, just so he can feel good about himself after building you back up. You suck in a breath, cough, plumes of smoke bursting out with each harsh puff of air, and he laughs, cheek pressed to yours. A part of him hopes the nicotine reaches your brain.

“Your beard is scratchy, you know. You should shave it when you get home”

He bristles slightly, offers a quick nod.

“Yeah. When I get home.”

“I’ll get to visit sometime, right? Maybe next time?”

You look up at him like you genuinely want to, like the idea of seeing him again doesn’t disgust you, and he wants to push you out the door. He hasn’t ruined you yet. If that cigarette doesn’t light the car on fire, he hopes to shove it down your throat. He offers a tight-lipped smile. He is home.

“I’m sure you will.”

You grin, place the cigarette between your lips. You cough again, but don’t break. Inhale, exhale, break, continue. He hasn’t been someone’s teacher in how to ruin themselves in a bit. He doesn’t think you really deserve to be hurt, and that makes him think you deserve it more. Because you’re hurting him with your stupid innocence, and your sweet disposition, and the absolute unbearable way your nose crinkles when you laugh. It’s sending him reeling. He feels like he’s sharing contraband cigarettes with an old friend again, watching himself make another person worse in real time. Watching them get addicted to it. He taps his fingers restlessly against the back of the passenger seat. 

“I think you should get dressed.”

“...What?”

“I think you should get dressed. Now, please.”

He rips the cigarette from your hands, places it between his own lips, picks up what he guesses are your things and forces them into your arms. 

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t really fucking need to.”

Slowly, as if waiting for the length of time to drag long enough for him to change his mind, you pull the supplied shirt over your head. It’s his. Some gray, graphic tee with some text that’s so faded you can hardly read it. You slip your cardigan over your shoulders, look at him. He doesn’t look back. He can’t even bother to get out of the car, just climbs into the passenger seat, despite the space being too small for the maneuver to be comfortable for a man of his size. You breathe in the scent of his space one more time, now riddled with smoke, and open the door, walking into the night. You watch him speed off, reckless, skidding. You pull your cardigan a bit tighter around yourself. You choose a direction to walk in. You will find a new place to come second in.

[ilium-ilia]

a fox cries; never howls

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | in limbo au | masterlist

Part (2/3): rooftops

tw: torture, gore, non-con

Slowly, things begin to change. 

It comes leisurely like the rising sun dawning on rimy land, or the change of a leaf from green to gold. First, it appears in the tips of your fingers. Baby pink gel polish lengthens and grows as your nail bed widens. Like the triumph of mother nature, your real nail attempts to drown out the synthetic lacquer that coats them as if purging some blight on your body. Riley—no, Simon now—catches you chewing on them one day and comes back home from work one night with a fresh pair of nail clippers and files. You spend an hour hunched over on the couch spreading dust everywhere as you grind off the polish on your hands and the glitter on your feet. 

When you’re finished, your nails are torn to shreds. Uneven and jagged, they catch on fabric and cling awkwardly to your skin, but the incessant color is gone. Purged from your body, you are left with nothing but your natural nails in all their weak, dull glory. Simon asks you if you want him to buy you any polish, and your denial leaves your lips before your brain has the time to fully process it. No—nail polish will never taint your body ever again. 

The next change you note is your body hair. While under Marco’s thumb, he ensured you were waxed regularly at scheduled esthetician appointments that he would always drag you to every other week or so. Everything would go. Your legs, your arms—especially your pubic hair. There wasn’t an inch of your skin that hadn’t been ripped apart by wax, leaving you as smooth as a baby and feeling naked even with your clothes on. Now, you don’t have those appointments, and though you were provided with a razor when you were first brought here to Simon’s home, you’ve yet to use it. 

So it grows. And grows. It comes in thick and wild. You run your hand over your legs and the hair tickles your fingertips. It’s a texture you’re not used to, yet one you can’t seem to get enough of. You’ll often catch yourself mindlessly tracing the changes of your body, and Simon doesn’t speak a word about it. He does not call you gross or disgusting. He does not claim that it’s unattractive, like Marco would. In fact, he seems to pay no mind to it at all. 

There is very little that you do that Simon comments on, really. Usually they are more questions rather than comments, anyway. He asks if you’ve eaten, what you’ve eaten, how much water you’ve drank, if you need anything—you are wary of his kindness. Of this alien hospitality. You fear he thinks of you as an animal; a pet. Something to feed and water and make sure that it doesn’t kill itself in the meantime.

The small scratches on your wrist heal within a week and don’t even bother to leave scars as the scabs crust and dry. On the other hand, his cat scratch lingers. The blade carved deep enough into his arm that he ended up needing stitches; something he had done overnight at work without telling you. Not that he needs to tell you what he does—being the one taking care of you and all—but you caught sight of the thread poking out of freshly formed skin. His tattoo is ruined because of you. Jagged skin refuses to line up properly, and the ink fades as scar tissue forms over what used to be well-done artwork. 

You often catch him rubbing at it as if the wound is fresh, and he often catches you staring at it as if you can still smell the blood. He’s told you time and time again not to worry about it, but the agita haunts your gut anyway. You are well aware of the irony that lies beneath you injuring the man who’s effectively saved your life. He’s given you a place to stay—his own bed and damn near the shirt off of his very back—but your sorrow does not absolve you from the sin of having committed that act. 

Not yet. 

As time drones on and the days gradually become shorter, you and Simon grow closer—as close as a stray cat is able to get to a big dog, anyway. Your bravery evolves as you venture out of your room—his room—and explore the expanse of his home. The kitchen and his always fully stocked fridge. The soft cushions of his couch as you flip through streaming services on his TV. The stairs in his garage and how they squeak as you sit amidst quiet music while he works on his motorcycle. 

Eventually, when your intrepidity grows, you find your voice. Words still come slow and fractured, and punctuated with uneasy hums and gasps, but it is something. You tell him what little stories you feel comfortable sharing, and your stomach drops when you fully realize how much of your life has been devoured by Marco. There are no mawkish tales of your crazy teen years for you to bond and laugh over, but Simon is good at filling the silence. 

He’s under the impression that you like hearing him talk. Your fingers stop tapping against each other when he speaks, anyway. So he fills every doldrum that passes with stories of him as a child and the trouble he would get into at school, or odd things he’s seen at work. His voice is nice. It crackles like a phonograph and hums deep like waves in the ocean, beckoning you home. Simon is a stark difference from the honeyed coos and cutting gazes you are so accustomed to with Marco. 

When Simon has run out of things to say, he puts on a movie. 

It’s never a big deal. There’s no fanfare of popcorn and candies—rather, it simply exists in the living room. He doesn’t invite you to watch the movie with him, but he leaves half the couch empty. Simon Riley shrinks himself until he’s cornered to one side when he could very well swallow the entire furniture set himself. When you eventually grow curious enough to sit yourself next to him, he glances at you for only a short moment before returning his attention back to the TV. His feral cat has decided to take company with him, and he refuses to scare her off too soon. 

Not sure what the movie is—and feeling too anxious to ask—you keep quiet as the action unfolds before you. There’s a plane crash, and death, and some man named John Ottoway is attempting to save the survivors from being eaten by a voracious pack of wolves. Some scenes are so gruesome with shredded bowels and choked cries that you tell yourself to look away, but you can’t. You are enraptured by it. It captures your attention the same way the glint of a knife does. 

There are softer moments, though, where the men sit around a crackling campfire in an attempt to stave off the Alaskian winter storm. They speak of home. Of their wives. 

Of their daughters. 

“I knew a girl named Mary.” Your voice cracks when you speak, but you quote the name of one of the character’s daughters anyway. 

Simon shifts next to you. “Yeah?” 

You nod as your eyes stay glued to the screen. “Yeah. She… she worked at Makarov’s club but… I don’t know if she was like me, o-or if…” 

Cacophonous howling interrupts your recollection, and you pause to watch the men engage in a fight with the wolves. Sparks fly, shotgun shells pop, and then there’s laughter. 

“She caught me crying one day,” you admit. You’re not sure why you’re talking, but now that you’ve started, you can’t get your mouth to cease. “I was seventeen and I… was scared. We didn’t… speak the same language. I only learned her name because I saw someone else call her that but she… found me crying in the hall after…”

You swallow down the memory of that night. Of the sting, of the laughter, of the hands that held you down while needles whirled away. Coughing, you rub at your neck. 

“I guess crying is universal though. She sat on the floor with me, and just… held me. She’d speak and I wouldn’t understand a single word b-but it was nice all the same.” A ghost of a smile flickers across your lips at the memory of her. This Mary. You remember the warmth of her, and how nice she smelled—sweet like vanilla. You bite it away. “I don’t… I don’t know what happened to her. She showed up at the club one day with-with these bruises on her face. I remember her falling while trying to dance on stage and… some men dragged her away and I never got to see her again.” 

A stillness settles between the two of you at your admission, and for a moment you think you might regret having opened yourself to him. Simon has given you his bed, and his home—he is not your therapist. He is not your friend; he simply is. Nothing more than a caregiver babysitting a woman too gauche for her own good. 

“I’m glad someone was there for you. Even for a little while,” he says after a beat. “I’m sorry you lost her.” 

Simon’s words are foreign to your ears, but they do enough to quell the throe that’s burrowed into your chest for too many years. Blinking, your vision drops to your hands. On screen, a man falls through skinny tree branches where ravished wolves wait for him in the snowbank below. As narrow snouts prod at his skin, and jaws unhinge to take his legs and arms into their mouths, he imagines his daughter—Mary—leaning over him. She tickles his face with her long, brown hair, and when he dies he’s dragged off by the wolves without a second thought. 

If Simon is glad someone was there for you in some strange, dark moment of your life, is he glad to be here with you now? Is he glad to be that person? 

You think the answer to this question might be yes when Simon invites you out of the house one night. 

“What?” you breathe. 

You’re sitting next to one another on the couch, hunched over plates like food motivated animals as you scarf down dinner. Your fork clinks against the china as you stare at him, heart raging like thunder in your chest. 

“You haven’t been outside in weeks. Might be a good idea to get you fresh air,” Simon explains nonchalantly. 

Pressing your lips together, you look at the floor. “Where would we go?” 

“Wherever you want,” he says. 

It would be a lie to say you have no appetency for this—this idea of fresh air and freedom. Though you are away from Marco, you’ve yet to experience it truly. You are still in a man’s house. You are still struck with fear that one day you’ll turn around a corner and be met with those aching, green eyes of his. You are still hiding in slivers of shadows; in the palm of another man’s hand. 

“I don’t… know of anywhere,” you admit. 

Simon finishes swallowing the food in his mouth before speaking. “John Price has a club. It’s loud and rowdy, but I’ve got access to the roof. No one would bother you. Except maybe me.” 

His flat attempt at humor is almost enough to draw a laugh from your lips. “Okay.” 

“Is that a yes?” he clarifies. 

You nod. “Yeah that… that sounds nice.” 

You tell yourself that you’re dressed up in a hoodie to stave off the algid weather that rushes autumn into winter, but that’s only half the truth. Anything to obscure your face is favorable when you’re taking the plunge into the big unknown. While Simon drives you to this club, you try not to think about the first night you met him. How you were put in the back seat of this car and forced to blindfold yourself—how everyone thought you were the enemy. So much has happened since then, and still it’s as if nothing has changed. 

Simon parks towards the back of a large, brick building adorned with neon lights. There’s not a single soul to be found and you still find yourself gritting your teeth as you step out of the passenger’s seat. You’re reminded of Makarov’s club—this building sports the same grimey brick and drumming music—but Simon’s hand on the small of your back is grounding. You’re quickly ushered inside the back entrance to the building where pulsing music washes over you in a garroting wave. 

As Simon leads you through dark hallways, you try to ignore the alcohol in the air. Sour beer and stinging liquor—you’re forced to remember your time with Marco. It always creeps. Slithers beneath your skin where you’re forced to feel it writhe. You recall tear-blurred vision and a glass pressed against your lips. Mead washes over your tongue and the fermented honey burns just as bad as Marco’s lips against the back of your neck. There are too many hands on your body for you to count. Too many fingers digging into raw flesh begging for reprieve. A simple scent sends you back in time—your senses always seem to make a prisoner of you.

After climbing several flights of stairs—many of which you swear you’ll fall through if you step incorrectly—Simon opens the roof access door. Wind pulls at your hair and clothes, but the air is fresher up here than it is inside. The music is quickly snuffed out the very moment the door shuts behind you, and you find that your ears are filled with the sound of speeding cars and dull chatter. There’s not much to see besides exterior ducts and vents, but when Simon motions you further along the rooftop you know that he’s brought you here for something else. 

Both of you approach the edge. There is no railing to prevent you from plummeting over the side and crashing onto the sidewalk below, and for some strange fleeting moment, you have the urge to jump. To spread your arms and see if you can fly. Simon sits with his legs dangling over the side, but you know better than to tempt your thoughts like that. Sniffling, you sit slightly behind him with your legs pulled up to your chest, arms acting like cuffs to keep you chained to the building. 

It’s beautiful up here. You look out at the world as if its exterior has cracked and you’re finally allowed to see what it looks like on the inside. It’s full of pedestrians in coats skipping through intersections and cars honking as soon as traffic lights turn green. Glittery street lights attempt to convince you they’re stars as they illuminate cracked streets and crumpled trash. Despite all the grime, it takes your breath away. It’s the first time you’re able to look up and see something that mesmerizes you rather than terrifies you. 

After a moment of soaking in the view, Simon reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He taps it against the palm of his hand a few times before looking at you. 

“Mind if I light one?” he asks. 

Why is he asking you for permission? “Go ahead.” 

The two of you sit quietly as he takes drag after drag. Smoke rises and dissipates in the air and it travels far enough that you can smell the nicotine. It’s an intoxicating scent, one that somehow calms the quiver in your heart. Simon’s fingers twitch as he flicks ash onto the brick next to him. You notice the build up of soot—an old scar that’s been years in the making like the mound of a keloid against puckered skin. 

“Used to come up here all the time when I first started working here,” Simon admits softly. “It’s quiet. No one fucks with you. Good place to think.” 

Humming, you nod in agreement as you rest your chin on your knees. “What are you thinking about?” 

“My brother and mum, mostly.” 

The air shifts. There’s a change in the wind, and it’s enough to send a shiver throughout your body. “Are… they okay?” 

“My brother’s dead.” He says it simply—states it like a fact. Like it doesn’t sting his throat. But you can smell the blood that lingers in his mouth from the very wounds the words leave behind. “Has been for a while.” 

“I-I’m sorry,” you choke out, stunned. 

“Don’t be,” Simon says with a shake of his head. “Marco’s the one who should be sorry.” 

Your silence is deafening—concerning enough to get Simon to turn towards you. He soaks up your wide eyes and lips parted from the question that died in your throat. A deep breath expands his chest before he huffs in a sour laugh. 

“Yeah. Marco gets his dirty fuckin’ hands on everything,” he mumbles as he shoves his cigarette back in his mouth. 

You carefully scoot toward Simon, toes inching closer to the edge but you don’t notice the urge to fall this time. Swallowing, you stare at him. “What happened? If… if you’re okay with, like… talking about it.” 

At first, Simon shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but you can see the contempt roll off of him in waves. It’s the first time you’ve seen him like this since the night he found you; pretending to buy a session with you in order to steal you away from your captors. Is this why he was so bitter? Why his tone cut you so deeply? Was his vitriol not meant for you but for Marco? 

“His name was Thomas. Tommy,” Simon shares with a sigh. “He’d gotten really bad into drugs. Guess havin’ a shit life can lead you down that road sometimes. Used to buy from people off the streets but somehow got mixed up with Marco and those other cunts.” 

His cigarette burns nearly to the filter, so he shoves the tip along the brick next to him. Embers sizzle and flicker before they’re snuffed out, dying in the cold chill of the air. 

“I remember that a little,” you admit quietly. “Not your brother but… well, sometimes Marco would… like, use. At the club and stuff. Usually he smoked, like, weed and stuff but I think he’d steal… other stuff from buyers. Coke usually, I think?” 

“Shit’s bad news,” Simon mutters. With his hands now free, he rubs them together as he leans his elbows on his knees. He glances at you and how you curl inwards on yourself like a cracked egg attempting to hold itself together and his lips purse. “Dunno exactly what happened. Guess it doesn’t really matter. Tommy ended up owing them money somehow. A fuck load of it, too. When he couldn’t make the payments, well…” 

An unwelcome memory invades your thoughts as Simon explains the story, and you are violently tossed back in time several years. Suddenly, you are naked and shoved back inside your sixteen year old body. Skin puckering with goosebumps, you pitifully wrap a soiled blanket around your shoulders. Ichor dots the fabric, though not nearly as much as your tears do, and it’s so thin that it hardly keeps you warm inside this poorly insulated warehouse. 

Sitting in front of you on a rickety chair upon the concrete floor is a man. His greying beard collects the blood spewing from his nose, and there are several patches of hair missing from his scalp, leaving behind nothing but near perfect circles. He tries to open his eyes, but they’re swollen shut with fat, periwinkle bruises. Each punch he receives from the man in front of him only worsens the wounds until the skin on his cheeks splits and cracks easier than thumbs digging into the peel of an orange.

“See that?” Marco purrs into your ear. His hand snakes around your waist where it dips beneath the blanket you attempt to cover yourself with. Thin nails trace along your skin as he pulls you closer to him. “Not too fun, is it babe?” 

You watch in horror as a blade suddenly glints in the dim warehouse lighting. This abuser—an enforcer?—curls over his victim as he sets the knife alongside his ear. All it takes is a simple flick of his wrist for the cartilage to pop free from his skull with a scream. When you attempt to look away, Marco snatches your jaw with his other hand and yanks your head to the side, forcing you to witness the dismantlement of Makarov’s latest victim. 

“Shy thing, aren’t you?” he chuckles. The man is further torn apart before your eyes all while Marco makes you watch—skin gone from his nose, nails ripped from their beds. “No, I need you to watch. Good girl. Yeah, soak that all up. I need you to remember this, alright? Think of it as… a lesson. Don’t want you getting the wrong idea that I’d go easy on you if you tried leaving.” 

He interrupts himself with another laugh as his nose nuzzles against the back of your neck. Tight muscles winding in your body begin to tremble so terribly that it squeezes the tears free from your eyes. The old man’s other ear joins the first one on the floor, along with a few disembodied fingers. Pink bone glints through the numbra, and you find that you can’t look away. It’s too fresh—like you could pick it up and place it back against the man’s hand and it would screw right back on as if it had never left. 

“Alright, maybe I’d go a little easy on you, but I couldn’t have everyone thinking I’d let some sweet thing like you walk all over me,” Marco humors. Fingers letting go of your jaw, his hands begin to further wander as he paws over your bare body. Your lips tremble as you force yourself to keep watching the man while Marco pinches the crying flesh of your nipples. “I’d hate for you to end up like this, so just be smart babe. It’s not so bad here. I promise.” 

The memory fades just as quickly as it arrived, and you once again find yourself sitting on that rooftop next to Simon. Twitchy fingers paw at the nape of your neck as you wait for him to continue. 

“They came for me next,” Simon huffs. “Said that if I couldn’t pay, they’d kill me too then go after my mum. So I fought like hell. Got mixed up in some underground boxing ring in order to make enough money for the monthly payments. That’s how Price found me. Struggling down in that piss hole. When he offered me a job, I didn’t refuse to take it. He gave me enough money to pay off Tommy’s debt and to keep my mum safe. Price has been after the fucker for years ‘cause of shit like this.” 

“I hate him.” 

Those words leave your mouth without permission, and you nearly slap your hand over your lips in fear of reprimand. It’s the first time you’ve ever said it outloud—express your hatred for the man who’s kept you under tight lock and key for over a decade. It’s a thought that’s lurked in the back of your mind for ages, stuck dormant in some part of your brain. Smothered by Marco’s greedy teeth. 

“I… hate Marco,” you say, louder this time. 

Simon’s titter is warm but jagged in his throat. He looks back out at the city for a moment to bask in the pale glow that bleeds into the sky, and you find yourself staring at the silvery scar that bisects the side of his lip. “Yeah, proper piece of shit, that one.” 

You nod in agreement. “I’m sorry that you… had to go through all that.” 

Simon’s mouth opens to shoot you a quip, but it dies on his tongue the moment he looks at you. Curled over, eyes focused on the pale brick at your feet, you’re pawing at your neck again. An odd habit he’s noticed you can’t seem to drop. Something lurks on your skin—something he’s only seen small glimpses of. A mark. Words he can’t read. Shifting, he turns his body so that he’s able to get a better look at you. 

“That thing on your neck. What is it?” he asks. 

Hesitation interferes with your mindless rubbing for only a split second before you’re back to tracing. Your fingertips track the raised skin—old scars that refuse to properly heal. You can almost make out the cyrillic script letter by letter. М… A… P… К… O…

“It’s a tattoo,” you answer truthfully. 

Curiosity piqued, Simon rubs at the old wound on his arm. “What of?” 

“Words.” Your voice feels stale. Flat. Your hand drops from your neck as you rest your chin on your knees. “It says… Marco’s Girl.” 

Once again, Marco has rendered you nothing but a prisoner within your own body. You still feel the plush rug tearing at your cheek when he held you down to brand you. Needle digging into your neck, he whispered to you saying that it was for your own good. That everyone needed to know who you belonged to. So many eyes witnessed you as they knocked back drinks as if watching their favorite movie. Legs squirming, feet kicking, you sobbed the entire time. You continued to sob as he raped you afterwards, thumb brushing over his artwork like it was his magnum opus—as if he was sealing the bond. 

For years, you’ve tried clawing at it. You thought that if you could dig your nails in deep enough you could shovel the ink out of your skin, but it persists. Inflamed tissue, it now sits on your skin like a brand. Nothing but cattle. Nothing but Marco’s good little girl who belongs to him and only him. 

When you finally gather the courage to look back at Simon, you notice how rosy the tips of his ears are. Bright pink and deepening, you don’t mention it as he retrieves another cigarette. He doesn’t light it. Instead, he keeps it tucked between his lips where his teeth bite at the filter. Thick fingers toy with his lighter, igniting a flame just to watch the wind blow it out. There’s an urge to speak more, to tell him that you’re fine and that he doesn’t need to worry, but he cuts you off before you even get the chance. 

“I’m settling your debt tomorrow,” he says. 

It’s nonchalant. Inconsequential. He says it like he doesn’t realize the way it makes your heart twist against your sternum. Finally, he lights his cigarette and begins to inhale. There’s an odd twitch in his fingers as he pulls it out of his mouth, like he wishes he had something else in his hand. 

“What… like… I don’t understand,” you stutter. 

“I did my homework,” he admits with a sour chuckle. “You owe Marco money. A debt that was passed to you after he killed your parents, yeah? It’s why he toyed with you the way he did. I’m settling it tomorrow.” 

Mouth suddenly arid, you shake your head as you scoot closer on stiff limbs. “Simon that's- my debt it’s- like, I’m talking hundreds of thousands of- of-” 

“I did my homework,” Simon reiterates. He looks at you with a lopsided smile as he huffs a drag of smoke from his nose. “I know what’s at stake here, sweetheart.”

Lips trembling, you bite into the side of your cheek. “So you’ll… give him the money and… and that’s it?” 

He snorts. “Probably not.” 

“What else will you have to do?” you ask. 

“Nothin’ good.” Simon flicks ash from the cigarette. You watch the wind take it away until the embers burn out. “I’m tellin’ you this because I might be gone for a while.”

“How long?”

He shrugs. “Dunno.” 

Acid broils in your stomach and begins to chew away at your esophagus. Every building in London seems to sway as you try to keep yourself grounded. Your leash has gone slack. You’re not sure what you should do with the collar. 

“You… shouldn’t have to do this for me,” you mutter, voice hardly audible. “I don’t… I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.” 

Simon puts out the remnants of his cigarette on the brick next to him. “Alright. I’ll do it for myself then.” His words feel like they should be spoken with a tone of humor, yet each syllable is just as cold as the last. “I hate the fucker. Would be good to finally get rid of him.” 

Once the wind begins to pick up, and neither of you can handle the algid autumn air, Simon takes you back to his house. The ride is just as quiet returning as it was arriving, but the weight is different. It’s crushing. Insidiously constricting around your rib cage until the breath is all but gone from your lungs. As Simon drives, you can’t help but to look at him. If he catches you staring, he doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing but silence to pair with the way your eyes trace every feature of his face or the curve of his fingers as he grips the wheel.

Why does this feel like goodbye? 

It’s well after midnight by the time you both step through the threshold of Simon’s home. Dinner still wafts through the air—fresh chicken and baked brussel sprouts, probably one of the fanciest meals you’ve ever eaten—but not even the change of scenery can quell the raging solicitude that thrashes in your skull. 

You watch with a tense jaw as Simon preps the couch for the night. A fat pillow that bends awkwardly at the armrest, and a blanket that looks a few inches too short to cover him completely—your stomach twists. The cushions dip from the memory of his weight. He’s spent every night for the better part of the last couple months shoved onto this furniture.

“You should sleep in… the bed tonight,” you interrupt. 

Stiff, Simon turns to face you with narrowed eyebrows. “What do you mean?” 

“I just… it feels wrong. Having you sleep out here. Especially if… tomorrow…” You can’t finish your thought. Fear captures your tongue and turns it to stone within your mouth, and you’re stuck trying to swallow the lingering cement. 

“I’m not lettin’ you sleep on the couch,” he interjects as he continues to make his bed. 

“Why not?” you challenge. 

Simon shrugs. “Feels wrong,” he echoes. 

“It’s big enough for two.” 

Stunned, Simon turns back around to face you. He takes in your wide eyes and how they refuse to flicker away from him despite his gaze. 

“You want me to sleep in bed with you?” he confirms. 

You nod. “Yes.” 

“You sure about that, sweetheart?” he asks further. 

“Yes.” You swallow. “Please, Simon.” 

Despite your history, it’s a strange feeling to lie next to someone else. Marco never exactly lingered around when he was finished with you, and neither did any of his friends. There’s enough space on Simon’s cyclopean bed that neither of you have to touch, leaving a gap that’s almost large enough to hold the depths of your grief. Faced away from him, you curl on your side as he lays sprawled on his back next to you, breathing slow and even as he sleeps. 

You’re surprised his slumber took him so quickly. There’s not a single bit of tension to be found in his body when you roll over to face him. Street lights bleed through the bedroom curtains, illuminating the curve of his nose and the slight part of his lips. It’s strange to think that a few weeks—or, has it been months—ago you regarded him as nothing more than another man for you to fear. 

Now, here you are. Lying next to him in bed as you try not to shiver like a wet cat. 

“Hard to sleep when you’re tossin’ and turnin’ like that,” Simon breathes. 

His voice makes you flinch, though you’re not sure why. It’s quieter and softer than you ever would have expected out of him. Perhaps it’s your shame that gets the best of you. 

“Sorry, I… can’t sleep,” you admit meekly. 

The mattress dips and shakes as Simon twists to his side. He’s close enough to you now that you can smell the tobacco on his breath. “What’s on your mind?” 

“I’m worried about you,” you whisper. 

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

His chuckle is soft, and you can feel it travel through the bed as it grumbles through the cotton. “It’s nothin’ I can’t handle, sweetheart.” 

“I know, it’s just…” You taste the words on your tongue. Feel the way the tart syllables dig into the wet muscle. “He terrifies me. I don’t know what to think about any of this. I’ve been living under his thumb for so long but it’s all I’ve ever known. I just- I don’t want you to get hurt over this j-just for me to not even make something of myself afterwards.” 

“I’m not doing this for you, remember?” he says, harking back to your conversation on the rooftop. His tone tells you otherwise. “You don’t need to make anythin’ of yourself. Not for me. Not for anyone else. You always hear ‘bout those stories of… people like you. In your situation. They save themselves or they’re rescued and they go off and… get degrees or discover some bullshit that gets them on the news or somethin’ but… no one expects that outta you. Not me. You shouldn’t expect it out of yourself, either. Sometimes it’s just enough to be alive, sweetheart.”

Alive. Living. Is that what this is? Are you living while laying in bed next to a man who stole you away from your abuser? Or is this just existence? How would anyone have ever expected you to stop and smell the roses when your entire life has been devoid of flowers—full to the brim with thorns that rip into flesh like nails into the fuzz of a peach? 

Can you only enjoy the fragrance when the collar around your neck is gone? 

You think of your leash snapping—this terrible leash that’s bound you to Marco for eons—and—

“C’mere,” Simon whispers. 

—then you break. 

Simon pulls you into his gravity; sucks you in like a black hole, and you’re too far past the Event Horizon to argue. Arms tight around your torso, he holds you close to his chest as you begin to crumble. A swell of emotion drowns you like a tidal wave, and he makes no mention about the wetness soaking into his shirt. 

He’s warm like fire. You think that’s why you’re not scared of him anymore. Despite the dark hue of his eyes and the rigid lines along his body, Simon’s been the first and only person to light your way. To provide you warmth where you would otherwise freeze to death. 

But he is more than just some incandescent heat—he is also a metronome. A raging war drum lurks in his chest where you can feel it beat against your cheek. His lungs expand, and yours follows. It sings you to sleep, steady and loving, where each pulse is a kiss against your skin. 

Come morning, when Simon peels himself away from you to make breakfast, you fear you may never hear it again. 

It’s all you can think about as he whips up something grand. His heart. The sound of it—of him. Fork poking your eggs, you want to tell him to let it go. To let you go. That you’d rather live the rest of your life cowering in fear like you always have than attempt to bear the thought of him returning home in pieces. 

Of not returning home at all. 

(When did you start thinking of this place as home?) 

“You alright?” Simon’s shouldering on his coat. It seems to broaden his shoulders, makes him look like the fighter that he is, and still you stare at him as if he’ll crumble before you. “Lookin’ a little queasy.” 

Your eggs have gone cold. 

“How… how long will you be gone?” you ask as you try to keep the tremor in your voice at bay. It’s the same question you asked last night; one you already know the answer to.

“I dunno,” he repeats. 

Tears begin to swell in your eyes again, and at this point you’re not sure that they ever stopped. Praying that they stay at bay, you stare at the counter with your fork still grasped in your hand. “I just… would feel a lot better if I had a timeframe. Knowing that… you’ll be back, I…” 

“Hey,” he softly interjects. He reaches over the counter and gently prods at your face with his knuckle, urging you to look at him. A wiry smile graces his lips as you blink at him. “Chin up, sweetheart. I’ll be back by dinnertime, yeah?” 

You realize Simon Riley is a liar when the clock strikes nine and he’s yet to return. 

Nervous eyes peek out through thick curtains, hoping to see a flicker of headlights along the street or broad shoulders marching up the walkway. You are only met with the same darkness that’s blanketed the neighborhood for the last few hours. A tremor shakes throughout your fingers as you step away from the window and look at the empty living room. 

Everything stares at you. The couch he’s slept on for the last few months. Sparkling dishes drying off in the rack next to the sink. You stare back, but not in the same way in which they look at you. You cannot pick these items apart with your eyes and dig until the pain bears fruit. You just have to stand there and take it. 

At half past nine, you toss yourself into the shower. Really, you’re not sure why you’ve ended up here in the very place you tried to kill yourself in a few months ago. Some days you enter the room and swear you can still see the blood soiling the cracks in the grout on the floor, but for now you ignore it as warm water blankets over your skin. 

For a long while, you stare at the lineup of body washes that decorate the edge of the tub. When you had first been brought here, Simon had bought you some off brand shower gel that smells like pomegranate and gardenia, but you find your fingers reaching for his body wash instead. It’s warm. Spiced. Clean and mild—not strong and overpowering like the cologne Marco always bathes himself in. 

The very moment you flick the cap open and squeeze a coin sized dollop onto your fingers, you begin to cry. Cracks form in the brittle dam that had been keeping you feelings at bay, and now they overwhelm you insouciantly. Knees buckling, you find yourself sitting in the tub. Hand clutching to your chest, you wail like a broken alarm. It echoes off of the walls and rattles your ear drums, but your throat isn’t strong enough to choke back the agony. 

You see Simon. You see him sitting in that chair, and there is Marco with a knife that sports a cruel blade. There has never been a moment when he’s yelled, but your brain orchestrates the sound of him screaming with concerning ease as Marco carves him like a butcher chisels away at swine. You are tormented with a nightmare of your own creation as you envision Simon’s body slumped forward, motionless and cold. His fingers are on the ground, plucked free from his palms like the seeds from an apple, and the features of his face are all wrong as it’s sliced free from his body. 

There are no lips to cover his teeth. No cartilage for his nose or ears. No lids to cover the eyes that scream at you that this is all your fault. 

But nothing lasts forever—though, it often feels like it will.

Blissful silence shrouds your mind as your tears finally cease. Overwhelmed with a lack of emotion, you find it difficult to feel anything at all as you sit with your legs crossed and your hands palm down on the tub. Eventually the water grows cold enough to chase you out of the shower, and you push yourself to your feet with a grunt as you turn the water off. You take your time drying yourself off as if you can rub away the ache with the fabric of your towel, and then dress yourself in pajamas before exiting the master bathroom. 

The television is on, and you don’t remember leaving it sitting idle. The vibrations of the speakers bleed through the door, beckoning you out. 

Sanguinity pulls at the strings of your heart until you’re rushing out of the bedroom and bursting into the living room. Simon sits on the couch with his legs spread wide as he slouches on the cushions. He’s kicked his boots off next to the coffee table, which homes a couple of boxes of Chinese takeout. 

Your hand clasps over your mouth as you soak up the state of him. Plum bruises haunt his cheekbone and seeps all the way into the bridge of his nose, which sports a new, crooked bump. His eyebrow is split almost in the same exact place where his scar lies, and there’s at least two visible stitches on a laceration along his jaw. His right hand is bound in a splint and he keeps it held against his chest. Though his lips pull into a smile when he sees you, his neck moves stiffly as if every gear and joint in his body is clogged with rust and debris. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greets. “Sorry ‘bout dinner. Bought some takeout to make up for it.” 

“O-Oh my god, Simon, you…” 

Words failing you, you instead stumble across the room before collapsing onto the couch next to him. Your hands hover over his body, but you’re too afraid to touch him. Instead, you evaluate him with your gaze. He still has all ten fingers, though they’re all cracked and sporting bloodied knuckles. His ears sit just as large as ever on the sides of his long face. Though he is beaten and bruised, Simon is still in one piece, even if he is marred with cracks. 

“Oh my god,” you repeat. Though you were certain you had cried for all your worth earlier, more tears begin to well in your eyes. “Look at you. W-What happened?” 

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. I’ve had worse than this,” he assures you. His words are faintly slurred as if his tongue is too big in his mouth. Squinting at him, you notice how half of his lip balloons with swelling. “Have you eaten anythin’ today besides breakfast? You should eat up.” 

“No! I’m not eating anything until you tell me what happened!” 

Surprised at your outburst, Simon’s eyebrows raise before his lips quirk with a chuckle. Adjusting himself on the couch, he winces as he attempts to get comfortable despite the aches that ail him. 

“Just had a little scrap with Marco, that’s all,” he says flippantly. “Broke a few bones in my hand and got a couple of stitches in my face, but that’s ‘bout it. Besides maybe a bit of a concussion. Nothin’ serious.” 

Your teeth grind against one another as he explains his half of the story. “No. No, no, no, t-this isn’t good.” 

“What’re you fussin’ for, sweetheart?” Simon asks with furrowed brows. 

“He’s not gonna stand for that. For what you did,” you begin to blubber. “Fighting with him? I-If you’re hurt this bad, then he’s probably pretty hurt too, and Marco, h-he gets really angry about stuff like that, and-” 

“Baby, I killed him.” 

Shock overwhelms you into silence at Simon’s interjection. It fizzles and vibrates through every neuron in your body as your brain works in overtime to make sense of the words he’s thrown at you. There’s a discrepancy in what you know is possible, and what reality is. Marco can’t be dead. You never thought it was possible to kill a beast like him. Yet, here Simon is, triumphantly home, sitting on his couch still drawing breath all while claiming the man who toyed with you for eons is now nothing more than a rotting corpse. 

“What?” you breathe. 

“He’s dead,” Simon reiterates. “You don’t owe him anymore, and Makarov and his fuckers won’t be comin’ after you either. He’s dead, baby. I killed him for you.” 

Consternation quickly swells into something else as your lips morph into a pained smile. Your attempt at keeping back over a decades worth of grief is quickly cracking. “I thought you said you weren’t doing this for me.” 

He smirks as best as he can with his swollen lips. “I might’ve lied a little.” 

Your laughter strangles into a sob, and your teeth begin to bite at the still growing remains of your fingernails. “You mean it? H-He’s really gone? That’s it? Am I… am I really…?” 

Simon’s arms swaddle you just as you begin to crumble. Even with his injured hand, he cradles you against his chest as a culmination of emotion seeps out of every wounded pore in your body. It’s thicker than molasses. Thicker than blood. You’ve held onto this shame for so long that it doesn’t know where else to go besides out. Into the air to find some other poor host—it sublimates before your very eyes. Vanishes until it’s nothing more than a bad dream. 

He’s averruncated the one thing that’s haunted you for your entire life, then came back home with food and a smile. 

Eventually you cry out every emotion that you can—shame, grief, relief—and when you’re finished, Simon urges you to eat. It’s the first time in ages that you’ve been able to eat food and truly taste it. The sesame seeds and how they pop on your tongue. The seasoning of the chicken and how it sticks to the roof of your mouth. When you’re finished, you attempt to urge him to go to sleep in the bedroom with you, but he declines and says he doesn’t think he can sleep through the pain.

So you stay with him in the living room. Curled up against his side, your cheek presses against his chest as the TV drones on with some late night programme. Your eyes can scarcely make sense of the images that flash before you as the weight of sleep begins to pull on your body without discrimination, and you find yourself slipping under its demanding wave without incident. 

You never thought that you’d ever get the luxury of feeling content, but you think this must be the closest you’ve ever gotten to it. You revel in its warmth—in the safety of it—all while the heart that you feared you would never heart beat again lulls you to sleep.

this chapter is dedicated to the woman who fed me when i was a child, going on day two of no food.

we didn't speak the same language, and i never learned your name, but i think of your kindness all the time. i like to think you got out of there. that you went to live a good life. i hope i'm right.

[insidekatmind]

Mine~ Frank Castle

Wearning:+18,smut,cheating,manipulation,

age-gap,dark.

Request: yes!

You wake up suddenly, your heart pounding against your ribs. The room is dark, the air cold and damp. Outside, the rain beats hard against the window, the pounding sound accompanying your unsteady breathing. You shift on the thin bed, the rough sheets scraping against your skin. You feel dizzy, confused. You don’t remember anything. How did you get here?

You rub your eyes, trying to clear your thoughts, when the metallic sound of keys jingling catches your attention. Your gaze immediately shifts to the door, which opens with a slow, sinister creak. The light from the hallway illuminates an imposing figure.

Dark eyes, cold and calculating, watch you expressionlessly. Your heart leaps into your throat.

“Headache?” His deep, raspy voice breaks the silence. Frank Castle.

You immediately tense, fear tightening in your chest like a suffocating knot. You shouldn’t be here. Not with him. You're Matt's girlfriend. And Frank knows it.

You try to get out of bed, but your legs are shaking. He stomps into the room and closes the door behind him. The click of the lock makes you jump.

"What do you want from me?" Your voice shakes, but you try to stay calm.

Frank tilts his head, his eyes unreadable. "You already know the answer." He approaches slowly, hands tucked into his jacket, breathing deep and controlled. "Daredevil wants you. He protects you." He pauses. "But I... I took you."

You feel the wind knocked out of you. You know Frank never does anything without a reason. If he's taken you, it means you're important to him. But there's something in his gaze that confuses you, a dark intensity that pins you to the mattress.

"Matt is coming for me." Your voice is more confident this time, even though inside you are a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

Frank kneels beside you, his face so close you can feel his breath brushing your skin. “Let him come.” A fleeting smile curves his lips, but his eyes don’t soften. “But I warn you, I don’t want to share you with anyone.”

You freeze, a shiver running down your spine. There’s something wrong with those words, yet you can’t deny the way his gaze holds you captive. As if you were already his.

And maybe, in some disturbing way, a part of you fears that you are.

“You're crazy,” you whisper.

His eyes roam over your face, studying you like a hunter who has caught his prey. “Crazy? Maybe.” He reaches out slowly, his fingertips tracing the contour of your cheek. You shiver at the touch, his thumb grazing your lower lip. “Maybe I’m just tired of watching Daredevil have everything.”

His words echo in your ears, sharp and painful. But there’s something in Frank's eyes that makes you believe there's a twisted truth to his words.

His hand finds its way into your hair, his fingers tangling in your locks. You feel your breathing quickening, your body responding to his touch against your will. “I see how he looks at you, so full of love, so full of faith.”

His face is dangerously close to yours, his gaze delving into your own. “But I wonder…” He pulls your hair, making you crane your neck, bringing your face within an inch of his. “Has he ever touched you like this?”

You feel a strange blend of fear and excitement creeping over you. His words ignite a mixture of conflicting emotions, a whirlwind of sensations in your chest. Matt has touched you, he's touched you in every way possible. But he has never touched you like that.

Frank doesn't wait for a response. His hand slides under your chin, forcing you to look at him. “You’re his everything. His greatest weakness. You know that, don’t you?”

His expression has darkened, a hint of possessive anger glinting in his eyes. “And me… well, I’ve become his greatest threat.” He leans in even closer, his breath hot on your cheek. “Because I want you. More than he ever did.”Your heart is drumming so hard against your ribs it hurts. Frank's touch is intoxicating, his words both terrifying and exciting. He speaks of Matt like a rival, and that makes you feel like a prize to be won.

“Why me?” you ask, your voice no more than a whisper.

His hand moves down to your neck, his fingers exerting a gentle pressure. "Because you're beautiful. Because you're delicate. Because you're his." He pauses, his gaze almost dangerous. "And because I can easily imagine you in my bed."

The idea of it should repulse you, but instead you feel a wave of heat coursing through your body. This is so wrong, but something about being desired so fiercely, so intensely, makes you feel wanted in a way you've never experienced.

Frank takes advantage of your confusion and climbs onto the bed, straddling you. His powerful frame dwarfs you, trapping you under his weight. His legs are on either side of your hips, his body pressing against yours.

“You’re terrified. I can see it in your eyes.” He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his touch deceptively tender. “But you’re also excited.” His hand finds its way to your thigh, his fingers tracing small, maddening circles on your skin.

His words are almost like a spell, a dark and forbidden magic. Your body betrays you, responding to every touch of his hand, to every nuance of his voice. You feel trapped in a web of conflicting desires. “Please…” you begin, but his hand moves to your mouth, silencing you.

“Shhh…” He leans in even closer, his breath hot against your ear. “No need to speak. Your body is telling me everything I need to know.” His hand moves higher, his fingers slipping under the edge of your t-shirt.

“So smooth, so soft.” He runs his hand over the bare skin of your stomach, the contact sending a jolt of electricity through you. “It’s a crime that someone else gets to touch you like this.”

His touch has become rougher, more demanding. His hand slides over your hip, pulling you against him, making you feel every inch of his body. There's a hunger in his eyes that makes you scared, but also incredibly drawn.

He leans in, his lips brushing your neck. "You shiver. You're trying to fight it, but you can't resist." He whispers against your skin, his beard scratchy and rough on your sensitive flesh.

"Stop... please," you manage to gasp, but your voice is weak, unconvincing. His hand moves to the small of your back, pressing you even more firmly against him.

"Why should I stop?" he growls, his mouth finding the soft spot just below your ear. "Why should I stop when everything about you is begging me to go on?"

His teeth grazing your skin, biting softly. His breathing becomes more ragged, his arousal evident. The fact that he wants you, so fiercely, is terrifying and exciting in equal measure. "I'm Matt's..." you breathe, but your body betrays your words, arching towards him.

He pauses, his lips hovering just above your collarbone. "Matt's," he repeats, a harsh, almost cruel edge to his voice. "Yes, you're Matt's. His pretty girlfriend. His weakness. But you're mine now. I'll make sure of it."

His hand moves higher, pushing your t-shirt up your chest, fully exposing your stomach. His fingers trail over the soft curves of your body, as if mapping every line, every contour. "Such perfect skin. Such a perfect body."

He tugs at your bra strap, his intention obvious. "Take it off," he orders, his voice deep and commanding. There's an authority in his tone that leaves no room for disobedience. But your mind is clouded by confusion and desire, a mixture of fear and excitement that sends your thoughts into a dangerous spiral.

Your body obeys before your mind can protest. Slowly, almost as if in a dream, you lift your arms, allowing him to pull the t-shirt over your head. You're left in just your bra and skirt, exposed and vulnerable. His eyes roam over you, burning with lust. "So goddamn beautiful."

He leans in again, his lips finding your neck. This time, his kisses are rougher, more commanding. He bites your skin, his teeth sinking in just enough to hurt. Every touch, every nip leaves a mark on your soul, tearing apart the last shreds of rationality.

He pulls at your skirt, his hands roughly pushing it up your thighs. "You're mine now, princess," he growls, the possessive tone making your head spin. "No one will ever have you the way I will."

His hands on your thighs, your breath coming in ragged gasps. It's all so wrong, so wrong, but there's a dark, twisted part of you that's loving every second. "Please," you manage to gasp, your hands clutching the sheets in an attempt to anchor yourself.

He chuckles, his laugh short and dark, almost sinister. "Please? You shouldn't ask for things you're not even sure you truly want, princess." He leans in even closer, his lips brushing your ear. "But I'll tell you a secret."

He pauses, his breath hot in your ear, and then whispers, "I'm going to take everything I want from you. And you're going to let me."

His hand moves to your hip, gripping hard enough to leave a mark. "You're going to be mine. Compliant, submissive, desperate for my touch." His words are like a dark spell, a twisted prophecy. And you're helpless to stop the spiral of desire and fear he's pulling you into.

His fingers move under the edge of your bra, hooking into the fabric. "I'm going to make you forget all about Matt. I'll make you mine, and no one will ever take you away from me."

Frank breaks your bra making you jump and he immediately attacks your breast with his mouth.

He nipped and sucked at your sensitive skin, his mouth leaving a trail of kisses and bites across your chest. his hands roamed over your body, his touch rough and possessive.

"you taste so good," he murmured against your skin, his voice low and rough with desire.

His words and touch set your skin ablaze, every nerve ending firing in response. It was pure bliss and torment, a mix that left you gasping for more.

He moved lower, his mouth finding the side of your hip. His teeth scraped lightly against your flesh, sending a shiver through your body.

He moved lower, his tongue tracing a path down your stomach. His hands were strong and sure, keeping you from escaping even if you had the strength to. His touch was both gentle and demanding, and you found yourself unable to resist the sensations he was igniting in your body.

Frank lifted your leg, his hand gripping your thigh possessively as he moved it over his hip, pulling you even closer to him.

"you're so responsive," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "i love how you respond to me."

His words were like gasoline on a fire, stoking the flames of your desire. His touch was both gentle and demanding, his body pressed against yours.

He moved even lower, his mouth finding the sensitive skin on the inside of your thigh. His teeth grazed lightly over your flesh, leaving a trail of kisses in its wake. It felt so good it was almost painful, your body aching for more.

Frank could feel your body responding to him, your breath quickening and your skin heating up. he smirked against your skin, enjoying the effect he was having on you.

Hecontinued to kiss and nibble at your thigh, his hand still holding your leg up, giving him better access. he moved closer, his mouth hovering just above your most sensitive area.

"You're so beautiful like this," he said, his voice rough with desire. "all flushed and needy for me."

His words and touch were like magic, sending a surge of heat through your body. The sensation was overwhelming, but you found yourself unable to move away from him. He held you captive with his touch, and you didn't want to escape.

His mouth was so close to the place you wanted him the most, and you couldn't stop the little whimpering noises that escaped your lips. It was so wrong, so dirty, but it felt so right. You wanted more of him, all of him, and he was taking it without hesitation.

He chuckled darkly, loving the sounds you were making. he loved the way you were so desperately responding to him, and it only fueled his desire further.

Frank finally moved his mouth where you needed him most, his tongue flicking out to taste you. he reveled in your taste, the way you arched against him, begging for more.

Frank smirked against your skin as you moaned loudly, clearly enjoying the effect he was having on you. he continued to work his tongue and lips against you, sucking and licking at your sensitive nub.

He lifted his head for a moment, looking up at you with dark, lust-filled eyes. "you taste so good," he said, his voice rough with desire. "i could eat you up all night."

His words were like molten honey, sweet and sinful at the same time. Your body was responding to him in a way you had never experienced before, completely at his mercy. You could feel him everywhere, his touch, his breath, his words all blending together into a delicious, heady mixture that made your head spin.

"Oh God, Frank..." you panted, your voice weak and raspy. "Please... don't stop."

Frank's smirk widened at your words, clearly pleased with your reaction. he loved the way you were falling apart under his touch, completely surrendering to him.He continued to lick and suck at your clit, his fingers digging into your thigh possessively. he moved one hand up to your stomach, his fingers tracing small circles on your skin.

"I won't stop," he said, his voice a low growl. "not until you're completely mine."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a combination of excitement and fear. You knew he was dangerous, but you couldn't help your body's response to him. He was awakening something within you that you didn't even know existed.

His mouth and fingers continued their ministrations, driving you to the brink of insanity. You were barely aware of anything but him and the sensations he was creating in your body. You were completely his, and he was making sure you knew it.

Frank could feel your body tensing and quivering under his touch, and it only fueled his own desire even more. he loved the way you responded to him, the way you surrendered yourself completely to him.

he pushed two fingers inside of you, pumping them in and out in a steady rhythm. his mouth continued to work on your clit, alternating between sucking and nibbling. he wanted to drive you wild, to make you come undone completely.

"You're so close," he said, his voice rough with desire. "I can feel it,come for me."

His words and touch were so intense, it was like electricity coursing through you. It was nothing like you had ever experienced before. You were teetering on the edge of something powerful, and Frank was the one who controlled it all.

His fingers were magical, working their way in and out in just the right way. And his mouth... oh God. It was like he had a map of every sensitive spot on your body. He knew exactly how to touch you, how to make you beg for more.

Frank could feel your body starting to shake, the signs of your impending release growing stronger with each passing moment. he could tell you were close, and he was determined to make you fall apart completely.

he increased the pace of his fingers, curling them inside of you to hit that sweet spot. his tongue continued to work on your clit, flicking and sucking in just the right way. he wanted to see you come undone, wanted to see the pleasure written all over your face.

"That's it," he said, his voice low and ragged. "come for me, baby."

His words sent a jolt of desire through you, making you arch up off the bed, pushing yourself closer to him. You were so close, right on the verge of release. You could feel it building inside of you, a pressure that was almost unbearably strong.

"Frank...please..." you gasped, barely able to form a coherent thought. "I can't... I can't hold back."

Frank grinned against your skin, loving the way you were falling apart under his touch. he loved the way you begged and pleaded for him, the way you surrendered yourself completely to him.

he pulled away just long enough to speak, his voice low and rough. "Then don't hold back," he said. "let go, baby. let me make you feel good."

he increased the pace of his fingers even more, his fingers hitting that sweet spot with every thrust. he wanted to feel you come apart completely, to feel you shatter around him.

Your body was on fire, every nerve ending sparking with pleasure. His words were filthy and demanding, but you didn't care. You wanted him, needed him. You needed to let go and give yourself over to the pleasure he was giving you.

"Please... please..." you panted, your voice barely above a whisper. "Don't stop... don't, don't..."

Frank could feel your body tensing even more, your words becoming more desperate. he loved seeing you like this, completely at his mercy. he couldn't deny your pleas, not when you were begging him so beautifully.

He sucked hard on your clit, his fingers thrusting into you faster and harder. he knew you were close, so close to the edge. he wanted to push you over it, wanted to see you fall apart completely.

You could feel the tension building within you, a coiled spring ready to snap at any moment. Every touch, every word of his was driving you higher, taking you closer to that sweet release you craved.

It was all too much, too intense. Your body was trembling, your breathing ragged and unsteady. Frank knew what to do with you, knew how to make you feel better than anyone ever had.

"Pleasepleasepleaseplease..." you chanted, your words barely intelligible now. "Please Frank...I need to...I can't hold back any longer..."

His words and touches were driving you mad with desire, the heat in his gaze was almost too much to bear. He was so demanding, so possessive, and you couldn't help but respond to him. Every fiber of your being was attuned to him, and you couldn't get enough.

You were teetering on the edge of something powerful and wild, and you knew you were just seconds away from tumbling over the edge. You couldn't resist him, not when he was like this. You needed him, wanted him, had to have him.

That's it," he said, his voice low and commanding. "Let go, baby. I want to see you fall apart."He leaned down and bit down on your thigh, leaving a mark on your skin.

As he bit down on your thigh, you cried out, the pain mixing with the unbelievable pleasure he was making you feel. It was a heady combination, one that made you feel alive in a way you never had before.Frank smirked against your skin as you cried out, the sound sending a shiver down his spine. he loved the way you reacted to his touch, the way your body responded to his every movement.

He continued to bite and suck on your thigh, marking you as his own. he could feel your walls clenching around his fingers.

His fingers and mouth were doing things to you that you'd never experienced before. He was taking control of your body, making you feel things you didn't even know were possible. It was like he knew you better than you knew yourself, like he could see straight into your soul.

As he bit down on your thigh again, the pain and pleasure mixing together in a delicious cocktail of sensations, you knew you were totally at his mercy. You were his, body and soul, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

Frank's eyes widened as you came, your body arching off the bed and your voice echoing in the room. he continued to move his fingers and mouth, prolonging your orgasm until you were completely spent.

he watched you closely, drinking in the sight of you coming undone under his touch. he loved seeing you like this, loved being the one to make you feel so good.

Your body trembled and shook as he continued his ministrations, prolonging your orgasm. Your body felt completely boneless, your mind unable to focus on anything except the sensations he was causing. Each touch of his fingers was like a spark, electric and sensual. His mouth moved gently on you, soothing the pain from the marks he'd left on your skin.

You were completely overwhelmed, completely blissed out...and completely his.

There was no going back now.

[holyraconteur]

Okay, but here's a dark au where Spider drags Quaritch from the water and promptly kills him, and now no one knows what to do with this human child soaked in the blood of his own father. Blood is thicker than water, right? Why would a son kill his own father? Pandora's greatest enemy is dead. The scourge of the Na'vi is gone.

So, what is this feeling of discontent?

-) The moment Spider pulled Quaritch from the water, he made a choice.

-) The once-mighty colonel was barely clinging to life, his body battered, his strength drained. Weak. Helpless. A man who had terrorized Pandora, who had burned forests and spilled the blood of Eywa's children, now lay before him, gasping, vulnerable.

-) The knife in Spider’s hand felt light. The motion effortless.

-) One swift drag across the throat was all it took. Just like Neytiri would have done to him. 'Do you see me now?' Spider thinks. 'See me. See me. SEE! LOOK AT WHAT YOU HAVE MADE OF ME!'

-) Quaritch barely made a sound, just a wet, choked gasp as his lifeblood spilled into the water, dark ribbons mixing with the lapping waves. His body seized, his fingers twitching—but Spider only crouched there, watching, waiting. He waited for the flood of emotion. For the relief. The triumph. The guilt. But there was nothing. Just… numbness.

-) The monster was dead. The one responsible for so much suffering, for so much destruction, for everything—gone. And yet, Spider felt nothing. His father’s glassy eyes stared up at him, lifeless. Eywa’s grace had abandoned him long ago. And with any luck, Quaritch’s soul would never find peace. Never find acceptance. Spider exhaled slowly, running his tongue over dry lips, blinking at the bloodied body at his feet. His hands weren’t even shaking.

-) It was done. His brother avenged. The souls of Neytiri's family are avenged. His debt to the Sullys was paid in full. Everything is calm.

-) A soft rustling pulled his gaze upward. His father's Banshee crouched a few feet away, its golden eyes locked onto Spider with an eerie intensity. Spider tensed, half-expecting it to lunge, to attack, to avenge its fallen rider. But it didn’t. It simply watched. And then, without a sound, it lowered its head. Acceptance. Recognition.

-) As if possessed by something beyond himself, Spider stepped forward, his hand outstretched. His fingertips brushed against the creature’s snout, and for the first time that horrible day, he allowed himself a small, hollow smile. Perhaps it was a good thing that Quaritch never truly bonded to this one.

-) The rest of the Na'vi find him hours later, and Tonowari approaches first, his large shadow stretching over the scene, but he hesitates. The Metkayina chief has seen many battles, many bodies. And yet, this is different. This is a child, soaked in the blood of his own father. Why would a son do this? Spider meets his gaze, his expression empty. He waits for judgment. Condemnation. Something.

-) But when Tonowari speaks, it is not with anger. "The demon is dead." A statement. A fact. The warriors behind him exchange uneasy glances, but none argue. Some murmur in agreement; others simply watch. None move to comfort the boy who did the deed. Perhaps they do not know how.

-) The Sully are more horrified than relieved. Even Neytiri, who should feel the greatest relief of all, does not celebrate. Her bow hand clenches, fingers twitching as though her body is caught between two instincts. To praise him… or to fear him. She does not understand. She had thought she knew hatred. She had felt it burn through her when she held the blade to Spider’s throat on the Sea Dragon, her grief drowning out reason.

-) Jake had told her stories—of how humans could be cruel to their own offspring, how some children were beaten, abandoned, even killed by those who were meant to love them. How those same children woke up one day and decided to kill their parents. She had never believed it. Not until now. She watched Spider wipe the blood from his blade with mechanical precision, his movements too calm, too practiced. There is no triumph in his face, no relief, no sorrow.

Just a hollow emptiness.

-) Something dark and quiet has settled in the boy’s chest, a coldness that should not exist in one so young. The boy named Spider died on the Sea Dragon. Drowned beneath the weight of Neytiri’s hate, choked on the understanding that he would never belong. And what remains in his place is something else. Something Tonowari's people and the Sullys do not understand. Something they accept but fear all the same.

-) Jake takes a step forward, but Spider lifts a bloodied hand, stopping him before he can speak. "Don’t." His voice is hoarse, flat. "Your son has been avenged. The debt is paid. I am done. We are done." Jake stares, tears in his eyes, something unspoken hanging between them. "Kid, I never wanted this--" Spider turns his back, mounting the ikran with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before. And then he was gone. The wind howled as the graceful creature lifted itself into the sky, carrying Spider higher, farther, into the unknown. Jake’s voice rose behind him, calling his name. Kiri's voice is the loudest, crying and screaming for him, but he hardens his heart. They call his name. Spider does not return. Spider does not look back.

[littledeathdove]

Aah those headcanons were so good! I'm having such Miri brainrot x3 could you maybe write some hcs about Crow Wife and a partner who is very fragile and sickly?

I have such a weak immune system I swear I'm fighting some type of sickness like every other day atp xP

𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐘 ᯓ★

Scenario; Miranda with a sickly and fragile lover

A/N; EEEK thank you so much, I’m glad that my headcanons for MM made you satisfied! Also I love this request because Miranda with any topic of sickness? Yes give me it cause imma make some good fluff or angst with it 🫡. I don’t know if your currently sick anon but if so I hope you get better, I’ll feed you some brain rot food to help ofc

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

*°:⋆ₓₒ• First off, the Miranda that everyone knows is not the one you have come to see daily. Miranda can be very cruel, dismissive of things that don’t catch her interest, and overall selfish with her time and energy — since obviously she has more important stuff to care about. All of this? Yeah, all of these features of Miranda just go out of the window when she is with you.

*°:⋆ₓₒ• Miranda is very caring — as she can be — and attentive of you. While she already doesn’t have that much time to herself, she would sacrifice even that little bit of time to devote herself in watching over you and your state of health whenever needed.

*°:⋆ₓₒ• Miranda knows how gentle she must be with someone as fragile as you, so she is overall very gentle and cautious with her actions throughout the relationship. But there is times where that rougher side of her can show, usually it only comes out in two situations. First one is that you go against her orders which could possibly cause you to get sick.

*°:⋆ₓₒ• Miranda hates when you do this, definitely not because it reminds herself of her own stubbornness actions when the Spanish flu was going around which lead to a death you know very well about. Miranda is strong and confident in her abilities to make sure you never get too deadly sick, but she still has that lingering fear that you could end up in the same situation Eva was in.

*°:⋆ₓₒ• The second situation is when the frustration of her unsuccessful attempts to get her. This situation is always the worst to go through since Miranda would distance herself for a while but she will still take care of you from this distance. Now Miranda doesn’t apologize but she shows some subtle actions of apologizing, they are very subtle though.

*°:⋆ₓₒ• Now there is times where Miranda could be seen as neglectful but that truly only when you are in a better state of health and she is able to spend more time in the laboratory thanks to that. Honestly you do have to learn to just get used to this since Miranda still is learning on how to manage her time wisely with this relationship. Plus, Miranda would automatically believe you would just understand her need to be in the laboratory for such extended periods of times from the get go.

*°:⋆ₓₒ• Miranda would be very obsessed over keeping your health as perfect as possible. I swear that woman goes into a state of tension whenever you fall back under the weather. Is it because of Eva situation? Well yeah. Anyway, this woman will be doing daily checkups on your health almost as soon as she gets out of the laboratory/village and you into her hands.

*°:⋆ₓₒ• To just explain how obsessive this insane woman can get over your wellbeing, let me highlight a new change she caught.

*°:⋆ₓₒ• We all know by the state of her laboratory that Miranda is likely not the cleanest person, definitely not dirty but just likely to let shit clutter up. Well that is the second most drastic change in Miranda, cause now that woman keeps the place as clean as possible. She doesn’t even let dust stay on something for to long, it’s a crazy to see, but also so cute.

*°:⋆ₓₒ• Miranda is a curious person I will say, so she is usually always questioning you about something over your health. Rather it be how you feel to predictions of when you could get sick again. So hopefully you’re ready to experience that cause she will make you answer every question to the best of your ability.

*°:⋆ₓₒ• Trust these questions do come in handy to keep you from getting too sick since Miranda can usually figure out what’s wrong with your body just by simple answers and knowledge on small symptoms in certain illnesses. The woman is VERY intelligent after all and that smart brain don’t just come in handy for the mold.

*°:⋆ₓₒ• When it comes to your fragility Miranda doesn’t play when it comes to who you’re around. Honestly you will be staying in the house more just because of how paranoid and anxious Miranda could get over you getting possibly hurt. She knows first hand how someone fragile can meet their demise with a small slip up, and Miranda refuses to be in the situation of watching someone she loves experience the consequences of this slip up again.

*°:⋆ₓₒ• Thankfully Miranda is a very devoted and thoughtful — enough — lover when she is in love, so she makes it her mission to make sure you don’t get too bored when she demands you to stay home for the sake of your health. She will have her crow’s entertain you with silly actions, she’ll buy you books from the Duke (that she of course looked over before she accepted that they were of approval), and maybe even get you a tv that only takes films/DVDS if your more of a watcher then a reader

*°:⋆ₓₒ• While Miranda is definitely one prone to brag and show off, she will show you off more vocally then physically. It’s not like she doesn’t want to, but she just can’t risk the possibilities. She might take you to a lord meeting or two, maybe even to some meetings with Alcina — since Alcina takes it very serious to make sure your health stays safe by making the maids clean everything spotless, all to Miranda request of course.

*°:⋆ₓₒ• The winter lasts more longer in the village, and Miranda treats winter as if it’s the end of the world when it comes to you. She would buy you so much clothing that will be suitable for the cold weather, and if she has to go to such extremes she will even demand ask Donna to make you any clothing you need to stay warm. This is especially when you want to certain look in your new warm clothing.

*°:⋆ₓₒ• Soup season goes crazy with Miranda, I believe making soups is one of the top things Miranda is best at cooking. Miranda makes sure to make soups that will give you as much nutrients that you need to help you stay at least a bit more healthy.

*°:⋆ₓₒ• Though Miranda prioritize your nutritional intake she will still wish to satisfy your preference. So funnily enough this will lead to you being sat down at a table and becoming basically a judger of the soups she plans to make for you in the future. And Miranda is pretty strict so she’ll make sure to milk out all of your opinions of the soups she’s feeding you. (Also a showing of her perfectionism, but you didn’t hear that from me) This leaves you no excuse to eat all of the soup when gives it to you later on.

*°:⋆ₓₒ• Now let’s say that you somehow caught something from someone like in the village. Crash out Miranda will be coming out as soon as she finds out, cause of course it would that woman is always one step off from doing some crazy shit. I don’t even have to tell you what she does, but just know it’s bloodshed that night.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

A/N: Yelp that’s all I got! Loved making this little post, again it’s always interesting to have the trope of a sick lover with Miranda. Anyway,

I do hope you enjoy these headcanons anon!! 🫶🏾

[lunarsilkscreen]

Can you write a beginners guide to chess?

Uhh. This is not my department. However; I may be able to elaborate on how my approach to chess is a bit different.

Currently; the Language of Chess is the most predominant form of [Language] and [Communication] when it comes to the Military and Political landscape.

As such; I appear to be uninformed and ignorant when I sit at their tables, despite having a*more* advanced form of tactical language in my repertoire.

[Step 1; I have been told, by assorted, musicians, in, assorted, fields; is ALWAYA SELF-PROMOTE. thats why I had to that first.]

Right now there are three aspects of the [game of chess] that are covered by the literature and the nomenclature.

1) The Boardstate

2) The Tactics

3) The Opponent

0) The Void

When we begin a [game of chess], the first thing we notice is the field and/or the pieces. That is the Board and the Pieces.

These combine together to create the term we know and love called [Board State].

In [Chess] the current [Board State] is the most important thing in all of the entire game. Why? Because unlike in more advanced games, there isn't really the fear of a "Board Wipe"

Because chess is supposed to be hyper-realistic and nobody comes back after a board wipe.

Now let's take a moment here to Google some GothamChess reaction videos to ChatGPT playing chess ... That is; a game between two LLMs where each seems to be playing by its own set of rules.

What is each of these things doing? Why/how can it break the rules?

Because Large-Language Models reference the board state as [one-move] differences. Instead of by [How a piece can move]

Now, this has probably been corrected by more advanced LLMs, but the example remains. You're welcome.

How each of those models might come to define what is meant as a [one-move difference between Boardstates] is up to that particular Large-Language-Model's interpretation.

2) The Opener!

[The Opener] is kind of like picking a class in a RPG, you follow a strict "Rotation" [sequence of moves, or algorithm] and the goal is to ensure to maximize your own opportunities over your opponent available opportunities. While maintaining your board state and/or rotation.

2) The Opener AND Boardstate

Because [The Opener] isn't as strictly defined as a class in an RPG; it may change when your Boardstate changes.

If for, for example, your opponent pushes you from "London Play" into the perfect "Grunfeld" Boardstate... Then you automatically get to choose if you wanna switch tactics.

^ this is kind of the key to my approach in chess. I let the opponent do what they want while reacting just enough to set-up my own board state *until* one of us sets off a "Move Cascade"

A [Cascade] is a series of moves that are forced, or the alternative is too high risk. And so each player looks as though they are playing speed chess getting through "The Cascade" but it's just [Asteroids or Plagues] hitting the board like in [Hearthstone].

The tricky part is knowing which move is most valuable.

3) The Opponent

Who are you playing against?

How do they react when you play certain moves?

Do they always react a certain way when provoked?

Do you?

Are both of you aware of the Opponent's Depth of awareness?

--This is my weakness here. I'm not a Poker Player, I'm not about the social algorithm, just the physical one.

Are they likely to switch Boardstates when presented with the opportunity or not? Are they aware of the possibility?

This one is not clearly defined, because this is anything that is outside the rules of chess. If, for example; you're playing chess "Prison Rules" style... What's stopping your opponent from throwing dust in your eyes and their "Referee" from messing with the pieces?

<aside>"referee" in this facet I'm using as a Fencing term. In a Brawl, you always show up with a possè in case the other guy in the duel and *his* possè don't "Play by the rules." Effectively; both sides should bring their own referees. But maybe the fight transcends individuals for some reason, then the referees get to Duke it out while we go for a cuppa something.</aside>

<aside>Now. When the Referees are both prison guards.. *everybody* has problems and the guards are probably raking the take for the simulated "prison beef."</aside>

The Void;

[strqyr]

shout out to leo for his "who are you trying to convince?" @ raven bc this was truly the True Colors™ moment for raven in that episode that got to the very core of her character. every single other time she gets accused of something she has some kind of a response but this time? she just. leaves lmao she can't answer that bc the answer would be "me, myself, and i" like literally no one else is buying what she's selling.

and it's not even a new thing, she's already doing it in the flashback: "it's... you're better at that life, better than i was..." <- if that ain't trying to justify her decision to herself after she has already made it then i don't know what is. like she wanted that life, tho, and unless there was something going on before her departure, she'd have no reason to believe summer would fully commit to that life, either. it just so happened that she did, and now raven can tell herself that she made the right choice bc summer was always going to be better at that life than her anyway so checkmate.

anyway. raven is very good at trying to convince herself of stuff, but i don't think it's really working; that's why she keeps doing it over and over again.

[abyssembraced]

so for that meme. ghost reaching the abyss for the first time.

Send me a quote/scene from my muse’s canon, and I'll explain what went through their head during it! (Accepting!)

The door before them crumbled into particles of light. With the mark of King seared into them, no secrets could remain sealed.

A platform ahead, ending in open air. They stepped onto it. Cold metal, unlike the fossils and stone that preceded it. They looked down.

Dark. Their pale shell the only illumination offered. Deep. Couldn't see the bottom.

A calling, below.

They descended.

Platform to platform. Into the depths. Pits of spikes. Broken shells of fallen bugs. Shadow Creepers crawling about (harmless. Source of SOUL if necessary). Corpses increasing in number.

...Familiar.

They've been here before. But when? They didn't know. Yet the calling in their core persisted. They continued on.

Misjudged distance. Missed the next platform. Desperate flutter of wings. Reaching out with claw. Missed. Falling. Familiar.

Impact with ground. Floor of shells. Rise. Careful not to stumble. Familiar.

A shadow emerged from the depths. Living darkness took shape into a creature.

Familiar. Familiar.

So, so familiar. They knew this being, this darkness. Why this was, they did not know (could not recall?), yet it was an undeniable fact, the truth of which they felt with utmost certainty. This being and them, they were... Alike.

There was a word to be used. They did not know it.

They had felt like this once before, had they not? That broken, Infected vessel of Lightseeds had evoked a similar sensation of Alikeness. Albeit lesser, far lesser, than what they felt toward the shadow before them now. Obscured by the Infection back then, perhaps, or for some other reason.

They stood still, watching, as the other, in turn, took proper notice of them. As it floated toward them, drawing ever closer.

PAIN.

An explosion upon their shell, their insides, their mind. Emotions transferred to them from the Alike. Feelings of... Bad. They did not know the words.

Enemy. Danger. Fight back.

The fighting stopped. The being's form split apart by their blade, curling into an orb of shadow once more. Returning to the earth.

Silence.

...

Their nail is returned to their back.

A calling, below. Deeper. Yet there was no distance left to fall. Perhaps, if they pressed onward, some tunnels would lead them further down.

They continued on.

[wholemleko]

.

[keikakudori]

              HOW MANY TIMES OVER THE YEARS HAD AIZEN ALLOWED THE KIDO TO PLAY ITS POWER OVER GIN, choosing to end some evenings when his partner was ill and being a particular brat by using the influence of that particular one to send him into rest? Too many times to count, really; there had been days when the younger man would refuse the care and doting that surfaced in him, echoes of a boy who had been unable to do anything for his mother spending time and effort and will dealing with someone who was utterly stubborn about refusing the care that was needed. There were wounds in him that had healed crooked, that would never be unknit without a truly tremendous force to override what had come before and not even this new sweeping expanse of a pinnacle in his power and strength had been enough to overcome such wounds and scars. The snarl was met with a pool of brown that was world-weary, a sorrow and new depth of understanding of things in evidence -- and with the eye that had been stained evermore by that day into a depth of silver against amethyst. He was raw, stripped of illusion and hubris, but no less himself. Perhaps, instead, he was more himself than he had ever been at any time past -- or at least far more himself than he had been for the last two years. Now he was exposed beneath the live-wire of those blue eyes that had become able to cut through every layer and every illusion, aware of how exposed he was to him now..

              ❝ Fair is fair, Gin, ❞ came the soft murmur of his words to ease the younger man down into his slumber, the honeyed tone of that rich bass seeking to chase the viper down into unconsciousness that awaited him. ❝ Sleep. ❞ It was not the first time that Aizen had ever said that in reply to the younger man when using what Gin named one of his own tricks and he hoped that it would not be the last time either. Of course, the viper might decide to throw a punch at him later for doing this. But Aizen would accept any punches hurled at him by his partner in crime, especially since he knew he deserved that and worse.

              Yet how easily he slipped beneath the blankets, the fire flaring a little with a touch of his power to ensure that it would remain warm throughout the night and be unlikely to go out; coals were fine but rebuilding a fire that had gone out was annoying even, even with kido and such abilities at play. Despite the exhaustion that burrowed throughout his body, Aizen was not able to find his own sleep immediately. No, his own mind was a turbulent mess, cascading through the shock of revelation that had hammered at him without his having a few moments of respite. The knowledge that Gin had not only survived but was here had been the largest shock of them all, something that he had not truly stopped reeling from until now, it felt. Even with everything that had happened, it all felt a fever dream, a heated rush of knowledge that had only finally begun to settle the way mud or silt stirred up in water took time to settle back into place before those waters could become clear again. Then the first death since their reunion, Gin cutting his head off, himself still trapped in the cage, Gin being wounded, Gin being killed, droplets of his blood arcing in a fluid drapery in the air as they prescribed a comma with a long tail ---

              A shudder shook his body at that memory, something that saw those limbs tighten gently around the svelte figure that meant so much to him. Bastard that he was, Aizen could only greedily drink in the contact now as his mind decided to pipe up, a demented little whisper in the back of his head that said how well he knew Gin could remain asleep, especially with Hakufuku. Punching his own brain was impossible, but he chased down a few pleasant seconds of reverie by imagining himself strangling that voice in particular at this point in time with a hint of a smile upon his face even as his eyes closed and he relaxed with a low sigh of sound -- or perhaps it was better to say he mostly relaxed, a contrast to what that brief whisper of an almost forgotten hunger echoing somewhere in the depths of mind and body alike.

              But he was not able to slumber as of yet as his arms cradled Gin close, face tucked in against his throat the way that they would often lay together in first his quarters at the Fifth's barracks and then furthermore those shared nights in the chambers which belonged to them both, and he found himself thinking even as his eyelids drooped shut. It might have been called overthinking and it would not be entirely incorrect to make such a statement. His mind was not able to stop working despite the exhaustion that weighed his bones down like a coating of lead, not able to stop from turning everything that had unfolded in the last -- what was it? Two days? Three? He had lost track of time --- over and over on themselves even as power hummed beneath his skin. It was as if something vastly misaligned had suddenly somehow been set to its proper place within his body -- perhaps in his very soul. He could never go back from this point, he knew.

              The power, now that he had touched it, was always going to be there with him. A stark difference underlined the differences of the last few days and the prior events of his own life, though -- this time, Aizen did not shy away from the power that he bore the way he had used to, the way he had turned himself away from the lion's share of what he contained The air was warm, not just from the fire, but from what rolled off of him in gentle waves that wrapped around the unconscious silver-haired man in a cocoon of protective weave, his senses racing outwards. Nothing would be able to cross that subconscious perimeter that would not immediately have him on alert. For now, the worlds were held together by the presence of the thing that he understood on a level deeper than thought. It was etched into his bones, aware of it just as he was of the malign star upon the horizon that was the presence which marked Yhwach's own power and presence alike.

              This was the heritage he had never asked for.

              A heritage that had destroyed the life of the only woman he had ever truly loved and had slowly twisted through him, growing, thriving as it ever had and not something he had thought of. He did not know of what Kyoka Suigetsu had done when Aizen Sousuke had been driven to break the chains of his own self-restraint and to embrace the full depths of the power that he was endowed with when Gin had witnessed her. Aizen had allowed Gin to behold that inner world more than once and she had always been a delighted hostess, elegant and graceful, her smile calling to mind legends of fox-faced women. Obviously, Aizen had been influenced well before Gin had ever come into his life, for she had been formed long ago and had guided him along to understanding her. He was not aware of the gratitude that she had displayed in response for the fact that he had, at last, finally stepped into the fullness of his power. Always and ever from the moments of their first meeting had Ichimaru Gin become a catalyst for Aizen Sousuke and his evolution. First had come that monstrous Hollow at the height of the events within Karakura Town, where Aizen had been felled by the divine spear that had cut through his body and destroyed his heart.

              And now his bloodline had awakened within him, quickened, and he was nothing more than the product of that heritage in a true sense of the word -- but he was also what that heritage had always been meant to become, perhaps. Just as Yhwach's abilities had returned in full to him, so did the Shinigami parallel him with the refulgence of his abilities having surged to the forefront. It was not the events of the past day and a half that Aizen dreamt of, however; it was of a memory of an event that had come to him well over a hundred years ago, long before he had ever met the viper that his weary arms held against himself now, unknowing of the turmoil that Gin's soul was undergoing, of the discussion about redemption and forgiveness. His mind sank back to what had been a dream that had surged through him following the one time before these recent catastrophic events when he had nearly unlocked the power of his Bankai before. When he had laid fingers upon the golden thread that danced within the depths of his soul.

              It had been mere chance, him slipping without thought to the depths of his own soul and beholding what laid beneath the waters where the moon shone bright and the night sky above was speckled with stars, where the flowers glowed with fireflies dancing across the lotus blossoms that floated upon the water, a mirroring of the moonless skies above. Down below the water he had sunk, guided by his own meditation and feeling out something he had never noticed before, something that stirred the depths of his soul and a brightness that dwelt below, pulsing, brilliant, blinding as he drew closer and closer to it. It was like how they described the stars in this modern age; not just pinpricks of light, but giant gaseous balls of flame held condensed by their own gravity. He had shrunk away from it, fearful, even as he was drawn towards it. It was laced over with dark chains, so many that only thin shafts of light spilled out from between the links that held back so much of that power that he knew was his own He was already immensely strong, enough that he tried to conceal it, aware of how much it would only isolate him and make others fearful of him if he were to show it off.

              Yet, for one moment, his hand had found a spot between those chains, drawn to touch without conscious thought and drawn close without his being aware of it, as if hypnotized to come closer. He had reached out and only one fingertip had brushed against that star's heart. The heat should have left him ashes, the density of power should have crushed him beneath its gravitational pull. But no - this was his own power, more than he would ever need, more than he ever wanted to know he possessed, at his fingertips.

              He had never wished for power like this. It had been his nascent power that had ruined the life of his mother and seen her withering away. It had been that power which had seen Hollow pursuing him when he had been but a boy, intent upon devouring him and instead taking the opportunity to devour those lesser souls who were ever kind enough to take him in. It had been because of power he had been isolated and it was power that he shunned and wished desperately to be parted from. But one fingertip found the boiling surface of this star and touched across it ----

              A flash. A room draped with dark curtains that hung from a circular dais mirrored by heavy architecture above in circumference. There was a power here and he was staring at a large block of blue crystal that bore a shadowy figure within it. Aizen Sousuke found cold sweat breaking across his back as he realized with a gutted sort of awe where he stood as more features resolved. A body, limbless, but for vague indentations where arms had been, where the legs had been hacked off above the knee. A face that was flawless and perfect, eyes that were open and -- and--- AND IT WAS LOOKING AT HIM. For one long, silent moment in which all of creation seemed to pause, his eyes met the strange ones of the entity that was known as the Soul King AND AIZEN SOUSUKE WAS LEFT FOREVER CHANGED BY THAT SIMPLE ACT. Here, in the presence of this being, he was left suddenly aware of his own body, of the power that waited to be called forth if he but attempted to use it in the way it was meant to be. He was suddenly aware that there was something that tied him to this -- THING.

              Cells bloomed suddenly with a new awareness and he found his legs trembling, lips parted, awareness suddenly spilling out from him in a cosmic web of possibilities as his mind raced down pathways that had never before been opened. Images were a blur, impressions of moments, of physical sensations that cut across his mind, flashes of moments that suddenly bloomed here and there into random coherency. He was suspended within a void and watching as this being stepped forth and spun the worlds into creation. It was with a resounding cascade of noise throughout the universe, three worlds spun into life and a fourth by design, a realm for the truly wicked to progress towards when the time came for them to perish. Stars burst into life and he was but one small figure in the vastness of the cosmos and once again, those eyes were turning towards him and a hand reached out. Despite himself, Aizen found his own hand lifting and reaching out as if to connect in the way that a plant would reach towards the heat of the sun itself ----

              And then he understood without knowing how he understood and rage ripped through him.

              ❝ -- you, ❞ he breathed, fury rising hot and fast within his breast. ❝ It's you--. I had never thought, never even guessed at who could have -- and now I know. I know it's your fault. It's because of you that she's gone. It's because of you that things are -- so wretched! Do you even care about us?! Do you feel anything at all for us?! I know you never cared about her so I won't ask you about that - but what of those of us who lived in the Rukongai?! What could you ever say for yourself! ❞

              There was, however, no answer. He doubted there would ever be one. Those strange, alien eyes continued to regard him even as that hand stretched out towards him. Was it benediction? Warning? Was it an offer to give him more than this? Aizen could not have said and he didn't

              ❝ You're the reason for all of it, aren't you?! You're the one responsible for my own And now you reach out to me?! Never-- I could never belong to something as uncaring and unfeeling as you are. Whatever you are -- you don't understand anything about those of us who live here! You took her from me! It was your fault! Whatever it was, it remains your fault! Because of you, I cursed her before I was ever born and because of you, she died when she didn't have to! I lost her because of you! I lost her because of what I am! A monster, just like you! ❞

              Words that made logic in the nearly forgotten piece of himself that would ever remain that boy that had watched in mute silence as his mother's body was wrapped in winding cloth of white in the wake of her passing, one of her combs clutched between his small hands. He had not wept then as she was laid in her final resting place. That comb had been one of her favorites -- and one of his. A beautiful piece of lacquered hardwood, painted with greens and golds, with mother-of-pearl songbirds nested in a group of leaves with golden berries picked out amongst the jade foliage. His aunties had been kind even as they'd descended upon her belongings to divide them up between themselves. He remembered his favorite one, the one who had snuck him sweets from the kitchens, had been the one to take it. Aizen had wanted to kill them all. That comb and those clothes had belonged to his mother. No, the owner of the brothel said, they belonged to him because her contract had been owned by him. And then he had thrown Aizen out.

              He had not wept for her. He had always hated himself for that moment, of being unable to cry for his mother's loss. The tears did come, eventually -- but not for years upon years and his shame at them when they had come had made him never want to weep again. But he had wept more than once in his life ---- and he had wept TEARS OF GOLD over Ichimaru Gin. But in those moments, with her wrapped in her shroud and being carried to the unmarked grave that a prostitute would be granted out there in the Rukongai. He had tried to remember where it was when he'd gone back, years later, had tried to know which of those sad little hints of raised earth had been hers. But his memory had failed him and he'd never known which one it had been. He had always hated himself for that too. A child should remember where their mother was buried, after all. He had never invited Gin out there with him though he would make brief, occasional forays out into that district, trying to piece together the location from foggy memory. Maybe he would change that, now. It had been too intensely personal back then. Just as Gin's own secret had been intensely personal. When this was over, when they were left to take their peace---...

              Silence continued to hover and then there was a flicker of something else that made his head turn as a motion at the corner of his eye drew his attention, Aizen beholding a man he did not recognize, a man with a prominent nose and a mustache that flowed across his cheeks in wings of black, with red eyes that met his own depths of brown. In that moment, there was a sense of recognition that seemed to blaze between them both. They were, the two of them, tied together in some way; they were both of them tied to the Soul King, a tether of blood that bounded between their forms. Three worlds. Three points to a triangle. This man represented one point and Aizen the other; they were divergent too in their own powers for Aizen's power was innately born and this man's was parasitical and that too was representation of their diverging paths. The Soul King was the third point. He understood that too as they stood equidistant from one another in that strange, colorless place that seemed washed through with static and whiteness that overwhelmed. Still, this man that Aizen met at a glance was somehow familiar, familiar on a level which was not to do with what they were but something further than that, deeper than that, a familiarity that was a reflection of their disparate origins.

              Brotherhood was not something they pursued, however - neither of them wanted it. They both understood that when their eyes met in this vision. In the true world, Aizen would turn him down with a quiet sneer decades later in the dark.

              Then the vision was shattering and the young Shinigami was suddenly coming back to his body, falling out of Jinzen so fast he nearly plummeted off of the rock he was seated upon and onto his very face as he shook with the exhaustion that came with barely touching upon his Bankai. It was the closest that he had ever come to it before the events of this war that saw the Quincy rising from their graves in an effort to follow their leader, their figurehead, their King of the Quincy. What had begun on that cool spring afternoon when he had sat in Jinzen and had descended more deeply into his own soul than he ever had before had been fulfilled now, when red had flashed through the air. He had thought, in Muken, that the vision that had come to him of Gin falling, bleeding, had been from that one singular moment during what had occurred in Karakura Town, in that alleyway. He had not realized the vision had involved him, back then, until after the fact. He had put those things out of mind.

              But no, even that vision that had made no sense back then had been fulfilled, now; whether it was divine premonition or it had been one of the few articles of power from the barest touch of his Bankai's power to him, a singular dewdrop imparted to a man plagued by thirst, he would never be able to say. He had seen Gin falling, blood fountaining into the air, and it had been enough to play the tumblers on those locks and then suddenly see that power being seized in his hands at last as Aizen had consumed that star in full beyond taking the merest sip of the sun's power as he had for so long within his life. How he had not feared it -- until it had come time to use it. To use his power in the most selfless act that he could ever do, to give everything he was and everything that he could become in the name of saving the only person who had ever matched him, the only person who could ever count as the other piece of his soul. And even then, the fear had not been the fear of that power -- it had been fear of it overwhelming himself and running out of his control.

              Still, he had chosen to persevere despite that fear and step forward into the realm of a power that had been something that had ever been a source of revilement for him before, a notion that probably would have been at odds with what others believed of him, if they thought he was naught more than a power hungry despot aiming at the Soul King's domain for his personal gain. More fools they. For Aizen, he had not hesitated at all in his readiness to use that power for the sake of this man that he cared for. Perhaps the traitor should have been used to the way his relationship with Gin evolved over the years but he doubted tha that he ever would be. And there was a peacefulnes that came with that. Aizen would rather have Gin at his side and enjoy the chaos that came with it than remain alone, suspended forever in a singular spot and ignoring the world as it passed him by, a swirling river of light and noise tha would never encroach upon his soul-deep pain and solitude.

              His dreams had him twitching, from time to time, curling tighter about Gin's body with his own, his legs tangling with Gin's even in their sleep. Comfort came from the fact that they were together, but emotional exhaustion had him feeling the depths of his own weariness. Of course, they were both suffering from similar exhaustion. Gin's came from a secret unearthed after a hundred years by the man who had been the instigator of such pain and Aizen's own came from a constant turbulence that had disrupted and shredded his otherwise inert placement in the world itself before there was the sudden return of Gin into his life, of being killed more than once, of discovering his Bankai and the power contained therein---… everything was strange now. Everything was different.

              Everything since he had come to awareness and seen Shunsui standing there, beckoning in Gin, had been so much. Only now, during sleep, did he begin to have a hope of processing anything that had come before -- processing the fact that Gin was alive. That he was here in his arms. That he had achieved Bankai at last all in the name of saving this man that he had damaged. There was also the moment of processing the knowledge that had spilled out of Gin, information that was not exactly something that Aizen could own but something that he could not deny - nor would he ever deny them again. Gin had been correct to call him out and he was left changed by this as much as he was changed by Gin's revival back into his life. He was changed by his own Bankai and his acceptance of the power that now echoed through him and showed itself in the simple weight of the air itself. He was changed and he would always remain changed from all of this - he would never be the man he was before and that knowledge did not pain him nor upset him. It was for the best. After all, the man he had been before had been something of a real asshole --- as he was sure Gin would say.

              This was for the best.

              Yet what had him waking suddenly, lifting himself upwards, was the sudden feeling that cascaded over him and left him gasping quietly. Gin's own awakening had him moving a hand towards Gin, unhesitating, fingers touching down upon the pale strands of hair without thought as if to soothe the younger man back into the depths of slumber. Weariness still hammered away at his body, but less so than before. Whatever he had dreamed, Aizen could not recall beyond a vague sense that something of monumental importance had been shifted into place while he had rested, something that saw him stroking that hand through Gin's hair. Somewhere within himself, he had acknowledged that he would never allow anything to happen to him again. He'd surrender his own body first, his own immortality, his own life, before he ever permitted Gin to fall once more. Between them both, he was the one that Aizen would always choose to live, to survive.

              For all of that sentiment, something about the way the air hummed and twitched against his skin had Aizen wanting to bare his teeth at nothing in particular. His reiatsu slivered into the air, a vibrato of a deep bass note that hung like a bell's peal, going on and on, hanging in the air like a sustained note of musical origin -- no, not a bell but an organ's groaning sustained press of a key, rippling with brassy richness of massive pipes. It played through the air as he moved, as if a shadow of his power clung to him in a phantom echo of his movements for but a second or two. Then it was fading away once more and he closed his eyes. Two individuals, perhaps three kilometers out, touching the first of those far-flung barriers -- unfolded even while he'd slept, natural instincts that had been absent for TWO YEARS due to his being entrapped within Muken; barriers to keep himself and Gin safe, barriers crafted to keep out even the strongest of his Espada --- yet those strongest had ever had certain permissions to enter, sometimes.

              Yet the Quincy did not. His head tilted and he brought his hand up towards his own face, the side of his finger touching to his own mouth for a second before he murmured quietly. ❝ --- two Quincy, both at least three kilometers out and away from here. There is plenty of distance that they'd need to cover to find this place and my veils will keep us concealed, but I'm certain there's a reason why they would be out here at all. Probably best if we were to take care of them both sooner rather than later. ❞ Doubtless, they were searching for the two traitors in hopes of accomplishing something. Of course, he'd need to be creative. He had a few suspicions about Yhwach that he didn't want to voice as of yet, but the memory of the vision he'd seen so long ago was lingering in the back of his head. He had willfully forgotten about it years ago, not wanting to entertain the notion that he was somehow different and apart back then. And now it turned out he always had been.

              Then, slowly, that visible brown eye edged towards Gin and Aizen offered a ghost of that old smirk as his fingertip touched to his lips for a few seconds longer, almost provocative, nearly flirtatious in how he regarded the younger man at his side and he lowered his hand slowly and down to his lap. ❝ … what would you say to the idea of a hunt, Gin? It's been so long since we've gone on a hunt at all with the freedom to do as we please. If you're feeling up for it, that is. I do understand things have been strenuous lately, but … ❞ How he left the invitation hanging open and allowed the one he named his viper to decide on whether or not he wanted to pursue the idea of a hunt -- but Aizen would be fine enough if the younger man decided to opt for the idea of a mere snipe instead. It wouldn't be the first time that he had aimed those shots and it wouldn't be the last time, Aizen was sure. Gin had fine senses, but given that Aizen had built those barriers, his understanding of where the two intruders were was even keener than the younger man's might be.

              But oh, it was many more things than just an idle suggestion of something like a hunt. It was a tentative olive branch and a subtle flirt, something that he offered almost shyly. Two years had been a long, long time -- and Aizen was suddenly and acutely aware of the nearness they shared, of how the air was warm from their shared body heat, of how near Gin as to him. It had his heart thumping a few harder beats in his chest, a warmth touching the pit of his stomach. It was such a silly offer but it was equally made in earnestness, in a quiet sort of hope that Gin would agree to the idea of going and having some simple fun, as if to get their feet beneath them both now. Aizen needed a little bit of a test run with this change in his power, he knew, and he was certain that Gin wouldn't mind too terribly, of course.

THE FAMILIAR SENSATION OF HAKUFUKU WAS DIFFICULT TO MISS, even amid his raging emotions and utter collapse inward. Gin detected that telltale bloom of blurred snow drifting down from the ceiling, hollowing out the cabin’s innards, blackness searing onto the edges of his vision. Hazy, he remembered gripping at Aizen’s front with rage and grief both still brewed potently inside of himself, a hunch of his shoulders as though contemplating one last vicious lashing of a felled predator. He was wounded, and being smothered – smothered enough that he jolted, briefly, in an instinctive recoil. A rejection. And in that rejection, those haze-filled eyes pierced into Aizen’s, his expression a snarl.

❝ That trick’s mine, you ass – ❞ More of a slurred growl than an actual curse and loathsome reaction to feeling the surge of slumber gripping at his awareness. The more Gin fought it, the taller the wave brimmed on the horizon. Eventually, as all things with him seemed to be doing as of late, it crashed down.

The snowfall continued lazily, absorbing the cabin into its whimsical winds. Out and beyond the frozen lake that took form within the great expanse of Gin’s inner mind stretched into view. The little shack was stable, albeit fragile, with roof panels disheveled upon its ragged top. They’d need fixing again. Something around here always needed fixing.

❝ I’ll become a Shinigami to fix things – ❞ an echo whispered, childlike in its hope, yet matured by the specks of blood that tainted that little pipe dream. There was no grand serpent here amongst the mountainous horizons to greet Gin – no, only himself, a boy, shrouded by blackened night draped over his too-small shoulders. Shinso did not always adorn himself with such theatrics, though Gin surmised the spirit was likely feeling a little… raw, just as he was. Scraped free of its scales, the hide of the beast hid within itself the anger of a boy who had only barely understood the gravity of a crime he briefly observed, peering down from the dirt pathway above.

❝ At least, that’s what I thought I’d do. But I didn’t. You didn’t. ❞ his voice was eerie, lacking the dialect his silver tongue typically wove its words with, a low hissed tone slithered its way between the breaths that puffed out from his smiling little mouth – the implication that at any moment the monstrous force of Kamishini No Yari could bring forth its forked tongue from his lips. Until then, vibrant eyes gazed up. There was raw emotion, but there was primarily… scrutiny.

❝ It’s been… decades, now, hasn’t it? A hundred years. She doesn’t know. You made sure she doesn’t know you haven’t fixed it. Seeing as you’re so… comfortable with him, now, letting him hold you like that… why not just move on? Why, you’re on the road to forgiveness at this rate. ❞ A slicing little smile reached practically ear-to-ear, devoid of any true reason to smile.

Gin received that smile akin to a spit in his face. The words were equally so vile. They were abhorrent. He knew the feeling well – this particular flavor of self-disgust.

❝ Move on from it? From what he did? That’s not my choice. It ain’t my trauma to bury, here – ❞ He edged towards reprimanding, an authority that matched Shinso’s hissing undertones; don’t challenge me.

❝ Then why carry it, why hold onto it all this time? ❞

The challenge was, apparently, unavoidable.

❝ She doesn’t remember what happened, she doesn’t know what was taken. If she knew, she wouldn’t try so hard to hide her failin’s behind th’ mask of alcohol ‘n laziness to excuse her lack of strength as a lack of drive. She wouldn’t keep everybody at a distance, she wouldn’t act like everythin’ was fine. ❞ Shallowly assessing the depths of what was done to his childhood friend felt criminal, but Gin supposed there was enough blood under his fingernails to excuse the cruel brevity for now. He was speaking to the only other person who knew that there was more than what was spoken, after all.

❝ You remember what happened, you know what was taken – and yet you still hide behind a mask, don’t you? You excuse your deeds as a necessity. You keep everyone at a distance. You act like everything’s fine. ❞ The child’s voice was low and methodical. A surgeon’s precision. Ill-fitting for the guise of a lanky young boy.

❝ Rangiku ain’t ever in a position where tellin’ the truth about herself could get her or her loved ones killed. ❞ Gin’s quip was equally precise, a reminder; I don’t have the luxury of drinking my nightmares away.

❝ Aizen Sousuke didn’t kill you. No, he might have tried, that day, but so did you. And in the end, when you were eventually killed and not by his own hand, he still brought you back to life. ❞

The child was unmoving, save for that wicked mouth. Gin narrowed his eyes, pacing to the side. The snowfall crunched beneath his steps, though he didn’t need to trudge through the accumulation quite yet. ❝ It almost sounds like you’re arguin’ in favor of Aizen. Where’d all that… divine righteousness of yours go, hm? ❞

❝ Forgiveness can be a righteous act. ❞ A calculated reply. The serpent was rather set on the matter. Gin bristled. Shinso remained steadfast, wearing his own skin, smiling.

❝ Do you forgive Aizen Sousuke for what he did to her, to all of those people? ❞ Now, Gin felt a sliding knife of betrayal place itself against his back. Not quite delving into his skin, but the prickling sense of the threat was there. His blade, his weapon, his one true reliable entity… was Shinso doubting him?

❝ Do you? Can you? Will you? ❞ The child watched, waiting, assessing Gin the same way Gin now sought to assess him.

❝ I ain’t one of his victims, I don’t get to decide whether or not he’s redeemed himself for what he’s done. I don’t get to decide that I’m done, that I wanna jus’… forget. ❞ The scrutiny Shinso gazed at him with seemed to intensify, and the winds of doubt ripped with more force against his frame.

❝ I can’t imagine Rangiku could hold the grudge that you have for over a century. ❞

❝ If you wanna plead with me to forgive him, then you gotta at least tell me why you’ve changed your tune. You wanted to eat his heart. ❞ Gin spoke slowly, measured, obscuring the tremor of emotions which still ran too high for his comfort. Too intense for his head to not pound, his ears ringing with the song of his heartbeat lodged somewhere in his throat.

❝ I only ever wanted what you wanted. ❞ The sincerity Shinso spoke with burned Gin. He returned the favor, almost akin to a plea for a ceasefire.

❝ I don’t want to forgive him. ❞ A tired confession, a hollow one.

❝ I think you do, you just don’t realize it. You want it over and done with. You want to wash your hands of it all. ❞ Shinso’s words felt… wrong.

❝ I can’t forgive him, it’ll never be over, and I’ll always have stained hands. ❞ Finality rang out and Gin despaired over the verdict he issued himself. This despair was something familiar to him, something he accepted long ago – it presented itself as an old ache, something belonging to a scar that sometimes grew sore or tight after already healing over.

❝ Can’t, or won’t? You won’t let yourself even try. ❞

❝ Do you think those men let Rangiku try to run away from'em before chasin’ her down? ❞ Gin snapped, a whirlwind of heavier snow swirled, the billowing bite of cold at their cheeks.

❝ That happened when she was a little girl, she’s a grown woman now, do you honestly think it needs to be held for this long – especially now, now that you’ve opened his eyes to it? Now that you can finally speak about it? ❞

❝ Would you tell that lil girl to swallow those negative feelin’s she’s havin’ – jus’ like you’re tellin’ me – because too much time’s passed 'n she needs to move on? I held a mangled girl’s soul in my hand, the one he ripped outta her. I had it, I had it. I can’t let it go. ❞

❝ Why hold on!? Why grit your teeth, the prey’s lost, you need to move on! ❞

In a blur, the naked blade of a wakizashi unearthed itself from the draped sleeve of Gin’s right arm. He struck the boy at his left, severing the limb in a clean cutting instant. The boy did not jolt nor did he wince, though his eyes veered toward a sort of mixture between confusion and hurt – a wound not of flesh, but of the soul. And Gin, with all of his snarling, did not restrain himself from spitting venom at the veiled serpent’s bloodied body still standing so small, there, before him.

❝ – move on from that. ❞ Another mutilating strike to the other side, lopping flesh from forearm and wrist, a hand dropping into fresh snow at their feet. The red bloomed outwards, a poison. ❝ Forgive that,❞ The blade plunged into the boy’s chest, twisting. ❝ – don’t hate that it happened. Don’t loathe th’ pain, the loss.❞ Gin yanked the blade free and swept the following ribbon of blood outwards in an arching strike away from himself. The billowing robes of white remained pristine, but the snow around them was bloodied. The boy was mauled, spurting, dripping crimson from that ever-smiling mouth. ❝ Is that what you want me to tell myself? ❞

❝ Forgiveness has to be earned, but yes. ❞ Bloody lips still spoke, though a shuddered heave hitched itself, wet, inside the boy’s throat.

❝ And he HASN’T EARNED IT! He won’t ever earn it. And neither will I! ❞ The winds howled but Gin’s rarely raised voice still carried past the tormented blizzarding air.

❝ Didn’t you just say you couldn’t decide whether or not he has redeemed himself… ❞

❝ Redemption 'n forgiveness ain’t the same. He might’ve redeemed himself, but he’ll never be forgiven. He’ll need to crawl on his hands'n knees in front of her, confessin’ everythin’… he’ll need to beg, he’ll need to unmake every piece of that rotten thing before I even consider that an option. ❞

❝ It seems we’ve found where my righteousness went. ❞

❝ It seems that, given your weak-willed backtrackin’… maybe I should’ve accepted Hollowfication. Maybe then you would’ve been good enough to defeat'im. ❞ Spiteful words spoken, ones that Gin internally recoiled back from after they left his mouth. Or maybe that was an indiscernible flinch from Shinso that he felt.

❝ Being stubborn is not synonymous with being right about something, Ichimaru-sama. ❞ A sadness, an exasperated tone. Gin was speaking to a child and yet he was not the elder here – the serpentine spirit was, and he was the boy. The boy he mutilated, the boy he left a crippled mess, a heap of bloodied questions; why, why, why, why –

❝ This was never about what’s right 'n what’s wrong. ❞ Tiredness exuded from him and Gin looked away, looked into the biting winds and shut his eyes to let the cold sink its teeth into him.

❝ Of course. It’s about… – ❞

The dream faded to the tip of Gin’s mind as it groggily emerged into wakefulness, a slow blink of his eyes hazily clearing the fog. Hakufuku draped over his senses like a warm and heavy blanket. Gin needed a minute to gather himself, the thickness in his throat residual from his dreamstate’s heightened emotions. Or perhaps he was sore from sobbing – either way, he swallowed and shifted. The bed was warm, and for a brief flickering moment the world seemed warless. Gin felt transported back to a time when waking to find himself accompanied in bed was normalcy.

It was only when Aizen’s body shot upright that Gin became aware of the fact that he’d been embraced by the older man whilst asleep. In the absence, he felt a chill roll its way toward his shoulders. But he could not dissect his current emotional stance on the act of cuddling – whatever stirred Aizen into that look of concern and alertness was enough to bring Gin to a sluggish ascension, too.

❝ Somethin’ comin’? ❞ It’d not surprise the Shinigami, at least. Aizen’s time spent in recovery also allowed their enemies time to recover and regroup, too. Out beyond their barriered-off safehouse were two scouting Quincy, set forth to seek the special threat of Aizen Sousuke. Scouting out in hopes of serving their struck-down lord – and perhaps, soon, leading Yhwach to their doorstep.

[piece-of-pierce]

Danny picked up some traits from his parents. He got his mom’s flexibility and reflexes, his dad’s love of anything chocolate flavored and abnormally great cardiovascular health. The trait they both passed on (to Danny AND Jazz) is an intense need to learn everything they can about what they don’t like.

Jazz remembers what it was like when Uncle Hammond passed and Aunt Alicia got different. She’s terrified of her own emotions effecting her like that some day, so studies psychology like there’s no tomorrow.

Jack and Maddie bonded over their shared fear and death and resulting desire to learn everything they could about it.

Danny can’t stand clowns. They’re dishonest and hide who they are behind heavy makeup and outlandish costumes. Freak show kicks that dislike into a full-on phobia though, so he goes all in on learning everything he can. How does clown school work? What are the requirements to be a clown? What rules do they have to follow? If he knows their limitations, he knows their weaknesses. He will not be caught off guard again.

That knowledge sits in the back of his mind like a comfort blanket. Every so often he’ll dip back in and research if there’s anything that’s changed. He wants to keep on top of any information about his greatest enemies.

Finally, he manages to graduate high school with a 2.7 GPA and 31 on the ACT thanks to his Math and Science scores (and a carefully managed brawling schedule with his rogues). Thanks to those, he managed to get a partial scholarship to Gotham U for Physics and Engineering. He still isn’t sure how he managed that, but he’ll happily take it.

What he won’t take is this FALSE Clown trying to cause trouble right before finals! He’d kept on top of his shit all semester and wasn’t gonna let anyone kidnapping him and some other people off the street get in his way.

Later, the Bats manage to find where the hostages were held because one of them waved down Robin. As in, all the captives had gotten free and when they found the right warehouse, it was to one young man berating the Joker.

“You’re nothing but a modern rendition of the town fool!”

[blackkatdraws2]

[Toon x Mobster] Chapter 1: First encounter.

Next - (chapter list) / (AO3 ver)

Jack Desmond was running under the heavy rain with a bag over his head, as he had given his umbrella to an old lady on his way home. It was an act of generosity that wasn't out of place in the whimsical place of cartoons.

He almost missed the dark shape sprawled out in an alleyway. Nothing too unusual, maybe some ne'er-do-wells or a goofy character caught in some mishap, but somehow, his gut told him that it felt different. Disturbingly out of place.

Faintly, his nose picked up on a worrying scent. Hesitant yet worried, he trudges closer, his shoes being tainted with red as he knelt down beside the dark figure. “Hey, buddy, you alright?” he called out, voice full of concern. His fingers tentatively touched the man’s shoulder.

Jack gasped, pulling his hand back quickly. His fingers were smeared with something deeply red and thick. His brain slowly processes what he's seeing, unbelieving. With the scent being washed down by the heavy rain, he pulls his palm closer to his nose to take a sniff.

His spine crawls and he jolts up, confused eyes shaking yet staying transfixed on the injured person as he stumbles backwards. He takes a closer look at the man's face- or, just his entire self for that matter. Staring back at him was a foreign face twisted into a harsh scowl, unconscious. Deep scars crisscrossed his face, making him look rather villainous.

This guy wasn’t a Toon. The thick dark coat, those scars- the blood. This man was from another Genre, one that didn’t belong in their streets of lighthearted fun.

His eyes caught sight of the gun tucked into the man’s coat, confirming Jack’s fears.

He's a Grim… perhaps a Guktav member?

The Guktav is one of the biggest and most influential criminal syndicates in the Grim genre where this gloomy-looking person probably came from. These men were dangerous, he'd better make a run for it just in case the assailant of this scene was still nearby.

Unsettled and too riddled with uncertainty and fear, he'd planned to just mind his own business and skedaddle… but his foot stayed planted where they stood, eyes transfixed on the wounded Grim man.

The more he stared, the more the puddle of blood spread.

The rain made the blood travel to the soles of his shoes quicker, and Jack’s stomach churned. He’d never seen anything like this before, not in this city. Life here has always been peaceful and non-life threatening despite the slapstick gags of silly violence people were hit with, but this? This wasn’t funny. This sight made his innards twist.

Jack glanced down at his palms, still stained with blood. The rain hadn’t washed it away, no matter how hard it came down. Starting to get a bit dizzy, he slowly starts to walk away.

Authorities… He should go call the authorities.

…

His feet stops not too far away, and the rain comes down harder than before.

"…Oooh-! Applesticks!" Jack curses, turning back with a huff and stomping back towards the man. “This is a bad idea.” He muttered to himself, shaking his head as he bent down again-

Jack's heart nearly leapt out of his chest when the man's gruff hands grabbed unto his arms and pulled him down, bloodshot eyes glaring straight at him. Jack's legs felt weak, his knees buckling and harshly hitting the bloody floor, terrified as the man's stare told him all he needed to know.

Do anything bad and he'd kill him.

The man's eyelids twitched, pupils rolling back. His large body collapsed on top of the smaller man, making Jack stutter as he fell on his bum, unable to balance himself. Jack lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, staring at the unconscious man lying limp on his stomach, staining Jack's suit with his blood.

Jack Desmond swallows hard, his heart wavering. Should he really do this?

[This chapter has been edited.] _

Next - (chapter list)

[mysicklove]

𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐇 | R. SUKUNA

Summary: Being mated to the most blood thirsty omega around is not ideal for most alphas, but at least his body is up to par! ♡

Warnings: sub (ish???)/omega/bottom sukuna, alpha/gn! reader, strap referred as a dick, dubcon, threatening + small amount of blood (as usual), heats, slight yandere! sukuna, trueform sukuna, slight role reveral regarding omegaverse dynamics, reader is basically sukunas pet, subspaces, anal fingering, self lubrication (slick), biting, heavy praise, multiple orgasms, violent behavior, slight degradation (use of nickname whore and bitch), dirty talk, starts off as smut but then feelings are involved (reader is a simp at the end)

WC: 9.1k

A/N: sick in the head...sick in the head...

One of the world's greatest surprises is that the King of Curses is an omega. The horror stories told about him never once mentioned his dynamic, and so everybody believed that he was an alpha, which made sense considering his history. Those who came in contact with him never really had time to spread the news to others, having been killed so quickly. So only a special few knew about it.

But it wasn't like Sukuna was embarrassed of his second sex. No, the king took pride in his dynamic – it made killing alphas way more satisfying knowing that he instinctively should be baring his neck to them. And so, he never took a marking, finding nobody worthy of it.

That is until he met you. You definitely weren't worthy of his mark, being incredibly weak and holding no authority over him. But for some reason or another, Sukuna became fascinated by you. You never showed signs of fear, nor interest in him, and almost everybody feels one of the two emotions when meeting him. He was compelled to learn more about you, and somehow, Sukuna became attached to your side for a while.

He didn't love you nor feel any feelings similar to love – it was for curiosity's sake as to why you were so different than the other alphas. 

Sukuna eventually determined that you were either an idiot or crazy for how you talked to him. You treated him like he was just simply another annoying suitor around. It was entertaining to the bored king. And so, you were his test subject, and once he was done studying you, you were to be killed.

But alas, Sukuna fell into heat not long after meeting you, and he had gotten himself mated with you. A foolish thing that Sukuna has never even gotten close to doing in his entire lifetime.

He almost murdered you after his heat for daring to mark him – a permanent thing for omegas, while you, an alpha, could live your life freely. But it wasn't like you had intended to mark him. Sukuna, at the peak of his heat, had threatened to slice your head off if you didn't claim him. You didn't happen to dislike him too much, and you did not want to die, so you followed the king's orders and drove your teeth into his neck during his orgasm.

And the second his heat was over, he had run off without a word. He was humiliated by the fact that he was claimed now and had visited you multiple times since that day to put an end to your useless life. But every time he saw you, he would hide away so that you didn't see him and leave without you knowing. It wasn't his fault; everything in him screamed for him to be next to you, being freshly mated, but he refused to follow those instincts.

With his time away, he couldn't help but think about you nearly all the time. You were kind to him, even though he hates to admit it. You cleaned his body up when he was twitching from exhaustion and covered in his own bodily fluids. You must have been equally exhausted, having been forced to keep up with his pace, but not once did you complain nor mention how weak he must have looked with his drool stains on his chin.

And even before his heat, he didn't seem to mind you. He liked that you always quipped back your own insults and didn't allow yourself to get bullied by him. It made it entertaining, and he found himself enjoying conversing with a human. But still, even with your complaints of how annoying he was for not leaving you alone, you would cook extra food so that he would never go hungry. Although Sukuna didn't have a preference for human food, he still found himself eating a few bites. You were providing for an omega, and Sukuna made careful note of it, hating that he found himself pleased by it.

During his preheat, you offered your house to him and brought him blankets and pillows for nesting even when he nearly tore off your arm for entering his (your) room. And when he dragged you into his nest, you complimented it as you were supposed to, which still made his insides stir.

Plus, when he trapped you in his nest for a couple of days, you didn't make much of a fuss – other than when you had to use the restroom, to which he nipped at your hand like some sort of dog in complaint. You were a weak, pathetic alpha, and he couldn't let you roam free, practically begging to be injured. His nest was the safest place to be, and so in his head, you were to stay put there for all of his heat.

But Sukunas possessive and overprotective thoughts shifted instantly when his heat dwindled down. He got up and left the day his heat had ended, and you were left completely shocked at his sudden disappearance. It was out of the blue, considering he had been around for weeks beforehand. You couldn't help but feel distraught over it, having also felt the bond, even if it was not as extreme for an omega. Plus, during his heat, he was cuter than you have ever seen before. He was needy and whiny but still cute. 

You may have garnered your own feelings toward the curse, something close to love, or some sort of infatuation at least. So when he left, you were left nearly broken for weeks, having just previously been daydreaming about how you could manage a new life with the two of you. It was a hopeless delusion, and you should have known that, but it still hurt.

But you aren't as pathetic as he thinks, and by the second month, you were over it. Sure, the bond sometimes made you feel a little listless, but after so long, you have even begun to forget how he smelt. And your feelings toward him rapidly shifted, now finding him repulsive for abandoning you. You had decided that if he would ever come back, you would reject him.

You should have known that wasn't going to happen, considering you still harbored feelings for him. Lo and behold, nearly three months later, Sukuna returned.

He barges in the door, almost tearing it off the walls. You nearly jump out of your seat at the noise, but your eyes widen the second you smell his scent. The mating bond made it even more appealing to you, and you could also make out the smell of omega in heat. You curse under your breath at the smell but remain silent, not giving the satisfaction of you freaking out over his sudden appearance.

You were seated in your office doing work when he came in. And just seconds after you smelt him, Sukuna conjured himself behind you, sharp nails dragging up your neck in both a greeting and warning. But you weren't having any of it, a familiar rage bubbling in your chest at his return. So, you just continue to stare ahead at your screen. 

"Leave," is the first thing you say, the first command. You never used an alpha command on an omega, but this situation definitely called for it. He was mated to you, so the words had to have a more significant effect on him. But alas, he was the king of curses - he was not going to back down so easily.

"Why do you smell of other omegas, you pathetic alpha?" 

His teeth graze your neck, and you try your best not to shiver, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of it. You try to mask your scent, thinking of things other than his tongue that seems to be peeking past his lips. 

You should ignore him — you know you should ignore him, but you just can't seem to find it in you to. "I was not with others if that is what you are asking," you roll your eyes, still facing your computer while he leans over you. "Though I wish I had been."

"I would have killed them," he purrs, dragging his claws down your chest. "Ripped them apart for daring to touch what is mine while you would have sat and listened to their screams of agony." His teeth graze your earlobes, and you gulp, thinking about how horrid that would be. "Would you like it? Like to watch your omega get all possessive over you? It would fuel your little alpha pride, I would suppose."

He was releasing his scent in waves, and it was beginning to make your head spin. But it was your house, and he wasn't just going to barge in and claim it as him, so you also release your own scent, which pulls a purr-like chuckle from him. Then, you slump in your chair, finally sparing him a glance. "Omegas aren't supposed to be possessive. That is more of an alpha trait, dont you think, Sukuna?"

"And you are possessive over me?"

You go silent for a moment, reaching out to touch his face. You tilt his chin back, forcing him to bare his neck so you can run your fingers over the bite mark you made just a couple of months ago.

He goes quiet, amused by your touch but not liking your lack of response. But then you pull away, like nothing happened, and return to your computer. "I dont need to be," you sigh, "You won't let anyone fuck you that isn't me." 

One of Sukuna's top eyes twitches, and he spins the chair around, grabbing your chin to force you to look at him. Your face remains blank, and even when he begins to dig his finger into your cheek, you dont show any signs of amiss. Your lack of response drives Sukuna insane, and you raise your eyebrows at his glare. 

He growls low at you, baring his teeth and continuing to cloud your house with his now seductive scent. "You have some nerve to talk to me that way, you pathetic excuse of an alpha. You are looking at the most desired omega on this planet, and you think for a second that I wouldn't fuck somebody else?"

Your hands travel to his wrists, tugging his hand off your face. He surprisingly lets you, but with each second he seems to grow more angry. This is surprising to you because his scent conveyed a completely different emotion. Everything radiating from Sukuna was Look at me, Fuck me. And if you gave into instincts, the two of you would be without clothes by now. But alas, Sukuna left you for three months with no word, and you weren't going to allow yourself to get pushed around by him.

So, you stare back up at him, a wicked grin pulling at your face. "You are the one baring my mark and are crawling back to me after all of these months." You see his face begin to fume, and his scent turns sour from displeasure at the words. "But I am not going to fuck you. I dont want to fuck you. You left after forming a bond with me. I don't want you anymore. Go home, omega."

The words seemed to burn at your tongue, going completely against your instincts. You were purposely hurting an omega, which is everything that alpha's were basically encoded against. But alas, you did not want to get caught up in Sukuna's web.

The room smells horrid by now, mostly from disapproval but also distress — it almost made you whine out, feeling horrible for making any omega feel unwanted, but you bite your tongue and try your best not to focus on his scent. It would only do you worse in the end.

"You think you can speak to me this way because you marked me? Are you so delusional that you think I won't kill you on the spot?" His finger does now cut at your cheek, and you flinch at the stinging sensation along with the blood that now drips from your cheek. He never was afraid to use violence to prove his point. 

But then, he licks at your blood. You feel the stripe of his tongue from your chin all the way up to your cheek. "Do you want me to roll over and show my stomach to you? Want me to croon at you and beg you to pup me? I am not your omegan bitch."

"You would be more appealing if you were."

He chuckles at you, shaking his head. "I am the most appealing thing you will ever see in your puny lifetime. People would kill to be in your position."

He was nibbling on your ear at this point, dragging his pointer finger up your shirt, seconds away from ripping it in two. The scent Sukuna let out was back to being seductive, probably too overwhelmed by his heat to maintain his displeasure.

"Nobody would want to be mated to a bloodthirsty curse."

His teeth drag up your neck, and he laughs at you again, low and rumbling. "You do, or did at least. Considering you did mark me, my pathetic alpha."

The insult doesn't phase you. You shut your eyes and sigh out. You couldn't help but be turned on at this point – his knee was meticulously placed in between your legs, and the smell of heat wafted through the air. You were trapped whether you liked it or not, and you could feel the fight in you begin to dwindle. "You would have killed me if I didn't."

"And I will kill you if you turn me away again."

"Can you try to make it seem like you are not always threatening me? Alphas prefer to be the one in charge, you know."

He grabs your hand and leads it beneath his pants where his slick was pooling. You gulp, looking away and trying not to salivate at the wetness. "You can always fuck the control out of me," he breathes into your ear, and you let out a shaky sigh, "If you do it well enough, I could end up crooning at you for more. You would like that, wouldn't you?"

Your fingers find his hole, and you borderline whine, accidentally ignoring his question. You have been thinking about this for months now, and him now being here now sends your head spinning. "So wet."

"'s all for you."

His mouth latches onto yours and he groans into it, kissing with so much force that you a pinned to the back of your chair. You feel his tongue drag over the inside of your mouth, trying to claim as much of it for himself. You pull away after a moment, collecting your breath, and realize that he has you wrapped around his finger. "Y-You want to bottom?"

He bites your lip hard enough to draw blood, and you hiss, grabbing your mouth and pulling away. "What was that for?!"

"For being an idiot. Of course I want to bottom." He licks at your lips, healing them with his cursed technique, before moving onto your cheek to do the same thing. "How did I end up with a stupid alpha?"

You growl at him, "It's not my fault I can't think." The smell of heat was so strong by now that your head was dizzy. "You want to tell the entire world you are trying to get fucked? Sounds whorish to me."

"It's working isn't it?" He feels you circling his hole, finally sliding your first finger in. "Will you turn me into your whore, alpha?"

The thought makes you groan out, head tilting back while he continues to lick and kiss your neck. But you don't dare to stop your movements, knowing that if you were, he would probably find some way for you to focus your attention back on him. He was greedy for it all.

The second finger slides in without much trouble, and now Sukuna is straddling you. He was much larger than you andhis frame completely engulfed you, but still he caved his body forward so that he could continue his ministrations. You already knew that your neck was to be covered in marks by the time he was through of you – he was possessive, and it wasn't because of his second gender. 

Slick was now beginning to drip down his thigh, and he was beginning to rock his hips back and forward onto your fingers. The chair was making a screeching noise, upset with the large man for trying to put his weight on it. 

You pull away for a second, and Sukuna immediately returns to kiss you again, cupping your face with two of his palms. Again, you try to pull away, and still, he doesn't let you speak, continuing to force his tongue into your mouth. A warning growl pulls at your throat, and you pull your fingers out of him.

He, in response, lets out his own growl, louder than yours, considering his growl was more out of disapproval at the removal of your fingers. His face by now was flushing red, a telltale sign that he was slipping completely into his heat. 

"What now?" Sukuna hisses, and you roll your eyes.

But, instead of biting back another remark, you change your tone, taking the softer route. Omega's like to be coddled, and Sukuna was no exception, no matter his status. So, you rub at his cheek with your thumb. "I know you're feeling needy, but can we take this to the bedroom?"

His main set of eyes blinks at you, physically relaxing at your gentle touch and the crooning. You, in return, have to hold back a smirk, knowing that if he was to see it, he would grow pissed again. You couldn't help but compare his behavior to a bratty child. But still, he climbs off your lap, and you sigh in relief before squealing when he effortlessly lifts you with his top pair of arms. 

A deep purr-like chuckle is let out, and he glances at you before walking over to your room. "I can walk, you know," you say, slightly pouting at being cradled like some sort of child.

"And risk you taking a fall and somehow dying on me? I am not risking the possibility of not getting fucked because you are the weakest creature that walks the earth." He doesn't even look at you when he says it, continuing to walk forward. You remain silent, just sighing and shaking your head, but used to this ridiculous behavior.

You notice the thick smell of arousal that was still pooling out of him, and most omegas would be stuck in their nests, barely able to walk. But Sukuna wasn't a typical omega, and you both found his unpredictableness endearing and nerve-wracking.

Your finger pulls his robe open, and without him looking, you latch your teeth onto his nipple, gently nibbling on the bud. He fumbles with his steps, and immediately, a clenched groan is let out, paired with a small shiver. The reaction pleases you, and so you smile at him before he can question your actions. "Still just as sensitive, I'm glad. Tonight is going to be," you reach up to trace the side of his face. "Fun."

The purr of approval vibrates his entire chest, and you laugh.

–

He kicked you out of your own room, as he did last time. When he arrived at your room and saw the perfectly made bed, along with the complete absence of his scent, he had borderline dropped you. So, just like last time, you sat outside your door, occasionally passing him more blankets or pillows, and crooning at him so that he didn't get pissed off thinking that you left him.

His heat smell was getting thicker with each minute, and in return, your head was growing foggy – you couldn't imagine what was going on in his own head. "You better have not moved from that position. I hear your stirring. Don't make me break your legs."

You haven't moved from your seated position in front of the door, so you roll your eyes. "I'm not going anywhere, clingy bastard. Just trying not to cum in my pants from your scent." It was a sarcastic remark, but when you hear the king chuckle in delight, you tap your head against the wooden door and close your eyes.

It was weird to have him back, and you are not surprised that your heart feels strange around him – you were bonded afterall. It was good to have him back – you found comfort in his scent, but the thought of him disappearing again made you frown. You tuck your knees close to you and bury your head in them.

Sukuna opens the door two minutes later, slightly panting and flushed red. His body was growing weak. Now, he was completely bare, and his cock was standing hard against his lower stomach. But, you didn't notice, still in your little ball on the floor.

He looks at you, raising his eyebrows, because he has never seen you in this state. You were always reeking of confidence, standing tall and proud while you openlingly defy him. He, strangely, didn't like to see you look like this and your scent was beginning to turn stale.

"Why does my alpha look like a mopey kitten?"

You don't look up at him, slightly pouting. "You have to promise me you won't leave after this. I'm not some fucktoy for your heat."

Sukuna would be lying if he didn't say his omega was purring at the idea of staying with you. The last couple of months have taken a toll on his body, and although he is the strongest person to walk this planet, it was quite annoying to be in a constant state of distress. "Ill think about it – depends on how well you fuck me. How can you be so whiny when I am the one with slick dripping down my thighs?" 

You look up from your makeshift ball and are immediately hit with the smell of it. But, you dont have time to look at his thighs because you are being scooped up again like you truly were some sort of kitten. He holds you with one hand and uses another one to pet your head as he drags you to his nest. "There, there," he tries to comfort, "Dont be sad little alpha, you make me feel weird when you are moping."

He was purring at you, and even if you tried to, you couldn't help but feel better. But the moment doesn't last long — he drops you into his nest, crossing his top set of arms above you and waiting. You raise your eyebrows at him, glancing at his cock that was hard and on display before going back to his smug face. "Why are you showing me your useless cock?"

"Im not," he bites, baring his teeth for a moment, before shaking his head. "The nest. Compliment it."

"Oh." 

Sukuna seemed to have a set of procedures he wanted to follow before getting to the real deal. It was surprising, considering that most omegas wouldn't miss a second of sex for something as silly as this. But you could tell he was beginning to struggle from the way he was slightly trembling. 

You quickly turn to pillows and pillows, along with your miscellaneous dirty clothes. He was tapping his foot, quickly growing impatient. So you nod at him, giving him a small smile to show that you are happy. "Very nice. Soft, comfortable. I really like it. Good job, Sukuna."

He releases his pleased scent in waves, and a small croon leaves his lips. But even when you could tell that he was practically wagging his tail at the compliment, all he says is, "Good. You are to stay here for the duration of my heat. No exceptions. And dont you dare think about getting up to relieve yourself without telling me? I will string you alive."

That meant that he was probably going to be stalking into the kitchen for food and water like he did last time. Alphas are supposed to provide food/water and protection to their omegas in their most vulnerable state – Sukuna seemed to not follow traditional dynamics roles, which wasn't that surprising. But still, the idea of you being the one to be taken care of makes you slightly pout. 

The omega seems to read your mind. "My vulnerable state is a million times stronger than you at your strongest. You stay in the nest."

"Your wish is my command, Lord Sukuna," you say sarcastically, leaning back in the cushions and sighing. 

He finally comes crawling toward you, pinning you beneath his massive frame. But you are not intimidated by him, to say the least, so you just raise an eyebrow at him. He presses a small kiss to your neck before saying, "I like the way that sounds on your lips."

"Yeah, I bet you do, you arrogant bastard." He chuckles at you, taking a deep inhale of your scent and then gently rubbing his neck onto yours. The action is sweet, but you are flooded with the smell of arousal, so you are getting particularly impatient. "Are we going to fuck, or do I need to find another omega in heat?"

It was a risky joke, and you knew that you shouldn't have said that the second it left your mouth. But Sukuna, in turn, just rumbles another laugh, gently biting the skin of your neck. "Little alpha has jokes?" he asks, and you remain quiet, biting your lip and hoping that you dont cause the deaths of innocent people. "Do you think it would be funny if I killed every omega you laid eyes on?"

You grab his chin and force his lips onto yours. He eagerly accepts your advances, purring low while cupping your face with two hands. "Your means to distract me are so cute."

You don't respond to the mumble against your lips – instead, pushing your tongue into his mouth. You can feel himself beginning to rut against your pelvis, probably staining pre on your clothes. But, the fabric doesn't stand a chance anyway, as he tears through it with his finger. The sound causes you to pull away, frowning at him. "That was my favorite shirt."

"And it was in my way," he breathes, before pressing his mouth back to yours. You fingers begin to make their way to the back of his thighs and he hitches a breath when you finally bring your fingers back to his entrance. It was properly lubricated as it was before, and it makes it incredibly easy to slip two fingers in.

Sukuna breathes a sigh of relief at the feeling, having been daydreaming about you inside him for the past couple of hours. He unconsciously rocks his hips back into the digits while you scissor the hole, preparing him for what is later to come. Your knee comes up to where his cock grinds against, and he groans into your mouth. 

You pull away from him, now choosing to focus on his neck. Your mouth litters it with kisses and small love bites, but focus on the outline of your teeth from three months earlier — the mark you gave him. It seemed to be a sensitive part for him, considering the way all of his eyes are squeezed shut and his arms trembled on the pillows next to you. 

"Such a pretty mark," you coo, curling your fingers inside him slightly toward his stomach so that it hits his prostate right on.

Sukuna, in return, eyes fly open, and he chokes up a weak cough at the feeling. But, he quickly recomposes himself, swallowing some saliva and looking back at you. "Glad one of us likes it."

"You are a liar," you tease, kissing his jawline, "or else you wouldn't come crawling back to me. Tell me, Ryomen, did you miss me?"

"You are going to have to fuck me with something bigger than your fingers to get me to babble such nonsense." He holds a cocky grin, flashing his teeth before using his tongue to lick at your lips. The action makes you cringe and look away while he laughs.

But his moment of triumph is cut short when you plunge another finger inside him. It sends his mouth flying open, and his eyes widen at the intrusion before he lets out a guttural moan. "Fuckkkk," he groans, grinding himself on your fingers, "T-Thats more like it!" 

You grin at him, rubbing your thumb on his lips. "Such a size queen. Do you need something bigger?"

His tongue darts out, and he licks at your thumb while you raise your eyebrows. He seemed to be glaring at you, but it didn't do much, considering his eyes were growing hazy and his cheeks were flushed. "You know what I want. Are you going to fuck me, or do I need to find another alpha?" 

It was a cute attempt to try and use your words against you, so you can't help but laugh. "Have you ever been fucked by someone else, Sukuna? I swore I was the first to ever be inside you." 

To this, he goes silent. It was true, and in fact, even if it went completely against instincts, Sukuna during his previous heats would be the one fucking his partners. He didn't care about their sex, nor their dynamic, all he was looking for was pleasure. Granted, being inside someone didn't have the same feeling as being the one penetrated, and he realized that very quickly after his first heat with you. He didn't know if he could go back to the half-ass pleasure he was grantedbefore.

So when he hears you laugh, the curse merely scoffs and looks away. But, you move quickly away from the subject, and instead push him off of you. "Get on your hands and knees," you say, and then sigh, knowing better than to give him any commands. "Sorry, that sounded demanding. Can you please get on your hands and knees, Sukuna? It will be easier for the both of us."

"I am not your bitch," he bites, but still, he climbs off of you and readjusts himself in front of you. He was not ashamed inthe way he presented himself – slick ran down his thigh and coated his hole while his cock laid heavy in between them with pre cum beading at the tip.

You sit up, giving his ass a squeeze that sends him growling at you. You go silent for a minute, preparing everything while he sits and waits semi-patiently. But once you are all ready, you grin at the muscled body laid out so perfectly in front of you. "Trust me, I know. But I do hope to change that."

He doesn't have time to respond when you are suddenly pushing into him. The curse, in return, grips at the sheets, turning his knuckles white from the mere force of it. He hisses out and bites at the pillow in front of his, and his ring stretches to take the new intrusion. "Fuck!" he groans, shaking his head, "Was it always this freakishly big? S-Slow down before I come up there and tear your head off!"

You roll your eyes at the threat but abide by his demand. "So dramatic," you sigh, using your finger to trace over his wet entrance. "You seem to be gobbling me up just fine down here. You are so whiny, king of curses."

He let out a string of profanities, and tears begin to prick in his eyes. It makes your own eyes light up, and you thrust forward to bottom out completely inside of him. His body erupts in a fit of shivers, and he hides his face from you in the pillows. Sukuna's entire body was burning up by now, and your hands trace at the flushed skin on his back while you wait for him to adjust to the length.

His whines, you realize very quickly, did not express his true feelings. The air was growing thick from arousal, and the second you bottomed out inside him, a pleased scent is released. Your lips curl up in a smile. "Well, aren't you just a little whore!"

Growls echo through the room, but you quickly shut them up by pulling out and thrusting forward. It makes his himchoke a gasp and more of the pleased scent is let out, making the room smell incredibly sweet. The power is getting to your head, but you relished in it for all you could, considering that once he got adjusted to the length inside him, he would be spitting his own insults in between moans. 

But for now, you lean forward and lick at his neck, just over his scent gland. "You feel good? Finally sedated after having a cock up your ass?"

"I will if you do something with it. You are boring me to tears," he pants into the pillows, one of his eyes looking back at you. But you just shrug at the complaint and finally begin to move. 

You start off slow, pulling your hips back all the way until the tip reaches his rim and then back forward. But it seems to have a greater effect on him than you thought. He lets out a muffled groan and slightly raises his hips so that it gives you easier access. You would comment on the display, but you watch a bead of slick drip down his thigh and instead remain quiet, so you dont miss the show.

The noises he makes are cute, low in pitch compared to most omegas, but dont hide the fact that he was in an immense amount of pleasure. The sight in front of you was one to behold – his hole stretched prettily just for you while his entire body was trembling. You could tell he was growing annoyed with the slow pace, so you move your hips quicker, only causing him to clench onto the sheets.

He curses out his own set of profanities, and so you lean forward, pressing your chest to his back, and kiss him. It shuts him up instantly, and the king is craning his neck back to kiss you with an 

unmatched ferocity. It makes you chuckle in surprise at the desperation of it all, and he slightly growls into your mouth, knowing exactly what you are thinking. 

His tongue was a lot larger than yours, and he seemed to have no shame in using it to completely claim the inside of your mouth. One of his hands also cups your face, trapping you to his lips. But, even with his possessive hold on you, you dont let up on your pace, knowing that he was to surely bite (and not on your neck) you in the position if you did.

And so his body jerks forward with each slam of your hips, and Sukuna has to push himself back so that he can reach your lips. His groans are eaten up by your mouth, but still, you can feel the vibrations of his purr. It makes you let out your own sounds of affection, and he greedily consumes them without shame.

You rip your face away from his, and he frowns at you for a split second, already on his way to let out another complaint, before you grab his neck and push it into the sheets. You dont do it hard — you aren't trying to suffocate him, but simply to show what position he is in. Now, his ass remains in the air while his face is buried in some of your pillows. He makes a sound of surprise, but you quicken your pace before he can ask what you are doing.

Your hips move at a rapid pace, and it gives him no room to adjust to the new position. You were drilling into him without a care in the world, creating a lewd sound of slapping of skin. It made his eyes widen, and he bit the soft fabric of the pillow, canines digging into the sheet, nearly tearing it apart.

You hook your finger into his mouth, pulling his lip back and contorting his pretty face. "Hey, relax. Dont rip up my pillows; I just bought them."

"F-Fuck you!" he warbles, but it comes out shaky and breathless from your movements, and you swear you can see his eyes beginning to roll back. But still, he brings his hand over to his mouth and chews on the flesh instead. The action only makes you grin, knowing he was slowly beginning to give in to his instincts to please his alpha.

So, you lean forward, not daring to stop your movements until your chest was pressed to his back. Then you find his ear and lean close till you are centimeters away from it and say, "Well, aren't you just a good boy? Doing so well for me, huh, my omega? Pleasing your alpha by taking me whole."

Much to the surprise of both of you, his abdomen tenses up, and cum shoots out of his cock. It stains the sheets a creamy shade of white, and his entire body begins to tremble with the shocks. The curse doesn't make a peep, biting his lip as he clenches onto the walls of the nest and tightens around your length.

The action makes your eyes widen, and a breathless laugh falls from your lips. "You wanted me to be mean to you your last heat, but you have a praise kink?"

His entire back was turning red, and his cheeks twinged with embarrassment. The man shows you his teeth, growling slightly while craning his neck to look at you. "I do not. Watch your mouth, little alpha, before you piss me off."

"Do you want to be my good boy, Sukuna?"  

Your breath was right next to Sukunas ear, and his entire body goes through a fit of shivers. His scent was screaming Yes. Yes. Yes. But Sukuna just faces the pillow and shakes his head. "Shut up. You are disgusting me."

Your hips begin to pick up their pace again, and a small whimper escapes his lips from the twinge of overstimulation. But still, immediately he begins to press himself back into you, not daring to escape the pleasure he had sought out for. Your lips find his neck, and you begin to litter it with marks, which only drives Sukuna to the brink of insanity due to his instinctual fondness for being "claimed."

"Look so pretty for me," you trace your finger over your claim mark, "Pretty and marked up. So perfect. How am I so lucky to be mated to you?"

"Stop it," he mewls for the first time, voice wavering, and he shakes his head as if trying to snap himself out of a trance. His hips push back into you, and you grin at the display before gripping his hips even tighter. Even his back was pressed into a deeper arch, unconsciously presenting his full self to you.

You run your fingers through his hair at his groans, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Can you cum for me again, my sweet boy?" 

The coo next to his ear sends his eyes flying open, and a guttural moan slips out. His legs, flushed a shade of red from the heat of it all, begin to shake, and before he knows it, he comes tumbling off the toy, ass still in the air as his second, much stronger orgasm crashes over him. His hole clenches around nothing, and he bites his teeth into his hands, letting a round of muffled moans fill the air. Tears even begin to fall down his cheek, and his entire body trembles while cum stains the sheets. 

He had cum twice in the past ten minutes. It was common for omegas to get overwhelmed and orgasm quickly after another, but for Sukuna, this was incredibly rare. He had a praise kink, and this confirmed it.

It was a pretty sight, and so you cock your head to the side, tracing the skin between his thighs, admiring the trembling muscles. The man goes eerily quiet after his second orgasm, and his body looks tense. "Sukuna?"

He doesn't answer, not daring to look at you. You lean forward to get a look at his face, but he turns around and lets out a low warning growl. It makes you pause for a moment, confused, and then you see a drop of blood fall onto the white pillow in front of you. He still doesn't look your way.

He was hurt, and your instincts took the better of you. "Sukuna, look at me."

The omega lets out another small growl — this one weak and barely heard. In return, you growl louder and let out an abundance of pheromones, causing him to tense up, incredibly close to submitting. Then you grab his chin and force his face toward you.

Your eyes widen at the sight. He was biting his lip so hard that blood was beginning to fall down his chin. But, it wasn't that that surprised you. No, it was Sukuna's expression. His face was an abnormal shade of red even for his heat, the flush going to his ears and down his neck. His eyes were glassy with tears, and he didn't dare make eye contact with you. 

Sukuna was embarrassed from cumming so hard from the praise you gave him. You have to hold back a croon — the king of curses look unfathomably cute in your hold.

Your finger ghosts over his lips, and you murmur, "Heal it". He obeys without much thought, and in an instant, the pink flesh is restored. But the curse still doesn't look at you, so you kiss his cheek. You knew he didn't mean to, but a small whimper slips past his lips at the affection. Your grin is wolfish.

"Why are you upset?" You croon, knowing exactly why. Your positions seemed to have switched. It was less than an hour ago when he was the one trying to comfort you. Although his reasoning for being upset was definitely not as reasonable, bug you aren't going to complain when he looks so cute.

"Im not, weakling. Let's just go again. C-C'mon, im starting to feel itchy again."

You lean forward kissing his jaw and then moving to his neck to press another kiss to his scent gland. His entire body shudders. "So needy. You're lucky you're so cute. Do you want your alpha to make you feel good again, hmm?"

When your tongue licks a stripe on his scent gland, Sukuna groans, head spinning. He hates that when you scent mark him, it makes him feel giddy, like some sort of pathetic school girl. You are supposed to be a quick fuck, and then he was going to leave again, but the way your talking to him, like he really was your omega makes his heart pound in his chest. Would he always feel like this if he were to stay with you? Make this his permanent nest? Be your mate?

A purr rumbles through his chest.

Sukuna never considered having a mate. But alas this is the second time he has had this thoughts. The first when he nearly forced you to bite him, and now, his second heat with you. His sober mind pushed away the thoughts immediately and instead took to hiding from you. But could he do that again? It was borderline unbearable for the omega — it went against what his instincts were screaming at him to do. To be with his alpha.

You nibble on his ear, already pushing back into him and this time Sukuna groans out. His body was angry at him for attempting to go a third round without a break, but he didnt care, it felt too good. His hips push into yours and he hisses when you wrap your hands around his cock.

"How many times do you want to cum today?" You ask, voice breathless as you keep up the ruthless pace that would only please Sukuna. Your movements were quick in pace, jabbing into his sensitive spot without mercy, exactly how he likes it. 

His mouth begins to hang open and his eyes hold a glaze to them. Now, he looked more akin to what a normal omega would look like in a heat. He was just a little harder to break down, but his roots were all the same. 

Sukuna blinks at your question, slow, mindless. “Mhmmm…a-lot..? Wanna…cum…” 

You giggle at the warble, but this time he doesnt say anything snarky in return. In fact, he seems to be pleased at himself for making you laugh. For making you seemingly happy. He tries to lean his head back to scent you, but due to your arm pushing his head into the nest, he doesn't go very far. He growls in displeasure.

You instead lean forward and rub your neck against his, even if there was minimal to no effect in the action. His scent was already so potent you were to be smelling of him for at least a week after his heat. But you indulge him in the instinctual pleasure, and he sighs into what is most likely your dirty shirt. A fucked out smile tugs at his lips, your eyes lighten.

"You're like a grumpy kitten, you know?" You run your fingers through his pink hair, brushing it back. Your movementsof your hips slow slightly, but they are still deep and give Sukuna enough pleasure for him not to whine out. You kiss the back of his neck. "Hiss and claw and bite whatever it sees. But the second the fierce creature gets some warm milk, it's back to being cute and docile, just like you, Sukuna."

Gears are turning in Sukunas head, no doubt from the intensity of his heat, so you wait and continue to brush at his hair and kiss at his neck in time with your thrusts. A couple seconds later he manages to bite back a weak, "Not cute or docile…bastard."

You hum at him, grabbing his chin when his mouth falls open after you seemed to his his prostate. "Docile may not be the best word, sedated maybe. Just need some dick to calm you down." You take a moment to catch your breath, panting slightly into his muscular shoulder. "I can keep you sedated."

"S-Stop babbling nonsense."

"Not just with sex," you continue, releasing an abudance of calming phermones that almost match his intensity. Then you let out a croon, paired with a nearly overdramatic purr. He was too weak to fight his instincts and so practically mewls at the sound, letting out his own purr in return. 

"I can keep you calm, make you feel safe." Although you knew you could never be as strong as him, you could try at least. Your hand reaches below him to play with his dick again, and Sukuna jumps. "I'll put up with your hissy fits and your extremely possessive nature. The killing…will be something to be discussed when I'm not inside you."

To this, Sukuna makes a sound that shocks you. He laughs. Its not mocking like they usually were, harsh and mean, instead it more like a giggle, like he truly thought what you said was humorous. You pray it's not the heat talking but you try not to get your hopes up.

Instead, you continue on your rant, now picking up the pace of your hips. You slam into him, restarting the rhythm of the slapping of skin on skin. Sukuna bites the pillow, but you pull his hair back, earning a pained moan from the man. "Y-You can kick me out of my room to build your nest whenever you want. Fuck, I can just permanently sleep on the couch if that'll make you happy."

Sukuna couldnt respond, his eyes were practically rolling back. You were so deep inside him that he could barely think. However, the desperation in your tone, paired with the saturated scent of you trying to please him, conveyed exactly what you were saying to him. He hates that it makes him happy to see you want him, to feel desired by you. It should be an inconvenience, really, but he can't help but feel like his own feelings were being returned.

"F-Fuck, gonna cum again!"

Your hand is rutheless on his cock and your mouth nibbles at his neck. "I'll make you happy, Sukuna, you know that. You just got to let me."

Hes grown dangerously hot and he fees the muscles begin to tense up with his upproaching orgasm. A wracked sob leaves his lips, and he squeezes his eyes shut. 

"Be my omega, Sukuna. Let me love you." You dont give him a chance to respond before you dig your teeth into the exactsame spot you marked him just a couple of months ago.

Claws dig into cloth beneath him, and his eyes widen at the pain. But your words paired with the bite send him over the edge, and hes cumming once again, harder than the previous times. Tears stream down his face and he doesnt let out a noise this time – he holds his breath while the pleasure takes over. His hole clentches around you and his legs shake from under you. There is no doubt that more of the nest was stained a milky shade of white.

You slump against him this time, licking at the wound, before rolling off with a sigh. He groans a little when you pull away from him, but your hands travels to his face, rubbing against his cheekbone. Sukuna, for the first time, looks tired, like that orgasm took a toll on him. Although, you have never seen him look so content. A small smile sits contently on his face, and he looks at you with soft eyes.

Then, much to your surprise, the large man grabs onto you and forces you close to him. You yelp in suprise, but he justwraps two sets of arms around your form and buries his face into your neck, taking a long, dramatic inhale and then sighing contently. You pet his hair with a chuckle. 

"Are you thinking about my offer? Although, if you did live here we would have to get a bigger apartment…You are too big." The sentence felt ironic considering how small he looked when pressed to close to you. It was strange to see a creature so big act so small, like some sort of overgrown lap dog. He would murder you if he heard you think something like that.

He closes his first set of eyes and peers at you with the second. Then he shakes his head. "I'll think about it. Now let me rest, pathetic alpha."

Maybe it was a naive hope, but Sukuna seemed rather pleased when saying that. It was the closest think to a yes you will get, you kiss at the top of his head and he groans in annoyance. "Yeah, yeah, whiny omega. Go to sleep before you get horny again."

"Dont try to leave the nest. I'm not kidding, I will incapitate you if you try anything funny."

"I won't, you bloodthirsty murderer. Now sleep."

"I'm fucking going!" he mutters and you let out a laugh as he gentle nips at the skin on your neck. He then grabs your hand and forces it on his head, silently demanding you to pet him. 

You run your fingers through his short pink hair, and he purrs contently. It doesn't take him long to fall asleep, and you are not far after. You needed to rest before the monster would wake you eight hours later with a flushed face and a wicked grin. You did promise him an abudance of orgasms after all. 

—

After a hazy five days, Sukuna awakes in the dirty nest. He doesn't feel itchy and disgustingly hot, but his body is sore, and he seems to still be exhausted. You lay draped across him, head on his chest and sleeping soundly, equally spent as he is from keeping up with his demands. The curse stares at you for a long moment before one of his hands comes to trace your cheek, admiring the soft skin and how small you are compared to him. You are too breakable for an alpha, it makes him nervous. 

He doesnt think about it when leans forward and gets a good whiff of your scent. The scent of his mate. He purrs quietly to himself, careful not to wake you.

You stirr in his hold and he gulps, eyes flickering toward the door. He could leave if he wanted to, come back for his next heat. You wouldn't send him away, even if you tried with your weak commands, you had a weak heart. A weak, pathetic human alpha loves him — someone unworthy of his own love. Sukuna frowns.

You make a mewling noise and nuzzle into his chest like some sort of cat. Red eyes tear from the door and back to your sleeping face. Sukuna scoffs at you, hating that he found you cute, before pinching your cheeks together that pulls a whine from you. This was the person that was supposedly going to make him feel safe? He laughs.

But the second your tired, fond eyes gaze up at him he unconsciouslly had made his decision. 

He tilts your head to the side, four pairs of eyes scanning the smooth skin along your neck. It was too bare. Sukuna had to change that, or else some omegas would get the wrong idea. He flashes his canines, dragging his tongue along them and grinning at your wide eyes.

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Cyberpunk Mercenary

A ruthless mercenary and you, his spoilt little catch.

Mercenaries have a reputation for being mad dogs, so pumped up with biochem they can't even think straight. And Yandere! Mercenary is no exception.

Yandere! Mercenary doesn't care who's paying him, as long as he gets paid. He's put down rebels on Titan and toppled governments on Europa - the flags they fly don't mean a damn thing to him.

Yandere! Mercenary who's spent his whole life fighting. Who dreams of gunfire and chemical weapons and burning up in the atmosphere.

Yandere! Mercenary who rolls his eyes when he gets offered his latest job. Kidnap some rich kid and hold her hostage? Talk about easy money. Hell, he can get the job done and still have time for a drink.

Yandere! Mercenary with his prosthetic arm and cybernetic implants. With his lip piercings and neon mohawk. With his bloodstained teeth and sleepless nights.

Yandere! Mercenary who finds you easy enough. Out on a shopping spree in some fancy boutique. Like you don't own enough shit already.

Yandere! Mercenary who almost scoffs when he sees you. You're everything he isn't. Wearing some pretty pastel outfit straight off the runway, your hair dyed so subtly that he knows it must have cost a fortune.

Weak, spoiled little Earthling.

Yandere! Mercenary who follows you down to the parking garage and shoots your bodyguards full of tranq. Non-lethal, his contractor demanded.

Yandere! Mercenary who grabs the back of your neck when you try to run and slams you into your hovocraft. Your shopping scattered all over the floor and trampled under his combat boots.

Yandere! Mercenary who laughs at the way you claw and scratch at him. Normal nails and not titanium claws? What are you gonna do with those, sweetheart? Tickle him?

Yandere! Mercenary who throws you in the back of his hovocraft and hightails it out of there. Shit, this was easier than he expected.

Yandere! Mercenary who ignores all the threats you spit at him. He doesn't give a damn who your mother is or how rich your daddy is. He doesn't care how many people they send after you. He's getting this job done and getting paid and that's all that matters.

Yandere! Mercenary who realises he should have listened when the first team of guards show up. They almost blast him out of the sky and it's only his quick thinking that gets him out of there.

Yandere! Mercenary who swears as he hauls you out of his wrecked craft and through the neon soaked streets of the slum district.

Yandere! Mercenary who grabs your shoulders and shakes you like a rag doll until you confess that you have a tracker in your neck.

Yandere! Mercenary who pins you against the wall and grabs the knife strapped to his leg. Who wraps his hand around your thigh and pulls your leg around his waist so you have no choice but to press against the concrete.

Yandere! Mercenary who carefully cuts the tracker out of your neck.

Yandere! Mercenary who mockingly apologises when you flinch.

Yandere! Mercenary who licks the cut he left behind. Who sucks at the blood until you stop bleeding. Who trails his lips up your neck before pulling away.

Yandere! Mercenary who's titanium teeth glint red when he grins at you.

"Look at that blush. Did ya like that, pretty thing?"

Yandere! Mercenary who loves the dazed, bashful look on your face. Billionaire princess getting all hung up on herself cause of him? Ain't that a sweet piece of irony.

Yandere! Mercenary who stashes you away in a safehouse while he waits for his boss to contact him. Who realises he was wrong about you. Spoilt, yes. Arrogant, yes. But innocent too. Naive.

Yandere! Mercenary who spends hours telling you stories about the colonies he's visited. And you sit engrossed, eating it all up like you've never heard anything so fascinating, instant ramen bowls scattered across the shitty linoleum.

Yandere! Mercenary who watches your fear of him fade a little with each passing hour. Oh, he still frightens you. But your curiosity outweighs that fear.

Yandere! Mercenary who takes every opportunity to touch you, to reach over you. Who loves the nervous little glances you aim at him, the way you blush when he catches you staring.

Cute. And tempting too.

How long has it been since he's had a woman? Yandere! Mercenary who looks at you and wants to sink his teeth in.

Yandere! Mercenary who catches his breath when you grab his hand and ask to go with him.

"Please," you beg. "I want to see the galaxy."

Yandere! Mercenary who knows that he scares you. He ain't easy on the eyes and anyone with sense can see the notched dog tag he wears - one scratch for every kill.

So why the hell are you asking him to run away with you?

Yandere! Mercenary who finally realises the gold you wear is nothing more than a collar and chains. You're a pretty bird in a gilded cage.

Yandere! Mercenary who, for the first time in his career, decides to run out on a job. Who chooses you over profit.

Yandere! Mercenary who grins down at you as he straps you into the copilot seat of a stolen space cruiser. Nervous and innocent and all his to corrupt.

Sure, he'll show you the galaxy. He'll show you the whole damn universe. All from the comfort of his bed.